I met my ex-fiance 9 years ago at Canteen on Mercer Street and Prince Street in SoHo. I was meeting up with some old friends for brunch who had come to town for Gay Pride. With them was a firecracker of a red-head. Busty and sardonic, great musical taste, art film geek who I didn’t even consider because it was impossible. She was impossibly cooler than I. You see, back then, 9 years ago, I didn’t know that I was as awesome as I am. I didn’t feel beautiful or sexy. I felt awkward and unworthy of the attention of any beautiful woman. I hid behind the camera lens that I used to capture the things I thought were beautiful. Photography is a great escape from reality, a great distancer. I spent most of my life as a voyeur, watching others live and love. By the end of Pride, Godard Lover (she was obsessed with À bout de souffle) had taken down my email and asked if she could drive down in a few weeks in order to film some natural gas tanks in my neighborhood getting imploded. It was during that trip that she asked me out. It was also during that trip that I finally had sex with a woman. Prior to that, I dated them, kissed them, made out in the corners of gay bars with them, but I hadn’t actually made love to one. The girl that I had always thought would be THE ONE and that looking back I still believe SHOULD have been THE ONE, well, our lives could never intersect as perfectly as they should have. So, it took from my first love, my beautiful Candy Necklace Girl at 17, until years later, at 25, to finally have a woman make love to me. I was petrified. I thought I would be horrible. Perhaps I was quaint and the awkwardness was charming, I apparently earned at least a passing score, because Godard Lover and I would spend my remaining time in NYC swapping out travel weekends with one of us staying with the other nearly every weekend in one city or the other.
The video of the implosion is not the same video that she shot that day. I found this video on YouTube while looking for the Implode Brooklyn t-shirts some screen-printers had made. I had one which I bought off the street that day. Later that day, while wearing the shirt, I sat in a park not far from Rob Morrow of Northern Exposure as he enjoyed the sunshine with his baby as he read the paper on a bench. He had one of his legs crossed over, ankle to knee and I remember that he was wearing moccasins, but that one had fallen off, so he sat there, with one shoe on, reading the paper, and I remember thinking how much I loved NYC for that. For those moments of imperfection. I miss that about NYC.
great line: happiness isnt happiness without a violin playing goat