1997

[robotnik2004]

OK, it's 1997, and can we have something a little more cheerful this time? In my second and third year of grad school, I lived with three friends from the dorms (see, I did make friends in the dorms eventually—they were all Americans, mind you) in a gorgeous apartment in Inman Square, one that four grad students couldn't possibly afford today. Once or twice a year, we threw massive house-shaking parties there. I don't know quite how we did it, to tell the truth. I've never thrown parties like that before or since. But the emails went out, and the guests poured in, and our place would be packed with bodies, some in attractive shapes, and nearly all shimmying and shaking and bumping up against each other in a way that belies my usual portrait of grad school as a social wasteland. This was soon after the Chemical Brothers muscled into the mainstream, and I can remember the aptly-named Block Rocking Beats rattling windows all the way down the street. For years to come, people I'd never met would tell me about the epic parties they attended on Marie Street in 1997.

But my signature memory is not one of the raging parties—it's the hour or two after one of them. As the last stragglers finally cleared out, the four of us who actually lived there ended up sprawled on our living room couches, watching TV and drinking the very last alcohol in the house: homemade wine with cheap clip art of Lucille Ball on the label. This struck us as unaccountably hilarious. Luuuu-cy, joo got some 'splaining to do! And so forth.

I don't remember what we were watching, but it's safe to say it was no better than the wine. We watched a lot of bad TV at Marie Street. A lot. I'd be very happy to have back those months of my life I spent watching Singled Out or Boston Common or Tom Green or Blind Date or the 1997 MTV Video Awards Pre-Post-Pre-Show. Or the time I spent playing Sonic the Hedgehog and Civilization II, come to think of it. But what I do not regret is the many hours we spent watching the community access cable station, CCTV. You know that station with the zero production values you program your remote to skip over? We watched it all the time, particularly my housemate Steve and I, and it was great. The boozy floozy who made mixed drinks and veiled allusions to what she got up to last night. The backyard wrestling league with more enthusiasm than talent or concern for spinal injury. The overweight guy in a domino mask and lumpy blue superhero costume making wry observations about life from his mother's basement. Not to be confused with Brother Blue, the charismatic black storyteller with butterflies tattooed on his palms. And best of all, the call-in shows, hosted by absolutely anyone who showed up at the studio on Prospect Street and said "I wanna be on TV." Half the time, the hosts looked like they'd just wandered in from panhandling in Central Square or maybe a liquid brunch at the Cantab. In the early afternoon, the call-in show was usually hosted by a bunch of middle-schoolers from Cambridge Rindge and Latin, and the topic was whatever had been going on that day in the schoolyard or on the bus. Caller: "I know somebody that liiiikes you." Host: "Who is this? Who is this?" Caller: "I'm not teeeeellling." Co-Host: "I know who that fool is. Man, you buggin'!" Click. Bad TV is more social than good TV, and community access TV is triply social. Because the shows are all in your neighborhood, because you can call in any time and you'll get on, and because you need to watch it with a friend so you can keep saying "oh my god, are we actually seeing this?" as the show careens into weirdness and insanity.

If this sounds lame, that's because I haven't conveyed how relaxed and fun and nourishing my friendship with Steve was. So this post is really about Steve, and I hope it doesn't come across too mushy, because dude, gay frat.* Getting to be friends with Steve pretty much made all the stuff I was whining about in the last two posts worth it. About thirty seconds after meeting him in 1995, I knew he was going to be my best friend at Harvard. (The reverse wasn't necessarily true—I think I remember him saying, "We gotta stop hanging out with that Rob guy so my jokes will seem funnier.") He was and is funny and goofy and great, the life of every party, but in a completely genuine way. His outward persona is that he can't get anything right, but that's completely untrue. He gets everything right eventually. He reminded me then of Pete (foogie), my best friend in college, which is odd in retrospect, because they aren't really all that similar. But my friendships with the two of them are similar, in that they are utterly without competition, anxiety, or pretense. I'd later learn how generous Steve is. He ends up being everybody's shoulder to lean on. If you want to talk to somebody about, say, your on-again off-again girlfriend who just slugged you on the Weeks Footbridge,** Steve's your man. If you'd rather just sprawl on the couch drinking Lucy's Finest and watching call-in shows hosted by borderline schizophrenics, he's up for that too.

*See, Steve was in a fraternity in college, and then after he left (or so he says), the frat changed into an all-gay fraternity. The story seems a little fishy: how does a fraternity just decide to go gay? Anyway, mentioning Steve's "gay frat" is an all purpose diss against him, but also a handy meta-ironic way for us moderately-evolved straight guys to acknowledge that we are chafing against our own comfort/discomfort with male-male affection. No disrespect is intended to anyone but ourselves.

**That's the walking bridge across the Charles between Leverett House and the Business School. Spenser got shot there, you know.

Oh, and hey, ladies (which is another song I remember blasting at that party—gotta love Paul's Boutique): Steve's recently single, and has a job that pays him ridiculous money. But act fast. The women of Boston are starting to figure out how completely excellent he is, though it ought to have been obvious years ago.

The picture above is from a cartoon I drew in one of the King Floyd zines from 1996, illustrating a funny story Steve told me. I see it had an undercurrent of sexual unease to it. What can I say? Gay frat.



Shout-out to Inman Square: Dining too fine to waste on grad students, so get those property values rising! East Coast Grill, the first good place in Boston I managed to take my parents! The Druid, which is fun to say in a ridiculous Irish accent ("tha' DROOOOOOD!"), and where they pass the hat for the I.R.A! Jae's (not there anymore), with great-for-beginners sushi and killer pad thai! 1369, when you absolutely need coffee served by a lesbian but you can't make it all the way to Jamaica Plain! Olé, for awesome $8 guacamole served in an infinitely dense chunk of black hole! The Thirsty Scholar, where I got to hang out with Jim Carroll! That Portuguese sandwich place, where L and I went after several early dates! That Indian place, that wasn't actually that good! That Southern place, that I never went to!

Comments

[telepresence.livejournal.com]

"1369, when you absolutely need coffee served by a lesbian but you can't make it all the way to Jamaica Plain!"

I don't actually drink coffee. But 1369 was the designated meeting spot for me and allegedly for a while, to drink iced chai and complain about life, and this sentence made me laugh and laugh and laugh.

You know, have you considered turning this stuff into a vaguely Bill Bryson-eque book? Because you're making me like this city more, just reading about it through your eyes.