Blogging is dead, so they say. And, they so say because it’s true. In a staccato world, no one wants to take the time to read meandering thoughts or verbose musings.
And, with that, sad to say, so goes My New Boyfriend – sorta. I surmise it’s no mammoth surprise, as I’ve scarcely posted anything these past few years. Between life, marriage, near-death, work, and social media, time is scattered too thin.
It’s bittersweet. Once upon a time, I wanted to publish a blog that millions of people read, and share with the world my prodigious trove of archives, as well as share my thoughts on life and love and entertainment. Even gave politics a go in a few posts. Hell, even a decade ago I wrote about my lack of blogging (which was written a few year before I actually was diagnosed with Chronic Fatigue/Epstein-Barr! How’s that for irony?).
But also, as time progressed, I epiphanized (is that a word?) that despite those afflictions, I hadn’t the time within a day to accomplish what I wanted with blogging.
But, I’m still active and alive – albeit, on a more social media and YouTube plane of existence. (I’ve privatized nearly a hundred previous posts that originally existed here, too. Many were political, some personal, others because I didn’t like what I initially wrote – I’ve always been in desperate need of an editor!. But the rest will live on here. And some of these I will re-publish on social media, too.)
So, in lieu of flowers, please send followers – including yourself – to the following – where I post more frequently, and will do so even more moving forward:
Here are a few older YouTube pages as well. My very first YT account, WireDream, as well as my subsequent one, JeffreyChrist, were both deleted when I “violated” one too many of their rules. So, my millions of views (seriously) were gone in a nanosecond. (And I was the first one to post the classic Aretha “Nessun Dorma” video, that over half a million views alone!). I stopped posting on these pages due to too many of those violations. Some of these videos will be re-encoded at a higher resolution and added to both my IG and new YT page above, but nothing that is copyrighted. Any new stuff posted will be never-before-seen footage of rare interviews or live performances. I do not want to be in violation again (I really used that word a lot in this paragraph!). Anyway, enjoy these while you can:
JeffreyChrist Is Alive (With all due respect, my YT name is NOT jeffrey CHRIST IS ALIVE. I am a non-believer. The moniker is JEFFREYCHRIST is alive. As noted earlier, one of my first accounts, ‘jeffreychrist,’ was deleted, so I created a new one to let everyone know, at the time, that I live on, albeit with a different name.)
(I wrote this in 2012 for Adam’s 34th birthday, upon discovering that he had died a few years prior, never having the chance to say goodbye. I no longer blog, but I will keep these posts active, for Adam…)
Adam Forgetta and I met 18 years ago during a brisk and stinging winter morning. It sounds like a cliché, I know, but it’s actually true. I was standing on a near-empty underground subway platform at Church Avenue waiting for the F train, when, from the corner of my eye I noticed a young man (who vaguely resembled a young, handsome male version of Sandra Bernhard) bopping and sing-whispering aloud to Guns N Roses, with a pair of drumsticks protruding out of his back pocket. I don’t recall who initiated the conversation, or what our first words were, but I remember, after giving him the thumbs up for his pseudo-public performance, he smiled, took his headphones off and we started speaking. Soon subsequently, he and I were at my apartment – Guns N Roses was his favorite band, Axl Rose his favorite singer, and he was in awe of my massive CD collection that I “acquired” while at my recent past tenure at Tower Records. As a fellow music lover he was enthralled spelunking the thousands of titles (especially those G ‘n R imports) packed in my small one room apartment.
The above photo was taken on March 9, 1994 in that Bensonhurst, Brooklyn apartment on Bay Ridge Parkway and 17th avenue not too many months after we met. Unemployed at the time, living off my “savings” from Tower, we spent limitless days lounging about. We kept each other company through that cold winter, lunching on microwavable hamburgers and diet Coke from the corner deli up the block on 18th avenue, traipsing through the snow to Manhattan to check out new CD releases from the copious import stores that saturated the East Village. We strolled to Bay Ridge in the springtime and sat along the water, people watching, dreaming. We excitedly talked of buying bikes so we could pedal to the Verrazano Bridge to enjoy the exercise and the view. I told him about my friend, Kenny Joseph, who took his life many years ago by leaping, and how the bridge has become, for me, a sort of sanctuary for contemplation, even amidst the clamor of the traffic above. The holidays swiftly came and went, and we enjoyed visiting the Rockefeller Center Christmas tree, with the hopes that the imminent New Year would bring forth happiness. I loved teaching him everything I knew about music, movies, life, politics, and I loved him, soul deep.
Through this all, and right after his birthday the following year, the eventual had happened.
Age never really mattered to me, up to some point (his actual age was definitely something I never pursued – my range was always a +10/-5 year circumference). But the age he told me he was upon our meeting (20) – and appeared to be, in all his emotional and personable fortitude – was not what the truth was; there was more than a decade difference between us, I knew, and though he was younger, I did not think he was a teenager still. I was confused after I found out the truth – and angry (for a little while) – but I was thankful, too, that, when that “eventual” actually occurred, he was of legal age in New York. But it didn’t distill my discomfort with it, and, at 29, that part of our friendship was instantly halted. It didn’t matter to either of us – after all, we weren’t “a couple” – we were friends who, after spending a year or so as such, extended the boundaries; out of love, out of brotherhood, out of boredom too. And…if it was beautiful, then how could it have been wrong? (It really wasn’t.)
I never thought Adam was gay, despite our dalliances – I knew he had been with other men, usually older, but he spoke so often about girls that I figured any same-sex dalliances were merely that of the heightened hormones of a horny teenager. Before I knew his real age, he told me he was bisexual, and I accepted that, knowing even then that ours was a temporary sexuality – and one that was merely that extension of friendship rather than a torrid romance. I loved him, but I was never in love with him. And vice versa.
I started working shortly thereafter at Merlite Industries, a costume jewelry catalog company based in Chelsea, and our times together grew more fleeting, though we made our efforts to see each other whenever able. Over the next year or two, we saw each other as often as we could – even after I moved in with a roommate to a larger apartment not too far away from my previous one and sporadically beyond that.
Sadly, as time progressed, Adam had virtually disappeared. Our visits were more and more infrequent, our phone calls halted completely (it didn’t help that he no longer had one). The last time I had spoken to him, he was living with an older woman and her two children. He sounded happy, despite their age difference (funny, huh?), and I was happy for him. As I hugged him goodbye, I kissed his cheek and said, “I miss you, man!” He replied, almost bittersweetly, “I know. Me too.” We paused a little longer mid-embrace, and then he walked out the door, heading home.
If I had only known…
Despite the years-long hiatus, I’ve often searched for Adam. I had no phone number for he had no phone; his previous address left no forwarding one. When I finally purchased a computer in 2000-2001, I began, in vain, my quest. I spelunked Yahoo and AOL chat rooms, on Guns N Roses fan message boards. With the advent of “social media,” I would peruse Friendster and MySpace then later Facebook and Google, all grasping onto the hope that Adam took to this new form of technology.
But the reason he was intangible breaks my heart, still.
In May of 2011, like an epiphany, I remembered Adam had an older sister – he talked of her fondly years before and I loved that her name was “Starr”. So I looked up Starr on Facebook on a hopeful whim and there she was! I eagerly wrote:
Hi Starr – forgive my intrusion but I was wondering if you were related to Adam Forgetta. He’s an old friend of mine from back in the 1990s and we’ve lost contact over the years. I know “Adam” is a common name, so let me describe my friend Adam – he was about 5’9 – reddish curly hair, a HUGE Guns N Roses fan (big music fan in general). He’d be in his early 30s now, as I knew him when he was a teenager. If Adam is indeed a relative of yours, can you please let him know that his old friend from Bensonhurst Jeffrey (the music man with 8,000 CDs) has been looking for him for a few years…and if he is indeed a relative, please let me know and I will give you my number so you can give it to Adam. If Adam is not related to you, please let me know as well. Thanx for your time…I hope to hear back from you soon. ~jeffrey
She replied with the worst words I never wanted to – or expected to – hear:
I’m his sister and he passed away in 2004. U can call me at xxxxxx
I momentarily froze. My hands quivered and I sobbed uncontrollably. Through the tremors, I responded:
I can’t talk…I’m in tears…I will call, but I can’t now…too emotional…how did he pass…?
Ur going make me cry! I loved my brother very much. He died from HIV and cancer and he left a set of twins behind, a boy and girl. They’re 9 years old now…
Oh my…I am so sorry for your loss…I didn’t mean to make you cry. I loved your brother…he was special to me and when we lost contact a piece of my heart left…I still have photos of him from a few parties I threw…Oh, Adam!!! I am weeping so hard… I’ve looked for him for years…I wish I never lost touch…oh, sweet, sweet Adam!
I called Starr after I composed myself and we spoke – and through our tears she told me the tale of her brother’s later life, of the woman who had given him HIV, his twins he loved so much, the AIDS-related cancer he had finally succumbed to. How it was 7 years since he died and how she misses her brother beyond comprehensive words and how she longs to embrace her twin niece and nephew, Adam’s children. She told me of the tattoo she had made in her brother’s honor so he would forever be with her. She told me if I Googled his name, I would find his death notice. I have Googled his name in the past, and always came up with nothing. After we hung up, I did so again. And there, like a serrated blade, it was. So I wept again.
Adam’s online death notice.
I know it’s a cliché to say it, but there really aren’t words to convey the prodigious size of the hole in my heart. I had prayed to a god I don’t believe in that the aforementioned hiatus would be just that…that I would find my long-ago lost, itinerant child…that I would embrace him and feel that breathtaking hug of his, and to again smell his hair while doing so (which he always thought was weird, and we’d laugh); that, speaking of laughs, we would have a few good ones at the expense of his favorite singer’s eccentricity (though there’s no doubt Adam’s love for Axl would not have waned). I had always expected that I would see him, rocking down the street, air-drumming with those drumsticks he was rarely – if ever – without (they were his security blanket, his constant thread to his reality. And you wouldn’t recognize it instantly, but he’s twirling those beaters in the photo above). I anticipated the ensuing day I would hear the tales of his happy life, perhaps of a wife and kids, or a partner or husband. I fervently awaited the tales of how he had filled the missing years that separated our tangibility, but not our brotherhood or bond.
I just assumed that, given time…he would just…be here.
But, these are now evaporated aspirations, jolting evanescences, discarded dreams. Oh, if only I had tried much harder…used any resources at my disposal, extended my searches. I never should have allowed those expanses that life jettisons at us to allow him to slip away. If I tried more powerfully, perchance he would still…be here.
Maybe, if we remained tangible, I could have, at the very least, held his hand when he left us.
I recently dreamed of Adam, almost a year after receiving the news, and one of a myriad of dreams he’s haunted for years and years. These dreams were always surreal, unexplainable, but commonly; they very rarely altered – they were of Adam and I doing what we’ve always done as friends, as if time were not merely a ghost. This time was different, though. I remember reaching out, imploring to him, “Don’t go…stay, Adam…” And he smiled that goofy, glorious grin, enveloped me in his arms and said, “I love you man. Always have, always will…”
Drenched in tears, with the sunlight bathing my face, I woke up smiling.
I don’t believe that dreams are anything other than our subconscious minds working overtime to get us through the night. But…that embrace…maybe, just maybe.
So, Adam, here’s to you on your (34th) (35th) (36th) (37th) (38th) (39th) (40th) (41st) (42nd) (43rd)(44th) 45th birthday. You are forever tattooed on my heart, and will always reside within the storehouse of my soul, for as long as I shall live…and beyond…
On your grave, I will lie, it’s the closest I will get to embracing you again. I will kiss the dirt, make love to the stone…I will always remember you…
…especially during those cold November rains…
Addendum: I recently reached out to Starr again and asked if she had any other photos, but most were long gone. She sent me the only two she had – of Adam and his son, Adam Jr., from 2001, and a childhood Christmas photo with Adam grinning with the heart of the holidays. Hindsight can make one despondent at times, but I wish I had known to take more photos of us. Selfies, digital cameras, iPhones – all pipe dreams from SciFi films. We lived life sans the technology.
The other one is a photo I found in my archives of a New Year’s Eve party, with Adam on the far right looking bemused at my party antics.
Moments frozen in time…etched in our memories, eternal.
Adam, far right, bemused at my anticsAdam with his son, Adam JR. circa 2001Adam, bottom, left and Starr, bottom right.
(I wrote this in 2012 for Adam’s 34th birthday, upon discovering that he had died a few years prior, never having the chance to say goodbye. I’ve removed older post when reconfiguring MyNewBoyfriend, but decided to continue with these, for Adam…)
Adam Forgetta and I met 18 years ago during a brisk and stinging winter morning. It sounds like a cliché, I know, but it’s actually true. I was standing on a near-empty underground subway platform at Church Avenue waiting for the F train, when, from the corner of my eye I noticed a young man (who vaguely resembled a young, handsome male version of Sandra Bernhard) bopping and sing-whispering aloud to Guns N Roses, with a pair of drumsticks protruding out of his back pocket. I don’t recall who initiated the conversation, or what our first words were, but I remember, after giving him the thumbs up for his pseudo-public performance, he smiled, took his headphones off and we started speaking. Soon subsequently, he and I were at my apartment – Guns N Roses was his favorite band, Axl Rose his favorite singer, and he was in awe of my massive CD collection that I “acquired” while at my recent past tenure at Tower Records. As a fellow music lover he was enthralled spelunking the thousands of titles (especially those G ‘n R imports) packed in my small one room apartment.
The above photo was taken on March 9, 1994 in that Bensonhurst, Brooklyn apartment on Bay Ridge Parkway and 17th avenue not too many months after we met. Unemployed at the time, living off my “savings” from Tower, we spent limitless days lounging about. We kept each other company through that cold winter, lunching on microwavable hamburgers and diet Coke from the corner deli up the block on 18th avenue, traipsing through the snow to Manhattan to check out new CD releases from the copious import stores that saturated the East Village. We strolled to Bay Ridge in the springtime and sat along the water, people watching, dreaming. We excitedly talked of buying bikes so we could pedal to the Verrazano Bridge to enjoy the exercise and the view. I told him about my friend, Kenny Joseph, who took his life many years ago by leaping, and how the bridge has become, for me, a sort of sanctuary for contemplation, even amidst the clamor of the traffic above. The holidays swiftly came and went, and we enjoyed visiting the Rockefeller Center Christmas tree, with the hopes that the imminent New Year would bring forth happiness. I loved teaching him everything I knew about music, movies, life, politics, and I loved him, soul deep.
Through this all, and right after his birthday the following year, the eventual had happened.
Age never really mattered to me, up to some point (his actual age was definitely something I never pursued – my range was always a +10/-5 year circumference). But the age he told me he was upon our meeting (20) – and appeared to be, in all his emotional and personable fortitude – was not what the truth was; there was more than a decade difference between us, I knew, and though he was younger, I did not think he was a teenager still. I was confused after I found out the truth – and angry (for a little while) – but I was thankful, too, that, when that “eventual” actually occurred, he was of legal age in New York. But it didn’t distill my discomfort with it, and, at 29, that part of our friendship was instantly halted. It didn’t matter to either of us – after all, we weren’t “a couple” – we were friends who, after spending a year or so as such, extended the boundaries; out of love, out of brotherhood, out of boredom too. And…if it was beautiful, then how could it have been wrong? (It really wasn’t.)
I never thought Adam was gay, despite our dalliances – I knew he had been with other men, usually older, but he spoke so often about girls that I figured any same-sex dalliances were merely that of the heightened hormones of a horny teenager. Before I knew his real age, he told me he was bisexual, and I accepted that, knowing even then that ours was a temporary sexuality – and one that was merely that extension of friendship rather than a torrid romance. I loved him, but I was never in love with him. And vice versa.
I started working shortly thereafter at Merlite Industries, a costume jewelry catalog company based in Chelsea, and our times together grew more fleeting, though we made our efforts to see each other whenever able. Over the next year or two, we saw each other as often as we could – even after I moved in with a roommate to a larger apartment not too far away from my previous one and sporadically beyond that.
Sadly, as time progressed, Adam had virtually disappeared. Our visits were more and more infrequent, our phone calls halted completely (it didn’t help that he no longer had one). The last time I had spoken to him, he was living with an older woman and her two children. He sounded happy, despite their age difference (funny, huh?), and I was happy for him. As I hugged him goodbye, I kissed his cheek and said, “I miss you, man!” He replied, almost bittersweetly, “I know. Me too.” We paused a little longer mid-embrace, and then he walked out the door, heading home.
If I had only known…
Despite the years-long hiatus, I’ve often searched for Adam. I had no phone number for he had no phone; his previous address left no forwarding one. When I finally purchased a computer in 2000-2001, I began, in vain, my quest. I spelunked Yahoo and AOL chat rooms, on Guns N Roses fan message boards. With the advent of “social media,” I would peruse Friendster and MySpace then later Facebook and Google, all grasping onto the hope that Adam took to this new form of technology.
But the reason he was intangible breaks my heart, still.
In May of 2011, like an epiphany, I remembered Adam had an older sister – he talked of her fondly years before and I loved that her name was “Starr”. So I looked up Starr on Facebook on a hopeful whim and there she was! I eagerly wrote:
Hi Starr – forgive my intrusion but I was wondering if you were related to Adam Forgetta. He’s an old friend of mine from back in the 1990s and we’ve lost contact over the years. I know “Adam” is a common name, so let me describe my friend Adam – he was about 5’9 – reddish curly hair, a HUGE Guns N Roses fan (big music fan in general). He’d be in his early 30s now, as I knew him when he was a teenager. If Adam is indeed a relative of yours, can you please let him know that his old friend from Bensonhurst Jeffrey (the music man with 8,000 CDs) has been looking for him for a few years…and if he is indeed a relative, please let me know and I will give you my number so you can give it to Adam. If Adam is not related to you, please let me know as well. Thanx for your time…I hope to hear back from you soon. ~jeffrey
She replied with the worst words I never wanted to – or expected to – hear:
I’m his sister and he passed away in 2004. U can call me at xxxxxx
I momentarily froze. My hands quivered and I sobbed uncontrollably. Through the tremors, I responded:
I can’t talk…I’m in tears…I will call, but I can’t now…too emotional…how did he pass…?
Ur going make me cry! I loved my brother very much. He died from HIV and cancer and he left a set of twins behind, a boy and girl. They’re 9 years old now…
Oh my…I am so sorry for your loss…I didn’t mean to make you cry. I loved your brother…he was special to me and when we lost contact a piece of my heart left…I still have photos of him from a few parties I threw…Oh, Adam!!! I am weeping so hard… I’ve looked for him for years…I wish I never lost touch…oh, sweet, sweet Adam!
I called Starr after I composed myself and we spoke – and through our tears she told me the tale of her brother’s later life, of the woman who had given him HIV, his twins he loved so much, the AIDS-related cancer he had finally succumbed to. How it was 7 years since he died and how she misses her brother beyond comprehensive words and how she longs to embrace her twin niece and nephew, Adam’s children. She told me of the tattoo she had made in her brother’s honor so he would forever be with her. She told me if I Googled his name, I would find his death notice. I have Googled his name in the past, and always came up with nothing. After we hung up, I did so again. And there, like a serrated blade, it was. So I wept again.
Adam’s online death notice.
I know it’s a cliché to say it, but there really aren’t words to convey the prodigious size of the hole in my heart. I had prayed to a god I don’t believe in that the aforementioned hiatus would be just that…that I would find my long-ago lost, itinerant child…that I would embrace him and feel that breathtaking hug of his, and to again smell his hair while doing so (which he always thought was weird, and we’d laugh); that, speaking of laughs, we would have a few good ones at the expense of his favorite singer’s eccentricity (though there’s no doubt Adam’s love for Axl would not have waned). I had always expected that I would see him, rocking down the street, air-drumming with those drumsticks he was rarely – if ever – without (they were his security blanket, his constant thread to his reality. And you wouldn’t recognize it instantly, but he’s twirling those beaters in the photo above). I anticipated the ensuing day I would hear the tales of his happy life, perhaps of a wife and kids, or a partner or husband. I fervently awaited the tales of how he had filled the missing years that separated our tangibility, but not our brotherhood or bond.
I just assumed that, given time…he would just…be here.
But, these are now evaporated aspirations, jolting evanescences, discarded dreams. Oh, if only I had tried much harder…used any resources at my disposal, extended my searches. I never should have allowed those expanses that life jettisons at us to allow him to slip away. If I tried more powerfully, perchance he would still…be here.
Maybe, if we remained tangible, I could have, at the very least, held his hand when he left us.
I recently dreamed of Adam, almost a year after receiving the news, and one of a myriad of dreams he’s haunted for years and years. These dreams were always surreal, unexplainable, but commonly; they very rarely altered – they were of Adam and I doing what we’ve always done as friends, as if time were not merely a ghost. This time was different, though. I remember reaching out, imploring to him, “Don’t go…stay, Adam…” And he smiled that goofy, glorious grin, enveloped me in his arms and said, “I love you man. Always have, always will…”
Drenched in tears, with the sunlight bathing my face, I woke up smiling.
I don’t believe that dreams are anything other than our subconscious minds working overtime to get us through the night. But…that embrace…maybe, just maybe.
So, Adam, here’s to you on your (34th) (35th) (36th) (37th) (38th) (39th) (40th) (41st) (42nd) (43rd) 44th birthday. You are forever tattooed on my heart, and will always reside within the storehouse of my soul, for as long as I shall live…and beyond…
On your grave, I will lie, it’s the closest I will get to embracing you again. I will kiss the dirt, make love to the stone…I will always remember you…
…especially during those cold November rains…
Addendum: I recently reached out to Starr again and asked if she had any other photos, but most were long gone. She sent me the only two she had – of Adam and his son, Adam Jr., from 2001, and a childhood Christmas photo with Adam grinning with the heart of the holidays. Hindsight can make one despondent at times, but I wish I had known to take more photos of us. Selfies, digital cameras, iPhones – all pipe dreams from SciFi films. We lived life sans the technology.
The other one is a photo I found in my archives of a New Year’s Eve party, with Adam on the far right looking bemused at my party antics.
Moments frozen in time…etched in our memories, eternal.
Adam, far right, bemused at my anticsAdam with his son, Adam JR. circa 2001Adam, bottom, left and Starr, bottom right.
Love Me Still is a hauntingly beautiful song sung by legendary soul singer Chaka Khan, who co-wrote the song with Bruce Hornsby (who plays piano on the track and appears in the video) and was initially featured on the soundtrack to Spike Lee’s 1995 film, “Clockers.” I fell in love with the song and it remains one of those ballads that leaves me breathless, and even for a long while in the mid-1990s, I used it as the music on my answering machine (remember those?).
Of her myriad of sonic gifts – the funk, the grit, the spunk etc… – Love Me Still touches me for its pure simplicity; there are no vocal pyrotechnics, no improvisational scattering, no jazzy quirk – just a straightforward reading via Khan’s richly clarion vocals, accompanied by the gorgeous tickling of the ivories by Mr. Hornsby.
There are two versions of the video that were released, both directed by Spike Lee. The soundtrack version has clips of the film interspersed throughout and the standard version omitted that footage.
In an excerpt of the January/February 1997 issue of Performing Songwriter, writer Lydia Hutchinson asks Khan about the songs origin, and co-writing it with Hornsby:
Tell me about writing “Love Me Still” with Bruce Hornsby.
“I went to Virginia and visited with Bruce and his family and had such a great time. We were working on some songs, and he finally said, “OK, I know you like this melody so let me work on it some more and send it to you.” So he finished it and sent it to me and when I heard it, it just blew me away. It was this beautiful hymn-like piece and it just sort of told me what it was about—the sentiment was there. So I sat down and the lyrics just came out. And I recorded it immediately and was so happy with it that I called Bruce up and played it for him over the phone. And we were both knocked out by it.”
How long did those lyrics take you?
“Oh, they took a while … at least a couple of hours.”
(Laughing) A couple of hours?
“That’s a long time to be messing around with words!” (Laughs)
Have you noticed a maturing process that you’ve gone through vocally, such as “less is more”?
“Absolutely. My thing was always to kind of scream and go over the top. When I listen to my old stuff I also sound like I’m going at about three speeds faster than I am now. I sound a little bit frantic and young and wet. Now my vibrato has slowed down. My voice has deepened. So yeah, it definitely feels much more effective to pull back and then be choosier about the over-the-top parts.”
I really noticed a more reserved delivery in the song you and Hornsby wrote.
“That was one of the hardest songs I’ve ever had to sing, because I knew I had to really hold back on it and still get the message and emotion across.”
Ric Ocasek has passed away and another legend has left this realm to jam in Rock N Roll heaven. He was 75.
I once had a brief conversation with Ocasek back in the early-1990s, about a decade or so after the video for “Drive” was an MTV ubiquity, and after the song itself had become (and remains) one of the greatest rock ballads of all time.
Ocasek and his then-wife, Paulina Porizkova, were frequent shoppers at Tower Records, on 4th and Broadway, and one evening, while supervising the Rock floor for one of the other supervisors who called out sick, the couple were perusing the the racks and I saw my chance to chat with him. After the obligatory small talk of me telling him how much I loved The Cars, and what his music meant to me, I said to him “…and I appreciate that you were smart enough to know that Ben was a better singer, so you gave him “Drive.” You composed one of the greats, and giving it to his mellifluous voice, rather than yours, solidified its eternal classic status!”
Instantly, I realized that what I said could have been misconstrued as an insult, and I immediately started stammering, “Oh, no, no, no, I didn’t mean…I mean, you’re great too, but…you know…”, blubbering some gobbledygook I don’t even remember. When I finally shut up, he looked at me with a raised eyebrow. It lasted a second, but felt like 5 minutes. I thought I pissed him off, but he said, “You’re right.” And then he and Paulina smiled and walked away.
I don’t know if he just wanted to shut me up, if he actually agreed with me, if he thought I was a fool, or if he was being nice to the stuttering idiot trying to explain himself, but at that moment I knew that Ocasek was one of the coolest “rock stars” I’ve ever had the pleasure to meet.
Also, as displayed in the below video – where he performed an acoustic version for a select audience in 2005 – his voice suited “Drive,” if not definitively, just lovely still.
Ocasek’s written (and yes, sang) some of the greatest songs of my youth, and he’s been a prolific producer, painter, and even a poet. The Ben I spoke of was, of course, bassist Benjamin Orr, who sadly died back in October of 2000, and who, again of course, also sang lead on other Cars classics.
Whenever I hear “Drive” – or watch its haunting video – it brings me back to my beloved Tower Records days, a moment in time frozen in my memory. And it always reminds me of how much I loved – and will always love – The Cars.
(I wrote this in 2012 for Adam’s 34th birthday, upon discovering that he had died a few years prior, never having the chance to say goodbye. I’ve removed older post when reconfiguring MyNewBoyfriend, but decided to continue with these, for Adam…)
Adam Forgetta and I met 18 years ago during a brisk and stinging winter morning. It sounds like a cliché, I know, but it’s actually true. I was standing on a near-empty underground subway platform at Church Avenue waiting for the F train, when, from the corner of my eye I noticed a young man (who vaguely resembled a young, handsome male version of Sandra Bernhard) bopping and sing-whispering aloud to Guns N Roses, with a pair of drumsticks protruding out of his back pocket. I don’t recall who initiated the conversation, or what our first words were, but I remember, after giving him the thumbs up for his pseudo-public performance, he smiled, took his headphones off and we started speaking. Soon subsequently, he and I were at my apartment – Guns N Roses was his favorite band, Axl Rose his favorite singer, and he was in awe of my massive CD collection that I “acquired” while at my recent past tenure at Tower Records. As a fellow music lover he was enthralled spelunking the thousands of titles (especially those G ‘n R imports) packed in my small one room apartment.
The above photo was taken on March 9, 1994 in that Bensonhurst, Brooklyn apartment on Bay Ridge Parkway and 17th avenue not too many months after we met. Unemployed at the time, living off my “savings” from Tower, we spent limitless days lounging about. We kept each other company through that cold winter, lunching on microwavable hamburgers and diet Coke from the corner deli up the block on 18th avenue, traipsing through the snow to Manhattan to check out new CD releases from the copious import stores that saturated the East Village. We strolled to Bay Ridge in the springtime and sat along the water, people watching, dreaming. We excitedly talked of buying bikes so we could pedal to the Verrazano Bridge to enjoy the exercise and the view. I told him about my friend, Kenny Joseph, who took his life many years ago by leaping, and how the bridge has become, for me, a sort of sanctuary for contemplation, even amidst the clamor of the traffic above. The holidays swiftly came and went, and we enjoyed visiting the Rockefeller Center Christmas tree, with the hopes that the imminent New Year would bring forth happiness. I loved teaching him everything I knew about music, movies, life, politics, and I loved him, soul deep.
Through this all, and right after his birthday the following year, the eventual had happened.
Age never really mattered to me, up to some point (his actual age was definitely something I never pursued – my range was always a +10/-5 year circumference). But the age he told me he was upon our meeting (20) – and appeared to be, in all his emotional and personable fortitude – was not what the truth was; there was more than a decade difference between us, I knew, and though he was younger, I did not think he was a teenager still. I was confused after I found out the truth – and angry (for a little while) – but I was thankful, too, that, when the eventual actually occurred, he was of legal age in New York. But it didn’t distill my uncomfortability with it, and that part of our friendship was instantly halted. It didn’t matter to either of us – after all, we weren’t “a couple” – we were friends who, after spending a year as such, extended the boundaries; out of love, out of brotherhood, out of boredom too. And…if it was beautiful, then how could it have been wrong? (It really wasn’t.)
I never thought Adam was gay, despite our relationship – I knew he had been with other men, usually older, but he spoke so often about girls that I figured any same-sex dalliances were merely that of the heightened hormones of a horny teenager. Before I knew his real age, he told me he was bisexual, and I accepted that, knowing even then that ours was a temporary sexuality – and one that was merely that extension of friendship rather than a torrid romance. I loved him, but I was never in love with him. And vice versa.
I started working shortly thereafter at Merlite Industries, a costume jewelry catalog company based in Chelsea, and our times together grew more fleeting, though we made our efforts to see each other whenever able. Over the next year or two, we saw each other as often as we could – even after I moved in with a roommate to a larger apartment not too far away from my previous one and sporadically beyond that.
Sadly, as time progressed, Adam had virtually disappeared. Our visits were more and more infrequent, our phone calls halted completely (it didn’t help that he no longer had one). The last time I had spoken to him, he was living with an older woman and her two children. He sounded happy, despite their age difference (funny, huh?), and I was happy for him. He was 18 at that time, I surmise. As I hugged him goodbye, I kissed his cheek and said, “I miss you, man!” He replied, almost bittersweetly, “I know. Me too.” We paused a little longer mid-embrace, and then he walked out the door, heading home.
If I had only known…
Despite the years-long hiatus, I’ve often searched for Adam. I had no phone number for he had no phone; his previous address left no forwarding one. When I finally purchased a computer in 2000-2001, I began, in vain, my quest. I spelunked Yahoo and AOL chat rooms, on Guns N Roses fan message boards. With the advent of “social media,” I would peruse Friendster and MySpace then later Facebook and Google, all grasping onto the hope that Adam took to this new form of technology.
But the reason he was intangible breaks my heart, still.
In May of 2011, like an epiphany, I remembered Adam had an older sister – he talked of her fondly years before and I loved that her name was “Starr”. So I looked up Starr on Facebook on a hopeful whim and there she was! I eagerly wrote:
Hi Starr – forgive my intrusion but I was wondering if you were related to Adam Forgetta. He’s an old friend of mine from back in the 1990s and we’ve lost contact over the years. I know “Adam” is a common name, so let me describe my friend Adam – he was about 5’9 – reddish curly hair, a HUGE Guns N Roses fan (big music fan in general). He’d be in his early 30s now, as I knew him when he was a teenager. If Adam is indeed a relative of yours, can you please let him know that his old friend from Bensonhurst Jeffrey (the music man with 8,000 CDs) has been looking for him for a few years…and if he is indeed a relative, please let me know and I will give you my number so you can give it to Adam. If Adam is not related to you, please let me know as well. Thanx for your time…I hope to hear back from you soon. ~jeffrey
She replied with the worst words I never wanted to – or expected to – hear:
I’m his sister and he passed away in 2004. U can call me at xxxxxx
I momentarily froze. My hands quivered and I sobbed uncontrollably. Through the tremors, I responded:
I can’t talk…I’m in tears…I will call, but I can’t now…too emotional…how did he pass…?
Ur going make me cry! I loved my brother very much. He died from HIV and cancer and he left a set of twins behind, a boy and girl. They’re 9 years old now…
Oh my…I am so sorry for your loss…I didn’t mean to make you cry. I loved your brother…he was special to me and when we lost contact a piece of my heart left…I still have photos of him from a few parties I threw…Oh, Adam!!! I am weeping so hard… I’ve looked for him for years…I wish I never lost touch…oh, sweet, sweet Adam!
I called Starr after I composed myself and we spoke – and through our tears she told me the tale of her brother’s later life, of the woman who had given him HIV, his twins he loved so much, the AIDS-related cancer he had finally succumbed to. How it was 7 years since he died and how she misses her brother beyond comprehensive words and how she longs to embrace her twin niece and nephew, Adam’s children. She told me of the tattoo she had made in her brother’s honor so he would forever be with her. She told me if I Googled his name, I would find his death notice. I have Googled his name in the past, and always came up with nothing. After we hung up, I did so again. And there, like a serrated blade, it was. So I wept again.
I know it’s a cliché to say it, but there really aren’t words to convey the prodigious size of the hole in my heart. I had prayed to a god I don’t believe in that the aforementioned hiatus would be just that…that I would find my long-ago lost, itinerant child…that I would embrace him and feel that breathtaking hug of his, and to again smell his hair while doing so (which he always thought was weird, and we’d laugh); that, speaking of laughs, we would have a few good ones at the expense of his favorite singer’s eccentricity (though there’s no doubt Adam’s love for Axl would not have waned). I had always expected that I would see him, rocking down the street, air-drumming with those drumsticks he was rarely – if ever – without (they were his security blanket, his constant thread to his reality. And you wouldn’t recognize it instantly, but he’s twirling those beaters in the photo above). I anticipated the ensuing day I would hear the tales of his happy life, perhaps of a wife and kids, or a partner or husband. I fervently awaited the tales of how he had filled the missing years that separated our tangibility, but not our brotherhood or bond.
I just assumed that, given time…he would just…be here.
But, these are now evaporated aspirations, jolting evanescences, discarded dreams. Oh, if only I had tried much harder…used any resources at my disposal, extended my searches. I never should have allowed those expanses that life jettisons at us to allow him to slip away. If I tried more powerfully, perchance he would still…be here.
Maybe, if we remained tangible, I could have, at the very least, held his hand when he left us.
I recently dreamed of Adam, almost a year after receiving the news, and one of a myriad of dreams he’s haunted for years and years. These dreams were always surreal, unexplainable, but commonly; they very rarely altered – they were of Adam and I doing what we’ve always done as friends, as if time were not merely a ghost. This time was different, though. I remember reaching out, imploring to him, “Don’t go…stay, Adam…” And he smiled that goofy, glorious grin, enveloped me in his arms and said, “I love you man. Always have, always will…”
Drenched in tears, with the sunlight bathing my face, I woke up smiling.
I don’t believe that dreams are anything other than our subconscious minds working overtime to get us through the night. But…that embrace…maybe, just maybe.
So, Adam, here’s to you on your (34th ) (35th) (36th) (37th) (38th) (39th) (40th) 41st birthday. You are forever tattooed on my heart, and will always reside within the storehouse of my soul, for as long as I shall live…and beyond…
On your grave, I will lie, it’s the closest I will get to touching you again. I will kiss the dirt, make love to the stone…I will always remember you…
…especially during those cold November rains…
I recently reached out to Starr again and asked if she had any other photos, but most were long gone. She sent me the only two she had – of Adam and his son, Adam Jr., from 2001, and a childhood Christmas photo with Adam grinning with the heart of the holidays. Hindsight can make one despondent at times, but I wish I had known to take more photos of us. Selfies, digital cameras, iPhones – all pipe dreams from SciFi films. We lived life sans the technology.
The other one is a photo I found in my archives of a New Year’s Eve party, with Adam on the far right looking bemused at my party antics.
Moments frozen in time…etched in our memories, eternal.
If Ava DuVernay’s When They See Us were merely a fictional drama, it would be a beautifully acted, albeit infuriating, cautionary tale about the perversion of justice prompted by systematic racism of this country’s law enforcement, particularly in New York, and especially in the timeframe of the 1989 Central Park Jogger case.
That the events of this film actually happened makes it more exasperating, and that this type of police state abuse is still pandemic in 2019, makes it more furiously relevant. The true story is a scab in our country’s racist history (a history ripe – and still ripening – with bleeding scars).
As it stands, it is an artistic triumph, too, at times unbearable, painful and brutal, but never less than mesmerizing. It earned its well-deserved SIXTEEN Emmy nominations, including 8 for the extraordinary cast.
The whole cast is revelatory, but I don’t think I’ve experienced a more masterful evocation on screen this year than that of Jharrel Jerome, who portrays Korey Wise (and is the only actor who plays his role from teen to adult); it is a performance that is nothing less than transcendent, and it will haunt me for years.
Whether screaming at your TV, weeping at the incessant injustice, marveling at the astonishing performances, or cursing that this ever happened, you should not see this merely because of a moral obligation (though, there is that), but also because it is an exceptional artistic achievement. Film-making at its finest.
How you feel about a movie version of Cats is probably dependent on whether or not you enjoyed Cats on Broadway (or on any stage). I was indifferent; I wasn’t completely immune to its certain charms (the otherworldly Betty Buckley’s incandescent performance, to be precise), despite the flimsiness of the score, sets and costumes. So, considering the source material, the film will probably be better by fiat. I’ll also surmise that the screenwriter, Lee Hall (who also wrote the screenplay for the film Billy Elliot as well as the book for the stage version, both wonderful), who co-wrote this screenplay with director Tom Hooper, has structured some sort of plot out of a book-less musical.
However, Jennifer Hudson, who portrays Grizabell, and looks like she spent some time in a litter box at Chernobyl, sounds pretty dreadful singing “Memory” (Hudson’s chest register is still non-existent, and the “…touch me…” is purely anti-climactic), and the eternal nuisance that is Rebel Wilson continues to annoy, even if briefly in a short trailer. Also, must. James. Corden. Be. Fucking. EVERYWHERE?!?!
That said, the choreography is by the brilliant Andy Blankenbuehler (three-time Tony winner for “In The Heights,” “Hamilton,” and “Bandstand”), and Dame Judy Dench as Old Deuteronomy, Sir Ian McKellan as Gus, The Theatre Cat, and Idris Elba as Macavity, will probably be worth the price of admission alone (or at least the eventual VOD rental), even if the names Jason Derulo and Taylor Swift are enough to cast some serious doubts. (Not to mention Hooper, who ruined the film version of Les Miserables with inept direction.)
But what the fuck do I know? This will probably make a fortune.
Finally got around to seeing the 2019 Emmy nominations, and, at first glance, a lot seems to be missing, until you remember that in order to be eligible, a show needed to have aired at least its first episode between June 1, 2018 and May 31, 2019, hence past winners/nominees near-absenteeism (e.g. Big Little Lies, The Handmaid’s Tale, Stranger Things, etc). Don’t worry – Meryl Streep will be here next year to add another award to her mantle!
While I’m dismayed, again, at the continuous snubbing of One Day At A Time, I did appreciate that the Emmys finally recognized how amazing The Good Place is – awarding it an overdue Outstanding Comedy nomination in its third year. But why no love for Kristen Bell, who anchors the hilarious insanity? And while I’m glad the brilliant “Janet(s)” episode was nominated for Outstanding Writing, how the hell was D’Arcy Carden, who gave an ingenious, pitch-perfect performance as Janet, given the cold shoulder? Seriously? Forget the nomination – the Emmy should have been mailed to her after that episode aired! (Carden had to play five of the show’s six main characters, because…oh, fuck it – I won’t even TRY to explain that here. But just believe me when I say it was a work of art. Her non-nom is a crime.)
Though, really – is there anything able to stop the power of Veep? I expect Julia Louis-Dreyfus to grab her hundredth Emmy come awards night (and deservedly so), but I was happy to see Phoebe Waller-Bridge (Fleabag), Christina Applegate (Dead To Me) and Natasha Lyonne (Russian Dolls) included this year alongside last year’s wonderful winner Rachel Brosnahan (The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel). Catherine O’Hara is a national treasure but I never really gotSchitt’s Creek (though I tried), and I’m happy she’s being recognized for her work. (Though, horrified that Pamela Adlon, and Better Things, are both missing.)
I love the love thrown at Fleabag (yay, Olivia Colman!) and Russian Dolls, too, for Outstanding Comedy, as much as I’m exhausted at the umpteenth nominations for This Is Us in the Drama categories. Also, if you’re going to nominate the great Bodyguard as Outstanding Drama Series, then you easily could have knocked out Sterling K Brown’s or Milo Ventimiglia’s nods for Outstanding Actor (not to mention Kit Harington in Game of Thrones, though God forbid!!!), and rewarded Richard Madden’s stupendous turn as David Budd, in the series, with a much-deserved nomination. (Bodyguard’s only other nomination was Outstanding Writing.)
I didn’t hate the final season of Game of Thrones as much as the rest of the world did (as problematic as it was, my main caveat was that it was too rushed). But the show’s record number of nominations seems out of touch with the consensus that this much-maligned season was most undeserving of such accolades.
In GoT‘s supporting categories, not sure Gwendoline Christine’s nod was necessary, nor Sophie Turner’s. And while I understand the Maisie Williams nomination, the usually stellar Lena Headey was underused, and thus, under-performed. She really had nothing much to do this season. (Peter Dinklage though, as usual, was exceptional this year – though I always maintain that his is/was always more a lead role than Harington’s, rather than his thrice-won Supporting.)
And, sure, the acting in Pose might be laughable at times, but Billy Porter’s Outstanding Actor nod is a joy; he’s the heart and soul of the series, and elevates the rest of the novice, amateurish cast. And, despite that cast, the show’s storytelling is beautiful, so kudos for its Outstanding Drama nomination. And I’m also thrilled that Jodie Comer was recognized as Outstanding Actress for Killing Eve – her snub last year was ridiculous, as Sandra Oh’s Eve was nothing without Comer’s Villanelle; a yin without the yang. And did they really need to nominate Viola Davis again for the long-in-the-tooth, and completely risible, How To Get Away With Murder, over, say Julia Roberts’ complex role in the smart, beautifully acted Homecoming, which was surprisingly snubbed? Nope.
The category I’m most excited about, though, is Limited Series. There’s nary a weak nod in the whole acting bunch, with Outstanding Limited Series itself filled with five genuinely exemplary nominations, and a masterpiece or two, too.
In a category (Outstanding Lead Actor) filled with great performance like Jared Harris (Chernobyl) and Hugh Grant (A Very English Scandal), the single most profound performance I witnessed this year was Jharrel Jerome, who played Korey Wise, in the breathtaking When They See Us. I sincerely hope he wins in September – it’s a name you should remember and a performance that will haunt you.
I don’t think there’s any actress who will – or should – beat Michelle Williams (Outstanding Lead Actress) for her transcendent portrayal of Gwen Verdon in Fosse/Verdon, but Patricia Arquette (Escape At Dannemora), Amy Adams (Sharp Objects) and Joey King (astonishing in The Act) could give her a run for her money (not really; this is probably the only sure thing, though if anyone can snatch it from Williams, it’s the much-loved Arquette). But I’m saddened that two excellent performances were nominated in the lead category – Niecy Nash and Aunjanue Ellis (both great in, and nominated for, When They See Us) – both were really supporting roles, and nominating them as leads only lessens their chances come Emmy night (Nash, particularly).
And with When They See Us and Chernobyl (both masterworks, in my opinion) and Fosse/Verdon and Sharp Objects and Escape at Dannemora all up for the same Outstanding Limited Series award? Well, that alone is worth the price of admission. And even another three-plus hour Awards ceremony.
Better Call Saul (AMC) Bodyguard (Netflix) Game of Thrones (HBO) Killing Eve (BBC America) Ozark (Netflix) Pose (FX) Succession (HBO) This Is Us (NBC)
Comedy Series
Barry (HBO) Fleabag (Amazon) The Good Place (NBC) The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel (Amazon) Russian Doll (Netflix) Schitt’s Creek (Pop) Veep (HBO)
Limited Series
Chernobyl (HBO) Escape at Dannemora (Showtime) Fosse/Verdon (FX) Sharp Objects (HBO) When They See Us (Netflix)
Lead Actor in a Drama Series
Jason Bateman (Ozark) Sterling K. Brown (This Is Us) Kit Harington (Game of Thrones) Bob Odenkirk (Better Call Saul) Billy Porter (Pose) Milo Ventimiglia (This Is Us)
Lead Actress in a Drama Series
Emilia Clarke (Game of Thrones) Jodie Comer (Killing Eve) Viola Davis (How to Get Away With Murder) Laura Linney (Ozark) Mandy Moore (This Is Us) Sandra Oh (Killing Eve) Robin Wright (House of Cards)
Lead Actor in a Comedy Series
Anthony Anderson (Black-ish) Don Cheadle (Black Monday) Ted Danson (The Good Place) Michael Douglas (The Kominsky Method) Bill Hader (Barry) Eugene Levy (Schitt’s Creek)
Lead Actress in a Comedy Series
Christina Applegate (Dead to Me) Rachel Brosnahan (The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel) Julia Louis-Dreyfus (Veep) Natasha Lyonne (Russian Doll) Catherine O’Hara (Schitt’s Creek) Phoebe Waller-Bridge (Fleabag)
Lead Actor in a Limited Series or TV Movie
Mahershala Ali (True Detective) Benicio Del Toro (Escape at Dannemora) Hugh Grant (A Very English Scandal) Jared Harris (Chernobyl) Jharrel Jerome (When They See Us) Sam Rockwell (Fosse/Verdon)
Lead Actress in a Limited Series or TV Movie
Amy Adams (Sharp Objects) Patricia Arquette (Escape at Dannemora) Joey King (The Act) Niecy Nash (When They See Us) Michelle Williams (Fosse/Verdon) Aunjanue Ellis (When They See Us)
Supporting Actor in a Drama Series
Alfie Allen (Game of Thrones) Jonathan Banks (Better Call Saul) Nikolaj Coster-Waldau (Game of Thrones) Peter Dinklage (Game of Thrones) Giancarlo Esposito (Better Call Saul) Michael Kelly (House of Cards) Chris Sullivan (This Is Us)
Supporting Actress in a Drama Series
Gwendoline Christie (Game of Thrones) Julia Garner (Ozark) Lena Headey (Game of Thrones) Fiona Shaw (Killing Eve) Sophie Turner (Game of Thrones) Maisie Williams (Game of Thrones)
Supporting Actor in a Comedy Series
Alan Arkin (The Kominsky Method) Anthony Carrigan (Barry) Tony Hale (Veep) Stephen Root (Barry) Tony Shalhoub (The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel) Henry Winkler (Barry)
Supporting Actress in a Comedy Series
Alex Borstein (The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel) Anna Chlumsky (Veep) Olivia Colman (Fleabag) Sian Clifford (Fleabag) Betty Gilpin (GLOW) Sarah Goldberg (Barry) Marin Hinkle (The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel) Kate McKinnon (Saturday Night Live)
Supporting Actor in a Limited Series or TV Movie
Asante Blackk (When They See Us) Paul Dano (Escape At Dannemora) John Leguizamo (When They See Us) Stellan Skarsgård (Chernobyl) Ben Whishaw (A Very English Scandal) Michael K. Williams (When They See Us)
Supporting Actress in a Limited Series or TV Movie
Patricia Arquette (The Act) Marsha Stephanie Blake (When They See Us) Patricia Clarkson (Sharp Objects) Vera Farmiga (When They See Us) Margaret Qualley (Fosse/Verdon) Emily Watson (Chernobyl)
My New Boyfriend 