yurts

I swore that since the camera shut down every time I tried to juice the little bit of energy out of the dying batteries that it meant there were no photos to be had of my motel experience a few weeks ago but, as you can plainly see, here's two I took the day I arrived.

My friend Cake claims these look nothing like teepees. "More like cupcakes. Or yurts," she says, but I think she's been listening to too much Laurie Anderson. If I had only taken a photo of the No Vacancy sign with it's Indian logo, you'd get a better feel for these teepees.

i really owe you one (new york city)

Sometimes, when I meet new people in Houston who ask me where I am from, originally, and I tell them that I was raised in New Jersey, there will be a lifting of the eyebrows and a smile followed by, "How lucky to be so close to New York! You must really miss the city!" It used to be that I would feel embarrassed explaining that I never took a bus or train into NYC as a teenager because it was, actually, a couple of hours away and, well, Philadelphia was so much closer -- a matter of minutes. For Texans, especially, a couple of hours drive to a city like New York might seem like nothing, but when you grow up in a tiny little mid-Atlantic state that believes it has a distinct "North" and "South" to it, these hours seem long, and the northern stretch to the city seems far.

This past week, I've been attending a conference in New York and, really, for the first time ever, I've been able to finally check out the city as I've always wanted -- no theater tickets, no shows or concerts, no big plans to have the ultimate city experience. Instead, I've been getting on the subway, getting off in random places, and walking in the bright, sunny Springtime weather: bookstores, coffee shops, bars, parks, vendors, trucks, benches, corners, E train downtown, L train to Brooklyn, Union Square, Christopher St., Avenue A, Chelsea, Nolita, Grand Central Station, Tompkins Square Park; finding a health food store with a juice bar, eating pineapple fried rice with tofu and sunflower seeds, bagels with veggie cream cheese and tomato slices, looking and not buying, late-night cab rides back to the hotel, the cityscape in the window as my nightlight.

I also have had the pleasure of reconnecting with two long-time friends from two very different periods of my life. My friend Gretchen (see post below) who I lived with in Syracuse, and my friend Jama, who I met in Houston (at the much-missed Toopee's Coffee on West Alabama) and worked with in the Queer Artist Collective in the mid-1990s.

It was with a wide sense of time that I got to play catch up with Jama in this unfamiliar city, remembering, as we drank margaritas one night and walked through Brooklyn the next, the mid-90s in a way that made the past seem unbelievable to me -- the intensity of being in Texas' only DIY queer peformance art troupe (ever? yes, ever!); who we were back then, and how pissed off, wounded, and unglued we all were; how we ever managed to get anything done (not to mention done well and with sold-out audiences each night) without any money but with a whole lot of over-inflated egos, dexterity, and ambition; in addition to what has become of us, the QuAC kids (as we were sometimes called); was difficult and astonishing for both of us. Seeing her smile lets me know that it is good to live through your twenties and come into a third decade of existence with a past that dazzles as much as it scares the living daylights out of you.

After our first night of seeing each other, with only a few dollars in my pocket, I got lost on the way back to my hotel. No matter which way I turned, it seemed, the subway I needed was nowhere to be found. It was late -- really late -- and I was really, really tired. The more I wandered, the more confused I became. Wasn't I just at this corner? Wait a minute -- is this Seventh Street or Seventh Avenue? In addition, my ATM card was not working. I was, as they say, shit out of luck. Feeling brave and desperate, I stepped out into the street and hailed a cab. When I got inside, I said, "Hi. I need to get to 53rd and 6th Ave. I only have four dollars in my pocket. Can you take me as far in that direction as possible?" I braced myself for a surly reply to get the hell out of the cab, but, miraculously, the driver said, "Don't worry about it." He raced me all the way to the hotel and smiled as he collected my measly cash. When I climbed out, I touched him on the shoulder and said "Thank you so much. I really owe you one." When I related this story of kindness to Jama's girlfriend, Joann, she said, "Chuck, that is what we call a true New York moment."

Cool.

feat. guest blogger, gretchen (new york city)

It's been wonderful to rediscover life with Chuck after having had to do without it for so long. For some reason, during the time we spent sharing space in the physical and metaphysical realms, there were a lot of towels involved. Tonight has involved far fewer towels, unless you count napkins, which Chuck enjoys torturing. Dinner at Angelica Kitchen was interrupted by the realization that he'd once again committed this small domestic abuse, wholly inappropriate in this whole food, vegetarian sanctuary. (Who knew it was the East Village cafeteria? Dining hall days came rushing back.) I took advantage of the opening to swipe a forkful of his marvy Roots of Spring pie. Mmmm, tofu cheese. So glad he had a fresh tube of Italian toothpaste from Ricky's, where fabulous Latino stock clerks spritzed us with Votive room spray, serenaded us with "Blow That Whistle" and ushered us to a wall of Tom's of Maine's finest -- unavailable in the Hilton-on-Sixth gift shop. (It's just past the doors where a rather lost Dee Snyder -- yes, that Twister Sister -- asked me for directions to Warner Center. Alas, I couldn't help him besides offering a sotto voce "thanks for the music.") Keeping to the Italian theme, we repaired to Bar Veloce to swap Ciaos and loaded glances with the loaded Fernet Branca fans next to us in this slip of a bar. Only the nutella panino was more delicious. But posturing wit aside, man, it feels good to laugh again.

no vacancy (at the teepee motel)

I think I saw a short article about this place in the Houston Chronicle a couple of weeks ago and, since then, I have had it in the back of my head as my Spring Break destination. It’s called the TeePee Motel, located off Hwy 59 South about an hour’s drive from Houston, and I’m the guest staying in Teepee Number 3.

I know I am going to hear a collective groan of disappointment when I reveal that my digital camera has dead batteries, so I have no photos to post of this weird slice of Tex-Americana. I know I should have checked before taking off but, you know, I was more focused on getting together the materials I needed to start writing a talk on jailhouses and universities that I’m supposed to be giving in New Orleans in less than a month. I figure holing up for twenty-four hours in an architectural anomaly will inspire me to think critically about my theorization of institutional space and the production of knowledge. So here I am.

When I first drive up to the TeePee Motel, I literally gasped. The photos on the web site don’t do the place justice. Ten identical, beige-colored, one-room “teepees,” built out of concrete and plaster, sit in a perfect line at a right angle off the highway, like a row of giant cupcakes. There is nothing else but a parking lot and some grass and puddles. And the highway. If I open the door of my teepee, there’s my parked car, that stretch of grass, some trees in the distance and, behind the trees, what looks like little houses or, more likely, trailers. Every so often, a rooster crows.

The teepees are daringly close to one another. I’ll say about five-feet apart. There is a little walkway leading from the parking lot to the teepee’s dark-brown door, which is centered in a recessed entrance. (I know my friend Cake will call me later to tell me my architectural vocabulary is impoverished. I’m trying the best I can!) There are three tiny windows in the teepee, two are on either side of the teepee, like little ears, and one is over the sink in the bathroom, directly across from the front door. The windows have dark brown awnings. The tops of the teepees come to a point, and have three little spikes, suggesting, I think, feathers. I am reminded of the igloo-shaped building that Julianne Moore moves into at the end of Todd Haynes’ Safe.

Inside, the room itself is not much: a bed, a little desk, a small fridge, a microwave, and a chocolate-brown couch. The ceiling is about nine feet. The trap door in the ceiling tells me there is an attic that comprises the architectural point of the teepee. A television juts out from high on the wall near the front door, reminding me, eerily, of a hospital room. There is a Gideon Bible on the desk, but I’ve placed it in the top drawer of the nightstand, where I think it is supposed to be.

Since I arrived around noon, I’ve been reading and writing. I’ve kept the door open for fresh air, although there is an air-conditioning unit and I opened one of the windows, too. The kindly woman at the front desk, who called me by my first name, asked me if I was a writer. When I told her I was, she let me know that there is a couple saying in TeePee Number 1 who both write children’s books, and that they’ve been staying there since their house burned down a few weeks ago. I have not met them yet, or any of the other inhabitants. When I asked, the same woman told me the teepees are almost always full, especially on weekends. Right now, the neon “No Vacancy” letters on the TeePee Motel highway sign are lit, which means, obviously, we’re at full capacity.

The families in Teepees 5 and 6 are friends. They’ve had their camping chairs out in front of their teepees and a cooler of beers and some wine going all afternoon. There are some kids throwing a Frisbee. There’s a man in Teepee 1 who is just sort of hanging out in the doorway. I smiled and waved at him earlier. I want to stress that sort of hanging out in the doorway is not at all a weird or creepy thing to do. It’s, like, the only thing you can do, unless you brought a chair with you. It’s a good way to get some air. (The teepee is a little stuffy, but it is also really humid today and, right now, the skies are dark with clouds threatening a thunderstorm.)

According to the website, the Teepee Motel was built in the 1950s, and survived for years before finally shutting down in the 1980s. You can see the disrepair of the teepees in photos posted from the late-1990s. Fortunately, some lucky and kind soul won the lottery and donated money to the motel to renovate the teepees, which is why I am able to, um, use them as a writing retreat.

Surely, there is something to be said about how the stereotype of the “Indian” gets perpetuated by this kind of hokey 1950s Americana, and how the historical specificity of various Texas tribes gets erased by a vacation-style teepee experience for white people. (I have not seen all the guests, but all the ones I have look white to me.) But there is also something -- what? campy? queer? about this place. It’s the kind of place you want to bring your friends from New Jersey to see. Teepee Number 2 (no lie!) was the setting for a scene in the 1995 cinematic remake of Lolita.

I plan to heat up some tamales I picked up from Whole Foods in the microwave later and, if I get enough writing done, watch the film Medium Cool (1968) on my laptop. I am hoping there will be a terrible storm later, and the sound of the rain on the teepee’s roof will lull me to sleep.

the only way to do it (if this is you)

If you wake up, disjointed, from a long night of spring break celebrations that went on way, way too long, you might spend several minutes composing imaginary apology emails to all of those who were witness to your caterwalling and booty-dancing in the wee hours of the morning; or, you might, in an apocalyptic mood that accompanies these kinds of mornings, decide that you are actually dying, and the current raggedness you feel is only the terrifying beginning of what will surely be a long and painful decline. If this is you, go ahead and get up and immediately call your partner, who has been happily busying himself at work unaware of your impending doom, and alert him to your condition. Notice that he is unsure of what, exactly, your problem is. Be grateful that he is a pro when it comes to your eccentricities. He will gently remind you that eating some food will help put you in the right frame of mind. You will hang up and force yourself to gather your wits about you only to discover that you tossed the last pair of contact lenses onto the bathroom floor before passing out the night before, and you will quickly call and then drive to the optometrist to pick up some new ones. On your way, the appeal of miso soup and steamed kale with rice will be so great that you will steer yourself in the direction of the vegan buffet out on Richmond, only to learn that, since today is Monday, and the chairs are all turned up on the tables, the restaurant is closed. Initially, you will be devastated by this unfortunate circumstance, and you will stand in disbelief in front of the restaurant for a couple of minutes, trying to will it to open right then and there with a fresh pot of miso soup ready for your ladeling. Fortuantely, in the last analysis, what seems like an upset will actually be serendipitous because the buffet at the vegetarian Indian food place on Kirby has that clear-brothed, very hot and spicy soup that cures any body that's trying to crash through its spring break like yours. You will notice the effects immediately and practically come to tears as you pay your bill, eternally thanking the cashier for his righteous existence. If this is you, go ahead and treat yourself to a cup of coffee at the fancy little cupcake place that's opened up down the block before you head home to call the plumber. The caffeine will be excellent, and you will drink it as you simultaneously watch the plumber fix the sink and type yourself a new blog entry.

in the tower of knowledge

An hour's worth of unfinished discussion about Hiroshima, the Cold War, Beat Poetry, and what I kept calling (borrowing from Lauren Berlant) a national fantasy of normalcy in the 1950s. Over and over, I repeat the line "Go fuck yourself with your atom bomb," from Ginsberg's poem "America." "What," I ask, "does it mean when you tell someone 'Go fuck yourself'?"

Hesitation, then a few answers: That person thinks he is better than you. That person has a bad ego problem. That person thinks he's great and isn't.

Right, I reply, but what does it mean, more specifically?

Silence. Smiles.

Next: "Let's try to visualize it. Can you picture it? I mean, what it might actually look like?" Suddenly I realize that I am skating on thin ice, but I cannot help it. I go ahead and try to rescue the moment, "Do you think it is possible that when Ginsberg writes the line 'Go fuck yourself with your atom bomb' that he wants to reader to wonder what is more obscene, the curse word "fuck" or the mass death caused by the U.S. in 1945 by using nuclear weapons on a civilian population?" This gets nods. "Is it possible that Ginsberg wants to show us that what is considered to be a crass vulgarity -- 'Go fuck yourself' -- might be considered highly poetic?" This gets nods. "Okay, then, write it down: Ginsberg teaches us that 'Go fuck yourself' is highly poetic, and that it is more obscene to bomb civilian populations than to utter the words "Go fuck yourself' in public."

I am looking forward to Spring Break.