Archives: Reflecting on Past Romance

2 conversations this week have had me thinking back on potential loves and actual relationships and the differing emotions they evoke now. One, on reflection, was bittersweet and genuine and led to my single favorite piece of my own writing and not to mention lives on as one of the finest friendships of my life. The other was sexy and exciting and a soap opera and kind of fucked up then but incredibly fucked up now more than a year after it ended in light of some screwy new information. I wrote about that one as well.

So while I think about one with a smile and the other with a mad screw face, let's dig into the negro please archives:

AUTHOR: Jason Toney
TITLE: Distractions
DATE: 06/07/2004 10:48:42 AM
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"I don't think you love me. Confusion setting in. I don't think I'll be staying around here anymore." - Zero 7, Passing By

Sia took the stage during the second encore for what would be her last song with Zero 7 for the evening on the last night of their North American tour in the beautiful John Anson Ford Ampitheatre. She thanked the band, the crew, and us for making their last show so enjoyable.

She also said, "And now everybody kiss each other on the lips. With tongues."

And we stood next to each other, two thirds of the way up from the stage on the left hand side, not kissing.

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The weird thing about falling for one of your friends is that when it doesn't work out as planned, you don't really know what happens next. It's not as if you can just stop seeing that person. At least, I know I can't do that. The whole point is that I love spending time with her.

But now, in your head, it's awkward. There are things you want to say but can't. There are things you want to do but don't.

Is it okay to hold her hand, give her more than the cursory hug, mention how cute she looks?

How does that make her feel? If you talk to another girl in her presence does that make her feel uncomfortable? Does it hurt you if she doesn't feel uncomfortable? Of course it does. You want her to want you like you want her.

But she doesn't. So...so what?

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While the Lakers were losing to a team that shouldn't beat them, Jason Bentley was spinning the tracks in front of a decidedly scenester crowd. Expensive jeans and gaudy blouses, camera phones and bright tennis shoes, all the pretty people in LA who, at least this year, care more about music than basketball were in attendance.

Cree Summer and a woman who looked like she might be her sister were down the row from us dancing. Most of the rest of the capacity crowd, however, were not. When Zero 7 finally took the stage, most folks continued to sit.

I did not.

How can you sit when Mozez, Ms. Tina Dico, Sophie Barker, and the lovely and talented Sia are performing with the band that I would want to compose the soundtrack for the movie to my life?

Fuck a scenester crowd.

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I'm sure the drama is all in my head. We're having a great time, really. We're discussing Harry Potter and bad fashion choices and my sister and her brother and the summer and how we should convince someone to have a Skin to Win Party during these hot, sunny months (because, in the Year of the Sexy, Skinning is Winning!) and I'm happy.

But why isn't it more? Why isn't it ever more?

Maybe in the Year of the Sexy, I've been hoping way more than sexing.

Hope is for Herbs.

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The Lovely Ms. Tina Dico takes the stage and begins to sing the sultry Home. She sways her hips in her black mini dress with aqua leggings and high heels below. It totally shouldn't work but it does and I'm lost in the moment.

I know every word to these songs of love, love lost, love won, and the thoughts that rumble through my brain that I likely should be saying aloud.

I'm standing, one of only maybe 4 people doing so, and I'm rocking back and forth to the music and her voice and I'm singing. For the next 90 minutes, I'll be alive. Truly alive.

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I'm not even mad at her. What is there to be mad about? We have friendship. Great, wonderful, special friendship.

I'm sad, though. Sad for myself. Throwing my own little pity party.

I'm sure I hide it well in her presence.

I'm a master at bullshit. I'm a master at breezy.

At what point, though, will I put my feelings first and stop being so damn accomodating?

When do I start forcing people to make some choices?

When do I start making choices of my own?

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I love Sia. It's really quite terrible this crush. I would absolutely be her groupie. I should have gone to the after party last night and tried to steal her away from her man. I've never had this kind of Tiger Beat crush before. I fall for fictional characters, never the real deal, but Sia? Her voice, her spirit, her absolute magnificence fills me with warmth and joy. She touches something deep in me.

Mozez commands the crowd. Sophie is elegant and poised. Tina is sexy and alluring. Sia, though, is infectious. She encourages Tina to dance. She brightens an already well lit stage.

"This is a song about love," she said. It's much more than that. Somersault is a song about life. About, really, all I want in life. All I want to be for someone in this life.

You're the prince to my ballerina
You feed other people's parking meters
You encourage the eating of ice cream
You would somersault in sand with me

You talk to loners, you ask how's your week
You give love to all and give love to me
You're obsessed with hiding the sticks and stones
When I feel the unknown
You feel like home, you feel like home

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Distractions is the last song. Sia has just asked us all to kiss. After a few moments, she looks back out into the audience and most of us are not following orders.

"Well, get started", she said and laughed. We're all standing now. I closed my eyes, thought about the week I'd had, the truth in my heart, and sang along as passionately as I could.

I love you, I love you, I love you, I do
I only make jokes to distract myself
From the truth, from the truth.

It was an amazing show.

I just wish I was still distracted from the truth.

Sweet, right?

And then there's...

AUTHOR: Jason Toney
TITLE: Not Dancing With Myself
DATE: 02/26/2006 07:49:44 PM
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"Afficianado. So fashionable. With a confident swagger. International. With a game so tight that the ladies have to go 'And You Don't Stop'" - Beanie Sigel, Don't Stop (with Snoop Dogg)

I'm in a cult.

We meet regularly. We have trouble talking about anything other than the cult when we're together. We're constantly trying to recruit new members. We sweat all over each other a lot.

We have leaders. One great guru guides our way, mostly from afar, but he has many disciples and they push us as hard as they can on our personal quests for...for what? Enlightenment?  Strong mind and body? Sexiness?

Each person's journey is their own.

In Studio City, there is a club. It is on the second floor of a strip mall. It has leather booths and a full attractive bar with overpriced drinks but a bartender with a heavy hand. It also has a dance floor.

On Wednesday nights, lately, it has us. And, at least for now, only us.

We members of the cult start rolling in around 10, no longer in our sweaty uniforms. We dress up. Despite the fact that we are only going to see the same people we just worked out with worshipped with a few hours prior, we put our best feet forward. One of our instructors is spinning records here. He demands our presence so we are here.

We complain that he only plays music we can hear in class. We argue with him that he can't be calling himself a DJ if he is putting his mixes on autoplay while he dances on the dance floor with us. I complain for real. I'm serious. I want to hear something real and new and fresh. They complain in jest. In flirtation. They want him to notice them. To pay just a little more attention. To show them love.

I laugh. It is amusing to me. Besides, I am here with the MVP. We dance hand in hand, eyes locked on each other. Synchronous motion.

Except now we're not. Here he is. He pushes into our space as if I'm not even there. It's alright. It's cool. I'll dance with the other ladies while they shoot daggers at him and her. He does this to taunt his fan club. It's cool. I get it. He goes back to his records. The MVP returns to my side with a hug and a whisper in my ear.

It's cool.

We're all dancing in a circle. He's back on the floor with us. We're all in unison. Two girls not with us have decided to put on a show in the corner. Gyrating and grinding on each other. Grabbing in places best left for the bedroom. I, of course, crack up. While I do so, he swoops in again.

It ain't cool. Nah, it is. It's alright. I go get a drink. I mean, we're here together as friends. Nothing more. He's my friend, too, right? What's the big deal? My manhood is bruised a bit but that's just ego. She comes over and expresses concern. We return to the dance floor hand in hand.

It's cool.

This motherfucker does it again. Apparently, I'm looking dejected now. I've drank too many drinks to continue to wear the mask. Another woman comes up to me. She sees I have murder in my eyes. She asks if I would like to dance. I agree. She asks what's wrong.

"I'm gettin' punked out by a friend and there's nothing I can do about."

"Why not," she asks.

I don't have an answer.

The MVP and I leave. It's cold. I have my arms wrapped around her to keep her warm.

From behind I hear, "She's riding with me."

We turn to face him. She's still in my arms.

I will not be punked again.