TAGG, You're It!...

If you're a gay man who enjoys $120 tank tops, then TAGG is awesome. For everyone else, not so much. But they did throw a fun party with free booze, and tunes spun by a talented up and comer, someone I may have mentioned once or twice before- one DJ BennyK... aka Punky... aka Ben... aka the baddest bitch in NYC. I know the boys hate fruitflies being in the bars and clubs, and I don't necessarily blame then. Believe me, being the only girl in a room full of horny queens it's not my scene. My scene generally involves vagabonding , and really nerdy activities like playing Scrabble or watching a documentary.  I'm simply amidst the hedonistic debauchery to support my boy. And if DJ BennyK can make this girl dance her nerdy ass off,  then the asses belonging to all you cool NYC club kids will be blown to high heaven. Pun intended. So for all the gay boys in NYC, if you see us amongst you, don't be bitchy queens to your devoted fruitflies. Be nice. Say hi. Blow fog in my mouth. I'm dorky, but I've never met a gay boy who didn't love me. And to the old drunk dude who is from Utah, but who is not Mormon, who was once married with kids, but who now dreams of owning a gay oriented retail store with naked boys dancing in the window, and who inexplicably tried to make out with me- get yourself together, man! Then, once you do, come on over and say hi. I won't hold your indiscretions against you because I have a soft spot for train wrecks. We've all been there. I always say, if you haven't had a nervous breakdown, you haven't lived.

DJ BennyK continues to make a name for himself in NYC, spinning at so many hotspots that my blog posts can't keep up. Here he is bringing down the house at Bar 13, a multi-tiered club that draws an eclectic crowd of friendly and open-minded characters. Go and visit Paul, the precious bartender, who will carry you merrily into the wee hours. Be sure to compliment him for being so majestic, and thank him by throwing your almighty dollars his way. He deserves it. Congrats to Nathan Kelly and Chris Ryan for hiring a badass DJ, for throwing a badass party, and for generously treating me to free drinks all night. A special thanks to Paola, Ann, and Chris for a hilariously dramatic experience in the loo straight out of a Lynch film, to sweet Jason who knew in his heart that I was neither a lesbian nor white and who came to chat with me to apparently prove it to the rest of the bar, to Karma LiLoLa for being bold, beautiful, and the spiciest girl of them all, to Jon for sporting the coolest t-shirt of the night, to Roland for simply being his amazing self, to DJ Robertox for his mouth to mouth fog antics, and of course to the incomparable DJ BennyK for making me forget all about the rooftop smores and for keeping me on the dance floor. When a girl looks up and realizes she is dancing aside a zombie and a drag queen, gratitude for this beloved city is further instilled into her heart. Enjoy my little vid:

Check out DJ BennyK's latest podcast:

DJ BennyK PodOmatic

"Thru the rhythm of darkened times/ Painted black by knowledge crimes/ And repetitions pointless mime/ Instilling values the sick define/ That keeps the fabric that keeps you blind/ And ties your hands and cloaks your mind/ But on my stilts, I'm above the slime/ Come on up if you can make the climb, but who am I?/ Who am I? Who am I?" --13th Floor Elevators, Thru the Rhythm

 

Checkmate...

Saravuth Inn waiting for an opponent in Union Square

As I was strolling through Union Square today, I came upon this fellow and I requested permission to take his photo. He thanked me for my politeness in a notably sincere manner, as if he was unaccustomed to such courtesy, and he called me closer for a chat. As he introduced himself, he pointed to a CD displayed on the makeshift table. Saravuth Inn was written in black permanent marker on the silver disc. Mr. Inn, as it turns out, is not only a chess master, but a musician as well. "You don't know who you are taking pictures of," he says to me. "So tell me who you are," I say. He begins pulling out newspaper clippings and documents from his bag. He tells me he is from Cambodia, when I ask. Immediately I realize he must have been there as a child during the genocide. Having spent a couple of months in Cambodia, half that time in the Battambang area where as it turns out Mr. Inn is from, I have a major point of reference for his story. In a moment, I am back at the Killing Fields and S-21 prison. Visiting those places had left me emotionally drained and physically ill. Saravuth's parents had been killed by the Khmer Rouge when he was thirteen years old. He was "kidnapped" by US forces and brought to America, where he was adopted by a couple in New Jersey, who unfortunately, were extremely abusive towards him. He managed to earn a scholarship to Rutgers University, where he studied English Literature. For several years he resided in Canada, where he married and had three children. I did not inquire about his family as it was evident that he and his wife were no longer together. Perhaps it was the separation that brought him back to NYC, where he now earns his living by busking and playing chess in the park. I put a dollar in his "donation bag" though I don't have a job myself. "I'm kind of homeless," he says to me. I don't understand what this means, but before I can ask him to elaborate he is on to something else. Saravuth is a fast talker; he wants to be heard. He pulls his cap back and shows me a circular imprint on his temple that had somewhat of a pinkish hue. He lifts his sleeves as he describes the number of times he has been shot and the places in his body where shrapnel has been lodged. Although this is the first time we have met, something tells me that the anger he is displaying is not his usual demeanor; I think he is having a bad day. There is an overwhelming amount of pain emanating from his eyes. I encouraged him to write his story down, but he responds that it is too painful. I suggest working with a friend or ghostwriter, and he mentions that he would enjoy working with his daughter on such a project. As we shook hands and said our goodbyes I thanked him for sharing his immensely compelling story with me. I wished him well and told him that I hoped he found his way back home. Much of our conversation revolved around his desire to return "home" to Cambodia. I honestly couldn't understand why he'd want to return when he has spent the last 35-40 years building his life in North America. "Do you still have family there?" I asked. "I don't know!" he answered with a mixture of amusement and contempt. The trials and tribulations of American bureaucracy in regards to acquiring citizenship left him defeated. That he was brought to the US against his will, and then left without papers that would allow him to get a proper job and earn a decent living, has instilled into him a deep-seated resentment. I didn't really get the full story, and no doubt there is a lot more to it, but it sounded as if he had a frustrating and contentious relationship with the Department of Homeland Security. I googled this fascinating character when I got home, only to find that he had quite a presence on the web. The Villager published an article about him in 2010 in which he exhibits a much more positive and optimistic disposition. "I'm an American. This is my home," Saravuth declares to journalist Aidan Gardiner when discussing his plans to acquire his naturalization number. Two years later Saravuth is still in the park living on donations, sounding as if he has drowned while wading through the sea of red tape, his definition of home drastically changing shape. I do hope he eventually finds his way home, wherever that may be. And I hope once he does that it brings him peace.

A documentary filmmaker named Alex Lora Cercos made a short about Saravuth called Odysseus' Gambit. It premiered at the Sundance Film Festival earlier this year. Keep a look out for it! 

Here are a few pics from 2008 when I was in Battambang, Cambodia, Saravuth's hometown:

"You live in Phnom Penh/ You live in New York City/ But I think about you so so so so much I forget to eat" --Dengue Fever, Tiger Phone Card