The Death of Steven, Inc.

Photo by Donald Agarrat, 2003

Ooo-wee, a BLOG entry!

Heru (my best friend and business partner) called me today to tell me that my website doesn’t represent me. That my quirky insights into life, love and the pursuit of poonanny, are largely absent from my site. That I am throwing up filler on my BLOG section without a context. Get this. He says that people who know me know that I have a take on life that is honest and doesn’t take itself too seriously. That he and others—meaning my friends, countless admirers and Stevenites—should want to tune in everyday to my website to find out what shit I’ve conjured up in words. That I need to exploit my Steven adventures more. Talk more about my fine-assed self.

I was like, jigga what?

Let me offer some background here and then you'll better understand what it's my pretty little dented head. Years ago when Heru and I ran One Step Further, a sexual education and advocacy company that serviced (and did we!) black and Latino men who are intimately and sexually involved with other men, I jokingly started up a “company” called Steven, Inc., to describe my work outside of the library (I am a librarian by day, and at night, SUPERBISQUE!)

So, anyway, whenever I was busy with a project and couldn’t talk I’d say that I was doing Steven, Inc. stuff. Or when I wanted to get out of a commitment, or didn't want to be bothered, I'd say I had some Steven, Inc. business to attend to. Steven, Inc., freelance writing, facilitating workshops, panel presentations, massage classes, the Black Gay and Lesbian Archive, and whatever else I wanted to do.

Hahahahahahahahahahaha. Ha. Hahahahahahahahahahahahahahahhahahahahahhahahahahahahahahahaha.

I was a monster.

Steven Inc. was a good idea at the time (2000-2002), but then I got bored with it because, well, I got a whiff of my own farts and I got on my OWN damn nerves. I was freelancing like a madman, always on the make for a new gig, always publishing something or other, mainly reviews—which if I may be so bold to say were frequently useless, at least to me. What I learned after penning nearly two hundred of them is that good criticism isn’t about if a CD/book/film is good or bad; it should seek to inform the reader, place the art in various contexts, and interpret (and never assume) what the artist was trying to do. I was okay at it. Frankly I could write an okay review in my sleep. Real criticism takes patience and care, neither of which I fully possessed.

In addition to writing reviews, ed-op pieces and personal essays, there was the archive, the endless projects, the speaking engagements, the parties, the openings, the trips to California, London and Japan…oh it was just bloody awful. Ran myself down to the ground and got sick. So last year, I quit a freelancing full-time and decided to concentrate on smaller projects that would not stress me out day to day where I could focus and still get a good night sleep. I started doing yoga and immediately felt better. Ahhh.

Then 2003 came and the urge returned. Steven, Inc. reared its ugly yellow head. FEED ME! FEED ME! You know how hard it is to turn down writing gigs? It’s like my dick in the morning--HARD. Had to turn down three writing gigs recently because I was knee-deep in co-editing a small book of essays, poetry and fiction called THINK AGAIN. (Trust me, you’ll hear enough about it when it drops, which will be VERY soon.) I also penned a bio on John F. Matheus, a Harlem Renaissance writer and foreign language professor for a Harlem Renaissance encyclopedia. That was work.

I wanted to be famous when I was a kid. I wanted to do something important for others. I wanted folks to recognize me on the street and love me. Now that I have some self-esteem and I am accomplishing goals that I feel are important (writing, the Black Gay and Lesbian Archive, art in harlem) I am not overly concerned with being famous and, in many cases, recognized or, in some cases, even liked.

In fact, I know that I wouldn’t be any good at being famous. I am not camera ready under any circumstances (I tried practicing my smile in the mirror, and it looks like I am in pain!) I cannot be “on” all the time. I am not cute and I don’t have the energy or interest in pursuing cute as a full-time job, which, by my estimation, would entail far too many haircuts, new clothes, a shiny face, and eyebrow-pluckings. I am not invested in saying the right thing, and I know even less about what is right. I’m the guy who looks like he just got out of bed, eyes squinting, perpetually scratching his belly going, “what?”

And let’s face it, I can be moody. I screen all calls all the time. Why? I t might be you! You can count on me to walk past you on the street without saying hi if you don’t see me first. Why? Maybe I don’t wanna be bothered with you and your etiquette, dumb-ass. Ever think of that? “Hi, how are you, how’s the family, how’s your writing coming along, did you hear that new CD by so-and-so that everybody bought so that must mean it’s good, blah, blah, and more blah.”

So anyway, the fame thing. Being famous means being beholden to an idea or theory or status or group or gang or religion or perspective or way of being in the world. I don’t want to do anything to be respected, admired or whatever. Too much work, so little pay. So I eschew the common scene in order to maintain my admittedly perverse perspective on life, and mainly my smart-assed mouth. I don’t attend too many parties or gigs where people like me (intelligent, sexy, crazy) are supposedly supposed to be. Who can be bothered with showing up at the same damn place, over and over, being a barnacle on the pop scene? I only have one outfit. Besides, I treasure peace of mind, a valuable thing in a city like New York where there’s too much of everything, all at one time, in your lousy face generally when you don’t feel like seeing, hearing, or smelling it.

But one thing that Heru said that struck me as being useful in pursuing as a valid: that I have a responsibly to make my website entertaining, engaging, and promoting the image I want out there. That my website is a property of the marketing and public relations division of all that I wish to accomplish while I am still here, living the life of a fake-ass player.

Okay, so this is how I am going to do it:

Whenever I feel like trotting out any little story about my life, what I ate or wore or felt like doing on any given Tuesday morning, I will. Or what I did, who I did, and why I did ‘em, I might just tell you. And perhaps most interesting to you, what I think about you, you insecure, pop culture slut who wants everyone to like you and so you’ve spent your life being whoever it is you think the world wants you to be.

Stay plugged.

Friday, September 12, 2003 @ 10:08 AM