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Stories from a man who fails to meet media expectations of what it means to be gay:
white, frivolous, over sexed yet sexless, shrill, single, stylish, a clown, unimportant, et al.
Sun 10/06/2002
The dangers of same gender households and other disturbing facts
So far, being 35 has been remarkably similar to being 34, which was not too dissimilar to 33, which was largely the same as 32, and so on (or should that be so forth?). This just means that nico at 35 is as boring/interesting as he was at 34.
The birthday was celebrated by a meal at an overpriced Mexican restaurant, and was characterized by an overwhelming lack of histrionics, depression, and melodrama.
Maybe I'm saving all my getting older angst for when I turn 40, or better yet 45. That seems to have more heft, more significance. It seems more worthy of a mid-life crisis.
I can see it now, I'll buy a sports car, take to wearing leopard print bikini briefs, and have an affair with some hot young studly thing. Desperately clinging to the lie that he is the love of my life, I�ll ignore that his desire for me is solely dependent on the value of the gifts I give him.
Unfortunately, it will not take very long to learn how shallow studly boys affections really were, as he soon discovers that civil servants do not make nearly enough money to be proper sugar daddies.
The break up will be humiliating, involving him yelling out loud in a very crowded restaurant that I was cheap, a lousy lay, and have a very tiny penis.
Dejected, I'll return home, only to find the locks changed and that John wants a divorce. Later that day, the sports car gets repo'd, and I get a call from the health department about a certain now exboyfriend of mine testing positive for gonorrhea.
I�ll end alone, in debt, venereal diseased, and living in some skanky motel. I�ll troll the back alleys for sex, but even street hustlers will reject me because I�m too depressing.
Dang me, but I can hardly wait.
For my birthday, I bought myself the gift of art. A friend of mine has organized an art gallery/artist shared space/ co-op/store/thing in Altedena. During a visit to catch up with him and check out the new place, I decided, that perhaps, maybe I did deserve to buy myself a painting if I wanted to. So I now own Faces by Veronica Moody.
Aside from the exchange of money and product, there was a conversation between some artist folks about suspension. I didn�t add much to the conversation. In fact, all I did was nod and try not to look too squeamish during the mentions of temporary piercing, hooks, and healing times. No link, since well, ick.
From my reaction to the talk, maybe it's not surprising that I was the only nontattooed, nonpierced person there, or rather, the only adult, since a hip, funky, �fully decorated� mom was there with her young kids.
I�m just not up with the happening crowd.
The other morning, I was in the bathroom changing a bandage on my left hand, when John came in asking why it was exactly I had put on his pants. Considering he is taller than I am, you would think that I would have noticed that they were long on me, but no, that's how tired and out of it I can be in the morning.
I imagine that this is probably only occurs in same gender households. I doubt very many straight couples accidentally cross dress due to lack of sleep.
The bandage was due to an idiotic injury on a finger. I�m not even sure how I hurt myself, but the end result was that due to a virus, or genetics, or insanity, my body overreacted to the trauma of getting cut by producing extra tissue. I forget the medical term for it, but it was gross.
After a few weeks of medical visits I didn�t bother to write about here, a surgeon burned the thing off with a miniature electric cattle prod. More of a gerbil prod thing really.
Smelling your flesh burn is very disturbing.
With luck, the thing won�t row back, and there will no further mention of warty, bloody, fleshy growths.
I finished Neil Gaiman's American Gods last week. Cool book, and not as much as his Sandman comics as some reviews had lead me to believe. Which is not to say that he's never touched on any of the themes before, but hey, whatever. I also remember reading somewhere that the book was just a rip off of Douglas Adam�s Long dark tea time of the Soul, a bit of an overstatement.
The latest noncomic thing I'm reading is How to Read a French Fryby Russ Parsons. I was hooked when I read the description about the production of soaps and polymers when frying foods. A very cool book, keeping in mind that I�m one of those weirdoes who think reading cook books is a fun way to pass time.
The latest comic thing I'm hooked on is the TokyoPop translation of the GTO manga's. There are 6 volumes out now, and I�ve become such a fan boy over the series, I can hardly wait for the 7th to come out next month.
GTO involves the story of Onizuka, a 22 year old exmotocycle gang leader deciding to become a great teacher (hence, GTO) because he can�t thing of anything better to do, and since it has the added benefit of giving him the opportunity to marry a high school girl when he�s old.
Despite being a lech, the character is also honest, a pervert, a virgin, idiotic, and strongly moral, sort of. It�s proving to be an interesting read.
Continuing with the comics theme, I'm being a good little comic snob and am enjoying the second volume of the league of extraordinary gentlemen. H.G. Wells' War of the Wars has started and rather strangely, Mr. Hyde (but not Dr. Jeckle) has managed to become my favorite character. Which probably means he�ll be dead within one or two issues.
Carlos and Beth were California last week, which was cause for the monsters (John�s college friends) to have a get together. Lots and lots of young children running under foot. Young Jake did not really remember John or me. Not to surprising, since it was over a year since we were in Tokyo.
When asked if things have changed in the states since the last time they visited, Beth pointed at my dorky looking, yet surprisingly comfortable, psuedo-athletic clogs and said �shoes, definitely the shoes.�
Not being able to convince anyone I knew to go see 8 women, I went by myself. What can be said about a somewhat campy french murder mystery musical? Well, Katherine Denuve rolling around the floor with Fanny Ardant was um, pretty interesting.
more later,
nico
Music:
assorted 60�s dance music which I�m currently loading onto the ipod my hubby got me for the birthday
Want:
to go hiking in Yosemite in the early spring when the snow is mostly, but not totally gone
Elsewhere: to lazy to bother with a link
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