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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.
06/02/2003
mi Otro vidas*
-I�m young, barely in my twenties, still in college, and I�m getting mugged. A white guy in a mask threatens me with a gun on a pedestrian bridge over PCH (again with the dang bridge, what�s up with that?). When he demands all my money, I lie and tell him I don�t have any. He starts yelling at me, calling me all manner of obscenities. I stand still, wondering why in the world I decided to go to Santa Monica instead of my usual Hermosa Beach. He finally mutters �f*cking cheap ass wetbacks,� then storms off angry that I had wasted his time.
-I�m lying on the couch in the den half asleep watching Babylon 5 on tv when I look up and realize that the show has transmuted into a documentary on brujeria. The man lecturing is going on at length about some sort of sensual or sexual spirit/god/person, and I tune him out.
When he realizes this, he hits the lectern with a large ruler, like an angry nun. When he has my attention again, he starts to yell at me that I had better shape up and pay attention, because it is important that I know these things. Even so, my mind drifts again.
-I am in San Diego, walking through Hillcrest trying to find a certain Italian restaurant. I�m supposed to meet someone(s?) there and I�m looking forward to eating gnocchi. Even though at this place, it's an unfortunate shade of pink that sadly resembles uncooked raw chicken. It 's good, as long as I don�t actually look at it that is.
I�m getting frustrated, because I am late, and I don�t even remember the restaurant's name so I can�t ask for directions. I turn onto the side street were the Whole Earth market is and I end up on a desolate deserted road in the middle of nowhere that I realize as a scene from My Own Private Idaho.
I decide that if I turn around, I�m going to find a narcoleptic River Phoenix lying on the ground behind me. I don�t turn around. Instead, I start walking forward, consoling myself with the idea that the gnocchi wasn�t that good anyway.
-John and I split up after two years and I move in with my friend T. She lives (lived) in a ratty third story walk up over a pawn store in Old Town Pasadena (just after gentifrication had begun).
For whatever reason, I have decided that it is extremely important that I figure out the best way to artistically use Japanese rice paper that I want to buy from the Art Store as window coverings. It�s important to me, because I am worried that if the (then)vacant building across the street is ever converted back into offices (as it is now), people will be able to look straight into the living room. It�s important to me because the prospect of people looking at me when I am home is horrible. Unfortunately, I am having trouble figuring out how to best hang the paper from from wire I will string across the windows, or for that matter just how I�m going to string the wire in the first place.
T is in the living room as well, wandering around like a nervous cat, slightly edgy from a craving for nicotine. She is laughing, calling me a prissy gay boy. Smiling an �I�m only kidding, you know I really love you smile,� she tells me that considering we�re both broke, there might be better things to spend our money on, like smokes, coffee and a couple of games of pool at Little Frieda�s.
I ignore her, squinting my eyes until the room is nothing but bright white light and I can no longer make out the bright unnatural red of her hair.
more later,
nico
*Si, more dreams
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