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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.
lunes 06/30/2003
Yes Virginia, there is a gay gene (and a pesky thing it is to).
Where I able, I would whip the following mess into a cohesive yet humorous whole. However, not only do I lack both the skill and time to do so, I lack the desire as well. So here�s the past couple of weeks, all nilly willy, haphazard, and scatter shot:
The gay gene:
John and Alex bought tickets for the inauguration to the Hollywood Bowl Hall of Fame/Opening night gala thing, so to the bowl we went. There are few things so quintessentially �L.A.� as going to the Hollywood Bowl. The dealing with �bowl� traffic, doing the picnic dinner thing beforehand, the short trek up the hill, the wine bottles flowing before and during performances, having fireworks go off during a classical music performance, it�s all just so Los Angeles.
After several tries and several failures, Alex and Omar seem to have finally split up for good, so instead of very handsome, and occasionally arrogant Omar, for this outing, there was very handsome, and nice Don. It�s really none of my business who Alex dates, but I find myself hoping that Don lasts a while.
Anyway, the Hollywood Bowl . We did the picnic thing at the small park at the base of the hill. Unlike nearly everyone around us, our dinner was a simple thing of sandwiches, chips, and sodas. No wine, no cheese selection, no Tupperware containers overflowing with tapas, or whatever passes for trendy these days. At least we weren�t doing the cheesy looking fried chicken that the various class reunion groups surrounding us were eating.
Once dinner was over, we made our way up the hill to our seats, working through the crowds of folks. It�s funny that for something that I describe as being totally L.A., once you are surrounded by the trees and generally happy people, it seems as if you far away from the city.
Not having large sums of money, we were halfway up the audience. Sitting in the row in front of us was a gay couple. They were handsome fit men in their mid-forties, with perfect haircuts and prefect clothes. I didn�t talk to them, but looking at them as they brought out their wine and toasted whatever it was they toasted, I decided that they were professionally gay. That is, they made being gay look just so damn good, that I�m sure they were salaried for it.
While I was obviously a poor amateur at the lifestyle, they were assuredly the poster boys of the movement. I decided that the handsome man to the left was Mark, a respected lawyer who fought tirelessly for gay rights, and that his partner was Thom, a beloved administrator of a large, effective Aids Heath organization. They had a large Condo on the Westside, a vacation home in Palm Springs, had just bought tickets to fly to Toronto to celebrate their 20th anniversary by getting married, and were finalizing plans to adopt their loving, equally wonderful, and well adjusted foster children Madison (8, gifted violinist) and Charles (7, math genius).
As you can tell, more often than not, I let my imagination run wild. I had no rational reason to assume anything about the men, other than it was an amusing way to waste a couple minutes before the show started.
The show itself had lots names. Josh Groban sang a few songs. He has a great voice. Roger Daltrey also performed, and The Smothers Brothers sang a bit as well.
Nathan Lane was supposed to have been there, but couldn�t make it, so instead we were all shone a montage of his work and a video of his apologizing for not being there. The last person to be inducted that night was Patti LuPone. John and Alex are big fans of her. John knows her work well enough to have realized that she messed up a line of her first song. I had no clue.
The second song was another matter entirely. She performed �Don�t cry for me Argentina,� a predictable song choice, and ultimately a trap. Her performance was good...too good. Seeing her onstage singing, arms outstretched, and teary eyed; my gay gene was set off and my brain went to mush.
Every single gay man in the audience was forced to worship her. You could have been an uber straight acting gay man, so utterly closeted that neither you nor your wife had a clue about you, but it didn�t matter, Patti LuPone�s power was absolute. No matter how butch, how fem, how much of a show queen, or how oblivious you were, for the duration of the song, you were a huge diva-worshiping fag weeping at the sight of perfection.
Um, anyway, overactive imagination�
The koala:
Before we left his place to go to the show, Alex showed us a creepy, yet amusing, yet creepy men�s underwear catalogue he recently got in the mail. Alex has somehow gotten himself on a very weird mailing list. The largest item of clothing in the book was a pair of painful looking shorts designed to tuck away �things� so that men could �play with their inner female,� and the smallest item for sale, involved little slips of fabric meant to strap around someone�s penis to secure a little hood over the head. The copy said something about preventing sunburn...um, yeah...
The entire catalogue was like that, with page after page of weird, creepy, fetishist �underwear.� Most were smaller than Speedos, and many had scary looking straps (to um, secure things), conveniently placed holes (for easy access and/or display), and unlikely names such as the koala, the charger, and the hummer.
Alex thought the thing was funny as sin, and was especially amused, because one of the models works out at his gym. It is going to take a huge effort on Alex�s part not to burst out laughing the next time he sees the guy. I don�t know the poor man, and will likely never meet him, but after having seen pictures of him trying to look nonchalant while posing with his genitals smushed into a wholly unerotic, micro-mini, shear, thong with handy neck strap, I can sympathies with Alex.
The models were a large part of tawdriness of the thing. While the quality of the photos was ok, the models themselves posed awkwardly with dazed, or possibly pained looks on their faces. Considering some of the clothes looked like do it yourself bondage kits, the later is entirely possible.
Several of the pictures included a skanky looking woman standing or kneeling next to the indifferent male models. Presumably so that any straight men perusing the catalogue would be reassured of their heterosexual orientation as they contemplated purchasing either the micro briefs with the Velcro tear away rear panel, the posing pouch with built in bulge enhancing �falsie,� or possibly even the thong-like contraption designed to lift and separate the testicles for maximum show.
Lord knows inadequate scrotum display is a major failure of most men�s underwear.
Does it say anything that the mean angel is my favorite?
I watched the new Charlie's Angels movie this weekend with Kristen. While I was able to largely suspend my disbelief through most of the movie, it was hard to do so at times. Although part of that was just me being a weirdo. Impossible motocross assassin moves I could handle, and even left me laughing, but almost every time one of the angels or Demi Moore did some wire assisted marital art move that involved landing hard on their stiletto heeled feet, I winced and went ouch.
Despite that, it was a fun flick. Maybe missing something the first one had, but still fun never the less.
The perils of fending off queer celebrities:
John and spent part of last Friday standing in long lines dealing with unfortunate life maintenance issues. While John was content with standing around being growly faced at having to wait, I preferred to play billiards with his palm pilot. Which does not adequately explain how it was that I missed a bizarre conversation going on a few feet ahead of us.
A short, dumpy, white, mid-fiftyish man was amusing everyone around him with stories about drugs, the 60�s, and the antics of his old hippie friends, holding court as it were. His voice was very annoying and I tuned him out. John was not able to, and was amazed that I my head didn�t immediately jerk up when he started talking about Huell Howser. I�m amazed as well; I have a bit of a thing for the Huell boy, and have a tendency to perk up when he�s mentioned. Perhaps it�s a good thing I was oblivious this time around.
According to John, Dumpy man told stories about how vain and self-obsessed Huell Howser was. He also related how Huell just keeps on trying to come on to him, always there, always trying to touch him. Supposedly this has been going on since the 70�s now, and every time they meet, poor dumpy man has to keep coming up with excuses to get away, such as telling Huell that he was on his way to met his pastor (�that�s like garlic to a vampire to those people�), or that he was best friends with some guy that Huell is afraid of, because the guy is a big heavy biker dude who once called Huell a fag.
John was not in a good mood to begin with, and the fag comment nearly set him off. That was when the line started moving and dumpy guy disappeared into an office.
After he left, John snorted that for a straight man, he was certainly obsessed with Huell, which was when I finally realized that something had been going on. John is right though, despite his self proclaimed heterosexulness, dumpy guy does seem to be carrying some kind of torch.
There is a very slight, miniscule chance that dumpy guy was not a complete ass, and really does have the misfortune to have to constantly fend off queer minor celebrities.
I rather doubt it though.
sex, naked, and other things:
Finally, just cause I feel like it, some more random google searches that have lead folks astray into the unfriendly waters that is almost there:
How to seduce a straight man
my wife made me dress up as a woman
There is no such thing as an ugly woman
sodomizing straight men
How to fix bad eyebrow plucking jobs
yeah, I thought so to.
More later,
nico
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