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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.
Tuesday 04/20/2004
Batter fried flowers and other indications of sexual disfunction
My mind has been palming off sexual frustration dreams on me again the past month or so. The last one was an involved and improbable, if not outright impossible, thing involving my being forced off of a nonexistent freeway during afternoon rush hour due to a monstrously huge traffic jam. Like nearly everyone else giving up on a speedy return home, I decided to wait out the traffic and stopped at a crowded run down Korean indoor swapmeet/mall filled with vendors selling garlicky foods and cheap plastic wares advertised as authentically Korean despite the made in China/Thailand/Taiwan logos.
I was cruising a plain unremarkable looking white guy in his mid twenties, who apparently had an opinion on everything, loudly telling everyone within earshot how smart and well traveled he was having spent time in Seoul, and how the mall sucked. He was a loudmouth obnoxious jerk, and for some bizarre reason I really wanted to see if I could put that big mouth of his to better use.
Finally cornering him by a vendor selling fried roses, I managed to get him to shut up long enough to introduce myself. This lead to a decidedly one-sided conversation where I realized two things. First, that he was an idiot, and second, that he was interested in me. I just needed to get him alone somewhere, the more private the better. We were walking back to my car when John got up for the day and I woke up.
It was a strange dream not only because of the weird elements (a second much seedier Koreatown in the middle of East L.A. and fried roses (why the heck would someone want to try to batter and fry a rose?)), but also because of my behavior. I am not a sexual predator, out for �the hunt,� quick in mind, full of smooth lines, and open to the prospect of tearoom trade, but recently I don�t seem to be quite myself in dreams.
I�ve been the over heated pursuer, chatting up a handsome Chinese guy in a park; �accidentally� bumping into cute male clerks at Ritmo Latino as they bend over to stock shelves; giving my phone number and overly generous tips to cute short baristas at Peets; and picking up married portly middle aged businessmen in hotel lobbies. In all of these dreams, I am uncharacteristically aggressive and manipulative, but it is all for naught, for nothing ever happens. John rolls over, the cats fight, the alarm goes off, or some random noise in the middle of the night wakes me, ending the dream before I manage to get anywhere.
As frustrating as these dreams are, they are preferable to the dream I had last night where I suffered through a frustrating and loooong day at work only to wake up and realize that it had only been a dream and I had to get up to deal with the real thing.
I loathe work dreams.
Life has continued to be hectic and stressful, but luckily enough there have been a few distractions, including a birthday dinner and a couple of plays. The party was a surprise 50th birthday dinner for Aldo, one of my former supervisors. A group of old coworkers and friends meet at Burger Continental in Pasadena, and ate, reminisced, and generally had fun as music played and a belly dancer entertained the crowd.
I think it has been nearly ten years since I�ve eaten there, but it seemed almost exactly the same, crowded and jovial. The food is average, nothing overly spectacular, but it is the kind of place that seems forever popular, where atmosphere rules all.
A couple of weeks before the dinner, John and I saw The Talking Cure at the Mark Taper, a tale of Jung, Spielrein, Freud, the early days of psychotherapy, and sexual dysfunction galore. The writing was good, the acting fine, the set interesting, and I was bored by it all, waiting for it to end.
I�m not sure what the problem was, but I could just not get into to the story, or care about anything happening on stage. Even brief (female) nudity failed to stir any reaction. Despite my lack of enthusiasm, the rest of the audience seemed to like it well enough. Maybe it was just me.
Between War Music, The Talking Cure, and even The Underpants (to a very small extent), it seems that war or the threat of Europe burning in a world war looms has been over everything we�ve seen lately. Even though it was a period piece, the last thing we�ve seen, The Royal Family did not continue this morbid theme.
It�s apparently a famous play, but being the cultural ignoramus that I am, I knew little about it. At least I have heard of the Barrymores, since it seems that this comedy of a famous stage family was loosely/vaguely based on them. at least that�s what I was told that night.
When we got to the theater, I was simultaneously excited and disappointed when I found out Kate Mulgrew was in it and that she was not going to perform that night. I�ve heard that she is an excellent stage actor, so it would have been cool to see her, but well, it didn�t happen. The understudy was still good, although she did seem somewhat young for the role of a famous early 20th century actress at the top of her career. Even though she was good, the �gimmick� of projecting old theater magazine covers and posters featuring members of the family on the closed curtains, didn�t quite work, since it just pointed out that Kate wasn�t wasn�t there.
OK, enough of this. My head is feeling swollen and I think I�m heading into illness, so my time would be better spent in trying to kill this disease off, or at least wrangle it into submission. Be well mi gente.
More later,
nico
oyendo: Laurie Anderson Bright Red
want: health.
elsewhere: Outcyclopedia
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