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.

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South Pasadena Farmer�s Market:
Purple carrots. A young boy in Spiderman pajamas eating grilled corn while sitting on an older woman�s lap. An orchid with a single flower so intensely violet it looked impossible. Persian cucumbers that had been picked though so thoroughly, only a few worn out dregs were left. Hordes of children playing tag in the small park next to the metro stop. Sitting on the street curb eating a tamale next to two women grumbling that the best looking guy in their office was of course not only gay, but had a handsome boyfriend as well. From what little I overheard, the words �what a waste� were never used, a plus for them. A group of mid twenty-something �too hip for the states� Japanese tourists walking down the ramp from the train staring at the screaming kids and looking as if they were contemplating turning around and going back to downtown Los Angeles. Three kindergarten or so aged kids playing daring feats of bravery by taking turns jumping over some water pipes in the meridian. Several head turn worthy, very hot looking dads of young kids.

Play:
You can�t take it with you. Dinner at the Natalie Thai on Venice, with a tofu narb thing, and an eggplant dish that I could have made an entire meal off, it was so good. Seeing our subscription friend Crick�s dog, a not as energetic as he normally is as he had just been reprimanded by his �dad� for trying to run into the street whippet. Listening to crickets chirping in the nasturtium filled planter in the middle of the traffic circle in front on the theater. Noticing a �gay friendly� Avis flyer in the lobby and deciding that someone was saying something about theater audiences. Waiting for the play to start by flipping through the playbill and figuring out which actors we knew from TV, among others including Nelix as the fireworks making dad and Ross & Monica�s mom as high faluting society mother of groom to be. Realizing within two minutes of the first act starting that I had seen the movie version of the play years (if not decades) ago on TV. Thinking that I may have liked the movie version better despite not really remembering the movie version not because this production of the play wasn�t good (it was fine), but because it seemed like the slapstick comedic elements would work better without the limitations of a stage play (time and pausing the action as the only form of editing together different scenes). Deciding that despite it being cute, our other subscription friends (the snobby ones) would of course utterly loathe it.

Art:
Decided to stop sitting at home being boring. Not being boring involved going to the opening night reception for an exhibit of works from Flight. Almost abandoned the idea when parking proved difficult since Main Street Alhambra has somehow become a popular destination. The store/gallery was easily identifiable do to the crowd overflowing onto the sidewalk. Some of the crowd turned out to be smokers getting a last drag before going into the Cuban restaurant next door, or at least the youngish Latino women in too tight clothing portion of the crowd were. The store and gallery was crowded, very crowded. Predominantly young hip folks and a few older �normal� folks that a more snide part of me would suspect could have possibly been parents of some of the artists. Loud, very loud band. Was reminded of misspent nights of my youth dancing and earplugged to prevent deafness. Initial impression of the second volume of Flight was that it was a good book. Walls of art, sketches, paintings of pieces ranging from simple to complex, joyful to murky. One memorable piece served as an epilogue of sorts to one of the stories in the book, the one of the man and beautiful woman bicycling. Did not buy it. Did buy a couple of prints I now need to get frames for. Thought about getting the prints and/or copy of the book I bought signed by some of the artists, but as neither of the only guys I had identified as artists had done the prints, decided not to bother. Decided that too few of the men there were worth looking at. Decided after an hour that I had been not boring enough for the evening. The crowd in front at that point was now dominated by teenage punks even younger than the young hip crowd inside. Too young to legally drink, they hung out near the store, smoking and talking, talking and smoking.

more later,
nico

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