Friday, November 21, 2003
Welcome to Hell
I have an abscessed tooth brought on by this cold and my sinuses. I have not slept since tuesday night and the pain is constant. I started taking antibiotics tonight, but it's a good 2 days before they ease the pain. Misery loves company they say. I'm thinking of taking a sledgehammer to Myshe's head and driving the car over Josh. I wish I had a wood chipper. That's where the cats would go.
Saturday, November 01, 2003
My Halloween Costume: An Alien
I started the Halloween Holiday by deciding to go meet Myshe at Taco Rock for Chicken Quesadillaz (Don't ask me about the Z. When I redesigned their menus for them I asked and they said that's how they spelled it.) So, Myshe took some paid time off that she had to get rid of and headed over there for 1:00 pm. I got up, showered, dressed, puttered around until 12:15 and then decided to head that way. Placing my cellular in my pocket and grabbing my wallet I headed for the door. *Wait Phred* the little voice in my head demanded *Your sunglasses! It is awfully sunny today!* He was right! Despite a wonderful early week of chilly winds that made me coo like a dove, it was now hot and bright. I take heed and turn around to grab my glasses. I retrieve them from the foyer table and then head back to the door to finally leave. Did I grab my keys? That question assessed the weight in my right pocket and my little voice responds. *Yep, they're in your right pocket! You're good to go.* Excellent! All prepared I locked the door and head to the car. Once there I realize that this weight in my pocket is not my keys but my cell phone. I have locked myself out of the house. After cussing up a storm and threatening that little voice I pick up the paper on the end of our driveway and head to the back yard to sit and read the newspaper on the patio furniture supplied by the Parents. A quick call to friend Jennifer and she says she will meet Myshe at Taco Rock to tell her of my exploits. Luckily, Josh came home about a half hour later and let me in. In short, be afraid of the little voice in your head. Be very afraid.
Onward to our actual Halloween night festivities...
I have come to the realization that I am from a completely different world. Has anyone else had this epiphany?
9:00 pm - Myshe, Josh, Bryan, Adam and I headed to Seville Quarter to meet Jennifer, George and Ken. We find them at the Rosie O'Grady's Piano bar area and have a seat. The theme in Rosie's this year? Studio 54! All the bartenders are dressed in 70's garb with afros and butterfly collars as well as the waitresses and the three rotating Musicians. (They take turns playing the 2 pianos and drums, each one having a 20 minute break at intervals. They aren't actually rotating.) Above the pianos is a large Half moon with face and the spoon filled with cocaine hovering just under his nose a la Studio 54. Adam frowned and looked up at it with a "Oh joy. This is really good for my recovery". I had to agree. He decided just to engulf himself in conversation and ignore it. It was easy to do with he and I making fun of every straight person that came in.
Don't get me wrong, I love me some heterosexuals. In fact, I have more straight friends than gay. But this crowd was not the cream of the crop.
Anyhow, as our evening in the land of Jarheads continued I came to a few soul-searched revelations:
1) I hate people that work behind a bar that refer to themselves as "Bartender" when they can't make a damn thing. Repeated replies of "What's in it" just pisses me off. Who's the goddamn bartender here? If I knew what was in it you dumb ho' I'd be back there and you'd be waiting tables! Needless to say. I didn't have a drink while there.
2) Squids, Jarheads, High-n-Tights...whatever the name, I hate Marines. They are worse than a gaggle of label queens at a runway show. They always have something to prove and are constantly threatened. Are they really this insecure with themselves? Again, I do have a couple marine friends that are really sweet and I love them dearly. But as for the rest, seek therapy you assholes. That is, if you can spell therapy.
3) Straight women that feel the need to wear this little spaghetti string tops, hip-huggers and who all have bleached out hairdos and styles in an effort to look at strung out as their apparent goddess Tara Reid. They all look like rejects from American Pie, cannot dance, do not know the lyrics to songs they still try to sing ("play a..me..song, Missus Montana man! Play me and sing tonight!" - You don't fuck with Billy Joel. Just don't sing!) and they feel like they have to put their hands on every single male that walks by within arms reach of them. Again we are faced with some really insecure beeotches. One laid a hand on me as we passed and I simply looked at her and then her hand and asked "What?". She just smiled. I sneered. She looked vacant. I wished her dead and moved on. As Missy Elliott says "I don'wannahangwith beeetches."
4) Ashley Holder frequents this bar. That, in itself, is enough to keep me away. I won't go into the history of Ashley and I. Suffice it so say that she was my closest friend next to Adam through school who suddenly found an in with the snotty, populars and stabbed me in the back in the process. She was the first official "come out" friend I had. She was very understanding that night. The next day I was the butt of jokes between her new Jock friends and herself. Years of friendship literally changed in the breadth of an evening. So, that's the nutshell version of my loathing for the asshole. As I saw her enter and look around the bar in her little camo military hat, her cut-off half khaki shirt and the coochie-cutter camo short-shorts and combat boots I felt the venom in my mouth build. Adam saw her and tapped me "Look who's here." I nodded and pointed out the slutball threads she was barely draped in. He added "Well she was in the service you know." I shook my head and corrected him with "No sir. The service was in her." My claws were out now at her presence and everytime they rang the large bell over the bar in Rosie's I half expected to see her running from the trough. To my elation, I saw her no more that night.
5) I am an alien here. I thought perhaps there was a bridge of diplomacy between the two cultures. A bridge that I could straddle and enjoy both worlds. I think that bridge has dynamite taped to the underside.
11:00 - We leave Jennifer, George and Ken at Rosie O'Grady's and head to Emerald City to see how the other half is celebrating.
We pay our cover to the overweight drag queen at the door and head in. The decorations are far better than Seville and the costumes are of a higher grade. (You'll find that straight men for the most part don't give a shit about dressing up. They just buy the Target 19.99 special and put it on incorrectly and go.) I'd half expected this given "The Gays" and their penchant for decoration. Mind you, there are exceptions. The trashy little sissy walking...wait walking doesn't describe it. You know how show horses do that little strut with the overpronounced steps? That's how he was moving from place to place. Anyhow, he horse-sashayed all over the bar in a wife-beater and a thong with these little booties. It took everything I had not to push him down the concrete stairs leading down from the patio on the roof of the bar a la "Showgirls" (I saw it, Nomi was nowhere near her. Can I be your understudy now Nomi?)
The drinks were better here. At least Kat, Jessica and Jean-Paul (Who bears a striking and unsettling resemblance to my ex Robert) know how to make a damn Mojito. They just don't have the necessary ingredients. That I can deal with, incompetence I can't. So, relying on an old faithful, I resorted to a Rum Punch. I decided one cocktail was enough after that and drank 3.00 bottled water the rest of the night.
Lauryn Mitchell, a person we know from waaaaaaaay back was the MC that night and even came out in her little vinyl Nun's outfit and did the cover of "Tainted Love" by Marilyn Manson. It was okay. She (I use that pronoun loosely here) then proceeded to gather the contestants for the costume contest. It was interesting to see how many stupid gay men thought no shirt, a g-string and boots was a "costume". It was less interesting to see how most of the crowd agreed. Some were okay like the Wood Nymph (She was really groovy) and Wasuchi (Tribal Indian dancer). The overall winner was "Pharaoh". Now you'd think given my love for all things Ancient Egyptian I'd have been all about this guy. Not so. He was a strapping young black buck of very nice build and wore a loin sash with an Ankh on it. He had some black eyeliner on and a little body glitter. That was it. He was no more an "Pharaoh" than me had I shoved a Sphinx up my butt and ran around in the sand. Yet, since he was in little to nothing, he won. Very disappointing.
The highlight of the costume contest, however, was "Xanadu". The costume was simple and funny but nothing to write home about. Roller skates, striped knee-high socks. Little shorts, a very 70's t-shirt and this big blond afro with headphones over them. He skated up onto the stage and around. It was cute. He was incredible. Hands down he was physically one of those men that makes me tingle inside. He had perfect legs (And I'm a BIG leg man) and fantastic arms. Later when he took his shirt off I nearly passed out. You truly don't see one of these physiques very often, other than in your fantasies. The best part was that he was a natural blond. Not a bleached freak but a very light golden dust over the chest kind of blond. Needless to say I was in total and complete support of one of the 7 deadly sins. John REALLY needed to be home. (Sorry Mom, but your son is gay and does notice men)
After the contest it was pretty much business as usual. Dancing to music that has no beginning and no end. I used to love pre-techno industrial music and even the beginning of techno. Now I'm thoroughly sick of electronica and the fact that you can't tell where one song leaves off and the other starts.
I did get to see an old friend from UPS and talk to him for a while which was really nice. Sometime later we decided to leave and go eat at Denny's.
Thus I came to my Gay bar realizations:
1) Drama Queens, Bar-whores, Flitting Pansies, or just plain Faggots. No matter the name, I detest the general populace of a "Gay" bar. As with most groups, there are exceptions though few and far between.
2) I loathe that this group of people represents me. They are in no way indicative of who or what I am. Just because we eat at the same buffet doesn't mean we sit at the same table.
3) Half-naked men are NOT in costume. They are ready for sleazy sex in a back alley NOT a costume contest! Get a clue people!!!!!! That's' worse than the K-Mart 12.00 "Sexy Vampire King" package.
4) What happened to fun in these places? I remember when going to a "Gay" bar was about having a good time. Dancing, seeing your friends, laughing, those sorts of things. Now it's Who can I lay? Who's got drugs? Who's looking at me? Who's talking smack about me? If I wanted all this I'd A) Watch Hispanic Soap Operas or B) have stayed friends with Ash-Hole (See earlier entry about Ashley Holder)
5) I am an alien here. I thought perhaps there was a bridge of diplomacy between the two cultures. A bridge that I could straddle and enjoy both worlds. I think that bridge has a Fairy standing in the middle wearing a tu-tu with a lit stick of dynamite sticking out of his butt.
Where does one find a niche when they feel nicheless? Tab "A" doesn't always fit into slot "B".
Beyond all of this...not one damn ankle-gnarler rang our doorbell last night for candy. I carved a pumpkin. I bought groovy spider decorations and even put a red lightbulb in the porch light. Not one came. I boycott the little bastards next year. And if they come in 2004, they get a bible tract.
Onward to our actual Halloween night festivities...
I have come to the realization that I am from a completely different world. Has anyone else had this epiphany?
9:00 pm - Myshe, Josh, Bryan, Adam and I headed to Seville Quarter to meet Jennifer, George and Ken. We find them at the Rosie O'Grady's Piano bar area and have a seat. The theme in Rosie's this year? Studio 54! All the bartenders are dressed in 70's garb with afros and butterfly collars as well as the waitresses and the three rotating Musicians. (They take turns playing the 2 pianos and drums, each one having a 20 minute break at intervals. They aren't actually rotating.) Above the pianos is a large Half moon with face and the spoon filled with cocaine hovering just under his nose a la Studio 54. Adam frowned and looked up at it with a "Oh joy. This is really good for my recovery". I had to agree. He decided just to engulf himself in conversation and ignore it. It was easy to do with he and I making fun of every straight person that came in.
Don't get me wrong, I love me some heterosexuals. In fact, I have more straight friends than gay. But this crowd was not the cream of the crop.
Anyhow, as our evening in the land of Jarheads continued I came to a few soul-searched revelations:
1) I hate people that work behind a bar that refer to themselves as "Bartender" when they can't make a damn thing. Repeated replies of "What's in it" just pisses me off. Who's the goddamn bartender here? If I knew what was in it you dumb ho' I'd be back there and you'd be waiting tables! Needless to say. I didn't have a drink while there.
2) Squids, Jarheads, High-n-Tights...whatever the name, I hate Marines. They are worse than a gaggle of label queens at a runway show. They always have something to prove and are constantly threatened. Are they really this insecure with themselves? Again, I do have a couple marine friends that are really sweet and I love them dearly. But as for the rest, seek therapy you assholes. That is, if you can spell therapy.
3) Straight women that feel the need to wear this little spaghetti string tops, hip-huggers and who all have bleached out hairdos and styles in an effort to look at strung out as their apparent goddess Tara Reid. They all look like rejects from American Pie, cannot dance, do not know the lyrics to songs they still try to sing ("play a..me..song, Missus Montana man! Play me and sing tonight!" - You don't fuck with Billy Joel. Just don't sing!) and they feel like they have to put their hands on every single male that walks by within arms reach of them. Again we are faced with some really insecure beeotches. One laid a hand on me as we passed and I simply looked at her and then her hand and asked "What?". She just smiled. I sneered. She looked vacant. I wished her dead and moved on. As Missy Elliott says "I don'wannahangwith beeetches."
4) Ashley Holder frequents this bar. That, in itself, is enough to keep me away. I won't go into the history of Ashley and I. Suffice it so say that she was my closest friend next to Adam through school who suddenly found an in with the snotty, populars and stabbed me in the back in the process. She was the first official "come out" friend I had. She was very understanding that night. The next day I was the butt of jokes between her new Jock friends and herself. Years of friendship literally changed in the breadth of an evening. So, that's the nutshell version of my loathing for the asshole. As I saw her enter and look around the bar in her little camo military hat, her cut-off half khaki shirt and the coochie-cutter camo short-shorts and combat boots I felt the venom in my mouth build. Adam saw her and tapped me "Look who's here." I nodded and pointed out the slutball threads she was barely draped in. He added "Well she was in the service you know." I shook my head and corrected him with "No sir. The service was in her." My claws were out now at her presence and everytime they rang the large bell over the bar in Rosie's I half expected to see her running from the trough. To my elation, I saw her no more that night.
5) I am an alien here. I thought perhaps there was a bridge of diplomacy between the two cultures. A bridge that I could straddle and enjoy both worlds. I think that bridge has dynamite taped to the underside.
11:00 - We leave Jennifer, George and Ken at Rosie O'Grady's and head to Emerald City to see how the other half is celebrating.
We pay our cover to the overweight drag queen at the door and head in. The decorations are far better than Seville and the costumes are of a higher grade. (You'll find that straight men for the most part don't give a shit about dressing up. They just buy the Target 19.99 special and put it on incorrectly and go.) I'd half expected this given "The Gays" and their penchant for decoration. Mind you, there are exceptions. The trashy little sissy walking...wait walking doesn't describe it. You know how show horses do that little strut with the overpronounced steps? That's how he was moving from place to place. Anyhow, he horse-sashayed all over the bar in a wife-beater and a thong with these little booties. It took everything I had not to push him down the concrete stairs leading down from the patio on the roof of the bar a la "Showgirls" (I saw it, Nomi was nowhere near her. Can I be your understudy now Nomi?)
The drinks were better here. At least Kat, Jessica and Jean-Paul (Who bears a striking and unsettling resemblance to my ex Robert) know how to make a damn Mojito. They just don't have the necessary ingredients. That I can deal with, incompetence I can't. So, relying on an old faithful, I resorted to a Rum Punch. I decided one cocktail was enough after that and drank 3.00 bottled water the rest of the night.
Lauryn Mitchell, a person we know from waaaaaaaay back was the MC that night and even came out in her little vinyl Nun's outfit and did the cover of "Tainted Love" by Marilyn Manson. It was okay. She (I use that pronoun loosely here) then proceeded to gather the contestants for the costume contest. It was interesting to see how many stupid gay men thought no shirt, a g-string and boots was a "costume". It was less interesting to see how most of the crowd agreed. Some were okay like the Wood Nymph (She was really groovy) and Wasuchi (Tribal Indian dancer). The overall winner was "Pharaoh". Now you'd think given my love for all things Ancient Egyptian I'd have been all about this guy. Not so. He was a strapping young black buck of very nice build and wore a loin sash with an Ankh on it. He had some black eyeliner on and a little body glitter. That was it. He was no more an "Pharaoh" than me had I shoved a Sphinx up my butt and ran around in the sand. Yet, since he was in little to nothing, he won. Very disappointing.
The highlight of the costume contest, however, was "Xanadu". The costume was simple and funny but nothing to write home about. Roller skates, striped knee-high socks. Little shorts, a very 70's t-shirt and this big blond afro with headphones over them. He skated up onto the stage and around. It was cute. He was incredible. Hands down he was physically one of those men that makes me tingle inside. He had perfect legs (And I'm a BIG leg man) and fantastic arms. Later when he took his shirt off I nearly passed out. You truly don't see one of these physiques very often, other than in your fantasies. The best part was that he was a natural blond. Not a bleached freak but a very light golden dust over the chest kind of blond. Needless to say I was in total and complete support of one of the 7 deadly sins. John REALLY needed to be home. (Sorry Mom, but your son is gay and does notice men)
After the contest it was pretty much business as usual. Dancing to music that has no beginning and no end. I used to love pre-techno industrial music and even the beginning of techno. Now I'm thoroughly sick of electronica and the fact that you can't tell where one song leaves off and the other starts.
I did get to see an old friend from UPS and talk to him for a while which was really nice. Sometime later we decided to leave and go eat at Denny's.
Thus I came to my Gay bar realizations:
1) Drama Queens, Bar-whores, Flitting Pansies, or just plain Faggots. No matter the name, I detest the general populace of a "Gay" bar. As with most groups, there are exceptions though few and far between.
2) I loathe that this group of people represents me. They are in no way indicative of who or what I am. Just because we eat at the same buffet doesn't mean we sit at the same table.
3) Half-naked men are NOT in costume. They are ready for sleazy sex in a back alley NOT a costume contest! Get a clue people!!!!!! That's' worse than the K-Mart 12.00 "Sexy Vampire King" package.
4) What happened to fun in these places? I remember when going to a "Gay" bar was about having a good time. Dancing, seeing your friends, laughing, those sorts of things. Now it's Who can I lay? Who's got drugs? Who's looking at me? Who's talking smack about me? If I wanted all this I'd A) Watch Hispanic Soap Operas or B) have stayed friends with Ash-Hole (See earlier entry about Ashley Holder)
5) I am an alien here. I thought perhaps there was a bridge of diplomacy between the two cultures. A bridge that I could straddle and enjoy both worlds. I think that bridge has a Fairy standing in the middle wearing a tu-tu with a lit stick of dynamite sticking out of his butt.
Where does one find a niche when they feel nicheless? Tab "A" doesn't always fit into slot "B".
Beyond all of this...not one damn ankle-gnarler rang our doorbell last night for candy. I carved a pumpkin. I bought groovy spider decorations and even put a red lightbulb in the porch light. Not one came. I boycott the little bastards next year. And if they come in 2004, they get a bible tract.
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