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It's pretty well known that I am very much anti-meth. Not because people are addicts with it or it ruins there lives. Not even my often classist argument, "Meth is for poor people". No, my case against it is that it just isn't very fun.
On one hand you can count the times I've done it, and each except the first was by accident. Read about the first time in this week's Past, Over.
Here's a little inkling of how AtBPO found its way to inception. Essentially I was planning on doing some "Man on the Boardwalk" interviews about the beginning of the season. As has been seen previously, my videography skills are about as up there as high as the suburban housewife's. Still there remained an inkling of doing some sort of coverage of Fire Island.
Mixing parts of Jane Goodall with Meerkat Manor, my plan was to make a sort of Queercat Island. The disadvantages of this method were that it was highly expositional (a weakness of mine that I'm always fighting, thus my preference to tell stories in dialog) and that the stories were of my personal experiences which I couldn't transcribe as I was doing them.
What follows is my first draft, with the action taking place on the weekend before Memorial Day weekend.
Queercat Island
They arrive off the waters of Long Island in an annual migration transplanting hundreds upon thousands of them through the warmer months. Notably featuring a well thought-out dissimilitude, the homogenous species arrives first in the harbor.
Tom Ford TF 0021 Porfirio sunglasses protect their eyes from actually meeting yet different gaggles of gays reform upon the arrival of the ferry. Near the water, under a beechnut tree, current-season cargo-shorted muscle bears reconvene with extended pectoral pounding. Nearby, the starched upward collars of Marc Jacobs (also of the season) Overdyed Jersey Polos interlock in the assorted embraces of anger twinks, having not seen one another since “that ridiculous time at Vlada; scandal!” Skulking nearby, a lone outsider searches for his own gay gaggle as well, but he stands alone in his Abercrombie (last season) cut-off jeans.
As the groups disperse, they follow the assorted boardwalked habitrails, and as they leave the dock area, comfortable having found groupings of similarity, they begin to more outwardly express more the nature of their grouping. These traits are discernable in their manner of walk, in their physical interactions, and in their vocalized utterances.
Following one shirtless grouping, notable in their choice of Ginch Gonch underwear and low-riding cargos the following is heard:
“When’s Low Tea?”
“Well, it starts at five, which is probably about a half hour from now, but no one goes ‘til six.”
“Yeah, I know, but that’s what makes it funny.”
“What funny?”
“Look over there at the Fire Station. See the sign on the door?”
“The blue one?”
“Yes. Don’t you know what that means?”
“No.”
“It has A.A. on it, blondie.”
“What’s that mean?”
“A.A.”
“So what’s A.A.?”
“Alcoholics Anonymous. They’re totally meeting at the Fire Station right before Tea.”
“Oh my god. Classic!”
“I just had the funniest idea. We should tell James that we’re having an intervention here on the island.”
“As soon as he gets off the boat!”
“Yes! Tell him his mom and sister are here.”
“And his Dad. Tell him his Dad because they haven’t spoken in twelve years.”
“We should totally do that. Oh, look who’s coming out of the meeting.”
“Don’t look. It’s anonymous.”
“A girl needs to know these things.”Most have planned their summer lodgings well in advance with many leases signed in October the year previous. To learn more though, I accompany someone in the search for a dwelling. Having used a cell phone and the outside intercom to no avail, it is decided to simply enter the home. Half-way across an elevated sidewalk some twenty feet above ground, we are greeted by two muscle-bound males, their tails at attention as they bark at us. Luckily, soon behind the Rottweilers come another muscle-bound beast, this one a homo sapien.
His name is Marcello and he is renting the lower level of this bayside home. His left eye slightly twitches as he introduces himself with a firm handshake. Leading us inside, he introduces us to Paul, who has apparently taken apart a lamp, but is now putting it back together. Flashing a tight-faced grin, he waves hello and then resumes his search of the breakfast nook surface where the lamp parts are spread out.
Marcello explains the space as available:
“Yeah, is a two bedroom and they is two tween beds in each room and the couch is make into a bed too, so you can sleep seex people very easy here. And each of the bedrooms they has each a private entrance so it’s very easy to keep your private. That’s my art on the walls and sometimes I change it around so it will keep it all very fresh for you. Now let me show you the outdoor gym. It has all you need here for the gym because the one in town, let me tell you, is a piece of sheet. We have more weights here and we has all these mirrors and you can do whatever you want here with the mirrors. Okay and that takes us to the pool and it should have a liner any day, but just not yet, but it will be very nice.”
More and more detail is explained about the home without mention of the bay view, the stunning architecture, or the four live swans in the water just outside. As Marcello ends the presentation, with every presentation point punctuated by his twitching eye, we plan our exit. Paul looks up excitedly with a wing nut in his hand, placing it up to the lamp, his face tightening again; his search resumed.
The diversity of the fauna of this island obviously warrants further listening and so shall I continue to listen and share with you what is seen, and especially what is heard here. This social experiment. This Queercat Island.
My buddy Chuck. I've been neglecting him, and at his age that's not a good thing. Having known him for six years now, you think I'd be better to him.
Anyway, he has a new episode of his webcomic, From The Cellar, up, written and colored by him and drawn by his hottie sweetheart better half, Chino (whose art has grown by leaps and bounds).
And if you're in that horrible Hell's Kitchen area, go to Barrage, meet Chuck, and order a "Rodball". It's Johnny Black with Diet Coke. Half redneck, half gay. If you talk to him about his web-comic, he'll even squeeze your lime.
Disclaimer: I am no more qualified to give advice than Doctor Phil is to give weight-loss tips, Kimora Lee is to doling out fashion direction, or anyone at Cosmo is to providing tips to pleasing a man. They do it though, thus can I. Granted, they have lawyers and shit-piles of money. I don't. So remember, that anything you read here might be horribly, horribly wrong. Or it may be horribly, horribly right. My guess is as good as yours, just better.
Dear Add Vice -
This is a query that I often ask myself (and remember it's a strai8 gurl asking the question): "When internet dating, how many email exchanges before you actually set up a meeting?"
-Waiting for Dating
This is too easy, WfD. Once you've seen pictures of his cock, set a date and time.
Oh, wait. You're a straight girl.
You have needs. And expectations. You have to figure those out first.
Maybe an exercise would be helpful:
By this point, you may have realized that the entire exercise above is bogus, but, as a "strai8 gurl" (which, if you sound it comes out to to being a "stray eight" gurl so maybe just str8 is more accurate) you probably of the type that likes to take quizzes, score them, and learn things about yourself that you already know. (A quick perusal of Cosmo and Glamour confirms this.) What you're really doing is organizing your thoughts and reminding yourself of something you already know.
In this case, what you already know is that you are ready for this guy to ask you out. He hasn't though. Because he's shy or sweet or maybe a little insecure. So slip on the strap-on for just a moment while you sit at your computer and ask him out. If you're ready and if he is too, neither of you will regret taking the time to see what's really up. If you're ready and he's not, then there's probably a big difference to the way you approach social situations and, in the long run, you may very well not be compatible. By putting the question out there, you're finding this out now. Regardless, it's a win/win situation. Long story short? If you're thinking about asking someone out over the Internet, just do it.
It's over for me.
It's over for me.
Darling I love you,
But can't you see?
It's over for me.
This week marks the final installment of And the Brand Played On. Once again my article had me sitting in the harbor looking around, trying not to be obvious as I transcribed conversations. And let me tell you, Asian twinks can speak so very quickly. At the end, I put in a little conceit, inserting myself into the conversation. But in the spirit of the article, I made myself sit as described and speak the words. And the description of the clothing I was wearing was 100 per cent real. Yes, I do have designer clothing, just no visible logos.
Some unused lines that never made it to an article:
On the van ride over:
On the beach:
In the Harbor, my editor is pointing at a Kiki and Herb poster:
Everywhere, especially from my friends:
Alternately:
But it never would. I say some crazy shit, but this wasn't about me. Or was it? For as much fun was made at the expense of others, from my own mouth would come things just as vapid or shallow. Because that is the culture of the gays now. We may not know the details of the Stonewall riots or the current status of HIV research, but we all seem to know the current whereabouts of Britney, Paris, Lindsay, and Nicole.
I've considered taking the idea into the city, but there doesn't seem to be an interest in it. Honestly, it's sort of hard work. The open space that is offered in the Pines won't exist here in the city, so my exposure factor is higher. But I might continue it here, over at MO, but it will be more snippet oriented and less long-form. And it will probably invade the privacy of my friends. But maybe.
Logging into Manhunt has always been a superstitious thing for me. The various models presented on the homepage have always brought varying degrees of luck. I've often refreshed the page just to not log on with the "Clean-cut white twink in mesh shirt and jockstrap" or the "Needy looking Asian shirtless with belted-jeans". For whatever reason, "Hottie black guy in heather-gray sweatpants" always results in the right type of attention.
Recently, five new models have been added to the log-in page, serving up some new variety, but as of yet, my superstitions have not yet attached themselves to the new crew.
Single white male seeks HTML expert, so expect spacing issues below as a look is taken at the latest models.
The first of the new group I like to call "John". At first I thought he had a backpack, but it's just his shirt. A backpack would be better. "I put all my clothes in my backpack because I have trust issues. You see, people often steal my clothes, and I refuse to be a victim again." The random tattoos do nothing for me, nor the hairless chest. My impression is of a go-go boy in Wichita, working hard to pay tuition to Grinnell as the wrestling scholarship isn't full-ride. His appearance on my screen says, "Log in to receive pictures of bodies without faces, wondering if you're partying."
Next up, "Dimitry". Showing off his recently waxed happy-trail area. Upon seeing him on the screen, the impression is alway, "Oh, there's what's his name that I hooked up with last fall." But that's not him. He has a fresh-off-the-boat-from-Belgrade thing that is sort of appealing. I want him to tell me stories from the old country. About his crazy fag-hag friend Olga and the time she stole the donkey from old man Gregor. This one brings "chat with no action and very unlikely to meet".
"Sminky". When you see Sminky in a bar, turn the other way. There's something in those eyes that just screams at me, "Hide your wallet!" Whenever Sminky is around, there's always a story about his dealer not coming through or the ATM being broken. But he's so affectionate as he's checking the labels on your clothes and admiring your watch. Superstition meets paranoia here. Even the cheap everyday china and silverware should be locked away as Sminky brings trouble.
"Bridgeport". Rugged city by the sea, filled with odors of sea and industry, Bridgeport is a city of sweat, vigor and olden times. It's highly immigrant population shows the wear and tear of its rough life, yet maintains a dignity and self-respect. You could fall in love in Bridgeport, but then you'll be there for the rest of your life. So, yeah, this guy catches my fancy (despite thinking he might be on the short side), but logging on with his picture brings fears of commitment and contentment. I'm just not ready for that (today).
"Marco Polo". Set sail for adventure, embark on a new, if brief, romance. This cross-ethnic hottie is just dreamy with an athleticism that comes from actual activity, not a sterile gym. Your place? My place? Neither! Meet up in a dive bar in Long Island City! Take a bike ride on the water in Brooklyn! Play ultimate Frisbee in Central Park. A look in his eyes, brings hope to me, so I log in with the most enthusiasm with his greeting. Only to find that a fifty-year old in Fort Worth has sent me an e-mail, to let me know he'll be in the city on business and would I like to play. Oh Marco, you keep me going despite the constant disappointments. You keep me going.
BONUS1: Check out Hunters and Gatherers for a scathing, laugh-out-loud assessment of ManHunt profiles.
BONUS2: Yes, I do have a profile. No, I don't have cock shots. No, I don't do hook-ups online. "Versaphile"
Is it short for Giuseppi?
The nickname Gizzi.
It's a cute name.
But for coffee?
Down on Eighth Street.
Do you want coffee that's "gizzi"?
There are signs of what happened. Where bleach met perpetually dirty concrete. Candles and flowers. A photo with a hand-written note in Spanish.
It had been an unmemorable weekend. Hooking up with a hottie. Playing frisbee in the park. Sunday brought a barbecue with old friends followed by a couple of beers at the Eagle. Leaving there relatively early despite it being a holiday weekend.
The subway ride home was quiet. No one cute on the train. The arrival to my own subway stop brought visual clues. Four police officers with radios sounding. Drunken commuters, not allowed on the Manhattan bound train. Someone lying on the floor.
My thoughts were that it was a drunk. Passed out on the subway floor. With the number of police, perhaps the person was injured.
Then, rounding a corner the puddle of blood was visible. Not a puddle though, a pool. A pool of blood so large and still. Reflecting the lights and the shapes an colors of the nearby wall. Shaken, I turned around. Took a less convenient exit.
The next day brought news trucks. It became obvious that there had not been an accident. The neighborhood gossips told me before the news. The victim had been shot in the head.
Taking the picture brings feelings of dirtyness and inappropriateness in the Tuesday morning post-holiday rush. Most commuters had not read or seen the news. There is a pause to see the picture. Read the note. Notice the concrete floor is a brighter shade of grey.
Click the pic to see a recent journey into shamelessness.
