Wednesday, October 29, 2003
The internet can do many things for us. It can bring us closer together through email. It can spread news and other useful information with ease. And, as demonstrated by one particularly well-developed, non-work-safe heteroporn engine that allows users to search titles by fetish--including agalmatophilia, missing teeth, roller skates, ugly women (though not, unfortunately, ugly men), and vomiting--the internet can also reassure folks that there are lots and lots of freaks out there that make some of us look stable by comparison.
Sunday, October 19, 2003
You may not know it to look at me, but I'm pretty anal. I recently went through a pile of photographs dating back to junior high and arranged them chronologically. I then dove headlong into a stack of our theatre company's reviews and organized them by production, then subdivided them alphabetically by media source. And last night at 10pm, knowing that my car was running on empty and that I've got traveling to do later this week, I put on some shorts and schlepped to the gas station for a fill-up.
But that's not why I'm writing.
Driving home last night, I was listening to the radio, and I heard this song.... I don't know who wrote it, and ultimately it doesn't matter: what's important is the feeling it evoked. It had a dreamy, soothing, Cocteau Twins kind of sound--the very sound I found so engaging when I first became fascinated with New Orleans a decade and a half ago. Back then, I'd drive into the city with friends, and we'd cruise up and down St. Charles Avenue, windows open to the humid night air, listening to gauzy alterna-rock. I wouldn't say that those were golden days or even that they were carefree; in fact, it was a fairly difficult time for me, trying to reconcile my (somewhat) straight frat rat facade with my evolving awareness that I really, really like to kiss boys. It was, however, a memorable time in my life--one filled with rituals and comfortable routines.
Last night, it wasn't just the music that struck me: the song coming from the radio, the time of night, the temperature of the air, all combined to effect a flash of recognition and remembrance. Every so often this happens, like an intense physical/emotional recall, and for a split second, I'm Uptown, hanging out with an early crush. Or I'm back in junior high, on my first day at a strange, new school. It's a fleeting experience, and try as I might, I can never hang on to it for very long.
Let me reiterate: what I felt last night was not some smarmy, wistful, weepy-eyed, Bruce Springsteen-inspired "glory days" moment. It was not nostalgia. Nostalgia is a warm and fuzzy thing--literally translated, nostalgia is "a returning home." This was not that. This was the shock of the deja vu, as disorienting as time-travel. This was visceral and breathtaking and significant and disturbing. This was reliving, not remembering.
Friday, October 03, 2003
"Brian, the Power-Bottom Bear"
(previously published as "Brian the Poo and His PlayStation 2")
from my forthcoming book of gay bedtime stories, Night-Night Sodomite
Brian was angry. "How could Teddy say no?" he wondered aloud. He looked at Jerry the Gerbil, sitting quietly in his cage, nibbling on a piece of arugula. Brian stared at Jerry, waiting for him to answer, but it didn't happen. It never did. Sometimes Jerry made Brian feel more alone than he already was.
Brian went to his bedroom and stood in front of the mirror. 'Why, there's nothing wrong with me at all!" he thought to himself. "My head is tan and my hair is short, just like Teddy likes." Brian turned around and craned his neck to see his behind. "Firm and fuzzy like always." He leaned over and peered into the mirror from between his own legs. It was funny to see the world upside-down! "My woo-woo couldn't be any cleaner," he said, "so it's not that, either!" Brian stood up too fast and got so dizzy, he fell on the floor. Whee!
Laying there on the shag carpet, Brian thought about Teddy. He remembered seeing Teddy at a birthday party the week before. It was a fun party--there was cake and ice cream and a pony and a sling! And then everyone went into the basement, and someone turned out the lights! Brian was sitting next to Teddy, and he got that funny feeling in his special area. He reached out to touch Teddy, but then someone turned the lights on again, and Brian saw Teddy kissing a girl! Ew!
"Maybe that's it!" Brian said as he sat up. "Maybe Teddy wants me to be like a girl!" Brian ran to his mommy's closet and took out one of her old housecoats. He put it on and pranced around in front of his bedroom mirror. Gosh, he looked funny! But he looked kind of good, too! After dancing a little while, Brian got that special feeling he sometimes gets. He knelt down and pulled an extra-large bottle of AstroGlide from under his bed and touched his ho-ho 'till it made a mess. Then he was tired!
In another minute or two, Brian had forgotten all about Teddy and how he slammed the door in Brian's face that afternoon. Brian took off his mommy's housecoat and rolled around on it until he was cleaned up. Then he played Space Channel 5 all afternoon, 'till his daddy called him downstairs to dinner.
THE END
Inspired by--who else?--the one and only Frank Green.
Odes to Unlikely Lovers
or
In Praise of Gutter Love
There is a young artist named Bob
whose medium is wattle and daub.
His demeanor's a dud--
he's as exciting as mud--
but he knows how to slobber a knob.
An impoverished young lad on the dole,
tired of dining on Marmite and vole,
said, "Blast and confound!
I must earn a pound!"
so he learned to take poles up his hole.
A dental assistant named Young
had a queer fascination with tongues--
his own was so long
that some thought it a schlong
when he rammed his hung tongue up their bung.
