Observations on pop culture, gays of our lives, and just trying to make it ...
Monday, June 4, 2012
My 15 Minutes with a Headliner: What I Learned
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Saturday, June 2, 2012
Gays of our Lives Episode #2: Jim Wilson
Previously on Loring Park:
Joey and I went to a foam party last week. At the time, I had a 1-1 record at foam parties: The one I went to in Las Vegas was truly one of the best nights of my life (I made a go-go boy flex his pec muscles, I made out with an impossibly hot British dude to Britney but then he disappeared in the foam and I still wonder if he was a ghost, and most importantly, I, despite NOT having the body of a chiseled Adonis, decided to run around in my swim trunks anyway), but the one I went to a month after that led to the loss of my cell phone and ID -- On Gay Pride Weekend! Thank goodness for organized
mothers and having a passport.
Nothing eventful happened at the foam party, except for almost drowning. I don't think I enjoy them anymore. Maybe I'm officially too old. I didn't even want to go, but Joey is moving back home next month and therefore he is my excuse for going out when I should stay home, saving money and doing crunches. This means that we of course went out again on Sunday night, this time to The Saloon. I went with Jared, and Joey agreed to meet us there.
We first ran into Liam, whom I mentioned last week as one of the kindest gAy-listers there is. He told me delightful gossip, including the fact that Markie, a gay man in his late thirties who is the reason I have even met so many gAy-listers, is banned from The Saloon until July because he gave his drink to a minor. SCANDAL! I also received chap stick from a nice fag hag/gay guy couple, and the guy even had the good Burt's Bee's stuff.
Of course, Cordero was there, with a devilish grin and halfway in the bag. "When are we going out, Jakey?" he asked, and then I got Christina Aguilera "Infatution" in my head. Camille Collins, the drag queen and host of the shower contest, made her way out to the patio, and I took it as a lovely distraction. "I love you, Camille!" I cried. "I love you, too!" she rasped, and my night was complete. Jared and I then made our way to the other patio, where Joey and his friend were. Joey's friend was a senior in high school, and while I often joke about being an ocelot (gay cougar), the dangers of 18+ really hit home.
We then ran into Chuck, one of the gays that I have been lucky enough to meet over the past winter (I lost my iPod at his house, and that sucked). Chuck is 30 and doesn't look a day over 23, and one of these days I need to ask him about moisturizers. Chuck, Jared, Liam and I were schmoozing when I realized that I had abandoned Joey and his friend -- my gay children! "I am the worst gay mother ever!" I cried, and sprinted to the dance floor. Sure enough, Joey, The High Schooler and Jared were all dancing, and all were safe. Jared sweats profusely after booty-dancing, so we all went back to the patio, when the incident happened.
As I was talking to Chuck, I heard a splash to my right, followed by groaning. I thought nothing of it and assumed somebody spilled (and speaking of, I will always be sorry to the boy whom I spilled vodka cranberry all over at NYC Splash many moons ago. If I make it big, I will hire a private detective to find you and personally deliver my apology). Then I looked over, and High Schooler had vomit all over his face. Joey ushered him out, and the rest of us all looked over in panic.
"Did it get on me?! Did it get on you?! Are you okay?! What happened?!" we all shrieked like girls, but were relived to be vomit-free. Despite the guilt that all mothers feel when their children disappoint them, I decided to see who won the shower contest.
There were four finalists, and two of them were twins. Word on the street was that only one of them was gay. The fourth finalist did NOT have a shower-contest body, and therefore I cheered for him the loudest. He and the third candidate were dismissed, and Camille informed us that the final two were the twins, Evan and Ethan. How do you pick a winner? Most of the gays decided they would pick the gay one, but I didn't know which one was who. I decided to brazenly walk up to Ethan. "Which one is older?" I asked, proudly being 19 minutes older than my twin brother. "I am," he smiled. This let me know he was the straight one because a gay guy would have said he was younger since we are so youth-obsessed in our subculture. Nevertheless, I loudly cheered for him, to the point that my voice nearly gave out. How would I explain my laryngitis to customers the next day? Well, Sheila, I would rasp, I was at a shower contest, which is where men dance naked in a stall and the audience judges the winner, and at the end of the night the two finalists were TWINS. Now while I personally am disgusted by the concept of "twincest" -- which is a real thing in European porn -- there was something very sexy and scandalous about the whole thing, and I just had to cheer with the crowd! I got lost in the moment! Anyway, Camille declared that BOTH the twins won the $300 shower contest prize, which was diplomatic and practical, as they probably would have split it amongst themselves anyway. I think that if drag queens were world leaders, there would be no wars. All the conflict would be solved behind closed doors, via lip-synching, gossip, and a well-placed witticism.
Cordero came up to me again, and mentioned that Jim Wilson was across the bar. I went to college with Jim Wilson. He is a few years older than me and looks like a model. I have met him in person once, at a pimps and hos party. Even before officially meeting him, I knew who he was and he knew who I was, because when you're one of a half-dozen prominently social gay guys at a Division-III, small-town school, you're gonna know each other. That being said, he has never acknowledged me, not in the years of seeing him at The Saloon, not in the years of trying on jeans in the fitting room that I used to run. We once stood in line for two minutes together and I got not even a head nod or an affirmative smirk. I used to joke that if I was stranded on an elevator with him, he would not acknowledge me, and I pretended that I wasn't offended by it.
So, why then, did I put up a fight with Cordero, as he drunkenly dragged me by my dainty wrists to have an awkward meeting with this person? "JIM, YOU REMEMBER JAKEY," he grinned. "Yeshihowareyou," I said, and I slid away in embarrassment before Jim could even say anything. Jim Wilson does not want to talk to me, he wants to sit there looking flawless and I am not worthy of being in his presence. As I continued working the room and standing next to Jared as he danced so I was booty-popping by association, I started thinking more about Jim Wilson. I had always known who he was, and from the moment I did, I had decided, in my head, that I was not good enough to talk to him. It was nothing he had ever said or done to me. I flashbacked to the only night I did meet him, at the pimps and hoes party (I still remember buying a fedora at work and explaining to a late-thirties, mom of two who was our store admin that it was for a "theme party". "Pimps and hoes?" she asked without missing a beat), and when we had our official introduction, I said my name in lightning speed and then avoided him for the rest of the night. Out of my own insecurity, I never even gave him a chance to be nice, and then always wondered why he never went out of his way to acknowledge me.
I downed my last bit of Goose lemonade and walked up to him. "I'm sorry about earlier," I said. "I just felt so awkward with Cordero dragging me over here." "It's fine," he smiled, and he gave me a dudely side-hug. I reflected to myself that, while I will never play board games with him as I feel it would somehow excuse the way he treated me a few years ago, Cordero is part of my world for a reason. Without him, there would not have been a secret warehouse party. Without him, I would have never had a reason to walk up to someone who I was intimidated by for years. I didn't have a conversation with Jim Wilson after the side hug, but I was okay with that. All was well in Gay World.
Well, except for Joey's friend. I later found out he was on anti-depressants, and I am sympathetic. When I was 18 I was on anti-depressants and would throw up anytime I drank, but I was also doing my puking in a classmate's basement and not at the patio of The Saloon.
Next time: My car ride with a nationally touring comedian!
Nothing eventful happened at the foam party, except for almost drowning. I don't think I enjoy them anymore. Maybe I'm officially too old. I didn't even want to go, but Joey is moving back home next month and therefore he is my excuse for going out when I should stay home, saving money and doing crunches. This means that we of course went out again on Sunday night, this time to The Saloon. I went with Jared, and Joey agreed to meet us there.
We first ran into Liam, whom I mentioned last week as one of the kindest gAy-listers there is. He told me delightful gossip, including the fact that Markie, a gay man in his late thirties who is the reason I have even met so many gAy-listers, is banned from The Saloon until July because he gave his drink to a minor. SCANDAL! I also received chap stick from a nice fag hag/gay guy couple, and the guy even had the good Burt's Bee's stuff.
Of course, Cordero was there, with a devilish grin and halfway in the bag. "When are we going out, Jakey?" he asked, and then I got Christina Aguilera "Infatution" in my head. Camille Collins, the drag queen and host of the shower contest, made her way out to the patio, and I took it as a lovely distraction. "I love you, Camille!" I cried. "I love you, too!" she rasped, and my night was complete. Jared and I then made our way to the other patio, where Joey and his friend were. Joey's friend was a senior in high school, and while I often joke about being an ocelot (gay cougar), the dangers of 18+ really hit home.
We then ran into Chuck, one of the gays that I have been lucky enough to meet over the past winter (I lost my iPod at his house, and that sucked). Chuck is 30 and doesn't look a day over 23, and one of these days I need to ask him about moisturizers. Chuck, Jared, Liam and I were schmoozing when I realized that I had abandoned Joey and his friend -- my gay children! "I am the worst gay mother ever!" I cried, and sprinted to the dance floor. Sure enough, Joey, The High Schooler and Jared were all dancing, and all were safe. Jared sweats profusely after booty-dancing, so we all went back to the patio, when the incident happened.
As I was talking to Chuck, I heard a splash to my right, followed by groaning. I thought nothing of it and assumed somebody spilled (and speaking of, I will always be sorry to the boy whom I spilled vodka cranberry all over at NYC Splash many moons ago. If I make it big, I will hire a private detective to find you and personally deliver my apology). Then I looked over, and High Schooler had vomit all over his face. Joey ushered him out, and the rest of us all looked over in panic.
"Did it get on me?! Did it get on you?! Are you okay?! What happened?!" we all shrieked like girls, but were relived to be vomit-free. Despite the guilt that all mothers feel when their children disappoint them, I decided to see who won the shower contest.
There were four finalists, and two of them were twins. Word on the street was that only one of them was gay. The fourth finalist did NOT have a shower-contest body, and therefore I cheered for him the loudest. He and the third candidate were dismissed, and Camille informed us that the final two were the twins, Evan and Ethan. How do you pick a winner? Most of the gays decided they would pick the gay one, but I didn't know which one was who. I decided to brazenly walk up to Ethan. "Which one is older?" I asked, proudly being 19 minutes older than my twin brother. "I am," he smiled. This let me know he was the straight one because a gay guy would have said he was younger since we are so youth-obsessed in our subculture. Nevertheless, I loudly cheered for him, to the point that my voice nearly gave out. How would I explain my laryngitis to customers the next day? Well, Sheila, I would rasp, I was at a shower contest, which is where men dance naked in a stall and the audience judges the winner, and at the end of the night the two finalists were TWINS. Now while I personally am disgusted by the concept of "twincest" -- which is a real thing in European porn -- there was something very sexy and scandalous about the whole thing, and I just had to cheer with the crowd! I got lost in the moment! Anyway, Camille declared that BOTH the twins won the $300 shower contest prize, which was diplomatic and practical, as they probably would have split it amongst themselves anyway. I think that if drag queens were world leaders, there would be no wars. All the conflict would be solved behind closed doors, via lip-synching, gossip, and a well-placed witticism.
Cordero came up to me again, and mentioned that Jim Wilson was across the bar. I went to college with Jim Wilson. He is a few years older than me and looks like a model. I have met him in person once, at a pimps and hos party. Even before officially meeting him, I knew who he was and he knew who I was, because when you're one of a half-dozen prominently social gay guys at a Division-III, small-town school, you're gonna know each other. That being said, he has never acknowledged me, not in the years of seeing him at The Saloon, not in the years of trying on jeans in the fitting room that I used to run. We once stood in line for two minutes together and I got not even a head nod or an affirmative smirk. I used to joke that if I was stranded on an elevator with him, he would not acknowledge me, and I pretended that I wasn't offended by it.
So, why then, did I put up a fight with Cordero, as he drunkenly dragged me by my dainty wrists to have an awkward meeting with this person? "JIM, YOU REMEMBER JAKEY," he grinned. "Yeshihowareyou," I said, and I slid away in embarrassment before Jim could even say anything. Jim Wilson does not want to talk to me, he wants to sit there looking flawless and I am not worthy of being in his presence. As I continued working the room and standing next to Jared as he danced so I was booty-popping by association, I started thinking more about Jim Wilson. I had always known who he was, and from the moment I did, I had decided, in my head, that I was not good enough to talk to him. It was nothing he had ever said or done to me. I flashbacked to the only night I did meet him, at the pimps and hoes party (I still remember buying a fedora at work and explaining to a late-thirties, mom of two who was our store admin that it was for a "theme party". "Pimps and hoes?" she asked without missing a beat), and when we had our official introduction, I said my name in lightning speed and then avoided him for the rest of the night. Out of my own insecurity, I never even gave him a chance to be nice, and then always wondered why he never went out of his way to acknowledge me.
I downed my last bit of Goose lemonade and walked up to him. "I'm sorry about earlier," I said. "I just felt so awkward with Cordero dragging me over here." "It's fine," he smiled, and he gave me a dudely side-hug. I reflected to myself that, while I will never play board games with him as I feel it would somehow excuse the way he treated me a few years ago, Cordero is part of my world for a reason. Without him, there would not have been a secret warehouse party. Without him, I would have never had a reason to walk up to someone who I was intimidated by for years. I didn't have a conversation with Jim Wilson after the side hug, but I was okay with that. All was well in Gay World.
Well, except for Joey's friend. I later found out he was on anti-depressants, and I am sympathetic. When I was 18 I was on anti-depressants and would throw up anytime I drank, but I was also doing my puking in a classmate's basement and not at the patio of The Saloon.
Next time: My car ride with a nationally touring comedian!
Tuesday, May 22, 2012
Loring Park: Week One
The following is an account of my first week of being a resident of Loring Park. Names and identifying details have been changed to protect the innocent ... and the guilty.
5/13/12
It has been just over a week since I moved to Loring Park, or, as I affectionately call it, The Gayborhood. Every night has been an adventure, so hold onto your designer fedoras, boys.
Because my mother was on vacation in San Diego and I had already needed her assistance for when I moved back home for a month in April, I decided to hire movers this time. They were three and a half hours late, in part due to an improperly booked morning job and because of a torrential rainstorm that occurred in the morning. Nevertheless, when they finally arrived, the move took less than two hours. I decided to bring my twin bed instead of the queen bed so that my studio apartment looks bigger, similar to how most male porn stars are often rather short. I thought it would affect my sex life, but then I had to remind myself that this is me I was thinking about, and I have the sex life of a nun.
My first night was a Thursday, and my 20-year-old friend Joey came over. He is from small-town Wisconsin, looks like a Disney Channel star, and has effortlessly amazing hair. He tried and failed to put together my television. My friends Jared and Rachel came over as well, and we went to The Saloon, or, as I affectionately call it, Gay High School. I was hoping to run into old friends at The Saloon, but the only one I ran into was Cordero, a boy from my college days who insisted on playing ridiculous mind games with me when I was younger. I am forever relieved that I never played board games with him. He sloppily kissed me on the cheek, and then he dared to flirt with Joey, and while Joey and I are by no means a couple, I still chose to be silently livid. I got hammered, Joey slept over, and while nothing romantic happened (although I did wrap his arm around my torso at one point), I learned that two twinks can fit in a twin bed.
Last Saturday, however, was when I fully realized the reality of my new surroundings, and that the concept of "The A-List" was not just in my head.
"The A-List" is the cool gays, the ones who are always at The Saloon, the ones who are not overtly rude and snobby but will nonetheless never have a reason to speak to you. They know the bartenders by their first names, they are always dressed and groomed impeccably, and while they are at The Saloon on any day that ends in "y", they also manage to always look bored and distracted.
I went with Jared, the new bad influence in my life. Jared is my 21-year-old co-worker and lives in Bloomington, so he often takes the train to The Saloon. We are perfectly compatible wingmen for going out as we are not attracted to each other, but we appreciate the finer things in life, such as strong vodka and sex with other men. We met at my apartment, where I promptly took another half hour to decide on my outfit and pre-game. We stopped at the 19 Bar, which is like a divey sports bar that just happens to be a gay bar. It is cash only, you can go there wearing sweatpants, and the vibe is distinctly different from The Saloon. Hell, their website even says that it's for people who are "tired of the flamboyant club scene." We had two shots, then walked to The Saloon together, and I was tepid about having to work at eleven the next morning. I was also worried about running into Star Quarterback, a boy who I see as the ultimate A-lister that I totally drunk Facebooked last month.
We did not run into Star Quarterback, but I was most surprised that we ran into Anthony. I had met Anthony a few years ago at the '90s with my friend Sina. We had some late night chats on Facebook, and I planned on writing him a note of inspiration when he moved to Ft. Lauderdale, as I knew what it was like to move to a new city where you don't know anybody. Before I could write it, however, he had removed all of the tangential Minnesota gays from his Facebook, which was his complete right and prerogative. That being said, when he moved back to Minnesota last year, Sina re-introduced herself to him in the same room at the '90s in which we had initially met, and he had no fucking clue who I was. I was strangely sad about it, and now every time I see him, I do not acknowledge him. With that back story, it was rather surreal for him to approach me. Then someone made fun of his name. Then I asked him if he had ever gone to Boardwalk in Ft. Lauderdale, because I am Twitter and Facebook friends with a ridiculously interesting and attractive FIU grad named Izak Pratt who used to work there and even had his VIP birthday party there last summer.
"Um, I used to live right across from the Boardwalk," Anthony said, and his face was now full of terror. "I'm not quite sure how you know that ..."
In fear of looking like a stalker, I decided to vamoose and walk the bar with Jared. We ran into Cordero again. He was with an older friend in his forties who was not very attractive, but who was I to judge? I was ashamed that his looks were even the first thing on my mind. I should try to get to know him as a person.
Within three minutes of our conversation, he stared daggers at me. "If I had met you in my twenties, I wouldn't have even talked to you," he hissed. What the fuck, dude?! I was proud of myself in that I didn't cry or let it get to me like I would have just a few years ago. Instead, I realized that this man was full of his own insecurities and that's why he had to be so awful. Even Cordero felt bad about what his companion had said. Five minutes later, the gross man in his forties walks by me again. "I'm sorry if I offended you," he said. HE COULDN'T EVEN DO A REAL APOLOGY, he had to do the half-ass Sorry if you were offended. Like, How dare you be hurt when I said something awful and degrading to you. Clearly, it's YOUR problem you were hurt, but I will be the bigger person. I ordered a Three Olives, and before I knew it, Jared and I were dancing on the whorebox.
"Can I sleep over?" Jared asked. "I'm going to miss the train."
"Of course, that should be fine," I said, and I turned around to find myself face-to-face with a tall blonde with a swimmer's build and a tank top.
"Do you guys work at [redacted]?" he smiled.
"We do!" Jared and I cried in unison.
"I go all there the time," he smiled. Then he stared at me intensely. "Your name's Jakey, isn't it?"
"Huh?" I asked. Then he lifted me up off the ground as if I weighed three pounds, and before I knew it we were making out like rabid eighth-graders. Before we resumed Frenching, I tried to make small talk because I am a lady, dammit. This means that while I forgot his name, I do remember that he was from South Dakota, and that is what he is now named in my phone.
"Jared," I said when my mouth wasn't otherwise occupied. "Here's $60. Get a cab home."
"JAKEY!" Jared scoffed. "It's 2:30 and you're broke!"
Thank goodness for Cordero, who came back on the whorebox, and without his awful forty-year-old friend. "Jakey," he said. "Do you want to go to an afterparty?"
"Sure," I agreed. I didn't really want to have sex with South Dakota anyway -- don't get me wrong, I do, but at the end of the day I am still only a pretend slut -- and I decided taking Jared and South Dakota to an afterparty would be less douchey of a move then sending Jared out in the pouring rain so I could bring a boy home that I wouldn't even go all the way with.
"Okay," Cordero said. "Meet me outside."
Jared and South Dakota agreed that they would be down for the afterparty. I should also re-iterate now that it was pouring rain outside. Not a light drizzle or sprinkle, but a ridiculous, violent amount. Afterparty or not, there would be no way that Jared and I would be taking the mile-walk back to my new apartment.
A cab sat out front, and Jared, being the biggest of all of us, rode shotgun. There were two boys that I didn't know that were already in the back seat. South Dakota went in behind me (not like that, you perverts), and I sat on his lap. We were waiting for that hot mess Cordero, who stood by the door flirting with some dude.
"We have to go," the driver said in a thick Somali accent. "It is 3 in the morning. I cannot sit here with five people in the car."
"CORD!!!" Jared yelled out the window. "HURRY UP!!!!!!"
Cordero smiled and waved at us.
"God dammit, Cordero," I whispered, and then I had to swat South Dakota's hand away from my genital region.
Cordero finally slipped into the cab, saddling up next to South Dakota. He gave the driver an intersection.
In the back of my head, I wondered who would be hosting this party. Someone must have a large townhouse or condo to invite all these gays to an after-party. It was 3:15 in the morning and I had been awake since 8 A.M., but I strangely wasn't tired. It may have been the two 5-hour energy shots or the two Zyrtec-D's I had (what, allergies are a bitch), or the adrenaline of leaving The Saloon and not feeling like a loser.
The cab stopped at the intersection that Cord gave him. "Um, who's paying for this?!" Cord asked. Seriously, Cordero? POOR ETIQUETTE. Because it was the day after pay day, I gave Jared a $20 to give to the cabbie and told him to get ten back. We all got out of the cab, which drove away. And there we stood, at 3:20 A.M. in the pouring rain.
"Cord, where is the party?" I asked, and then I had a horrible flashback of the time when he and I drove around all of St. Anthony for two hours because he knew of a party that he swore existed but then couldn't recall the address.
"I swear, it's here, I'm texting somebody," he slurred.
"Cordero," I whispered. "We are six gay dudes standing outside at 3:30 in the morning, and it is raining. I do not want to get murdered." Jared is about 220, and the other two guys seemed like they could defend themselves, but South Dakota and I, despite his surprising upper body strength, would not survive a mugging in our intoxicated state.
"I got it," Cordero said after looking at his phone. "Follow me." He led us to an office building and rapped on the door.
"Who is it!?" a voice asked.
"It's Cord," he said. "I have six."
A wide door opened and we were in a foyer, in front of two gays who sat on folding chairs behind a makeshift table. "The Place. $5" read a sign written on loose leaf paper. I recognized one of the gays from the '90s. He has platinum blond hair and I have always had a crush on him, as I have long been jealous of his effortless blend of masculine and feminine, the way he could rock eyeliner while wearing a shirt and tie.
"Five dollars," he told us. "Cash only. Do not check in on Twitter or Facebook."
I looked around and, still bitter about the cab ride, realized I was not paying for all of us, not even South Dakota's ridiculously sexy ass.
"There's an ATM around the corner," the platinum blonde host said, reading our minds. "Please go to the third floor after paying."
"I'm just paying for me and Jared," I said, and I nudged him to put my $10 bill on the table.
"Third floor," the platinum blonde re-iterated. The other four left to the ATM, and Jared and I walked up three flights of stairs.
"What are we getting into?" I asked.
"I don't know, this is crazy!" Jared giggled. "So A-list."
"Shhh, Jared," I said. "Focus. We have to act normal. Like we belong here. Like we're not impressed by anything. Otherwise, everyone will know we're really D-listers."
We walked up to the third floor, where there was an undeveloped room that led to a working toilet. Standing in line was Anthony, who looked at me with a strange look of surprise.
"Jakey," he smiled. "You're .... here?"
"Hello, Anthony," I said as Jared and I strolled by.
"Oh my god, it's Genevieve!" Jared howled. Genevieve is by far the best drag queen at the Gay '90s, and I was impressed that Jared recognized her out of drag. Genevieve is a black queen with muscles like granite who often does Nicki Minaj, Rihanna, and Beyonce, complete with cartwheels, backflips and booty-popping. Other than the queens who randomly do Mariah Carey, she is the only one that I make a conscious effort to tip well. She recognized Jared and me, as we are always there with Sina, who gets routinely invited to Genevieve's all-star make-up parties. Genevieve was incredibly gracious to us, and we proceeded to walk into the main room.
It was a bar. Like a genuine speak-easy. Cirque du Soleil dancers undulated in giant hula hoops. A DJ blared music. Bartenders dressed in their underwear served a fully stocked bar, cash only, please tip kindly. I had a vodka sprite. Cordero walked up to us and I thanked him for the invite. I did not see the Star Quarterback, but I saw all of the other familiar faces from The Saloon, the ones that let me realize that this ridiculous "A-List" concept wasn't just borne out of the insecurity from my head. It was real, and for that night, Jared and I were among them. There was the hot 29-year-old I met at Lush who graciously gave me workout advice (I didn't of course follow it, but it was nice of him to suggest what I should be doing). There were the gays who traveled in packs, and they finally stopped sneering. It was a wonderful occasion, and Jared and I danced until 5:00, when we realized that I had to work in six hours. We walked up to the roof, where it was still pouring rain, and gays that smoked were standing under a piece of cardboard they had found. I imagined what it would have been like if it wasn't raining, and what a delightfully romantic moment it would have made, and then I decided that when I went home, I was to listen to Mariah Carey's "The Roof" on repeat. Then I thought of the lyrics to that song and realized that I had to come back here on a November night and drink Moet if I was going to be completely faithful to its lyrics.
I said good-bye to Cordero, good-bye to South Dakota, even good-bye to Anthony, and Jared and I stood in the rain as I called a town car. Favian, my usual driver (I say that as if I am wealthy. Child, I have $20 in my checking account until Friday -- it's all for show), picked us up promptly, and we told him all about the Gay Speak-Easy, "The Place" as it is called, how we were A-listers for one evening. Straight people have it so hard.
I can't believe I was at work the next day, but I was on time, and I wasn't hung over, but rather sleep-deprived. I decided I would hibernate when I got home, but my friend Madison, who I knew from the play that I had rehearsed for seven months before shit got cancelled (that's show biz!), now lives a block away from me, and called me over to the 19 Bar. I decided the 19 Bar does not count as "going out", and we played darts with a mean ginger-haired boy and his boyfriend, who was as attractive as he was drunk. We later played pool with a thirtysomething choreographer and his ridiculously buff boyfriend. After I put "Say You'll Be There" in the jukebox, I realized that gay pool is just like regular pool, except that after every success, you must pause for a dance break. Then the buff boyfriend held me upside down by the ankles.
I have been there twice last week. I ran into a stand-up comedian I knew from the scene, that gave me hope for my fake career. I went home with an older Mexican man. We did not do anything, and he left after my alarm clock kept going off at 7 A.M. (and I learned that if you want to kick a one night stand out early, that's the best trick to make them leave -- sleep through your alarm and they will leave from the frustration). Friday night I went to Duluth to tell jokes at an Irish pub, and I promptly drunk Facebooked my college crush. The restraining order is in the mail.
Saturday, Jared and I went to The Saloon again, and South Dakota looked delicious in a red V-neck.
"Are you a swimmer?" I asked him. "You have a swimmer's build."
"No," he grinned. "I just work out."
Speaking of working out, I fell in love that night on the dance floor. His name was Kevin and he exemplified my ridiculous crush on frat-boy bro-ski types. He was wearing a pouka shell necklace, for God's sake, and I was obviously in love.
"Are you guys from here?" he asked me and Jared. "No one at my work knows I'm gay. It's crazy."
"Forgive me for being so forward," I said. "But what cologne are you wearing? You smell very good."
He said the name of it. I forgot. I do remember that every time he talked to me he insisted on touching my face. He was such a disgustingly appropriate reflection of what "my type" is that I wondered if I had been roofied, or that he was a hologram. I tried to find him again, but he was shirtlessly dancing with another jock-type, and I figured I did not want to be his creeper. Jared slept over and we managed to both fit in my twin bed.
Jared, Sina, and I went back to the '90s last Sunday, where Sina managed to make her Forever 21 dress look like a Versace. Anthony was there and straight guy hugged me, then spent most of his night talking to an older man.
I still have a crush on him, but I know he is not buying what I am selling, and that is fine. He says hello to me and gives me straight-guy hugs, and at the end of the day, that's truly all I wanted, even if his adam4adam profile says he is 170 and I did not know he was that muscular.
I walked back to The Saloon by myself. My friend Liam, the kindest A-lister you will ever meet, was there but he was too drunk to notice me, and Anthony was there, falling asleep at the bar, an older gentleman continually getting him water. I kept getting molested by older men, and finally I was rescued by an attractive biochemistry major. We went home together, and the next morning he asked me where the cap was for my vodka bottle.
"I don't know," I said. "It should be fine."
"No, it won't be," he said. "The ethanol in it will evaporate and then the vodka will lose its potency."
"WE MUST FIND IT!" I cried. We did, and then we took a shower together while I set my iPod to play Robyn, and that will likely be the pinnacle of my sexual experiences. I dropped him off at his house in Dinkytown (don't judge!), and on the way to his house there was a shirtless boy in his yard looking like an Abercrombie model. I did the only appropriate thing to do in that situation, which was to beep the horn.
"You did not just do that," Biochem said.
"I did," I said. "I have no shame." And I don't, but I do need to find a way to let my mother know I need to swap the twin bed for the queen bed in her house in as less of an awkward way as possible.
5/13/12
It has been just over a week since I moved to Loring Park, or, as I affectionately call it, The Gayborhood. Every night has been an adventure, so hold onto your designer fedoras, boys.
Because my mother was on vacation in San Diego and I had already needed her assistance for when I moved back home for a month in April, I decided to hire movers this time. They were three and a half hours late, in part due to an improperly booked morning job and because of a torrential rainstorm that occurred in the morning. Nevertheless, when they finally arrived, the move took less than two hours. I decided to bring my twin bed instead of the queen bed so that my studio apartment looks bigger, similar to how most male porn stars are often rather short. I thought it would affect my sex life, but then I had to remind myself that this is me I was thinking about, and I have the sex life of a nun.
My first night was a Thursday, and my 20-year-old friend Joey came over. He is from small-town Wisconsin, looks like a Disney Channel star, and has effortlessly amazing hair. He tried and failed to put together my television. My friends Jared and Rachel came over as well, and we went to The Saloon, or, as I affectionately call it, Gay High School. I was hoping to run into old friends at The Saloon, but the only one I ran into was Cordero, a boy from my college days who insisted on playing ridiculous mind games with me when I was younger. I am forever relieved that I never played board games with him. He sloppily kissed me on the cheek, and then he dared to flirt with Joey, and while Joey and I are by no means a couple, I still chose to be silently livid. I got hammered, Joey slept over, and while nothing romantic happened (although I did wrap his arm around my torso at one point), I learned that two twinks can fit in a twin bed.
Last Saturday, however, was when I fully realized the reality of my new surroundings, and that the concept of "The A-List" was not just in my head.
"The A-List" is the cool gays, the ones who are always at The Saloon, the ones who are not overtly rude and snobby but will nonetheless never have a reason to speak to you. They know the bartenders by their first names, they are always dressed and groomed impeccably, and while they are at The Saloon on any day that ends in "y", they also manage to always look bored and distracted.
I went with Jared, the new bad influence in my life. Jared is my 21-year-old co-worker and lives in Bloomington, so he often takes the train to The Saloon. We are perfectly compatible wingmen for going out as we are not attracted to each other, but we appreciate the finer things in life, such as strong vodka and sex with other men. We met at my apartment, where I promptly took another half hour to decide on my outfit and pre-game. We stopped at the 19 Bar, which is like a divey sports bar that just happens to be a gay bar. It is cash only, you can go there wearing sweatpants, and the vibe is distinctly different from The Saloon. Hell, their website even says that it's for people who are "tired of the flamboyant club scene." We had two shots, then walked to The Saloon together, and I was tepid about having to work at eleven the next morning. I was also worried about running into Star Quarterback, a boy who I see as the ultimate A-lister that I totally drunk Facebooked last month.
We did not run into Star Quarterback, but I was most surprised that we ran into Anthony. I had met Anthony a few years ago at the '90s with my friend Sina. We had some late night chats on Facebook, and I planned on writing him a note of inspiration when he moved to Ft. Lauderdale, as I knew what it was like to move to a new city where you don't know anybody. Before I could write it, however, he had removed all of the tangential Minnesota gays from his Facebook, which was his complete right and prerogative. That being said, when he moved back to Minnesota last year, Sina re-introduced herself to him in the same room at the '90s in which we had initially met, and he had no fucking clue who I was. I was strangely sad about it, and now every time I see him, I do not acknowledge him. With that back story, it was rather surreal for him to approach me. Then someone made fun of his name. Then I asked him if he had ever gone to Boardwalk in Ft. Lauderdale, because I am Twitter and Facebook friends with a ridiculously interesting and attractive FIU grad named Izak Pratt who used to work there and even had his VIP birthday party there last summer.
"Um, I used to live right across from the Boardwalk," Anthony said, and his face was now full of terror. "I'm not quite sure how you know that ..."
In fear of looking like a stalker, I decided to vamoose and walk the bar with Jared. We ran into Cordero again. He was with an older friend in his forties who was not very attractive, but who was I to judge? I was ashamed that his looks were even the first thing on my mind. I should try to get to know him as a person.
Within three minutes of our conversation, he stared daggers at me. "If I had met you in my twenties, I wouldn't have even talked to you," he hissed. What the fuck, dude?! I was proud of myself in that I didn't cry or let it get to me like I would have just a few years ago. Instead, I realized that this man was full of his own insecurities and that's why he had to be so awful. Even Cordero felt bad about what his companion had said. Five minutes later, the gross man in his forties walks by me again. "I'm sorry if I offended you," he said. HE COULDN'T EVEN DO A REAL APOLOGY, he had to do the half-ass Sorry if you were offended. Like, How dare you be hurt when I said something awful and degrading to you. Clearly, it's YOUR problem you were hurt, but I will be the bigger person. I ordered a Three Olives, and before I knew it, Jared and I were dancing on the whorebox.
"Can I sleep over?" Jared asked. "I'm going to miss the train."
"Of course, that should be fine," I said, and I turned around to find myself face-to-face with a tall blonde with a swimmer's build and a tank top.
"Do you guys work at [redacted]?" he smiled.
"We do!" Jared and I cried in unison.
"I go all there the time," he smiled. Then he stared at me intensely. "Your name's Jakey, isn't it?"
"Huh?" I asked. Then he lifted me up off the ground as if I weighed three pounds, and before I knew it we were making out like rabid eighth-graders. Before we resumed Frenching, I tried to make small talk because I am a lady, dammit. This means that while I forgot his name, I do remember that he was from South Dakota, and that is what he is now named in my phone.
"Jared," I said when my mouth wasn't otherwise occupied. "Here's $60. Get a cab home."
"JAKEY!" Jared scoffed. "It's 2:30 and you're broke!"
Thank goodness for Cordero, who came back on the whorebox, and without his awful forty-year-old friend. "Jakey," he said. "Do you want to go to an afterparty?"
"Sure," I agreed. I didn't really want to have sex with South Dakota anyway -- don't get me wrong, I do, but at the end of the day I am still only a pretend slut -- and I decided taking Jared and South Dakota to an afterparty would be less douchey of a move then sending Jared out in the pouring rain so I could bring a boy home that I wouldn't even go all the way with.
"Okay," Cordero said. "Meet me outside."
Jared and South Dakota agreed that they would be down for the afterparty. I should also re-iterate now that it was pouring rain outside. Not a light drizzle or sprinkle, but a ridiculous, violent amount. Afterparty or not, there would be no way that Jared and I would be taking the mile-walk back to my new apartment.
A cab sat out front, and Jared, being the biggest of all of us, rode shotgun. There were two boys that I didn't know that were already in the back seat. South Dakota went in behind me (not like that, you perverts), and I sat on his lap. We were waiting for that hot mess Cordero, who stood by the door flirting with some dude.
"We have to go," the driver said in a thick Somali accent. "It is 3 in the morning. I cannot sit here with five people in the car."
"CORD!!!" Jared yelled out the window. "HURRY UP!!!!!!"
Cordero smiled and waved at us.
"God dammit, Cordero," I whispered, and then I had to swat South Dakota's hand away from my genital region.
Cordero finally slipped into the cab, saddling up next to South Dakota. He gave the driver an intersection.
In the back of my head, I wondered who would be hosting this party. Someone must have a large townhouse or condo to invite all these gays to an after-party. It was 3:15 in the morning and I had been awake since 8 A.M., but I strangely wasn't tired. It may have been the two 5-hour energy shots or the two Zyrtec-D's I had (what, allergies are a bitch), or the adrenaline of leaving The Saloon and not feeling like a loser.
The cab stopped at the intersection that Cord gave him. "Um, who's paying for this?!" Cord asked. Seriously, Cordero? POOR ETIQUETTE. Because it was the day after pay day, I gave Jared a $20 to give to the cabbie and told him to get ten back. We all got out of the cab, which drove away. And there we stood, at 3:20 A.M. in the pouring rain.
"Cord, where is the party?" I asked, and then I had a horrible flashback of the time when he and I drove around all of St. Anthony for two hours because he knew of a party that he swore existed but then couldn't recall the address.
"I swear, it's here, I'm texting somebody," he slurred.
"Cordero," I whispered. "We are six gay dudes standing outside at 3:30 in the morning, and it is raining. I do not want to get murdered." Jared is about 220, and the other two guys seemed like they could defend themselves, but South Dakota and I, despite his surprising upper body strength, would not survive a mugging in our intoxicated state.
"I got it," Cordero said after looking at his phone. "Follow me." He led us to an office building and rapped on the door.
"Who is it!?" a voice asked.
"It's Cord," he said. "I have six."
A wide door opened and we were in a foyer, in front of two gays who sat on folding chairs behind a makeshift table. "The Place. $5" read a sign written on loose leaf paper. I recognized one of the gays from the '90s. He has platinum blond hair and I have always had a crush on him, as I have long been jealous of his effortless blend of masculine and feminine, the way he could rock eyeliner while wearing a shirt and tie.
"Five dollars," he told us. "Cash only. Do not check in on Twitter or Facebook."
I looked around and, still bitter about the cab ride, realized I was not paying for all of us, not even South Dakota's ridiculously sexy ass.
"There's an ATM around the corner," the platinum blonde host said, reading our minds. "Please go to the third floor after paying."
"I'm just paying for me and Jared," I said, and I nudged him to put my $10 bill on the table.
"Third floor," the platinum blonde re-iterated. The other four left to the ATM, and Jared and I walked up three flights of stairs.
"What are we getting into?" I asked.
"I don't know, this is crazy!" Jared giggled. "So A-list."
"Shhh, Jared," I said. "Focus. We have to act normal. Like we belong here. Like we're not impressed by anything. Otherwise, everyone will know we're really D-listers."
We walked up to the third floor, where there was an undeveloped room that led to a working toilet. Standing in line was Anthony, who looked at me with a strange look of surprise.
"Jakey," he smiled. "You're .... here?"
"Hello, Anthony," I said as Jared and I strolled by.
"Oh my god, it's Genevieve!" Jared howled. Genevieve is by far the best drag queen at the Gay '90s, and I was impressed that Jared recognized her out of drag. Genevieve is a black queen with muscles like granite who often does Nicki Minaj, Rihanna, and Beyonce, complete with cartwheels, backflips and booty-popping. Other than the queens who randomly do Mariah Carey, she is the only one that I make a conscious effort to tip well. She recognized Jared and me, as we are always there with Sina, who gets routinely invited to Genevieve's all-star make-up parties. Genevieve was incredibly gracious to us, and we proceeded to walk into the main room.
It was a bar. Like a genuine speak-easy. Cirque du Soleil dancers undulated in giant hula hoops. A DJ blared music. Bartenders dressed in their underwear served a fully stocked bar, cash only, please tip kindly. I had a vodka sprite. Cordero walked up to us and I thanked him for the invite. I did not see the Star Quarterback, but I saw all of the other familiar faces from The Saloon, the ones that let me realize that this ridiculous "A-List" concept wasn't just borne out of the insecurity from my head. It was real, and for that night, Jared and I were among them. There was the hot 29-year-old I met at Lush who graciously gave me workout advice (I didn't of course follow it, but it was nice of him to suggest what I should be doing). There were the gays who traveled in packs, and they finally stopped sneering. It was a wonderful occasion, and Jared and I danced until 5:00, when we realized that I had to work in six hours. We walked up to the roof, where it was still pouring rain, and gays that smoked were standing under a piece of cardboard they had found. I imagined what it would have been like if it wasn't raining, and what a delightfully romantic moment it would have made, and then I decided that when I went home, I was to listen to Mariah Carey's "The Roof" on repeat. Then I thought of the lyrics to that song and realized that I had to come back here on a November night and drink Moet if I was going to be completely faithful to its lyrics.
I said good-bye to Cordero, good-bye to South Dakota, even good-bye to Anthony, and Jared and I stood in the rain as I called a town car. Favian, my usual driver (I say that as if I am wealthy. Child, I have $20 in my checking account until Friday -- it's all for show), picked us up promptly, and we told him all about the Gay Speak-Easy, "The Place" as it is called, how we were A-listers for one evening. Straight people have it so hard.
I can't believe I was at work the next day, but I was on time, and I wasn't hung over, but rather sleep-deprived. I decided I would hibernate when I got home, but my friend Madison, who I knew from the play that I had rehearsed for seven months before shit got cancelled (that's show biz!), now lives a block away from me, and called me over to the 19 Bar. I decided the 19 Bar does not count as "going out", and we played darts with a mean ginger-haired boy and his boyfriend, who was as attractive as he was drunk. We later played pool with a thirtysomething choreographer and his ridiculously buff boyfriend. After I put "Say You'll Be There" in the jukebox, I realized that gay pool is just like regular pool, except that after every success, you must pause for a dance break. Then the buff boyfriend held me upside down by the ankles.
I have been there twice last week. I ran into a stand-up comedian I knew from the scene, that gave me hope for my fake career. I went home with an older Mexican man. We did not do anything, and he left after my alarm clock kept going off at 7 A.M. (and I learned that if you want to kick a one night stand out early, that's the best trick to make them leave -- sleep through your alarm and they will leave from the frustration). Friday night I went to Duluth to tell jokes at an Irish pub, and I promptly drunk Facebooked my college crush. The restraining order is in the mail.
Saturday, Jared and I went to The Saloon again, and South Dakota looked delicious in a red V-neck.
"Are you a swimmer?" I asked him. "You have a swimmer's build."
"No," he grinned. "I just work out."
Speaking of working out, I fell in love that night on the dance floor. His name was Kevin and he exemplified my ridiculous crush on frat-boy bro-ski types. He was wearing a pouka shell necklace, for God's sake, and I was obviously in love.
"Are you guys from here?" he asked me and Jared. "No one at my work knows I'm gay. It's crazy."
"Forgive me for being so forward," I said. "But what cologne are you wearing? You smell very good."
He said the name of it. I forgot. I do remember that every time he talked to me he insisted on touching my face. He was such a disgustingly appropriate reflection of what "my type" is that I wondered if I had been roofied, or that he was a hologram. I tried to find him again, but he was shirtlessly dancing with another jock-type, and I figured I did not want to be his creeper. Jared slept over and we managed to both fit in my twin bed.
Jared, Sina, and I went back to the '90s last Sunday, where Sina managed to make her Forever 21 dress look like a Versace. Anthony was there and straight guy hugged me, then spent most of his night talking to an older man.
I still have a crush on him, but I know he is not buying what I am selling, and that is fine. He says hello to me and gives me straight-guy hugs, and at the end of the day, that's truly all I wanted, even if his adam4adam profile says he is 170 and I did not know he was that muscular.
I walked back to The Saloon by myself. My friend Liam, the kindest A-lister you will ever meet, was there but he was too drunk to notice me, and Anthony was there, falling asleep at the bar, an older gentleman continually getting him water. I kept getting molested by older men, and finally I was rescued by an attractive biochemistry major. We went home together, and the next morning he asked me where the cap was for my vodka bottle.
"I don't know," I said. "It should be fine."
"No, it won't be," he said. "The ethanol in it will evaporate and then the vodka will lose its potency."
"WE MUST FIND IT!" I cried. We did, and then we took a shower together while I set my iPod to play Robyn, and that will likely be the pinnacle of my sexual experiences. I dropped him off at his house in Dinkytown (don't judge!), and on the way to his house there was a shirtless boy in his yard looking like an Abercrombie model. I did the only appropriate thing to do in that situation, which was to beep the horn.
"You did not just do that," Biochem said.
"I did," I said. "I have no shame." And I don't, but I do need to find a way to let my mother know I need to swap the twin bed for the queen bed in her house in as less of an awkward way as possible.
Sunday, March 25, 2012
A Conversation That Changed My Life
I am starting this post with a picture of Oprah, because shit is going to get preachy up in here.
Today was a day of mixed emotions. I started at Old Chicago, where I officially said good-bye to everyone who was involved in The Play That Wasn't, and I received the pillows that my friend Sina graciously made for the silent auction that was to raise money for The Play That Wasn't. They are beautifully embroidered and I was happy to have them in my possession. I was off on Sunday due to my staycation, and took the bus to Lush, since I have seen many Facebook statuses about how it is such a great place to be on a Sunday afternoon due to their mimosas, and I can never go due to my retail job. I felt a little weird having pillows on the bus, but since I was at the bus stop next to a woman who was wildly gesticulating and clapping her hands, I still felt normal by comparison.
I arrived at Lush around 2:30 P.M., and I have this to say for all you Minneapolis kids: If you have no plans on a Sunday and it's a nice day out, GO TO LUSH. It is like gay Las Vegas on a Sunday. The patio is open! The weather is beautiful! Boys are in skank tanks! Music is playing! The mimosas are as big as your head! I don't even like mimosas, but I was sure to order one just for the ambience.
I sat at the bar by myself and ordered a mimosa. "I'm day drinking," I announced, still raw from the disappointment from The Play That Wasn't. "I'm depressed." I looked at the table across from me, which was a posse of young gay men who seemed to be friends. They probably did not work at the mall. I was going to text my mother to come pick me up because I felt lonely and stupid, but my phone was dead. I looked to the right and saw an acquaintance and a friend of his. The acquaintance in question is a nice person -- he generally always says hello to me in public -- but his friend is not. This guy literally grimaced when he saw me walk in the bar. I'm not sure why he doesn't like me, or why I chose to obsess over it, but it made me want to order another drink.
"Are you ready to play Iron Chef Bartender?" I asked the lovely young woman behind the bar. "I want something that's summery but has vodka in it. And I want a Red Bull, because I'M TIRED."
She presented me with the Red Bull (poured in a glass, and it totally looks like pee that way) and a blue concoction. "I just put all the flavored vodkas together," she giggled. I WAS SOLD. I took a few sips. I looked back at the table of gays, at the boy who grimaced, at the local celebrity I'm inexplicably always name-dropping, at the boy in the muscleshirt who I totally saw at Lush *last* night but who does not know I am alive, and realized I should at least try to mingle before asking to borrow someone's phone to call my mother. He wrote that at age 25.
I went outside and stood next to a young woman. "I am going to look normal," I said, despite the fact that I was wearing a blue hoodie over a red T-shirt and orange pants and randomly had two pillows with me. She laughed, and introduced me to her girlfriend, and her friends, and they were all incredibly nice people. One of them was from Long Island and we bonded over a New York City past. One of them was from South Dakota. They were all dreamers who saw Minneapolis from a different perspective than I did, and as the mimosas flowed they were laughing at everything I said. We discussed our neighborhoods and future goals and took random pictures with my pillows.
As I continued mingling, I met another young woman who told me she was just moving back from the Middle East where she was teaching. She had vivacious curly hair and was rocking a hipster outfit. She told me a delightful story about when she brought her parents to Lush, and I shared a similar experience about when I brought my father to the Gay '90s. The acquaintance's mean friend was in the parking lot. "See that guy in the stripes?" I whispered. "He literally grimaced when he saw me walk in here. I don't get it. I'm not gonna fuck his boyfriend. His boyfriend only likes Asians. What's with people? Like, what did I do to you?" The local celebrity and his boyfriend walked back inside. The boy in the muscleshirt laughed loudly amongst his posse. I WAS SO OBSESSED ABOUT THIS. I realized I was talking about myself too much, so I wanted to switch the conversation back to her. "Are you going back to the Middle East?" I asked.
"I hope so," she said. "Last winter my stomach kept getting bigger ..." This story was either going to end with a pregnancy or a humorous tale of food poisoning, I could tell. "...And it turns out that I had a tumor, and then they realized it was cancer." She said this in the same tone that she told me about teaching English, about her parents from Wisconsin, about how much she loved gay men. She did not say this to garner sympathy or a dramatic reaction. She said this because it was her story.
I simply nodded as I did not want to freak out and make her feel like a fragile infant. I am sure she had seen that reaction enough. She continued.
"So my boyfriend from the Middle East e-mailed me and was like 'Wow, you have cancer, I can't deal with this.' He basically broke up with me via e-mail. The doctors told me that 70% of cancer is just bad luck, and that's what I had. I have no history of lady cancer in my family. I never had problems before. I just learned that life is so short, and you just have to LIVE it. No matter what your dreams are, just go for them, because you never know when it's going to end."
"Can I ask if you're okay now?" I asked.
"No, you can't," she said, smiling through slight tears forming. Then I realized I was crying, too. "Oh, please don't cry," she said sweetly. "I haven't cried since January. If you cry, I am going to cry."
"Oh my god, I'm not crying," I told her. "It's allergy season, it's terrible! This pollen index, it's horrible. I've taken so much Claritin!
It's just that I went through a setback -- nothing like yours, but I was going to be in this play and it was going to be a big deal and I was finally going to be somebody, and it didn't happen and I was so disappointed, and I saw this billboard that said 'in everything, give thanks', and I'm just so thankful that I met you and you're having this conversation with me, and I'M NOT CRYING, I told you, I have really bad allergies."
"Life is so short, Jakey," she said. "Just LIVE it. That's all I want to tell people. Please stop crying."
I did the proper thing, which is walk to the bathroom, where I cried like a proper lady. I prayed in the bathroom, and apologized to God for a) not talking to Him in a few years, and b) doing it while I was urinating. When I walked out of the stall, I noticed that my hair was messy and my T-shirt was giving me a muffin top. Then I realized that I was not going to care. I walked back to the dance floor. I did not care about the boy who grimaced when he saw me, or the boy in the muscleshirt, or the local celebrity. I talked to the girl some more, this time about easier topics like cute boys and our siblings. The boy from Long Island let me borrow his phone to call my mother. We all screamed "LORETTA!!!" from the patio but she did not want to come inside. "I'm not hanging out with drunken gays," she told me when I got in the car. "I will hang out when they are sober. Are you crying? You said you were going to only have one mimosa."
Oprah had a sleepover with Maya Angelou once. I saw it on the 25th Anniversary DVD. "My favorite lesson from you," Oprah told Maya as they rather awkwardly laid in bed wearing pajamas, "Is that you told me in the moment of your crisis, say 'Thank You'." In your sadness, in your despair, in your hopelessness, find something to be thankful for.
My bender of a staycation is over. The play is cancelled. I go back to work tomorrow. Life is short. I look forward to living it.
Saturday, March 24, 2012
The Show Doesn't Go On: What I Learned
(Disclaimer: Yes, this thing has not been updated in nearly a year. I experimented with a Tumblr. I didn't understand it. I was intimidated by friends of mine like Rants of a Diva whose blog is thorough and all kinds of awesome. I don't know if I'll update this ever again, but something happened in my life, I want to write about it, it wasn't anything I could submit to the Tangential, and it was going to be too long to write to Lavender about.)
My return of Saturn at the age of 25 scared the crap out of me. I didn't feel like a total loser anymore since I had moved out of my parents' house, but it's a milestone year that makes one re-evaluate. If I had good health insurance, I would have gone to a therapist, but since I work retail, I chose to instead talk to a tarot card reader at Jetset about my existential crisis.
"You're young," he said. "But not YOUNG. What do you want to do in life?"
"I always wanted to go to school to be an actor," I said, "And I kind of screwed it up." I told him I had started doing stand-up comedy more often, and maybe that was a more proper avenue for my pseudo-talents.
"You could even do community theater and feel fulfilled," he told me. Then I asked him to draw a card about a British boy I was having an emotional affair with on the Internet, and he drew one with a sword going through a heart. (I'm over it, really, I just went through a phase where I constantly listened to Duffy's "Warwick Avenue" on repeat).
Last fall, I went to my first audition in years. I was randomly off work that weekend as I was planning a trip to visit a friend of mine in Winona, and I found the timing to be serendiptious. Plus, the play seemed perfect for me: It was a gay-themed production, and the two leads were both described as strong comedic roles. I wouldn't have to worry very much about ACTING.
At the audition I was told that Comedic Role #1 was written to be heavy-set and Comedic Role #2 was written to be a person of color. I am neither of those things. Instead, I read a monologue by a 17-year-old gay boy who ran away from home and was tearfully confessing that he was at an AA meeting under false pretenses. The producers convinced me I could play 17, and when they asked me what my real age was I totally lied and said 23. But as for the monologue, I totally bombed it, was convinced I would not be cast, and got lost on the way home from Uptown so I went to my brother's Trader Joe's to bother him.
"Dane!" I wailed. "I went to an audition and I totally biffed it!"
"Well, yeah," he smirked. "You're not a good actor." When I win an Oscar, I will resist the temptation to bludgeon him with it.
I went to Winona, drank with cute 19-year-olds whom I convinced I was 21, and thought nothing of it. A week later, I got an e-mail saying I got the part of the 17-year-old! Five minutes later, I got another e-mail saying they cast someone else as the 17-year-old, but would I accept the smaller part of his love interest? Of course I would! ACTING.
Rehearsals started in November. I went to the director's apartment to practice my "romantic" scene on the same day I had the stomach flu, and promptly threw up cabernet in his toilet. You could have cut the sexual tension with a knife. The director quit. The assistant director quit. The new assistant director quit. Some of the leads quit. The dates got changed. The venue got changed. The boy playing the 17-year-old quit and they cast me in his part. I went from having 12 lines to being one of the co-leads! I was able to pull off the crying scene without thinking of sad puppies or going bald. This poor straight guy was now cast as my love interest, and I took him out to Seven with my friend Diva when she visited so he would feel less awkward about it. We rehearsed the kissing scene twice, and I will confidently say that he was a better kisser than most of the dudes that have drunkenly slobbered all over me at The Saloon. (That sentence makes me sound much sluttier than I really am, but I will choose to keep it)
For seven months, I obnoxiously told every customer at my mall job that I was in a play. I rang up the very prominent local theater actress Carolyn Pool and when she asked "Are you an actor?" I answered affirmatively. I WAS AN ACTOR. I was going to convince everyone I was actually 17! I was going to be seen! I was going to get an agent! I was going to meet Justin Jones, who totally RSVP'd "no" for our fundraiser with a back-door brag about his upcoming trip to Cozumel! Because of a girl I met in the show, I got a new apartment in Loring Park! It was all meant to be that I totally screwed up my plan of being a theater major when I was at Brooklyn College for two seconds! I was going to make it, kids, and make up for those years in my early twenties when I was a depressed lump of vodka!
The fundraiser was on Monday. We were to be in character. I went to Nordstrom that day and got my face done by Jean-Paul from the Clarins counter so I could be a convincing teenager. I got glitter all over my face and the jeans that I bought from the kids' department. My designer friend Sina made pillows and I won them for $25 although I never recieved them. The jeans still have glitter on them. My father came and paid $10, but the entertainment didn't start until after he left. One of the performers was a stand-up "comic" and I say that in quotes because he told three "jokes" and then read an eight-minute poem that was the "Hiawatha" of being a formerly obese drug addict, and I wanted to write my own poem as a reaction to how bored I was. Still, it was just a bump in the road, and the rest of the entertainment that night was wonderful -- a drag queen called me a "pocket gay", I saw burlesque for the first time, and there was even a gay rapper! The show was going to go on! I drove one of the lead actors home, and we had an excited conversation about starting new chapters in life. He came to rehearsal super depressed the next day, and didn't show up on Thursday. At the end of rehearsal, we all sat in a circle and talked about our characters. We were thanked for our hard work and for sticking through the process, and were told that the show was going to go on.
We all got an e-mail the next morning saying the opposite. I felt sad and deflated, and in order to get my mind off it I drove to Winona to drink with cute college boys. I highly recommend this as a coping mechanism.
On the way back from Treasure Island Casino this afternoon (I lost $60. DAMN YOU, SEX AND THE CITY SLOT MACHINE), I saw a billboard that said
I fully realize that I am not a likely person to be quoting Scripture. Usually when I mention the Bible, I'm really talking about the current edition of GQ. But this really moved me, and on the way home, I realized that despite how disappointing the end of this experience was, the sum of it was rewarding. Here is what I learned:
My parents are really quite awesome. My character in this show was kicked out of his house for being gay. I am so lucky that my parents went to a church that didn't try to "pray the gay away" (Lutherans don't really do that, as it would get in the way of making the coffee and bars), and while, like most high-strung teenage girls, I went through my years of Mommy Issues, I'm sure if you asked her to write down her ten least favorite things about me, my sexual orientation would not be one of them (I guarantee #1 would be "Chronic Lateness" and #2 would be "Overuse of Profanity"). My dad's posse of friends from the local bar were excited and willing to pony up $35 to see this thing. Even my grandma was excited to see this show, and that was after I told her that I was going to be kissing a dude. HARD. I learned that my experience -- as an effeminate teenager who was widely accepted by his peers and family -- is rather abnormal, strangely more so than it seems to have been ten years ago, and I didn't fully realize that until I was playing a character whose experience was the opposite. That is what I will most take away from this experience.
I am going to fully embrace that I look like a high-schooler. I was so hard on myself when I was 17. I was convinced I was too pale, too fat, too skinny, too ugly, too hairy, too feminine, too everything. I don't know what ideal I was holding myself up to -- Paul Walker? Brent Corrigan? (don't Google that) -- and I remember a friend's mom told me "You will grow into your looks". I thought that was such a weird thing to say, but now I get it. I wasted too much time being critical of my looks, and now that I am 25, which is the twilight years for a single gay man, I am going to try to be nicer to myself. This isn't to say that I am going to consider myself to be "hot" and that my next career goal should be Channing Tatum's body double, but it is to suggest that I not dog myself so much.
My co-workers at the mall are really my second family. My managers were ridiculously supportive with my crazy rehearsal schedule. Co-workers were always willing to switch shifts with me, especially once my part got beefed up. One of my colleagues would always stare at me and say "ACTING" and it will always crack me up to think about it. I'm still taking my paid time off in May. Winona will be out of session by then. Maybe I will take a pottery class.
At least I tried, dammit. I didn't stay home the day of the audition. I didn't quit when my part got bumped up and I realized I hadn't done this in five years. I took a risk and while it ultimately didn't pay off, I did all I could from my end. I met really awesome people, motivated artists and thinkers who are the reason Minneapolis is such a vibrant and cultured place to live.
I learned that, if we all do our part, the 17-year-old gay boy is going to be okay. I never played him on stage, but he's a part of me now, and while I have never considered myself to be an activist of any means -- in college I joked that in high-school I was the gay/straight alliance, which is kind of true if you're an openly gay student and straight boys carry your backpack up the stairs for you -- I don't want that 17-year-old to live in a state that amends its Consitution to make him a second-class citizen, or go to a school district that doesn't believe gay students should be protected from bullying, or go to a job interview and be denied employment on the sole basis of his sexual orientation. I'm not *that* much older than he is, but I want to fight for him.
I just want to do stand-up again, man. I'm sure dissing that comic in that earlier paragraph is bad karma and I will bomb the next ten times I go up there, but as I have learned from the past seven months, acting is hard.
My return of Saturn at the age of 25 scared the crap out of me. I didn't feel like a total loser anymore since I had moved out of my parents' house, but it's a milestone year that makes one re-evaluate. If I had good health insurance, I would have gone to a therapist, but since I work retail, I chose to instead talk to a tarot card reader at Jetset about my existential crisis.
"You're young," he said. "But not YOUNG. What do you want to do in life?"
"I always wanted to go to school to be an actor," I said, "And I kind of screwed it up." I told him I had started doing stand-up comedy more often, and maybe that was a more proper avenue for my pseudo-talents.
"You could even do community theater and feel fulfilled," he told me. Then I asked him to draw a card about a British boy I was having an emotional affair with on the Internet, and he drew one with a sword going through a heart. (I'm over it, really, I just went through a phase where I constantly listened to Duffy's "Warwick Avenue" on repeat).
Last fall, I went to my first audition in years. I was randomly off work that weekend as I was planning a trip to visit a friend of mine in Winona, and I found the timing to be serendiptious. Plus, the play seemed perfect for me: It was a gay-themed production, and the two leads were both described as strong comedic roles. I wouldn't have to worry very much about ACTING.
At the audition I was told that Comedic Role #1 was written to be heavy-set and Comedic Role #2 was written to be a person of color. I am neither of those things. Instead, I read a monologue by a 17-year-old gay boy who ran away from home and was tearfully confessing that he was at an AA meeting under false pretenses. The producers convinced me I could play 17, and when they asked me what my real age was I totally lied and said 23. But as for the monologue, I totally bombed it, was convinced I would not be cast, and got lost on the way home from Uptown so I went to my brother's Trader Joe's to bother him.
"Dane!" I wailed. "I went to an audition and I totally biffed it!"
"Well, yeah," he smirked. "You're not a good actor." When I win an Oscar, I will resist the temptation to bludgeon him with it.
I went to Winona, drank with cute 19-year-olds whom I convinced I was 21, and thought nothing of it. A week later, I got an e-mail saying I got the part of the 17-year-old! Five minutes later, I got another e-mail saying they cast someone else as the 17-year-old, but would I accept the smaller part of his love interest? Of course I would! ACTING.
Rehearsals started in November. I went to the director's apartment to practice my "romantic" scene on the same day I had the stomach flu, and promptly threw up cabernet in his toilet. You could have cut the sexual tension with a knife. The director quit. The assistant director quit. The new assistant director quit. Some of the leads quit. The dates got changed. The venue got changed. The boy playing the 17-year-old quit and they cast me in his part. I went from having 12 lines to being one of the co-leads! I was able to pull off the crying scene without thinking of sad puppies or going bald. This poor straight guy was now cast as my love interest, and I took him out to Seven with my friend Diva when she visited so he would feel less awkward about it. We rehearsed the kissing scene twice, and I will confidently say that he was a better kisser than most of the dudes that have drunkenly slobbered all over me at The Saloon. (That sentence makes me sound much sluttier than I really am, but I will choose to keep it)
For seven months, I obnoxiously told every customer at my mall job that I was in a play. I rang up the very prominent local theater actress Carolyn Pool and when she asked "Are you an actor?" I answered affirmatively. I WAS AN ACTOR. I was going to convince everyone I was actually 17! I was going to be seen! I was going to get an agent! I was going to meet Justin Jones, who totally RSVP'd "no" for our fundraiser with a back-door brag about his upcoming trip to Cozumel! Because of a girl I met in the show, I got a new apartment in Loring Park! It was all meant to be that I totally screwed up my plan of being a theater major when I was at Brooklyn College for two seconds! I was going to make it, kids, and make up for those years in my early twenties when I was a depressed lump of vodka!
The fundraiser was on Monday. We were to be in character. I went to Nordstrom that day and got my face done by Jean-Paul from the Clarins counter so I could be a convincing teenager. I got glitter all over my face and the jeans that I bought from the kids' department. My designer friend Sina made pillows and I won them for $25 although I never recieved them. The jeans still have glitter on them. My father came and paid $10, but the entertainment didn't start until after he left. One of the performers was a stand-up "comic" and I say that in quotes because he told three "jokes" and then read an eight-minute poem that was the "Hiawatha" of being a formerly obese drug addict, and I wanted to write my own poem as a reaction to how bored I was. Still, it was just a bump in the road, and the rest of the entertainment that night was wonderful -- a drag queen called me a "pocket gay", I saw burlesque for the first time, and there was even a gay rapper! The show was going to go on! I drove one of the lead actors home, and we had an excited conversation about starting new chapters in life. He came to rehearsal super depressed the next day, and didn't show up on Thursday. At the end of rehearsal, we all sat in a circle and talked about our characters. We were thanked for our hard work and for sticking through the process, and were told that the show was going to go on.
We all got an e-mail the next morning saying the opposite. I felt sad and deflated, and in order to get my mind off it I drove to Winona to drink with cute college boys. I highly recommend this as a coping mechanism.
On the way back from Treasure Island Casino this afternoon (I lost $60. DAMN YOU, SEX AND THE CITY SLOT MACHINE), I saw a billboard that said
"In everything give thanks ...." -Thessalonians 5:18
I fully realize that I am not a likely person to be quoting Scripture. Usually when I mention the Bible, I'm really talking about the current edition of GQ. But this really moved me, and on the way home, I realized that despite how disappointing the end of this experience was, the sum of it was rewarding. Here is what I learned:
My parents are really quite awesome. My character in this show was kicked out of his house for being gay. I am so lucky that my parents went to a church that didn't try to "pray the gay away" (Lutherans don't really do that, as it would get in the way of making the coffee and bars), and while, like most high-strung teenage girls, I went through my years of Mommy Issues, I'm sure if you asked her to write down her ten least favorite things about me, my sexual orientation would not be one of them (I guarantee #1 would be "Chronic Lateness" and #2 would be "Overuse of Profanity"). My dad's posse of friends from the local bar were excited and willing to pony up $35 to see this thing. Even my grandma was excited to see this show, and that was after I told her that I was going to be kissing a dude. HARD. I learned that my experience -- as an effeminate teenager who was widely accepted by his peers and family -- is rather abnormal, strangely more so than it seems to have been ten years ago, and I didn't fully realize that until I was playing a character whose experience was the opposite. That is what I will most take away from this experience.
I am going to fully embrace that I look like a high-schooler. I was so hard on myself when I was 17. I was convinced I was too pale, too fat, too skinny, too ugly, too hairy, too feminine, too everything. I don't know what ideal I was holding myself up to -- Paul Walker? Brent Corrigan? (don't Google that) -- and I remember a friend's mom told me "You will grow into your looks". I thought that was such a weird thing to say, but now I get it. I wasted too much time being critical of my looks, and now that I am 25, which is the twilight years for a single gay man, I am going to try to be nicer to myself. This isn't to say that I am going to consider myself to be "hot" and that my next career goal should be Channing Tatum's body double, but it is to suggest that I not dog myself so much.
My co-workers at the mall are really my second family. My managers were ridiculously supportive with my crazy rehearsal schedule. Co-workers were always willing to switch shifts with me, especially once my part got beefed up. One of my colleagues would always stare at me and say "ACTING" and it will always crack me up to think about it. I'm still taking my paid time off in May. Winona will be out of session by then. Maybe I will take a pottery class.
At least I tried, dammit. I didn't stay home the day of the audition. I didn't quit when my part got bumped up and I realized I hadn't done this in five years. I took a risk and while it ultimately didn't pay off, I did all I could from my end. I met really awesome people, motivated artists and thinkers who are the reason Minneapolis is such a vibrant and cultured place to live.
I learned that, if we all do our part, the 17-year-old gay boy is going to be okay. I never played him on stage, but he's a part of me now, and while I have never considered myself to be an activist of any means -- in college I joked that in high-school I was the gay/straight alliance, which is kind of true if you're an openly gay student and straight boys carry your backpack up the stairs for you -- I don't want that 17-year-old to live in a state that amends its Consitution to make him a second-class citizen, or go to a school district that doesn't believe gay students should be protected from bullying, or go to a job interview and be denied employment on the sole basis of his sexual orientation. I'm not *that* much older than he is, but I want to fight for him.
I just want to do stand-up again, man. I'm sure dissing that comic in that earlier paragraph is bad karma and I will bomb the next ten times I go up there, but as I have learned from the past seven months, acting is hard.
Wednesday, April 27, 2011
On Douchebags (and breaking your nose)
You have enemies? Good. That means you've stood up for something, sometime in your life. ~ W. Churchill Winston Churchill probably meant this quote about fighting wars and arguing with British aristocrats, but I think if he were alive today, he also would have used it about douchebags on party buses.
The party bus was for my lovely college friend Kristen and her friend Robbie. It was to be a mini-college reunion, and I had a great idea of taking the bus to Amy's apartment in St. Louis Park so that I could go to work the next day without any problems. I wore my awesome brown pseudo-velvet blazer and a Texas Longhorns cap so I wouldn't get my hair wet with from the light drizzle.
Unfortunately for my dumb ass, I got off on the wrong bus stop and waited for an extra hour before realizing I had a ways to go. The only blessing of this is that a boy drove by who I randomly knew from my two seconds as a film major. "You going to MOA?" he asked. I shook my head, but thought it was really sweet of him to offer a ride. He was with his girlfriend, but he always awkwardly flirted with me. Then I thought about him being really good at kissing. I mean, what?
I further proved my idiocy when I couldn't figure out how to use my bus transfer ticket and everyody gave me death stares. Maybe I should have eaten more than just a crappy chicken salad from the gas station. Regardless! The party bus would be FUN! I felt stupid on my later transfer as well, when I put in two expired transfer tickets before finding the right one. Public transportation is hard, you guys.
It was fun, although I didn't get there until 9:45, right when it was leaving. The girls were happy to see me but made fun of my Longhorns hat. "Why are you wearing that?" they asked. "You've never even been to Texas". "Because I am being a DUDELY DUDE," I explained, pointing to random guys on our bus who were wearing caps. Laura was sure to tie my shoes to make sure I wouldn't biff it. I quickly realized that the bus was very segregated. Me and my college girls were up front, and then all of Robbie's pals were in the back. Since we were going to be together all night, I decided to MINGLE. And I worked that bus that I was a new CEO at the boardroom meeting, getting to know all the subordinates. My favorites of the pretty girls were Betsy and Veronica, the latter of whom I planned on making out with if the night went my way.
Our first bar was Billy's on Grand, where I complained to the college girls that our bus was too segregated. "Because those girls are BITCHES," Laura explained to me. "They hate us. The apartment earlier was even worse." "High school is over," Hailie went on. "We're 24, 25 now. It should end." "I wonder if they were popular in high school," I pondered. "Like maybe that never goes away. You think you're always The Queen Bee." I mingled with the new girls for a bit anyway, as one of them bought me a tequila shot. "If I get naked, it's your fault," I told her.
When we got back on the bus, a girl named Megan told me that she thought her ex-boyfriend (across from us) might be gay. He started dancing with no rhythm at all. "If he dances like that, he's straight," I assured her. "No rhythm." Like TWO SECONDS later, the guy sits by me. "I hear you said I have no rhythm," he said, and that's when I got it, that these girls really were stuck in high school, Mean Girls behavior. What would have happened if I had told Megan I thought her ex-boyfriend WAS gay?
As the bus got back in motion and we headed toward Minneapolis, the tequila (and the vodka I had earlier imbibed) was running through my veins, and I decided to pole dance. The college girls cheered, and most of the guys thought it was funny. No harm, no foul.
Then the incident happened.
"Hey," a guy with a cagefighter shirt and baseball cap from the back of the bus piped up. "No one wants to see that shit. I don't want to see dudes dancing. Save that for the Fag Bus."
I stared at him. "Come here," I said with a smile. He refused. "COME HERE," I said. "I want you to say that to my face."
"I DON'T WANT TO SEE DUDES DANCING," he yelled. He wasn't budging.
"No, say the fag part to my face," I demanded. He wouldn't. I sat back down and chugged whatever vodka I had left remaining.
"Jakey, let it go," Laura said. "It's not even worth it."
"No, I have to say SOMETHING when the bus stops," I said. "It's gonna be really short, and I'm gonna be nice." I had a little speech prepared, and it was to be 15 seconds.
Maybe I should have let it go. But I realized that I was 24 years old (and people are guessing my age accurately now. The night before, at Lush Bar, a guy who was trying to be a psychic was like "You're 24, right? But maybe not. You're really small." Then it turned out he used to date the St. Olaf Gay who made me cry at that wedding. Tangent!). I wasn't bullied or harrassed the way a lot of gay kids were, but I've taken my fair share of being called a faggot. I was sick and tired of being sick and tired. 24-year-old Jakey was going to do this for 14-year-old Jakey who was never confident enough to stick up for himself when the high-schoolers would say it as he walked by. He was going to do this for 19-year-old Jakey, who went to college in a small town and, in a strange reversal of how things should go, got harrassed about five times as much THERE as he did in middle and high school. This was for 22-year-old Jakey, who, when working at the North Minneapolis Walgreens when these guys would come in and be like "Hey, faggot, where's the candy at?" smiled at them and said "Aisle Five" while completely no-selling their slurs. I was going to be calm and direct and get it over with. I convinced the guys sitting by me to stand behind me while I told the guy off, because there was a slight chance of fisticuffs.
What I should have realized was that you can't reason with idiots. "Can I just say two things and then we'll go our own ways?" I started. Calm voice. Level. "Number One: I do not want to have sex with you. Number Two: It is 2011 and----" It was going to end with you don't get to call me a fag anymore. But then he piped up.
"You better not want to have sex with me," he said. "Or I'll kick your ass."
Then I popped off, my voice getting higher and screechier as I went.
"WOW, REALLY???" I yelled. "I WEIGH 120 POUNDS, DO YOU REALLY THINK YOU'RE GONNA BE FUCKING TOUGH IF YOU KICK MY ASS? GO AHEAD. DO IT. RIGHT HERE. HUH, GO 'HEAD. I SPENT ALL MY LIFE BEING CALLED A FAGGOT AND NOW IT IS 2011 AND YOU. DON'T. GET. TO. CALL. ME. THAT. YOU DON'T EVEN FUCKING KNOW ME. YOU'RE PATHETIC!"
And I stormed off that party bus, with the girls behind me. I should have felt good about myself, yet I didn't. Yelling wouldn't solve anything. The guy was drunk. Would he even remember it? Everyone else on that bus had joined this century and knew you couldn't call me a fag. I just got really sad, and couldn't enjoy my time at whatever bar we were at. The Ugly Mug. I used the girls' bathroom. It really was like college.
I should have gone home, but I took the bus five blocks to The Saloon. I needed Gay World after all. I went to Danny, my favorite bartender, who makes drinks strong and is really dreamy. I spent a good half hour talking to a guy who was 46, and we discussed youth being wasted on the young. "You're still young," he said. "You're what, 24-25?" Why was everyone guessing my real age?? I so need to buy new Bare Minerals. We walked to the dance room, and I put my Texas Longhorns hat away and went on the whorebox, where I promptly made out with a muscular Russian dude.
Then, shortly after 2 A.M., when drinks stopped being served but you could still dance and whore on the whorebox, my shoelace became untied, and as I got off the whorebox, I fucking BIFFED it.
I have fallen down drunk just a few times. Like last month, when I went face-first into the Foozball table. Or the time at Stout when I biffed it on the way to the pizza parlor, and I was with all boys so nobody helped me up. Or the other time at Stout when, IMMEDIATELY ENTERING a basement party, I stumbled down the stairs. Or last year, when I biffed it on the ice *outside* of the Saloon and cut my chin open. It may be signs of a drinking problem. It may also be signs that I really need to start wearing slip-ons.
I didn't know how bad the fall was. I just heard the reaction, put my hand to my face, and saw the blood. I am a child when it comes to blood. I hate it. I think of death and slasher movies. I realized I was Drew Barrymore in "Whip It!" when her face is smashed open and she asks Eve "is it bad?" and Eve hilariously tries to convince her it's not.
Would this have happened at a "straight" club, I probably would have been shown the door, shuffled into a cab and sent to Hennepin County Medical Center. But this is a gay club, and if you have blonde hair, you will be looked out for.
I never knew his name. He looked to be about 20, with jet black hair and a slight build. He had beautiful olive skin and delicate features. "Come here," he said, and he sat me down at the bar. "I'm a nursing student." He got ice from the bartender. "Ohmigod ohmigod ohmigod," I remember crying. "Shhhh. You're okay. Let me see it." He sat there for a good ten minutes pushing the napkins against my face. "You don't have to do this," I assured him. "Shhhh. Stop talking." The gays leaving the bar walked by and grimaced. An hour ago, I was triumphant, in the glow of my Kurt Hummel moment. Now I was back on the D-list, and permanently there. It doesn't get worse than being "that guy who fell down and bled all over The Saloon". Nurse Student Boy kissed my cheek when the swelling went down.
Nurse Student Boy and I got a cab together. He lived in uptown, and I decided I would pay his cabfare. It was the least he could do. On the way there he started rubbing my arm. Then I realized he probably wanted to play board games with me. Seriously, dude? My face was broken. I was flattered, but also realized that your average man, gay or straight, just wants to have sex all. the. time. Potentially broken nose and swollen lips? No problem!
We dropped off Nurse Student Boy. I don't know if I will ever see him again. He will always have a special place in my heart. Then the cab inferred that he didn't think I was going to pay, and we sat in icy silence for the rest of the ride home. I gave a shitty tip.
I totally left the Texas Longhorns hat at the bar.
The next morning, I showed up to work with a Toy Story band-aid and my lips totally swollen. I am clearly the face of Nordstrom. It was a Saturday, meaning all the boys looked like models. "MY FACE!" I cried to Sina. "MY BEAUTIFUL FACE!" I told some customers I had a nose job, others I got in a fight, and one that I fell down while reading The Bible (my manager overheard that one and I got scolded. The Mall of America is *not* the comedy club). They let me leave early, and my mother took me to the emergency room. They're not sure if it's broken yet because they have to wait for the swelling to go down, but my mouth and teeth are fine and I didn't break any bones. Then they gave me a tetanus shot and I asked for a sucker. "We have freezie pops," the nurse offered. "YAYYY" I cried, and I WAS SO HAPPY TO GET MY FREEZIE POP. My mother rolled her eyes. "Are you eight?" she asked. Then I realized I have injured myself far more in my twenties than in my childhood.
I'm kind of a mess.
The party bus was for my lovely college friend Kristen and her friend Robbie. It was to be a mini-college reunion, and I had a great idea of taking the bus to Amy's apartment in St. Louis Park so that I could go to work the next day without any problems. I wore my awesome brown pseudo-velvet blazer and a Texas Longhorns cap so I wouldn't get my hair wet with from the light drizzle.
Unfortunately for my dumb ass, I got off on the wrong bus stop and waited for an extra hour before realizing I had a ways to go. The only blessing of this is that a boy drove by who I randomly knew from my two seconds as a film major. "You going to MOA?" he asked. I shook my head, but thought it was really sweet of him to offer a ride. He was with his girlfriend, but he always awkwardly flirted with me. Then I thought about him being really good at kissing. I mean, what?
I further proved my idiocy when I couldn't figure out how to use my bus transfer ticket and everyody gave me death stares. Maybe I should have eaten more than just a crappy chicken salad from the gas station. Regardless! The party bus would be FUN! I felt stupid on my later transfer as well, when I put in two expired transfer tickets before finding the right one. Public transportation is hard, you guys.
It was fun, although I didn't get there until 9:45, right when it was leaving. The girls were happy to see me but made fun of my Longhorns hat. "Why are you wearing that?" they asked. "You've never even been to Texas". "Because I am being a DUDELY DUDE," I explained, pointing to random guys on our bus who were wearing caps. Laura was sure to tie my shoes to make sure I wouldn't biff it. I quickly realized that the bus was very segregated. Me and my college girls were up front, and then all of Robbie's pals were in the back. Since we were going to be together all night, I decided to MINGLE. And I worked that bus that I was a new CEO at the boardroom meeting, getting to know all the subordinates. My favorites of the pretty girls were Betsy and Veronica, the latter of whom I planned on making out with if the night went my way.
Our first bar was Billy's on Grand, where I complained to the college girls that our bus was too segregated. "Because those girls are BITCHES," Laura explained to me. "They hate us. The apartment earlier was even worse." "High school is over," Hailie went on. "We're 24, 25 now. It should end." "I wonder if they were popular in high school," I pondered. "Like maybe that never goes away. You think you're always The Queen Bee." I mingled with the new girls for a bit anyway, as one of them bought me a tequila shot. "If I get naked, it's your fault," I told her.
When we got back on the bus, a girl named Megan told me that she thought her ex-boyfriend (across from us) might be gay. He started dancing with no rhythm at all. "If he dances like that, he's straight," I assured her. "No rhythm." Like TWO SECONDS later, the guy sits by me. "I hear you said I have no rhythm," he said, and that's when I got it, that these girls really were stuck in high school, Mean Girls behavior. What would have happened if I had told Megan I thought her ex-boyfriend WAS gay?
As the bus got back in motion and we headed toward Minneapolis, the tequila (and the vodka I had earlier imbibed) was running through my veins, and I decided to pole dance. The college girls cheered, and most of the guys thought it was funny. No harm, no foul.
Then the incident happened.
"Hey," a guy with a cagefighter shirt and baseball cap from the back of the bus piped up. "No one wants to see that shit. I don't want to see dudes dancing. Save that for the Fag Bus."
I stared at him. "Come here," I said with a smile. He refused. "COME HERE," I said. "I want you to say that to my face."
"I DON'T WANT TO SEE DUDES DANCING," he yelled. He wasn't budging.
"No, say the fag part to my face," I demanded. He wouldn't. I sat back down and chugged whatever vodka I had left remaining.
"Jakey, let it go," Laura said. "It's not even worth it."
"No, I have to say SOMETHING when the bus stops," I said. "It's gonna be really short, and I'm gonna be nice." I had a little speech prepared, and it was to be 15 seconds.
Maybe I should have let it go. But I realized that I was 24 years old (and people are guessing my age accurately now. The night before, at Lush Bar, a guy who was trying to be a psychic was like "You're 24, right? But maybe not. You're really small." Then it turned out he used to date the St. Olaf Gay who made me cry at that wedding. Tangent!). I wasn't bullied or harrassed the way a lot of gay kids were, but I've taken my fair share of being called a faggot. I was sick and tired of being sick and tired. 24-year-old Jakey was going to do this for 14-year-old Jakey who was never confident enough to stick up for himself when the high-schoolers would say it as he walked by. He was going to do this for 19-year-old Jakey, who went to college in a small town and, in a strange reversal of how things should go, got harrassed about five times as much THERE as he did in middle and high school. This was for 22-year-old Jakey, who, when working at the North Minneapolis Walgreens when these guys would come in and be like "Hey, faggot, where's the candy at?" smiled at them and said "Aisle Five" while completely no-selling their slurs. I was going to be calm and direct and get it over with. I convinced the guys sitting by me to stand behind me while I told the guy off, because there was a slight chance of fisticuffs.
What I should have realized was that you can't reason with idiots. "Can I just say two things and then we'll go our own ways?" I started. Calm voice. Level. "Number One: I do not want to have sex with you. Number Two: It is 2011 and----" It was going to end with you don't get to call me a fag anymore. But then he piped up.
"You better not want to have sex with me," he said. "Or I'll kick your ass."
Then I popped off, my voice getting higher and screechier as I went.
"WOW, REALLY???" I yelled. "I WEIGH 120 POUNDS, DO YOU REALLY THINK YOU'RE GONNA BE FUCKING TOUGH IF YOU KICK MY ASS? GO AHEAD. DO IT. RIGHT HERE. HUH, GO 'HEAD. I SPENT ALL MY LIFE BEING CALLED A FAGGOT AND NOW IT IS 2011 AND YOU. DON'T. GET. TO. CALL. ME. THAT. YOU DON'T EVEN FUCKING KNOW ME. YOU'RE PATHETIC!"
And I stormed off that party bus, with the girls behind me. I should have felt good about myself, yet I didn't. Yelling wouldn't solve anything. The guy was drunk. Would he even remember it? Everyone else on that bus had joined this century and knew you couldn't call me a fag. I just got really sad, and couldn't enjoy my time at whatever bar we were at. The Ugly Mug. I used the girls' bathroom. It really was like college.
I should have gone home, but I took the bus five blocks to The Saloon. I needed Gay World after all. I went to Danny, my favorite bartender, who makes drinks strong and is really dreamy. I spent a good half hour talking to a guy who was 46, and we discussed youth being wasted on the young. "You're still young," he said. "You're what, 24-25?" Why was everyone guessing my real age?? I so need to buy new Bare Minerals. We walked to the dance room, and I put my Texas Longhorns hat away and went on the whorebox, where I promptly made out with a muscular Russian dude.
Then, shortly after 2 A.M., when drinks stopped being served but you could still dance and whore on the whorebox, my shoelace became untied, and as I got off the whorebox, I fucking BIFFED it.
I have fallen down drunk just a few times. Like last month, when I went face-first into the Foozball table. Or the time at Stout when I biffed it on the way to the pizza parlor, and I was with all boys so nobody helped me up. Or the other time at Stout when, IMMEDIATELY ENTERING a basement party, I stumbled down the stairs. Or last year, when I biffed it on the ice *outside* of the Saloon and cut my chin open. It may be signs of a drinking problem. It may also be signs that I really need to start wearing slip-ons.
I didn't know how bad the fall was. I just heard the reaction, put my hand to my face, and saw the blood. I am a child when it comes to blood. I hate it. I think of death and slasher movies. I realized I was Drew Barrymore in "Whip It!" when her face is smashed open and she asks Eve "is it bad?" and Eve hilariously tries to convince her it's not.
Would this have happened at a "straight" club, I probably would have been shown the door, shuffled into a cab and sent to Hennepin County Medical Center. But this is a gay club, and if you have blonde hair, you will be looked out for.
I never knew his name. He looked to be about 20, with jet black hair and a slight build. He had beautiful olive skin and delicate features. "Come here," he said, and he sat me down at the bar. "I'm a nursing student." He got ice from the bartender. "Ohmigod ohmigod ohmigod," I remember crying. "Shhhh. You're okay. Let me see it." He sat there for a good ten minutes pushing the napkins against my face. "You don't have to do this," I assured him. "Shhhh. Stop talking." The gays leaving the bar walked by and grimaced. An hour ago, I was triumphant, in the glow of my Kurt Hummel moment. Now I was back on the D-list, and permanently there. It doesn't get worse than being "that guy who fell down and bled all over The Saloon". Nurse Student Boy kissed my cheek when the swelling went down.
Nurse Student Boy and I got a cab together. He lived in uptown, and I decided I would pay his cabfare. It was the least he could do. On the way there he started rubbing my arm. Then I realized he probably wanted to play board games with me. Seriously, dude? My face was broken. I was flattered, but also realized that your average man, gay or straight, just wants to have sex all. the. time. Potentially broken nose and swollen lips? No problem!
We dropped off Nurse Student Boy. I don't know if I will ever see him again. He will always have a special place in my heart. Then the cab inferred that he didn't think I was going to pay, and we sat in icy silence for the rest of the ride home. I gave a shitty tip.
I totally left the Texas Longhorns hat at the bar.
The next morning, I showed up to work with a Toy Story band-aid and my lips totally swollen. I am clearly the face of Nordstrom. It was a Saturday, meaning all the boys looked like models. "MY FACE!" I cried to Sina. "MY BEAUTIFUL FACE!" I told some customers I had a nose job, others I got in a fight, and one that I fell down while reading The Bible (my manager overheard that one and I got scolded. The Mall of America is *not* the comedy club). They let me leave early, and my mother took me to the emergency room. They're not sure if it's broken yet because they have to wait for the swelling to go down, but my mouth and teeth are fine and I didn't break any bones. Then they gave me a tetanus shot and I asked for a sucker. "We have freezie pops," the nurse offered. "YAYYY" I cried, and I WAS SO HAPPY TO GET MY FREEZIE POP. My mother rolled her eyes. "Are you eight?" she asked. Then I realized I have injured myself far more in my twenties than in my childhood.
I'm kind of a mess.
Monday, February 21, 2011
5 Things I Love This Week
First of all, I must apologize for my lack of blogging. The book I'm working on is *ALMOST* done (I have all of one chapter left), and then I get to worry about selling it. And in the meantime, I will probably be joining the blogosphere more often.
For now, I want to share five things that I am obsessed with this week.
5 THINGS I LOVE THIS WEEK
1) Drew Droege as Chloe Sevigny
I came upon this discovery on the Facebook page owned by the author of Weston Silver). The first time I saw one of these videos I found them amusing, but didn't quite get the point. After you've seen a few of these minute-long videos of improvisational comedian Drew Droege lampooning Chloe Sevigny, the genius becomes apparent. Drew doesn't offer an impersonation but a character in itself: An actress/fashionista who is arrogant and esoteric, while blissfully unaware of being either. My personal favorite is "Comedy", in which Chloe attempts stand-up comedy after being seated next to Da Brat at a charity function, but they're all worth a view. An unfortunate side effect: You may want to start every sentence with "It's recently come to my attention..."
2) Buffalo Exchange
Buffalo Exchange is a consignment shop with locations all over the country, and I stumbled upon it last weekend with my friend Sina. Sina is competing in a beauty pageant this Sunday, and we spent an entire day trying to find dresses. On the way we stopped at this store uptown, where not only did I purchase my first ever piece of clothing with an H & M label on it (okay, Sina bought it for me with her store credit). I also tried on an Abercrombie & Fitch shirt and really wanted it despite being born in the '80s, but Sina assured me that I did not have the body type to be wearing a shirt with a "muscle fit".
The following Monday, I showed up with a bag full of items. They only purchased three of them (and letting go of that Burberry tee-shirt was devastating), but I appreciate that they're so picky about what they're willing to sell to their customers. The best part: On the way out I ran into someone who I haven't seen since high school, and he was one of the more interesting folks. Buffalo Exchange: It brings people together.
3) Jen Lancaster
In all honesty, I'm working on reading all of Jen Lancaster's books and just finished her second ("Bright Lights, Big Ass"), a memoir ruminating on life in the big city of Chicago. Jen Lancaster is, in some ways, the opposite of the Chloe Sevigny we saw above: She's narcisstic but she knows it, and the result is hilarious writing full of both self-deprecation and abrasive observations of others. As an aspiring writer, I especially appreciated it for its realism on the publishing industry: Jen gets her book deal, but is still temping for a year due to the glacial pace of the business (those advance checks take their time). By far the book's best section is when, after completing a rather menial task at one of her temping gigs, the boss compliments her. It's a tiny gesture, and yet Jen reflects on her years as a dot-com exec where her decisions made people millions of dollars, and she was never greeted with any sort of courtesy. It's a deep yet unsentimental passage in a book full of unapologetic bitchiness.
Sidebar: While Lancaster doesn't write about politics very much, she's a Republican and I love her for it. In the same week that my friend Julie told me she probably won't go to my comedy show on Thursday because "there'll be a bunch of Somalians there", it's refreshing to read a book by someone who a) voted for John McCain in '08 and b) takes the time to bemoan racial profiling post 9/11 during a rant about the city bus. Well-played, Jen Lancaster. You can read more of Jen's musings, book tour informaton, and reading suggestions at her website.
4) GQ
GQ: You cannot put Channing Tatum on your cover *and* have Josh Hutcherson in an additional pictorial without first prescribing me heart attack medication.
5) Chipheads Computer Repair Shop
If any of you are in the Minneapolis area and have a piece of shit computer that you should have replaced the first time you sent it to the computer hospital, I highly recommend Chipheads in Richfield and in St. Paul. My monitor totally biffed it last week, and guess who's almost done with a book yet hasn't backed anything up? This guy. Not only that, but I have a keyboard that isn't connected by a USB cable for the first time since 2008. You rock, Chipheads!
For now, I want to share five things that I am obsessed with this week.
5 THINGS I LOVE THIS WEEK
1) Drew Droege as Chloe Sevigny
I came upon this discovery on the Facebook page owned by the author of Weston Silver). The first time I saw one of these videos I found them amusing, but didn't quite get the point. After you've seen a few of these minute-long videos of improvisational comedian Drew Droege lampooning Chloe Sevigny, the genius becomes apparent. Drew doesn't offer an impersonation but a character in itself: An actress/fashionista who is arrogant and esoteric, while blissfully unaware of being either. My personal favorite is "Comedy", in which Chloe attempts stand-up comedy after being seated next to Da Brat at a charity function, but they're all worth a view. An unfortunate side effect: You may want to start every sentence with "It's recently come to my attention..."
2) Buffalo Exchange
Buffalo Exchange is a consignment shop with locations all over the country, and I stumbled upon it last weekend with my friend Sina. Sina is competing in a beauty pageant this Sunday, and we spent an entire day trying to find dresses. On the way we stopped at this store uptown, where not only did I purchase my first ever piece of clothing with an H & M label on it (okay, Sina bought it for me with her store credit). I also tried on an Abercrombie & Fitch shirt and really wanted it despite being born in the '80s, but Sina assured me that I did not have the body type to be wearing a shirt with a "muscle fit".
The following Monday, I showed up with a bag full of items. They only purchased three of them (and letting go of that Burberry tee-shirt was devastating), but I appreciate that they're so picky about what they're willing to sell to their customers. The best part: On the way out I ran into someone who I haven't seen since high school, and he was one of the more interesting folks. Buffalo Exchange: It brings people together.
3) Jen Lancaster
In all honesty, I'm working on reading all of Jen Lancaster's books and just finished her second ("Bright Lights, Big Ass"), a memoir ruminating on life in the big city of Chicago. Jen Lancaster is, in some ways, the opposite of the Chloe Sevigny we saw above: She's narcisstic but she knows it, and the result is hilarious writing full of both self-deprecation and abrasive observations of others. As an aspiring writer, I especially appreciated it for its realism on the publishing industry: Jen gets her book deal, but is still temping for a year due to the glacial pace of the business (those advance checks take their time). By far the book's best section is when, after completing a rather menial task at one of her temping gigs, the boss compliments her. It's a tiny gesture, and yet Jen reflects on her years as a dot-com exec where her decisions made people millions of dollars, and she was never greeted with any sort of courtesy. It's a deep yet unsentimental passage in a book full of unapologetic bitchiness.
Sidebar: While Lancaster doesn't write about politics very much, she's a Republican and I love her for it. In the same week that my friend Julie told me she probably won't go to my comedy show on Thursday because "there'll be a bunch of Somalians there", it's refreshing to read a book by someone who a) voted for John McCain in '08 and b) takes the time to bemoan racial profiling post 9/11 during a rant about the city bus. Well-played, Jen Lancaster. You can read more of Jen's musings, book tour informaton, and reading suggestions at her website.
4) GQ
GQ: You cannot put Channing Tatum on your cover *and* have Josh Hutcherson in an additional pictorial without first prescribing me heart attack medication.
5) Chipheads Computer Repair Shop
If any of you are in the Minneapolis area and have a piece of shit computer that you should have replaced the first time you sent it to the computer hospital, I highly recommend Chipheads in Richfield and in St. Paul. My monitor totally biffed it last week, and guess who's almost done with a book yet hasn't backed anything up? This guy. Not only that, but I have a keyboard that isn't connected by a USB cable for the first time since 2008. You rock, Chipheads!
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