Friday, September 30, 2005

Undergrads: They May Not Be As Dumb As They Used To Be

When you've been a TA for a certain number of years - let's say 0.001 - you start thinking that undergraduates are the dumbest group of mo-fos out there. These kids don't read the books for the classes they're taking; they don't know their own student ID number even if you tell them that they'll need it or they can't take a test; they ask questions that make you want to cry. But today, I ran a review session (that's Greek for "supplementary pre-test summary lecture because the professor can't convey points to save his life"), and I said a couple things that were wrong (it can happen in a two-hour period). And by God, if a couple of those kids didn't correct me. Unbelievable. I think some of them might have read the book and everything. Not that exciting if you've never been a TA, but I was shocked.

Any funny TA stories out there? Worst student questions ever? I wanna hear 'em in comments.

Wednesday, September 28, 2005

An Un-chaotic Day In The Life Of A Hipster

9:00 woke up.

9:30 showered; didn't linger too long anywhere.

10:00 Dunkin Donuts.

10:15 find out a 10:30 meeting is canceled.

10:30 Washington Post crossword. Only 6 minutes today, perhaps a record for the Weds. puzzle. Decide to read the rest of what's interesting in the WaPo and

11:00 catch up with friends.

12:00 start writing chapter for book to be published. Love them authorships.

12:30 research assistant shows up to help.

12:45 Sbarro chicken & broccoli stromboli.

1:00 back to work writing.

3:30 decide I don't need to go to the gym for leg day; still look like an East German female speed skater from the hips down, excluding the male genitalia. No, wait: they probably had that, too.

3:45 Starbucks; decide to crack open textbook for first time this semester. Read about 12 pages; mostly half-sleep on comfychair.

5:30 home; watch some terrifically bad MTV show involving Andy Dick and wanna-be reality show hosts.

6:30 time for Chipotle. don't want to break my 500-day no-cooking streak.

8:00 friend's house in the suburbs to watch a mutual friend be a bit-part victim on yet another terrifically bad TV show on CBS involving sophomoric dialogue and pseudopsychology.

10:30 leave friend's.

11:00 home; Daily Show with roomies.

11:35 thank God Futurama is on, because I need to sleep! That show always sucked ass, whether compared to the Simpsons or standing alone. Bender can't carry a couple decent characters and about 10 more shitty characters that have no personality and random 20th-century ethnic accents.

11:45 fuck it. Might as well write a post proving that I can have a quotidian day just like anyone else. Fuck y'all; I can be like you people sometimes too.

Tuesday, September 27, 2005

Oh, Cry For Meeee-eeee!

Sometimes your friends have problems that make you want to just fucking punch them really hard in the face. Then, when they fall to the ground you want to kick them in the balls. I think that lately, I'm one of those friends.

My "problem" - and I don't expect a lot of tears here - is that too many great guys like me and I feel like I'm in the longest cereal aisle in the biggest grocery store in the world. I recently read Blink, whose author describes a research finding I'm familiar with: when grocery stores offer three flavors of jam, people buy lots of jam. However, when they have 30 flavors of jam, almost no one buys jam. Too many choices; too hard to make a decision. That's how I feel about men right now.

I'm sorry to the straights & carpetmunchers who read this blog and hear me brag about how easy it is for me to get laid, and then turn around and complain about how I have too many potential BFs to choose from. Just offering my pathos up before you wind up and deck me.

Sixteen months ago, I thought I was a poor, fat, obnoxious, overeducated, underexperienced schmuck. So I took out more student loans, drastically cut back the calories, started taking ADHD meds, cavorting with other overeducated types, and getting more experience in the bedroom. Now my abysmal self-esteem has been converted to extreme egocentrism. Take, for example, my last post, which was one big brag session about my awesome life. I spend all this time telling the internet how great my life is, so it's a little obnoxious for me to turn around and seek pity for it.

And now my "problem" is that I'm meeting brilliant men and not being attracted to them and feeling like a grade-A asshole. And I'm meeting gorgeous men and getting frustrated that they aren't geniuses. So, do I keep trying to meet supermodel rocket scientists?

Here's my self-analysis of the situation: if I'd met some of these guys back in '04, I wouldn't necessarily been into them. BUT, they wouldn't have been interested in me, either. And everything would have been A-OK. The real issue here is that I spent so much time and energy making myself outwardly appealing that now I'm in a position of having to turn good people down. And it's no fun to turn good people down. It's WONDERFULLY fun to turn down bad people, but having to tell a really great guy that it's not going to work is a burden. Because it hurts to extend yourself and be rejected, and I don't want to hurt anyone. (See the post on the foam party - I want everyone to feel loved. Such an altruist). Further, I am a lot more self-conscious about rejecting someone on the "I'm better than you" basis than the "It's not you, it's me" basis. If this were a case where I weren't over an ex, or I were in a frustrating place in my career and needed to not date, than it would be easier. And if I hadn't thrown myself into the DC gay scene, then the social repercussions might be less. But here I am, in the center of a lot of interconnected friendships, stressing the fuck out whenever someone wants to date me but I don't want to date him, and hoping that we can all remain friends.

Somehow, writing this post, I get the feeling that I WANT to be an asshole, so that I can make this an "it's not you, it's me, because I'm an asshole" situation. I want to be able to say "It's not you. You're great. I'm just a picky arrogant fuck." Because somehow it would be psychologically easier for me to feel like I'm an asshole than to be the one who's too good for other people. Because I've long been resentful of the type of person that I think I've made myself into: people who think they're better than other people.

There's nothing more obnoxious than someone saying "please tell me I'm a jerk because I'm amazing and I have a big head about it!" The only thing that I can even try to tell myself to make sense of all this is that I'm a guy who's been depressed for major periods of my life; that for large parts of my life, I've been resentful of people who were happy and successful; and that I can't just let myself be happy and successful because I don't want to be the kind of person whom I hate. Maybe I just want to fit my long-held schema that People Who Are Catches Are Jerks. So when I wasn't a catch, I was able to be a good guy. But now that I'm a catch, I want to be a bad guy, because in my mind you can't be both.

I think I have the most fucked-up high-low self-esteem this side of Hollywood.

Sunday, September 25, 2005

What Was The Highlight Of My Week?

Was it taking body shots of Jim Beam off of a barely-legal 18-year-old hetero guy?

Was it rapelling down a three-story building directly into a 23-second keg stand? (No belayers or harnesses - just spotters)

Was it realizing that everybody save one person whom I've dated in the last eighteen months - and met through COMPLETELY different places and friends - is also connected to almost everybody in my social circle - and that they are so closely connected such that a diagram can be drawn of dating, sex, and crushes that looks like the Death Star? (Worse than the L Word. Geez.)

Was it losing an amateur stripping contest but having the winner pursue ME, and turning him down?

Was it marching in protest on the White House and realizing that, while disliking the label, I am essentially a socialist? And that by marching I was engaging in a people's movement that a large portion of the country would consider treasonous?

Was it going to an early morning meeting with my supervisors, expecting a scathing review but getting praised instead?

Was it telling off a little queen?

Was it meeting a guy that an acquaintance had a crush on, and becoming friends with him in spite of my acquaintance's hurt feelings?

Was it having so many threesomes and threesome offers that I've forgotten what mano a mano sex is all about?

Was it getting one step away from my Around The World In Eighty Days goal?

Was it reading four books - two fiction, two non-fiction - in the midst of all of this?

Was it going to three tiki parties in one night, starting in Annapolis and ending up literally across the street from my own home, at a party I was invited to by someone who didn't know the party was across the street from me?

Was it being the go-between for 10 female friends who had taken doctoral qualifying exams, passing on the good news between them, so that they could avoid awkwardness in case someone had failed?

How about being able to console a friend with a medical crisis, or driving a roommate to Dulles airport at 6:00 AM on my way (ha!) to College Park for a 9 AM class? Running into the best friend of someone who broke my heart a long time ago, and having him hug me on the street? Anticipating the fact that I'll be seeing someone else in two days who broke my heart a long time ago, and thinking about the mixed feelings of resolution?

Catching up with a friend at the neighborhood bar, drinking Guinness, and reflecting on the world?

Nah, I think the highlight of my week is sitting here on Sunday night, on my iBook, listening to iTunes and reflecting on the joys and sorrows of my life, and knowing that wherever life takes me in the future, I'm living it to the fullest and damn proud of who I am and where I've been. In my book, that's the best you can do.

I Hate Bitchy Little Fucks

I try not to get into personal drama here at AHHB - the goal is levity and abstraction of deeper meanings from daily events. I live my ridiculously wild life of sex, drugs, and rock'n'roll - then, instead of detailing it minute by minute, I try to pull some parts out of it and generate some analysis. Bragging and gossiping is far less fun than analyzing and discussing. Also, I don't want to create problems for friends by posting their issues to the world. But we're about to enter a realm of slamming people that just needs to happen right now in the wee hours of the morning.

I have a friend who's a really nice guy. Too nice, but that's one of his "good issues." He has an ex who is a bitchy little queen. Zsa Zsa Gabor re-made as an 80-pound boy. The ex has been cock-blocking my friend since their breakup over a year ago. Now, the friend being too nice is part of the problem. I wouldn't have dated such a queeny, insecure bitch for as long as he did, and I wouldn't hang out with the douche so often, but even so: I'm sorry. My friend is smarter and better looking than you, more emotionally stable, and more likeable. He's going to meet great guys and you're going to have to live, because he can do better than you. Even if he's too nice to say so.

Events of tonight, at my friend's party, captured everything I loathe about my friend's ex. Where should I start?

1. New guy is really into my friend. New guy is a total catch, meaning he reminds me of myself. Funny, loud, cute, brilliant. (Yes, I have high self-esteem).

2. Ex starts telling random people all about my friend and will only engage in conversations about my friend, even with people who don't know either of them.

3. My friend and new guy are hitting it off splendidly, while queeny bitchy ex is bending over the beer pong table and singing along to diva hip-hop from the iPod.

4. At 2 AM, my friend takes off with new guy and I am so happy for them both.

5. At 2:30, Queen Fagorama starts bitching to the entire party that my friend has left. Fuck you, dude! Y'all haven't been together since the fall of 2004.

This is when things go really downhill. Nice mutual friend agrees to drive us all home, though I could have walked the five blocks. Trying to get off the topic of my friend and new guy, nice friend mentions to bitchy ex that some Latino guy at the party was hot, and Cunty McFaggotron says, "I don't date minorities." The only response I could give was, "Really? I've dated them all, pretty much, and there are great guys of every color." Twat: "That's too bad!" Me, pushing things: "Actually, I've never been with an East Asian guy, but one of these days..." Zsa Zsa: "But why would you want to go there? Me: "Because I'd rather be with a great Asian guy than a bitchy little White queen."

I'd love to hear the shit that the little turdburger must have spewed about me after they dropped me off. Fuck that little petty, insecure, cock-blocking, racist bitch. If I didn't adhere strictly to the rule that I Don't Punch Gay Guys, I'd have kicked his scrawny little ass to China, where I could only hope he'd be sold into prostitution and be forced to suck Cantonese Cock With Special Sauce till he died of exhaustion. Little asshole.

*Whew!* I feel much better now. This hipster can now go to bed.

Saturday, September 24, 2005

Around The World In Eighty Days

I grew up in Minnesota. Everyone in Minnesota is White, with the exception of Prince, who is half Italian and half Black. But we don't know that he's Black. He's just Prince, a guy who lives in the suburbs, and I've been to his house.

I've been a single man on the DC gay scene for about 18 months. But the first 9 months I was not really out and about. That leaves the last 9 months that I've been getting busy. But the first 6-7 months of that, I was still in Maryland and dating the suburban guys - the ones who are out but aren't really that OK with being gay and maybe have some Christian issues.

Soon, I'll have lived in DC proper for 80 days. It'll happen in the next couple of weeks. Here's the deal. After a lifetime of boning White guys, I've just recently started plunging my rod into men of color. Lately, I've hit the following: White, Black, Latino, Native American, Indian. I've realized that if I want to achieve my goal of going Around The World In Eighty Days, I need to fuck an East Asian guy in the next couple of weeks.

Any takers? I swear I'll be all about you as a person and not someone on my hyper-PC/very-un-PC quest. I promise. Scout's honor.

Friday, September 23, 2005

Oh, How Times Have Changed

When I was in elementary school...
A threesome meant my brother and I played "doctor" with the neighbor boy.

When I was in middle school...
A threesome meant I shared a tent with two other boys on boy scout camping trips and we talked about hypotheticallly having sex with girls while each masturbating in our own sleeping bags.

When I was in high school...
A threesome meant that myself and the other "out" guy in high school mutually made out with a girl before jerking each other off.

When I was in college...
A threesome meant that I got an ambiguously-sexual guy and some random girl to play strip poker with me; then we all had oral sex.

When I was in graduate school...
A threesome meant I got hammered, made some moves on the dance floor, and got a dysfunctional gay couple to bring me home with them; as soon as I had sodomized one of them, I buttoned up my pants and stumbled home as quickly as I could.

Across every level of schooling... each of these happened a minimum of twice. I guess I am a creature of habit. Yes, I'm a naughty boy. But you read this blog, and you already know that.

Tuesday, September 20, 2005

Laugh Or Cry? I Gotta Flip A Coin

Stopped at a stop sign today, a girl walked past my car. She looked about 19 years old, and she looked poor. She was pushing a stroller carrying whom I can only imagine is her own 18-month-old son. She wasn't terribly cute, and she was wearing a tight pink t-shirt, emblazoned with the words girls just wanna have fun.

Sunday, September 18, 2005

What Do You Do When You Get Over Your Issues?

I had a disturbed childhood. This doesn't make me a unique snowflake - I'm sure many readers here had equally, or more disturbed childhoods, and many probably had very happy, wonderful childhoods. Everyone comes from different places, and that's not what this post is about. What this post is about is the slightly empty part of you that comes from pretty much getting over all the shit that's bugged you for large parts of your life.

What everyone has is "issues." I like to put the word issue in scare quotes because I like scare quotes. The Angel Headed Hipster wouldn't be human if he didn't have issues. Issues drive us to produce literature and art; to succeed in careers; to raise families; and to make networks with other people. My drive to succeed and to be bourgeois led me to the pursuit of a doctoral degree. Without the issue of needing to be called Dr. Hipster, I might not be where I am. My issue of needing to be attractive leads me to spend money on clothing above and beyond my basic human needs, and my issue of needing to be perceived as masculine - combined with my need to be attractive - leads me to the gym three times a week. (My need to "compete" with my ex-hubby doesn't hurt here either, as he's recently joined a gym himself). And my need to promote my opinions and hear my own voice leads me to triple-book my Friday and Saturday nights, write a blog, TA for hundreds of undergraduates, et cetera, et cetera. These are what we at the AHHB like to call "the good kind of issues."

Then there's all the really fucked up shit that you have to deal with when growing up really sucked. The great joys and sorrows of children are part of what gives us character - but I think that leads to the type of character that I've discussed above. The fucked-up shit, to grossly paraphrase Sigmund Freud, makes you neurotic.

So I've had a few real neuroses in my life. Let's cover some of the basics: first off, I have a brother who is less than two years older than me. Our parents had us sharing a bedroom till I was about 14 and he was about 16. This is how my parents grew up in the fifties, but was pretty dysfunctional in the eighties. My mom had an "office" that should have been a bedroom, but it was used as her office, and my brother and I shared a bedroom. I wouldn't have been so resentful if she hadn't made the room a junk heap that she never used. Same goes for the billiard room, where we had a bumper pool table that we couldn't always use because my parents decided to recreate Tut's tomb in there. Anyway - back to me and my brother. We were just born with opposite temperaments. He was very introverted, meticulous, and needing of personal space. My nature is diametrically opposed to his, and the nurture of it all - being forced to share cramped, confined space together for fourteen years - made us loathe each other and develop personalities that were beyond diametric opposition. I'm not sure this is linguistically logical, but if you met the two of us, you'd agree on the spot.

So there's a massive neurosis - the hating of all things anal-retentive. Generalizing my hatred to other anal people wasn't really fair to them, but it's something I did for a couple of decades. Then there's the massive anti-authoritarian streak I developed. My parents were very laissez-faire in their child-rearing style, and my brother, from a very young age, decided he was going to pick up the slack. The cruel irony was that my parents, being laissez-faire to begin with, continued to be laissez-faire about letting him wail on me. He'd beat the crap out of me for not hanging the bathmat over the shower rod after taking a shower. I have scars on my forehead from getting my face smashed into a ceramic bowl for some perceived slight against the True Correct Way Things Ought To Be Done. Now, I've met other people who had tyrannical older siblings. One of my 500 Friends Mike had an older sister who was even worse than my bro. But still, you develop some pretty deep-seated resentment of power that leads you to instinctively challenge bosses and supervisors, teachers, and Anyone Who Makes Rules That You Don't Like, and this can fuck you up a bit.

There are other Major Childhood Issues that I've had, but let's leave it at that one for now - I know it's exhausting to read long posts - so we'll stop for the time being. Point is, I can speak pretty directly and un-emotionally about this one because it's one that I've acknowledged, talked about, and worked through to the point where I just have accepted that this is a major vector in my life. My brother and I have been trying to work on our own relationship, especially in the last year, and we're getting somewhere. With regard to the way that it's generalized in my life, I do things differently now. When I really hate someone who's in charge of me, try to breathe and acknowledge my own residual hatred of my brother, and accept the fact that maybe I just wasn't going to like a certain supervisor/boss/teacher/cop to begin with.

This is nice and Zen and all - but what do I do now? When I was in high school, I was Junior Class President, and later Student Body VP, positions I attained, in part, due to my positioning myself as the Che Guevara of my sleepy Minnesota suburb. The People against The Man. I turned around and did the same thing in grad school. But I don't need this anymore. I don't need to be The Voice Of Perceived Oppression. But being that voice - that's something that keeps you going from day to day. The "Bad Issues" probably drive you even more fervently than the "Good Issues." Hobbies are nice; sports and recreation are nice; but part of me misses all the Fucked-Up Childhood Shit that I spent so many years trying to solve.

I think that sometimes, people that go to psychoanalysts for years to delve into their shit, Freud-style, maybe are on to something. They don't want to get better - they want to keep talking about this shit because they'll be lonely when they get over their neuroses. Sometimes I envy them, because I miss some of my problems. And I don't want to be a drama queen and invent some more problems. So I try to keep busy, keep lifting weights, writing my thesis defense, fucking guys, looking for a boyfriend, etc. I guess that's what people who didn't have fucked-up childhoods do.

Saturday, September 17, 2005

Why I Love My Mom

On the phone today:

Hipster: Hey mom, just called because I got your letter yesterday and I love getting mail from you.
Mom: Thanks, hon.
Hipster: I'm reading The Poisonwood Bible right now.
Mom: I LOVE that book! Isn't it the best!
Hipster: Yeah, it's great... really compelling and she writes five voices really well. It's also got to be the best book to pick up feminist hotties with. Every time I read it at a coffee shop, I get cute feminist girls coming up to me to talk about it.
Mom: Then you're clearly reading the wrong book. I'm going to ask around... there's got to be a "perfect book" to pick up gay guys. I'm gonna ask around. When I find the perfect trolling book for you, I'll let you know, sweetie.
Hipster: Love you, mom.
Mom: Me too, sweetie. Have a great day.

Musicians That I Was Too Cool To Like As A Teen But That I'm Crazy About As An Adult

Buddy Holly
Bruce Springsteen
The Beach Boys
Frank Sinatra
Gwen Stefani
Jackson Browne
Tom Waits
Michael Jackson
Rod Stewart

Why was I such a little hipster asshole? I can see with Tom Waits & Sade that they appeal to more of an adult audience. So that might just be an age thing. I did always love Al Green, Taj Mahal, Sting, and Nina Simone though (all "adult" artists), so it's still a bit odd.

The most significant musicians, to me, that illustrate my obnoxious teen hatred of all things mainstream, are Buddy Holly, The Boss, and the Beach Boys. Arguably, three of the greatest musical acts of all time. I literally think I hated them because they were popular, positive, mainstream, and not my generation. WTF? Why was I such a little asshole?

Nonetheless, I think my bizarre and selective hatred of some of the world's great music only makes me love it more now. I came home to iTunes tonight (after my triple-booked Saturday, which is pretty normal for me), sat down at the 'puter, and typed in "boys summer" on iTunes. I got to hear The Ataris' cover of "The Boys of Summer," followed by the Beach Boys' "All Summer Long," which in turn was followed by Don Henley's original "Boys of Summer." A song that perfectly represents what I loathed in high school and love in grad school. Good fuckin' pop music. Sing it with me in your head: "I can seeeeeeee youuuuu, your brown skin shining in the sun, you got your hair combed back [and your] sunglasses on, baby... I can tell you, my love for you will still be strong, after the boyyyys of summer have goooo-oone"

Good times. I think I'm going to listen to some Buddy Holly before I hit the sack. Maybe some "we-he-he-he-hell the little things you say & do, make me want to be with you..." or something equally poppy, catchy, mainstream, old-fashioned, and fucking brilliant.

Friday, September 16, 2005

I Just Need Something To Put In My Mouth

Is that too much to ask?

When you're a gay ex-smoker in a straight bar, and you're having a good time, what do you put in your mouth but more alcohol? I don't want a killer hangover every time I go out drinking with the hets.

I take legal speed for my gross deficits in attention and impulse control. On days like this, when I have a hangover and wake up at noon, I take a med holiday which allows me to be groggy through the hangover instead of forcibly awake when I'm not going to be highly productive anyway. But nonetheless, it's a double whammy having your ADHD symptoms flaring and your liver & brain bloated and swelling. I just can't produce coherent thoughts with any kind of speed whatsoever, and it's already 5 P.M. So no brilliant blogging today. But I promise, soon, a post about my meds and how much I heart them. Until then, go do whatever it is you people do. I'll be watching TV because I can read a 450-page book in a day when I'm taking amphetamines, and can barely read a newspaper without them. Good thing there's a Game Show Network for all the people who can't think. :D

To Edit, Or Not To Edit?

All of my posts are first drafts. For the most part, I don't extensively revise them before publishing. And there's something to be said for leaving posts well enough alone. But I feel like a little editing for clarity isn't the worst idea. Case in point is my last post, a Faulknerian rendering of my weekend that seemed to go on for miles. It was also intentionally written in a difficult voice. So, upon re-reading and hearing feedback, two themes emerged: (1) I wasn't as consistent with the voice I chose as I could have been - and editing could improve this; and (2) it was so goddamned long that few people finished reading it.

So, do I go back and edit it a tad to make it more fun to read? I get new readers every day and clearer posts would help those catching up on back entries. Or, do I leave all posts intact for some kind of "integrity" about it? And if I do edit, ought I to add little post-scripts indicating that the post was edited? So many choices.

Gimme some feedback, yo. And thanks for reading and thanks for helping me keep this blog salacious and anonymous.


Monday, September 12, 2005

My Weekend In NYC, As Told By A Five-Year-Old

It was a Friday and I was hung over and felt poopy and didn't want to pack for New York and finally I did and then I smoked a little weed and I metroed to Chinatown to leave at 5 and I didn't get to New York till 10 pm and it was dark.

I went to a bar and it was in Brooklyn and it was called Vegas and it wasn't really in Vegas because it was in Brooklyn. My college roommate was and so was his fiancee and they were getting married the next night and all of their friends were there. His parents paid for the drinks and they poured them strong and I only had two because I was tired and then I decided to have one more because my body can't tell when I've had less than three drinks because I drink too often and my liver is probably the size of Barney the Dinosaur and a cool bright purple too but my liver probably doesn't sing like Barney sings I think it just cries itself to sleep and it probably doesn't like early morning Advil.

My friend Chimmy was there and his name is Chimmy because he grew up in the middle of no where in Minnesota and red necks are dumb and think that Korean Americans are Mexican and that Mexican people eat chimichangas every day and instead of punching them in the balls he just made a funny about it and he is a Korean American and his name is Chimmy. And Chimmy and I rode the train back to So Hoe and that is a funny name too because I saw lots more hoes in Chinatown when I got off the bus than in So Hoe because all the hoes in So Hoe were really just girls who have sex with men who have money instead of just asking for the money and then lying on their backs while getting pennatrayted. But So Hoe was fun and Chimmy and I met up with four of my other friends on Broome Street and I thought that that was a funny name too because someone's mommy needs to really take a broom to that street to clean up the yucky syringes and rats and hoboes having sex in front of tourists and all the other things that grown-ups say make New York "edge-y." And after the bar we took a cab up to the Upper West Side and we had food even though it was past our bedtime and that was fun and we went to a hotel that was a walk up and we crashed and when we woke up we went and got Locks on our bagels but they weren't Padlocks they were smoked fish and they probably died from lung cancer and the bagles are yummy in New York and people in other places are retarded and need to have time-outs until they can learn to make bagls the ways they are suppost to taste and not like old tires with sessame seeds on them like the kind that I grudgeingley eat in DC.

And we took the train again but wait these trains go under the ground and they are subways just like in DC except that they have confusing names and weird numbers instead of fun color names like Red and Yellow and Green and Blue and Orange they have shapes and circles and numbers and all kinds of stuff but the streets are so easy to follow in New York that if you've been there for more than 17 minutes and cant' find where you are going then you are a retard too and need a time out. And we met our other friends and took a nother train to Little Italy. And we had food and the food was good but the mean waiter poured hot coffey over ice and we had water-ey ice coffey and that was O-K until the bad man tried to charge us three-fifty for "iced cappuchinos" and I got cranky with him and he took them off of the bill and then we tipped him a bunch of the money back because we are reasonable but really if we new he was gonna do that then we would have boughted real iced cappuchinos and gotten some real caffeine because we aren't retards. And I bought a belt on the street for three dollars from a nice lady and if it lasts a month that was the bestest money ever spent because my last belt costed sixty dollars and for that kind of money I could buy Barney The Purple Dinosaur and cut him open and steal his liver because he doesn't drink because he's a dinosaur and I could use his liver till I am extinct too. And the belt fitted me good. And I boughted a tiramisu for three dollars and had a hard time eating it from the way it was wrapped to go and then I losted it later so that was three dollars down the toilet but I will live and I didn't need the calories anyways.

And we ironeded our clothing at the hotel but this was a new hotel and this hotel was in mid-town which was the only name that isn't funny in New York and I was wearing my Calvin Klein pants and they are what grown-ups call hot and I got a funny feeling in my underoos looking at myself in the mirror and then I felt guilty and put some stuff in my hair and was ready to go to the wedding. And we went to the wedding and it was great and the bride and groom had a kiss that made me blush and feel funny again and I think I'll understand when I am a grown up. And the wedding didn't have any boring relligus stuff in it and the wedding was about as long as SpongeBob and the cocktail hour was as long as SpongeBob The Movie and I dranked a lot of whiskey and that was E.Z. becuase the bartender poured all dewwer's and a drop of ginger ale and I felt like a sailor on a big ship because I felt like I was rocking back and forth and having dirty thoughts about men in uniforms mopping a ship and then I got back to the conversation with the nice lady who was from Alabama and I played a fun game with her. And the game is called "The Pronoun Game." And in the pronoun game, you talk about your life but when you are talking about the men that you have gone steady with you don't say that they are men and the nice lady assumes that they are women and when the nice lady from Alabama says "she" when you are thinking "him" or "them" or "The New England Patriots 2004 lineup" then you smile and you don't tell her that you are playing the pronoun game and then you eat more or-derves and you meet the friends of the couple who aren't grownups and they share fun stories about smoking weed and other things that make you more comfortable and you don't have to play The Pronoun Game any more and then you go to the dinner and you realize you are sitting at the kids' table and you have fun and everyone makes freinds and drinks more and laughs and you are happy to be at the wedding.

And then there is a dance and I danced and had fun because I was drinking and the music was good and I loveded all of my new friends and my old friends and I harassseded my one friend because she is anddroginnus femminist and hates marriage even though she has been virtually married to my other friend for about a billion years, or maybe 7 years and marriage wouldn't make her do anything that she's not already doing but it would probide stability and leegal re-course. And my friend said that marriage is "offensive and patriarchal and hetero-centric" and I said that all the nice lezzbeans and gays wouldn't be fighting for marriage if it didn't confer a lot of rights that everyone should have and then you realize that the whole time she was talking to you she was avoiding the boo-kay toss and that femmi-knotsy won in her own way because she was the only girl who wasn't on the dance floor and anyway I had a fun time and I loved the wedding and we went back to the hotel.

And I decided to see Chelsea because I heard that was where the other nice boys were and I found the first restaurant I could that had a nice rain-bow and reminded me of Sesame Street but without most of the girls from Sesame Street and the nice mayter-dee told me to go to the Barracuda and I drank more whiskeys and I talked to some nice people and had a good time and was tired and didn't feel like being a So Hoe so I didn't hook up with anyone but I took a train part way back and then walked home about two miles and that's good exercise when you have been pouring Berrbon and Scotch down into your belly for the last eight hours and I slept like a baby.

And Sunday we went to a new bagle place and i had more locks and it was yummy and I drank coffee all day like it was my mommy's titties and I was two years old again and we went to Central Park and walked around Harlem and it was beautiful and we took a train all the way to Chinatown and I got on the bus and we watched Hitch and it was really funny and I laughed and then I remembered I had a little bit of funny mushrooms with me that were left over from my birthday party from a month ago and I ated them in the bathroom and then I started thinking funny thoughts and I started reading the Da Vinci Code and I read half of it on the bus because mushrooms made me love it and then I got home to DC and I went to Chipotle and it was good and I went home and read the entire rest of the 450-page book till I was doned at three in the morning and it was excciting and I was late to class in the morning and I came home in the afternoon and slept and played with myself and it was fun and now my hands are a little sticky and dirty but I am writing this post because when else was I going to write it and I hope that it was fun for you too and it's taken me fifty minutes to right but I love to blog and I hope you love my blog too.


Friday, September 09, 2005

When Bloggers Drink Together...

Tonight I went out with Julia, the ultra-fabulous roommate and queen of the house, and fellow bloggers Seth and Schwellenpants. Heaven & Hell, the Adams Morgan club with nudie men & women on the wall, had their '80s night and a whole lotta bloggers felt the need to go represent the decade that brought us The Gipper and The Clapper - not to mention The Golden Girls and The Ronco Turnip Twaddler. (If you don't know all four references, you're too young to be reading this blog! Go back to the Lindsay Lohan fansite, or whatever it is you kids read these days).

After downing some drinks at Toledo Lounge, the bar I usually describe as "that place where you like everything on the jukebox but it's so goddamn predictable you might as well be at home listening to a mix CD that your ex made you in college," with the fabulous "Bunny," a second-grade teacher with a twelfth-grade liver - we headed to H&H to get our groove on. The cool thing about '80s night at H&H is that they play the original music videos with every song. Sweeeeet. I hadn't seen the entire, unedited video for "Take On Me" since '86 or so... though my memories of strong sexual urges for the lead singer of A-Ha have been replaced in the last 19 years by Swedes who are actually good-looking. Anyway, I digress.

Seth had warned me that it was so '80s that he could imagine people doing coke on the bar. Indeed, this was my first thought as I walked in the door - "Yo, Seth, I really feel like doing about 10 keys of coke and firing the nation's striking air traffic controllers!" - but instead I started sipping on the requisite whiskey sours (which I'm never without and never refuse) and dancing to the Belinda Carlisle. My next thoughts were, "I had no IDEA the Go-Gos had this many singles!" and "good GOD, Ric Ocasek from The Cars was so butt-ugly, I can't BELIEVE that supermodel married him! No matter HOW popular his music was!" These thoughts then segued into "Dude, I can totally dance like the Irish dudes in Dexy's Midnight Runners!" and "Julia is the best roommate EVER - how do these whiskey sours keep falling into my hands?"

At some point, my four friends (Nick, Seth, Julia, Bunny) pointed out that the majority of the guys at '80s night weren't so into girls. Once my whiskeyed-up mind realized this, there was no stopping me. Naughtiness ensued, and H&H became yet one more checkmark on my list of "straight" Adams Morgan bars where I have kissed men in the middle of the dance floor. Frankly, it's more satisfying than making out with dudes at a gay club - BEEN THERE! - and my quasi-straight-acting/provocative/hypermacho self gets so much gratification out of it. I really do, you know I do.

To paraphrase Mark Twain, I'll just draw a "curtain of modesty" over the rest of the night. And to paraphrase Vh1, I have a strong affinity for the '80s.

Tuesday, September 06, 2005

I Love My mp3s

I don't know what I would do without iTunes. There is nothing I love more than coming home and having music playing in my office. I just leave iTunes on all day and come home to great music playing. It's great to not know where in my mp3 collection the computer will be at when I come home. Just now I walked into the Violent Femmes. I'd never bring my Femmes CDs into my car - did that for four years in high school. But I come home at 12:30 AM, watch TV for a bit with Julia, head up to my computer and there's Add It Up, followed by Gone Daddy Gone, and it's just perfect. Even if I only listen for five or ten minutes before turning the computer off for the night - after leaving it to play for twelve hours with no one listening - I can go to sleep happy.

Just one of those small pleasures in life.

Sunday, September 04, 2005

Bonobo Sighting in SE DC

This ain't no kiss-and-tell blog. I don't go out and get naughty and tell the world about it. I think it's gauche to tell the world everything about people you've been with. It's rude to them, even if they aren't identified, and it suggests that one is incapable of keeping secrets - especially when it comes to the most private and personal acts one can engage in. So for this reason, despite my being a sociable and attractive single in the DC gay scene - which might suggest I have a lot I could write about - you won't hear about it here.

Last night is a different story, though, because I had an awesome time at the foam party at Velvet Nation. And there ain't nothing personal or private about it.

The bonobos are one of two types of chimpanzees (the other being the Common Chimpanzee that we think of as the "chimp"), which are our closest relatives in the animal kingdom. The readership of this blog, being highly literate, surely is aware that the bonobos are a highly sexual species. But let's hear what Wikipedia has to say about them:

"Sexual intercourse plays a major role in Bonobo society, being used as a greeting, a means of conflict resolution and post-conflict reconciliation, and as favors traded by the females in exchange for food. Bonobos are the only non-human apes to have been observed engaging in all of the following sexual activities: tongue kissing, face-to-face vaginal intercourse, oral sex, genital rubbing between females, and "frottage" between males. This happens within the immediate family as well as outside of it. Bonobos do not form permanent relationships with partners."

Essentially, our closest relatives, who share 95-98% of our genes, live in sex-friendly bisexual paradise, working and playing together, and being freely sexual with no hurt feelings. Now, we have evolved differently, and our human culture stresses pair-bonding; further, we can be crushed when we have a mate who cheats, and attempts to have open relationships don't work very well and usually hurt everyone. So I'm not abdicating that we attempt to re-create their species' behaviors for ourselves. BUT...

The negative outcomes of sex, outside of broken hearts, are unwanted pregancies and STDs. So imagine that you could control for this by having a non-intercourse love fest, with no fluid exchange, where people just played around. Sexual contact with a couple dozen people in a way that no one got hurt, pregnant, or contracted a disease. Imagine a club, where people danced and drank alcohol within reasonable limits, and then - after midnight - went out on a back deck and danced around in a sea of foam, wearing bathing suits. Imagine there are 100 gay men, between the ages of 21 and 35, drunk and in good spirits, dancing and enjoying themselves. There's a lot of soapy, sudsy foam floating around and being dropped from the overhead rafters, and people are touching each other. And everyone who showed up to the bar in a swimsuit is pretty good-looking - or they would have been too shy to get to the foam - but the foam is thick enough that it obscures if someone is five pounds overweight, or has a weird birthmark on their ankle, or has funny-looking toenails. So there's none of the obsessive scrutiny that we engage in when looking at models: "his ribs stick out funny;" "his torso is too short and his legs are too long;" "i don't like his hairstyle." Foam is the great equalizer. In the foam, you see people's faces, unaltered by hairstyles, because everyone's hair is wet. You can tell if someone is ugly; but most of the people are attractive, and appear reasonably equal in attractiveness without the mediating factor of wearing the latest styles versus the "wrong" styles. People are socioculturally naked, and "better" than naked in the sense that you can't really judge them too holistically because you really can't stare at all of them at once.

Further, the foam decreases the orgy effect, because it's really impossible to have oral sex, anal sex, or whatever men and women would do (is that called vaginal sex? never had it) in the foam. All you can really do is touch. How liberating would it be to go into a situation where you knew that everyone was reasonably good-looking; everyone was a gay man; race, income, and hometown were irrelevant; no one expected love; no one expected commitment; no one expected oral sex; no one was trying to have an orgasm. What if no one expected anal sex? You wouldn't have to try to decide who was a "top" or a "bottom" - you weren't worried about how full or empty anyone's colon was, or what kind of power/gender role issues were at play, or what it would mean if you did or didn't put out. And if you knew that no one was expecting any specific performance from you - well, you wouldn't have to think about cleaning up bodily fluids, or worrying about getting any diseases from other people's fluids. And you wouldn't worry about the size of your penis, because no one's going to be hurt by a big one or disappointed by a small one. You wouldn't worry about maintaining an erection, or trying to get off, and you wouldn't worry about whether other people were hard, soft, or in the middle. Hell, you wouldn't worry about a thing.

Here's what you'd do. You'd dance, and you'd meet lots of other guys who were just like you: they're in their twenties and thirties, they like to dance, most of them are a little or a lot drunk, they are wearing swimsuits, and they like to be touched. You'd feel up their soapy chests and bellies. You couldn't really tell the exact firmness of their muscles, because your hand would slide. You couldn't pinch their nipples because your fingers would slide right off. No one's going to lick you because you're covered in foam. They're just going to dance in front of you, behind you, and to the side of you. Someone behind you might reach around and start stroking your member. Then someone from the side might help him. Maybe you'd play with their dicks - or maybe you'd have your hands around the dicks of two guys who are dancing like it's the prom. You'd feel different size fingers on your body and on your penis, and you'd grasp penises of all shapes, sizes, and colors. People that in the real world you might not be able to have a conversation with, or whose fashion sense you disagreed with, or whose sleep and work schedule was totally different from yours - well, here they would be stroking your dick, running their hands down your back and chest, and smiling, laughing, having a good time with you.

I tend to go to one foam party a year. This was my third year in a row. The first year, I went with a couple but not my BF at the time; I mostly just danced in my jeans near the edge of the foam. Last year, I mostly danced with one person in the middle of the foam. This year, I went for the full bonobo experience and just loved it. I don't think I've ever felt so close to so many gay men with none of the baggage I associate with our world. None of the attitude, none of the games, just sensual human touch. Maybe not everyone would agree with this; maybe not everyone in the foam even felt the way I did. It's possible that there are sketchy freaks who can't get laid that live for the foam to get their joint jerked on. But I don't believe that. I think that everyone in the middle of the foam - a good 50 people - just wanted to bond like bonobos. Sexuality without strings attached. I couldn't live like this forever - I need actual sex and desire the joy that comes from love and commitment - but for a once-a-year experience, it's really priceless.

I think the sex-club culture, seen most famously in Paris and Amsterdam, probably sucks. Because actual sex comes with actual logistics, and actual emotions, and actual disease risk, and actual game-playing. Even if everyone is pretending to be a NSA slut. But bonoboing in the foam - that's just too good as its own experience. I really can't proselytize the foam any more strongly. And it's the kind of experience that really makes me proud to be a gay man. We have so many issues in our world, not the least of which is male dominance and competitiveness. It's so hard to meet, date, and be intimate when you're both men, and both either bad at sharing emotions or socialized to repress them, and both competitive with other males. But when you take all of that away, and just PLAY with each other... it's paradise. I don't think that straight foam parties work this way - there is too much gender shit at work. But the foam levels the playing field like nothing else, and we can just bond as men who love men. And like getting our dicks played with by a couple dozen people while drunk and dancing to Gwen Stefani. I can't wait for next year.