I Just Don’t Understand

Why do queer bars serve such shitty beer?

I don’t understand it. Beer is trendy. Fags are annoyingly trendy. Why, then, do queer bars all over the country (with the possible excpetion of Portland and Seattle) only serve the bottom level of crappy bottled domestic beer? This has been bugging me for years and years now. In some queer bars, the Powerhouse for example, the horizon is so limited that they consider Rolling Rock an import. Guess it’s all those import duties they have to pay when crossing the Mississippi…

Is it because long-neck bottles are supposed to be phallic symbols? Is it because the boys are afraid they won’t look butch enough drinking from a pint glass? I just don;t get it…

Other things I don’t understand today:

  • Whycome we never get cool storms from hurricanes on the west coast like they do back east?
  • Why is it that with all the construction workers in my neighborhood lately none of them are particularly attractive? Another myth shattered…
  • What is that damned strange chemical smell in my refrigerator?

Yet Another Visit

Matthew offered to show me DC during the 1997 Planet SOMA US Tour, although I somehow never GOT to DC. We met during his last stay in the city. The catalyst for this trip was the Joni Mitchell show in San Jose Tuesday night (which also featured Van Morrison and some old nasal-sounding guy named Bob something). Matthew took me to the show. Matthew slept in my house. Matthew drank with me. Matthew went with me to see a friend play at Brain Wash. Matthew understood that I was completely beat by the time he arrived, and was not offended that I was being such a lethargic host. We LOVE Matthew.

Matthew is also allowed to visit again. And I promise to be more entertaining. Matthew is also seeking the perfect green-haired boy (other hair colors considered). If you are that boy, ask me for Matthew’s email address. It’s the least I can do.

The smoking reference for this part of the story? At the show, people were smoking pot all around me. This is illegal (although I do not necessarily agree that it should be). Even though I really cannot stand the smell of marijuana smoke, I did not complain. On the other hand, had I lit a (tobacco) cigarette in the same place, security would have been on my tail in no time flat. This bugs me a little…

My Sensors Weren’t Working

So one night I pick up this boy at Hole in the Wall. It’s last call, he’s cute as can be and he seems no more intoxicated than anyone else there. His look is a tad preppier than I usually like, but he’s got a vaguely unkempt mop on top of his head, which sort of makes up for the Gap boy look. Nothing about him sets off any alarms. We venture off into the night.

Back at my house, I realize he may be a bit drunker than I realized. He keeps telling me how much money he’s carrying. He keeps opening his wallet and showing me. And then he passes out on my bed, fully clothed, about five minutes after arrival. He snores so badly that I decide to sleep on the couch.

About 5:30 in the morning, I hear him moving. Next thing I know, he’s in the living room and on the couch with me. He snuggles up to me and without saying so much as a word, he begins…umm…orally coupulating me. Suddenly he looks up at me and asks me who I am and how he got here. I tell him. He goes back to “work”.

He looks up again, this time as if he’s about to cry.

“I’ve been treated really badly. I’ve had a bad night.”

I wonder at his memory of how bad the night was, especially since he’s not even sure where he is at present. I don’t mention it, though, because now he really IS crying. Seems his boyfriend threw him out last night for some unspecified reason. He starts sucking my dick again. Then he asks me if I’m a white supremacist. I tell him I’m not. He assures me he isn’t either. I’m strangely relieved.

For the next half hour, he alternates between sucking, crying, and plotting revenge against said boyfriend. At some point, I mention the money he’s carrying, and then he really gets freaked out. How did he get so much money? What did he do for it? He rememebers a restaurant. And maybe a hotel room, And maybe some cocaine.

Then he asks if I want to fuck him. To shoot him full of jism. I decline, only partly because he’s crying again and wondering where the money came from.

He’s very excited that I have cranberry juice in my refrigerator, even though he doesn’t drink any. By the way, where is he? Oh…only four blocks from home… He lives in an upsacle apartment building on Folsom. And he’s wearing Banana Republic underwear. He’s very proud of the Banana Republic underwear.

He determines that he needs to go home. He asks if I want to cum before he leaves. I “deserve” it since I’ve been so nice and didn’t rob him and all. He offers me some of his money; after all, he doen’t know where it came from anyway…

Finally he leaves and I get to sleep, secure in the knowledge that he probably couldn’t ever find his way back to my house. I resolve never again to pick up anyone at last call, or at least not until I figure out what the hell is wrong with my usually trustworthy freak sensors…

Amusing and Unamusing

Random things I’m finding amusing this week:

  • There are a frightening number of otherwise intelligent men (both gay and straight) who would rather walk around the city like drowned rats than risk looking “effeminate” by carrying an umbrella.
  • I can’t even make out with someone in a bar without realizing that (a) he has a boyfriend, (b) said boyfriend is watching us in a very unamused fashion, and (c) it turns out that I sort of know this boyfriend via email.
  • There is, on Market Street in San Francisco, a building called the Bong Building.
  • An email spammer advertising collection services was stupid enough to include his phone number in the ad. When I called to request (politely) that he not use this particular marketing technique again, he told me he had to run because my daughter was sucking his cock and he was about to shoot. He’s a true professional. Of course I would never advocate repeated phone calls which might run up his phone bill or anything like that, but his number is available upon request if you’re interested in his services.
  • Heard from the mouth of one “oh so butch” leatherman the back room of a Folsom Street Bar Sunday night: “I was right here when I heard about Princess Diana’s tragedy… (sigh)… I almost had to leave”.
  • At the Polk Street Rendezvous, the cops were called in to arrest an old man sitting at the bar. His crime, horror of horrors, was smoking a cigarette. The patron who called the cops was subsequently barred for life by the bartender, and may find he has trouble getting served anywhere on Polk Street for quite a while. (Thanks to Cavan for this one.)
  • Cocoa Pebbles on sale for $1.99 at the Grocery Outlet. Yay!!!
  • Redneck Earl’s Takeout Barbecue on El Camino Real in San Mateo definitely deserves a visit. They have sweetened iced tea. Those of you who are from the south understand why this is so (a) special and (b) unusual outside Dixie.

Things I’m NOT finding amusing this week:

  • Dilbert.
  • My checking account.
  • Idiots who just moved to the city and really can’t drive, but do anyway.
  • Those same idiots when they park.
  • My savings account.
  • Email addressed “Dear Adult Webmaster”.
  • Valentine’s Day.
  • Puddles. Everywhere…

St. Valentine’s Lament

Well…

It was Valentine’s Day yesterday and it’s over and I’m glad ‘cuz Valentine’s Day sucks and it signifies no more or less romance in my life than before and the only present I got was from my mom and dad and the biggest theme of my night was perpetually running into an ex that I don’t really want to speak to much anymore and…

Take a breath…

All in all, I guess it wasn’t a bad day. I had a good lunch at a neo-dive called “Redneck Earl’s” in San Mateo. I caught a few minutes of a really good A&E documentary on the Titanic. The rain made for a very nice long sleep last night. I got lots of free beers and shots tonight.

Holeinthewallapalooza at the Eagle tonight was great. Imagine: actual queer rock and roll bands playing in an actual queer bar. I imagine several slumming Castroids probably left without entering, fearing that the Eagle had finally “gone straight”. Rock bands in a queer bar? Couldn’t be…

And there was the cute geeky boy on speed, who wanted to suck my dick “just for a minute”. There’s an ego-booster. I wasn’t his “type”, he said, but he really liked the head of my dick. Swoon… Who could ask for more?

OK, so maybe I’m asking for more.

Maybe it would have been nice to have someone bring me a rose, although I doubt it since the very concept makes me want to puke. Maybe it would have been nice for there to have been something more entertaining on my agenda than watching “Dragnet” reruns. On the other hand, maybe I would have been happier if I HAD stayed home watching “Dragnet” reruns.

Despite all the rhetoric for which I am known, maybe it would be nice to be curled up next to someone I actually like right now. I guess that would be a pretty tall order since I like very few people that I meet, and since the ones I really like are often not at all interested in curling up for a long period of time (if at all).

This begs the question of whether my standards are too high and whether disliking a large part of the population is necessarily a good thing. It’s difficult, you know, realizing that most people really annoy me. It’s uncomfortable to admit that I’m not a “people person” when I’ve really tried to think of myself as one. It’s hard to acknowledge that I’m very often not a huge fan of humanity in general.

Retarded social skills? Perhaps. Low self-image? Maybe. Going to the wrong places? Good thought. Who wants to hang out with someone so damned ornery and negative and cantankerous and anti-social anyway? Or maybe everyone IS really annoying and I’m just better than all of them. This, of course, is the most comfortable way of thinking, but it’s pretty danged hard to defend.

Anyhow, a happy President’s Day to you all.

No Friend of “Friends”

Sat through my first episode of “Friends” last night. I know I’m running a little late on this particular trend. I actually only watched it because I was hoping to catch the new Apple commericial, which was scheduled to run between 8 and 9. Is it just my imagination or is this a really lame and stupid show? What is so appealing about these people? And which of the guys is the one who’s supposed to be so damned cute? I just don’t get it…

I learned many things in the past week while working on the current feelance web project. First and foremost is that most movie studio web sites seem designed primarily for people who have T1 lines in their homes. It should not take five minutes for a web page to load at 28.8K. Ever. Period.

Another bit of realization: people were really amused at the thought of me in a tapas joint. Maybe I’ve carried this whole “lowbrow” thing too far. On the other hand, it IS pretty unusual to find me in a tapas place or anyplace where I’ll have to shell out more than ten bucks (tip included) for dinner…

Why is it that every major bill of my year falls due in February?

Hmmm…sixteen years ago Friday was the first time I ever had sex in an actual bed. I think some sort of celebration is in order…

Anyone who knows me well is aware that I love rain and storms. In fact, overabundant sunshine actually depresses me. I’ve been like this since I was a kid. But jeez…enough is enough! It might be nice to spend at least one day this month not being waterlogged. I’ve killed off two umbrellas in the past week. Dashing up to the corner store has become a monumental feat of planning and timing.

Color me very pissed that Channel 44 has replaced my two back-to-back reruns of “Grace Under Fire” at 6PM with “Star Trek: The Next Generation”. Nothing against “TNG”, but I’ve seen ’em all, and it’s not exactly what I’m looking for at 6:00.

Three of the last four guys I’ve had sex with have begged me to cum in their mouths. Should this worry me? Should it worry THEM?

Word on the street is that The Power Exchange Main Station, an SF sex club, will be going co-sexual soon. There’s to be a male-only side and a male-female side. Seems like someone’s being left out doesn’t it? I’m sure female-female scenes will be tolerated on the co-ed side, as long as they’re doing it for the enjoyment of the menfolk. A question: do any heterosexual females have the same odd fascination with watching two guys go at it that so many straight men have with girlsex?

Yo quiero Waffle House.

Nicotine Fits, Part 2

So I finally ventured into one of the nifty new California smoke-free bars Friday night. I’d been putting it off since returning from the holiday trip because I wasn’t sure I’d know how to behave and also because I was a little worried about just how a smoke-free bar might SMELL.

As it happened, I ended up coping in much the same way everyone else seemed to be doing so. I just went ahead and smoked. It was very simple. Of course there were no ashtrays or cigarette machines. One bar even featured a prominent “no smoking” sign. No one — patron or staffer — seemed to care.

At first I was a little timid, cupping the offending cigarette in my closed hand like a joint or something. I guess I was afraid the principal would walk by and catch me. It all felt so very junior high; I feared a month’s detention.

By the end of the night, with several beers in my belly and a cute little clubkid on his knees in front of me, however, I felt much more secure. I was pushing his head down on me with one hand while puffing away with the other. Somehow the opinion of the State of California mattered very little to me at this point.

So I guess I’m a desperate outlaw now, darn it…

I hear rumors that the Castro bars are actually observing the smoking ban and enforcing it. I’m not surprised; they’re just so much more sensitive over there. I’m surprised though that no one seems worried about whether or not the noisy smoking drunks on the sidewalk will affect property values.

Of course, there is the issue of workers being exposed to second-hand smoke. Once again, I would state that no one, to my knowledge, has ever been forced to work in a bar. When you take a job, you understand that there are some occupational risks. In bars, these risks include loud music, smoke, and having to cope with obnoxious drunks. Obviously, many people have decided that the rewards outweigh the risks.

Consider this: dealing with rude assholes is detrimental to my psychological health. That’s why I don’t work in retail customer service anymore. I never requested a law stating that it be illegal to act like an asshole in a retail establishment. I knew the risks when I took the job. I was prepared to take them. When I no longer wanted to take these risks, I quit.

But as long as we’re “protecting” people, may I suggest the following:

  • I guess we’ll have to get rid of conversation first. Too many hurt feelings and broken promises. Civil liberties can’t be considered an issue if someone might be offended.
  • Let’s ban on techno and house music in bars because they kills brain cells and make me homicidal, thus putting other patrons at considerable risk.
  • A ban on being horny in bars is probably in order because horniness might lead to unsafe sex.
  • We should eliminate attractive people in cruise bars. Seeing these people could make some less attractive people become victims of reduced self-esteem levels, causing them to drink too much or (gasp) crave cigarettes. Come to think of it, we’d better ban anyone who’s ever been attracted to an attractive person too…
  • No more TV. Radiation, y’know?

Who was it who said that people who are willing to give up civil liberties to obtain a sense of “security” are deserving of neither? I’m off to have a cigarette and see if I can remember…

Welcome to 1998

New Year’s Day. Free black-eyed peas at the J&S Cafeteria. Spent the late part of the evening at the Palms with Jeff and an exceedingly frightening crowd. We watched “Family Affair”. Buffy and Jody were far cuter than any of the bar patrons.

 

Nightmare on South Elm Street

Uneventful day. Hit Babylon tonight. It was annoying. I disappeared quickly. Why do people in queer bars here not seem to have lives outside the bars? Is it the fact that the closets are so full here or is it the fact that the bars have such a death grip on all queer socializing?

Home for the Holidays

So here I am, about to spend my second Christmas in a row at home in Greensboro.

Sitting in the waiting area with 90 minutes left before my flight. What a crazy 24 hours it’s been. I realized last night that I wouldn’t be receiving my ticket in time to make it home for Christmas. So one was sent to me on a plane from Charlotte at 11:00 this morning. I grabbed a $30 cab to the airport after doing ALL my Christmas shopping last night. I’m exhausted. And mildly hungover.

At least there’s cute boys to look at here. Most of them cuter even than the guy I chowed down on last night at My Place. He was cocky and shot all over my head and face. The onlookers were pleased.

It’d be nice to have a laptop on this trip, but I’m Ok using pen and paper for a week or so, although it’s a little strange getting used to writing prose in longhand again. I seem to be unsure which of my 7-8 different handwritings to use.

It must really suck traveling with children. I often wonder if I was as bad as rugrats today are. Actually, I think children were better behaved when I came along; parenting was more about teaching discipline and responsibility than “self-esteem” and “creativity”.

Scored First Class on the flight. It’s worth it!