O-Town Guy

Turning A Theory Around. . .

2007-10-22T23:58:00.000-04:00

Two good friends have just been evacuated from their homes in SoCal, fires burning all around them.

Earlier, I was talking to someone who said, "Imagine if Schwarzanegger hadn't vetoed that gay marriage measure last week how the Christians would be up in arms saying this is God's wrath."

Funny. Imagine if maybe this is God's wrath that His people are still being treated unjustly--and by people calling themselves Christians. . .

This in no way is meant to imply that ANYONE in SoCal deserves this. As a former resident of both Orange County and Hollywood, my heart is going out to everyone out there. My point is that those same Christians who think the hand of God is in every disaster, by design, never consider that he may be saying something to them. This is, after all, just a week or two after gays were yet again denied marriage rights. Maybe God IS angry.

Just turning a theory around. . .

ENDA

2007-10-03T22:11:00.000-04:00

The recent decision by House leaders to move forward with a version of the Employment Non-Discrimination Act (ENDA) that does not include gender identity is creating a fuss within the NGLTF and HRC, who are insiting on the inclusion of transgendered persons in the non-discrimination legislation.

I hate that the revised bill is dropping transgendered, but. . .isn't ENDA, even without transgendered people attached, a victory nonetheless, IF it passes? I'm sorry but I don't feel it's a loss--it's a step in the right direction, and just because we can't make a jump doesn't mean we don't take the step.

I agree that the transgendered folks should be protected as well. But right now, we (meaning gays and lesbians) have no federal protection. How can anyone say that passing ENDA without the "T" in GLBT is equal to being a Log Cabin Repug? It's a beginning. What are we supposed to do--back away from legislation that can help most of us because it doesn't include a few of us? If I were black should I also say, "Let's step back and erase everything that's made my life as a black man easier so I can show solidarity with my gay brothers?" You take what you can get and you push for more. If we only get the ammended ENDA passed, then we stay and fight for more to make sure the "T" in our comminity gets the fairness they deserve. But if the "T" is too confusing an issue at a time when people barely understand what is so elementary to us, and it's inclusion in a bill will cause it to fail when it may otherwise pass, then shame on us for not doing a better job educating the public--but we should not say "It's all or nothing." People--we aren't that powerful. Yet. We have to take what we can get. An ENDA without the "T" is still a victory, even though it's not the victory we want.

Maybe rather than throwing tea parties, HRC can start educating the public. That's where all of our biggest battles are. And the "T" battle, to the publuc, is a new one, while the GLB battle has been going on for thirty years. Anyone who walks away from the table because we can't get everything we want in a non-discrimination act in one fell swoop is a fool.

If HRC and NGLTF are lobbying in opposition to the bill that will secure non-discrimination protection against gays and lesbians because they're unhappy with it not including transgendered persons, it's time for a new organziation to spring up and time for all gays and lesbians to stop funding those two institutions.

Stupid Straight People (Part 236)

2007-06-29T13:24:00.000-04:00

As a continuing community service, O-Town Guy presents the following reminders of the many limitations of straight people, a reminder to the gay community that THESE are the idiots holding you back:

-- And Yet Gay People Can't Adopt in Florida: Another great example of straight parenting: www.cfnews13.com/News/Local/2007/6/25/child_left_in_stroller_at_disney_world.html

-- Well, I Sure Am Glad She's Not Incontinent: So that astronaut who drove from Houston to O-Town to kill her competition? Apparently, she was NOT wearing a diaper, or so her attorney claims, calling that the 'biggest lie'. Is it just me or shouldn't she be more mortified by her own actions? Or is that asking too much of a heterosexual in a non-traditional relationship? http://www.orlandosentinel.com/news/local/na/orl-bk-diaper062907,0,5628023.story?coll=orl_tab01_layout

-- Isn't It Romantic?: Speaking of that crazy astronaut situation (which is humiliating several innocent gay people I know who work hard for NASA. . .thank you, straight people), isn't that situation just the most romantic thing you've ever heard? Person A falls in love with Person B, who is in love also with Person C and Person A, driving Person C to load up a car with adult diapers so she can drive from Houtson to Orlando and kill Person A--or, at the very least, taze her? Sigh. I want someone to load up their car with adult diapers so they can drive to me non-stop, shitting their pants the whole way someday. Yes, that's when I'll know I'm loved. Thank you, straight people! You show us all what "natural" love looks like!

-- At Least The Bible was Nearby: I can't get over this one: the wrestler who kills not just his wife but his 7-year old child. And then, after killing them, leaves a copy of The Bible nearby. And then kills himself. This is sick and yet, you just know there are some idiot wrestling fans out there feeling sympathy for the idiot who shoved steroids down his throat and danced around in choreographed "matches", all the while wearing a speedo and faking pain. While I won't speak for the wife (who had filed for divorce and a restraining order only to then drop both issues, forgetting apparently about providing a safe haven for her child) the seven-year old deserved to have a chance to live his life without dying at the hands of a thankfully now-dead father. http://origin.dailynews.com/ci_6236796

-- And They Call Gays 'Sick and Twisted'?: I have no words. . .But I DO have a link to a website catering to those depraved heterosexual males: http://www.grannyangel.com/index.shtml

-- When You're Good, You're Good: Yet another case of a straight man exposing himself to a young girl. Only, in this case, he gets stabbed. . . and continues masturbating. http://stuff.co.nz/4103247a4560.html

Of course, not ALL straight people are irresponsible, crazy, sex-obsessed psychos.

But the majority of them sure do seem to be a bunch of irresponsible, sleazy, mindless shits, don't they?

Rules of En-Gay-Ment

2007-06-21T22:57:00.000-04:00

"I'm a horrible person, aren't I? I'm not supposed to think these types of things about my family, am I?"

"K--you don't even talk to your family. Why should you feel bad for talking about them?"

"It's just wrong. I'm being mean and shallow and superficial and I know it but I just can't help it," K explains, his voice rushed in a moment of panicked mental justification. "But I just know that every one of them--every single one of them!--is going to get off that plane decked out head to toe in godamned Red Sox shirts and ballcaps. And they will look so stupid. I mean, what is it with people and ball teams? The Teams are made up of millionaires who usually don't even live in the same city as the team they play for! Isn't there something deeper to have civic pride in? Who cares about the Boston Motherfucking Red Sox? Or the damned Yankees--"

"That's downright Southern of ya there, K. 'Damned Yankees. . ."

"Please don't mock me right now. I'm losing it. I hate that they're coming here. I really do. I don't even know how to talk to them. What do I say? What do I do? And I just know--I know!--that my father's going to take one look at me and say something like, 'Getting bald' or 'You look old' and then I'll snap back something like, 'Looks like I got the ugly gene from you.' This is not going to be good."

"How long has it been since you've seen them?"

"Not long enough apparently. Do you think there's any hope I might just vanish?"

"What do you mean by that? Like you just take off and don't--"

"Like the straight people."

"Like the straight people what? I'm so confused. You make no sense when you go crazy."

"Straight people. They always go missing. It's always the straight people. Straight women go to Target. 'Hi, I'm leaving Target now. I'll see you in five minutes. Whoops! Poof! I'm gone! Missing forever!' You never hear about gay people going missing. What is it with those damned straights? Do they have a special talent we don't know about? Or do they just have no sense of direction and get lost--forever? I mean, if that's the case--if they're too stupid to find their way home from Target--shouldn't THEY be the ones without the right to marry, and without civil rights protection? I'm just saying--"

"You can't go missing."

"I'm a horrible person. I can't believe I'm here waiting for them and regretting it. Jesus--why did I agree to this? The last time they saw me was--"

"You're panicking. You need to stop and chill out for a minute."

"Oh, I need more than a minute. I need a drink. A two-drink, minimum, actually."

"When does their plane land?"

"It landed ten minutes ago. They should be in the main terminal any minute now, I guess."

"Pull yourself together."

"Should I have made a sign? I think I should have a sign. They're not going to recognize me. And I won't recognize them. I should have a sign that reads, 'Long Lost Parents'."

"They're going to recognize you; you're their son for Chrissakes."

"I had Botox again."

"What?"

"I didn't tell you because of what happened last time, when you said it made me look like a mannequin. I had to do it. I just couldn't resist."

"You spent a thousand dollars on Botox again?"

"I needed it. Wrinkles. On my forehead. Made me look old."

"You realize that was your down payment on your dream car, right?"

"Actually, I still have that down payment set aside. The thousand I spent on Botox was my rent."

"Are you crazy?"

"Am I crazy? How long have we known each other? Don't you know the answer to that by now without my confirming it? Besides, I have the thousand for my rent, too. Financially, I'm secure. It's mentally that I'm challenged."

"How bad is the Botox this time?"

"Well, let's put it this way--the panic you hear in my voice? Not showing on my face at all."

"When did you have it done?"

"Two days ago. When you thought I couldn't have lunch with you because I had a meeting with--"

"You lied to me?"

"Oh, please. You think that was the first time I lied to you? Please. Remember when we broke up and I dated Doug, the fireman?"

"Yes."

"Total lie. I made him up. Imaginary boyfriend."

"What? You didn't really date him?"

"Did you hear what I said? I couldn't date him; he was imaginary. I couldn't help myself. I needed to make you jealous so I created someone who couldn't possibly get killed by you in one of your psycho cop moments."

"Hell, had I known then what I know today--namely, that you're crazy--I would have hunted him down just to thank him for taking you off my hands."

"S?"

"Yes?"

"Now you're the horrible person."

"You know I'm kidding. Botox Face."

"Yeah well. . . I lied about some other stuff, too. Like when I met you, I wasn't a virgin."

"You never told me that."

"Oh. That must have been someone else. Anyway, I'm sure I lied to you more than just that one time."

"That one time was spread out over six months. Didn't you date this Doug guy for six months?"

"I liked watching you get jealous. Besides, you know that old adage that one little lie just grows and grows? Well, it's true. I meant to stop after telling you that I met a hot fireman. Then we went on an imaginary date. Then we went on another date. Then we had sex. Before I knew it, we were having a full-on relationship full of drama. And it was killing you and I loved every minute of it."

"You little twisted bastard. I can't believe--"

"Fuck me."

"It's a little late for--"

"No, I mean 'fuck me' as in I see them. And, oh God. . .it's as bad as I thought. Red Sox everywhere. I gotta go."

"Call me and tell me how it goes."

"I will. Hold. S. Hold. . . ."

"Are you still there?"

"S--they just walked past me. They didn't recognize me. Is this my out? Can I go home now?"

"They walked past you?"

"I told you they wouldn't recognize me. They haven't seen me since I was eighteen. Does that mean I got old?"

"You got older but you don't look old, no."

"I love you for saying that."

"Hmm. Maybe I'm lying to you now."

"They're actually standing in place, looking for me. And they've looked past me several times. They seriously have no idea what I look like. S--this isn't normal."

"This is why you're so adorably fucked-up. Your family life is crazy."

"Yeah, well, if I look old enough to need Botox, 'adorably fucked-up' is going to look like 'pathetic' and 'screwed up loser' any day now."

"Go talk to them."

"S, really. I can't. I just turned away from them. Now I'm walking away. I can't talk to them. I really can't. You remember what that was like, right? You remember my college years, right? You remember my graduation ceremony and they weren't there, right? You--"

"Turn back around and talk to them!"

"They signed that petition against gay marriage in Massachusetts. I know because that petition is a public record and I looked into it and they were listed; name, address and all. My patrents signed it. My sister signed it. My aunt signed it. My uncle signed it. I can't talk to them, S. It goes against every ethic in me."

"You lie like a rug. You have no ethics. Now be the ballsy K I know, walk over to them and say something like what I'd expect you to say."

"Like what?"

"How about you walk up to your parents and say, 'Hi. You may not remember me because you haven't talked to me since 1990--but I'm the person who used to be known as your son'."

K stops walking, ponders this, and takes in a breath. S knows him well. That's exactly what he would say if he had the balls. And thanks to S, he finds his balls, walks back to the terminal, walks up to his parents, and does just that.

God's Nightgown! (K's Back!)

2007-05-25T20:51:00.000-04:00

In the midst of writing his own novel or, more accurately, thumbing through a thesaurus for a synonym that can replace the word "duplicates", K hears a voice he loves.

"You've got mail."

"Thank you, automated voice!" K responds as he automatically clicks on his mailbox. He's been waiting for a reply from a writer he knows: a REAL writer, K calls him. Someone who has actually published a book. Actually, three books. With a fourth coming out in June. K dated him briefly when K lived in Los Angeles and recently, on one of K's quick trips back to Los Angeles, the two had come across one another at The Grove. After an embarassing moment where K's better side emerged for a change, K laughed off the fact that R had failed to call him, just disappeared off the face of the Hollywood Hills.

"I assumed," K had told him as R began apologizing, "That I had slowly bored you to death and that someone failed to send me an invite to your funeral. I'm glad to see I'm not fatal."

They had then had a drink or two, during which R had discovered--because K had purposely let it slip--that K was finally writing that damned novel R had encouraged him to write.

"It's not going well at all, though." K had told him. "The story is great--but my punctuation is a tragic mess."

Proving he was paying attention, R later sent a grammar guide to K's Orlando home.

They've been shooting each other e-mails and laughing on the phone often since then, with R offering to read K's travesty of a manuscript and K throwing up a little each time he considers sending R a copy.

"It's not good," K tells him at least once a week.

"I'm sure it's great," R assures him. "Let me see it."

"You really want to see it?"

"I really want to see it."

"How badly do you want to see it?"

"I really, really want to see it." R growls in that sexy voice of his.

"Sometimes I think you mistake my book for my penis," K tells him, "And after the shitty way you dumped me, you'll never see that, either."

So, aside from the tense undercurrent that runs through K's bitter veins, the two have become rather chummy, with R talking K through some plot issues without ever really knowing what K is writing, and K playing the part of the coquette, promising a glance at his pantaloon of a novel he has no plans letting R read. . .unless the mess gets published someday.

Which, considering R's books are hardly masterstrokes of literary genius, is not an impossibility.

* * *

But the e-mail is not from R. It's from Crazy Widow, who he knows takes to e-mail only in the most critical situations. Crazy Widow still believes in writing letters--the type that are composed on a clean desk accented with a vase of fresh flowers, written on stationery and with fine, looping, cursive penmanship. Crazy Widow, in fact, still writes letters to all of her friends. Crazy Widow, for that matter, still mails them. Even when the letters are written to friends who live on the same street.

Crazy Widow isn't just called Crazy Widow because of those big hats she wears to the gallery openings; she's called that term of endearment because she puts so much effort into earning that term of endearment.

Like when she sent K a birthday gift of a mannequin from Barr Display, with the note, "Happy Birthday. Here's a good hard man for you."

But that's a private joke. No one in Orlando, at least, no one who has seen her pictures in Orlando Leisure on the society page, would ever believe she possesses such youthful sauce. Only those who have seen her sauced at museum and gallery openings and charity fund-raisers would believe it.

(K's mannequin now has a place of honor in the window display of a shop on Virginia Avenue owned by one of K's friends. Occasionally, K considers taking him--the mannequin, named Rinaldo, not the shop owner--out on a date, or for a spin around town in his car. Crazy Widow would enjoy that.)

And so, knowing that Crazy Widow has taken the time to log on to her computer and hunt down that Outlook account of hers and participated in the ruining of civilized people by sending--gasp!--an e-mail, K knows it's a matter of critical importance. Which, for Crazy Widow, usually means a rambling e-mail that reads, "You wouldn't believe what I saw today! A young woman in a bonnet. A beautiful straw hat with a gorgeous blue velvet bow that ran down in the back like twin streamers! What do you know? Hats are back! I singlehandedly started a fashion revolution!"

K never tells her that many young women wear them now--not so much for fashion but out of a fear of getting melanoma and dying. M has a whole collection of hats, each matching certain outfits. Hell, K wears baseball hats all the time--and, if men had a bonnet, it'd be a baseball hat. Not so much worn because of melanoma fears but because they make a man look younger to the untrained eye that hasn't yet learned that ballcaps usually hide a balding head.

But, in that instant after recognizing Crazy Widow's account name (which, for correspondents she feels close to is named "BingoSlut") K sees the subject heading and he knows it's something important:

"YOU'RE GONNA HATE THIS!"

At first he thinks, "Oh. She's writing about Rosie O'Donnell leaving 'The View.'"

But then. . . he opens her e-mail. And, yes, true to Crazy Widow's psychic prediction, K does indeed hate what she has to tell him.

* * *

"GWTW III Blows Into Bookstores This November" the pasted news article reads.

K is dismayed. Another sequel to his favorite novel. He has known of this sequel for years but silently hoped--withoutguilt--that the chosen author, Donald McCaig, would die before he could finish it. K had always hoped he himself would be picked from obscurity to write a sequel worthy of the original. The first sequel, "Scarlett" was a disaster. K, who had begun writing his own version of a sequel a few years back, in the months after he left X, only to give it up after realizing that it was a pointless project: without the rights to the characters and the blessing of the Margaret Mitchell Estate, his little project was futile. And so he had given it up and tucked it away, with it's sole reader being Crazy Widow herself who, having a fascination with "Gone With the ind" herself, told him pointedly, "This is what a sequel should have been. You need to finish this and show this to that greedy family. They can't not publish it. Finish it!"

But K had insisted it was pointless and never resumed his work on it, turning his attention instead to various screenplays and novels and the occasional magazine article. (And, of course, a blog with a few frustrated subscribers who he loves and appreciates dearly, dearies.)

And so, seeing that the second sequel, laughably and annoyingly titled, "Rhett Butler's Peopke" is set to be issued in November, K is filled with both jealousy and contempt. A.) He feels strongly that there should be no sequel. "Scarlett", thankfully, has become so highly disregarded that it is no longer in print, unlike the original novel which inspired it, B.) He feels that if there is a sequel written and puvlished, it should be HIS and C.) He sees that this sequel is told from Rhett Butler's point of view--an annoyingly unoriginal idea. In recent years, too many have taken this type of approach: most successfully, "Wicked" telling the story of "The Wizard of Oz" from the Wicked Witch's perspective. And now "Gone With the Wind would be told from Rhett Butler's perspective.

How annoying.

Wouldn't that be like telling K's story from X's perspective?

"Actually, that might be interesting," K admits.

But that "Gone With the Wind" sequel is just a bad idea. Leave it alone, he wants to tell the estate. They're ruining the legacy of a great book by issuing sequels thoughtlessly. A thoughtful, heartfelt sequel written by someone who understands the character of Scarlett O'Hara and her society would be fine--but K refuses to conceive of the idea that anyone but he can write it.

After typing out a reply to Crazy Widow, he starts to forward the article on to R but, as he does so, he hears that lovely voice again:

"You've Got Mail."

"Thank you, sexy AOL Man," K purrs.

He minimizes his e-mail to R and sees, with a laugh, that R has just e-mailed him.

As if to prove he's paid attention to K, the subject heading is, "Have You Heard About GWTW 3?"

If K were in Los Angeles, K would hop in his car and drive up into the hills to kiss R.

Instead, he calls him on the phone and asks, "Tell me again--Why didn't we work out?"

I'm Getting Old

2007-03-13T22:42:00.000-04:00

It just dawned on me that with the Downtown Triple Play about to start, that I am an antique. Yes. A 35-year old antique.

No, I'm not being melodramatic; I'm really young compared to most of my boyfriends who typically die before they even get to first base. in fact, I'm so young, I still think in terms like "First base."

But, at 35, I'm old enough to remember when there was no Orlando Arena. I'm old enough to remember it being built. And now, apparently, I'm old enough to hear it called, "antiquated" and "outdated."

The damned thing isn't even 20 years old.

If it went out to a bar, it would need a fake ID.

And now it's being torn down. Not right away, but that seems, unfortunately, to be it's fate as soon as the new arena is built.

But here's another thing that concerns me: when the current arena was built, it was considered state-of-the-art. How did it become outdated in just a few decades? How did it become so useless that we now need to spend $300 million (budgeted, actual will be much higher) to replace it with an all-new arena? And why, if we're building a new arena, are we building something on scale with Mempphis and Providence? Our growth pattern indicates a need for ammenities more on the scale of a Dallas or a Mami; why do our civic leaders keep comparing us to current-day Tampa? Is it because, in another 20 years, they're hoping the new arena will also need to be torn down and their name will be emblazoned on it's replacement? Shouldn't we build for the future Orlando rather than an Orlando that will have outgrown the new construction a few short years after the new arena is built? (The State seems to think so: widening and improving traffic flow on I-4 is it's road improvement project #1.)

And yes, I'm opposed to the $300 million refurbishment being planned for the Citrus Bowl. Woo-hoo! More flea markets and one football game a year. Why bother? Spend a good chunk of that $300 million on making the type of arean Orlando's going to need five or ten years after the new arena is built, increasing the new arean budget to $500 mill and making the Citrus Bowl do it's refurbishment on a measly $100 mill. Even with the expansion of the Citrus Bowl, it won't attract a Super Bowl. So why bother? We don't have a local football team, it's not even a goal to attract one, so why are we spending money on something that, in it's current very-usable state, is empty and eventless more than 96% of the year? The arena makes sense: we have a basketball team, we attract concerts (though many are passing us by thanks to the current arena's "antique" state), we attract conventions, and so on. But a football stadium? Why bother?

You can check out the official Triple Play site here and, via links, see the entire deck for each of the new facilities being built: the new arena, the enlarged Citrus Bowl, and the new Performing Arts Center. http://www.projecthometown.com/

* * *

Lovely Lou Pearlman's disaster of a makeover (Church Steet) goes on the auction block on April 5th! Here's hoping a developer interested in refurbishing and reviving Church Street to it's historical roots--not trampling all over them as Pearlman did--gets it. Placeholder bonds start at $1.5 million. At 2pm, downtown Orlando's future takes a turn for the better or a turn for the worst, depending on what developer snatches it up--and whether they decide to raze that great complex or make it live up to all of it's promise.

* * *

My favorite annual event takes place this weekend: the Winter Park Art Festival. This follows the Winter Park City Commissions vote on whether light rail will stop on Park Avenue. (The fears of Park Avenue becoming a haven for the homeless via the coming-soon light rail is ridiculous. The trains aren't going to be free.) No word yet what the vote came down to; I'm hoping the rail does get a Park Avenue stop. It'll ensure Park Ave stays alive. (Think it's healthy now? Yes, it is. Think it can't die? Think again. It was just as healthy in the late 80's and died in the mid-90's, allowing all the chains to move in. ) And it will allow the underprivileged access to museums and culture. (As a formder "poor kid" who used to take the subway into Boston to go to musuems and better myself, I'm all for it. Somehwerre out there is a kid who wishes he were just a train ride away from The Morse and the Cornell.

Be sure to check out this year's Spring Art Festival. Even if you know nothing about art, you'll be impressed by the range of artists, mediums, and pieces on display. A great, do-not-miss event.

Random O-Town Rants

2007-03-07T20:29:00.000-05:00

--With the Downtown Triple Play about to become reality, what to do with the current Arena? How about keeping the shell but gutting the insides for a new home for the Orlando Museum of Art? With our population, the OMA's allegedly huge collection (which they complain about but never have enough sense to rotate), and an empty arena (once the new arena is built), how about taking this public space and converting it into a true "big city" art museum? It worked when the beautiful Orange County Courthouse (minus the garish 1960's annex) was refurbished and turned into The Orange County Regional History Center, one of the South's most honored museums. While the area the Arena currently sits in isn't as pretty as Loch Haven Park, where the OMA is situated now, the OMA also wouldn't need that enormous parking lot that separates the Arena from Lake Dot. Tear it up. Keep the parking to the rear--where the new Parramore District is rising. Put a lawn between the Arena and Lake Dot, creating a pedestrian-friendly area and a green buffer between the museum and Colonial Drive. the building is large enough to hold four to five stories, countless galleries--and rather than having that allegedly enormous collection stored in warehouses, it can be put on display for the public to see. How about it Mayor Dyer? Or would you rather have your buddy, Lou Pearlman, try to do for the Arena what he did for Church Street?

-- Speaking of museums, can someone out there encourage the local museums to put a freaking cafe inside any of them? With the exception of The Morse (which may not have a cafe inside but is surrounded by sidewalk cafes) all other museums in town have nowhere to catch a mid-museum trip drink. Or a light lunch. Go to any big city, any good museum, and you have an option to stop mid-cruise, take a break, enjoy the ambiance, and reflect on what you've seen thus far. In -Town, you better drink and eat up first because it might be hours before you can do anything but grab a sip from a filthy water fountain. Come on, O-Town--get with the program. (Particularly the OMA, which has space RESERVED for a cafe but has never convinced anyone to go into the space set aside for one.)

-- Sea World's third park, Aquatica, was announced formally this week. Yes, it's been under construction for two years--following a particularly bitter fight with the neighbors in Williamsburg (the most off-putting neighborhood name in O-Town; a name more suitable for Virgina than the tropical Orlando area)--but this week saw the first public unveiling of the plans for the park, from the amazing "lazy river" tube that cuts through dolphin tanks, to two simulated beach fronts, and so on. Looks good! Looks fun! And looks like Sea World is continuing it's successful infiltration into the Disney Dollar: plans are for Aquatica to be offered more heavily to existing Sea World and Busch Gardens guests rather than marketed to the public. In short: Convincing visitors to spend three or more days at Sea World, vi sting Sea World, Discovery Cove, Busch Gardens, and Aquatica. Sort of a way to fight Disney's market-grabbing multi-day tickets. It'll be an interesting fight, given Sea World's impressive number of improvements over the years and it's vastly improved image.

-- The rumoured fifth park at Disney looks like it's not happening--at least, not yet. All that land being cleared on the west side of the property is\, as was recently announced, for an enormous Four Seasons/Disney resort, and a neighborhood of rental homes surrounding a "new vision" of a retail/entertainment complex. More details are to be released soon, including the branding of the new complex but the project is so large (the Four Seasons alone occupies over 400 acres), that it will be built in stages over the next eight years. Here's hoping the retail/entertainment complex" is more like Los Angeles' The Grove rather than Disney's Crossroads strip mall. And here's hoping that fifth park gets underway soon--and can I plead a case for the Disney's America park? (Hey, if the moronic Virginians don't want it, send the jobs, the tourist-driven economy, and tax money our way!)

-- By the way, even with all this new development, Disney still will have built on only 30% of all their Florida land.

-- Anna Nicole Smith is still dead. But watch Entertainment Tonight as this condition might likely change and Mark Steines will surely report all about it--either way.

-- Is it just me or has George Clooney gotten hotter with age? I have a new crush.

-- Mitt Romney is a fuck-head. For anyone foolish enough to believe the Repugs were being "gay-friendly" in getting all worked up over Ann Coulter's "fag" remark about John Edwards, keep in mind that the Repugs don't give a shit about your rights. Hell, Mitt Romney, who called her remarks, "inappropriate", is the asshole who wants to make sure Massachusetts gays lose the right to marry. How is THAT appropriate?

-- Fuck gay Republicans. Just felt like saying it.

-- One Republican who's not so repugnant? Dan Zwonitzer, of Wyoming, who not only supports gays' right to marry but stated, to the Wyoming House Committee in regard to an anti-gay marriage amendment, "'I will tell my children that when this debate went on, I stood up for basic rights for people" in order to explain that he did not care if his support for the gay community cost him his political career. There, at last, is what a true leader of the people looks like. Pussybama and Hillary, take note.

-- Is it just me or is it ironic that the same cronies who tell us to support our troops never bothered to notice that the DC-area hospital that treats those troops is rat-infested and over-ridden with infectious mold? Don't our troops deserve better?

Interior Decor that Really Sucks

2007-03-04T16:18:00.000-05:00

An overstylish queen sits on an overstylish sofa in a sleek, white room. (His white suit, by the way, likely working in unison with the white sofa and background to make himself look thinner than he is.

The overstylish diva announces that the vacuum he has designed is so beautiful, you'll want to leave it on your coffee table.

"Fuck YOU!" I say to him.

Now we have to have stylish vacuums?

Sadly, you just know there's some stupid bitch out there rushing out to buy one so that they have the latest objet d'art--one that sucks.

* * *

It's called Kone. Here's the product description--and my random thoughts:

"The Dirt Devil KONE is a cordless hand vacuum unlike any you''ve seen."

The fact that it's a handheld vacuum is enough to make me look away, quite frankly. And the use of a quotation mark where an apostrophe should be is another.

"Dirt Devil had famed product designer Karim Rashid create an elegant, sculptural form that can be left on display - on your table, shelf, or counter."

Because nothing says "CLASSY" like a handheld vacuum sitting on your coffee table.

"That way, your hand vac will always be charged. "

And I'll trip over the wire when I'm walking past the coffee table!!!

"Always ready. "

Is this really a crisis for people? 'Oh, I can't vauum. My vacuum isn't charged?' People--if this really happens to you, might I suggest a vacuum that operates ON A PLUG???

"No more searching a closet only to find an unplugged unit. "

Because one NEVER wants to find an unplugged unit in a closet. Or a wire hanger.

"KONE, It''s the new shape of clean."

It's the new shape of stupid pretentiousness. (And AGAIN with the quotation mark in place of an apostrophe! You're KILLING me, Dust Devil!)

Forgive me. I'm in a bad mood. I don't know why pretentious gay men in white suits trying to make us believe that a vacuum is a work of art suitable for my coffee table bothers me so much. Perhaps because I've been made to feel like shit by one too many pretentious gay men who think art is only art if sold at Z Gallerie? (No offense to Z Gallerie--but when people think browsing at Z Gallerie is the same as visiting a museum, I want to do a Mexican hat danhce on their testicles.) or maybe I'm just too practical? I think a vacuum belongs either out and in use OR, when not in use, in the closet you've assigned to such things as vacuums, dusters, brooms, and mops. And no matter how "beautiful" it is --and I LOVE my Hoover!--it should never be put on display. (Which reminds me of the time I was at the OMA and saw bespectacled, sandaled men observing the symmetrical layout and the aestehetics of an art installation of chairs--only it was no installation, but rather, chairs. To sit upon. So, to their shrieking horror and my hearty amusement, I did.)

So, anyway. . . if you want art for your coffee table, buy a favrile vase, buy some nice pottery that goes with your style. Buy a nice plate or some impressive candleholders. And if you need a vacuum, buy something that works. But don't be a moron and confuse the two.

Because if I meet you and things work out and I end up at your place and I find the Kone vacuum sitting in the center of your coffee table. . .date over.

End of pointless bitching.

Ann Coulter is a Cunt

2007-03-03T17:29:00.000-05:00

While not yet a complete fan of John Edwards. . . I am now a passionate admirer of his wife who, responding to Ann Coulter's "(John Edwards) is a total fag" comment, has this to say:

"When Miss Coulter spoke about John at the conservative convention in Washington yesterday, she used a word that she intended as a nasty and derogatory suggestion. John and I have long ago shrugged off the vile words of this person. When she made a joke about the exact moment of death of Charlie Dean (Howard's brother and a schoolmate of mine), and when she attacked the courageous 9-11 widows, she told you all you need to know about what she is made of: her compassion -- or lack thereof. Now we need to find out about you.
Although her words did not hurt us, they may have hurt some in the gay community. We are all sick and tired of anyone supporting or applauding or introducing hate words into the national dialogue, tired of people thinking that words that cause others pain are fair game. And we are sick and tired of people like Miss Coulter thinking that her use of loaded words about the homosexual community in this country is remotely humorous or appropriate.
John gave a graduation speech at NC State several years ago, and in it he said that none of us can stand by when words of bigotry and division are used. It is only when the rest of us stand up and say that this is not acceptable that we drum out the hate-mongers from amongst us. The first reaction in the room at the conservative convention yesterday was a gasp -- a horrified gasp, even -- but it did not last. In a few seconds, those who were not horrified started clapping and drowned out the gasps.
Now it is our turn to drown out the hate. Find a way -- whether it is contribution here that sends a message to Miss Coulter and those who applauded her (which, of course, I prefer) or whether it is a statement on this blog or others or all of the above -- but please find a way not to sit silent in acceptance. It doesn't change until we say we will not be silent when this happens."

Nice to see one of the Democrats--or, at least, the spouse of one of the Democrats--take the fight against anti-gay bigotry right into the Repug's court, and do so without apology or pussy-footing about.

Just a month ago, I thought Edwards was too walk-the-middle on gay issues. Right now, thanks to his wife's public and official statement (posted on the Edwards campaign site), he's miles ahead of the pack. (Pussybama and Hilary, take note.)

Edwards blog: http://blog.johnedwards.com/story/2007/3/3/133240/0355

Rhett & Scarlett to Ride Again. . .

2007-02-26T19:44:00.000-05:00

Yes, I've heard the news--several e-mails were jammed in my inbox giving me the link. And I know that if this were any other story I'd be rolling my eyes and saying, "Whatever. there are REAL things to worry about, people!"

But Hugh Jackman as Rhett Butler?

I'll be damned!

For those who "don't know nuthin' 'bout" what I'm talking about, The Margaret Mitchell Estate--otherwise known as the people who never follow the wishes of the woman who made them all heirs and heiresses and who continue to farm out her work of art to finance their extravagant lives--have now sold the theatrical (as in "the The-ay-tuh," not as in "the movies") rights to "Gone With the Wind.

However, don't read the news if you want the true scoop. The press releases all state that this will be the first musical production of Gone With the Wind.

How so not true.

"Scarlett" was a 1960's-era Japanese adaptation that still plays in--surprise, surprise--Japan. In fact, you can check it out in ten segments on You Tube. And yes, all the characters are played by women. Even Rhett.

Then, in the 1970's, there was another musical version, this time in England with plans of bringing it to the States. Those plans fizzled when the play flopped. Having heard the soundtrack to that show, one can blame two things--the music (which was horrendous) and the near-impossible attempt to encapsulate a 1,037 page book into a musical whose songs slowed down the story rather than sped it along or added any depth.

And the last attempt to translate GWTW to the stage took place in France, in 2004. That result, "Autant En Emporte Le Vent" is actually pretty damned good, if taken as a loose translation of the original Margaret Mitchell novel. It does the great by giving the slave characters a voice and a point of view lacking in the novel, but the singer/actress who was chosen to play Scarlett O'Hara was the producer's daughter. . .Enough said about her vocal abilities. But the choreography, staging and the music--which can best be described more as pop--was thoroughly modern. But it was undertaken with great care and, though the lyrics are slight and sometimes too simplistic, it seems to have been a labor of love. The only true drawback is that the cast comes across as too young and perhaps given the jobs for no other reason than to bring in a teen audience.

And so now we arrive at this newest attempt to bring Rhett and Scarlett to the stage, and the plan, thus far, is to debut the show in London's West End before sending it across the pond to the Great White Way.

The producers have said some pretty contradictory things so far--and it was just their first press release:

They say they want their musical to be a closer adaptation of the novel than the movie was.

Hello. The characters never broke out in song in the novel. How closely can you follow the book and still have musical numbers? Also, you'll be hard-pressed to find any other book that adapted to the screen as well as Gone With the Wind did. Although tons of plotlines, characters and scenes had to be cut while adapting the 1,000-plus page story, one never feels they've missed a thing when seeing the movie; the adaptation was that incredible. the movie is a great achievement for that reason alone--adapting a well-loved book to the screen is nearly impossible without infuriating those who love the original source material. I've never met any admirer of the book who felt that way about the 1939 film.

The producers also say that they want to frame the story in the eyes of the slaves.

Hold. And you think this is staying true to the book? While I loved Autant En Emporte Le Vent's allowing the slaves to damn God and their masters for enslaving them and for showing the black point of view, there is no black point of view in the novel at all. While I would love to have seen that corrected, to claim that there is any opinion given from an African-American character in the novel is preposterous. If anything, the novel degrades blacks. (However, I always have to point out that if every book or movie or television show featuring inflammatory characterizations of gays were to be banned, etc. there would be little to watch or read.) I love Gone With the Wind, book and film. But there is no black viewpoint at any point in either version.

The producers want Hugh Jackman to star.

Okay, I get it. He's got box office--movie and stage. He's mega-talented; the man can not just sing, he can belt. And he's not just handsome, he's hot. But there's someone else I'd rather see as Rhett Butler--who, for those who have ever wondered, "What kind of guy do YOU like, Otownguy?" will find their answer in Rhett Butler's wit-matching and tramping abilities--and that actor is not Hugh Jackman.

I say, give it to a Southern boy. Someone who has an authentic Southern accent. Someone whose got that debonair, elegant thing down, but who knows his way around a tune and can belt with the best of them.

I say, Harry Connick, Jr. for the role of Rhett Butler.

Oh, yes.

He's just as handsome as Jackman, he's a gentleman, the public generally loves him--particularly after all of his good deeds following Hurricane Katrina--he's a solid musician and has succeeded in two hit Broadway shows.

Plus, I sorta look like him.

Okay, I haven't been confused for him since the early 90's but still. . . the man's got it. So, until final word comes down that Hugh Jackman has signed on the dotted line I say, if they want this thing to hit big, give it to Harry Connick, Jr. and trust him to deliver a Rhett Butler that will have the ladies--and quite a lot of us guys--frankly wishing he'd give a damn about us.

If the musical has to be made--and the greed of the Mitchell Estate will see that one puts more money in their pockets, even though Marget Mitchell herself detested the idea of her book ever being staged as a musical and sued to stop one--at least do it right, and put a Southern hottie in the part of the hottest man in literature.

Just a Few Rants. . .

2007-02-25T12:23:00.000-05:00

Enough already with coverage of Anna Nicole Smith's death and Britney Spears' apparent crazy-streak. First of all, Anna Nicole Smith did nothing good with her life--all of her fame was for her own use, not for the benefit of anyone else, least of all the queens mourning over her death as if she were a modern-age Christ. Same with Britney--for all the queens out there, transfixed by her meltdown, I have to ask, "Why care?" She, also, has done NOTHING for you, unlike her peer, Christina Aguilera, who portrayed gays in a positive light in her "Beautiful" video, acknowledges her gay audience and, lest you forget, was also part of the infamous "Madonna kiss", which seems to be the only gay thing Brit's ever done.

Enough already.

What some of you should be thinking and worrying about and fretting over with your overdramatic pearl-cluthing is the following: a 72 year old man was beaten with a lead pipe because he was perceived as being gay.

If this means nothing to you, if the death of Anna Nicole Smith and the meltdown of a pampered pop princess still mean more to you, get your head checked.

Take a look at this man. And then tell me that he deserved to have his life snuffed out by some insane bastard who felt that a gay person needs to be beaten to death with a lead pipe.

Also in the real news--and not the Entertainment Tonight/publicist-fueled "news"--Barbara Gittings, one of the nation's premier leaders in the fight for gay and lesbian equality, has passed away at the age of 75.

Of course, you probably wouldn't have heard anything about that, because ABC, CBS, and NBC are too busy convincing the world that Anna Nicole Smith and Britnet Spears are more important topics. And you're too busy making them the topics of your own conversations.

Shame on you.

V-Day in O-Town

2007-02-14T22:38:00.000-05:00

K is driving up I-4 when his cell rings. He taps that annoying Blue-tooth thing clipped around his ear and says, "K here. What up?"

"I'm at this place called Pep Boys. It's Valentine's Day and I'm at a place called Pep Boys." N tells him, mild trauma infiltrating his voice.

"Are you getting new tires?" K asks, adding dryly, "Or some really cool under-carraige neon lighting? That's so hot."

"I thought it was a new gay bar."

"Haha. What are you doing at Pep Boys?"

"On Valentine's Day."

"Yes, on Valentine's Day. What are you doing at Pep Boys on Vanletine's Day?"

"Seeing a world I never knew existed. I'm at the Pep Boys in Kissimmee."

K can not hide his repulsion. "Kissimmee? You're in Kissimmee?"

"At a Pep Boys."

"A Pep Boys in Kissimmee?"

"On Valetine's Day."

"You're such a loser," K tells him, laughing.

"Come get me. My car won't be ready for another two hours. I hate it here. I'm considering walking down the street to go shopping."

"Shopping? In Kissimmee?"

"Yeah. At the 7-Eleven. It's all they have," N explains. "I've already checked out the Circle K. . ."

"Ugh. I hate Kissimmee."

"So do I. You need to come keep me company."

"I don't do Kissimmee," K explains. "I have an aversion to men in white sheets. Although," he adds, "The soft lighting from the burning crosses does compliment my skin tone. . ."

"Please come get me," N pleads. "Or else I'm gonna end up buying a can of New Car Scent. At a Pep Boys. In Kissimmee. On Valentine's Day."

* * *

"Your boss," K tells N when they drive out of the pot-hole speckled Pep Boys parking lot, "Owes you a day off for this--sending you to Kissimmee and having your tire pop."

"My boss is an asshole," N tells him.

"My boss is in Paris," K beams. "Paris, France. For six effing months. No boss! For six months."

"I know," N reminds him, "You bring that up every chance you get. Boss-free for six months. How's it going?"

"I miss her," K admits. "We hate all the same people." K switches lanes to avoid a tourist-created slow-down--Canadians gawking at Old Town.

"So, what do you want to do?" N asks, sneering at the slow-driving family they pass, "It's Valentine's Day."

"I know it's Valentine's Day," K tells him, "But this is a non-holiday to me. Like Kwanzaa."

"Valentine's Day isn't like Kwanzaa."

"Am I dating anyone?" K asks. "Am I black? No and no. Therefore, Valentine's Day nd Kwanzaa? Both have the same relevance."

"I'm not dating anyone and I love Valentine's Day," N argues. "Let's go to Celebration and see if we can meet any other single guys avoiding being alone on Valentine's Day."

"In Celebration?" K asks, aghast. "Celebration is all families."

"Yeah," N says, "But there's a mild gay contingent there. Plus, it's close by. And it's not Kissimmee."

And so K and N drive further down the annoying stretch of cluttered, trashy, Vegas-like 192, through Kissimmee's cramped, decaying, and tacky tourist strip toward beautiful, safe, old-fashioned Clebration.

* * *

"If we both walk down the middle of the street," K informs N, "It will be the biggest gay pride parade Celebration, Florida's ever seen."

"We're here. We're Queer. And we have no dates on Valentine's Day!" N laughs.

"You know what's really pathetic?" K asks N. "Mark Foley is probably getting fucked tonight. Our gay and in the closet governor, Kiki Crist, is probably seeing some man-on-man action. And we're walking around Celebration."

"It's pretty here," N offers.

"Yeah. It is." K isn't distracted for long by the lake or the sidewalk restaurants, their heaters blazing against the quickening chill. "X is probably with whoever he's dating this week. S is with that new guy he's seeing."

"Mr. Fop is with Whats-His-Face."

"Eh, fuck 'em all."

"Yeah," N agrees. "So now what do we talk about?"

"Did you hear about how there are some doctors who think that lilac and other floral scents in shampoos are causing young boys to grow breasts?"

"You're making that up."

"No, I'm not," K tells him. "And it's a good thing I heard about it, too, because, just the other day, I sprouted a vagina. Now I know it's time to change my shampoo."

* * *

After a few hours, K brings N back to the Pep Boys on 192 in Kissimmee. N's car still isn't ready so they walk over to the 7-Eleven and each buys the other a tiny Russel Stover heart of chocolates and a tiny red Valentine's Day teddy bear. They each pop open their respective hearts and pop chocolates into their mouths.

"This is such a Kissimmee Valentine's Day," K tells N. "Two guys sitting on a car in a Pep Boys parking lot, eating Valentine's Day candy and holding red teddy bears."

"Next year--" N warns K, "We better each be dating somebody."

"I hear Kiki Crist is available," K says, popping a caramel into his mouth. "Maybe I'll be Florida's First Gentleman next year."

Does Church Street Have a Prayer?

2007-02-12T20:59:00.000-05:00

While the sinking of Lou Pearlman's TransCon is hardly good news for those who work there--or anyone whose income is impacted by TransCon's demise--at least it signals the end of a blight on O-Town's history: the infamous Hood/Pearlman/Dyer deal that sank one of the most-character-laden parts of Orlando and stripped it bare of it's charm.

When the wrought iron railings and balconies came down from the Church Street buildings, re-inventing landmark structures as just another bland block of buildings, a part of O-Town's history came down with them. The Bumby building--the oldest structure in Orlando (and a sole remnant of a blaze that burned tint Orlando to the ground in the late 1800's--lost all traces of it's roots, aside from the "Bumby" nameplate--and is now a TooJay's. Nothing against TooJay's; it's the best Jewish deli in town. But why couldn't the best Jewish deli in town operate in one of the most historic buildings in town--and play off that building's charms? Instead, those charms, from the snapping wood of the floors, to the hitching posts out front, to the New Orleans-like iron railings and enormous shutters, were trashed and the place transformed into something that has as much architectural interest as a paper cup. Of course, it wasn't TooJay's that caused that; they rented the space. The destruction came at the hands of Lou Pearlman, who apparently felt that an antique look to Church Street was to blame for it's decay, forgetting that since Bob Snow had sold the complex of shops and nightclubs, it's subsequent managers had mismanaged the place to it's death.

Well, with Pearlman now evading the law--or so it seems, with his disappearance to Europe just as a nice little investigation begins into his finances--and rumours abounding that several developers are poised to take advantage of a possible foreclosure on the Church Street tract, it looks like there might be a miracle about to take place on Church Street. In fact, judging from several comments made by a few of those developers, who are publicly acknowledging an interest in the property, it looks like Church Street, which now barely measures a pulse, might stand a pretty good chance at a long-overdue revival.

* * *

The day I first moved to O-Town was also my eighteenth birthday. I spent it at Church Street, getting drunk. (I had a great fake ID card.) When I headed downtown to do some research at the library for one of my college courses, I would usually stroll the few blocks from Central to Church and browse the stores at the Exchange, sometimes playing a few rounds of pinball or Whack-A-Mole at the arcade. Sometimes I got cruised; I met a very handsome South African investment banker there one day while munching down a burger in the food court of the Church Street Marketplace. (Having the Sun Trust Building plopped down right next to Church Street made it a great place to meet wealthy, curious men from, what seemed to an untravelled, impressionable teen to be romantic, far-off places.) I was offered a "modeling" deal there on another visit by two British businessmen. (Sensing a.) I wasn't even that good looking at my peak to bother with and b.) that I was experiencing a Coco Hernandez moment, I declined.) Some friends worked at various shops there; for a very long--excruciatingly long--period, I mocked my grandfather's Irish brogue at House of Ireland, a trinket shop in the Church Street Exchange, begging customers to come inside to "buy anything. If ya spend twenty dollars, I'll give ya a Rivehdance, I will!" My friend Amy used to hawk mystical stones at a Marketplace cubby-hole that paid her $6.50 an hour (at a time when Gap was paying me $4.75 to hustle my butt adding on belts, socks, and duffle bags). Neither of us taking the whole thing seriously, I'd stand in the corner, grinning, as she made up powers for each stone to customers who might have come in doubters but left believers: somewhere in this world, there's some woman who still believes that piece of glass she bought from Amy will bring her an ability to see things in life with clarity. . . eventually.

There were loud, boisterous men who would polish your shoes, dancing while they did so, putting on a show for you and everyone else, all the while making your worn-out dress shoes that you couldn't afford to replace--tuition will be due in just a few months--but which would look brand-new thanks to their buff-and-shine. Acrobats and street-entertainers filled the place day and night. Street musicians filled the air with bluesy jazz--and an occasional bagpipe. (I remember the day I was seated outside the Marketplace bookstore and recognized "My Lagan Love.")

But then the changes came and, slowly, Church Street lost it's charm. It became a sad place, and no one wants to keep going to a place that was once so jovial and thrilling and see it sad and slowly breaking down. Storefronts began to empty. The three stories of Church Street Exchange slowly became vacant, with House of Ireland holding on til the end. ("May ya be in Heaven half an hour before the devil knows ya dead!") The Marketplace quickly founds it's stream of glass windows boarded up. "For Rent", "For Lease" and other signs went up. Rosie O'Grady's Good Time Emporium came down. The place sat vacant. And then along came Lou Pearlman with a deal to revive it--if the City gave him numerous concessions.

There's been no revival. No one goes to Church Street these days. There's nothing there but businesses that survive on the property's proximity to other exciting parts of downtown. TooJay's is great--but TooJay's has another downtown location to dine at. Church Street is, to an entire generation, just a sad strip of buildings that used to be something great. Stripped of the details that made them magical, they're just old buildings.

The wrought iron is gone, history forgotten, crowds non-existent, and good-times a thing of the past.

Thank you, Lou Pearlman.

* * *

With TransCon dying, one developer (Kuhn) has publicly stated they'd love to revive the whole property--to apply a real vision to the place and to bring back it's former glamour. The Exchange would only be transformed from three floors of office space (a disastrous use of such a beautiful building that once housed two floors of shops and restaurants and a third floor arcade) to one floor of retail--and two floors of gorgeous residential space. The shops and nightclubs would be brought back. And with the new arena going in just a block away, the new performing arts center just three blocks away so, hopefully, would the crowds.

Everyone deserves a youth on Church Street. it would be great to see the street that was so quintessentially Orlando returned to being something Orlando can be proud of.

Let's all pray.

Review: This Exhibit Not Worth the Wind

2007-02-01T21:52:00.001-05:00

When the Orange County Regional History Center, one of the area's best museums, announced it was planning an exhibit covering "Gone With the Wind," many locals wondered why they'd do such a thing. After all, the reasoning went, Orlando isn't even mentioned in the book or movie--both of which are set in Atlanta. The closest connection between Orlando and GWTW is that both were part of the Confederacy--and given that, at the time of the Civil war, Orlando's population was a measly 23--and that includes horses--even that reasoning seemed pretty thin. But the exhibit, which opens tomorrow (following tonight's special Opening Gala which I, being a GWTW fanatic of course attended) seems even more pointless and lost than originally feared.

True, it eventually made some sort of sense: it's considered a portion of the OCHC's special Civil War exhibit, which is the largest exhibit of it's kind ever organized in Florida and ranks as one of the largest ever pulled together in the South.

Now the GWTW exhibit at the museum, unfortunately, is smaller than the GWTW exhibit in my freaking bathroom.

Allow me to explain for those who haven't been to my house. I have a rule: If you're a collector of something, be discreet about it. Otherwise, your decor will look freakishly garish. No one wants to sit in a Star Wars living room, say, or a Harry Potter Potty. And those M&M home decor items belong in one room only--and defintely NOT the kitchen. So with my GWTW collection, I make it a point to exhibit the items in only two rooms: a bedroom and a bathroom. Otherwise, you don't see it.

If you go to the OCHC to see their GWTW exhibit, you might think I came along and told them to do the same thing because you might find yourself asking a docent, as did I, "Where's the rest of the exhibit?"

The damned thing consists of only a few truly interesting items: a signed letter from GWTW author, Margaret Mitchell, a signed copy of a Dutch edition of her book, and Vivien Leigh's contract to play Scarlett. Other than those three articles, there's little of note and everything is just mashed together with no point. Four costumes from the film make an appearance--but they're reproductions.

You read that right. Reproductions. In a museum. Which is sort of like hosting a Monet exhibit and, instead of having the original canvasses, pinning up posters from Deck the Walls.

True, the costumes are dead-on reproductions and I dare you not to crack a grin when you see the green velvet dress which Scarlett makes out of her mother's drapes in the depth of her poverty, but even that amusement comes from your own knowledge of the story: the exhibit fails to frame anything with it's importance to the story or it's continuing relevance (that particular dress was spoofed on an episode of Carol Burnett's variety program and earned the longest-recorded laugh in TV history, for instance). But the point is, this is a museum exhibit and the items shown are reproductions.

Oh, and there are dolls. Big whoop. I hate dolls. But here's the deal: If I had seen a complete collection of GWTW dolls, I might have been impressed and looked at the display to see the dfifferences between them. Instead, the exhibit visitor finds only five or six dolls from different programs, all jumbled together with no explanation. The Hollywood Barbie series, of which there are four Scarlett's and one Rhett, is represented by only one doll. And it's paired up with other Scarlett dolls from Franklin Mint, etc. But only a collector already armed with that knowledge knows that. Signage is not present.

And the promised gallery of lobby posters from around the world?

Yep. reproductions. And bad ones. So bad, you swear the curator googled GWTW and blew up whatever thumbnails she found.

Again. . .there's a better exhibit elsewhere in town. Come check out my bathroom. (At least mine are genuine posters and not blown up thumbnails.)

Other than that. . . there's nothing of note. There are many written plates to read but nothing to look at. And a book report on Gone With the Wind, engraved on museum-quality plates, does not an exhibit make.

To read the promotional material hyping the exhibit, you'd expect more. The marketing certainly sounded cohesive: an examination of the enduring appeal of this classic story, beloved, hated; an examination of it's mythology, it's magic, and it's continuing impact.

They must mean the exhibit in one of my rooms at home--which, by the way, I offered up to them but which was refused because they had signed an exclusivity deal with Dr. Chris Sullivan, of Georgia.

I still have no idea what Sullivan gave them that was worth that call, because I, and a few others, found ourselves more than a bit displeased with what the OCHC is flaunting as a major exhibit.

Here's what they offer:
2 copies of the novel--one from Denmark, one from the US.
4 reproduction costumes (loaned out by some university in Texas)
1 partial contract signed by Vivien Leigh
6 mismatched dolls
30 horribly distorted reproductions of movie posters
18 plaques loaded with words talking about what should have been displayed and isn't.

Here's what I offered them:
-- A genuine first-edition of the novel
-- A copy of each paperback edition ever printed, dating back to 1939 (about 30 different volumes)
-- A copy of each US hardback edition ever printed, including special slipcased editions, special leather-bound editions, etc. (about 30 more volumes) This alone shows how the book's look has changed ovder the years and how important it is, to be available in so many different editions--and never going out of print in over 70 years.
-- A copy of numerous international editions, from black-market copies printed in the Soviet Union (where the book was banned) to copies from Israel, Estonia, China, Japan, Brazil, Argentina, the Netherlands, Australia, Poland, Italy, Germany, France, Hungary, Turkey, and so on. (Estimating around 25 volumes)
-- Several original lobby posters, dating from 1939 through the 1940's, 50's, 60's, 70's, up to the 50th anniversary release in 1989 and the theatrical re-issue in 1998.
-- Laserdisc, VHS, Beta, and DVD editions of the film
-- Numerous books about Margaret Mitchell
-- A signed letter from Margaret Mitchell (Okay, that's a reproduction--but it's not like the OCHC is above reproductions, you know.)
-- A complete collection of the rare Gone With the Wind baseball cards--complete with binder.
-- Yes, I hate to admit I own these, but they ARE damned good, even though they stay tucked away, in their original boxes, in my closet. . .all 3 Masterpiece Collection dolls (Scarlett in BBQ dress, Rhett in the Burning of Atlanta Suit, and Scarlett in the Drapery dress).
-- Numerous Franklin Mint and San Francisco Music Box figurines and collectibles.
-- The complete set of Hawthorne Architctural Miniatures, representing each pivotal structure in GWTW, from Tara to the Butler Mansion to the Atlanta train depot, Twelve Oaks, etc.
-- The rare guide to the infamous GWTW auction held at Christie's auction house.
-- Scores of foreign movie programs
-- Numerous posters, programs, and soundtracks to recent musical versions of GWTW held in London and Paris.
-- Limited edition lithographs and artwork
-- The GWTW board game
-- And a ton of other stuff.

If what I have sounds more interesting, I might charge admission. And I hope this doesn't sound like sour grapes but, seriously. . . the OCHC's exhibit is lacking. Lacking focus, lacking a story, lacking direction. Worse. . . it lacks any connection to the very lofty goals it sets for itself in it's pre-opening hype. There's no examination of slavery, there's no proof of any social impact or enduring appeal (they could have had the just-published black market sequel from Estonia, "Rhett Butler" had they called me). In short, after being so long-winded, "go see it for the experience." But expect your trip to be over in ten minutes. There's seriously nothing there--and the space allocated to it is the size of a small one bedroom apartment. . . minus the bedroom.

* * *

As for the opening gala itself. . . not bad.

Okay, it was highly disorganized. But other than that--and being unorganized really is NOT acceptable as this event has been hyped for a year now--the event utself was pretty fun.

Ann Rutherford (Careen O'Hara) and Mickey Kuhn (Beau Wilkes) both appeared and signed autographs for the guests. Rutherford was particularly charming; at 86, she's still a lively, hysterical, and warm raconteur. For about two hours, they talked with a captive audience, holding court in the museum's courtroom (NOT a reproduction--the museum occupiers the former Orange County Courthouse and this particular courtroom is the one where the Ted Bundy trials took place).

The catering by Tu-Tu Tango was excellent, and the Gone With the Wind cake was delicious.

Too bad the exhibit left most everyone hungry for a bigger serving of GWTW.

* * *

A special benefit showing of Gone With the Wind is set for April 3rd. The event will feature dancing, dinner, and a showing of the restored film. More details to come.

Time for "T"

2007-01-15T21:40:00.000-05:00

K always cringes when one of T's commercials come on the television. He knows he should look at the screen fondly, smiling like a parent to a child, thinking, "Oh, look. . .there he is." But instead, all K can do is cringe and think, "When we break up, these are going to haunt me."

K and T have been dating for a few months--K's not always sure how long it's been; he often has trouble recalling if he met T before or after Halloween. He knows it was before Thanksgiving but, otherwise, the date is lost to history. It's been a pleasant enough experience: no drama, no great romance, no lung-splitting, ear-shattering arguments. . . and the sex has been. . . adequate.

K yawns.

He hates when he gets insomnia and finds one of T's commercials airing on the local channels. especially when it's the 30-minute long one where T wears a jester's hat while trying to convince people with bad credit, no credit--"ANY CREDIT!!!"--to head on down to M's car dealership. K used to make fun of T; now he gets fucked by him.

By a car salesman who wears a jester's hat on TV.

K senses his life may be heading in all the wrong directions. . .

* * *

K was introduced to T by Crazy Widow at some charity function he went to this Fall--but he can't recall if it was Hope-and-Help or that anorexia dinner ("An ironic fund-raiser," K had thought) or that gallery opening in the Sanctuary. Fall was a mess of social engagements and fundraisers, just as winter is a big, depressing void on his calendar. Crazy Widow had pulled him over to T, telling K that T was "So funny, you'll laugh until you faint!" K had no interest in fainting at the time but, he had to admit, when Crazy Widow introduced him to T, K's first thought had nothing whatsoever to do with laughing--his mind immediately turned carnal.

Of course, at the moment, T was wearing a tuxedo and not a jester's hat.

And that night, whatever night that was --damn, why can't he remember?--ended with the two of them tossing their tuxes to the floor and fucking like teenaged boys.

Except that, while they went at it, all K could hear in his mind was T saying, over and over, "So come on down! It doesn't matter if you have no credit, bad credit. . . ANY CREDIT IS GOOD!"

Of God, D, Car Crashes, and Complicated Cell Phones

2007-01-14T23:37:00.000-05:00

K is seated in a pew at Joy MCC, silently saying a prayer, waiting for the service to start. The media screens are having problems: images of Martin Luther King, Jr. alternate with the church logo and a blank screen while the sounds of King's March on Washington speeches keep getting cut off and are replaced by snippets of gospel music. He closes his eyes, lowers his head, folds his hands, and resumes his praying, his lips moving silently as he rattles off a few Hail Marys and Our Fathers.

"Hey. How you doing there, guy?"

Interrupted, K looks up and sees a goateed guy in a ballcap nodding at him as he slides into place beside K in the pew.

K can't help but snap an annoyed look at him. A look that clearly reads K's thought, "Can't you see I'm fucking praying? Jesus Christ!"

He turns back to his prayers until the enforced hugging starts. God, he hates this part of Gay Church--hugging total strangers. And his body language shows it: K offers handshakes and a pat on the shoulder to the others, never a full-on embrace. "This is so annoying," he thinks, "this hugging guys I don't know."

He remains annoyed until the pianist starts to play "Victory in Jesus" and the singer stumblers through the wrong verse.

Then he starts to giggle.

He pretends to cough, hoping it's not clear that he's laughing. But when the singer hits foul note after foul note, and finally says to the pianist, loudly enough for the entire congregation to hear, "You're playing the wrong song", K's shoulders start to shake with restrained laughter. And when the pianist snaps back, "This is the version I know!" K quickly knocks his wallet off the pew and to the floor so he can squat down, away from view, and, his teeth biting down on his lip, laughs his ass off.

Meanwhile, on the altar, the diva-bitch fight between church pianist and church singer grows into a battle.

* * *

D is coming home. After two years in Baltimore, D is coming home. K is ecstatic; he has just received the voice-mail and has been in a great mood ever since. He hasn't yet had a chance to talk to her--he responded to her message immediately but was only able to reach her voice-mail. Her message was clear: "I'll be moving back this weekend. Have a new job and can't wait! Call me back--I've got so much to tell you and I can't wait to see you!"

So much has changed but never their bond. She, engaged. He, single. Her, a new employer lucky to grab her. He, the same employer as he's had for a decade, but yet another new position.

It makes up for G having to move to France for six months. And when it dawns on K that G leaves this week, and D arrives this weekend, he realizes, "It's true. God closes a door and opens a window."

"There's truth in 'The Sound of Music,'" he thinks.

* * *

K is on Sand Lake Road, just past the intersection with John Young Parkway, stuck in rush-hour traffic. He sings along to a bootleg recording he's gotten his hands on--some songs Madonna recorded for 'Ray of Light' but didn't use on the CD--when he's slammed forward.

"Fuckity fuck fuck fuck fuck!"

He spots the truck behind him, sort of beside him, sort of attached to his bumper, as it tries to get into the next lane. K points at him angrily, shouting, "Pull the fuck over, asshole! Pull over NOW!"

The driver balances the cellphone between his shoulder and ear and nods at K, pulling over to the shoulder. K points at the driver in the next lane and tells him, "You're letting me in! Stop!"

The driver in the next lane obeys Crazy K and K slips across the lane and parks in front of the truck that has just hit him.

"Be nice," he tells himself. "Don't go crazy. It was an accident."

* * *

"You didn't punch him, did you?"

"N--of course not. I was actually very nice."

N makes a face as if unable to imagine any such thing.

"I was!" K insists. I told him, 'Look--we can talk this out all night or we can just get on with it. You hit me, there's no denying it. It's no big deal--these things happen. Everyone's gonna hit someone at sometime. You have insurance? Good. Let me see your license, get your number and we can go on our way. Blah, blah, blah.' He probably thought I was the nicest guy he's ever rammed in the rear."

"I can't picture you being that nice about some guy hitting your car. Your car's wrecked."

"I'm fully insured," K tells him. "I pay a premium every month for a reason. It still drives and the damage will be repaired. No biggie."

N takes a hesitant pause and then asks K, "Are you on drugs? Because you're not. . . you're not you lately. . ."

"I'm not on drugs," K explains. "But the guy who hit me was hot. . ."

* * *

K is at the Morse Museum, checking out the chapel installation, when he notices a thirtyish man taking discreet glances at him, as if to make eye contact and to initiate a conversation. K lifts his eyebrows and mutters a "Hello." The man, who has an intelligent-enough appearance and, given that he's at The Morse, has an immediate in with K, until K sees the man's tee shirt. It reads, "Nice Package."

K sighs, lifts his eyes to the ceiling, asking God, "Why must you test me?" and walks off to the gift shop to buy a vase.

* * *

As K walks up Park Avenue to the garage in which he parked his car, his new cell rings. He lifts it to see who's calling but, K's fingers not used to the sensitive keys, he accidentally answers it.

"Hello?"

"Hey! What are you doing?"

"S? What's up?"

"Wondering where you are, whatcha up to, if you got any plans tonight--that type of stuff."

"I was gonna go home and learn how to operate this phone."

S laughs. "It's not that hard."

"Then how come every time I go to place a call, I take a picture of my feet?"

"What?"

"The damned camera thing! Who needs a camera on their phone? Seriously, S. It makes no sense. Do you know, yesterday, while walking around with this damned thing, I took five--count 'em, boy! FIVE!--pictures of my hand. I go to dial a call, I take pictures of my feet. Who's the moron who decided that a phone and a camera were two tastes that taste great together? Because, you know something, they don't taste great together. They're annoying together."

"Send me a picture!"

"I don't know how, S! That's the most annoying thing--if I wanted to take a picture and send it to you. . . have no idea how to do that."

"You go into e-mail or Messaging and--"

"Hub-bub-bub. There's other things that don't belong on a phone." K sighs. "Remember the good ole days when a phone was just a phone? Who decided we need to have e-mail, text messaging, the internet, cameras--Oh! And GPS positioning!-- on a fucking cell phone? Who did this to me? Because I wanna pop 'em in the face. . ."

"Come over to my place and I'll show you how to use your phone."

"Well, that makes me feel stupid."

"Do you know how to use it?"

"No."

"Then you are stupid," S tells him, "Let me teach you how to use these new-fangled technological devices."

After K agrees and ends the conversation, K accidentally takes a picture of his thigh.

K Moves On

2006-12-28T01:51:00.000-05:00

He can't sleep, knowing that tomorrow is his last day in his old job. He spent part of the day setting up his new office and should be exhausted. Sleep won't come. Weariness won't come. Only morning, fast approaching, and he falls toward it, unable to get any frest before he goes to work through that final day.

Ten years and almost as many moves and now he moves yet again.

But, at least, he reminds himself, that this time he's not moving across the country.

He's just moving up. Or is it over?

With this latest reshuffling, he's not quite sure if he was promoted or not. the hierarchy is so different now; his boss is now beneath him, but his boss' boss. . .is his boss. The whole thing reeks of poor corporate planning. He got a nice raise, his office has windows (and, in his company, if your office has windows, it means "something"), the office was given to him along with a redecorating budget, but he's not quite sure what has happened. Either way, tomorrow is his final day in his old role and following a four-day weekend. . .Tuesday will be his first in his new one.

How long has it been since he's had a cigarette? A year? Nine months? Doesn't matter--he feels like he just ran out and needs one before he can sleep. Instead, he makes himself a drink--a rarity these days but the alcohol should at least slow his frantic brain.

His team has been saying goodbyes to him all week. Gifts. Tears. Hugs.

His new team has been welcomg him. Gifts. Fears. Lots of fear in their eyes. And alot of ass-kissing.

God. . . sometimes he just wants off this career path he's on. Is this really what he wants from life? Office with a view? New reports kissing his ass? old reports feigning grief but more so fearing the loss of their supporter?

Two AM and he can't slow his brain. . .

Happy Holi--MERRY CHRISTMAS!!!

2006-12-23T11:42:00.000-05:00

Enough with the "Happy Holidays" PC crapola--we all know what holiday comes up in two days. We know why we're all busting our asses shopping by A CERTAIN DATE and why Santa Claus has a huge line at every mall and entertainment complex in the city. And as someone who celebrates both Hanukah and Christmas. . . MERRY CHRISTMAS!!!

Anyway, just a quick note to let those who are unaware know that this morning, Bright House Networks slipped the O-Town gay community it's Christmas gift:

Logo was slipped onto the channel line-up this morning. Tune in to Channel 181 to see it for yourself.

Happy Kwanzaa!

The Bored and the Botoxed

2006-11-06T00:08:00.000-05:00

The Botox doesn't make his forehead feel numb like he imagined it would; it just no longer feels as if his forehead is there. Which isn't all that bad an idea, he thinks, if only the rest of him could vanish as well.

He finds himself thinking about this while he's on a bad date with Notebook Guy, a pretty handsome professional he met at the Hope & Help fundraiser held a month or so ago at the Omni. That he's pondering the benefits of Botox while on a date with a guy he had thought would be interesting is a bad sign. A very bad sign.

But he can't help wondering if his forehead looks young.

"K--have you had a vacation or something? Your forehead looks so, so. . . so rested," he imagines an old acquaintance saying.

At the very least, he's not making any new lines. He can't move what he can't feel and so he can't move his brows up in his "I'm so bored I'm counting your eyelashes so you think I'm looking at you and paying attention" way that he has. He considers telling Notebook Guy, "My face may not show it right now because it's sort of paralyzed thanks to my freaking out about that huge wrinkle that popped out of nowhere last week. . . but you're boring the living shit out of me." But K is trying to be nice and so he continues to count Notebook Guy's eyelashes.

Notebook Guy thinks K has the best eye contact he's ever seen on a guy.

* * *

K knew it was going to be a bad date when Notebook Guy had first called to arrange it.

Coffee, he had said. Coffee.

K hates guys who want to meet for coffee.

It's so boring and lame and . . . Indifferent. Or something. But there's no imagination. No WOW! Just fucking coffee. K can get coffee in his freaking kitchen. He doesn't need to get all dressed up and to drive twenty miles to meet for a cup of coffee. He can flip a switch.

But maybe he does need to drive twenty miles, because he does, even though the location of the date is even worse than the "coffee" part--they are to meet at Borders.

Borders.

Fucking, god-damned Borders.

Stupid, boring coffee at messy, boring Borders.

K is convinced there is nothing this date can offer that will reverse his lowered expectations.

But at least his face won't show how bored he is.

* * *

"Are you bored?" Notebook Guy asks when K's eyes drift out the window to Orlando Avenue. And stay there. For five minutes. While K thinks, "Please God. Kill me now. Make one of those cars driving by crash through this window and take me out. Just take me out. I've had a good life. Let me go on this note: a bad date."

"No!" K explains, "I'm not bored. Coffee just knocks me out."

"Coffee knocks you out?" Notebook Guy asks, baffled and not quite believing him.

"I'm hypoglycemic," K explains, "And I put too much sugar in it."

K yawns, accidentally and apologizes.

"Am I boring you?" Notebook Guy asks.

K considers lying. Considers the truth. Considers everything. And then he says:

"Do you wanna go back to your place and fuck? I'm really not myself right now and you might want to take advantage of that."

* * *

K doesn't know what appalls him more: that he's just had a sort-of casual encounter (no body fluids were exchanged) or that he's just had a sort-of casual encounter with a guy who has a lap dog.

A lap dog named Miss Princess.

He thinks his rare and unusual lapse into Slutdom is the worse of the two evils. . .but he's pretty sure the lap dog thing is pretty damned close.

When he drives home, he wonders what the Hell he's just done. He feels filthy. Immoral. Horrible.

It wasn't even very good. It was the usual sex with they type of usual guy who sets up the very usual date of coffee at Borders and waits for you with his notebook computer open to show how busy he is.

It was actually pretty bad sex.

K doubts Notebook Guy enjoyed it much, either.

"I mean, he enjoyed it enough to get off but. . .Blech."

So why has K lost himself?

He and X saw one another again. By surprise, of course. Unplanned, accidental, unavoidable. Both face-to-face before either could avoid the other.

And K's heart has broken all over aqain.

Thus, another blessing of the Botox.

No one can see how sad he is.

One Last Snark

2006-11-03T00:33:00.000-05:00

Trying to write while eating soup isn't the easiest thing so here are some random thoughts and answers to a few e-mails:

ABC's Men in Trees is perhaps the best show no one's watching, and I don't just say that as an employee of You Know Who. ABC needs to move it to a better timeslot but, until they realise that a show written for singles won't be viewed by singles at nine o'clock on Friday nights, do what I do and TiVo it. If you've missed Sex and the City, here's your balm.

John Kerry needs to shut the fuck up. And yes, I voted for him. But he did no Democrat--or soldiers--any favors this week with that botched dig at the Bubba in the White House.

I love how stupid straight folks apparently think that if gay marriage is legalized somewhere, straights spontaneously divorce. BOOM! "Marriage is under attack"? Funny how we have US soldiers dying in a country where there are no weapons of mass destruction and yet people think gay people are the enemy. Maybe they should look toward the White House? Hmmm? I don't think that's a homo ruining the world from that Oval Office. . .Just an observation from a queer guy.

Speaking of queer guys. . .Tom Cruise is now heading up United Artists. What? No, I have no smart comment. . .I'm too busy jumping on my couch and proclaiming undying affection for my beard.

The Morse Museum starts it's Friday Night at The Morse series this Friday from 5pm til 8pm. I'll be there; hope to see some familiar faces there as well. If you can't make it this week, it's a weekly 5-month series bringing Park Avenue some long-awaited Friday night action at the north end of The Strip. Nice way to start a weekend, no doubt. Head on out and do your Friady Happy Hour drinking, schmoozing and slutting in high-class style at my favorite local art museum.

Okay, soup is bad. Progresso may have low fat, but the sodium is so high, I think my blood just dried up. I'll eat a yogurt instead. (I really need to learn how to use the oven-thing so I can cook something other than soup or microwavable dinners.)

Maybe I lost my mind but I fell in love with the newest version of Tickle Me Elmo. So, put that at the top of your Things to Buy O-Town Guy List. And if you can't find one, you can just tickle me.

Found online and bought an unauthorized sequel to Gone With the Wind. The problem is, it's not only illegal, it's from Estonia. Any Estonian speaking readers out there?

#1 Reason I wish I had stayed in Los Angeles? (There's only two reasons--Los Angeles sucks.) Carrie Fisher's upcoming one-woman show, Wishful Drinking. She's a great writer, a funny raconteur and the show is bound to be brilliantly mad. If you're reading this from LA, head over to the Geffen Playhouse and shoot me a recap. And if you're not reading this from L.A., do yourself a favor and hunt down any of Fisher's four great novels. And if you're Carrie Fisher, please deliver a fifth soon. . .and pay me back those five bucks ya owe me.

Junior Sanchez's Misshapen Mix of Madonna's Jump is an I-Tunes Must Download. That's all I'm gonna say. Well, all I'm gonna say except for this: If, like me, you've been bemoaning the lack of good music lately--music that's mindless fun but still danceable as Hell and with lyrics that are infectious and simple, this is by far the best medicine. In a music scene overloaded with sampling, vocoders, and tired hip hop beats, Madonna yet again rides to the rescue by releasing the best song from her (honestly) just-okay CD "Confessions on a Dance Floor." Whether you prefer the original mix, the extended mix (which is another Must Download, by the way, reminiscent of 80's extended versions as opposed to the post-80's completely remade remixes), or the Misshapen Mix, Madonna's latest is by far her best single in years. Classic Madonna. Stop reading and just go download already. Or I'll go buy myself a Malawian orphan.

Speaking of Malawian orphans, I'm still 100% in support of the adoption. Not that my opinion matters but I still think she rocks--quite an achievement for the girl whose career was supposed to be over by 1986. Go Mo!

Heard something that made me feel good today. Do you remember a little person who acted on that horrific NBC soap, "Passions" and played a character named Timmy? Well, a few years ago -- while the actor was still alive, of course -- a friend of mine got dissed by him. Dissed! By the midget who played Timmy on "Passions!" That's about as low as one can go in Hollywood. And it makes me all the more glad I'm back here in Orlando, where I can afford to do the dissing.

Give me Mouse Ears and It's A Small World any day over a dissing by a midget from a daytime drama!

God, I love this town. . .

Snarking About Celebrities

2006-10-20T16:30:00.000-04:00

Perhaps, as I take the phrase, "What Would Jesus Do?" to heart, I've found myself to be a much nicer person -- sort of like that time when I practiced Kaballah (an excursion into Judaism that lasted about five minutes) and donned the requisite red string and all-white clothing.

By the way -- all-white looks good on nobody. Particularly a guy whose favorite color is black. And who, at that moment, had a few extra pounds and lacked a tan. I looked like a big, fat white supremacist, particularly on the day when I, thoughtlessly, went to a Kaballah class in my all-white getup and, because it was a windy day, topped off my outfit with a white, hooded sweatshirt from The Gap. My buddy Jerome is still not talking to me, years later. And, on occasion, I receive an invite from the local Ku Klux Klan cordially inviting me to be their first gay idiot.

Anyway, as I find that I'm thinking mean thoughts about those in my life less and less. . . I find myself more and more obsessed with celebrities -- and a desire to trash them.

And, you know what? I betcha that if Jesus were alive today, he too would be reading "People" or "Us" and let out an occasional, "Self! Who do these people think they are?" and then rip on Paris Hilton.

So, assuming that's what Jesus would do. . .allow me a moment. (Plus, I haven't written anything here in weeks and I'm sick of the e-mails asking if I'm sick. I'm fine. But the following idiots. . .maybe not so. . .)

Okay, first off, let me address the whole Mark Foley crapfest going on. Before anyone forgets his sin, let's please keep in mind that, sorry Mister Foley, we don't care if you were fondled by a priest or not. One sin does not grant permission or forgiveness for another. In fact, one has NOTHING to do with the other and no psychiatrist can convince me that it does. Speaking of things that have nothing to do with the other -- you're a pedophile, Mister Foley -- not a gay man. Let's clear that up. Gay men do not have any interest in fucking a fourteen year old. As a gay man, I can assure you I have little enough interest in any guy younger than his forties so do not think that your clever little smokescreen allows you a dive into pedophilia because of your claims at being gay and being fondled as a little boy. Be a man and take the blame for your actions, and then get help with the proper issue. But don't blame it on your being fondled a hundred years ago OR try to excuse your behavior behind the "I'm gay" excuse. You're not a gay man -- you're a pervert.

Speaking of perverts. . .time to snark on The Republicans. As a former intern on Capitol Hill, I have to say that my favorite Republican public relations move in this whole scandal was to blame the Democrats. (Because, as everyone knows, we Democrats are capable of causing anyone to send inappropriate IM';s, in addition to our other talents such as levitating objects with our mind, transforming ourselves into balls of fire, and sending thousands to die in a war that has nothing to do with the War on Terror. Oh, hold. That last is a gift of the Republicans.) Anyway, back to the pervs:

In the midst of all this, my favorite PR move was when some dumbass Senators and Reps cried out that the Page system was antiquated and help to set up victims in the form of teens working in DC for perverts -- and that the whole process is to be blamed on the Democrats who support this system. Hmmm. I'm sorry to disagree, Respectable Asswipes who are Destroying Our Country, but some questions for the lady under your desk to type up answers to:

1.) Have you forgotten that Mark Foley is a Republican?
2.) Is it possible that the Democrats who support the Page system do so because they assume that the Republicans will keep their perverted hands off the little fourteen year olds?
3.) Do you really think anyone set this system up as anything other than a way for teens to learn about government? I assure you, there is no hidden agenda entitled, "Ways to Corrupt our Youth: Volume I -- Pages" in any Democrat's office.
4.) And, again -- have you forgotten that Mark Foley is a Republican?

Plus, do these idiots not remember that Dancing With the Stars is on again? I think it sorta sucks this year and I can't take another look at either Jerry Springer (although I find his humility somewhat appealing) or Mario Lopez (with his "I Know I'm hotter than any other man alive" and his I'm-Really-Masculine boxing hops and shit). Another one who I hate: Joey Lawrence. He was mean to me once in Hollywood and I hope he falls on his bald head and pops the bulging vein in his forehead. I'll call it "Karma," that little bastard. I like Emmit Smith but watching him is like watching one's father at a wedding so he can go the week after Springer gets his long-overdue bounce from the ballroom. Sara Evans? Blech. Sorry for her marriage, but in terms of star appeal she was as interesting as that really stupid, posturing Beyonce video where, apparently, Beyonce is "Angry Black Woman" but comes across as someone from -- you guessed it! -- Jerry Springer's talk show. Anyway, as for Sara, I'm glad she doesn't believe in the show business adage "The Show Must Go on" because a.) it will allow her time to support her kids' emotional states during a sure-to-be messy divorce and b.) It gets her off Dancing With the Stars. My fave: Of course, it's gonna be a fellow Mouse Houser: Monique Coleman. Go Disney Star!

Oh -- speaking of stars, particularly, the red kind: How did That Little Hermaphrodite Over in North Korea get a bomb? Wouldn't we, the US -- Global Police -- have nuked him by now? Normally I wouldn't advocate such things but I wouldn't mind seeing him blown away. Not because of his politics or anything. He's just ugly as sin. And sin is wrong. And so is his hairstyle.

Makes him look like a midget bulldyke. One with wardrobe issues. And his clothes are so boxy. He needs some tapered shirts. Tapered shirts, contact lenses, a new hairstyle, and lifts in his shoes.

Or we can just bomb his ass. Either way is good.

See? Gone a month and I'm suddenly that queen from Supercuts, only with a relatively high IQ. Sorry, but a guy's gotta vent.

Okay, enough of that. On to more important matters, like world peace. I assume you've heard that Paris Hilton and Nicole Ritchie are friends again, thus inspiring all nations to work together for a better tomorrow. Yea, Israel -- peace is coming soon. Follow the lead of the airhead and the crackhead.

By the way, am I the only one who clapped his hands with delight when he heard the news that Paris was punched out by some nobody at Club Hyde? I was? Hmmm. Well, I betcha Jesus was laughing, too.

Oh! And speaking of Jesus, that other person with a relationship to crosses, Madonna has been all over the news this week for various things. I'm not gonna snark on her, because Madonna was the first person I ever heard say anything positive about gay people while I was growing up and so I have an undying affection for her, given that she regularly denounced homophobia and spoke in positive terms about the gay community, thus providing me with my only sense of right in a world of wrong. So, gotta love Madonna. But I gotta first address the whole thing with NBC deciding to cut the crucifixion setpiece from her upcoming TV special covering her tour from this past summer: Did NBC not know about the crucifix scene? It was all over the news. In fact. . . it was all over their news. Do they not watch their own news programs? Particularly when they're outbidding other networks for a chance to air said concert featuring said crucifix? No? well, me neither. But you would have thought they'd have caught something on the front page of a newspaper, online, or maybe even on Best Week Ever. So instead they pay millions for broadcast rights and then chicken out and decide they have to edit out an emotional high-point with an important message about AIDS. Madonna, next time take the lower bid and go back to HBO. And everyone else, check out the whole concert when it hits DVD in January.

But I'm not done with Madonna yet! The bigger news was, of course, about her adopting of a child from Malawi. Good for her, I say. Good for the kid. Good for the plight of all those poor orphans not just in Africa -- but here in the US alone. In attempting to adopt this Malawin child, Madonna just got people talking about so many adoption related issues: Why not raise an American baby? (Why don't you do it?) Do the rich get better treatment? (Yes, they do. Go live in LA for a bit if you need proof.) Will Madonna cause a whole child trafficking problem? (No . . . but Kathie Lee might. Let's not confuse Madonna, who is well-respected even by critics for being a good parent, with a woman who used child labor to pad her own pockets.) Can Madonna not do anything without being criticized? (Sadly, no. Even when she had her own children, there were assholes claiming it was a publicity stunt. Now, Tom Cruise? Publicity stunt. But one can assume that Madonna, unlike Tom Cruise, was actually there when her babies were conceived.) If people in America are really so concerned about the US orphans, why are so many people still desiring a ban on adoptions by gay parents? ("Um, because they're assholes," Jesus might say.) And how dare any agency in Milawi -- or even in Great Britain! -- try to stop this adoption. AIDS has ravaged their nation, it took Madonna to go there and build not just an orphanage but an entire village and the missing idiot from that village turns out to be a Human Rights group afraid that Madonna will destroy their adoption system (which, given the number of orphans in their country, one can assume is not working) and that Madonna adopting a Malawin child will lead to desecration of their children by evil foreigners.

Must I remind them that Madonna is not a Republican?

Two Pairs of Eyeglasses and a Rental Car

2006-09-29T01:31:00.000-04:00

"I don't want to be tempted to buy," K is telling the Enterprise rep. "Give me the dorkiest thing you have."

And the rep does. Fifteen minutes later, K is driving away from Enterprise in a Chevy Aveo, wishing he had not made such a request because now, for two whole days, he has to drive around in a hatchback thing that looks like it was made in the Soviet Union circa 1980.

"It's a rental. It's a rental," he mutters at a traffic light, when his paranoia makes him imagine that the drivers around him are wondering why he's driving such a tiny car. "Such a tiny car for such a big gay," he imagines one saying.

His own beloved automobile is in the shop for two days of what K calls "refurbishment." He loves JD and wants JD to age gracefully -- and doesn't want to have a car payment until 2007 is almost over. Which means that JD, who normally runs smoothly and without issue, needs to be babied, loved, and has to have all his fluids, spark plugs, and fuses replaced. The bill isn't something that concerns K; driving around town in a Chevy Aveo -- the rental car -- is what traumatizes him.

"I am driving the dorkiest car in the history of General Motors," K tells M on his cellphone. Yet again at a stoplight he says, rather loudly so that the drivers near him may hear, "I am driving a RENTAL CAR."

M insist on seeing the thing he's cursed himself with for two days and so he pulls up to her office. She is outside, dragging on a cig and, seeing him pull up, bends over in laughter.

"It's you!" she cries. "Totally you!"

"Yeah, in another lifetime, when I was living under Communist rule in Moscow, maybe."

"How long do you have to drive that?"

"Today and tomorrow. JD can't get refurbished quickly enough."

"You should bring it back and get something else, " she tells him. "People will think you've fallen on hard times. Or had a child."

He considers this but has an appointment at the optometrist in an hour and so has no time to cruise back to Enterprise and tell the rep, "I've thought it over. I can't drive this thing. Give me something hot, cool, and tempting to buy."

Instead he cruises, face lowered and the words, "Rental car. This is a RENTAL CAR" repeatedly ushered from his mouth as he slices through downtown.

* * *

Jackson Street is a mess, as are almost all the streets in downtown Orlando these days. With the building boom that is blowing the city apart, streets are detoured into other streets, that -- in turn -- detour into others, creating an insane maze of red-brick-paved roads surrounded on all sides by charming bungalows holding their ground aginst their new neighbors: the high-rise condominiums and office buildings. K has to maneuver through the mess twice before he finally gets it right and ends up on the right portion of temporarily-bisected Jackson Street. The Star Tower's steel and concrete frame is in place and, in it's shadow, sits the converted arts-and-crafts style bungalow that houses his optometrist's office.

He enters, is greeted, and fills out his paperwork (on which he indicates his comfort level with eye exams is "Very Low" and which he compliments by adding, "I hate all doctors.")

He adds a smiley face so they don't think he's mean.

Just bi-polar.

* * *

Prior to his exam, one of the men who work in the office, apparently the chic office's fashion director (who was likely responsible for the very Pier One furnishings and plum and olive color scheme of the walls and the stone tiles of the floors) insits K get started picking out frames. K tells him that he already has glasses -- he just needs a new prescription because he's seeing double again -- and that he'd really just like his old glasses relensed. But when the man points out that K's vision insurance pays fully for a new frame and pair of lenses each year, K decides it's time to get a second pair of eyeglasses.

K immediately goes for conservative: Ralph Lauren. He and that Ralph -- they're both classics, unoffensive. . . and K likes the little pony-thing in the Ralph Lauren logo.

The man tells him "No. Too serious." and directs K to a line of frames by "a Japanese architect who now designs chic frames."

"A failed architect?"

"Hmmm?"

"Why would a successful architect desert their career to design eyeglasses?" K asks. "It's not like eyeglasses are viewed as art."

And then, realizing he has just sounded mean, he makes a smiley face.

"I'm bi-polar today," he explains. "Go ahead. Show me these Japanese frames."

And so the man does, telling K that K has "an oval face. Very long. We need to introduce some horizontal lines."

"I don't like the idea of lines," K tells him. "I like to look smart."

"Oh, you'll look really smart in these," the man tells him, sliding on a pair of thick black lenses.

K accidentaly bursts out with a laugh when he sees his reflection.

"No. I think not. I just aged twenty years."

"I think they make you look intellectual."

"And old," K tells him. "I look like a college dean in those. Next."

"How about these?" the man asks, showing him another set. Thick -- but not too thick -- but something's odd.

"Are they not black?" K asks. "I only wear black frames."

"Well, they're sort of black. Grey."

"I like black. Black is my color, you know? I always have black on somewhere. I never wear gray."

"Oh, but you should," the man tells him. "You have a very light-skinned complexion. Black is too severe. Gray complements you very well. Here. Just try them on."

"But I--"

"Plus -- you have that salt-and-pepper thing going on with your hair. These are a nice match."

K shoots him an offended look.

"I can say that," the man tells him, pointing at his own hair, "Same situation here. Still hot and young but going grey."

K lets the man put the glasses on him and, as soon as they are in place, the man cries, "YES! THESE ARE THE ONES!"

He turns K to face the mirror. K inspects his reflection -- something he hates to do -- and says to the man, "Well. . . they're different. . ."

"They look perfect on you."

"Uh . . ."

"Really. I think you'll have a hard time finding a pair that looks as good on you as these do."

"Are you sure?" K asks. "I can't tell if they make me look very Clark Kent or just . . . really queer."

The man looks offended.

K tells him, "I can say that. I'm a homosexual."

* * *

When the eye doctor asks K to read the top line of the chart before him, the line K knows should be the easiest, and K sees he can't read even that, he turns away from the chart, to the optometrist, and says, "Go ahead. I can take it. Gimme my diagnosis. I'm blind, aren't I?"

"Pretty close," she agrees.

"Just so you know, it's been almost six years since I've seen an eye doctor because the last one traumatized me. So you can't do the glaucoma test or dilate my pupils."

"I need to do both of those. Really."

"Oh. Okay. Just, don't yell at me."

"Why would I yell at you?"

"I have this phobia of things going in my eyes. Contacts are a definite non-possibility for me. You'll have a time from Hell trying to get the eye drops in there. Just so you know. I'll blink everytime. It's out of my control. Sorry."

And, true to his word, he does. By the time K leaves the office, the skin around his eyes is mustard coloured from the eye drops that were intended for his eyes but were blinked away just as they neared them.

He immediately reaches for his box of kleenex.

But it's not there, because he's back in his rental car.

* * *

"Why's your skin yellow? You have malaria?"

"Shut up, N. I'll be right back." K says, passing him to go use the bathroom in N's house.

"What the Hell -- Is that white thing your rental car?" he hears N shouting to him as he washes his face.

"Ding-ding-ding!"

"I can't believe you're driving that," N says with disgust.

"I think it's sorta funny," K tells him. "Let's go to Seasons 52 tonight, drive up in that -- and VALET."

K almost laughs himself onto the floor but N thinks the idea of doing any such thing is not humurous at all. So, K changes the topic. "I bought new glasses today."

"Really? Where are they?"

"They'll be ready next week."

"Are they like your old ones?"

"I'm getting the old ones relensed to the new prescription. I'll have two pairs. And no, they aren't at all like my old ones."

"The Dolce & Gabbana ones," N reminds him.

"Yeah. The Dolce ones are too nice to discard. So new lenses. But the new ones --" K makes a face. "I dunno. I think they look too . . . artsy."

"But you are artsy."

"Really? I don't think of myself as artsy. I think of myself more as a business person and serious."

"You write."

"I write crap."

"But you write it artfully." N tells him.

"Hmmm. Well, ya know -- if I hate the new pair, I'll just wear 'em when I'm alone. Anyway -- what's new?"

N proceeds to catch K up on the latest in N's life. After a few drinks of coffee to wake N up from a long day that was preceeded by a sleepless night, they hop in N's car -- N refuses to be seen in K's rental car -- and head off to The Peacock Room.

"You gonna meet anyone tonight?" N asks K.

"Eh. Don't want to be tempted to buy right now." K tells him.

Maybe sometimes in 2007. . .

Back to Wilshire

2006-09-21T23:48:00.000-04:00

One of K's favorite times in life was the time he was Jewish -- for all of a month or two. He had just moved to Los Angeles and a new friend had introduced him to Kaballah. So, in short order, K became a cult member -- but a cult member with access to Madonna so all was good.

K's Kaballah phase proved more fad than fanatical spiritual direction. He soon returned to cranking on Christ but it was a fun time -- plus yarmulkes look really good on a guy with a prematurely receding hairline. And, frankly, the Kaballah gig led to an almost-got-it very good job at Maverick Records (the label then-owned by Madonna) and a self-help book collection that taught him nothing -- absolutely nothing! -- but which looked good on his bookshelves in his Hollywood high-rise apartment.

K loved Los Angeles even though he often wondered how anyone could afford to live there and invest in their retirement. It seemed, at first, that every dime he had was going to the things he needed at that moment (rent, car payment, car insurance -- food) rather than things he'd need in the future (retirement, stocks, investments -- botox). Eventually, however, he landed a better-paying gig on Wilshire that solved that dilemma and allowed him to both save for those things he'd need in the future while also allowing him to live his LA lifestyle.

But then love interferred and K came back to O-Town. And, for a long time, K was very happy to be back in O-Town. But then LA called again. And K, single, sorta alone, and in his last years of being "young" decided to give it another shot.

And so K ponders what he pondered not so long ago, when Houston seemed tro be calling: O-Town is home, but can he move away from it? After all, Houston was a big mystery to him. But he knows he loves LA.

But, he tells himself, no cults this time.

A Little Q&A

2006-09-14T20:18:00.000-04:00

Only because I've ignored the blog and found the inbox full thanks to a month away. . . . some quick replies to some questions I've read in a few e-mails.

Are you writing the blog anymore? Yes, I am. But life happens and, honestly, the blog and anything related to the internet is, for me, an insomnia project. And I've had little time to myself this past month so I, therefore, have been so exhausted I've been able to sleep. Thus, not having insomnia, no time to blog.

Is all this stuff on the web true or is it fiction? It's mostly true -- but with better dialogue. My friends aren't that clever and the guys I date aren't that brilliant. (Kidding N, B, M and C. S, tough shit - with love.)

Did I maybe see you at Studz Friday night? Wasn't me. I went to Studz last back in July. I like it but my friend's bar is across the street (GO PEACOCK ROOM!) so I tend to hang out there.

Who is Mr. Fop? Who is Kept Boy? Obviously, I don't use anyone's real name on the blog so I'm not going to state it here, but pick up an issue of Orlando and/or Orlando Lesisure and check out the Buzz and Society section. It's not hard to figure out who Mr. Fop is. And Kept Boy is even easier. (BTW, the blog is a bit behind on that front. I love both those guys so the cynical tone with which I sometimes wrote about them in the past will be corrected soon. Let's just say Mr. Fop had some very nice things to say to K when K got publicly shat on by X a few weeks back and showed a side of himself K hadn't seen previously. So, send out the love to Fop and Kept.)

I seek for husband in this democracy. You be mine great love? Apparently, I need to take the O-Town Guy link off the RAD profile. (Maybe two readers understand what I'm talking about. For the rest, sorry.)

Your blog sucks. Thank you. Like writer, like blog.

How much time do you spend writing these things? Not much. When I'm in an insomnia fit, I think it takes me maybe ten, twenty minutes to spit this stuff out. And, for those with an English degree or whatever -- this is all first-draft, unrefined writing. I take a much higher degree of care re=phrasing, re-writing, etc. anything I write for publication. This is just a combo insomnia project/writing exercise/crappy thing for frieds. This is (hopefully) not viewed as a finished product or sample of my writing ability. This is all ROUGH DRAFT.

How do your friends, exes, family feel about this blog? Everyone seems to be entertained. You have to be in my circle to know who's who and I intentionally give only vague information about where people live, work, etc. so that I don't embarass anyone. So, if I write, for example, about a guy who has a furvert obsession, I writre it in such a way that no one will figure out who it is. (Directly, my friends get a kick out of it because they're all self-absorbed hams, my boyfriends know it comes with the territory, and I have no family to offend.)

I wish you'd stop getting political. . . The Kathryn [sic] Harris thing was uncalled for. Um, sorry you think it was uncalled for but I think the greater offense is that Katherine Harris thinks that anyone who's not a Christian is a sinner in addition to the fact that she opposes gay marriage, gay civil unions, gay civil liberties, etc. I offer no apologies for offending any asshole who wishes to bury my community. Quite frankly, fuck them and fuck you. And, yes, Katherine Harris does reamin a Nazi Cunt in my eyes. God bless.

Are you a Native? Awwww. No, I'm not. And I hate admitting that. I love Orlando. It's my home-town and everytime I've had to leave it, I've been only half a person away from here. But I grew up elsewhere and when it was time to go to college, I landed here by clever design. I had been here annually since I was six so I knew that when it came time to go to college, that higher education would be the device I used to get here. And from Day One, Orlando has been home in every sense of the word. I love it like no other place on earth and I have deep roots here that should be the envy of many people. I've been blessed with the love and friendship of those that must be the Best of Orlando. Maybe that's why I write so much about them.

Is K ever going to date S again? S and K don't really belong together. They'd end up killing each other, despite their affection for one another. (But they'll continue to be fuck buddies, because S has the hottest body you'll ever see and K's pretty good at playing trombone.)

If you're who I think you are, you're hot. If I am who you think I am. . .and you think I'm hot. . .you're blind. :)

What do you think of MoJo? I think that, in a city with O-Town's gay population, that we should be able to support a better gay bookstore than that dump. Then again, some might argue that Urban Think is a gay bookstore, but I think it's a very hip, hot bookstore for closeted, pretentious queens. I personally have learned to hate the place, with it's arrogant staff and hidden gay section. O-Town can do better.

Do you write in your spare time? Did you think this was a paying gig?

How did you react when you read that Sex and the City Beautiful article and saw your blog listed? I took it as a huge compliment. It made me go back and re-read the entries, allowing me to see what I wrote in a different way -- and then I sort of understood why I was included in that article. Huge compliment and, honestly, quite humbling.

Why haven't you written about me yet? Trust me . . . I'm getting to it. (Not all entries appear in choronmological order. Just because I met you before the Gay Days stuff doesn't mean I won't be writing about you. It'll happen. . .) Hahaha.

E-Mail O-Town Guy at otownguy110@yahoo.com

K Goes to a Film Festival (Saturday) Part Two

2006-08-21T11:19:00.000-04:00

K is so insanely fucked up, he sometimes thinks it's amazing he can make it through a day. Someone once told him, in a bitchy fit, "You do know that within five minutes of meeting you that everyone sees you're screwed up, right? You know that, right? It's the first thing anyone notices: you -- trying to pass for a guy who's got his shit together but is really a screwed up mess inside."

And that had been one of the nicer things his ex had told him during their five years together. . .

Standing outside the Enzian Theater, wishing he had a cigarette, K ponders this. He digs into the baggy pockets of those stupid jeans N made him wear and pulls out his cell, flips it open, and hits the speed dial key assigned to S.

He gets S' voice-mail and leaves a rushed message:

"Hey, it's me. I'm at that film festival thing you wouldn't go to. Guess what? You were right. It's really gay. Of course, that's probably why they call it a gay film festival."

His voice sort of cracks so he coughs to mask it.

"I guess you're at work. Yeah, I'm sure you are. Anyway -- just calling because -- well, I don't have to BS you. I'm not calling because I'm in the same hood or anything. Just ran into L sort of and, I guess it just dawned on me that I'm -- Whatever. Doesn't matter. I don't even know why I'm calling. God, I'm so fucked up. I'm fucked up, aren't I?" He laughs at himself. "I am. And I'm leaving a stupid message on your voice mail so . . . I'm gonna hang up now. You can ignore this message. It's not making any sense. I gotta get back inside. I -- I'll call you later. Hope you had a good day at work. . .Bye."

He flips his phone closed, wipes a fist across his eyes, and, smile on and jaw clenched, goes back inside the Enzian.

* * *

K sits through the rest of Available Men and then the film he was most interested in seeing from today's screenings, Camp Out, a documentary about ten Christian teens attending a gay Christian summer camp. Of course K, addicted to a few reality shows and their elimination contests, finds this type of documenttary a bit difficult at first. Given that, in the documentary, there are ten teens attending a summer camp, he instantly reverts to his reality TV conditioning and wonders who the first teen to be voted out of the camp will be.

But when he reminds himself this is a documentary and not Big Brother or Paradise Hotel, he is able to sit back and enjoy the film.

Or rather, he's able to sit back and enjoy the film in between some rather inconveniently timed moments of self-realization whose impact upon him are masked by coughs and covered up by him acting irritated that something is in his eye.

* * *

"You sound," S says to K in a return voice-mail message, "Like you need to come on over to my place and. . . ya know. . .snuggle with me for a bit. I'll be home around five-ish. Just working a detail right now. Call me when you get out of your faggy film festival." And then, with the firmness that says, "Do it because I know you otherwise won't," S adds, "And that's an order."

And so K does call S back and, following a little schmoozing following the day's films, K is in his car, calling S back and, shortly thereafter, tearing down 17-92, through Maitland, past Winter Park Village, through the Vi-Mi and into Thornton Park.

When S opens the front door, he is still in uniform, though very disarrayed. The belt and gun are sitting on the kitchen counter, and S's shirt is untucked and open to the waist. S pulls K to him with a laugh and an affectionate, "Come 'ere," and, within a few moments, they both crash onto a couch, both wrapped up into the other.

S knows K is getting sick again. If he's learned anything over the past -- damn, has it really been THAT long? -- eighteen years . . . he's learned the signs of K falling, vulnerable, to the malady he carries within him.

And both know that, in that way that they do for each other, S will care for K until K gets well again, just as when S is ill, K will care for him.

And neither understands why they can't ever seem to work their shit out so they can just be the couple all their mutual friends say they essentially are.

But, right now, S doesn't think about any of that. As the afternoon ebbs into night, as dinner is made, finished, and forgotten, he sees K growing vulnerable again, almost as if the light that gives way to shadows stretching across the lawn and over the windows, then up trhe walls, over the roof, and, finally over Orlando, marks the onset of K's latest round of illness.

K will be fine. He always is.

But S tells him to stay with him until he gets better. And so K does what K rarely does: exactly what S tells him to.

K Goes to a Film Festival (Saturday) Part One

2006-08-21T00:01:00.000-04:00

K hates crowds. He likes small groups of friends and quiet places. That's why K avoids nightclubs as much as possible. It's why he only goes to theme parks during Gay Days and never any other time of the year unless he has guests in from out-of-town. And, most of all, despite his work to give gay people their rights, he REALLY hates crowds of gay people.

Gay people may be discriminated against unjustly, but God, are they annoying. . .

That he works so hard to improve the lives of his fellow gays, who he mostly dislikes the company of, is an unresolved dichotomy of his personality. Or rather, K's pretty fucked up and not much about him makes sense in the traditional way in which things about people are supposed to make sense. He blames his parents for that -- wherever they are.

The crowd that K stands with outside the Enzian Theater, awaiting the opening of the Orlando Gay and Lesbian Film Festival, is not disappointing K's lowered expectations. Bitchy laughs with fingers bitten down upon as if to relay the message of, "Oh, I shouldn't say that -- but you KNOW it's true, Girl!" occur too often for his patience. Plus, standing in line with N, the man so determined to give his public image a long-overdue overhaul, is over-working his own nerves.

When K had stepped from his car, N had immediately started fussing about him. "No, no, no! The collar has to be up. And your shirt -- tuck one side in and leave the other -- yes! One side in and the other out. The collar has to be UP! It's not 80's -- it's NOW! The jeans are not too long -- you look very L.A. Yeah, your old clothes were very L.A. two years ago -- when you were still living in L.A. No one wears those clothes anymore. You look hot now. These new clothes make you look fresh. Need more mouse in your -- hold it. Didn't you -- come on, K! Why is it so flat?"

"What hair are you talking about?" K asks. "I'm bald."

"Don't say that. That's not true."

"N -- I have more hair on my legs than I have on my head. It's okay. I've accepted my fate as being that of The Balding Former Twink. I'm good."

"You were never a Twink."

"Well, I was definitely a Sugar Daddy's kept boy a time or two in my youth."

"That doesn't make you a Twink," N tells him, "It makes you smart."

* * *

K stands in the line only as long as he needs to. When he sees one of the organizers of the event, he decides to take advantage of his recognizability. He raises a hand, lifts his eyebrows as if to say, "I don't like standing out here and if you know what's good for you, you'll get me out of this fucking line right now, thank you." and is quickly ushered inside where another of the organizers shouts his name, rifles through a box of passes, and hands him an envelope of the passes he'll use the remainder of the weekend. N, too, is whisked in alongside him and, never having seen K use his powers for N's good, is quite impressed.

"They like you," N tells him. "I feel like I'm with a famous person."

K is given a mimosa by one of the organizers. "I'm famous to maybe five percent of a small percentage of a small community in a small city. It's nothing to be impressed by. Unless," K adds, sipping his mimosa, "You happen to be in the presence of those five percent of that small percentage of that small community in that small city. In that case, take the freebies."

No sooner does N receive that lesson than one of the organizers, who sits on another committee that has been doing what K calls, "basically nothing at all" despite "Making people think they actually do shit for the community" comes along to kiss K's ass and seek out K's involvement.

K fights back the urge to tell him, "Here, you need a Tic-Tac. Your breath smells like ass, which is appropriate, considering what you're kissing."

Instead, he tells the guy that "You can call me, but I'm really overcommitted right now. I'm helping the HRC, Equality Florida, Reconciling Ministries, The Center -- Oh -- and I have a career. I'm a little short on time I can give away right now."

K also leaves off that he's also helping Hope & Help, the Special Olympics, and working on something he can't discuss just yet.

Regardless, he manages to leave the guy behind, another organizer whisking both K and N to their table inside the theater.

The theater, with it's tiered floor filled with tables, is looking extra clean for the festival, with enormous posters hung from ceiling to floor. The waiting staff is anxiously milling about, positioning chairs and menus.

K is very happy with his table. He makes a mental note to shoot off an e-mail thanking a ceratin someone for positioning him so well.

He and K order some light appetizers as another round of complimentary mimosas are sent their way.

He knows N is excited to be at the event and, honestly, K is too. But N, in addition to an interest in seeing the movies, the actors, the directors, is also interested in gauging L's reaction to this new model of K. K could care less; he honestly doesn't care about impressing the guy who just broke up with him. It;s not something he does. L doesn't register on his emotions as anything. Not even a blip. The last great hurt was X and . . .

Wow.

The one year anniversary of K moving out is just a few weeks away.

For a moment, K slips into a reverie. A year ago, the two weren't even speaking. They would avoid each other. If K saw the lights on, he'd go for a drive and come home later, when the lights had been turned off. And when they did see each other, X would glare at him with that awful look that said, "Fine. Leave me. You're shit anyway."

"What's wrong?" N asks him, interrupting K's not-so-instant replay.

"Nothing," says K -- the New and Improved K. Now with fashionable jeans and hot footwear!

* * *

Somehow, somewhere between Another Gay Movie and Available Men, K agrees to help out with the October Pride events which, spread out over five days, rival Gay Days' June events for requiring stamina and energy and, of course, money.

Five days of events.

And K has agreed to help out with the scheduling, planning, set-up, tear-down, promotion, sponsorships, speaking . . .

What the Hell?

* * *

Prior to the beginning of Available Men, while theater goers are milling about, visiting tables of those they know, while K is shaking hands and posing for pictures and enduring the too-frequent hugs of men and women he barely knows, he spots L and P.

His ex and his ex's ex-turned-non-ex are seated together at a small table in the highest tier.

K's heart freezes for a moment. Not with hurt but with something a bit more stunning than hurt. With a type of recognition that almost kills him dead.

He has little time to give it much thought with all the handshaking and so on going on but, as the lights dim again, as he sits back in his seat, as the film festival continues with Available Men. . .

. . .K gets up and goes to the restroom. But instead he steps outside the theater, wishing to God that he had a cigarette. He could really use one right now.

He hates himself for giving up smoking. He'd suck down a pack of Marlboro Reds right now if he had access to one.

K Gets A Makeover (Friday)

2006-08-19T20:02:00.000-04:00

"Fuck," K says as he looks at himself in the mirror, "You can't be serious. This is what's in style right now?"

"K -- you look hot!"

"Are the jeans supposed to be that long? That's a big break. . ."

"It's the look."

"And why are these jeans fitting so low? My waist is up here." K yanks the jeans up to his waist -- or as close to his waist as they'll go. "I don't want people seeing my underwear."

"The shirt covers that up," N advises him.

"Why am I doing this again?" K asks. "Everyone in Orlando knows what I look like."

"You're doing this because you haven't bought yourself new clothes since you moved back here from California. Times have changed. And more importantly --"

"L will be there."

"And what better reason to look hot in up-to-the-minute clothes than to make your ex regret dumping you?"

"Is Ralph Lauren really up-to-the-minute? I agreed to this because I thought they were classic -- and the little horse on the chest is less offensive to me than being a billboard for Abercrombie."

"The way you wear them is up-to-the-minute."

"Or don't wear them. I swear, these pants are gonna fall off me if I walk too quickly," K tells him, nervously tugging at the waist. "Are you sure these are the right size?"

"They're the right size. Your ass looks hot. So does your package."

"N -- you aren't supposed to notice things like that. You have a boyfriend now."

"S is gonna jump your bones if he sees you in those."

"S won't be there. He never goes to gay things. Says they're too gay."

"Well, you'll wear them other times."

"I dunno. This look just isn't -- N! What the Hell?"

"What?"

"There's a hole on my ass. I have a HOLE! ON MY ASS!"

"They're distressed jeans. You have holes all over them. It's the look."

"Why can't I just wear Levi's? The commercials say that Levi's are hot. And I'm sure Levi's don't show -- can you see my underwear through that hole?"

"Your underwear's blue?"

"Shit. I'm not wearing these."

"Oh, the fuck you aren't. Those are the jeans for you!"

"If one can tell what color and brand underwear I'm wearing under the alleged jeans, I'd say the alleged jeans aren't really jeans."

"Then don't wear underwear," N tells him casually.

"I have to wear underwear," K tells him, horrified at the thought of going commando. "I'm Catholic."

* * *

After K buys a new wardrobe consisting of several pairs of jeans, some chinos, graphic tees, button-down shirts, a blazer he'll likely wear only twice in the Orlando year-round heat, and several pairs of shoes, flip-flops, and sneakers, K gets his hair cut. Or rather, shaved.

Not shiny-cue-ball shaved. But very military-like. But not too military-like, because that would make him look like a militant gay and he's required to be the Gay Next Door for his political things and Diversity conversations. But it's definitely a new look for him. Very 1950's with a 2006 twist. The Retro Gay Next Door.

And then it's off to VisionWorks, but when he arrives, the optometrist can't see him and so his appointment needs to be moved. To Monday. Which is two days later than K's meeting with L at the Orlando Gay & Lesbian Film Festival.

N doesn't take this news lightly. "I'm making him over. We can't WAIT until Monday! He needs new glasses NOW!"

K has never seen N get this worked up before. He feels as if N is his Hollywood agent or a publicist or something. He wonders if N can arrange for two German male prostitutes to be sent to K's place later that night. . .

Despite N's fit, K's appointment remains rescheduled to Monday. And so N tells K that his old glasses, which K never wears and which L has never seen K wear, will have to be utilized.

"But I can't see out of them." K tells him.

"You just have to wear them for a few hours."

"AT THE MOVIES?" K screams. "How can I SEE the MOVIE, N -- if I CAN'T SEE?"

"Maybe we can pop the lenses out. . ."

"I'm not just wearing frames with no lens. That's demented. Then again," K says, running a hand through what remains of his cropped hair, "This whole thing is getting a bit insane."

And so it begins. . .

History Made Today!

2006-08-17T23:21:00.000-04:00

Forgive the grammar and typos; tired as all get out but have to post the following. Congratulations!

As part of my work with the various gay and lesbian organizations that I work with, one thing the perhaps bothers me more than out-and-out bigotry is the apathy of the gay community. Guys, gals -- if you don't stand up for yourself, if you think your voice, your input, your presence, doesn't matter -- you're a god-damned idiot. Get involved. You know that $40 you waste on Friday night at the bar? Stay home this Friday night and then, Saturday morning, send it to the Human Rights Campaign. (You can donate online at www.hrc.org)

The reason I'm not wasting too much time going on and on about apathy is because we have another -- ANOTHER -- victory to celebrate: the Tax Code has been changed -- and it's inclusive of gay and lesbian partners. What follows is a letter from HRC:

It is a great and historic day for our community. Today, federal legislation called the Pension Protection Act was signed into law and it includes two provisions that extend important financial protections to more Americans - including same-sex couples. This is an incredibly exciting victory that will be helpful to millions of gay, lesbian, bisexual and transgender families.

This Act is important because it has two hard-fought HRC-backed provisions that we lobbied for intensely and secured its inclusion. These provisions will help same-sex couples nationwide. Basically what this means is that these two provisions ensure that the U.S. tax code, in times of emergencies, is fairer to more Americans, including our community, and puts us on a more equal footing with other couples. Here's how these provisions can impact the lives of GLBT Americans:

The first provision, called "Non-Spousal Rollover"

Allows the transfer of an individual's retirement plan benefits, like a 401(k), to an Individual Retirement Account (IRA) for a non-spouse beneficiary like a domestic partner, sibling, parent, cousin or anyone else when the individual dies.

In the past, unless you were the legally recognized spouse of the deceased, you were forced to withdraw the amount as a lump sum and you faced immediate tax penalties which would eat away at the savings amount intended for retirement.

The second provision, known as "Hardship Distribution":

Allows individuals who list their same-sex partner or other non-spouse beneficiary under a 401(k) plan the ability to tap into their retirement funds in the case of certain medical or financial emergencies of the beneficiary.

In the past, the federal law only permitted such withdrawals for employees' legally recognized spouses or dependents.

For more details on how the two provisions can help you and your family, please visit our website at: www.hrc.org/estateplanning. Also, be sure to keep a close eye on your inbox later this month because we will be sending you information about an online chat with a financial expert that we will be hosting. The Q&A with this expert will be all about the Pension Protection Act and how it pertains to GLBT families.

I hope that you are as proud as I am of the HRC team and all their work to make this happen. As a member of the Human Rights Campaign, your support provided the resources and the critical momentum necessary to achieve this historic victory for gay, lesbian, bisexual and transgender Americans. I can't thank you enough for your lasting commitment to this work.

We should also thank our allies in Congress - Democrats, Republicans and Independents like former Representative Rob Portman (R-OH), Representative Ben Cardin (D-MD), Ways & Means Committee Chairman Representative Bill Thomas (R-CA), Senator Gordon Smith (R-OR), Senator Olympia Snowe (R-ME), Senator Edward Kennedy (D-MA), Senator Max Baucus (R-MT) and Senator Jim Jeffords (I-VT) - who partnered with us and did so with a cooperative spirit that is truly special in the current divisive political climate.

I hope you'll take a few moments to reflect on this enormous victory, join us in celebrating our big win, and know that you are making a difference.

End of Letter from HRC. Now it's all about you again:

STOP BEING APATHETIC. Even if you feel you can't be "out there" -- you CAN support the HRC and make more victories like this possible. DO IT!

The normal O-Town Guy Shit will resume soon -- most likely following the Orlando Gay and Lesbian Film Festival. Hope to see you there. And if not, take the $60 you'll save and donate it to the Community Center, HRC, NGLTF or Equality Florida. Because I said so, that's why.

Snakes on a Porch

2006-08-13T17:38:00.000-04:00

"Keys. Wallet. BlackBerry. Cell."

K's sure he's forgetting something.

"Watch. Mail to drop off at Post Office. CD's. Keys. Wallet. BlackBerry. Cell."

He can't figure out what it is and so decides he must have everything he needs. He pulls open the front door, turns to lock it, and, as he does, he sees something wavy at the edge of his vision. He ignores it for a moment as he locks the door, then, done with the lock, turns and sees at least three feet of something wiggling across the porch and around the corner.

"HOLY CHRIST!" he shouts, dropping his mail, keys, wallet, CD's, BlackBerry and Cell.

The snake slithers itself from the porch and into the palmetto bushes that stand between the yard and the exterior wall. "Holy Mother-Fuck!" K scrambles down the steps knowing he needs to follow this hellatious beast because he's heard stories about snakes slithering their way into Florida houses with little difficulty. If this little demon has found a way into his house, between the house and those damned bushes, K has to know so. And then he'll have it killed. Brutally. And video-taped. And he'll watch that tape again and again. And maybe have the skin turned into a wallet.

He hates snakes.

But when K tries to follow the thing, it apparently becomes invisible. Which means it could be anywhere. In his house. In a bush. In the grass.

Near his feet. . .preparing to attack. . .

K freaks, runs back to the porch, gathers up his things, and walks awkwardly to his car.

He wonders if, with all the hype that stupid "Snakes on a Plane" movie is getting, if anyone will believe him if he has to call 911 one night to report that he's found a yard-long snake in his bathroom. "Yeah, sure Sir. Snakes on a Toilet."

And then, because he's on his way to church, he wonders if there's something Biblical to this whole thing. Is the snake a warning of future evil?

He shuts the door to his car, checks the interior nervously for snakes, and then shakes off the idea that the snake is a signal from above - or below. Bad things don't get a foreshadowing, he reminds himself. They just happen. In his case, all the damned time.

As he turns on the ignition, he realizes that he did leave something upstairs. His sunglasses are in the laundry room off the kitchen.

But damn if he's going to cross the lawn and risk encountering that snake again. . .

* * *

K has decided to skip the Catholic Mass today. He's been ridiculing the Catholic Church in a piece called, "Forgive Me, Father, For I Have Fainted" which chronicles K's bizarre history of passing out during Communion and he's afraid that if he goes to a Catholic Mass today he'll get an incurable case of The Church Giggles. Normally he attends Catholic Mass every Sunday morning and then attends an evening Mass at Joy Metropolitan Community Church but today, given his desire to avoid the overdone Catholic ceremony, he decides to attend the 11:30 Mass at Joy MCC.

That will leave his night free to watch "Big Brother."

And look around his house nervously, always expecting a snake to pop out at him.

He calls S and asks him how to kill a snake: "Like, will Raid do the trick or do I need a cleaver?"

* * *

The one thing K hates -- absolutely HATES -- about mass at Joy MCC is that everyone hugs. Constantly.

And K has a big personal space zone. And a huge aversion to strangers hugging him.

Today it starts before he even gets to the doors. There are two ushers standing outside, on the chipping concrete pathway leading to the church, and they open their arms and hug him with greetings. He obligingly returns the hugs but without smiling. The lack of smile is not intentional -- it's instinctual. He can't help it if he hates hugging strangers and it shows on his face, can he?

It gets even worse. Two more ushers inside the doors greet him with hugs of welcome.

This, then, is the most physical contact K has experienced in two weeks.

Yes, K needs to get laid badly -- but he doesn't need to get laid at church.

Once free of the ushers, K takes a place in a pew. He refuses to sit in his usual pew because there are people already seated there -- and they might hug him.

And so, tired of hugs, he sits alone and reads the church's weekly letter, consumed -- as analytical minds like his usually are -- by the Balance Sheet included on Page Four. Seeing last week's miniscule donations, he scans those in the pews, wondering, "Who are the cheap people who came here for free hugs and then didn't offer a tithing for tat?"

He looks about. "Oh, yeah. I bet that guy didn't drop anything in the basket. Cheap clothes, too, so it's not like he doesn't have money saved up. . .She never gives anything. I know that for a fact. She just lets the basket pass her by. Cheap dyke. . . .He gives. He gives often. Then again, he always puts his in an envelope so maybe it's an empty envelope. . .That guy there should do himself and the Church a favor by cutting his grocery money in half and giving that to the MCC. . ."

He knows he's bad for keeping track or speculating on the giving nature of those about him but he figures with all the good he does, he's allowed a badness allowance.
Like most Catholics. He's just aware of his badness level, unlike most Catholics.

Plus, he's in a bad mood now because of the hugs.

It wouldn't be so bad if he knew the people -- he hugs his friends all the time and is deemed The Most Affectionate Boyfriend Ever by everyone he dates (one even created a certificate bestowing that title upon him) -- but when he doesn't know the people . . . well, that's just uncomfortable. He's very selective in who he hands affection to.

"The truth is -- you're a snobby little stuck-up snot," he tells himself.

"True that," he answers back.

* * *

Mass is fine until, third song in, K's musical snobbery pokes up. The song is called "Jesus Makes Me Glad." It just sounds wrong. Shouldn't it be titled, "Jesus Makes Me Happy"? And the glaring title gets worse when K, reading the lyrics, sees that the word "glad" is supposed to rhyme with "made." Meaning that "Glad" in this case is pronounced, "Glade."

He wants to interrupt the choir and point out the error.

Instead, he just continues on in his pew, mouthing the words. K never sings. He was told by his parents when he was a child that he had no talent and so, even though a few people have, on occasion, heard K sing -- usually after a night of drinking -- K makes it a point to never sing. Not even in Church. Because he's convinced that what sounds so good in his car would sound atttention-grabbingly horrible if he were to open his mouth and sing out loud in church.

So he lip-synchs.

He's the Ashlee Simpson of the religious set.

* * *

After the three songs are done, the Reverend gives another excellent sermon. K likes the sermons, likes the interpretations this Reverend brings to passages in the Bible that K would otherwise read without seeing that particular color. Today the sermon is about listening. How listening is an act of love.

But K gets an attack of ADD and stops listening. He thinks about his family and how yesterday was his birthday and how he has no family any longer and he's only 35 and alone and what will come of him. . .

He worries about his future. Has he invested enough in his retirement? Has he saved up enough money? In twenty-years will he be well-off or will he have to continue working? And if he has to work, will he still be wanted or needed? He's a success now, but will he still be a success at 40, 45, 50 -- 55? Or will he be the guy in the company who burns bright but burns out by 40? He's seen that happen; he knows what it looks like. The star performer who "decides to pursue other interests."

He shudders. He's thought of opening his own business but that would eat into his savings. And what little security he has.

He is living life with little of a security net. Most people have family to turn to, or are in a relationship where the partner can assist or calm them.

But he doesn't have that.

He has clasped his hands nervously and now begins to pray. And then, after he recites a rushed "Our Father" in his head, he's able to return his attention to the Reverend.

He finds that the Reverend has taken an unusual twist with the sermon. In fact, it seems to no longer make any logical sense. But K finds peace in it, for the Reverend is saying, "Trust in the Lord. Surrender to him! He has a plan. It may not seem like He does but when you stop rushing, when you stop worrying. . . the plan he has becomes clear to you. Trust him! LISTEN. . . to what. . . HE. . . is . . .SAYING!!!"

And, K, hands clasped in his lap, promises himself he'll do just that. And he'll look for the signs.

God will show him what to do next.

* * *

After Mass, K meets N at the downtown Barnes & Noble. N is waiting for him upstairs, in the overlook area, seated comfortably in a soft leather chair, his feet atop the chair facing him. He removes his feet so K can sit.

They hug. This hug doesn't bother K at all.

They catch up on each other's lives. N is dating someone now; has been for a few weeks. Of course, K notices affectionately, N is already prepared to hire a moving van. K, always moving forward too slowly in relationships, would usually look down on someone who moves as quickly as N does; however, loving N as he does, he thinks N's infatuation with his new guy is adorable.

After they chat, they peruse the store, both looking for The Next Good Read. When K recommends Augusten Burrough's "Possible Side Effects" and tells N "It's funny as Hell. This guys' life has been very amusing and he captures it so well. I literally laughed myself sore," N makes a face.

"What?" K asks.

"Why don't you write a book like that?"

"Huh?"

"K -- you could write circles around this guy."

"I think not. Have you ever read anything by him? "Magical Thinking? Dry? RUNNING WITH SCISSORS?"

"I read that book you recommended by David Sedaris and I think your stories are funnier than his."

"I'm already writing a book. You know that."

"Yeah, but your book is taking forever. I know -- it took Margaret Mitchell ten years to write Gone With the Wind; what I mean is, maybe you put what you call That Damned Novel That Owns Your Soul aside for a bit. Write something different. Write something like this --" N points to the book now in his hands. "You could write it quickly, shoot it off to publishers, get a check, then get back to writing That Damned Novel."

"I've thought of doing that. It's not as easy as it sounds," K explains. "I tried to sell-out by doing something like Chick-Lit but, honestly, if you're not a reader of Chick-Lit it's hard to write it."

"I'm not talking about Chick-Lit," N explains. "I mean writing a book of stories about the funny crap that's happened to you in your life. And the sad stuff too, only with your twisted take on it."

K wonders . . . is this God's plan? He resists argument and he, well, he listens to N lay out the book's concept for him.

* * *

When K drives home that night, he knows he's forgotten something. "Mass. Barnes and Noble with N. Lunch. Target. Macy's. Gas." He can;t shake the feeling that he's forgotten something.

When he parks his car at home, K collects his things. He has his keys. Wallet. Cell phone. BlackBerry.

God-damnit. He forgot to drop by the Post Office and drop his mail in a mailbox.

"Do it tomorrow. Nothing urgent, anyway," he tells himself.

As he gathers his items, gets out of the car, and slams the door, he looks about nervously. "Where's the snake?"

He starts walking from his car through the grass calmly but, knowing that the sun is setting and he may not be able to spot the snake, he starts to run to his front door.

When he reaches the door, he realizes he's forgotten something again. He left the CD he was going to listen to as he begins writing a new book tonight.

He considers racing back to his car for it but, recalling that he saw three feet of snake and never saw the full size of the thing, he shudders, pushes his front door open, and slams it shut.

He can write to some other CD.

Ya Know What You Should Do???

2006-08-12T00:57:00.000-04:00

Tomorrow's my birthday. Today was just plain Hell.

I went on a date with "Know What You Should Do" Guy. Thank God I met him. I don't know how I've managed to make it to 35 without him in my life.

I knew from our brief phone calls that the date would be brief. I just had that strange feeling --

Or rather, the imaginary people who live in my head were all screaming, "You're gonna hate him. YOU WILL FUCKING HATE HIM!"

Ah, the reliability of those imaginary people who live in my head. How they entertain me. . .

So we met for drinks. I knew well enough not to meet for dinner. I should have known enough from our phone calls not to meet at all, but I just had a feeling that life hasn't shat on me enough lately so I needed to go on a bad date.

It stsarted right away. As in "immediately after I ordered my drink."

"Do you have Amber Bock?", I asked the waitress.

"No. No, I don't think so."

"Okay, that's cool. I'll just have a Heineken then."

"You know what you should do?" he says, leaning in toward me, "You should do this: Order a Bud Light. Not a lot of calories. Not very fattening."

To get the waitress away before I exploded at him, I repeated my order. "I'll just have the Heineken. Thank you."

Sensing a gay about to go ballistic, she quickly stepped away.

"Are you saying I'm fat?", I asked him.

"No, no, no!" He's clueless. He just thinks I should drink a low-calorie drink, not that there's anything offensive about that. "But you know what you should do? You work out, right?"

"Yeah." I tell him, very flatly. "I work out."

"You should work your upper body more. You know? You should work out upper body more often. More weight training. You got great shoulders but your arms aren't as built as they should be."

"I didn't realize there was an upper-arm rule. I'll try to follow it more closely now that I'm aware of it. I wouldn't want the upper-arm rule police ticketing me or anything."

My scarcasm flies by him so I ask, "Is there an asshole rule?"

"Huh?"

"Nothing. So, how was your day? What do you do for a living again? Paint?"

"Yeah. House paintere. Do alot of the refurbishments downtown."

"So that must be real detail-oriented, right? Like, trim and walls. Making sure the wall paint is different from the trim paint?"

I know I'm being a pissy bitch but when you know you want out of the date before your drinks have arrived, you know it's gonna be a long birthday weekened.

"Yeah."

"Do you paint on your own?"

"Oh, I do buddie's houses from time to time."

"I meant creatively. Like as in painting. A painting."

"No, man. I don't paint like that. Just architectural painting."

I hold on the laughter miraculously. Architectural painting. The painting of walls, trim and doors.

* * *

Over drinks he manages to tell me that I should buy a new car. I should also consider a career in law enforcement. According to him, I should also get season tickets to the Orlando Magic games, even though I think the Magic have sucked for well near a decade. And I should start taking Rogaine.

That's when I told him I should be leaving.

When Does 'Open' Equal 'Over'? (Part 2)

2006-08-10T23:50:00.000-04:00

"It's over as soon as it becomes open -- that's when open equals over." M tells me over lunch the next day at The Briar Patch. "The minute two people let in a third, they've changed the dynamic of whatever they have forever."

"So you don't think they'll stay together?" I ask her.

"Would you?" she challenges me.

"I would never allow the relationship to be open in the first place." I snap, before adding, "No judgment, of course."

"Why do we always feel like we have to shout, 'No judgment' whenever we get judgmental?", M asks me. "Since when did it become wrong to have an opinion? If you think a couple fucking someone outside their couple is wrong, you think it's wrong! Big deal."

She has a point. But, perhaps because I've felt a great deal of disapproval in my own life due to people judging me against their own misled opinions about gay people, I guess I'm sensitive to other people being judged.

"So, anyway" I say, "If your husband ever asked you to allow a third in--"

"I'd divorce him. If . . . he . . . even . . . suggested . . . it. D-I-V-O-R-C-E. Over."

I'm stunned. She never talks about anything like that. She and her husband are quite happy. "Really? You'd end it over that?"

"Absolutely. My feeling is, if he were to mention something like that, he's done it on the sly already. And if he EVER did something behind my back -- he'd be gone. And then both you and I would be single again."

Which makes me wonder if maybe Jon isn't so much perusing something a bit more fun, but maybe trying to even a score.

* * *

"Only gay guys would do something like that. No offense.", "Sarah" tells me over the phone. She's in her thirties, married for four years to a guy she thinks might have married her for her money.

"Gee. None taken, you fucking breeder cunt."

Though I'm only partly joking, she laughs. "You know what I mean. Gay guys are more sexual. It's more natural for men to cheat so why not slap a label on it and call it 'Another Phase of the Relationship.'"

"Because not all gay men are like that?" I offer.

"You never thought of bringing a third in with X?"

"Hell no! At least, not seriously. Maybe in a fantasy but -- no way! And you can't say fantasies count because I know all about you and your George Clooney fetish."

"Alright. But I never hear of straight couples doing this."

"You don't read personals ads, do you? There's a whole bunch of people doing it. And yes, I do mean married and coupled straights. The hets. So, don't say it's only the mo's, Sarah. Pick up the Orlando Weekly sometime."

"Who reads that rag?"

"The people who write for that rag?"

"Oh, sorry. Anyway -- it's just more common for gays." Then she asks, unsure of herself, "Isn't it?"

"How many times have I come to you with this dilemma?"

"Hmmm." She actually takes time to think. "This is the first."

"First time for me, too. And I'm gay. So, I actually think it's more common for the hets to do it. We can break up real easy if we want someone new. You guys have legal bonds that have to be dissolved in court so this type of arrangement makes more sense for you all. You deranged, degenerate perverts."

After I hang up on her, I find myself wondering if maybe Jon really loves Mick and maybe he really is doing this to hold them together? After all, if he just wanted a new piece of ass . . . he can just leave anytime he wants.

I know this from being on the wrong side of experience.

* * *

"Open relationships do work - so long as they're only open for a short time." I am advised by 'Kim', a woman who, having been married for almost two decades -- decades during which I made the biggest mistakes of my life -- might be a reliable source of wisdom. Or maybe it just looks that way because she's Oriental and we're sitting in the Chinese Ping at Lake Eola.

"Do you know this from experience?" I ask.

She seems saddened and sits closer. She lowers her voice to a whisper. "It saved my marriage. And you know what? I'd do it again. But here's the thing: It can only be for a short time. You can not allow him to fall in love. No emotions. You have to keep the outside parties sexual things. Because sex as sex gets old."

"Did you also --?"

"I almost did. But I loved him too much so I just let him have his fun."

This seems a bit tough for her to talk about.

"I thought I might lose him. He seemed to have no interest in me any longer and I thought, 'Maybe if I allow him an affair.' The idea came to me because, well, he just seemed to resent me. And I couldn't pin it on anything. And then I realized, 'We got married young. He never really screwed around. And now he's seeing what a catch he is and . . . he resents me.' So I cut a deal with him."

I find myself patting her hand. "But . . .what did that do to your self-esteem?"

"Oh -- that?" She laughs a chuckle that barely conceals still-present hurt. "It killed it. But then he came back to me and I told myself that there was myself-esteem. He came back to me."

I almost told her that it was a shame that someone like her, a very beautiful woman with a successful career built upon her vivacious personality, great looks, and brilliant mind viewed her husband as the source of her self-esteem rather than her own achievements.

But who am I to judge?

* * *

Someone once pointed out to me, a long time ago in a place on the other end of the world, that love doesn't always look like we think it will. We grow up thinking it's one thing, whether that be the white-picket fence or a raunchy Cinemax-like sexcapade. But life happens. And we learn things about ourselves. And we find ourselves in love with someone we might have never pictured ourselves with. Maybe it's that they aren't our "type." Maybe it's that their personality is so far from our own -- we're the reserved, quiet ones and they're the annoyingly obnoxious one we could never stand. Or maybe it's that the one we fall in love with lives on the other side of the world and we have to surrender everything to be with them. Or maybe we fall in love with someone who hurts us with cutting words and we overlook those words -- for no greater reason than that we love them. Maybe they cheat on us and we turn the other way and pretend not to notice or convince ourselves it's not happening and choose to remain blind. Or maybe we fall in love with someone who can never love us in the way we wanted love to look like and we acclimate to accept whichever way they can love us.

We settle.

Perhaps an open relationship does not equal a relationship that will end. Perhaps its just a matter of deciding settling for something in order to retain the love and affection of someone we care for more than anything else in the world.

As for me, I hope I never have to make that choice. But for Jon and Mick, it seems to be working out.

When Does 'Open' Equal 'Over'? (Part 1)

2006-08-07T00:36:00.000-04:00

My friend Jon and I were having a great conver-sation when he ruined it for me by giving me something to think about. I had been thirsting for a conver-sation with someone who could be fully out there: honest and original but not necessarily thought-provoking I have Kabbalah cIasses, the periodic jump into Buddhist texts, and a wide variety of mind-altering pills to provide me with multiple jumping off points for moments of introspection on the existential search; at the Peacock Room, I need mindless chatter and some good, hard, tasty booze.

True, for a time I had felt that I had been engaging in the same conversations again and again, yet, always with different people. I think I had possibly agreed to catch up with him at the trendy (for thirty-somethings) little bar north of Virginia on Mills because I knew he was someone who could be counted upon to take the same old single person topics – dating, not dating, the disturbing frequency of herpes medication ads airing during America’s Funniest Home Videos -- and say something that would knock me off my barstool and land me on my badly-in-need-of-a-visit-to-the-gym glutes.

Alas, I had to return a four-month old phone call in order to make the hook-up, but I had sucked up my pride and called him saying that I was sorry I had taken a third of a year to return a series of phone messages. I simply explained that I had been busy. And he, being a good friend who knows that I sometimes can’t find two minutes in four months to return a phone call even though I’m not really all that busy, accepted that lamest of excuses and told me to meet him at the Peacock Room
Jon had been in a relationship with Mick for as long as I’d known him, which, at last calendar check, was going on almost eight years – which probably meant I had returned phone calls about 24 times maximum at my current going rate.

When we had originally met, Jon had held a crush for me, but I had been dating an asshole with the same name as my own, a man who is a series of columns all to himself. And so, I being loyal and he being involved, we never quite hooked up. But on this particular night, he let me know that we could indeed hook up for more than just a taste-testing round of martinis and other assorted cocktails. We could hook up for some cock and some tail.

“You and Mick broke up?”

“No, we’re still together. Just looking to spice things up a bit. The sex has gotten you know . . . less interesting. So we’re letting each other do our own thing.”

“How does that work exactly? Aren’t you afraid that you dating one guy and he dating another guy – isn’t your relationship going backwards?”

”Well", he said, taking in an introspective breath and a sip or two of his booze, "I think this moves things forward. We have trust in each other, enough to allow the other experimentation. Physical experimentation. Just no affairs. We can only have sex with the other guys - not love.”

And then he put his hand on my knee.

“You should know me better than to think I’d be a third wheel.” He shot me a knowing look, prompting me to add, “With any couple I know well.”

“It’s all very Europoean.”

“But we’re not In Europe – we’re in Epcot.”

He then explained to me that, now that their relationship was approaching the linens and lace anniversary, their sex life had arrived at the Boring Terminal. Which, they felt, left open just a few options: 1.) become a more experimental sexual couple, 2.) open up the relationship to involve others for sexual purposes -- or 3.) break up. Having tried option one, to become more experimental only to have their experiment – a highly creative home sex-video -- accidentally end up in the return slot at the College Park Blockbuster Video, they were now moving on to option two in an attempt to avoid option three.

A chill ran through me at the thought. If asked what is more important in life, sex or love, I am inclined to say that love, and the monogamy that I expect to be a reflection of that love, is by far more important. But is sex all that far behind? Can we love someone and allow that love to age and the sexual attraction and excitement to wane as love ripens and deepens, leaving great sex just a souvenir of the great thrust of initial passion – or is it such a crucial component in a relationship that what might once have been an unthinkable option now becomes the only way to save the relationship? And why is it that for some, the familiarity of another in sex loses appeal, while for me, familiarity and the security of monogamy deepens the appeal and pleasure? Am I the one with the wrong viewpoint and am I being overly judgmental in my gut reaction of opposition to the idea that couples should allow another person into their most intimate world? If we let someone in physically, what’s to prevent them from becoming involved emotionally? And when they become involved, does that destroy the relationship between the original couple, or merely redefine it on a level too mature for my own comprehension?

Jon and Mick had been a couple committed to monogamy in the beginning. In fact, they once had broken up following a fight instigated over one partner’s wandering eye. Now a lot more than the eye was allowed to wander – and what was wandering was now allowed to do more than peek a glance – the wandering anatomical parts were allowed to poke, thrust, and throb. The idea bothered me quite a bit: not just because monogamy was being tossed aside to salvage love, but because to me, this decision seemed to be the beginning of the end for a couple I cared about deeply. After all, I thought, just how open can a relationship be before open equals over?

Pain Killer

2006-07-26T04:23:00.000-04:00

To anyone who was watching, one might assume that something exciting was happening at Champions Gate because, over the past few days, there's actually been some traffic on Legends Boulevard.

K had some visitors.

"So -- this is where you live.", they all seemed to say. Or they might have said, "It's nice out here. But you're so far away from everything!" Or, "Now how does a guy like you live in a place like this without going crazy? I mean, it's beautiful but, K -- come on! -- there's nothing out here!"

And on this weekend, when his body is aching and stiff and he needs his friends' company more so because they bring food -- he forgot to go grocery shopping before getting hit by a Mazda Miata -- than their company. The reason none of them have ever been out here to see where he lives is because he knows they can never grasp the idea of anyone not living in a city. His place is brand-new, beautiful, with high ceilings, crown moulding, nice archways leading into hallways, expensive doors -- not the flat, shitty ones new developments slap up because they figure you'll buy new ones -- and the granite flooring is quite nice.

But, everyone seems to say, it's not in the city. Therefore, the assumption is, it must be boring to live here.

No, K explains, it isn't boring. It's peaceful.

No one seems to know what he means. After all, he doesn't look at peace right now --except after he downs a painkiller or two.

* * *

He can sleep no more than a few hours before he wakes up needing to stretch limbs that ache when he stretches them and a back that feels as if it will crack if he so much as rubs it's aching areas. His fingers and hands feel almost arthritic and he's beginning to feel exhausted.

He decides to take Monday and Tuesday off from work and tries to deal with his world existing of solely his bedroom and bathroom.

He watches TV fitfully -- nothing holds his interest long. He longs for a cigarette. After all -- would it really be so bad to smoke this one time? He's done so well not smoking for so long -- wouldn't now be okay? But he decides against having a friend buy him some smokes.

He does have N bring him a list of groceries, which K pays for from his emergency cash stash -- kept between pages 428 and 429 of his favorite book -- as K doesn't like to write checks for friends who've just done a favor for him and prefers to reimburse immediately.

Speaking of his favorite book, the man who gave him that first edition of it calls repeatedly. K, on Monday, finally picks up.

* * *

"I don't blame you. . .Seriously, L -- relax. One event had nothing to do with the other and, quite frankly, the idea that you think you're that God-like that your dumping me somehow resulted in my getting hit by a car is really getting on my nerves. . . .Okay, so maybe you don't mean it that way but that's how it sounds. . . .Well, yes, you should feel bad, L. But not about the car-thing. Let's call what you did by it's proper name: Shitty. You don't date a guy for months and then just up and dump him in that way. . . .Well, I have a right to be mad and if you don't want to hear me be mad, don't call. I didn't call you - you called me. Did you expect me to be all happiness and light? . . .If I was the Rebound Guy, I guess you should ask yourself why you'd go back to the guy who gave you something to rebound from in the first place. I think that says it all. . . .Oh - I'm not fighting for you. He can have you. You do what you want. I'm done."

* * *

While watching an infomercial late Tuesday night-slash-early Wednesday morning, K, who is back to writing his Novel That Owns His Soul now that he can make it around his apartment slowly without the aid of crutches, he realizes he's single again.

And it sounds fun.

"I'm single. Completely single."

He looks around him. He looks at the TV, the nightstands, clean and uncluttered because he hates clutter. The ceiling. And out the window. The window that shows the vast emptiness that is Champions Gate, Florida.

"Damn, being single is exciting.", he mumbles sarcastically.

But then he ponders this. He knows he's at a point in his life here he's about to change a great many things: he's considering buying a condo downtown, he's considering opening a business, he has a book collection a local museum has expressed some interest in using -- potentially -- as part of their exhibit about that particular story's impact in a Spring 2007 installation, and . . . strangely, there's a peaceful, bliss-like feeling that something really good is about to happen.

He has no idea what that may be. Maybe it's just faith that something really good is coming for him. Or from him.

Or maybe it's that pain-killer he took an hour ago. . .

Either way, he feels pretty darn good. And he hasn't even bought that amazing food device that cuts up a hard-boiled egg with just one easy press.

Yet.

Tackled by a Midget

2006-07-25T01:22:00.000-04:00

In the fog of his painkillers, in that place between waking and sleeping, K sees an odd light in the midst of darkness. A light. It's oddly shining, greenish in hue, and it seems to be growing brighter.

"Oh.", he thinks. "this is how it happens. How nice."

There's no panic, no dread. Just peace. He's headed toward the light.

"Go toward the light, Carol Anne.", he hears a munchkin-like voice from somewhere in his past saying. Yes . . . go toward the light.

And then, seeing the light and yet, though wanting to go nearer, finding himself not getting any closer, he reaches out to it. And when he reaches out to it, pain shoots with a loud snap through his body. And his eyes jolt awake.

And he sees the light before him was not Heaven, but the fire detector in S' ceiling.

* * *

He unintentionally wakes S with screams of, "OW! OW! OW! Goddamnit! OWWWWW!"

His body is stiff and the no-big-deal injuries no longer seem like such little deals after all.

When K tries to stretch out his legs, they are stiff in places K had no idea a leg could be stiff. It's not just the knee and joints that feel immobile -- the whole leg, from top to ankle, hurts. And snaps. And crackles. And pops.

"You sound like a bowl of Rice Krispies.", S tells him before doing the honorable thing and rubbing K's legs and arms for a while.

"What if I have to go my whole life like this?", K asks.

"Then you better plan on sleeping someplace else.", S tells him. "You were talking in your sleep again."

"Was I? I haven't done that in ages."

"You were going to town."

"What'd I say?"

"You were sprouting some of your Kaballah shit."

"I don't practice that anymore.", K says, offended. "I never really believed that stuff. I just wanted to work for Madonna at Maverick."

"Well, believe it or not, you were going on about the Light and the Vessel and I knew exactly what you were talking about."

"I talk a spirituality I don't belive in when I'm asleep?"

"That and what sounded like Latin. You were freaking me out."

"I don't know Latin. It must've been French, Spanish or Hungarian."

"Well, whatever it was, it was freaky because it wasn't English."

"Was it Ebonics? Was I axing you sumptin'?"

"You'se was gettin' on my nerves, ya badass mutha.", S tells him before flopping back on the bed beside him.

K drops his jaw, offended and points at his legs.

"You call that a massage, Copper? I am in pain! Get to working!"

S tells him to shut up, that he has to get up in a few hours, wraps an arm about K's neck, and curls up against him, his lips and breath against the back of K's head.

* * *

Later that day, after K has spent the day removing his bandages to see how bloody and puss-covered his wounds are, after he has changed into the clothes S has left out for him -- although changing the thong for a pair of briefs -- K manages to return a few phone calls and even impresses himself by being able to log on to the internet -- though his typed messages appear to be in code and he fears the Homeland Security Division may now mistake his email to his boss, "I plksdn ob beung im NMoBNdaY" (I plan on being in Monday) for some terrorist plot.

The email to his boss turns out to be unnecessary as she is the first he calls anyway.

"You got run over by a car? You poor thing? Oh my God! Can you walk? How's your face? How many bones are broken? Are you in a wheelchair? What hospital are you in? Is your family here?" These are the questions that greet him.

This is his answer: "I got tackled by a midget. That's how unserious this is. Please stop people from blowing this up into some stupid big thing. I did not get run-over. I got hit. Big difference. I did not go airborne like they do in the movies. It was like a shove. The driver hit his brakes just before he hit me so the car slid into me. I do not have tire marks on my back."

"So you can walk?"

"Well, right at this moment, only with crutches."

"Oh my God! Your legs are broken?"

"No, they're fine."

"But why the crutches?"

"It's my new look. I'm bringing them back. Next Spring, my new product line is crutches. Crutches with [Insert Name of Cartoon Character That Can Not Be Named Here for Legal Reasons]."

"That sounds cute."

"Picture it: Bling jewels for the sassy tween market who wants the crimped on crutches look. Chambray topped crutches for the soccer mom crowd. Pink Winnie-the-Pooh crutches for the fat ladies. Leather topped crutches with rivets for the butch Daddy buyer. You name it --I got your crutches."

* * *

After S gets off duty, he makes K dinner. S normally doesn't baby K like this. K sort of likes it. A lot.

Over dinner, S tells K he read the police report.

"Do you realize how serious that could have been?", S asks him sternly.

"Why do I feel like I'm about to be grounded for two weeks--"

"Be serious."

"--With no television?"

"The report indicated you were under the car, right near the driver-side front wheel."

"I fell under the car. After it stopped, S. The car slammed into me -- like a midget quarterback. And I hit the car and fell under it. I guess. It happened sorta fast, you know. All I saw was a gay little car, the lights, a headlight, pavement, and then some guy screaming like a little girl. At the time, I don't think it even hurt. I think I was sort of. . . amused."

"There's nothing amusing about it. You're not supposed to die first."

"Well . . . am I in your will? Because I do like your house and your condos in The Vue. Your death can be arranged. I know people, ya know."

K smirks at him and S playfully punches the air in front of K's face.

"You're a dickhead.", S tells him.

"Part of my charm.", K assures him.

* * *

When S brings K back to Champions Gate the next day, K is still hobbling around on crutches. S has offered K residency in Casa de S until he's better but K actually misses his little town that nobody ever seems to live in except for him. When they arrive at K's building, K hobbles up to the steps and looks at S, who, too, has realized the dilemma.

"Your building doesn't have an elevator? It's a brand-new building! How is that not code?"

"Maybe I can scoot up the stairs backwards?"

"I'll carry you."

K explodes. "Are you crazy? You aren't carrying me up the stairs!"

"Oh -- look who's suddenly in the closet! Mister Gay Rights can't be seen being carried up the stairs by a guy!"

K is about to argue that isn't the case -- but it sort of is. . .

"Besides", S tells him, "Who's gonna see me carrying you? No one lives out here!"

"We might have had a population boom yesterday."

"Come on. Lemme carry you up the stairs."

"No."

"You know you want me to."

"No, actually, I don't."

"It'll be like in your favorite movie. . . Gone With the Wind."

"I never should have made you go see that with me."

"Come on. Be my Scarlett."

"You shut up. I'll drag myself on my hands up those stairs if I have to -- as God is my witness."

"Give me your crutches."

K stands on the foot that hurts the least and hands S his crutches. S then knees down, scoops K up in his arms, and stands -- with a rather impressive steadiness.

"Damn, you're good.", K tells him.

S smiles at him, lifts his eyebrows mockingly, and, as he carries K up to his unit, starts humming "Tara's Theme."

Lights Out

2006-07-23T18:57:00.000-04:00

K and L were at Lake Ivanhoe Park, walking along the shore-side paths, following dinner at the White Wolf, when L sighed, said, "Better now than never." and took a gentle hold of K's arm. Leading him to a bench, L failed to make eye contact. This made K nervous, and so he kept craning to make eye contact, but L would look away, look up, look down, close his eyes. And then he told K, "It's hard to tell you this. Really hard to tell you this. Because I know that you've had some major league assholes in your life and. . . you deserve better than that. You deserve a Hell of a lot better than that. They really fucked you up. And I don't mean to fuck you up -- but I know that I'm going to. No matter how I put this, it's gonna transform itself into something else and whatever I say is gonna fuck you up."

L sighed and dropped his head into upturned palms. K, his heart-breaking, made light of the situation anyway, as was his style. "Let me guess --" he said, a joking, comforting tone in his voice, "You're breaking up with me?"

L shook his head yes, still not looking at K. K, though his vision was blurred, rubbed L's neck. "No biggie.", K told him, finding some way to sound light-hearted despite the pain in his throat. "So we didn't work out? Life goes on."

"I'm sorry." L said into his hands. "I'm really sorry."

K ran his fingers through L's hair and playfully tussled it.

"I'm okay.", K said to him, almost singing. "Really. I'm fine." K wiped his eyes and smiled. "You can look at me."

L hesitantly turned to K, and, as he looked into K's smiling face the worry in his own face faded away.

"You don't have to tell me why or any of that stuff. The important thing is that we just go our own way with some dignity.", K said to him.

"I want to stay in touch with you.", L told him. "Just because we're breaking --"

K hesitantly spoke, interrupting him. "That's too confusing right now. You just broke up with me. I can't promise you anything right now, L."

L fell quiet, seeming to understand. But then he blurted out, "P and I are getting back together."

K sat back against the bench then, his hands in his lap. "And that --", K explained, "Was something I didn't need to hear."

"I'm sorry."

K forced himself to smile at L and, in a flurry of words and emotions -- some acting, some real -- K excused himself. "I -- you know -- Um -- I really -- Look. Let's just -- We both came in our own cars. I think I better get home. Really. No -- you don't have to explain. Really. And don't feel bad. I gotta go. Really. I've gotta go."

He left L on the bench and walked back the mile up Orange Avenue to his car, all the while repeating the same words over and over in his head, "Don't cry. Do not cry. Don't cry. Do not cry."

He didn't cry. But his eyes did glaze over and so, while crossing Orange Avenue, he failed to notice the car heading toward him from the Rock and Roll Heaven parking lot.

* * *

"This is all very 'An Affair to Remember.'", Nathan tells K in the emergency unit at Florida Hospital. Seeing K shoot him an evil glance, N meekly adds, "Except she ended up crippled and that won't happen to you."

"Please shut up.", K pleads with him. "I've had a bad enough night."

They sit in silence a moment before Nathan tells him, "You know -- he's out there."

"Please tell him to go home. I'll be fine. Tell him that."

"But you're not fine. You're in the hospital."

"For scrapes and bruises."

"But you're not fine."

"Then lie, God Damnit!"

* * *

When Nathan leaves, K pops open his cell phone as well as he can manage given the ridiculous layers of gauze that surround his hands. "Fucking oven mitts!", K thinks. He manages to, using a non-bandaged finger, poke S' speed dial key.

S' phone rings s moment, then S answers.

"Hey there, Cutie. What are you up to?"

"I got hit by a car. Oh -- and I got dumped by L."

"L dumped you?"

"Did you hear the first part?"

"No -- what was the first part?"

"I got hit by a car. I am an example of the benefits of crosswalking and the perils of jaywalking."

"Are you okay?"

"I'm fine. Just waiting for some x-rays to prove I'm okay so I can go home."

"How'd it happen? Where? What the--"

"I was crossing the street and next thing I knew, I was on my face and couldn't breathe. Orange Avenue -- just outside the White Wolf."

"What officer reported to the scene?"

"S -- only you would ask a question like that."

"Well, I know the guys in that jurisdiction. Who was it?"

"Silly me -- I forgot to take names at the moment."

"Well -- what did they look like?"

"What does it matter? S -- I got hit by a car!"

"How fast was it going? Do you have any memory loss?"

"Now, how would I know if I have any memory loss?"

"How old are you?"

"I'll admit to thirty-four."

A nurse comes around the corner and, seeing K on the phone, stops cold. Being a male nurse, he delivers K a nasty, bitchy hand gesture. "No cell phones! No cell phones in the hospital!"

S can hear this and yells, "Who's the queen?"

"Male Nurse. Gotta run. Florida Hospital. Please come get me."

"Which Florida Hospital?"

"Duh! The one near the White Wolf. You don't think they picked me up on Orange Avenue and drove me to the one in Celebration, did you?"

"NO CELL PHONES IN THE HOSPITAL, SIR!"

"Tell that Queen to shut the fuck up before I knock his teeth out!", S yells.

"Will you come and get me? N is making me very annoyed with all his 'Affair to Remember' references."

"I'm on my way."

"I love you.", K says, completely absent-mindedly.

"Love you, too.", S replies, also as absent-mindedly.

"SIR -- TURN OFF THAT CELL PHONE!"

* * *

"I know he isn't relatives but I want my fucking visitor so let me make this perfectly clear -- relative or not, he is to be let in here. Understand? Or I'll have the ACLU on your god-damned asses like a duck on a june bug."

That K manages to get a Southern metaphor AND gay rights in one overly emotional outburst makes him momentarily happy. There's really no need to grandstand, either -- after all, they let N in to see him. But K just feels like letting the doctor, an old man he assumes from his grumbling nature to be a Conservative, know that K isn't some pansy push-around, even if he did just get run over by a Mazda Miata.

* * *

Several hours later, K is cleared of a concussion, and his legs appear okay, though there are a few fractures in his feet and his arms. But nothing really serious. And his hands, wrapped up like morbid oven mitts, are the only tell-tale signs that he's been in a bit of a mess.

"Thank God", he tells S "There wasn't a head injury or they'd have made me look like a Q-Tip."

He is told to stay off his feet for a few days by his doctor and, by S, to start using cross walks.

Rather than drive him all the way out to Champions Gate at one in the morning, S takes K back to S' place. Once there, S dials the phone number for K's boss, allowing K to leave the message: "Won't be in today. Hit by gayest car possible. Not crippled, but in moderate enough pain to warrant sympathy and nice gifts. You may call my cell -- but I can't really answer because I have these enormous gauze pads on my hands. Yes, Kevin Bandagehands is what they will call the movie about my life. Going to bed now. I don't have a concussion, so I should wake up. Bye!"

When he hangs up the phone, S is shaking his head, laughing.

"You crack me up."

"But do I make you hot?"

"Oh, baby, yes."

"Ah -- too bad I can't give a hand job right now.", K tells him with a smirk and a display of his big, white, pillowy hands.

* * *

It's only after S falls asleep, holding his wounded K in his arms, that K reflects on what a crappy day he's had.

He not only got dumped. He got hit by a car.

"God", he thinks in his nightly conversation, "Next time, can you separate the traumatic events a bit more? Like, maybe one day I get dumped and then weeks later I get hit by a car? Just a request. Oh -- and if it's true that bad things come in threes and there's a really bad thing on it's way -- please postpone it til after my birthday in August. Thank you. Oh -- and thank you for the getting run over by a car thing being more silly than serious. I appreciate it. Really"

K Feels Rejection

2006-07-22T23:23:00.000-04:00

In the days after L's illness, K notices a change in L. When he asks L what's wrong, he is told, "nothing." Not "nothing" in that cold, bitter way that X had of saying "Nothing" as if K should somehow be able to pull a Miss Cleo and somehow understand, through osmosis, what was bothering X. But an honest-sounding "Nothing." And L punctuates it by placing little kisses on K's forehead or neck.

But still, K senses something amiss.

And so, when, on Thursday, L breaks up with him, it isn't much of a surprise.

K Feels Love

2006-07-22T21:35:00.000-04:00

About halfway through their day looking at condos and houses, L tells K he's feeling a little light-headed. A few hours later, L's head is hot to K's touch and K brings L home. By the time they reach L's place, L is lethargic and worn out, sweating, moaning from aching bones, and burning up. K undresses him, as L's too worn out to be of any help to himself, stretches him out on L's bed, and proceeds to wish he had studied medicine in college rather than business.

"Imagine how rich I'd be!", he tells L.

L weakly laughs tells K, "I'd ask you to marry me." K retrieves some Tylenol, a glass of water a thermometer, and so on from L's bathroom.

* * *

When L complains of feeling pain in his back, K turns L over and gives L a massage that lasts longer than any K has ever given anyone. And, when he finally finishes, when his fingers and palms are sore, he rolls L on his backside and rubs L's temples. He pauses to feel L's forehead. It still burns up.

K goes to the kitchen, retrieves some fruit, cuts it up, pours some orange juice, and brings L what K calls "A Get Well Snack."

L opens one eye, cocks a criticiszing eyebrow at him, and asks, "Is this what you call cooking?"

K shoves a few grapes in L's mouth and says, "Shut up and eat something."

* * *

While L sleeps, K lies beside him, looking at his profile, at his chest, at the feet and legs that peek out from beneath the blankets they are cuddled together beneath.

K suddenly realizes that L can do much better than K.

The thought smacks him so hard it feels like someone just grabbed a hold of his throat and is strangling him.

* * *

In the middle of the night, L stirs awake. His stirring awakens K who, running a hand over L's forehead, finds that L's head feels hotter than it has earlier, and that it's covered in perspiration, as is L's hair - drenched in sweat, actually.

K lifts L out of bed, helps him to the bathroom and - as K is modest and thinks bathroom activity is a very private thing - leaves L in the bathroom, shuts the door and, hearing L do his business, plugs his fingers in his ears.

That's how L finds K when L opens the bathroom door, K standing outside the bathroom with his fingers in his ears.

"What are you doing?", L asks, baffled.

"Sorry. I could hear you going so I -- Never mind. When you're not sick you'll think it's cute. Right now it's just stupid. Sorry."

K wraps an arm about L's waist and walks him back to bed.

* * *

The next morning, while L sits, propped up on pillows K has stacked for him, watching the morning news, K takes L's temperature then brings L some orange juice and his breakfast.

When done with breakfast, knowing that all of L's bones and joints are aching from whatever bug he has, K gives L a full massage, from head to toe, front and back.

As he digs into L's lower back with his thumbs, he wonders what L sees in him.

He wonders if he's just being played. He wonders if L just spends so much time with K because K doesn't require the maintenance that other guys do. K's an easy boyfriend - always has been. He doesn't require attention, or thrice-daily phone calls or gifts or any of those things that tire guys out. And when he does get those things, he's especially appreciative, because he's been with many men who, knowing he doesn't expect those things, never gave them to him.

He knows L is a nice person, knows that L tells him he cares about K and yet . . . when K looks at L's body, his face, when K listens to L's words in the middle of the night, when he feels L's arm draped lazily about him, when K's skin breaks out in goose bumps at L's touch . . .K wonders why in the world L is with him. And K feels like an imposter, playing the part of someone who doesn't belong here.

The words to a poem he wrote many years ago, in his teen years, suddenly pop into his head, a poem his English teacher felt was too mature to be that of a fifteen-year old voice -- but so much of what he wrote in those days failed to meet the lowered expectations of his age.

Nineteen years later, the words flow back to him. It bothers him and saddens him. He doesn't belong in L's house or in L's world.

He continues to rub L's muscles, digging into them, caressing them, in a mixture of pain and pleasure, until his hnads can do it no longer.

When he's done, L falls asleep. K watches him for a bit. Then he slips under the covers, places his head on a wedge of pillow, and turns away from L.

He is ugly and stupid and boring and uninpsiring. No matter what L may tell him, K knows he doesn't deserve him. And he knows that one day, just like everyone before him, L will leave.

He takes in a breath and reminds himself to enjoy what he has while he has it. That's always been his rule. Eventually, all good things end. Even love.

Fleeing the No-Stoplight Town

2006-07-15T22:39:00.000-04:00

As he approaches the intersection of Champions Gate and Legends Boulevards, K notices something missing:

The traffic light.

The sole traffic light in Champions Gate.

It's gone.

Does Champions Gate no longer need a traffic light? Did someone decide, "No one really lives here so this is no longer needed?" True, Champions Gate has less than a dozen people living in it at this time but, K thinks, won't someone eventually move into those condos that are currently sitting, empty, across the way from his place? And, isn't the removal of the only traffic light in town a move backwards rather than forwards?

Does it mean that the promised growth isn't going to happen? That somewhere there's a town with thirteen people and they need a traffic light more so than Champions Gate's twelve residents do?

K pulls into the intersection and, seeinbg no cars or trucks heading toward him, he pulls out of Legends Boulevard, onto Champions Gate Boulevard, and then to the ramp to I-4, reflecting upon how odd it is that now Champions Gate residents can't even say, "Yes, we're a one-stoplight town."

Now, K realizes, he lives in a no-stoplight town.

He, who has always lived in cities, whether that be Orlando, Boston, or Los Angeles, finds it confusing that, somehow, he now lives in a place where one is more likely to be trampled by a Blue Roan than a blue car.

* * *
He drives to downtown Orlando, parks on Central, and walks down past Lake Eola to Urban Think. He is, as always, ignored by the helpless and thankless staff. Of course, the fact that he always looks like a celebrity traveling incognito probably inspires them to ignore him: sunglasses securely placed over his eyes, ballcap slung low. He picks up The Advocate, a book of essays by Augusten somebody, and finding nothing of interest in their gay and lesbian section (a sad statement for what is considered the best bookstore in Orlando and a gay-owned one at that, K thinks snippily), K pays for his purchase, the clerk fails to thank him, and, in turn, K forgets to say, "You're welcome."

He then moves down to Central City Market for a splurge. He's been doing good on his diet. His stomache is flat again and his clothes are literally hanging off him. And so he decides to pig out. He orders a Park burger with curly fries, takes his numbered sign, places it on a table on the sidewalk and proceeds to read his copy of The Advocate, almost hiding his face behind the magazine.

Again, he looks like a celebrity doing a not-so-good-job of hiding from the public. Just as his food is about to arrive, he realizes this and puts the magazine down. He finds there is a table of youngish female professionals looking at him. Awkwardly, he waves at them. One of them asks, "Are you famous?"

"Not famous. But infamous, absolutely.", he tells them.

"I know you from somewhere.", Casual Corner announces.

"Who are you?", one dressed in The Limited asks.

"Today I'm just a guy in a ballcap waiting for his burger. Who are you?" He smirks at them.

"No, really! Who are you? Are you on TV?"

"Only when I'm being loud and vocal."

"Oh my God!", one screams. "Are you a singer?"

"Politician.", he laughs. "No -- more of an activist, really. Not interested in holding office, myself. More interested in telling the people in office to do what I want them to."

"Oh -- politics.", Casual Corner says -- obviously disappointed.

* * *

After the office workers -- who were obviously hoping he was Lance Bass or Joey Fatone or any other N-Sync member who still lives in O-Town -- leave, and as he's halfway through the burger he thinks he'll have to puke up shortly after eating it, K's cell rings.

It's S. When K tells S where K's eating, S laughs in disbelief. Then a police car pulls around the corner, it's siren blares for a moment just as it passes K's table, and it parks a few spaces down. S steps out of the police car and, after cheerfully shouting to K that K should have told S earlier that K was coming "in town" today so that S could have planned on them having lunch together, S goes inside, places an order, comes out with a numbered sign, and slams himself down in a chair facing K.

"You're staying while I eat.", S tells him.

"You should know better than to think you can tell me what to do.", K teases him, softening his words with a grin.

"Yeah -- fuck you." S says, only half-smiling and probably fully-meaning his own words. "How's life in The Sticks?"

K, remembering what disturbed him earlier, blurts out, "They took away our stoplight."

S pauses, trying to determine if the missing stoplight has the importance K's tone, with it's gravity and mourning, reflects.

"They took away your stoplight?"

"Our only stoplight. It's gone."

"Really? Wow. What are the six cars that pass through Champions Gate every day going to do now? There'll be a traffic back-up. Accidents. The town will be crippled."

"Seriously, S. It was our stoplight. Isn't that the measure of a town that's made some progress -- We finally got s stoplight? And without--"

"You need to move back to Orlando. I think you've done your time in B.F.E."

K's mind seems to come to a grinding halt.

"What?", S asks.

"I need to move back to Orlando. . ."

"Yes, you do."

"No, I know. How weird."

"What?"

"It just dawned on me. It's so simple. But with everything that's gone on -- I forgot to move back to Orlando. And you're right. I need to live here again."

* * *

True, Champions Gate is just a half-hour drive on a no-accident-on-I-4 day in the Orlando area, but it's a world area from the world K knows as Orlando. He basically grew up here in O-Town -- or so it feels even though he didn't move here until the day he turned eighteen, the day he had planned for several years before, the day he walked out on his old life and his not-so-accepting family and never looked back.

To him, home is Orange Avenue, Lakes Eola, Underhill, Ivanhoe and Cherokee. Home is Park Avenue, the campusses of Rollins College and the now (sadly) defunct Orlando College. Memories are jolted by the sight of the old WinteR park Mall, of which only the old Ivey's department store, now a Cheesecake factory restaurant and an apartment building, remains. Some roads lead to happy memories: nights spent drinking and laughing away his innocence at Central Station, Tracks, Parliament House. Other roads lead to sadder emmories -- and he still avoids those roads: the road to the hospital where both Scott and then Robert died; the road that leads to the Perkin's where Scott and K used to have coffee when Scott, facing the progression of HIV-related illness, could not sleep; the condo where K was horrificaly assaulted when he was just eighteen. And places where K wanders, to this day, alone and in solitude: Leu Gardens, Central Park, and the OMA -- places where K goes to when he needs to be alone and where, despite whatever energy, goiod or bad, is going on in his life, he finds himself centered again.

When he returned here from his misadventures in California, he had ended up in Polk County, where X had bought them a house. And when he and X had broken apart, K had moved just a few miles away from X, rather than move back to O-Town. K wasn't ready for O-Town. He wanted to be invisible while he healed.

He's healed now.

And now it's time to move back home.

* * *

After lunch with S, K drops by the offices at several of the condos being built downtown to look at models. All about town, the amount of construction is dizzying, exciting, confusing. He counts at least ten major high-rises being built right in downtown proper. The architectural impact on the skyline will be just as dramatic as when he first moved here and the current towers were still pipe-dreams. Just as he was here for the building of those beaties, he plans on being here for the new towers to come. He plans on reclaiming the life he's been hiding away from. Lunch in Thornton Park -- and lunch by foot, not by car. Drinks at Hue and Wine Bar. Dinner at Dexter's. Strolls around Lake Eola.

He breathes in the air and the excitement of his favorite city.

And then he goes back to Champions Gate -- manages to make it through the intersection that now sadly lacks a stoplight -- and begins pulling his financial crap together so he can apply for another mortgage.

And Yet Again, Orlando Shows Why Orlando Rocks

2006-07-14T02:46:00.000-04:00

"It's the right thing to do. Orange County is a county that's changing, and it's changing for the better." - Commissioner Mildred Fernandez

"There are people in our community who are gay and lesbian, so let's get over it." - Commissioner Homer Hartage

"This is going to send a message that this is the kind of inclusive community we all want to have." - Commissioner Michael Morris

With little opposition from conservative Christian groups, the Orange County Commission on Tuesday unanimously approved a fair-housing ordinance that prohibits discrimination against gays.

So take that, John Sternberger and your so-called "Christian" group. And, just for the record, stop molesting Christ's name to make a name for yourself. Christ would not persecute anyone.

Lots of thanks and appreciation to the Orange County Commissioners who voted UNANIMOUSLY to support this anti-discrimination policy.

And remember that this happened just days after the vote AGAINST gay marriage in New York. Perseverence, faith, and trust in the prevailing goodness of people pays off. We'll get where we need to get. It's an uphill battle but never an impossible one. Sometimes we lose big and gain small and vice-versa. But, in time, we'll get there. The trick is to NEVER give up faith in ourselves and our allies. The tide IS turning, and it IS turning in our favor.

As for John Sternberger and his group of "Christians" - pray for them to find the true spirit of Christ in their lives, and that they may find true salvation, not the false idolatry and bigotry they mistake for a righteous life.

Thanks to everyone who came out and supported this great success!

A Wee Too Much 'We'

2006-07-08T18:15:00.000-04:00

K is flipping through the RSVP section of Orlando Magazine, playing his usual game of If-I-Had-To-Fuck-Someone-On-This-Page-Who-Would-It-Be. Picking someone to fuck from the photographed attendees at the OMA Acquisition Trust Gala was easy, as was finding a fucking partner from those photographed at the Coalition for the Homeless event. However, there are only two men whose photographs appear under the Adopt-A-School function. And one of them is so old, K thinks, that his dick and balls most likely taste like formaldehyde.

"I lose." K announces, handing the magazine to N.

N takes over, saying, "I would have lost several charity events ago." As N flips through the magazine, he mumbles, "Well, he's pretty cute."

K leans over to N's place on the sofa. "Mr. Fop fucked him."

"Really? Before Kept Boy came along?"

"Actually, both he and Kept Boy fucked him. At different times. I don't know if either knows that the other did him, though."

"Interesting."

"What's more interesting is that he now works for both of them. Administrative Assistant. Aside from lacking any trace of sexual morals and having little to no regard for other human beings, he's actually a pretty nice guy."

"Where did you meet him?", N asks.

"He was fucking me one night so I turned around and introduced myself."

Pause.

"Kidding! I met him at a charity event -- how do you think I met him?"

N takes in a breath. "Shit -- you had me going."

"I need to stop joking about things like that. L will start to wonder about me."

"When are you two seeing each other again?"

"Tonight. He's just wrapping some work stuff up today and then we're gonna go have dinner at that lakeside place off Orange. That dive place with the paper plates but good food? We like the holes-in-the-wall places and--What?"

"We?"

"Yeah. We. He and I. Me and Him. K and L. Younger and Older. Hot and Hotter."

"You said 'we' two times in one breath."

"So?"

"Who do we hate?"

"The Republicans."

"And --"

"Gay Republicans."

"And. . ."

"Gays who are up-to-date on the whole Britney Spears-Kevin Federline thing but don't know that a New York court just decided against gay marriage."

"No. Who do we hate when we're single?"

"Hot guys who don't buy us drinks? What are you getting at?"

N sighs. "You did it. You said 'we'. We, we, we, we --"

"-- All the way home."

N shrugs in annoyance and K slaps him playfully.

"I'm sorry. I did do the 'we' thing, didn't I?"

N slaps on a British accent and announces, "WE are going to dine this evening on our lawn boy's chest. WE like our lawn boy. WE also like to wear lots of black. WE like French movies, but we don't need subtitles -- because WE speak French. We are in love. WE attend charity events because WE believe in helping others not as fortunate as WE --"

K covers N's mouth with a hand.

"I'm not that bad. It just . . . slipped out."

N yanks K's hand away. "Not that bad . . . YET."

* * *

At dinner, K accidentally does it again. L and K are eating and L asks K what he'd like to do tomorrow.

"We can go --" K stops and clams up. Which is appropriate, given his plate of clam strips.

"Go where?"

"WE -- uh -- You and -- You and me. Whhh- Whh-"

"The word is 'We'?"

"Wight. I mean -- Right. Right. Umm. Would you like to go to the beach?"

"Sure. We can do that.", L says, tossing the word around carelessly and popping some fried something or other in his mouth.

* * *

They don't go to the beach the next day; L tells K he's being kidnapped and proceeds to drive them to the beach after dinner.

Almost entirely alone at the edge of the world, as it seems to K, they walk along barefoot, the sand cool and soft beneath them. With just moonlight to light the way, the sand looks almost white, like snow and the waves that land upon the shore look almost like waves of oil -- black and thick -- only to recede away and leave the white sand, shining and wet.

It's a beautiful picture and the feel of L's fingers locked in his a beautiful thing as well. The smell of L's cologne on his skin, the sight of his smile, the shine of his teeth, that sparkle in his eyes. . . all beautiful. But all K can really focus on is that word. We.

"So next weekend, I'm thinking WE get out of town for a bit." L is telling him, occasionally kissing the back of K's hand or running a finger beneath K's shirt and along the skin just beneath the waist of his shorts. "WE can maybe head over to St. Pete? Or maybe WE head down to Naples? Where'd you think WE should go?"

A wee bit too much 'we' for K. K is afraid of the 'we' people. He doesn't want to be one. At least, not right now.

All he can hear L say is "we", "we", "we."

And he knows what happens to all the We's in the world. Eventually, they always become "You" and "Me" and you end up moving out and feeling like your world has ended and you find yourself in an emotional abyss and no friend, no joke, no movie, no song, no activity, nothing you can do or try to do pulls you out of it.

He tells L he'll go wherever L wants him to go. And he makes sure he avoids saying 'we.'

Part Two . . .Part Two

2006-07-07T00:24:00.000-04:00

K and S sit in the theater watching Superman Returns and, when S smirks at K's unusually visible, thorough enjoyment of a scene where Superman rescues Lois Lane and a planeful of passengers, K whispers, "Shut up. I don't have a lot of geeky moments. Let me be a fanboy dork for a few hours." S pats K's hand in their mutual conspiracy to allow Mr. Serious a few hours of geek bliss.

K gets so wrapped up in the movie that he finds himself thinking for a moment about how wonderful it would be if there were such a thing as a superhero, someone to set things right in a world of wrongs, someone to give us hope in the face of so much hatred. He considers how so many Superman fans had been afraid that the gay director of Superman Returns was going to reinvent Superman as a gay character.

Wasn't their concern ironic, K thinks, given that a superhero fighting for the righteous would defend gay people from their enemies? Didn't those stupid, dorky, obsessed fans miss the point entirely? What would be so bad if Superman had been reinvented as a gay character? He'd still be fighting for all the same things as before and hold all the same values.

As he finds himself wishing that in this world of terrorist attacks, bigotry, legislated discrimination, and a populace following leaders blindly that there were superheroes, he suddenly finds himself choked up as Superman takes Lois Lane up into the skies for a flight that pays tribute to a similar scene in the original Supereman film from the 1970's. But, unlike the first-date romance of that original, this scene is sadder -- two lovers who are seperated by the choices they've made in their lives and the obligations they have due to those choices.

S squeezes K slightly, seeing that K is a bit choked up.

K smiles sadly at S and, seeing S, so handsome and strong, the movie screen's picture shining upon the policeman's badge on S's chest, he leans close. S lowers his ear to K.

K tells him:

"You're my superhero."

* * *

After the movie, K and S stroll around CityWalk and then, with K's time to meet L for a late-Friday night dinner approaching, they head back to their cars. They bypass the moving sidewalk because K will feel better about walking after having downed a bag of M&M's and a Coke -- plus he hates how people get on the moving sidewalks and then don't walk. The whole point of a moving sidewalk, for K, is to get somewhere faster, not to have the sidewalk just move you from point A to point B.

S has told K again that he thinks K needs to either go to work for a gay rights organization or some type of company that employs Diversity experts or just create his own company based around K's public speaking strengths. K likes the idea very much but each time he gets excited at the idea, he draws back. Finally S, seeing this, pulls K off to the side inside the enormpus domed hub that sits between the moving sidewalks and the huge parking structures at Universal.

"You need to believe in yourself." S tells him. "You don't. You never do. You never have. You need to start doing it. To start believing in yourself. Now."

K knows S is right and smiles at him, but the smile is not a convincing one. S knows that K can create ideas, envision opportunities, but he lacks the self-confidence to show anyone his ideas. Hell, that damned book he's been writing for years is still shrouded in secrecy. The plan for that business he wants to open is still sitting in a binder in his closet, with only little mention ever made of it, even though K has researched vendors, cost of start-up and initial investment, and even investigated the real estate he wants for it's location.

S doesn't understand why K can encourage everyone else to do so much, to become so much, to achieve so much -- and yet K seems afraid to ever put himself out there. . .

"Why don't you believe in yourself?"

"Who says I don't?", K asks, laughing the question as if to dismiss the topic.

"You say it by not persuing anything."

"S, I have a career. That's my focus. I don't have time to start my own business right now."

"Am I to blame?"

K is stunned. S never -- never -- puts himself in a position where he may hear any criticisms of himself. And so . . . K lies.

"No.", K tells him. "You're not in any way, shape, or form to blame for me having no self-confidence, as you say. You've always been supportive."

"You sure?"

"S -- Stop. Really. You never did anything to -- you're not responsible for me being unconfident or whatever. Not at all."

K knows that to lie is not always the best thing but, when he sees the relief flood away the self-hatred that has taken grip of S' rugged features, he knows that, in this case, to lie is the right thing to do. What's important to K is that S have peace.

After a few minutes, they walk on. When they come to the stairs leading down to the 207 lot in the King Kong section, K says goodbye and S tells him, "I'll walk you to your car."

K laughs at him. "S -- I'm parked in King Kong 207, not the Bronx. I don't think I'm gonna get jumped walking through the Jurassic Park lot."

"I can still walk you to your car.", S tells him, playfully smacking the air before K's face.

And so S does so, and, away from the crowded level above, S playfully grabs a hold of K's ass.

K laughs awkwardly and says, "Okay. Stop. I'm dating someone."

S mutters, "Testy, testy."

"But S --" K tells him, "--If I weren't dating L, I'd jump your bones right now."

S grabs K's head and places a kiss on top of his forehead.

"I know you would.", S assures him. "Go have sex with your boyfriend."

When K gets into his car, S asks him, his chest puffed up with a playful display of male barvado, "Hold up. Did you mean what you said in the movie -- that I'm your superhero?"

K smiles brightly at him. "Absolutely. Defender of right? Check. Strong? Check? Brave beyond the call of duty? Check." And then, because he knows it makes S feel good, he adds, "Look good in tight red briefs? Check."

K closes his car door and lowers the window. S leans in and kisses him quickly, the kiss of old lovers now doomed to be just friends and boyfriends-only-when-between-boyfriends.

"Tell L to take care of you."

"I take pretty good care of myself.", K tells him with mock offense.

S laughs at K's reaction and his screwed-up facial expression. He withdraws from the car, they say goodbye to each other, and K drives off.

They both know, when K needs to be rescued, S is always there to take care of the job.

Part Two . . .Part One

2006-06-30T21:40:00.000-04:00

K's voice is hoarse and raspy from the lengthy speeches he's been giving all month. Yesterday, the voice finally gave out. After he had struggled with a mike for the first half of his first presentation of the day, he had given up on the broken microphone and just continued his speech by throwing his voice as much as he could to the back of the auditorium. He has a loud voice so it was fairly easy to do and his voice would have been fine had the presentation not been his two and a half hour presentation on gay history and the politics of being gay in modern America. His voice was nearly gone by the end of his second presentation of the day. And by the time he made it home last night and returned S' call, it was nothing more than a raspy whisper, no matter how much he tried to speak more loudly.

"God, I love when your voice gets all hot and sexy like that.", S tells him.

"You just don't want to be there when I'm doing all the stuff that makes it all hot and sexy like this.", K reminds him.

"Yeah", S teases him. "I just sit there thinking, 'K, ya need to shut up.'"

"And that", K tells him, teasing him in return, "Is why I dumped your ass."

"Even your put-downs . . . and your lies -- about you dumping me. . sound. . . hot. . . when your voice. . .when your voice. . . is like that.", S tells him.

S is silent for a moment and then K, alarmed, blurts out, "Are you jacking off to my voice? Because I'm dating L now, you know. No jacking off to my laringytis! You aren't allowed!"

* * *

K has the day off as part of an extended weekend and so, after sleeping in and doing a little bit of work on the computer, S calls him during S' lunch break. S knows that K wants to see the new Superman movie and, as K is prone to do, will go see it by himself without asking anyone and so asks K if he'd like to meet up with S and see the movie after S finishes his workday. K agrees, looks up showtimes on the internet while they're on the phone, and they agree to meet at CityWalk st 5pm.

When K shows up an hour early, he finds that not only has the Universal Studios parking garage hiked it's parking fee to $10, but that the parking fee no longer gets refunded against the price of a movie ticket, as has been history in the past. While he's not too keen about this, he knows S will go through the roof.

As soon as K gets out of the garage and can get a signal on his cell, he calls S to tell him, but S, working, does not answer. K leaves a message explaining that S will have to pay $10 to park but that K would buy both their tickets -- and sodas and assorted munchables "because I can't let you fuck me to make up for the impact to your tight-wad ways."

K does so, buying two tickets and, having a while to kill, he wanders around CityWalk. He strolls up the sloping, winding walkways and looks down upon the AMC Cineplex, with it's design reminiscent of the capitol Records building in Los Angeles. It makes him shudder.

* * *

When K lived in Los Angeles, in the days before he met X and after the traumatic break-up with Heartless Asshole, K would walk up Vine Street in Hollywood on Saturday and Sunday mornings. It was a lonely walk and a grim one. He never went on the walk without spare change and bills to hand the many homeless he would cross. He would be told by these homeless, beaten-down people that God would bless him, even though, it seemed, that God had foresaken him.

He had no friends in Los Angeles at that time. The man he had moved across the country to live with had discarded him. He lived alone in an apartment between Sunset and Santa Monica Boulevards and knew the names of more homeless people than he did neighbors in the cold, smelly high-rise he now reluctantly called home. He mainly went on these long walks through the dangerous boulevards of filthy Hollywood to distract himself from how lonely he was. Sometimes, he used to think, he went on them hoping some crackhead or homeless person would jump him and kill him.

That's how bad things were. He just didn't care anymore.

* * *

K feels no affection or nostalgia for those days. The structure of CityWalk Orlando is one designed to resemble a stylized vision of California and K has little desire to ever see California again. That state has been stained with bad memories. Orlando is home. Even when bad things happen here --

K sees S, still dressed in his uniform from his workday, on the level beneath him and K's mood immediately brightens. He shouts out S' name, waves at him, and, laughing, tells S he'll be down right away. S, with great exaggeration, drops to one knee and, sweeping his arms open wide, shouts, "Juliet! Juliet! Where for art thou, my Juliet?"

Passing tourists and locals look at S and K, confused. Is the police officer joking -- or is he actually flirting with another man so openly?

-- there are people who rescue him from those bad things.

* * *

When K reaches S, he asks S why S is still wearing his uniform. "I know how you are about guys being punctual.", S tells him. "Has L learned that lesson yet?"

"L knows that lesson very well.", K assures him as they enter the enormous lobby, whose ceiling, set so high up, always makes K feel dwarfed. Somewhat as he used to feel at the ArcLight on Sunset Boulevard.

A chill runs through him and he and S make their way to the concession stand. When K asks S what S would like, S brushes him away. "I'm getting the snacks and drinks.", S tells him. When K disagrees, S gently takes K's wallet from K's hands, takes K by the shoulders, turns him around, and puts K's wallet back in K's shorts.

"I'm not as cheap as you seem to think I am.", S informs him. "Where did you ever get the idea that I'm a tight-wad anyway?"

"You never bought me shit when we were dating.", K explains.

"That", S educates him, "Is because I wanted to be sure you never thought of me as your sugar daddy."

"Oh."

"Yeah." S mimics K's face. "Ohhh." He playfully slaps K's shoulder. "What do you want? Wait. M&M's, right?"

"Damn you're good."

"And Medium Coke, right? Because a Large will make you have to go and you don't like to go at the movies during a first-run and --"

"Have you been reading 'K for Dummies' again?"

S smirks that handsome, irresistible smirk of his. "I wrote 'K for Dummies.'"

* * *

Before the movie begins, they fall into their old, comfortable routine. S, who is coming straight from work and hasn't eaten anything, downs a hot dog, whose condiments K applies while S sips hungrily from his soda. When K hands S the hot dog, S hands K the wrapper from S' straw, which K puts in their little pile of garbage. While S eats, he asks, as he chews, about L, and about how K's speeches have all gone this month and how K's car is behaving -- because S always worries about cars and thinks K is naive and always having bad luck with them -- and how K likes living "out in Hell" in Champions Gate.

When S finishes eating, S asks K if K has ever thought about doing his community work professionally.

"You're great at it. Why not make a living out of it?"

"How am I supposed to do that?", K asks.

"Open up a business, K. Go to work for an organization. Put your name out there. I mean, I know I tell you I can't always go to your stuff, but you are really good at what you do. You're articulate, you're funny, you get the audience on your side, you make them laugh, you make them cry, you get them so angry they want to do something. Do you know how impressive that is? Straight people don't have to do anything. You make them do something. That's fucking power, K. You need to do something with that power."

K has never really heard S speak so strongly about K's abilities, which K always doubts himself.

"You're wasting your life if you don't.", S tells him. "It's a gift. You need to use it."

"I don't think I could do -- I mean -- where do I --"

And then, just as S is about to debate K, as S' eyes take on a look K isn't all that sure he's ever seen before, the lights in the theater dim, and S, knowing K's rule about not talking in a dimmed theater, falls silent after whispering in K's ear: "This isn't done yet."

K nods his head. And then, unexpectedly . . . S kisses K's ear and, in the darkened theater, places an arm about K's shoulder.

A few seats down, an elderly couple start staring at the gay police officer with his arm around his former boyfriend.

K smirks at this and would usually snuggle against S just to make the couple and anyone like them more offended. But he's dating L and, even though S may mean the placement of his arm as nothing more than affection between friends, he squirms slightly.

S makes a face at him, eyebrows meeting over his nose, and whispers, jokingly, "Aw, come on. Lemme have some fun here."

"I'm dating L, or else you could have all the fun you want.", K tells him.

S shifts his arm back from K's shoulders to the top of K's chair. When K leans back, he can feel the soft hair that lines S' arm play against K's skin.

Even though K likes the familiar feeling of the dark hair of S's forearm against his own skin, he sits a bit forward. After all . . .K's dating someone else now and S is just someone K used to be in love with. . .

37 Years Ago Today. . .

2006-06-27T03:07:00.000-04:00

Following are the names of those who are on-record as being part of the Stonewall Riots. These are the names of the gay men and women – and some non-gay men and women – who joined together and, in one evening – and for several evenings thereafter, refused to let anti-gay bias push them around any longer. The names below are those of the men and women who pushed back, and who, by fighting back against harassment after tolerating it for ages, sparked a revolution that reached around the world -- and encouraged gay people everywhere to resist oppression, discrimination, and injustice, at any and all costs.

Bert Coffman -- Douglas C. Lawson -- Emile Griffith -- Mark A. Zatlow -- Sylvia R. Rivera -- Leroi M. Carr -- Ruth M. Campbell -- Dave F. West -- K. DeLarverie -- Jackie W. Barrett -- Marsha P. Johnson -- Nick J. Mazzaferro -- Molly Aitken -- R. Bobalu Candelaria -- Sidney F. Morris -- Kelly L. Dunkle -- Jack J. Rojas -- John R. Watts, Jr. -- David J. Foxworth -- Richie A. Parissidi -- Robert C. Fucito -- Eddie H. Wright, Jr. -- Christina N. Hayworth -- Keith A. Lonesome --
Charles R. Snyder -- Leigh O. McManus -- Belle Meyers -- Richard D. Strahan -- Dana Mitchell -- Amir K. Qaharr -- Rose T. Jordan -- Bill M. Salzman -- Patti R. Stone -- Shelli Vannelli -- David Bermudez-Velasco -- David M. Ali -- Sonia J. Atkiss -- R. Bob Barkan -- Brandy T. Alexander -- Raven D. Chanticleer -- Ray S. DeJames -- Audrey D. Drummond -- Terri J. VanDyke -- Ed M. Heffernan -- Steven M. Konigsberg -- Brian M. Molese -- Ronnie J. Nieves -- Electra J. O’Mara -- John P. Ranieri -- David F. VanRonk -- Dave F. West

These names are those of people who, over the course of several days and nights, changed the course of history and did more to liberate gay men and lesbians and all those who make up “the gay community” than anyone before or since. Without their action, all that has happened in the past 37 years since Stonewall could not have taken place. Gay people everywhere owe these ladies and gentlemen a great debt of gratitude, love, and remembrance. Their bravery, honored on no monument, allows us all to live in a world that is much, much better for the gay community than it was before these people banded together and, risking family, career, and their life itself, refused to be treated inhumanely and, together,
changed history on June 27, 1969.

Pride by the Lake

2006-06-25T16:46:00.000-04:00

I slept in today, missing church (but I can make that up at 7pm and will do so). I did, however, wake up in time for the Pride picnic.

I should have slept through that as well.

I got showered, threw on a PBR shirt and my trusty Dodgers cap, shaved everything but the goattee, and got in JD to cruise on up to . . .MetroWest.

First off -- Orlando Pride should be downtown. Just a thought. MetroWest is a great neighborhood and I view my years living there as among my happiest but -- MetroWest is a golf course with condos. We may as well have Orlando Pride in Champions Gate. There's NOTHING in MetroWest that reads, "city." It screams, "Safe suburban environment. Stepford Wives, Stepford Husbands and, oh yeah -- Stepford Gays."

On my way up there, I called a few friends, most of whom answered my question, "Are you going to Prode?" with a sniff and, "Pride? You're joking, right?"

T laid it on the line for me: "Is this one of your committees?"

"No.", I told him. "I stayed off the committee this year."

"Are you speaking?"

"No, I'm not speaking this year."

"Good. I'm going to Nordstrom's then. Pride is lame."

Pride is lame. And Nordstrom's is not.

What a twisted world we live in.

* * *

Okay, so, I'll be honest: Pride WAS lame. VERY lame. I am back on the committee next year. I think I know who the moron was who picked Mayor Bill Frederick Park. And that person's an idiot.

And I send him all my love.

Picture it: First of all -- no signs. Everyone's parking in all the wrong lots. Mayor Bill Frederick Park is e-fucking-normous. There's something like ten parking lots, all seperated by a hundred acres or two. I parked in the first lot, assuming that would be the right one. I saw a bunch of guys playing volleyball, some guys on cellphones -- probably begging their friends to join them at Pride because the crowd was definitely Lonely Hearts Club material -- and a few gays with kids.

I didn't even bother. I just keept walking, wondering, "Where were the rainbow flags? Where are the booths? Most importantly -- this being a picnic -- where's the eats?"

I made my way past the pool area, past the swamp area -- keeping an eye out for gators because, years ago, I almost became gator dinner at this park -- and then came upon -- Pride.

Apparently, the first group was not just lost -- they were too lazy to go find the right location.

There they were -- the booths, the rainbow flags, the queens oggling and judging everyone. Yes. Pride.

I walked on by. It looked so damned boring I decided I'd just go to the animal farm and pet the horses.

* * *

As I made my way to the animal farm, I noticed the new cabins that had been built. Cabins. As if MetroWest is located that far away from civilization that one might camp out on their way back from the mall. "Honey -- I just can't take this drive home. Let's just rent a cabin for the night and camp out. We can make our way back home from Lord and Taylor tomorrow."

Anyway . . .I made my way to the animal farm. I petted the horse that always responds to me, fed him some grub (which he, being a horse that loves me, ate out of my hand without chomping said hand from my wrist), and then, when I got a weird guy giving me looks and smiling at me with a mouth lacking teeth, decided I'd better try my luck at Pride. Now that I had bitchy mood in place, I decided, I'd fit right in.

It was relatively easy to find my way back, even though I had no idea how to locate it. I just grabbed a path and, after walking a mile or so, I heard techno music.

"Ah.", I thought, sarcastically. "Techno music. The sound of my people."

I took off my flip-flops and cut through the swampy woods, keeping an eye out for gators in search of delicious idiots like me who trudge through water as if there's no danger whatsoever of doing such a thing in Florida.

Hey. I was going to Pride. Getting eaten by a gator en route would not have been the bigger tragedy.

I found the clearing that opened up on the Pride festivities, which were being conducted lakeside.

Yes -- lakeside.

Get your Gay Pride -- and the West Nile Virus -- HERE!

I stopped into the restroom to rinse my feet off since I had just spent a half-mile walking through muck and, once clean and presentable, I dove on into . . .the worst Pride Orlando has ever had.

* * *

N called me on my cell just as I was about to wander in between some booths filled with guys and gals sitting around, forgetting to hawk their causes.

"I just wanted to call you back to say I'm not going to Pride. Are you there?"

"Stay away.", I advised him. "Or come keep me company. This is really bad."

"How bad?"

"It's so bad I think I'm gonna go bang some pussy, pray for my salvation, and register Republican."

"That's a pretty bad Pride."

We chatted for a bit and then N reminded me to put on my taxi light. Of course, whenever I put on my taxi-light (i.e. act in an outgoing manner, exuding confiodence and warmth) I end up regretting it. But, I decided it might be wise to put that taxi-light on. I was, after all, among my people. Well, not necessarily MY people. MY people were finding every excuse possible NOT to attend Pride this year. (My favorite excuse was the one, who shall remian initial-less, who told me "I have to uh . . .put my napkins in napkin rings. It's an all-day project.")

* * *

Orlando Pride is normally an amzing crowning event -- finishing off a hectic, gay June filled with event after event. This year, Gay Days was phenomenal, all the parties, concerts, special events, and so on -- fantastic. So, what went wrong?

Partly, the call to move the Pride parade from June to October. While I applaud the rationale behind it -- we get an enormous turn-out in October -- it destroys the momentum. The Pride Picnic usually followed the morning parade. It had energy, politics, fun, food . . . and me on mike.

With no parade, and no downtown location, this year's event just seemed like a lazy get-together. A gay bar moved to a park. Beer and West Nile Virus on tap.

One of the guys from The Center asked if I was speaking today and I explained that no, I wasn't; that originally I had been scheduled to be out of town. When he asked me to speak, I said no, I didn't have a speech prepared. He told me to wing it. I declined, just as Patty Sheehan, lesbian Commissioner, started to ramble on.

* * *

Dear Ms. Sheehan:

Please make some god-damned sense next time.

Love,

Kevin

* * *

After her came the gayest politician ever -- introduced to us as a straight ally. I still have no recollection as to who he was because I was so horrified at the thought that THIS was an ally -- and not a member.

"Thank you SOOOOOOOO much, Patty!", he said, grabbing the mike from her so dramatically, I half-expected him to strike a pose, grab two guys to act as back-up singers, and launch into "Baby Love" or "Stop! In The Name Of Love"

"I am SOOOOOOOO happy to be here at GAY PRIIIIIIIIIIIIDE! We have SOOOOO much work to do, folks! We've got to just STOP thsi anti-marriage bill making it's way up to Tallahasssssssssssee."

I tuned out. (I'm doing all I can as part of my many civic charities; it's okay that I tuned out. Plus, I kept looking at the guy, thinking, "You are so gay. Come out already.")

* * *

Finally, a bright spot.

I met Him.

My God.

My Idol.

My Personal Hero.

Officer Young from the OPD.

Can I just say that if love was this easy, I'd be in love with him?

(insert sound of dreamy sigh from a usually cynical guy here.)

I was standing near the United Church of Christ booth, listening to him speak, thinking, "What an inspiring guy." After he finished, I listened to Sheehan go on and on about -- something. I swear, she can't loop two sentences together at all. As I listened to her . . . Officer Young came right at me.

And I freaked out.

I had been smiling, laughing at my inside voice creating rhymes for "Sheehan" when I noticed him coming right at me, a smile on his handsome face.

I immediately lost my smile.

He looked at me, uncomfortable, and walked a few feet away, where a total stranger started chatting him up.

"Oh, FUCK ME!!! What did I just do?", I almost grabbed my cell to share my panic with anyone who would listen. And if non eof my friends answered their phone, assuming I was going to guilt them into going to Pride, I'd just dial random numbers until I found some widow at home, desperate for company, who would listen to me.

"Taxi-light, you bastard!", I reminded myself. "Taxi-light!"

And so, I managed to smile, lift up my shoulders, and walk right on over to him.

And, can I just say -- I think he wanted to talk to me? I'm not being conceited because I can't be conceited. But I really think he was aware of me. Little stupid me.

He smiled at me before I even got to him and, when I put out my hand, he shook it and sort of pulled me a bit closer. I told him that I had a tremendous amount of respect for him and what he's done and explained my background with police officers and then --

I think he knew who I was. He mentioned something about my not speaking this year. I explained I still had two more speaking engagements this week, just not at Pride.

And just then, I lost my momentum and my smile when I heard the opening bars of "I Will Survive" on the speakers.

"Tell me they're not playing that song.", I think my face must have said because Officer Young asked, "Do you not like this song?"

"It's just stereotypical and really means nothing. There are several songs they could play with messages about carrying on and -- I mean, I get why people like this song, but it's not political or -- I just -- I hate this song, actually."

And then, he became my hero all the more.

"Me too.", he said.

* * *

So, Pride wasn't ALL that bad, but I do miss the set-up of old: Pride parade and picnic on a Saturday -- me on mike -- and a sense of purpose, remembrance, and inspiration. None of that stuff today. But, come October, Come Out With Pride Orlando will make up for it. The work is already underway. And next year -- well, let's just say this bad Pride was a once-in-a-lifetime thing. We'll be back on track next year.

In the meantime, please go to www.glbcc.org and www.hrc.org. Make a donation. Get involved. Make a difference.

We can do anything we set our minds to. If we can be proud of anything it's that we, as a community, when we pull together, can achieve so much. We've come a long way and made enormous inroads in just a short amount of time. In the 37 years since Stonewall, we've already changed the world. Now it's up to us all to change it for the better again. We can do it. But we have to all work together -- whether with local groups or the larger, national ones. Whether that be through funding, volunteering, letter-writing, educating everyone we come in contact with -- whatever each of us can do. We have to do it. And when YOU take part, when YOU make a difference, that's something YOU can be proud of.

And, I promise, I'll be proud of ya, too.

End of sermon. See y'all in October.

Deals and Decision

2006-06-24T13:33:00.000-04:00

K is at his desk, drumming his fingers nervously as he looks at his Day Timer, knowing he has to make the phone call.

He's not certain he's making the right decision. It's a jump. A leap of faith, maybe.

He's put this call off for as long as possible. And he's watched for signs all morning, from e-mails his new boss sends him, to the team he works with. He's thought about his friends, his home, Orlando and L.

Mostly L. Only partly his friends. He's learned over the years how to get by without friends. Although he loves them, he's had to start over in so many different cities that he's not afraid of being without friends again. Mostly he's considered L, wondering if K leaves and goes to Houston, if he's walking out on the last chance he's going to be given for a real relationship.

He only takes the thought seriously for a moment before shaking it from his head.

He's too cynical to believe there's only one man in the world for anyone. You simply end up with the best one life gives you, and with someone who also thinks you're the best one life gave them.

Of course, he's also romantic enough to wonder if L is the one who thinks, however odd it may be to K's off-kilter self-image, that K is the best one life will give him.

He rehearses what he's going to say, then he draws a breath, picks up the phone, and dials.

* * *

"Hi there, Ellen. This is K calling. . . Pretty good. How are you doing today? . . .Great. Glad to hear that. . . Yes, yes. I've given it a lot of thought and, well, I have to ask something. The offer is great -- great salary, great benefits, your relocation package is probably the best I've seen yet. . .Yeah, I'm pretty familiar with those relocation deals, as you know." They both laugh.

"Do you offer domestic partrner benefits?"

Ellen seems a bit surprised by the question. "Uh -- no. No, we don't. But I assure you, our Company's a very, very open and -- We're a very diverse company."

"Oh, I'm sure you are.", K tells her. "But do you know if there are any plans in place to offer domestic partner benefits in the future?"

"I don't really know the answer to that question.", Ellen tells him, sensing she's in trouble here. "But it's something I can check in -- I can check in with Benefits and see about. But, K, I assure you, we have a great environment here and we're a great company and --"

"Oh, I know that, Ellen. I never would have gone through the interviews had I not thought highly of you all.", K assures her. "But if you don't have domestic partner benefits, I have to wonder if this is the right company for me."

"And I understand your concern, K, but I can promise you that I will look into that today. But I promise you that here at -------- --- --- ------ we don't discriminate. At all. This is a very welcoming environment. All we care about is having the most talented, creative professionals and giving them a workplace that's open and diverse and --"

"But, Ellen -- that's my concern. How can anyone believe that -- if your company doesn't offer benefits that reward those hard-working, creative professionals who create that diverse work environment?" He pauses. "Ellen, you're a wonderful person and I truly, truly appreciate the offer you all have made me, and I know that I would have loved working with you. You strike me as an ideal person to work with, to learn from, to be a great partner. But -- and this is nothing personal -- but I've never worked for a company that lacked those benfits. I'm sure you can understand my position. After all, if I were to say to you that the situation were reversed and that only gay couples had insurance benefits and that you and your husband and children were going to have none, I'm sure you'd think twice as well. And it's not that I even need those benefits right now. But I do need them in place so that I can see your company is serious when it says you don't discriminate and that you welcome a diverse range of individuals."

And, with that, K turns down the job in Houston. And, hopefully, he makes a point.

It's not the only reason he turns the job down. But it's a damned good reason, nonetheless. And, hopefully, something that will make another company recognize the hypocrisy of their own policies in light of who they employ.

He's glad he spent so much of their time and money interviewing him, flying him to Houston, putting together an offer and so forth just so he could turn them down after all their efforts were made to hire him.

It's what they deserve.

Love. . . or Anger

2006-06-23T21:39:00.000-04:00

The stress of facing yet another cross-country move, coupled with having just walked out on the man he was hoping might have given him some reason not to make yet another cross-country move, is enough to drive K to drink or to resume smoking.

Instead, he mops the kitchen floor, wishing that nicotine wasn't deadly. K could smoke a pack in an hour, the way he feels right now -- and the headache from smoking too many cigarettes in too short an amount of time would be a welcome distraction.

When he finishes mopping the floor, he starts to survey his house and thinking how strange it is that everything he can see seems to have just now found their place. His belongings have been shuttled back and forth across various state lines, again and again, since 1999. When he had left X and moved here, he had told himself that, for at least two years, he would stay put right here, in tiny little Champions Gate. And yet now, he knows, the gears of moving are about to start turning again. Come Monday, he thinks, he'll accept the job offer in Houston and then, before he knows it, the relocation movers will be sent to pack, pick up, and bring everything he owns to Texas. And he'll leave Florida, knowing that this time, he won't be coming back.

He shudders as he thinks about this and then grows sad. Will he ever finally feel, he wonders, that he's home?

* * *

Shortly after six, the floor dried, the bathroom also now scoured, scrubbed and shining, K is making a dinner out of yogurt and water when a booming knock is heard at his door. The sound borders on violent and, before K can even jump from his seat in the dining room, it comes again -- a violent, angry pounding.

K wonders if it's the boyfriend of that bitch across the way, confused about where his girlfriend lives. Again.

But when K puts his eye to the peephole, ready to jerk the door open and begin shouting into some drunk idiot's face, K stops short.

L.

For a moment, K wonders how L got in through the gates but, not wanting to figure out how -- he assumes L just parked outside and ran through the gates when they opened for a resident; something K and L had to do one night when K's passcard wouldn't work after a date -- K arranges his face in his best impersonation of a hard-ass as he can manage and yanks the door open just as angrily as the sound of L's knocks.

He stands as firmly as he can but, the anger in L's face -- so unusual and foreign to him -- actually manages to intimidate him. K does his best not to let it show.

"I'm so pissed at you right now I don't even know what to say.", L says and then, blowing a sigh that sounds just as angry as a cuss word, L storms into K's house, brushing past K forcefully.

K considers the possibility that it might be safer for him to walk outside his own house because being inside with L may not be the safest thing in the world right now.

Instead, K shuts the door, attempts to be convincing in his portrayal of a hard-ass, and leans against the wall, staring, arms crossed, at L.

L paces between the kitchen and living rooms, out to the balcony, back in, and angrily points at K's face.

"I hate that you surprised me with that moving to Houston business!", L says, struggling not to yell but not managing to keep the heat out of his tone. "That wasn't fair. Do you think I don't give a shit about you? You just throw things like that at guys? Is that the type of person you are? You let me date you all this time, blurt out you're leaving and--What the Hell, K? Huh? What the Hell?"

K, seeing that L is as hurt as he is angry, softens -- perhaps a bit more visibly than he feels, in hopes of calming L. L is actually scaring him a little right now.

"I'm sorry.", K says. "I didn;t mean to blurt it out. You just were --"

"Whether you blurted it out or not -- Fuck, K -- that isn't the issue!" L slams his palms onto the kitchen counter and K steps back up against the wall. "You never told me about this job offer! When did you interview? When did they make the offer? When did you decide? When--"

"I decided to accept it when I saw that you think it's okay to date me and whore after other guys.", K blurts out, wishing he'd finally learn to think before he speaks. What a stupid way to phrase it, K thinks, as L takes in a breath that puffs him up and then, slowly, in a quite intimidating manner, steps up to K.

"That has nothing to do with anything. I looked at someone. That's nothing. I'm not seeing anyone else."

"Well, apparently seeing me isn't enough so--"

"Don't make me feel bad because --"

"Because you're a slut? Because I'm not hot enough to keep you interested? Your eye has to wander three months into it? Three months? Fuck, L -- what am I supposed to think life with you in three years would look like?"

"You're blowing this into --"

"L -- you're not seeing anyone else now -- but am I supposed to believe you won't be seeing anyone if you and I last a few years or longer? Three months long and you have to check guys out already?"

"Not every guy is gonna cheat on you.", L tells him. "Stop taking out your past on me."

K wonders, just for a moment, if that's what he;s doing but, before he can give any thought to the matter, L growls at him. "You always do that. You judge the future by the past. I don't know who fucked you up but stop making me pay for it."

L almost hits him. K sees the hand shoot into the air, sees the slap coming, and, just as quickly as it starts, L whips around and smacks air.

"Just stop it already.", L mutters before lowering his face into his hands and mumbling some obscenities that K can't quite understand.

K thinks for a moment that L is crying. He isn't quite sure. L's shoulders are shaking, the arms, exposed in L's sleeveless shirt, are bulging, but L's face is buried in tense, furious hands.

"I told you", K tells him, "that I can't compete."

No answer comes from L and K dares to take a few steps toward him.

"When we met, on our first date, you asked why I didn't believe in myself -- or something like that. And I told you I can't compete. I know what I look like. You compare me to those guys you were checking out today and I know I look like shit. So, I go to Houston, you're free to date those other guys. I'd eventually lose to them anyway."

L does not look at him or even acknowledge that he's heard a word K has said. But, hearing some kind of aching coming from deep in L's chest, K kneels before L's bent-over form, and, timidly at first, rubs L's back.

"I love you.", K says. "And I was wrong to tell you that I'm moving in the way that I did. I'm sorry."

There is no response from L at the first three words K has just said, his heart pounding.

Of course there's no response, K thinks.

"It doesn't matter, I guess.", K says. "You said yourself, 'we're not married.' So why be upset about it? You probably would've dumped me in a month or two, anyway. This way, it just ends."

He is about to kiss L's hair when L lifts his eyes to K.

L's eyes, the whites of which are a deep pink, glares at him, their faces just mere inches apart.

"Don't throw my words back at me, you little bastard."

Before K can get to his feet, L weighs him down with two very strong hands clamped to his shoulders.

"What I said had nothing to do with anything. I was being facetious. You already made up your mind before today or you would have told me all along about the interviews and the offer. You said nothing. Don't apologize unless you know what you should be apologizing for. And as for not being able to compete -- I don't know who put the idea in your head that you're ugly but I'd like that idea gone. You're not ugly. I don't date ugly guys. I think you're hot. I think you're sexy. I think you're the funniest sonofabitch I ever met -- when you aren't pissing me off."

As is his habit when receiving a compliment, K looks away. But L momentarily lifts one of his hands, weighing K down at the shoulders, to jerk K's face back to him.

"Look at me when I say something nice to you. I don't get you sometimes. But I know I think you're the best thing that's come my way in a long time. You're sweet, you're funny, and I wish you could see how handsome you are. Stop looking away."

L jerks K's face back.

"Is it because of X that you can't listen to me say those things?"

K can't answer.

"If it is, I'll beat his fucking ass into the ground.", L threatens.

"It isn't that simplistic.", K says. "It goes way beyond X."

"You still think you can't compete?"

"You can do better than --"

Before K can finish the phrase, he finds his balance thrown off. L pulls him to his feet and, in a confusing mix of motion, pushes him up against the hallway wall, pinning him there, K's head in L's crushing hands, his breath taken away and suffocating under L's mouth.

* * *

L, essentially, proceeds to make K his bitch.

Many of K's exes would give L a trophy for such an achievement.

Both L and K invoke the Lord's name so often, and so loudly, that anyone who overhears will think a revivalist meeting -- or an exorcism -- is being conducted.

* * *

In the early morning hours, somewhat embarrassed by some of the things they have done together, K, with his head resting heavily upon what L calls K's "sleeping place" -- L's right pectoral -- and with L's arms heavily draped about him, K, running a caressing hand along L's side, takes in a breath, as if daring to ask something.

"What", L asks, "do you want to say?"

"Nothing.", K replies, strangely meek.

They lie there for a few moments, and then K sits up on his elbow and peers into what little he can see of L's face in the dark.

"Am I turning down the job?"

L takes in a breath, runs a finger along the side of K's face and, when it reaches K's lips, pulls K's lips to his own. After, L replies:

"Don't turn down the job for me."

This is not the answer K was expecting. Or, he realizes, the answer he was hoping for.

He resumes his spot in his sleeping place and tries to fall asleep. But he doesn't fall asleep that night.

And when L finally drifts off to sleep, K leaves the bed, the room, and then his house. He slips outside after throwing on some sweatpants and a tee shirt, sits down on the front steps, leans his head against the stucco, and cries.

Splitting at the Crossing

2006-06-23T00:02:00.000-04:00

K hasn't yet told L that he plans on leaving Orlando. K also hasn't been honest enough with himself to admit that the final decision about moving to Houston rests on L's reaction to the news.

What K is focused on at the moment, as L and K sit at the Eola Yacht Club and, up until this moment anyway, enjoy their Saturday lunch, is that L is sitting with his head suddenly turned away from K because his eye has been caught by a man that K knows is more attractive than K himself.

It only takes an instant to break K's heart and L has just done it.

K waits and waits for L to realize what he's done -- or to at least turn back to K -- but L keeps watching the jock as he weaves through the restaurant to his own table by Central Street.

K sinks in his seat and wishes that he had allowed the plastic surgeon, the one he had consulted last month, to go ahead and smash his face and reset it. He wishes he wasn't as unattractive as he is.

He suddenly has no appetite and looks away from L because he has no interest in seeing a reminder that he will never turn anyone's head himself and that, no matter who he finds himself dating, they will always have their eyes caught by someone better looking than himself.

He looks out the window to Lake Eola and the young couples -- gay and straight -- taking their dogs or children out for a Saturday afternoon stroll. He watches them, determined not to notice that L is still watching the jock. He watches them until his throat feels as if someone is gripping and squeezing and crushing it and his eyes, burning, grow so misty that the green of Eola Park and the blue of Lake Eola all blur together.

* * *

They are strolling through Downtown Orlando an hour or so later and K, to L's confusion, is strangely quiet. K isn't acting in a cold manner, just very distracted. His voice, when he answers any of L's questions, sounds choked, raspy, and is much softer and quieter in tone than is normal.

As they come to Central and Summerlin, heading toward Urban Think where K said earlier he needs to pop in to buy a book called "The World is Flat" L does it again.

This time it's a very lean twink.

This time, K snaps.

K jerks L's arm and leans close.

"When we get back home, you're going to want me to put your dick in my mouth." K hisses in L's ear. "You keep staring at guys when you're with me and that won't be happening."

L doesn't take too kindly to K's ultimatum and stares him down.

"I'm just looking."

"You're just being an asshole is more like it."

"Is that why you've been so quiet all day? You think I shouldn't be able to look at anyone? We've only been dating a few months, you know. It's not like we're married, for Christ's sake."

L's words make K draw back. "You're right.", K tells him. "We're not married." He hesitates. "And I'm moving to Houston. Here --", K pulls out his wallet and whips out a twenty, slapping it into L's hand, which K grabs roughly. "Call yourself a cab. I'm outta here."

As K storms off, L makes the mistake of rushing after him and grabbing K's arm. K whips an arm back, not so much to hit L but so to make L release him.

It doesn't work. L sees the threat but merely stares him down.

"What do you mean you're moving to Houston?"

"Let go of my fucking arm."

"Fuck you. What do you mean you're moving to Houston?"

"I", K tells him, "Am leaving Orlando and moving to Houston. I got offered a job there and they need my answer Monday. I'm accepting it. We aren't married and, quite frankly, you're such an asshole we never will be. So let go of my fucking arm and go fuck some guy you meet on the street. I'm out of here."

L keeps his grip on K's arm for a few moments, then loosens it. K shakes L's loosened grip off him and storms off, forgetting to go into the bookstore because his mind is preoccupied now with the knowledge that he'll never be able to forget the hurt look in L's face that's already haunting him and making him cringe.

The Gulf (Of Mexico) Between Them

2006-06-16T10:23:00.000-04:00

As K, seated on a bar stool at Studz on Mills, waits for B to arrive, he decides there are two words that don't ever belong together:

Gay and Karaoke.

Can one feel okay about laughing at the karaoke participants? Everyone, he feels, is taking this all so seriously. And what fun is karaoke when you have guys who can actually sing singing? The guy performing that morbid Tim McGraw song about living as if one were dying actually sounds better than Tim McGraw.

But not so much so the Polynesian guy who whips into a frenzy performing "Karma Chameleon." And yet, only K seems to be dealing with a horrific case of the church giggles -- unable to stop laughing and, aware that his laughter is inappropriate, doing all he can to bite his lips together and hide his face from view so no one sees his inappropriate laughing fit -- because everyone else seems to be supporting the guy, who can't even sing in time with the music.

Apparently, it's Support Karaoke (or Karaoke Not-So-Anonymous) and no matter how bad one is they're applauded and cheered on, with all the enthusiasm of one of those twelve-step programs. "Yay!", the applauding and whooping parties seem to be saying, "You went up there and sang out of tune and off-key! Good for you, brother!"

K orders another beer in order to endure the next two guys who -- "Why God? WHY?", K's inner-voice screams -- decide to perform the Elephant Love Medley from "Moulin Rouge."

Thankfully, as the two guys finally figure out who plays the Nicole Kidman part and who is supposed to be Ewan MacGregor -- mid-song -- B arrives and K tells him, "I hate you for making me meet you here."

"Aw -- it's fun! Much more fun than pretentious Peacock Room." B tells him.

"I like pretentious.", K tells him. "I do pretentious well."

B orders a beer and K gives him the 411 on the job offer in Houston. K looks away as he sees B's face changing from interest in whatever K has to tell him to the usual mortification whenever K has life-altering news -- which happens fairly regularly.

"AGAIN? You're gonna leave O-Town again?" B is almost yelling at him -- so much so that one can barely hear the guy from the gay softball league singing "Dancing Queen."

"Well. . .", K begins, "It's a good offer. A really good offer."

"But you'll just want to come back here again. Everytime a company yanks you out of here, you just want to come back."

"I know. But this is big. Coming back won't be an option."

K can't bear to look at the serious look in B's eyes.

"Don't leave.", Be tells him gravely. "Seriously. Don't go to Houston. It'll be a big mistake. A big mistake."

* * *

K allows to let B call the others and arrange for them all to meet at Friends, the gay restaurant on Mills just north of Studz.

K notices that C does not show, indicating that C is still -- understandably, K admits -- angry with him. But T and M and N do show and the five of them group together at a table in the corner and, over warm, delicious rye bread, as they wait for their entrees to arrive, K explains that he's received a job offer in Houston with a company he respects, that the offer is a very good one -- yes, the salary jump is huge, even when the cost-of-living bump is factored in -- and that he thinks he'll be accepting it on Monday.

"You're gonna move across country AGAIN?" M cries, almost slapping him.

"AGAIN? You're leaving us AGAIN?" N joins in.

"Oh, fuck you." T tells him. "You just got back and now you're gonna go away again? Fuck you. I'm done."

This wasn't exactly the response K expected.

"It's a good offer. . .", K tells them.

"And what's more important -- money or your friends?", N asks.

"Oh, N -- don't throw that at me. That's not fair."

T chimes in. "Obviously, money is. Money or a man. He up and leaves whenever anyone waves a dollar bill or a dick at him."

"You know, if I didn't love you so much", K snaps at T, "I'd really hate your fucking guts."

"It's true.", T counters. "But this time the man is in O-Town and the money's in Houston." T looks at the others. "Let's see who wins this time. The money or the man."

* * *

K drives M home as she arrived with N and N, who lives a few blocks away, has had a few too many drinks over dinner.

M is fairly quiet. "I just don't want you to leave again.", M tells him when he asks what's wrong. "Between us -- why do you always run away?"

"I don't think of it as running away.", K tells her. "The only time I think I ever ran away was when I left Boston the day I turned eighteen. And that was to go to college. I never fled Orlando. There were always reasons -- career or relationship."

"Are you leaving because you and X work for the same place and you can't--"

"No.", he says firmly, almost honestly laughing at the idea. "This has nothing at all to do with X. I honestly haven't thought about him at all lately. He's not even on the radar at this point. Gone."

"Okay.", M concedes. "Then why? You're not greedy."

"But I deserve a bigger salary than The Mouse is paying."

"Everyone who works for The Mouse deserves a bigger salary than they're paying. Maybe if you threaten to quit, you'll yank the same salary you're being offered out of them."

K gives that some thought. They did, after all, pay through the nose to get him back when he left them and went to another company once before. . .having to not just raise his salary but also pay him relocation, bridge his seniority, pay off his lease in Los Angeles. . .

"I dunno. . . ", he tells her. "It's not just the money."

"But you like it here in Orlando, K. I've known you for ages and you are synonymous with this place. Hell -- have you even been to Houston?"

"I saw the airport."

"So you don't even know what Houston is like? At least you knew what California and Arizona and -- where else -- Dallas and Phoenix and all those other places were like! But you don't know --"

"I'm sure it's nice. I've been told it's just like Orlando -- only with tumbleweeds."

"Tumbleweeds?!?"

"I'm kidding. The tumbleweeds are only in the suburbs."

"And would you live in the suburbs or in the city? And how big of a city is Houston, anyway?"

"I don't know. I haven't really had a chance to research anything yet, what with the interviews and all that's going on at work and dating L and all that --"

"You'll be living with nothing but rednecks."

"M -- people say that about Orlando and Orlando is gayer than San Francisco."

"Texas is a red state."

"So's Florida. And we have a Bush as Governor here.", K reminds her. "Ding-ding-ding! I think Texas wins. . ."

"And L?"

"Well . . . every relationship has it's issues. When X and I went through the last year of our relationship, there was this huge gulf between us. No matter how much I tried, I couldn't reach him. With L, at least it'll just be The Gulf of Mexico that sits between us."

"That's not funny. He seems like a really nice guy -- even if I still think that book he bought you was sorta weird. Why give up everything to go live someplace you've never been?"

* * *

After dropping M off at her house on the Dubsdread courses, K turns his car back in the direction of his own golf course community. He flips through a few CD's, trying to find a song that suits his mood, but nothing -- no country song, no Christian pop, no dance music, no rock song, nothing -- suits him. And so he rolls back the moon roof, turns off the radio, and listens to the wind and the sounds of the highway around him as he drives back toward his lonely little town of Champions Gate.

He tries to amuse himself with words that, like "gay" and "karaoke", don't quite fit together.

Like "gay" and "Republican." That combo always baffled him. Like an oxymoron. Or, as in the case of any Log Cabin Republican, just a moron.

He thinks about "Kevin" and "Houston."

But he can't see how those two words don't fit together. Or, more accurately, why they wouldn't. No, he's never had any interest in living there. The only city he's had that instinctual, I'll-Live-There-Someday-For-Some-Reason feeling is Orlando. And Atlanta. Atlanta still hasn't happened but, he knows with an odd sense of destiny, that, at some point in his life, it's in the cards and will happen when it's time comes. But Houston?

He never got any feeling Houston was meant for him.

And yet . . . there's no reason not to go. Kevin and Houston don't appear to be words that can't go together.

He draws a breath and tells himself to start getting ready, to go through the routine of sealing off the emotions so he can simply leave again, headstrong and determined, and embark on yet another adventure to another part of the world, a place where he knows no one, a place where he has to start over -- all over again.

Onward, he tells himself. Onward to Houston.

And The O Becomes an H. . .

2006-06-15T16:12:00.000-04:00

K likes watching L get dressed in the morning. He likes seeing him put on his shorts and socks, likes watching L put on his undershirt and then his button-down shirt. There's something intimate about seeing L, dressed in shirt and tie, briefs and socks, oblivious to how downright sexy he looks as he walks around the bedroom to shine his shoes, iron his pants, or throw on his watch. He likes how L buttons his cuffs, ties his shoes, fastens his belt, clips on his cell.

L, however, is amused that, though he and K have had sex on now countless occasions, K still showers and dresses behind not just a closed door, but a locked one.

Today, however, as K is leaving the bathroom fully dressed minus just shoes, L notices something and his finger pointing at K's leg stops K in his tracks.

"What?" K asks.

"Your pants.", L tells him, surveying him with a scrutinous eye. "I think one leg is longer than the other. . ."

K thinks he's crazy but, when he looks down at his pants, he realizes that one pant leg is noticeably much longer than the other, with a break of extra material.

L lifts up the pant leg and delivers the prognosis. "Your hem fell out."

"Aw, crap. Crap, crap, crap!" K cries. "I have a meeting at nine. I don't have time to go home and change."

"Hold on, Longleg. Come 'ere into the kitchen. . . .Now, Lemme see. . ."

L starts rolling the hem back up inside the pant leg. His fingers working the material brush against K's ankles and his leg flinches.

L reads the body language and grins up at him.

"You're ticklish?"

"You haven't noticed?"

"I haven't been paying much attention to your hot feet until now."

"Ugh.", K groans. "Don't let's talk about feet. You know how I--"

"I know, I know. No feet! No feet!" L laughs and continues rolling the hem up, his fingers accidentally touching K's ankle and foot again and again, each time inducing a flinch and a muffled giggle.

L reaches behind him for a drawer and K asks, "Whatcha doing?"

"Fixing your pant leg."

"You know how to sew?" To K, this is a miracle. He has several shirts he can't wear to work any longer because they're missing buttons. L isn't just a great man, he thinks, he's the savior of K's wardrobe.

"I know how to sew but I don't have time right now. We're giving you a white-trash hem." L pulls a roll of packing tape from the drawer. "Gonna tape your hem in place."

"That's so low-rent of you.", K teases.

"Watch it.", L warns him. "I'm near your feet and can tickle you to death."

"The whole taping a hem in place thing? Brilliance!", K exclaims to L's grinning satisfaction.

When L finishes securing the hem in place with four pieces of packing tape inside the pant leg, he steps back, places the tape back in the drawer, admires his work, then kneels before K again.

"What's wrong?", K asks as L lifts the pant leg.

"Nothing.", L tells him. And then he takes a firm hold of K's ankle and tickles K until K is rolling on the stone floor, hysterically pleading, through his laughter, for L to stop.

L only does so after K promises L all sorts of carnal pleasures -- and to stop locking the bathroom door when he showers.

"But I'm shy!", K protests, his arms outstretched, pleading with L not to tickle him further. L seems poised to resign his argument but, seeing K relax, seeing K wipe away tears of laughter from his face, hearing K softly giggle uncontrollably, L goes in for one last tickle and K crumples up in a helpless, laughing fit.

* * *

Shortly after three in the afternoon, after a day when his pant leg has resulted in a few awkward moments such as when, getting up after a meeting, a piece of tape joined his pant leg to his sock and another fell out of his pant leg and onto his shoe -- in full view of his direct reports -- K receives a phone call from the company he has been interviewing with in Houston.

They offer him the job.

They offer a very generous relocation package.

They offer him a great salary. Great benefits.

And they also offer something he hasn't quite planned on: They offer him a life without L. They need him to leave Orlando and move to Houston within the next four weeks.

Permanently.

Prior to their offer, he felt certain he would turn it down. But now, with the offer made. . .well . . .He feels the need to accept it, even if it means leaving L and Orlando and his friends behind. . .

Bad Investment/Good Investment

2006-06-15T02:22:00.000-04:00

K is at his office, trying to figure out how in the world the R.O.I. on a certain proposed product line is as low as it is, certain there has to be a mistake in one of the calculations, when L calls.

L doesn't normally call him at work so K would normally be happily surprised to get the call, but, because L did not call him the night before, something K has grown accustomed to, K is somewhat annoyed. He hides and forgets his annoyance when he hears a tone of . . . not quite sadness . . . or depression. . . . but a definite "Blah" in L's voice.

After the call ends, with L telling K that he's fine and just going to chill out at home tonight, K finds the error in computation, is happy with the proposed R.O.I., and fires off an e-mail saying he likes the idea of the new line but wants a bit more research to ensure it's trend-right to his company's market.

Then, he gathers his keys, wallet, BlackBerry, cell phone, straightens his immaculate desk (minimally decorated -- many joke with him that his office always looks like he's either quit or never moved in as it's so pristine and uncluttered with the usual crap), waves goodbye to some co-workers, and leaves the office for the day.

His car is stifling hot so he opens two of it's doors, rolls down all the windows, turns on the A/C and, with the radio blasting some old Motown CD, he stands outside his car for a few minutes -- undoing his tie and rolling up his shirt sleeves -- until he feels that the car's temperature has lowered after a day in the merciless Florida sun.

When he gets into his car to drive home, he decides not to go home at all.

He decides to go see L.

He thinks he'll make L feel better. Heck, he'll even stop by Publix, grab some things to make dinner with, and cook L dinner. Just let L relax and chill and K will take care of everything.

He considers calling L to tell him, but then decides it would be better if his surprise visit truly is a surprise. And so he decides to arrive fully unannounced.

* * *

When he leaves Publix and is heading toward L's house, K's cell rings. K pops in his earpiece and flips the call on.

"Hey." It's C and he sounds unhappy.

"Hey. What's up?", K asks tensely. They haven't yet spoken about the other night at the Give Kids The World Benefit.

"Just calling to see why you were such an asshole the other night."

K sighs. If C thinks he's getting an apology . . .

"C, I was an asshole, as you call it, because your date was a dickhead. Why were you with him?"

"K -- I had no idea who he was. You and him are ancient history, for God's sake!"

"It's hardly ancient history, C."

"Fifteen years? K -- that's a lifetime ago."

"C -- fifteen years is only a lifetime to a fifteen year old. I'm thirty-four. It's not even half a lifetime to me."

"Still --", C cries, "Come on!"

"C, if you wanna date him, go the fuck ahead. I don't care. But I think he's a fucking whore -- No, I know he's a fucking whore -- and I can't be around him."

"K, don't call him names! He's a nice guy."

"He's a nice guy? What the fuck?" K gladly comes to a red light because he's about to go ballistic. "You just met him! You've known me for years. Don't compare he and I and then tell me that he's a nice guy. I've supported you through all kinds of shit; he's just gonna give you more shit to go through. Don't ever compare my ass to that motherfucking son-of-a-bitch!"

"I didn't mean -- I just meant I like him."

"See how much you like him when he gives you an STD or AIDS."

C is silent. K is stopped at a green light. The car behind K honks and K pulls into the intersection, saying, "Yeah -- that's right. Wait til he cheats on your ass as he did mine. It wasn't just that he was married when I was involved with him -- it was that he cheated on me."

"Did he give you something?"

"No.", K tells him, "But you know how I feel about that. He wasn't careful, he took my god-damned life in his hands, and fucked around with some guy from Red Lobster. In the parking lot. The Lee Road Red Lobster."

From his voice, one might assume K upset not so much by the infidelity, but by the neighborhood of the Red Lobster parking lot the infidelity occurred at.

"I had an AIDS test every six months for years because of him. And so, every six months for years, I had to think about his smug, damned face and wonder if he had killed me thanks to his self-centeredness. And you know all this -- and yet you wonder why I'd be rude to him?"

"I didn't know he was that guy. I didn't put all the pieces together."

"Well, now everything's together for you. Do not fuck him and expect me to be happy about it. If you're smart, you'll lose his number right now."

"People change."

"People change their hairstyle and their shirt and their car. They don't change their values. And he had none and I'll wager my life that he still has none. Or, more realistically, you can wager your life, because if you have sex with that mess of immorality, you will be betting with your health. I promise you that."

They continue arguing until K snaps, "I've gotta go. You're pissing me off and I'm on my way to L's and I'd like to be in a fairly good mood when I get there. Date who you want. Just don't expect me to go to the doctor's with you when he infects you with something."

He tears his ear-piece out and, after swearing under his breath, cranks up the radio and sings along to "Reflections."

* * *

When K pulls into L's driveway, he is remembering that day long ago when Ray told him that he had cheated on K with a waiter from Red Lobster.

The one on. . . Lee Road.

They had been living together for three or four months at that point. It wasn't a relationship that, in retrospect, K viewed with any seriousness. He always felt that it was less than a relationship, looking back on it. When Ray left his wife, he ended up at K's place and just stayed. K became his domestic partner by default, he felt, not due to any great love. But, at the time, his nineteen year old heart had no comprehension of such unkindness, or, rather, was struggling to have faith that most men were good and that he had only experienced a few rather bad ones up til that point. At nineteen, K had believed that Ray loved him, and thought how funny it was how effortlessly he had found himself a husband and a marriage and a life together.

Ray had given K a wedding band, but . . . funny, K realized . . . that wedding band was lost long ago. So long ago, that, unlike the one X had given him, K had no idea where it was and even less interest in ever seeing it again.

They had lived together, mostly harmoniously, with just one argument -- a very minor, half-hour long squabble -- between them during those four months. And so, when Ray told K that he needed to talk with K, K thought, "He's mad that I left the dishes soaking in the sink again rather than in the dishwasher."

Instead, K was told that he might have gonnorhea.

Or worse.

And K, in a bizarre moment of youth trying to be more adult than his inexperience could handle, rubbed Ray's back, told him his infidelity was okay, that K knew K was unattractive, and that he understood why Ray had cheated on him. That it was okay, fine, understandable. That K wasn't angry about it. That they'd just deal with it and forget it.

And Ray said nothing.

Now, years later, his head burned with the recollection. Ray had sat there, listening to K take all the blame for Ray's lack of values, had reinforced K's horrible lack of self-esteem, had listened to K basically say, "I'm ugly -- why would you want me?" to a man who couldn't be faithful to any living thing . . . and Ray had said nothing to counter K's words or his self-perception.

Let C have him, K decided. And, he said, thank God he, K, had found someone decent. At least, he thought, for now. . .

He shuts off his car, gets out, pops his trunk, pulls out the grocery bags and makes his way around the house to L's front door, hoping L appreciates K's unexpected visit.

* * *

L answers the door still in his work clothes and the sight of K -- K, who lacks any degree of cooking skills -- standing on his front porch with bags full of groceries and an explanation that tonight L is lying back and K is making him dinner and taking care of him, makes him laugh uproariously.

Dinner does not happen so quickly, though. After K puts the groceries away, he takes L to the couch, where he tells L to lie down and tell him what in the world has gotten L into such a funk. While L talks in a weary, half-dead tone, K does what L hasn't even had the energy to do: he removes L's shoes, loosens his belt, undoes the buttons on L's shirt, and, because he knows L likes it, he massages L's neck and back.

He massages L until his own hands hurt and his arms ache.

And, because he can't possible massage L's back and legs and neck any longer, he gets L drunk, giving him glass upon glass of Shiraz, kissing him and running his hands over him, until he realizes he has to actually venture into the kitchen . . . and actually cook something.

* * *

K manages to make a pasta dinner.

He thanks God for bottled sauce. . .and the bakery department that supplied fresh bread. . .and the Ronzoni company for mistake-proof directions on the ziti rigati box.

He tells an amused L that while he did not actually make any of the food they are enjoying, he did personally stomp the grapes of the Shiraz.

Then he adds, "Just kidding." because that's the kind of guy he is, unable to take credit from the people who dance in a vat upon the Australian grapes.

After dinner, K refuses to let L help him clean up. Instead, K cleans L's kitchen perfectly, leaving no trace of K's culinary lesson/achievement, and then he takes L to the bedroom, where he does all the work again, from laying L down upon the bed, to removing both L's clothes and then his own, to taking care of L's body until they both are worn out and L, patting his own right pec, tells K to rest his head on his "sleeping place." K lays his head on L's chest, L wraps his thickly muscled arm about him, and they both drift off into blissful sleep.

When L starts snoring, K considers playfully pinching L's nostrils together until L wakes up, but instead, he lets him sleep.

For a few minutes, he starts doing math in his head. R.O.I.'s, margins, SKU productivity -- they all circle about in his head and he starts analyzing numbers based on products he's working with or that his coworkers are working on.

Then he starts creating items for his product line until he realizes he's coming back awake, too awake to fall back to sleep.

"Stop.", he tells himself. "Just fall asleep."

He carefully lifts his head from L's chest and gazes at him. L is so handsome, so amazingly attractive, from that handsome, rugged, distinctive face, the greying temples, the chest, hairy but not grossly so, the strong arms, the muscled legs . . .so handsome, so funny, so sweet. . .

A wise investment. A good risk.

He snuggles gently against L's chest, closes his eyes, and, eventually, he drifts off to sleep himself, feeling that the most important equation has been solved.

Before he falls into sleep, though, he whispers something, whispering it because he feels the need to say it, but saying it in a whisper so soft, he knows L, even if awake, wouldn't hear it. He fears what L might say to him if L were to hear him say it. But he says it nonetheless.

"I love you."

Taste of The Moment or Classic Dish?

2006-06-13T22:25:00.000-04:00

K, M, B, and T meet for drinks and dinner at Luma on Park, the Restaurant of the Moment so trendy most people mistake it for a nightclub. Given that they have to wait almost an hour and a half for a table, K wonders why they didn't just go to P.F. Chang's because, as he explains, "Restaurants should never be trendy. It's a death sentence when the next bunch of restaurants pop up." When B argues that isn't the case, that this hot spot will not fade in the wake of another trendy place to dine, K challenges him with, "Remember The Bubble Room?"

K wins the argument.

While waiting for their table, over drinks in a tiny bar-area that is far too crowded for all the egos crammed inside it, K tells them about the latest involving L. When he mentions "The Book" only B is impressed. M and T both exchange looks wondering what's so impressive about something from Barnes and Noble.

"It wasn't from Barnes and Noble.", K explains. "It was from a collectibles store."

"Why'd he buy it at a collectibles store?", asks M. "I bought a copy at Borders last year. Remember? You told me it should be my summer read. But it's so damned long, it's this summer's read, too."

"When you're done, you should give it to K. Apparently it's a big deal if you do.", T snips.

K sighs a cuss word, smiles at them both and calls them morons. "It's a first edition. And it's worth quite a bit of money. I know because I saw it at the store myself and I know the price tag."

"How much was it?" asks B.

K tells him.

M and T exchange looks of disgust while B's jaw drops in that odd look of someone who really lives vicariously through his friends and thinks the book the greatest gift of all time.

"That's stupid! Who pays that much for a book?", M cries.

"K's boyfriend pays that much for a book.", T says.

"Well, he could have saved a lotta money going to Borders." Then, after M thinks about this for a moment, she cries, "And it's a used book, too -- isn't it? He paid that much and it's not even new?"

"It's a collectible. An antique.", K explains.

"It's a used book.", M argues. "A used book! Who buys a used book?"

"Oh, for Christ's sake", K sighs, "It's one of the hardest copies of the book to find. I've been looking for a first edition since I was thirteen."

"I don't understand why you collect so many copies of that book, anyway.", T says. "All those foreign copies? It's not like you read Russian. Why bother?"

"The point isn't to read it in Russian. It's to have a copy that was available only on the black market.", K explains.

"Can't you just collect Beanie Babies or some other thing?", M asks. "I mean, that book costs as much as some people's engagement rings."

And with that, it dawns on K that L has given him . . .

An Engagement Book.

* * *

"Leave it to you to get a guy who buys you a book instead of a ring. You pick the biggest shits.", T tells him as they wait for The Rudest Server in Winter Park to come take their order. They are finally seated at a table crammed too closely to a family that apparently think the hottest restaurant in town is suitable for their elementary school-age children, who are busy slapping each other and screaming about how much the other is hurting them.

"He's not a shit.", K laughs. "He's a great guy. Very funny and -- I love this -- he doesn't take any of my crap."

"Does he know you want kids?", asks M.

"What is this?" K cries. "I didn't say I think I'm gonna settle down with him. I just said he's a great guy."

"But does he know?"

"The topic has sort of come up that I want to adopt one day."

"And --?"

"He still bought me the damned book."

"Hmmm. Did he say he wants kids, too?"

"I got the impression he doesn't care one way or the other. But, if we do get to that stage and decide we want to stay in Florida, can we borrow your uterus, please? That way, we won't have to leave the state to adopt."

"I keep telling you that my uterus is closed for business.", M tells him.

"I figure if I keep asking, you'll open for one little baby. That's all. I just want one. A little, tiny one."

"You know what I don't get?", breaks in B. "Babies. Like, today at work, some bitch who used to work there came by with her little embryo in it's embryo carriage, and everyone stopped what they were doing to coo over the little beast. 'Isn't she cute?' 'Oh, she's adorable!' and all that crap. And I'm just looking at them all, thinking, 'It's a fucking baby. And it's an ugly baby.'"

"Ugh. I hate babies.", T says, before angrily waving at the Rudest Server in Winter park to indicate the group has been ready to order for fifteen minutes already.

"I never understand", B explains "the appeal of babies. Most of them grow up to be assholes."

K shakes his head and says, mock-seriously, "I believe that children are our future. Teach them well and let them lead the way. Show them all the beauty they possess inside. Give them a--"

The Rudest Server in Winter Park arrives at the table and M snaps, "Thanks for dropping by." and shortly orders. When T orders the rabbit, B looks up from his menu with shock clearly upon his face. He begs T, "Please don't order the rabbit. Bunnies don't belong on plates."

K adds, "Remember when I was in college and I had a pet rabbit? Aspen? My cute lil' bunny? You remember Aspen, don't you? You wouldn't want to see him next to a side of greens, would you?"

"I'll have Aspen.", T tells the Rudest Server in Winter Park.

* * *

After dinner, as K is driving through Winter Park and back to his place "behind the gates" his cell phone rings.

He flips it open and throws his earpiece in.

"What up, Hotness?"

"What's up with you, K?"

It is S. At the sound of his voice, K leans back in his seat, comfortably. Even though they've been broken up for years, there's something very comfortable about S's voice.

"Just coming back from dinner. Heading home. Getting on I-4 as soon as this asshole realizes the light's green." K then shouts, "Move motherfucker!"

"Been to church lately?"

"Hmmm?"

"Nothing. How's the new guy?"

"New guy is good. But still under warranty, you know."

"Ah, yes -- your warranty thing."

"I have many 'things', don't I?"

"That you do . . ."

"It's part of my charm.", K tells him. "But, back to L. We'll see how good he does when the warranty expires. But so far, rather impressive. He's good."

S asks where K had dinner and K explains how the four of them got to eat at Luma on Park. He explains that, to him, it wasn't all that great and he would have preferred fast Chinese from Pen Wei or whatever that Chinese bistro on Colonial Drive is called. He tells S Luma is too trendy for him -- a hot spot that won't become a classic, a dive that won't endure.

After they catch up on S's life, and as K approaches his gate, S asks about L again.

"So, this L guy . . .Do you think he's your Victoria and Albert's", S asks, referring to the classic, local, five-star dream dining experience, "Or your Luma on Park?"

K laughs at the question and changes the subject. He doesn't know how to answer just yet. He only knows that, right now, whether L is just a passing trend or an emerging classic, he likes what he's tasted thus far.

Attention All Clueless People

2006-06-12T20:55:00.000-04:00

K, driving on empty, makes his way past Sea World toward the Ritz-Carlton for the Give Kids The World benefit, daring that he'll make it to the hotel in Grande Lakes before his car runs out of gas. That he's going to a fundraiser and is too cheap to put gas in his car until he's riding on fumes is an irony that escapes his notice.

Once there, he turns his steering wheel over to the valet at the porte-cocher, telling the young man, "It's on 'empty' but there's really a gallon in there." The valet chuckles, hands K his ticket and K, after adjusting his suit jacket and tucking his shirt back into his pants waist, makes his way into the lobby. He scans the crowd at the lounge and finds it a quiet bunch tonight, then makes his way down the hallway in the direction of the ballroom.

Not even halfway there, when the nouveau-riche tourists give way to the most charitable of Orlandoans, K sees a hand raise in the air beneath a hat that is so inappropriate, not just for the season but because it is being worn indoors at an evening event, that the woman signaling him could be no one but Adorably Crazy Widow -- ACW.

ACW flags him down and gives him a hug tighter than that of most men he's had sex with. She tells him he looks great, laughs when he blushes under the compliment, and introduces him to her group, most of whom he's met before and one of whom he dated very briefly in the early 90's but who he fears doesn't even recall their two dates. K talks with ACW and her group for a few minutes but he's trying to remember if the man in the group, the one he dated, was a good kisser or a bad kisser. He can't recall and, as he moves on from their group toward the event's reception desk, he decides that he, K, must have been an even worse kisser because the man in the group doesn't recall him at all.

"Of course, my hair has thinned and I'm a bit heavier now -- but still. . ." He pauses to reflect on this for a moment. "Nah.", he tells himself. "I just must not have been that into him."

He checks in at the reception desk, showing his ticket, and, though he sees many familiar faces, finds himself wishing L were here.

And never has he missed L more than when, as he crosses from the reception desk to a waiter offering the complimentary champagne flutes, he sees Mr. Fop and Kept Boy making their way toward him.

* * *

K tries to avoid the duo, but Mr. Fop has heard that K is now dating again and wants to hear all the details. K downs two champagne flutes as he relates how he and L met and answers the obligatory questions about what L does for a living, where L lives, where L originally came from, etc. Mr. Fop, K notices, actually seems nice tonight -- genuinely nice, not that phony, insincere, overly curious-yet-not truly concerned act K always feels he's putting on. When Mr. Fop rubs K's arm and says "I'm glad you found a nice guy, K. It's nice to see you happy again." K actually believes that Mr. Fop means it. And when Kept Boy, whose vocabulary consists of grunts, "aights" and "uh-huhs" gives K a nod and a smile, K knows that Kept Boy, in his own, linguistically limited way, is also saying, "I'm happy for you."

But when the duo move on to the next guy in the room, and pose for the photographers from the Orlando and Orlando Leisure magazines, K wonders how Mr. Fop has heard anything at all about him. As always when he finds he's been the target of gossip, malicious or innocent, K feels a bit surprised that anyone would be interested.

He always thinks that once he's left the room, he's stopped existing for anyone left within that room. To find that for some, that isn't quite the truth, baffles him.

He smiles at the owners of the new bar on Park Avenue, says "Hello" to the gay gallery owners he became acquainted with when he returned to Orlando from Los Angeles, then makes his way into the ballroom to take his seat at his table.

And, as he does so, he wishes L were here.

* * *

After listening to opening remarks from someone whose name he forgot but whose speech he ridicules in his head as being nothing more than a horribly misguided message of, "It's great to help dying kids!" K begins quietly chatting with the people at his table and, finding them all rather dull, excuses himself, heads out to the patio, and wishes he still smoked. He takes a seat on a bench and looks out over the lake, overhearing a nearby woman hissing into a cell phone. At first he assumes the object of her hatred is a man. Or her children.

Turns out the target of her hostility is her nanny.

When she finishes her threat to ruin the nanny's life, K wonders what the nanny could possibly have done to warrant a virtual death threat. He smiles at the woman anyway -- a County Commissioner's wife, he thinks -- and they both exchange polite greetings before she returns inside to the boring attendees.

Hearing the music start, K wanders back inside where he runs into C, who he did not know would be attending tonight. Turns out C is here on a first-date with . . .

K recognizes the guy.

For a moment, K has a little panic slam his chest.

Exactly, he wonders, how many men have I dated?

"Ray."

C looks surprised. Ray asks K how he's been doing. K, happily bitter after all these years, smiles sarcastically and says, "How have I been doing? Ray -- it's been what -- a decade and a half? I think you can assume I've been doing all the points on the emotional roller coaster during that time."

C looks between them, awkwardly unsure of what to do. And so, K rambles on:

"How have I been doing? Hmmm . . . how to recap fifteen years in a polite bubble of conversation. . . Gee, I don't know how to do that, Ray. How do you do it?"

Before Ray can answer and as C starts to glare at K as if to ask, "What the Hell is your issue?" K adds the zinger:

"How's your wife and kid? Your daughter's how old now -- twenty?"

Well, he can't stop now. No, K continues:

"Funny - she must be in college now. You know, C, I was in college when Ray here dated me. Ray forgot to mention the wife and kid thing, though."

"I'm divorced." Ray explains to C.

"About time." K tosses at him before turning to C and remarking, with a false sweetness, "When I met him, I was nineteen or so. And I met him out at Central Station and I just thought he was a distinguished older man. Turns out. . . he was just old."

And before Ray can remark further, he says to Ray, "And now you're fifteen years older than that. Hmmm." But K finishes with a smile that confuses Ray. The K Ray knew was sweet and vulnerable. This K . . . not so much so. The difference between the two is unpleasantly baffling to him.

But C knows that K is not happy and is also seething. K, however, couldn't care less. He tells C, "Good luck. Call me when you need a shoulder to cry on." and walks away.

And as he walks away, he's thankful that he isn't dating a fucking loser like Ray.

He thinks he's found another in an overall impressive line-up of decent guys. And reflecting upon that, he misses L all the more.

* * *

He is committing to help out at the Special Olympics when he notices Kept Boy nodding at him. K analyzes this particular nod to mean, "I need to talk to you." He makes a polite exit, promising to help be a coach at the Special Olympics -- regretfully promising, for his last coaching effort at the event was a disaster -- and approaches Kept Boy, who puts a hand on K's back and leads him outside.

"What's up?" K asks him.

Kept Boy explains that Mr. Fop "scored us a room and a bunch of guys are gonna have a circle jerk up there. You wanna join in?"

At first, K thinks Kept Boy has said "soda jerk" and pictures a teenaged 1950's soda fountain clerk being ravaged by Mr. Fop -- a most unpleasant visual. K secretly imagines that Mr. Fop has a vagina and the image of a vagina makes him need a drink.

"What's a circle jerk?" K asks. He's picturing a drug party. Maybe cocaine. He knows Kept Boy is fond of his white powder.

Kept Boy looks down from his 6'4" height to K's 5'11" with a grin of smug satisfaction and asks, "You don't know what a circle jerk is?"

"No", K tells him. "But I bet you don't know what a Hypermethylation Pattern is so let's call it even. What's a circle jerk?"

Kept Boy tells him and K draws back.

"Are you serious?"

Kept Boy tells him, "Come on. It's gonna be great. You ever see the rooms here? This ain't no fuckin' Quality Inn."

"So, in order to see said great room, I have to sit around and masturbate in front of everyone? I think I'll pass."

"It's really hot. Think about it, K. Everyone watching you, you watching them. . . ."

K pictures Mr. Fop taking off his blousy shirt, his scarf, his tight little shiny pants . . . and revealing his panties and then, his vagina.

"No. I think not."

"I want you there."

"You're a -- married man." K reminds him, after almost blurting the words 'kept boy' instead.

"Yeah. So what? He's gonna be there, too. Gotta keep things interesting."

Got to keep things interesting? K ponders this. Is that why his relationships fail after passing the five-year mark?

Immediately, he reminds himself he was not the issue in either failure.

He tells Kept Boy no, he won't be participating in this evening's circle jerk but that if Kept Boy scores any marijuana, maybe K will agree to lose his pot virginity.

Kept Boy tells him that can be arranged. Easily.

K laughs at him, slaps his back, and goes back inside.

* * *

While driving home, after barely making it to a 7-Eleven to fill up before his car gave up driving without gasoline, K turns off the CD player, rolls down the windows, opens the moon roof, and lets the night air whip about him. The smell of a nearby fire is choking the air with that thick, heavy, stale smell that immediately reminds him of the fires of '98 and the constant state of panic as fires surrounded him. He checks the distance, sees an orange glow off in the distance, shudders, and turns back to the road before him.

The sound of his car on the pavement, the sound of air whipping about him, is soothing. And then, absent-mindedly, he begins to sing quietly:

"I think you need a little push in my direction if you're gonna fall in love
All you need's a little nudge and I will catch you when you fall
I think it's only fair to bring to your attention
You're about to fall in love
Yes, you're gonna fall in love"

Just as suddenly as he starts, he stops. And he wonders, has he fallen in love with L?

It's a question he's been asking himself lately. And he usually tells himself "No" with such immediacy that, if one were to hear his inner dialogue, one would think the idea of falling in love with L as unpleasant as a colonoscopy given with a chainsaw.

But tonight he ponders the possibility.

It's just been three months or so. To K, that is an unreasonably short time to fall in love with someone.

And yet. . .

He flips on the CD player, rolls up the window, closes the moon-roof, and rips down I-4 toward home.

Waiting in the Wind

2006-06-12T02:38:00.000-04:00

K is standing outside Panera Bread on Sand Lake Road, awkwardly waiting for L. Uncomfortable with being alone in a spot where he seems to always be in someone's way, he checks his watch every ten or twenty seconds, as if to signal to those who may be looking at him that he is waiting for someone. He feels awkward, uncomfortable, and mildly annoyed. He considers calling L but makes a deal with himself: He will call L only if L runs twenty minutes late. K knows how he, K, sounds when he's irritated and he's quickly getting there. He has to step out of the way of a man about his own age and looks angrily up and down the parking lot.

L is only four or five minutes late.

K is a few minutes away from having a nervous breakdown.

* * *

K was standing outside Copley Station in Boston when he first learned what cruelty between gay men looked like. He was eighteen years old, had a full head of dark brown hair, neatly styled, and his eyes were possessed by innocence rather than bitterness. He was thin, as attractively thin as he'd get before the eating disorder set in in his mid-twenties, and was dressed in a long coat that concealed his stylish attire of a suit, tie, and vest. He had just come from a family Christmas party and was meeting the man who had taken his virginity the night before. He had walked to the subway station, taken the train from the suburbs into Boston, and was waiting on the street, in the cruel blasts of wind, looking up and down Dartmouth Street for the man's car.

He waited for an hour.

When he realized he had indeed waited an hour, he went inside the station, tearing his eyes from the view of the street only long enough to locate a pay phone. Reassuring himself that he could see the street should the man's car pull up while K was on the phone, K placed a dime or a quarter or whatever the going rate was for a local call in the late 1980's into the pay phone and placed the crusty, cracked receiver to his ear.

He was shaking with a fear that the man he had grown to love -- in that way only an innocent can love someone so quickly -- was not coming to get him. And he was fearful not just that he had been foolish and lost his virginity to a man who now wanted nothing to do with him but that he, K, might lose whatever trace of dignity he had left.

He had no need to worry.

The man had turned off his answering machine.

K's call rang endlessly.

Eventually, K replaced the phone, walked wearily back out to Dartmouth Street, and continued looking up and down the street, hoping the man he was in love with would come and get him as he had promised.

He waited several hours. He paced. He jumped up and down every now and again to try to keep his feet from freezing. His nose ran, then even his mucous seemed to freeze in the biting snap of merciless cold.

And when he saw that he had come all this way and done all that he had done with a man who didn't care about him, he walked along the curb and considered tossing himself in front of a car.

But all the cars along the curb were parked so he laughed at his own dramatic mood.

Then he went home and, after everyone in his family was asleep, he buried his face in his pillow, wished he were back at school in Florida, and he bawled his pain into his fist: a painful, muffled, agonizing, horrificaly lonely cry that still haunts him sixteen years later.

* * *

When L's tardiness hits the twenty-minute mark, K whips out his cell phone, flips it open angrily, and asks himself if he really wants to call L.

For a split moment, the thought dawns on him that L, like that man in Boston from so long ago, may not answer, and, by not answering, may be saying something that will crush him.

K tells himself to be calm if he calls. He knows well the speed with which his own temper flares and L has yet to see that unflattering aspect of K's personality.

K takes in a few breaths but, when a party that had passed him earlier on their way into Panera now passes him on their way out of Panera, he loses his patience, scrolls to L's number, and presses, "Send."

L's phone rings several times.

When it goes to voicemail, K is about to snap.

Instead, he snaps his own phone shut and angrily paces between the restaurant and his car.

He again whips his phone open and calls L.

Again, the call goes to voicemail after several rings.

This time, K leaves a message, and his tone is that all-business, no-bullshit tone that scares the Hell out of people:

"Hey. I'm at Panera. You were supposed to be here twenty minutes ago. I don't know where you are but, honestly, wherever you are, you needed to call and explain you were running late. I'm leaving. Call me when you realize you owe me an apology --"

He snaps his phone shut as he mutters, "-- you asshole."

* * *

He is at home, doing angry housekeeping -- cleaning because he needs to do something to kill off the energy anger gives him -- when his home telephone rings. A quick scan of the Caller ID shows it's a person at the gate requesting he open it.

He scoops up the receiver and nearly barks into it: "Who is this?"

"It's the Apology Patrol. Can I come in?"

K doesn't say anything else. He presses the code that opens the gate and slams the phone back down.

* * *

When K answers the door, he finds L, dignified, distinctive L, holding a box, gift-wrapped and crowned with a bow for K.

K's eyes flit between the box and L's comically apologetic face.

"What the Hell is that?" K asks.

"Well, obviously it's a gift." L tells him.

K takes it from him and senses his anger drifting from his mind, his materialistic instincts winning over any resentment that he might have.

They stare at each other for a few moments.

"Can I come inside?" L asks "Or do I have to stand out here all day?"

K thinks about this and, as he goes to shut the door in L's face, tells him, "Not all day. Just twenty minutes."

As he shuts the door, he hears L say something that causes any and all anger to drift from his mind:

"Okay."

K opens the door immediately.

"Did you just say, 'okay'?"

"Yes. Yes, I did."

"So you'll stand out there for twenty minutes if I say you have to?"

"I will if that's what it takes to make you forgive me."

"Where were you?"

L is hesitant to say anything. K repeats his question.

"I ran into P. We got to talking and . . .I just lost track of time, K. I'm sorry."

"You ran into P?" K hopes the jealousy in his panic-stricken head isn't audible in his voice.

L sighs regretfully. "Yeah."

K places the gift on the counter between the foyer and the kitchen, hoping he can retain his composure. P. L's ex. The great love of L's life. The guy K fears he'll never be able to be compared to and come away the more desirable person.

He tries to act non-chalantbut fails. "What'd he have to say?" K asks.

"Does it really matter?" L asks in return. "I'm with you now, not him."

K thinks back, in a flash, and recalls all the men he's been involved with who would have answered that question in so many ways other than in a reassuring manner. He knows well the tone of a man who speaks with an unknowing rapture about another man, he knows well when his mate is cheating on him through a level of experience he wishes he had never acquired. And L seems to be doing the opposite. There is no exasperated tone in his voice, no eagerness to talk about how funny P is, or how wonderful P looked or what a nice new car P had or any of those little hints that indicate L is still in love with P and will be having an affair with him and crushing K in the process.

"He's with me now, not him." K thinks, playing L's words over in his mind. It seems surreal. Didn't he trust someone once before with one hundred percent faith? And didn't that person also get past K's otherwise flawless bloodhound-like sense of infidelity?

He sees something in L's eyes and he realizes that L has been watching K's face change.

"You don't have anything to worry about." L tells him. "If you did", he adds, pointing to the gift box, "Do you think I'd have gone all the way to Plant City to get you that?"

K picks up on the hint and, like a child getting their most-desired toy, tears off the bow, rips the paper, tossing it wherever it may land, and whips open the box with L's loud, throaty laughter bellowing from the porch.

He tears open the box and finds a copy of his favorite book within, old, fragile, and very expensive.

He turns it over again and again in his hands and, slowly and carefully, opens the front cover.

He gingerly turns past the title page to find the publication date.

His eyes widen and he almost drops the book.

"Published May, 1936." he reads.

The first printing of just 10,000 copies. And the hardest of all to find, as the book's publication was eventually pushed back to June, 1936, when a much-larger print run was put in place.

He stares at the date for what seems an eternity. This book is in his hands because he mentioned it just once, in passing, and yet L had remembered that little piece of information.

L had really listened to him.

When he turns to L, he can barely see him because his vision is now blurry. But, in the fog of watered eyes, he sees L's shape move toward him, shut the door behind him, and, after gently taking the book from K's hands, placing it on the counter, and pulling K toward him, he hears L ask, "Am I forgiven, you little bastard?"

K answers him with a kiss that brings them both to the foyer floor. After they roll around for a bit, K tells L, "Don't ever make me wait again."

L takes K's head firmly in his hands. "Don't worry." he says, planting a kiss on K's chin, "I can't afford another book that expensive."

That Is SUCH Bull!

2006-06-11T02:18:00.000-04:00

Saturday night with the PBR in town and no one I knew would go with me. So that means the next time anyone needs me to sit through another touring production of "The Phantom of the Fucking Opera" or "Fucking Cats" or the revival of "Fucking Dead Corpse Singing From Her Coffin, Evita" or any other Andrew Lloyd Webber show . . .do NOT ask me. And you know who you are, you little Andrew LLoyd Webber aficionados!!!

So I went alone.

Yes, that's right. I sat at the Orlando Arena -- I don't care that it's now called TD Waterhouse Center; it will always be the O-Rena to me -- ALONE. By myself.

I looked like a social retard.

But I got to see my guys -- the Moraes. And my favorite redheaded guy, Cord McCoy. Oh - and Brian Canter. Once the first two bull riders were done -- and they both got bucked off in the first second (no joke, almost without leaving the chute) -- it was a pretty heart-pounding night.

And, I have to say, I REALLY liked seeing the PBR live as opposed to on OLN or NBC. But the O-Rena wasn't even at half capacity so I'd be surprised if they ever make O-Town a stop for any of their challenges again.

And I also have to say -- it was much more enjoyable than anything Andrew Lloyd Webber ever wrote.

Meow.

Bulls are so much better than cats

(Sorry for the blurry photography. The damned bulls wouldn't stay still.)

:-)

DO SOMETHING!

2006-06-06T22:46:00.000-04:00

Are you aware that the Governor of Florida okayed a bill that allows people to eat at outdoor restaurants with their dogs?

Meanwhile, that same Governor wants gay marriage banned.

Do you realize that this in turn means that the Governor of Florida views someone's relationship with their pet as more valid than your relationship with your same-sex partner?

What are you doing about this?

If you're a gay person or you care about a gay person, get your ass in gear and DO SOMETHING.

Write letters, make phone calls, make sure everyone you vote for is in support of gay marriage. If you don't do these things, you are doing nothing.

American Idol is done for the year. Maybe you can dial your local representative's office and tell whoever answers how you feel in a phone call that's a bit more important than a vote for Cat or Taylor.

But whatever you do, do something. For Christ's sake -- if you have time to read a blog, surf the web, go to the mall, watch TV, read a magazine or whatever the heck you do to waste time, you have the time to make a difference.

Stop being a pussy.

Stand up and do something.

While all this bull is going on, the US Senate is voting on the FMA which will ammend the US Constitution and ban gay marriages.

And instead of anyone doing anything, most gay guys will say they're too butch to affiliate with "rainbow warriors."

Don't be a fuck-up, you little bunch of pansies.

Be a MAN.

Stand up, make your voice heard, and DO SOMETHING.

I'll make it easy for you:

For Florida:
http://www.myfloridahouse.gov/Sections/
Representatives/representatives.aspx

For the US Congress:
http://www.hrcactioncenter.org/actioncenter/home.html

It doesn't get much easier than that. Now stop bitching about how bad things are getting and stop letting them get that bad in the first place. A community can only be steamrolled when they allow themselves to be steamrolled.

Be your own hero.

Write a letter, make a call, and put an end to legislated bigotry.

And let that be the start of you doing it again and again, each time something like this comes up. Because when you keep fighting them off, they'll start to give up.

We saw it this past weekend in Orlando when the protestors never showed up to oppose us.

You can see it in your own backyard, too, if you fight back. But you have to fight back, not sit on the sidelines, crying about your lot in life.

So do something.

NOW!

And stop letting politicians legislate your rights away so that your PET has more rights than you do.

M-I-C . . . See Ya Real Soon!

2006-06-05T03:48:00.001-04:00

Ah, so sad to see another year's Gay Days gone so soon. . .

Today was the last day and it was held at Epcot. A nice day, overall, even though the crowd today was noticeably thinner (probably due to everyone sleeping in after last night's One Mighty Party and other like events throughout town).

* * *

I missed Dignity Mass today at the Royal Plaza, and it's a shame because I felt like I could have used a little holy, holy, holiness in my life after last night. Not that I did anything to be ashamed of; just the residue of my Catholicism makes me feel guilty whenever I have the slightest bit of fun. I'll go to confession st Joy MCC next week and, in the interim, work on committing some sin I can admit to so that my guilt is worthy.

* * *

Made it to Epcot by 11am, and today I remembered to bring the cell so I could hook up with my group and not wander through the park looking for them. They were about to go on Mission: Space (other wise known as The Ride That Kills People). I told them I'd sit it out and that I hoped they lived. They reminded me that the ride has sickness bags -- a first for a Disney park -- but it wasn't vomitting I'm afraid of. (Heck -- vomit equals weight loss!) Instead I sat outside Mission: Space hoping they lived and checking out the guys. Such cute guys at Epcot.

Speaking of Epcot, is it just me or is Epcot the weirdest of all Disney theme parks? The whole makes no sense. One side is technology, the other is like World Market/Cost Plus. I mean, you have rides -- and a few pretty good ones too like Test Track and Sparin' and you know I love that damned Living Seas exhibit and I gotta ride that stupid boat in The land every time I go -- but then the other side is a fucking mall. "Oh look, Honey! Japan!" "No, Dumbass. It's an Orlando location for the largest department store in Japan, that's all." I swear, I never learn anything at World Showcase; I just pick up bad gift-giving ideas. "Hmmm. My mom might like a Geisha doll. And Dad, he can use a pair of maracas from Mexico for SOMETHING, I'm sure. Sis -- that little gnome doll I saw in Norway sorta looks like her. . ."

Anyway, critique aside, I quite enjoyed the Spaceship Earth ride today and I usually hate that thing. Giant damned golfball that Disney tries to convince us is art. (How much you wanna bet that's one park icon on it's way out?) I rode with M, who never fails to get sick and twisted, so I quite enjoyed our trashing of each animatronic. "He reminds me of a guy I used to date." was a common refrain, from the caveman to the guy dressed as a woman in a Shaespearean play. And sadly . . . we weren't being facetious.

* * *

Had dinner at Alfredo's. I have to say, it was actually good this time. However, it is also so damned fattening that I then considered a ride on The Ride That Kills People so that I might toss it all up.

Speaking of rides, Soarin' . . .my absolute favorite ride at Epcot. I sat at the end of our group with T on one side and a guy from a gay group on the other. When the vehicl zipped into the air, the guy grabbed my hand. Or maybe I grabbed his. I dunno. But we both laughed and I let him keep holding it. Even without that little strange moment, that ride is so perfect. I loved it in California and I love it here, too.

* * *

The day was a bit overcast but I needed sunglasses. When we came to a little shack in the Africa area, I announced I was going fucking blind and needed something to cover my eyes.

"Do NOT buy yourself sunglasses!" T tells me.

"I'm going blind!" I explain, pulling a pair of the rack and checking to see how much like a tourist I looked.

"You can't cover your eyes up." T explains. "They're your deal-sealer."

"My deal-sealer?" I asked him.

"Yes. You have nice eyes and people notice that about you."

"My eyes are brown." I remind him.

"But in the sun" he tries to convince me, "they're a really nice golden brown. It's really an unusual color. You can't cover them up."

"I need to cover them up. I can't see."

"K -- they're your Deal-sealer. You never cover up the Deal-Sealer."

I had had enough. "Are you telling me" I asked, "that in all the nearly six-feet of me that the only attractive feature about me is two inches of eyes?"

T had to think about that. So M jumped in and said, "Yep. That's what he's saying."

I bought the damned sunglasses.

Of course, no one hit on me the rest of the day so T might have been right.

* * *

It rained in the middle of the afternoon but it was a great, cooling rain. I didn't mind that every sqaure inch of my clothing was soaked. It was refreshing, cooling, and the air smelled so clean afterwards. Plus, I have sunburn from Hell so the cool water felt so nice aginst my hot skin.

* * *

T got hit on by some guy who came to Gay Days from Indiana. "They have gay people in Indiana?" T asked him. I piped in, "Oh, T. We're everywhere now. In fact, I hear we just opened a local branch in Montana." The Indiana guy thought it was funny but T gave me that scowl he's copyrighted which means, "Don't talk to the guy who's interested in me." I did the good friend thing and vanished, along with M and C.

We ended up in the American Adventure thing, which I usually find myself making fun of. But I had never noticed before that in the end montage -- which shows the opportunities that lie ahead for Americans to make America a greater country -- there are some interesting images shown: a gay pride parade, a banner demanding AIDS research, and a picture of Ryan White. And I was thankfully in a crowd that appreciated those images. The applause was pretty loud and I wonder why I never noticed those images before. Did Disney just recently slip them in? Interesting. . .

* * *

We didn't stay for the fireworks because around 8pm a deluge hit. Having already been cooled off, this wasn't welcome -- just heavy, fat, beating raindrops. We all hopped the tram back to our cars -- along with the guy T had picked up -- and agreed to meet at a party on Hotel Plaza Boulevard an hour or so later. I rushed home, peeled off my soaked clothes, hopped in the shower, whimpered "Ouch! Ouch! Ouch!' while the water pummeled my sunburn, then got dressed up in as loose-fitting clothing as I could. Jamming out to that new Gay Days #3 CD, I cruised back to the Hotel Royal Plaza. Parking was jam-packed again so I headed over to the Reedy Creek building across the street, parked there, and met up with everyone in the lobby.

* * *

I was originally supposed to go to a party at The Collisseum but, after resarching the Gay Days events, found that it was another outside promoter coming to town to take away our gay dollars rather than keeping them here in O-Town. So I blew that deal off.

The crowd in the lobby was loud and riotous. I loved it. Drinks everywhere, people making conversations with total strangers -- the usual cliques, too; Gay Days isn't perfect yet -- and just a great atmosphere. I dropped away from M and K and T and C and all and just strolled around the lobby, admiring the artwork and the atmosphere. I ventured out into the courtyard where the antique cars had been onm display this past weekend but they were now gone and replaced with extra seating -- all occupied by partiers. I made my way through the crowd and over to the pool and just looked back at it all.

Just thirty people showed up 16 years ago.

It's amazing what we can do when we all come together.

Maybe we can come together someday and change the world -- rather than just change Walt Disney World.

* * *

And so it ends for one more year. What a great time, from the concerts, to the art shows, car shows, exhibits, and, of course, the theme parks. Of course, Orlando will be as gay as ever tomorrow when most of the visitors leave, and Disney will still be Disney. But there's omething about this week that means os much to the people who experience it, if they do allow themselves to fully experience it. My personal memories that I hope never fade have to include an amazing moment I tried, but failed, to get on film:

I was seated in Tomorrowland, beneath the PeopleMover, and I saw these two guys holding hands. I had seen several guys holding hands that day but for some reason, this couple counted more. I don't know why; perhaps it was my sixth sense, that thing my friends call on to tell them whether the new guy they've met is a good one or a waste of time. I had a sense that these two guys really loved each other: that nothing-can-ever-come-between-us love I think most of us want but few of us ever put the effort into giving to the one we claim to love. These guys, I felt, would be together forever. And as I tried to get my camera to turn on so I could snap a shot, I thought that the perfect caption would be, based both on location and on it's image: Tomorrowland. Wouldn't it be wonderful if rather than hands being held in public being a raised middle finger to convention, if one day it could be what it was that day: just two guys in love holding hands as they walked through Tomorrowland.

Of course, another great moment I almost caught was when, during the 3pm Parade, Mickey Mouse, dancing on his float, turned to the people I was standing with, pointed right at us, and, as if God himself had just said, "I love you guys" we all went wild, screaming for The Mouse. And The Mouse played along, pointing at us and waving ever more frantically, and everyone went that much more insane. Mickey Mouse was saying to us gays, "I know you're there and I think you're great."

Mickey gave us what our families sometimes don't. Maybe that's why so many of us come back to Gay Days again and again. . .

* * *

And so, now it's time to say goodbye to another year's Gay Days. It's not the end of Orlando's Gay and Lesbian Pride Month; I myself have three speaking engagements that I'm committed to speak at over this next month alone on the topic of modern gay life. But it is time to look forward to next year's Gay Days. So, if you weren't able to attend this year, clear your calendar now, put in your vacation request, do whatever you have to to be in O-Town between May 29th and June 4th next year.

You won't regret it -- and you'll never forget it.

We now return you to the usual craziness and crapola of the O-Town Guy blog.

One Mighty Party

2006-06-04T01:18:00.000-04:00

Ahhh . . . what is it about the boom-boom-boom of tribal beats that just gets me into a dancing mood and makes me break out not at all unlike Kevin Kline in "In & Out"? Why can't I resist the bass? What is it about the voices of thousands of Donna Summer wanna-bes (who have less talent than Lindsey Lohan) floating over a hypnotic, techno track that makes me go, "Ahhhh. I am at home now."? Whatever it is, it was present at tonight's One Mighty party. And I'm too worn out to recap in depth so, here are some random memories, thoughts, and other lil' bits:

I love that Tower of Terror, Rock-n-Roller Coaster, The Great Movie Ride AND Star Tours were open throughout the party. Even though Tower of Terror always scares the fart outta me (not kidding -- embarrassing but true; don't sit next to me on the thirteen story crash and expect silence) it is a damned riot at this event. Twenty gay men or so crammed into an elevator that makes it's creepy way up thirteen flights -- then moves into the thirteenth floor, passing ghosts and so forth before entering another elevator shaft. . .and holding. The screams in the dark were horrendous and the pause just seemed so intense. And then when, instead of dropping, the elevator ripped UP even higher than the thirteenth floor -- and THEN fell? Oh my Christ -- the stranger on my right clamped onto my arm so hard I think my sunburn's bleeding. . .

The music was, of course, deafening, but what's the point of a rave if not to surround oneself in music? Of course, this is Disney so the X is replaced by Mickey Spin Pops (think electric toothbrushes with a lollipop instead of bristles) and Pixie Dust (a tube of tart sugar) so everyone's actually coherent and can conduct a conversation. Thing is -- you can't HEAR the conversation anywhere near the outdoor dance floors. (There were at least two throughout the park that I saw.)

A weird note on wardrobe: The Red Shirts so visible at Disney? They were largely gone. I felt bad for the Cast members who had to remind Guests that at Disney, even at private parties, attendees MUST wear shirts at all times. (However, did anyone else notice that PANTS are apparently not mandatory? What was up with the Boys in Briefs? Well, Donald Duck can go sans pants, so when in Duckburg. . .)

Favorite Dancefloor Moment: Thank God Tony Moran played the right mix of Donna Summer's "You're So Beautiful." THANK YOU!!! (But where was "Someday", the gay-rights themed track that was THE song for Gay Days '98 or thereabouts? That message never ages and neither does a good remix.)

Worst line Overheard All Night: "I wanna. . . take you. . . back to my hotel. . . room. . . . and mmmmmmmmmmmmmm." What is 'mmmmmmmmmmmmmmm' anyway? And would you wanna do it with a guy who's so inebriated on something that he can't put more than three words together without looking like a bobble-head figurine?

By the way, did I miss out on a sexual movement or something while I was married? What is Frottage? If you know the answer, please e-mail it to: otownguy110@yahoo.com

Worst pick-up line I got tonight: "You wanna go somewhere and J.O.?" What I hope was a snappy comeback: "J.O.? J.O.? Is that like J-E-L-L-O? If not . . . my answer would be N.O. No, I do NOT wanna go J.O." Fucking jerk. Did he not know we were at DISNEY??? Try that shit at Sea World. . .or that Holy Land Experience Theme Park. You know THOSE guys are desperate for any man-on-man action THEY can get. . .

Biggest Stereotype Moment of the Night: You knew it was gonna be on The Great Movie Ride. Still don't know yet? Try this line of dialogue: "I'll get you my pretty! And your little dog, too!" Picture the Wicked Witch of the West delivering that line to a tram-full of applauding gays. Ahhhh. There's no place like home. . .

Most Potentially embarrassing Moment of the Night: A drunk guy stumbling across dancefloor falls against me, grabs my shorts by the waist -- for support, I assume -- and almost yanks 'em down as he's sort of falling down drunk. Thankfully, one of his friends saw him sort of molest me and grabbed his hands and led him away, keeping my loose-fitting cargoes from relocating to a place around my ankles. And I'm shy so that would NOT have been a good moment. (Although I WAS wearing nice underwear so, maybe it would have gotten a cheer.)

Can We PLEASE Follow the Rules Moment has to be the many guys lighting up wherever they wanted. Disney has strict smoking locations (though I have to say that may just be during regular park hours and not special parties such as this). Regardless, for those that don't smoke -- or are trying their darndest NOT to -- lighting up on the dancefloor and in all common areas really seems inappropriate and disrespectful. (And I say this having been a smoker who always took care never to smoke in any area where a child might see me smoke, even if no child would be present. Try following that guideline.)

BTW -- I didn't catch any of the live entertainment -- a bunch of one-hit wonder disco divas (so typical) and was it Gloria Gaynor? Uh, no thank you. Maybe next year, One Mighty Party can recognize that the gay community is diverse and try to offer up some acts other than some no-talent woman with a three-note range. (Of course, if gay men could learn to look up to themselves rather than a diva with a mic, that might be One Mighty Improvement, too. . .)

The fireworks? Brilliant! Disney did the gay crowd proud by blowing the pyro like never before; easilly the largest and longest fireworks show at a One Mighty Party yet.

Was it worth the $85 ticket? Um, no. This party is NOT a fundraiser, as has been previously advertised. It also is NOT an official Gay Days event but rather one staged by a non-Gay Days-related promoter and, unlike most Gay Days events, money raised at One Mighty Party does NOT stay with the local GLBT community. So, thankfully, this was without doubt my last One Mighty Party.

For that reason and the fact that, in August, I turn too old to party.

Now, if next year they have One Mighty Shuffleboard . . . I might be there. . .

;-)

Tomorrow: Gay Days at Epcot and Party at the Collisseum!

A Sea of Red

2006-06-03T22:46:00.000-04:00

My picture doesn't quite do the moment justice: Approximately 60,000 -- and very possibly even more -- gay and lesbian Guests today filled the Magic Kingdom at Walt Disney World today. This moment here shows the 3pm Parade -- a cavalcade of Disney characters and parade floats -- as it becomes a Gay Pride Parade, with red-shirt attendees following the last float as it makes it's way past Cinderella's Castle and toward Main Street.

60,000.

And just 16 years ago, there were only 30 people there, tops.

60,000.

I grew up in a city with only 50,000 people, period.

Think about that number. Think about how you, at some point in your life, thought you were the only gay person alive.

Next year, be there to be a part of it. It's a moment that will choke you up when you realize what you're seeing, and it's a moment you'll never forget.

Much love to everyone who came out today, figuratively and literally.

Magical Day at The Magic Kingdom

2006-06-03T02:02:00.002-04:00

Gay Day at the Magic Kingdom started out for me with a phone call whose caller screamed at me, "Where the Hell are you?"

Where was I? In my bed. Where was I supposed to be? Le Peep on Kirkman Road for the pre-Gay Day at Magic Kingdom breakfast. Why wasn't I? Apparently the power in Champions Gate had gone off during the night, taking my wake-up alarm with it.

I hurried to get ready but found that my Gay Days shirt, which I had thrown in the washer, then the dryer last night, was still wet. Apparently, the dryer hadn't finished it's cycle when the blackout came and now it was still too wet to wear.

And the only other red shirt I had read, "Beary Loved."

Long story about that one and not enough time to tell it now. The important thing was that I had no red shirt I could wear and at Gay Days, red is the color you should wear, even if, like me, red is not the most flattering color you could wear. The point is visibility not appearance.

The closest I had was a maroon shirt. Feeling that maroon is part of the red family, I put it on and, to make it more acceptable, affixed my Gay Pride Mickey pin to it.

That it was a Texas A&M shirt didn't bother me too much. But as I left the house I thought, "I just know some sassy queen's gonna call me Faggy Aggie."

* * *
When I make it off the tram from the Minnie lot, I scan the red shirts at the ticket booth. I see a group of three and make my way over to them. Everyone in my group, I know, is already inside the park. I tap one guy on the shoulder. Wisely, he's nice to me and doesn't give me any gay attitude shit.

"It's your lucky day." I tell him. "You and your friends are saving $60 bucks each. I'm getting y'all in. Come on."

I explain how I can do that and they all hug me. I feel like Ty Pennington -- except I'm actually doing something, not having a bunch of other people do it for me and taking the credit.

We get in line for the monorail with our red-shirt-donned gay brothers and sisters. Everyone's in a fairly good mood and some folks are in a donwright childlike happy place. The guys in my group are full of questions about Disney and I find myself playing Tour Guide, giving them little bits of trivia and info on what to see, what to skip, best secrets, and park trivia as we slowly inch closer and closer to a monorail that will take us around Seven Seas Lagoon and over to the Magic Kingdom.

We eventually board Monorail Purple and are squeezed in like the cliched sardines. Which is great because it allows everyone who's standing to fall into the people around them when the monorail pulls away from the station and tears it's way toward the Contemporary Resort.

The guys in my group, who have never been to the Magic Kingdom (HOW!?!) are bouncing from one foot to the other as they look around them at the Castle, at Main Street, at all the red shirts standing outside the turnstiles, filling the park, and so on.

I picked a good group to get in.

* * *

I reach into my pocket for my cell phone to call my friends so I can figure out where they are -- and find I have only my camera, which does NOT make calls.

I must have a pained expression on my face when I realize that I've made it all the way from my house to Disney World, across the lagoon and into the park and now have no way of finding my party for a couple of guys come up to me and put their hands on my back, apparently thinking I'm having a stroke.

"Are you okay?"

I explain what I've done.

They both whip out their cells.

"What's their number?" the one with the most gorgeous armpits I've ever seen asks me.

"Star-oh-seven."

He looks perplexed.

"I only use the speed dial. I dunno their number."

"How can you not know their number?"

"I don't know anyone's phone number. I only know their speed dial combo from my cell phone -- star-oh-seven, or from my home phone: speed dial button-6."

"Do you know any other friend's phone number?"

"Uh . . . no."

Holy shit. I'm the little kid that gets lost at the park and can't remember what their parents look like.

I laugh it off, assure the guys I'll find my friends, and stumble away, humiliated.

My friends, meanwhile, are somewhere inside the Magic Kingdom. Weating red. Like 60,000 other guys.

I'm screwed.

* * *

Trying to find the four guys you're looking for in a park full of the handsomest men you've ever seen wear red tee-shirts is a near-impossibility. But it's so much more fun than finding the proverbial needle in a haystack.

Some highlights: My favorite saying on a red tee shirt had to go to: "Your sister's beautiful -- but your BROTHER does that thing with his tongue."

The sweet guy who came up to me saying, "I saw your tee-shirt and had to introduce myself." to which I had to explain, "Oh -- I went to college in Florida. This is a joke." He didn't get it. "I'm an honorary Aggie. Little battle at work between co-workers -- Texas and Texas A&M." Poor guy. I think he thought I was blowing him off. And I'd never blow off an Aggie.

The little boy who came up to me, thinking I was his father, took my hand and told me this was his favorite place in the world and then, when he realized that I wasn't his father, said "Have YOU met Mickey yet? I have his autograph!"

The couple who, when they saw me eating alone -- ALONE AT GAY DAYS! This trauma will never leave me! -- adopted me to their table outside Casey's Corner and told me the story of their thirty-plus year relationship and, who, when told that I just ended a six-year relationship myself, said, "You only lost a fool. Only a fool would let you go." I needed a boost like that.

The Country Bear Jamboree. I had to go inside when I saw all the guys in red outside and call off my Friend Search for a few minutes. Its been years since I've seen that particular show and I laughed like I haven't in days when the three bears sang, "All The Men That Turn Me On (Turn Me Down)." How did I ever forget that song? It's a riot! And the gay audience ate it up.

And my favorite image was that of so many gay couples holding hands as they walked through the park, showing everyone how gays and straights can indeed co-exist openly. There were no threats, no evil stares, no prejudice. Everyone, gay or straight, just went about their day at the park.

* * *

One great change from prior years was that the religious zealot who used to pay to fly planes and banners over the Magic Kingdom telling us all to die from AIDS has either run out of funding or realized how ineffective his efforts were. (We'ds all be dead by now if they were impactful.)

However, when I realized that I hadn't seen a plane today, I did sort of miss them. I recall a Gay Day at Magic Kingdom back in 1997 or 1998 when Marty and I were walking through Fantasyland and a plane flew overheae with the banner: Gays Will Burn in Hell.

Slowly, everyone stopped walking and everyone looked up to the sky. Gays, straights. But what I remember isn;t so much the many people pointing their middle fingers to the airplane but a man nearby who, sounding very choked up, yelled, "Leave them alone! For God's sake, leave them alone!"

I remember turning to see the man, a guy pushing a stroller, and it looked like he had just come to see the reality of gay life in America. And I think he understood just how much hatred there was in the world, that a man could fly a plane over a theme park with a message of hatred masked by religion, damning men and women who are hurting no one, to Hell. The memory of his face and voice still makes me cry.

So, though the evil preachers were absent this year, in a strange way . . . they were missed. Their message is sometimes the most potent thing we have.

* * *

I have been asked over the past few days what I would do if I were to run into the Ex. It wasn't something I was looking forward to but it was something I had to prepare for, given that he works for Disney and would likely either be in attendance or maybe even in the park. We haven't seen each other since we broke up back in September and have exchanged only a few very brief, curt e-mails regarding the sale of the house and my surrendering of anything regarding that to him so that I wouldn't have to deal with him any longer.

I have heard his comments about me, I know the stories, and I know that he's apparently forgotten what drove me to leave. Regardless of how it ended and how much it hurt, I knew there stood a good chance that we might run into each other.

I thought I might ignore him but, when I got into the park, I recalled why we were all there. This is a day of unity -- a day when we show each other, gays and straighst alike -- that we can all coexist if each is given respect. And how can I be part of that message if I cut down a man I loved for six years?

I decided that, if we spoke, I would say upfront, "Hatchet's buried. All is forgotten. How are you doing?"

I would let him know immediately that I know we've both hurt each other and moved on and that yes, maybe we can be adults and actually talk to one another now and again.

And so, as I walked through the park, looking for my group, I kept reminding myself that at any moment, I might come face-to-face with the man I used to love.

And when I did come face-to-face with him, we both were walking in opposite directions.

I think he saw me first. As I approached him, I started to stare, because I wasn't sure if it were him: that awful heart-pounding, can't-look-away-because-you're-not-sure moment.

Just as we came face to face, I opened my mouth to say "Hi."

I don't remember if anything actually came out of my mouth. I think my voice was gone at the moment. It hurt more than I thought it would to see him again.

He just looked at me, made a face that I don't understand, and kept walking.

I didn't know what to do and I just kept walking away as well, without looking back at him.

I walked from Liberty Square, into Fantasyland, up to Toontown, then found what I was looking for: the little path that no one seems to know lies between Toontown and Tomorrowland.

I ducked into a space behind Goofy's Barnstormer, cried a bit where no one would see, then did what I always do: I moved on.

* * *

I never did find my group. But I found many guys there that, seeing I was apparently alone, offered me inclusion in their group, from a group that told me to sit with them at the parade, to the two men who adopted me at lunch, to the guy that helped me when a bottle of water gave me trouble. (I swear, their making bottled water in containers as complex as prescription pills these days.)

I also found someone who's been gone a long time. Being single again has been a bit of a challenge for me because little pieces of me have been lost over the years and as I rediscover myself, who I am "without a man", I find that I like the single me alot more than I had ten years ago, the last time I was single. Friends comment on the "new me" but it's really just an improved version of the "old me." I like being single, I'm not afraid to be alone and, though still very shy in social situations,
I'm doing okay for myself. The other day at work, someone told me they respect me because I'm brave and when I have a passion around something, I make a change happen. Perhaps that's why this year's Gay Days was so important to me: It marks the return of the political me. I've had two marriages. Neither could be made legal. Both ended partly due to pressures from the outside world that would not have been present had my love been legally recognized. And next week, Congress, with the support of the monkey in the President's Office, votes to ammend the US Constitution so that gay men and lesbians can never marry. I'm brave enough to say this can not happen, to reach beyond my shyness -- which can be socially crippling at times -- and to make my voice heard in protest.

I like that I'm back and that I have my voice back. I like that other gay people at work view me as a role model of what a gay man can achieve and be opne and true to himself and his values.

And I like my community and I thank everyone who made a guy who was walking around by himself, lost in a sea of red shirts, feel like part of a group that sometimes forgets to include anyone who doesn't look like a model from an Abercrombie ad. You'll never convince me I'm handsome, but you made me feel good today.

Next year, I'll use a back-up battery-powered alarm. ;-)

But first, I have One Mighty Party to go to. . .