2008-11-24 - 3:54 p.m.
Traffic in LA is really enough to turn even the Pope into a Nazi killer. And trying to get anywhere on a Friday afternoon � well, you might just as well forget about it and stay home and cry. Trapped on the so-called Express 720, with a horrible junior high school girl rubbing her fat skirt-clad dress on my left thigh, and a ridiculous blue collar hospital orderly falling asleep on my right shoulder � well, pulling out an electro-taser and zapping everyone within range of me just seems to be a serious and well thought out option. There are simply too many people in the world. You should not be needing a nap just from taking one bus from one part of West LA to the other. But I am pleased that I am able to briefly take refuge in my new favorite coffeehouse, the Java Detour, which is what I am using as my Coaching Inn these days.
Tonight, my plan is to see the new Groundlings show and then write up the review for the Big Paper's Thanksgiving holiday deadline, which is tonight. The problem, naturally, is that all these fires which are burning about have given me a strong case of asthma, and the asthma has turned into a full on fall chest cold. I caught the cold on the exact day that all employees at the library were supposed to get flu shots if that's what they wanted. And you see, you cannot get flu shots if you have a cold � so it is now clear that in addition to having this chest cold now, I am setting myself up to have a wonderful flu later on this winter. Is there no end to the troubles and tsorres of the world?
Gosh, it is funny how nothing in West Hollywood ever changes. The twinks in their tank tops, the fat dorks sitting at the bar tables licking their chops, the over-buff hunks walking their idiotic little fluffy dogs � it's been the same since the dinosaurs trod upon the earth. Only I have changed. I am now virtually unrecognizable from the lad I was when I first started treading the streets here. Once I was a twink � and now I am a Silver Fox! Why, just look at my hair � look at it! I have brownish hair on the top and a shock of glamorous white hair on both sides. Why, I look like I should be on a soap opera. Is it any wonder that the young men with "old souls" find me irresistible? I look so sensible. If only they could look inside my head and hear the drivel blurping away � they would run screeching.
The fuss over Proposition 8 appears to have settled down somewhat, with the conflict seemingly having moved to the State Supreme Court, whose judges will hear the arguments as to whether a constitutional amendment can be made by a simple majority, thus overpowering the significant minority that voted against it. It will be fascinating to hear how the courts will decide: After all, this case strikes one as being so obviously an incident of "tyranny of the majority" that it is essentially why the courts were created in the first place.
At the protest march I attended, about which I wrote two weeks ago when I was flushed with youthful idealism, I ran into the cute gay librarian from work. He's adorable, with his buzz cut blond head, shy manners, tight young body, and sweet expressive eyes. At the library, he dresses up in such sweet Big Boy clothes: A nice pair of khakis, a button up shirt, little round glasses. But every so often, the wrist of his white Oxford shirt rises up just a bit, exposing an incredibly intricate tattoo of some dragon of golden fish � and some Chinese characters that probably read "torture me with nipple clamps and bottles of watersport urine."
Oohh, I love people whose still waters run deep. That is what I aspire to myself, as I prissily walk about the library, in my little cardigan, sneering and shushing as I push my little cart hither and thither. Let future generations debate as to whether I am an uptight library mouse, or a dirty flamboyant terror of the bathhouse. We are complex creatures who can be both or either and much more. No one can be defined by one label, you know.
But back to the cute gay-brarian. He, like many librarians, is just about the most effeminate creature that you will ever see. However, as far as I am concerned, that is hardly a minus. I like a somewhat effeminate man: The whole macho thing is overrated. "Straight-acting" guys are usually self loathing. And they are often terrible in bed, since they are inevitably totally rude and pig-like, forcing the sexually more comfortable me to engage in great deal of psychotherapy before, after, and during the blow job. Or they treat you like you are weak for giving THEM pleasure. No, each and every time, give me a nice effeminate gay boy who came out at age 10 because, after all, what under-observant dope would mistake his syballant "hsssses" and his flapping wrists for the habits of a heterosexual?
In fact, myself and another library clerk were joking about the Gaybrarian in the staff room the other day, when another clerk, a dopey big-haired, gal who sort of exists in a dimwitted lovelorn daze motivated by the endless procession of Harlequin Romances she reads, had the idiocity to ask "Oh? Is he gay? How do you know?" This exacted much eye rolling and ridicule from the rest of us. "Well I can't telllll!" the idiot walking vagina bleated.
Anyway, the problem with the cute gay-brarian is that, after spotting me at the Proposition 8 protest rally, he has insisted on coming up to me and asking if I have gone to every one of the other rallies that have been going on and on and on and on. I, alas, have had neither time nor energy to do either of these ridiculous things � and I have sort of diverged with the crowd as far as the methods of protest at this point anyway. I can't bring myself to protest the Mormons, who, really, are just doing what Mormons do and can't be blamed for giving money to a cause that is important to them, however disgusting. And after a while, one just gets tired of squawking teenagers, whatever the cause.
On the other hand, I am totally simpatico with the idea of boycotting any businesses that had anything to do with funding Proposition 8. Alas, in my daily life, I don't actually DO business with any of the companies that backed the Proposition, but my intentions are good. And what is kind of funny is how the folks who are being boycotted are all screeching like cats at the sheer injustice of it all.
It's as though they're saying, "Well, yes, we gave money to get rid of the gays, but how dare the gays dare to not want to give us their money! Which we will then use to further discriminate against the gays!" It is amazing to hear the bigots howling at "mob rage" when it's the exact sort of reason precisely why the names of donors to political campaigns are made public in the first place. I only wish the donors were running smaller businesses that the lack of gay dollars could actually close down.
Anyway, as I write these words in the library workroom, the hot young gaybrarian has actually walked in with his microwave burrito, and he has actually sat down at the table across from me. And so I shall close this blog window and bid you a hasty and tactful adieu for the time being.
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