Cirque du So'Gay

I've almost moved out of Brighton as of this past weekend, which is terribly exciting and morbidly sad at the same time. You might check out Annie's blog (95% likely to be how you got here in the first place) for a reasonable summary of my feelings upon leaving The Compound. Luckily, rather than moving to Dorchester, which was at one time on the table, I've moved to Cambridge, albeit an out-of-the-way residential section of "Boston's Left Bank" (as the T advertisements call it). I stand a better chance of not getting stabbed here, although I do stand a significantly higher risk of running into random Swatties of years past (total count so far: 2. This number will climb like a Basra body count.) Odds are also good that I'll eventually wind up owning affordable ethnokitsch.

Somehow it's a totally lateral move in terms of commute time-- still hovering around 1 hour. This hour is half-spent walking, with the remainder spent on the Red line and the MGH shuttle to Charlestown. Yesterday actually marked the first time since March that I've not even touched the Green Line. And it's slow, inconvenient hand didn't touch me, either. I can feel my blood pressure decreasing already.

Today marks the first day that I'm actually using non-stolen internet in over a year, barring work, that is. The cunning genius that is my new roommate X (I'm holding off on names for the time being until I can gauge their take on instant blog celebrity) has named our network 69 bois, the second move in two days to stick it to the heterosexual component of our gorgeous house, which happens to be number 69 on our street. Our landlord, who lives on the first floor, is probably not amused, and most certainly is not a boi. Not a grrrl either, I guess. Maybe she has a past though.
The first gay victory occured last night, upon the arrival of our fourth and final roomate Z. It being Monday, we all decided to go out and paint the town red. Having mortified trendy (in a good way. really!) X by taking him to the Cantab Lounge over the weekend, I decided to yield and suggested we go to Middlesex Lounge. I kind of hate Middlesex between Thursday and Sunday, but do actually enjoy the vibe during the week. For one thing, there's no line. Waiting in line for a Cambridge lounge is like paying a doctor to induce hemorrhoids-- a needless pain in the ass (rimshot) (HOA!). Secondly, inattentive servers have fewer places to hide when the floor isn't full of lame MBAs, whores from colleges small (Simmons) and large (BU), lost starfuckers, and other fans of Improper Bostonian. The DJ also played an insane Beyonce remix (it sounded like Jose Gonzalez was singing along, but that seemed too unlikely). So the four of us sat, slowly getting to know eachother, tracing mental arcs of likely yearlong trajectories. A very good time. Earlier in the evening I had told X that we'd go to Paradise, as the only consistently open gay bar barely within walking distance of our apartment.

The Dise wasn't exactly hopping on a Monday night. The surprisingly almost-naked go-go boy (way hotter than the one pictured at right) was hopping though, and showcasing a crotch sillhouette that dropped a few jaws. It should be noted that Y and Z are in fact straight, not to their discredit. Paradise isn't exactly a "starter kit" as far as bars go, what with the hardcore porn on the television screens, the donkey-hung go-go boys and the craven look on each face in the sparse crowd. Vocal house comprised the predictable background noise. Not my kind of place. Or so I thought until I drank the strongest $3.50 gin and tonic of my life. By the second I was making plans to go back later in the week, and by the third I'd probably have harrassed the go-go boy, but luckily my survival instincts kicked in. I pulled out, so to speak, in not nearly enough time to prevent a killer hangover and that lack-of-sleep look I really haven't rocked this fully since college, but I have very few regrets.

And with this post, like a phoenix from the ashes, so rises Cirque du So'Gay once more, if only for a few weeks, like all the times before.

Do you think Pine-Sol Lady Diane Amos felt left out when her gilded invitation did not arrive? Also, on whose shoulders does she stand, and are they getting tired?

So I'm spending this week teenager-sitting in NH while my parents cavort about Hawaii, all the while commuting to the lab in Boston, so I'm kind of a wreck. If you were travelling on 95 or Route 1 this morning, you'd have seen me, newly-shaven (I grew ambivalent about my facial hair), singing along with Stellastarr* and just kind of listening to Arab Strap (too much about really bad sex before 8am can be really profoundly aggravating, as it turns out). It could have been the angstiest minivan in the Northeast, for no apparent reason, as I'm really in relatively good spirits given the circumstances. I read a review of Stellastarr*'s recent album Harmonies for the Haunted in The Phoenix last week, and was disappointed to see the reviewer essentially trash what is to my mind a solid release. I mean, it must suck to constantly draw unfavorable comparisons to Interpol. Here's why I like the 'starr*. They're easy-- the rock is straightforward without ever becoming dull, and the lyrics are far from obtuse. I honestly don't think that there's even any PSAT vocab on this album, compared to, say, Antics, chock full of GRE words and frustrating grammatical and instrumental composition. Additionally, I really enjoy the 80's balladry of Harmonies. It's hard to get solidly behind anything on Antics, and for that matter, Turn on the Bright Lights isn't the most accessible album either. Lastly, the dude who does the main vocals for Stellastarr* has one of the lower-register voices in all of post-punk, which makes it all the easier for me to sing to and think that I actually could pull of a few songs in a Karaoke death match, if it ever came to that. He's also gorgeous. Some might complain about the retarded asterisk in the bandname, but as one who has taken more physical chemistry than most people should ever have to, I appreciate the bold use of non-sensical symbols in order to convey very little meaning or minor distinctions. Unfortunately I haven't been able to see Stellastarr* live, but I have the sneaking suspicion that they might not put on the most explosive set. I hope someday to be proven wrong.

It would appear that there is a marked similarity between the way I manage my blog, and the way I once managed my grow-a-frog. In the case of raising a mail-order tadpole, my neglect somehow led to the creation of one of the fatter creatures I've ever seen in captivity, so perhaps my postings will become more robust. On the other hand, the poor frog most certainly died one of two equally terrible and equally likely deaths: a) jumping out of his container and finding his way to the garbage disposal, or b) jumping out of his container and finding his way into my dog Bandit, who was at least 13 years old at the time and had breath that would make your eyes water. Both of these are far better deaths than most hamsters in my family wind up with.
It's true that I do go through alternating periods of shallow introspection and deep pseudo k-holes, so my lack of attention is not all that uncharacteristic. I blame it more on general failure to thrive, which is definitely a chronic condition at this point, with some noteable exceptions. How, though, could I possibly hope to rival the great Bostonianne? Indeed, not an exercise worth trying, as we both share the same pool of friends, and most of my non-leisure activities are strictly confidential, subject only to obscure references, or are scientific, which I've found really only saddens people. On the other hand, notoriety does have its drawbacks. Still, I have the haunting feeling that my site-counter is not actually defunct, and I have in fact never had a visitor, as it reports to me weekly.
This is a big week, though, and this has kicked me into high gear. For one thing, my almost lone posts to the newly-minted Schlockbuster Video site have helped my fingers to grow nimble, my mind to put to use some small bits of utterly neglected vocabulary. I'm alarmed at the rate of my typos, and not sure if I'm losing the ability to type, or the ability to spell, and I'm even less sure of which would be a worse fate. I suppose it depends on how far the syndrome goes. Eh. Secondarily, I'm growing a beard. Having a real hospital ID dangling from one's beltloop is a quick way to dismiss any street cred in Brighton, so I'm hoping to employ a few straggly hairs as, what else, my 'beard.' If all goes according to plan, there will be eventual photos, most likely posted on Annie's blog, so that people will see them.
Also, I'm having a few moles removed tomorrow, which will bring my scar count to 5ish (only one of which is at all bad-ass, and I got that one at the age of three). One of them is on my chest, which vexes me. I just KNOW that I'm going to have to either shave my own goddam left boob, or have my left boob shaved by someone else. Furthermore, it's not like they'll finish the job, or give me complimentary nair for a smoother look, longer. So essentially I'm going to be putzing around with a half-shaved chest, and somewhat fewer than ten stitches, which is really the gay male equivalent of a bloated red ass on a baboon. Get ready, this bitch is about to estrus HARD all over you.
Lastly, I'm departing this weekend for the land of bearded women and libertarians, a place where a noun is "a person, place or idear." Yes, Virginia, there is a red state in New England, essentially, at least. I'm somehow agreed to watch the younglings while my parents cavort about in Hawaii. This would be ok if I desperately needed time to study for the MCAT, didn't have to commute to work, and wouldn't be missing a number of really compelling shows in Boston. Drugs would also help, but then I'd do something stupid like drown the kiddies in the bathtub and then put the bodies in the van before backing it into the river. And the youngest is 15. Luckily, my folks have agreed to some pecuniary consolation, but I do think that the low-end of the opportunity-cost is much higher than the price I'll be collecting. Granted, this does represent a really pleasant opportunity for that family bonding with the most perplexing members of my nuclear family-- until the last few years it wasn't worth trying to get more of the scoop anyway-- my brother and sister. And I will get to see the dog. On the down side, I'll have an hour and a half commute in a minivan in which I can't smoke, won't be able to get blisteringly drunk for wednesday night TV, and won't have much access to porn. Expect a lot of posts and a lot of posed photographs featuring Lucy and Kitty.
Oh. I'm also going to a St. Patrick's Day Party thrown by a Jew and a Korean (whom I both respect and enjoy, for the record). Now, I'm appreciative of any opportunity to socialize in a non-intimidating setting, and you know I love drinking (although not recently, so much, which I guess is good?), but seriously. What the friggity fuck? Half of my ancestors will turn over in their graves if this truly comes to pass.

On Sunday afternoon I was waiting at Tremont and Park for the arrival of my good friend Dina, so that we could proceed to dish the last two weeks at eachother from fresh perspectives, when I witnessed what was probably the funniest interaction ever to take place outside of New York. Let me set the stage. Obviously, being on the Common, the un-homed are ubiquitous, and in that part of town they're usually damn frightening too. (I found myself thinking, in response to the haunting visage of one zombie-like denizen, that being successful at begging is really all in the presentation. Thus, walking in circles and screaming for spare change while hitting the side of your head would be a fairly unproductive way to spend your time while homeless. If they'd dance and sing for me, I'd always walk around with a pocket full of Sacajawea dollars.) But I digress, even if parenthetically. So it's a warm-ish Sunday afternoon and the park is alive with the bustle of Bostonians so pleased that they can walk around without tears streaming down their face that some of them are even doing good deeds, and the brave few are, gasp, talking to strangers with warm familiarity! Furthering the all-around sensation of goodwill and willing vulnerability was the presence of a high school volunteer (presumably religious-based) corps handing out bag lunches to the scads of homeless folks lining the sidewalk. They definitely researched their location, that's for damn sure! You know, I never did participate in that program Swarthmore had for a while, where you'd prepare food in the quaker meeting house and proceed to bring it into Philly and distribute it. I was scared of two things: a) mistaking dirty people for homeless people and b) Philadelphia. `Now I know why.
While the kids seemed well-trained in spotting and approaching the needy, they began to lose points when it came to actually communicating, let alone sustaining the difficult dialogues often demanded by the clinically insane. It was though the kids were caught off-guard by the interactive nature of the exchange. Michael Taussig would have had a fucking FIELD DAY with the whole ordeal. The best moment of all, however, came as two hearty youths approached the smiling preacher guy that can often be spotted heckling street performers outside of Faneuil Hall. He's one of my favorites, I might add-- he's lucid, non-offensive, and dresses better than most people at the Watertown Mall. It's clear that he's off his rocker, but in a benign way, and more importantly, an entertaining way. So he's just doing his thing, standing on a bench (a bench on which he could just as easily have been sitting... but I've never seen this guy not standing at least three feet off the ground, contributing to his preacher vibe), and appeared to be legitimately pleased with his lunch. But preacher guy doesn't let anyone off that easy. As the kids quickly realized they hadn't practiced saying anything beyond "Would you like a free lunch?" and started shuffling backwards in a bizarrely coordinated group turn-around, the recipient of their goodwill belted out, "You've given me LUNCH! And so I'm going to give you some TRUTH!" Now I'm riveted. I haven't done anything for the homeless (other than step over a dead one on my way out of the Hynes Convention Center stop the night before... it was among the most depressing things ever... the T officials put an orange cone next to his corpse), and I stand to benefit from second-hand truth, straight out of the preacher's mouth! Hooray! He winds up verbally for a bit, listing off the contents of his lunch: "I've got an apple. It looks mighty fine. And that sandwich, ooooh boy. Yall listen up. It's time for the truth. [he pulls out a bag of cheetos from his lunch-pack] You see this? See it? Now this is the truth, guys, listen closely. You see these? God made these. But. Man, man made the Tiger!" I can't possibly convey the rapture that was painted across his face as he scream-uttered "tiger." The look of pure joy and absolute certainty, akin to the look that that musician from the early 90s SNL band. Priceless.
Now I thought about what he said for a few seconds, and didn't really fret over it. A few days have passed, and I can no longer think of anything else. It's as if I've heard the truest words ever spoken, and it's my responsibility to report them to the world ( in which case a link from Annie's blog would help ). Annie's response was priceless: "It's as though his free-thinking and the obvious profundity of his being have neccessarily forced him to the margins of society (paraphrased... yeah)". And I have to agree. No one who has ever tasted Cheetos can deny that they are truly a gift from god. And no one who has ever watched a Cheetos advertisement can possibly believe that a benevolent spiritual being could ever get behind that wretched, addicted, and downright skanky Cheetah. Chester, i think his name was. A product of man, and purely so.

This post is brought to you live from the call center. Reach out and touch faith, people. I'm actually at the end of my FUCKING rope with this volunteer post. I'll rant more about this later. Enjoy the state of the union address you fuckers. I'll catch up on drinking later.

Heroin is so passe. Or at least I hope/suspect. I'll let you know on Sunday, theoretically.
For now I've just written a sentimental email to my youngest brother, and am listening to "The New," thinking about the shit I want to break. Hey, you're looking alright tonight.

# posted by Brian @ 12:46 AM 0 comments

I was just watching The Daily Show with special guest Sir Anthony Hopkins and it turns out that he had to stay in Wendover, Nevada for five weeks while filming The Fastest Indian. He described it as godforsaken, and I have to agree, having spent a night in West Wendover while hurtling across the country with my dear friend/enabler Dylan. Imagine, spending three hours driving across the salt flats of Utah, periodically finding beauty in the broken glass jutting out of the otherwise monotonous landscape, and then emerging into a shabby casino-driven economy surrounded by trailer parks where the Native Americans lived. I remember trying to call my friend Marc from the parking lot, avoiding the june bugs that were fucking falling from the sky. On my way back into the Motel Six, the Hopi security guard (who I suspect had been drinking even more than I had) admitted to me that some kids from the nearby trailer park had stolen all of the surveillance cameras from the hotel to sell them for drugs. I can't convey how utterly depressing that town was-- casinos that made Atlantic City look glamorous; slot machines in the gas stations; dusty children running around, looking like they ought to be selling Chic-lets or something. Anyway, I'm really amused thinking of Anthony Hopkins spending 35ish more days than I did there.