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Gold, Grey, Blue (Dated for the day on which it was sketched-out, not the day on which it was posted.) Passing through the office kitchen today, I saw a very hot advert for Kenneth Cole, comprised of a sultry couple (I suppose I should specify male & female, and frankly, I'd have done either of them quite happily) and the super-imposed block text, "WEAR ME OUT." How many levels of meaning? And why yes, thank you, I'd love to. Having a Gold Membership at Diaryland has been rather enlightening, I must say. I created a banner and set it to run for 500 viewings, and they all expired within a single day. Out of those 500 viewings, six clicks. Those are not good odds, I must say, and my last entry is sure not to win me any fans, as even I didn't find it interesting. I think I'll hold off running another banner until I feel I've posted something engaging, rather than dry chronological documentation and discombobulated thoughts. I have noticed that the rather porno-raffia entry from 25 March, though seems to have gotten more page hits than any of my pages other than the general "most recent" one, which just goes to show that sex sells, kiddies. Maybe I really should document more of my exploits, though I have to say, I didn't find reading about that one particularly erotic; I didn't go into sensations, really, just described the nuts & bolts (as it were) of the encounter, but apparently, it got some people hot and bothered. Well, good for them. The banner thing is also a little daunting because it makes me feel as though I have to "perform," and that is decidedly not what this space is for. I think I like better the concept of readers wandering in, maybe finding something that moves them, and sitting down and staying for a spell, reading a bit of the back-story (though it does seem that few have done so; the oldest pages have had very few hits indeed since the stats counter was installed), then walking back out into the bright sunlight and going, "Hunch. Maybe I'll go back there again sometime for a nightcap." It's odd that I'm commenting on these things at all, anyway, as I typically try to avoid making any reference to the possibility that someone else is reading this, calling anybody out specifically and sending him or her a personal message in what should otherwise be a rather private forum. When Lars, my ex, found out I had this thing, he was a little perturbed, as he found it weird and didn't want to be mentioned in it (I made a point of changing his name and checking to see just how many times I'd mentioned him and in what light); he simply didn't understand why I couldn't just keep a paper diary, like any normal person. Welcome do the Digital Age, kiddo. Ultimately, I am a strange amalgam of exhibitionist and voyeur. I like to be watched when I don't know that I'm being watched or who is watching. That way I can feel natural and go on about my usual business without feeling the need to perform, but every now and then, I become a little bit aware that I might just be doing something a little dangerous; it's sort-of like doing the dishes naked and not thinking about the fact that the neighbors across the street might see and forgetting to close the blinds, then when you're done and considering maybe putting on a bathrobe, glancing out the window to discover that their lights are on. I do wonder, though, how some people end up being listed as favorites by so many people. I guess some have a good number of real-life friends who keep online diaries, and perhaps others have been writing for a very long time and saying rather inspiring, or at least beguiling things. As for me, I think my writing is probably something of an acquired taste, what with the often-confusing sentence structures and the acid-tongued tirades alternating with occasional bursts of creativity, frequent plunges into analysis and regular attempts at recording personal history. Ultimately, I suppose I just have no patience. My confidence, however, was given a nice shot in the arm last night when I revisited my old habit of going to BAR on Tuesday nights with my friends. It was prior to the new year the last time I did that, and I'd forgotten how really much fun it could be. At any rate, I managed to get there early enough to enjoy a couple of the "coin cocktails" (thus nearly recouping the silly $5 cover charge imposed on Tuesday nights) from the back bar, where quite frankly, I could work faster as a bartender blindfolded and with one arm tied behind my back, and I can assure you my drinks would taste better (the up-side is that the incompetent bartenders do tend to at least make the drinks pretty strong); I did manage to get quite a nice little buzz going on by the end of the night (I prepared myself for the evening by having a vodka martini with my nearly-nonexistent dinner). Andrew and Mario and Marcus and Doug were there, as was a charming young choral conductor I'd not previously met called Chris, so I sat and bantered with them for a bit before deciding to wander off and attend to other social obligations, like chatting with super-hot Patrick, who was eyeing a young man playing pool. Pool Player boy was friends with a cute boy (We'll call him Curt) who was alternating conversations between Patrick and me and his friend, though, and apparently, Patrick and Curt had gone on a date, and Patrick had failed to follow-up properly, so he was worried that Curt was badmouthing him to PoolPlayer. So apparently, Patrick's fears are unfounded, as Curt really very much likes him, but unfortunately, Patrick is also not interested in Curt, so they're not going to have the sort of conversation to bring about responsible and mature closure. WHY can't gayboys have a little more guts, huh?! Anyway, the fun aspect was that I got to chat with Curt, whom I'd seen online and taken for a complete ass (and yes, of course, I told him this), and discover that he's really a pretty cool kid. Hopefully, our paths will cross again soon. Anyway, towards the end of the night, Patrick was leaving, so Curt offered him a ride home, and off they went. I didn't know the whole story at the time, so I figured there was gonna be more than one ride going on, but apparently not. Oh, well; sorry, guys. Communicate clearly and honestly, and you won't have these problems, I figure. So anyway, as BAR was beginning to trickle out and my friends were leaving, I pointed my compass towards home (about three blocks straight down one street; even blitzed, I can get there on foot, luckily, as I've had to on a few occasions) and started strolling in that direction. About a block down, I become dimly aware that someone's trying to get my attention from behind me, so I turn and glance, thinking it's my imagination and just some hoodlum shouting, and I keep walking. The second time, though, I distinctly heard my name through the mildly alcoholised haze, so I turned to look more closely, and recognised Joey, bleached-blond and not so emaciated as he used to be and definitely lookin' fine standing on the sidewalk waiting for me to notice him. I immediately turned and ran and gave him a hug, which had I thought about it, would've been one of those bearish pick-you-up-and-swing-you-around deals which I used to reserve for certain friends. Joey and I met at a party I threw, to which he was brought with a couple of his friends by an acquaintance of mine who'd been invited. It was one of those evenings intended to be quiet and intimate and characterised by the consumption of large quantities of alcohol, but as it happened, it was not so quiet or intimate, as I didn't know the people who showed up as well as I knew the people I was actually expecting, and we were all already stoned, so we drank and laughed and ate a lot of Doritos. It happens that he was born on the same day as I was, which is a pretty rare thing. We're a little more than twelve hours apart (he's older, thank you), but we have the same birthday, and both of us being Scorps, the significance of that fact gets elevated a bit. I don't think there's any danger of us getting involved, but it's always an amusing thought. There are occasions in my life when I believe that all will be perfectly normal, and then, I take a strange step, and I find myself transported into a surreal parallel world of whose existence I was previously unaware. The party on the Sunday afternoon before St. Patrick's Day was an example of this. The result of following Joey into Funktion was much the same. I'd never set foot in the place before, but apparently, Joey was there with his brother (straight, but equally adorable) having a few drinks, and at some point rather late in the course of the evening, the entertainment had arrived. No one realised they were the entertainment because they looked so very unassuming. It was closing time, but the party seemed to have just begun when I stepped through the door to hear (and see) this short little white boy wearing glasses spitting rhymes of whose rhythm Busta and Mystikal would be proud. They'd be amazed, too, 'cause I swear the little fucker never seemed to come up for air. I have no clue who the kid was (He had a DJ scratching with him who appeared to be an equally unlikely character), but he was phenomenal. The crowd was a bunch of young prep-frat-skater straight kids, mostly boys, all of whom were digging this scene enormously. I stood and watched open-mouthed, I'm not sure for how long, becoming conscious only later that I'd begun unconsciously bobbing my head. I'm overwhelmed with love for the unexpected beauty of the world into which I sometimes serendipitously stumble. When Joey and his brother said they were leaving, I managed to gather my senses back together and make for the door and continued my stroll back home, letting my voice ring off the darkened empty buildings I passed wailing "Walking after Midnight" just for good measure. My blood is blue. r
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