Big Weekend, redux
Big weekend was big. And super fun!
Friday I became completely lost trying to find Club Kali. But I eventually got there, and it defies description. Everyone there was simply having such a great time, and of course the music was absolutely fantastic. There were drag queens in saris. I got felt up, unbidden, by a Sikh.
Saturday I met up with this American, R—, before the Eurovision thing, and it was one of those moments where, fifteen minutes into the conversation, it was clear we were going to be very good friends. As a commentator of my last post pointed out cryptically, his situation in London seems to bear a superficial relationship to a regrettable episode in my own life, but you may set your mind at ease, since in fact he has is quite a different beast. I've known a few of these boys in my life, enough to form a very distinct species: the gay boy who shacked up very early. He is 23, and has been living with his boyfriend for more than four years. It's interesting, because he has, in fact, missed out on certain key elements of the "shared gay experience" (a contentious concept, I know, but a real thing nonetheless). At the same time his charmingly domestic life is almost unimaginably distant from how I lived at 23, in a way that I'm curious about. (And, as certain readers know very, very well, my current relationship to the dream of domesticity is... conflicted.)
In any case, he's great. We shall spend more time after ¡mi viaje a Madrid!
Eurovision was a complete wash, because every fucking gay bar in Soho was charging an exorbitant cover for the privilege of watching TV in their establishment. We went from bar to bar, with no luck, and so we just started drinking, and set off for Bethnal Green earlier than planned.
Unskinny Bop was so fun. I tried, and failed, to bed a bear cub. I slept on R—'s couch (thankfully sparing me from night bus hell). Sunday morning, R— and I sat in a Hackney cafe (pronounced "kaff"), ate the traditional English fry-up, read the paper, took the bus to Oxford Street, walked through shops, and saw Star Wars. After the movie, I launched into a frankly embarrassingly enthusiastic attempt to explain to R— how the structure of the movies relates to the Ring cycle. (Summary: it would be better if Return of the Jedi ended with the apocalypse.)
Coming soon: Now that Van Twee has posted a revolting cautionary tale about the hermeneutic dangers of gay essentialism, AND a lively debate was flickering on related questions chez Smearcase, AND I finally got around to reading that awful, horrible, wretched, no-good, and simply fallacious New Yorker article about how all the fags are diseased and miserable these days... I sense a rant coming on.
Friday I became completely lost trying to find Club Kali. But I eventually got there, and it defies description. Everyone there was simply having such a great time, and of course the music was absolutely fantastic. There were drag queens in saris. I got felt up, unbidden, by a Sikh.
Saturday I met up with this American, R—, before the Eurovision thing, and it was one of those moments where, fifteen minutes into the conversation, it was clear we were going to be very good friends. As a commentator of my last post pointed out cryptically, his situation in London seems to bear a superficial relationship to a regrettable episode in my own life, but you may set your mind at ease, since in fact he has is quite a different beast. I've known a few of these boys in my life, enough to form a very distinct species: the gay boy who shacked up very early. He is 23, and has been living with his boyfriend for more than four years. It's interesting, because he has, in fact, missed out on certain key elements of the "shared gay experience" (a contentious concept, I know, but a real thing nonetheless). At the same time his charmingly domestic life is almost unimaginably distant from how I lived at 23, in a way that I'm curious about. (And, as certain readers know very, very well, my current relationship to the dream of domesticity is... conflicted.)
In any case, he's great. We shall spend more time after ¡mi viaje a Madrid!
Eurovision was a complete wash, because every fucking gay bar in Soho was charging an exorbitant cover for the privilege of watching TV in their establishment. We went from bar to bar, with no luck, and so we just started drinking, and set off for Bethnal Green earlier than planned.
Unskinny Bop was so fun. I tried, and failed, to bed a bear cub. I slept on R—'s couch (thankfully sparing me from night bus hell). Sunday morning, R— and I sat in a Hackney cafe (pronounced "kaff"), ate the traditional English fry-up, read the paper, took the bus to Oxford Street, walked through shops, and saw Star Wars. After the movie, I launched into a frankly embarrassingly enthusiastic attempt to explain to R— how the structure of the movies relates to the Ring cycle. (Summary: it would be better if Return of the Jedi ended with the apocalypse.)
Coming soon: Now that Van Twee has posted a revolting cautionary tale about the hermeneutic dangers of gay essentialism, AND a lively debate was flickering on related questions chez Smearcase, AND I finally got around to reading that awful, horrible, wretched, no-good, and simply fallacious New Yorker article about how all the fags are diseased and miserable these days... I sense a rant coming on.
posted by Grrg at 1:46 PM
6 Comments:
Haha! I just read that article on the plane back from Chicago this weekend and nearly laughed my head off when I realized that I totally made out with the former CDC epidemiologist they were interviewing. Of course he wanted to take me back to his hotel and fuck me but I was being stupid and moral that day.
Oh my bassoon-buddy! You are truly a shining example to us all!
Bassoon buddy. Doesn't that sound kind of lame? Wouldn't it have been funny if Tom Hanks and Peter Scolari had actually been in a sit com called Bassoon Buddies? We could have watched episode after episode of them making reeds or practicing the Mozart concerto or seeing how fast either of them could play Beethoven Four. Oh the fun they would have had!
"(Summary: it would be better if Return of the Jedi ended with the apocalypse.)"
Or if Emma Thompson's mother had directed all six movies and Return of the Jedi ended with an empty movie lot. If I'm mentally working this all out right, which I'm probably not since I gave up in disgust after episode 1, it might also involve Natalie Portman riding her steed to a fiery death or at least driving her x-wing fighter into a big fiery planet or something.
G
Hey? Are you still alive? You didn't pull a DK and go off to some Milbury village with your little tape recorder and get turned into a children of the stones did you?
If so then "Happy Day!"
If not then do write something soon. I've been afraid to go near Craigslist for a week now for fear of catching PNP.
Dude I´m in Spain. I saw the Crown Princess Leticia. Update as soon as I get home... -gb
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