Weekend Like Whitman: I Contain Multitudes!
I started off the weekend in a purple shirt that was way too tight, it also had pink lettering, lest anyone wonder what my intentions were for the evening. Chop and I dragged our newly-on-the-market-again friend CS to the Mansion where we drank. Lots. Here’s the thing, I feel like it’s all the shirt’s fault that I got so drunk. I was very self-conscious in it with its being so tight and purply, and I think that it might have actually constricted the flow of blood to my brain. Plus, when a drink special ends at 12, you can bet your summer Havaianas that I will be getting in as much as I can under the wire. Several lapses in judgment later, I was on a dancefloor. Hours after that I was waking up to help my friend move.
JC and his boytoy AD completed their mass exodus from Norristown to center city Philtown this Saturday morning. AD got a bunch of his soccer buddies to help, while I alone represented the JC contingent. And represent it well I did! I showed up drunk, natch. I mean, it was 9:00 in the morning, what did they expect? The age old question of how many homosexuals it takes to move a large screen tv was finally – finally!- answered. (Eight, at last count). Ok, one straight guy helped, whatever. I got a free lunch out of it. They actually took bets on whether I would arrive to help or not, as their opinion of my reliability is obviously unfairly skewed. I will always show up, I just might be sweating vodka as I drag your condom drawer up the stairs, chipping of a bit more wood with every corner I round. Take that, bitches!
Then it was off to home for the Fathers’ Day celebration. My stepmother seriously threw down around my Dad’s birthday last month because none of us came home for it. Just guilted us to the punch by making reservations at a restaurant so that we had to come home. Well played. Mind you, no one in my family would even think of visiting me on my birthday if it didn’t practically fall on Thanksgiving every year. Bitterness aside, we met at my Dad’s favorite Italian restaurant where I ate everyone’s food and talked non-stop during the meal, much to the surprise of no one. I was shocked at how nice my Dad and Stepmother acted towards the obviously gay waiter. By that, I mean they did not ask him to reconsider his sexuality for the sake of image. At least, I didn’t see this happen. Their sage advice may have been included with the tip. Dinner was actually pleasant and the hyper-criticism was kept to a minimum. Which means that all ye sinners should repent, as the apocalypse is clearly on its way.
After a morning spent in a cemetery with Dad’s side of the family (those crazy Orthodox death-honoring holidays appear out of nowhere every year, I swear!), I drove with the fury of a Viking to arrive back in time to eat and go to the Modest Mouse concert, compliments of KD. He just “wasn’t feeling it” whilst we were there despite his strong emotional connection to the band, so we left sometime in the middle of the Modest Mouse set. I was fine with that; there were more Frat-holes and Sororstitutes than you can shake a paddle at. (By the way, the Camper Van Beethoven opening set was better than I expected.) We trekked back to the hood to grab some drinks before bed, because it’s not like either of us had to get up and work the next morning. While there, I met a bunch of his friends who are all affiliated with the arts in Philadelphia in some way, even if it just be a hobby while they wait tables.
Here’s my problem with the situation. I know lawyers get a bad rap, whatever. Yes, there are many super-creative lawyer jokes. None of them is really offensive to me. I assure you, they're a hoot. And yes, I know a bunch of lawyers and law students who either are or are on their way to being major, royal pricks. That there is a big overlap in the prick-lawyer Venn diagram is not a statistic I would dare to dispute. But twice last night when talking to people, I listened patiently to what they did with their lives. I genuinely absorbed what they told of their dreams, future plans, current obsessions, etc. Then they asked me what I did. I answered honestly. Without fail, they either stopped talking to me or steered the conversation in another direction quickly. I almost got whiplash (for which I would have sued them, granted). One of them looked down at the ground as if I told him I just killed a man in the bathroom (which I did not). Law can be a noble profession, and I expected more open-mindedness from members of the artistic community. I am so oppressed everywhere I go!
Regardless, the night was fun. I was exhausted from the weekend. And I was pissed to be woken up by a mosquito with some sort of vendetta at 5:00am. I am sure its name was Karma or something. I got up and killed it, wiped it off my hands and stumbled back into bed, knowing I would wake up in 2 hours beginning the week as a killer. Sweet.
New York Times, bastion of journalistic integrity and truth, claims that sometimes people can tell when people are gay. Apparently it’s this new thing called gaydar. But then they go one step further to ask…what happens when gaydar doesn’t work?! Click here for the ugly details, and check out the chart, so that you too can make stereotyping the farier 10% of the gender that much easier. By the way, here’s a hint: the guy felating others in the bathrooms of gay bars is probably straight, married and has 2 kids.
Somehow I am not the nation’s hottest bachelor blogger. I cry foul. If anyone is better in print than in person, it is I.
Oh, and you who dislocated your finger? I have no idea who you are. And I can’t even begin to understand what you meant by that last comment. Holla!