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July 28, 2008

The Dark Knight's Mole

When I told my (Jewish) friend Greg that we were going to see The Dark Knight, he said, "I hear it's a dismal commentary about the war on terrorism."

I thought, great - I love escapism! So I rounded up Rob and Brett and off we went to escape.

I haven't really wanted to see loud blockbuster movies since I turned 30 and became snobby, but I did want to see this one because the hype was saying, "It's the best movie ever made in the history of the entire world!" and I'm a sucker for HYPE.

We made it to the theater early enough to watch the previous showing's attendees walk out. The look on their faces resembled old people getting off a tilt-a-whirl. No one was smiling, not even the gays. They were stone-faced and quiet, like they had just seen Schindler's List or something. I became concerned, so I asked a couple people if it was any good and was met with a hesitant, "Ummmmm, yeah, it was...good." I assumed people were just blown away by Heath Ledger's riveting, sure-to-be-Oscar-nominated performance and feeling down because he is no longer with us.

So we took our seats and got ready for the puppet show.

I became less fixated on the plot and more on the mole Christian Bale has between his eyes. Surely his salary would allow for that to be removed, no? Oh, I suppose it's a defining characteristic of who Christian is, and removing it would be killing off part of his DNA and insulting his family gene pool. This is the same issue Enrique Iglesias and Sarah Jessica Parker have struggled with throughout their lives. I guarantee it will be gone in three years.

The movie was completely original and oh so very, very dark and disturbing and chaotic and dreary. I'm not sure what it was all about, but I think the general gist was that you can't trust anyone. Sounds like the writers have spent some time in the "gay community!"

I asked Brett if he liked it and he said, "Don't fucking talk to me. Life sucks." So I asked, "Do you want to get some sushi?" In between tears he whispered, "Okay, I'd like that."

We tried out a new sushi restaurant called Banana Leaves. They have that dancing banana on their web site. I love him. He's the anti-Dark Knight and just what we needed.

My (Jewish) friend Greg joined us for dinner, so the conversation drifted into the underlying themes of The Dark Knight, like how Greenland is melting and how, ironically, all of our monies and resources will be spent trying to salvage Arizona from running out of water, so, despite advances in technology, we will not be able to assist eradicating the increasing famine and disease in Africa and India, mainly because we continue to overpopulate the planet while depleting our natural resources, thus further fostering terrorism by igniting more of a have/have-nots mentality among millions, which will lead to more bloodshed and all of us having to live in a concentrated area the size of Texas because the rest of the U.S. will be uninhabitable, and how fortunate we are because we will likely be dead before it gets to that level, but how cool it would be to read our grandchildren's blogs detailing their plights during those years because they will surely be more interesting than the ones we read now.

I was like, "Maybe so, but was anyone else bothered by Christian Bale's mole?"

The sushi was delicious and relatively cheap, considering. Best to appreciate the little things before it's, y'know, too late.

Posted by durban bud at 10:19 AM | Comments (18)

July 23, 2008

Eh

What can I do for you?

Posted by durban bud at 9:55 AM | Comments (39)

July 16, 2008

High Art

Last weekend we attended the opening of an art exhibition that featured a couple creations from the mysteriously manic mind of Sean.

When I got his invite to the opening, I thought, ooooh cool -- an art gallery in Georgetown is a nice change of scenery. I can support Sean, absorb some local culture and schmooze with the city's erudite -- all at the same time.

Plus I hadn't been to an art gallery in quite some time, and was anxious to try out some new superlatives and metaphors I'd recently acquired from watching Paula Abdul in her element. My goal was to use this fresh vernacular in front of trendy Asian chicks and their thick-frame, non-prescription eyeglass-wearing boyfriends, so that they would befriend me, take me out for yogato, and, eventually, offer to drive me around town in their Smart Cars. It's the only way I'll be seen in one of those diminuative things in this city, since the gays are still salivating over the Mini-Cooper and refuse to downsize.

What I failed to notice in his invitation to the opening was what exactly the exhibition was going to, um, exhibit.

So we sauntered into the gallery, made a donation (we had to, people were watching us), poured ourselves some green tea and set out to critique the arts and describe the emotions a particular piece evoked from deep within our inner sanctum.

The first art display we happened upon was a woman -- a real, live woman, standing completely naked, as someone applied silver paint to her arms. Wow, wasn't expecting that. Oh look, not everyone trims their hedges, either. Lovely.

I was too shy to approach the artist and inquire about the intended meaning -- mainly cuz I didn't know where to focus my eyes without offending. But I'm guessing it was a biting satirical commentary about the plummeting use of the Susan B. Anthony coin, and the parallels it shares with the declining sales of Hustler magazine or something.

Most of the displayed artwork included price cards next to each item. Strangely, this amazing conversation piece had no price card. I guess it's priceless? It would have been a hoot to buy this piece and hang it on the wall over my fireplace. She'd be all, "Ahhhhh -- get me down now!" And I'd be all, "Shut up, you're art. Art doesn't whine."

As we browsed the other artists' displays, we began to sense the theme of the exhibition.

"Hey Sean, is Hooters the curator for this exhibition?"

Thankfully Sean's display included some beefcake -- subtle sketches of naked, muscular dudes. Sean, stop drawing me at the gym! But leave it to him to bring diversity to the art joint.

I can appreciate the beauty of the naked body. I have appreciated it many, many, oh so many times over the years, courtesy of Raging Stallion Studios, the locker room at Results, and the dude I share a bed with. I can also appreciate the beauty of the female figure, so often displayed in the famous masterpieces of yesteryear, and, more recently, in slasher films. As long as some pecs and rosebuds are featured alongside the ample bosoms and furry coin slots, I am quite warm with appreciation.

I can enjoy art in all its many forms, even if I don't always get it. I'm in awe of the intricate worlds an artist releases onto an initial slab of nothing. And anyone willing to share their mind's eye in a public forum for all to judge and dissect deserves massive respect and a fanny pat.

Rob is an amazing doodler. He can sit down for a couple hours and knock out an illustration of huge, ornate villages on mountains, ripe with intense detail. He'll go back a couple days later and add to it. He also has a unique fascination with maps and routinely draws his own geographies on paper. Where does that come from? More importantly, why aren't we selling these sketches so we can actually purchase bread and milk during this turbulent economy?

I've tried to tap into my inner artist, but sadly he's taken an Ambien.

One of the electives I took in college was an art course -- mainly because I knew I would get the opportunity to draw live nude models.

When forced, I can draw a decent interpretation of a still setting based on perspective (the view out of a window, a building, a clean rosebud, and, of course, a bowl of fruit -- btw, I think it's time to retire the overdone bowl of fruit renderings; it's so Middle Ages -- think outside the kitchen). But I suck at drawing people. I'm envious of anyone who can do it. I think that much skill and attention to detail is part of one's DNA -- like autism, vocal prowess, and the gum-snapping tick. Some of us are born with it; most are not.

The worst part of my art course was having to critique someone's artwork in front of the class. I learned humility then. This is when future art gallerists fine-tune their superlatives and convey their emotions with ease. One girl said, "This piece really speaks to me. It's almost like it's alive." Then some joker would pound on his desk to simulate a heartbeat. So rude. I swear it wasn't me.

The final project for the course was to use published words and draw a picture that defines the theme. I chose the lyrics to "Everything's Zen" by Bush. I drew the head of Butthead on top of a donkey. Yes, I am deep. I thought it looked good! If I can locate it underneath all the rubble in my closet, I'll scan it and post it here.

I received a B for the course and an admonishment from my professor for being "very strange."

Art is subjective, no?

Posted by durban bud at 12:31 PM | Comments (13)

July 11, 2008

Reversal of Fortune

Recently near DC, a grandmother made dinner for her family, which included a stew sprinkled with her own home-grown mint herbs, unknowingly laced with some jimson weed, causing six of her relatives to land in the hospital.

Old people should not be allowed to grow their own herbs.

It's not just awful that they got sick, hallucinated and spoke in tongues; it's also that the news media was right on the scene to document the slurring, confused people, as they were carried away, still affixed to their dinner chairs, while drooling and staring bug-eyed into the camera.

Thanks for the invite, grandma!

This is why I try to avoid dinner parties. That, and the Colbie Caillat music playing in the background.

As unfortunate as this whole ordeal was for those involved, how many of us haven't fantasized about a scenario like this for Thanksgiving? I mean, c'mon -- what better way to make for a memorable evening than by dowsing the stuffing with some jimson weed (at lower doses, of course -- grandma seemed to go a bit overboard with the amount she alledgedly added to the stew, which upgraded everyone's condition to critical).

The first guy I dated in DC slipped some acid into my drink at a party. Such a kidder, he was. I noticed something was up when I took a swig and tasted a piece of paper in my mouth. Hmmm...what's this? About an hour later the wooden patio fence surrounding the outdoor party was changing colors. Large amounts of bright colors were streaming down continuously, like a scene from My Little Pony. Then, when I had to take a piss, small snakes covered in black oil were slithering down the toilet bowl into the drain.

We stopped dating after that.

There was also the time I attended a "bear party" in Rehoboth a few years ago that served a blue punch spiked with something that caused me to end up naked and whore-like in a hot tub with a bunch of hairy dudes.

Then again, I made some friends!

But, I think it's safe to say, old people and "bears" cannot be trusted when serving items to be digested.

Homer and Brett are coming for a visit in a couple weeks. I shall make them dinner one night! My camera takes awesome videos.

Posted by durban bud at 11:03 AM | Comments (13)

July 8, 2008

Leaving New York Part 1

Never easy.

The first person I came out to was my high school friend Pam. Actually, that's not true -- I came out to the guy who was sucking my dick, but I think he already kinda knew.

I secretly started dating that cocksucker. When we started having problems -- as all first-time gay relationships do within the first month, cuz we never had the luxury of really dating anyone in high school -- I had no one to talk to about it. So I called Pam.

She and I would always drive to our spot in a parking lot near Burger King. We would get some coffee (with cream and sweet n' low) and just sit for hours listening to music, talking and insulting each other. We were so fucking cool.

Anyway, I brought her there that day to come clean.

Y'know how most people say they already had a suspicion that you were gay? Not Pam. Of course I never used the word gay, so it took about an hour for her to understand. I kept saying, something happened between me and this guy, and she's like, "OMG -- are you guys taking drugs?" And I was all, "Hell no! I'm waiting until my late twenties to begin my rock bottom descent." Then she thought I was having some torrid affair with a married woman or something. Eventually I had to use my fingers to simulate two dicks rubbing together, which only led to her asking, "OMG -- are you taking up fencing and are embarrassed about it?"

When it finally sunk in, she was more than happy to experience this forbidden world with me. She took me to my first gay club, Carpe Diem, in Rochester, NY back in '92. It has since closed but remains one of the best clubs I've ever been to. I was a wallflower, but anyone who resembled Garth Brooks (shut up! he was cute!) was approached by her and led over to me. She was my pimp daddy. Sadly, I wasn't a slut then, so the Garths were completely bored with me. I was all, "I just want to talk and get to know you." Such a naive boy, I was.

This is what once was Carpe Diem. The picture is deceiving. The entire place was huge. I think it's a burger joint or something now:

This was the view on the side deck of Carpe Diem. There were several rooms in the club for every type of mood or fetish. I suppose this one was considered "the escape":

Obviously I had ended things with the guy who led to my coming out. We remained friends, even though he was a douchebag. He eventually introduced me to his hometown of Washington DC. I loved it, so I started looking into colleges I could transfer to. The main reason, though, was so I could be my big gay self without anyone knowing my bizness. And the gay world in DC was way bigger than Rochester's. Kid in a candy store, I guess.

I still see that douchebag occasionally. He's still a douchebag. I can say that to his face with no problem. He would agree. But if it weren't for that douchebag, I wouldn't be here today. Douchebags are put into your life for the purpose of shaking things up. Friends and family keep you grounded, but douchebags challenge you and steer you into waters that may seem uncomfortable at first. Have you hugged and thanked a douchebag today? You should.

Pam, on the other hand, remains one of my closest friends. Every gay boy has a Pam in his life -- or at least, he should.

Sometimes we forget that we're not 15 anymore. Ah, well.

Posted by durban bud at 11:52 AM | Comments (19)

July 1, 2008

The Elegance of Dimitri

A scruffy friend tipped me off to a lunatic named Dimitri. The sound file documents a couple voicemail messages left by him to some poor woman who made the mistake of giving him her business card.

At first I didn't get the big deal over his messages; he just sounded like the typical guy I've chatted with from Los Angeles. But as I listened more closely, I began to hear the voice of a future serial killer. Creeeeeepy.

We've all met guys like this before, haven't we?

UPDATE: The guy has been identified! "Dimitri, whose real name is James Sears, is a disgraced doctor who was charged, then later acquitted, of sex assaults on several female patients in the early 1990s." Now he sells a manual on how to seduce women. He has a web site too. You Canadians are so lucky to have such an expert!

Next time I'm at Nellies, I'm totally gonna use "you're extremely elegant" and "I couldn't take my eyes off of you" on the gurls to see what happens. Stay tuned!

Posted by durban bud at 8:08 PM | Comments (11)