August 7, 2000August 7, 2000What a tiring week-end. The goal was to accomplish as much as possible. The actual outcome was less than hoped for, which has been the disappointing trend this year.
Friday, August 4, I went to the Psychedelic Furs/Go-Gos/B-52’s concert at the Verizon Ampitheater (neé Irvine Meadows Ampitheater). Oliver and a friend (Alton Geoscience now, TRC) Marie Cardona were with me. The story actually begins in the adventure prior to the actual concert. In classic form, I held off purchasing tickets thinking I could at the last minute still buy seats in the Loge area over the phone or the internet. My venture into the latter on Thursday night was unsuccessful with the Ticketmaster website not allowing me to proceed in even looking for the said seats. So Friday morning, I desperately was on the phone trying to access the order-by-phone. After initially only getting a busy signal, I was able to finally get through only to be done in with having not enough quarters while on hold. A whole dollar was wasted in waiting for a customer service rep.
I gave up on the phone system, although I did use my old TRC Alton phone calling card number which surprisingly is still active. That could open up a can of worms. I had resolved to not use the card ever again, but that may be a false hope. Every half hour I tried to no avail to get access to get through on the Ticketmaster order line. I became frantic and very frustrated. Finally, at the suggestion of my co-worker, Alex Silva, I went ahead and located a Tower Records in Monterey Park (only 10 minutes away from work!) and successfully purchased the 3 tickets.
The concert however was well worth it. After picking up my brother and Marie, we got in just in time to catch the Psychedelic Furs who were already a few songs into their set. They sounded just as good as they do on the radio. The best was yet to come, with the Go-Go’s. They all looked great, with Belinda Carlysle immediately going barefoot. The sun had just gone down and the stage lights really made the mood in many of their songs, including “Contact” which I’d never actually heard before, and their greatest, like “Our Lips Are Sealed,” and “We Got the Beat.” Most notable was Jane Weidlin the elven princess who she-bopped around the stage most of the set. Marie and I danced most of the time as Oliver intermittently sat and then gigued and then sat around again.
At intermission I went down to buy my souvenir T-shirt. Intent on getting a shirt with the B’s visage immortalized on fabric like the shroud of Turin, I was disappointed to find only logo-lized shirts. I settled for the blue shirt with the paneled globe that had their faces on it to create the semblance of the continents (a la the Debbie video). We met this wonderful woman of thirty-something age who wondered how we could possibly know the bands since we looked so young. She promised to touch the blonde (Cindy Wilson) for me since she was closer to the stage.
The B-52’s started their set with “Is That You Mo-Dean?” – a very rock-inspired version that was faster and heavier than the album version. They went into “Roam” and then “Dance This Mess Around” which was probably my favorite of the night since it was one of their originals that features Cindy crooning at the opening of the song, but unravels into a dance-party anthem. “Does that not make you feel all better?” Kate asked, and of course it did. The 1990 tour band was back together and I noticed that the songs seemed faster and somehow back to how I had expected them than when I had seen them perform in 1998 at the same venue with another band.
Highlights included when the Go-Go’s returned Fred Schneider’s favor by becoming the B-52’s go-go girls in one song (“Private Idaho” I think). Of course they closed with “Love Shack” but returned for a double encore starting with Planet Claire featuring amonst other things, Kate as “Claire” walking upright across the stage then back and Fred on his “bleep” maker. They closed with “Rock Lobster”.
Saturday began horribly with me first waking late for my Dental appointment. I rushed to Los Angeles, two hours late. After waiting for what seemed like an hour, I gave up and simply left. After grabbing tacos from Chanos, I went home to help mom clean which exhausted me further enough to warrant a one and a half-hour nap.
Mom, Dad and I watched “Hollow Man” and had dinner at “Onami.” Then I fearfully went to Albert’s house at night to check up on Ginger who though initially was happy to see me, ended up barking at me – so I left. His house is too creepy when it’s empty and when it’s dark. I imagined Michael Myers in the bushes as I watered the back yard. I rushed to my apartment to change and went out with Mike and Jose.
It was a different kind of a night than I’m used to. On the drive to the party I mentioned to Jose where Chad Davis worked, at which he regrettably informed me that the rumor was he is HIV positive. Imagine my internal anguish and disgrace. However, it doesn’t seem too off-the-wall and could explain why he has ceremoniously “missed” a few of our “dates.” We went to a party in Upland, but not before stopping at the grocery to buy alcohol. I finished the four Jack Daniels early in the evening, which probably did me in. I saw Charles Holling, my infamous fling that probably cost me ever having Shawn’s trust again. We were polite and I was happy to see that his boyfriend was not impressive at all (nor was Charles for that matter). I was so glad that I looked as good as I did. Of course I think I always do when I go out.
I went into this party with a reserved attitude that went to hell in no time. The total score card showed one scam and one scam opportunity. My scam was with Chad, the skinny white boy/mexican with beautiful eyes. In line to the restroom, I followed him in and while he pissed, I asked him what cologne he would like from the selection on the countertop. He chose one which I sprayed on his back and neck. He turned around and I let him have it. He had nice soft, pliable lips that felt good. Back outside we returned to friends but intermittently snatched a little more tongue in the dark. He ended up working other guys so I retrieved the business card I gave him knowing it was just a scam, not dating material. BTW he began to get funny, at first telling me lived in Diamond Bar, but then changing his story saying he and his friend were from San Diego.
The second guy I talked to I don’t even recall his name, but I knew he had been checking me out all night. Wanting to keep the ball rolling, I struck up a conversation with him, but grew bored and spent the rest of the night with Mike and Jose and Lorena. Jose and Lorena were asleep on the couch. 50 cent tacos followed. Overall, cute guys, free alcohol, no commitments, although more ghetto than I’ve gotten in years.
Sunday was spent recovering from a bad hang over. In the afternoon, I watched Halloween 6 with Oliver and then studied (Wow! Good job!) for a couple hours. I had a short contrived and a little pathetic, call with Chad. I visited a mellower Ginger before dark and rushed to my apartment to again rush to Jose’s summer hangout to meet Mike to go to Latin Pride.
Again, it is noted that we drank before going out (I’m SO not used to drinking before heading out anymore). Mike’s concoction was our drink of choice. Drinking in the car!!! Oh well, I got over it. The festival seemed empty everywhere except for near the port-a-potties where at one point Jose and I waited for half an hour to relieve our bladders, which resulted in Mike getting lost and accosted by some men while on his own. It was old-folks week, seeing many of the 1997 group, including Joe, John, David (he’s not interested anymore), queenie Ray, and Luis. Romeo was there with Shane in tow. I got a momento for Albert and discovered that the Village screens Outfest films throughout the year. Overall, it took too long to get food, I realized why I’m not involved with that 1997 crowd anymore and the scorecard showed only one possible scam who turned out to be a familiar (younger) face whose name I forgot almost immediately after he told me it. He looked like Donny Osmond.
We went to Chico afterward where the Energizer Bunny, Mike, was still up and running. It sufficed for me to have a drink, watch the T.V., which I became enamored with because of the “Blade” and “Starship Troopers” fight scenes, and being quiet. Again, we had mini tacos afterward.
Returning home just past twelve, my message machine showed more messages. Albert sounded justifiably irritated at not getting a hold of me all week long, but left his flight information for tomorrow. Feeling guilty, but too tired to really do anything about it, I’ve elected to call him later today.
August 8, 2000Only highlight of yesterday was that La Mas LLC had called me back (for the third time) looking to hire me to be a Promotional Talent Model. I think that sounds pretty good. In a very cheesy sort of way, I mean it sounds like, “I’m a struggling talent in L.A. just trying to get my big break so this is only a temporary thing, O.K.? I’m an actor, goddammit!” I expect to be promoting alcohol at clubs, that’s all. Oh well, at $25 an hour, two hour minimum a shift, it’ll hopefully help me pay some more debts, which I have plenty of. Besides, maybe I’ll meet a few honies. Honies? Gee, that’s a flashback to Charles Holling. Training is tomorrow.
Today I pick up Albert – YAY! Even though the time went by quickly, I still miss my sister.
August 10, 2000Yesterday was my first meeting with La Mas Maximum Agency of Services, LLC. The name alone is very ambiguous. “Services” as in “services rendered”? This has got to be the euphemism of euphemisms. At any rate it turns out that the agency bills itself as a promotional/model agency. Now that is very tongue-in-cheek at least in my case. I’m not ugly, but I hardly would consider myself a “model”. Besides as usual, I think I’m the runt of the litter, but Whooooooooooooooooo CARES! If they pay me, I’ll see.
I couldn’t help giggling to myself at how far-out of my league I was. This is me, sitting in a room full of what appear to be would be “break-outs” who see this as a career opportunity. And here I am this short Asian guy walking in cluelessly signing onto this “freelance modelling” job. At any rate, I’m ready to go, and besides it’s a mating opportunity. There were a few cute guys, but again, I’m out of my league.
August 18, 2000At the dawn of a new week-end, a re-cap of the prior week-end’s activities is in order.
Last Friday, on my monthly visit to Irvine to have lunch with my friends Roxanne and Cheri, we decided to go to Chuck-E-Cheese. The event was not just my visit, but also a goodbye to one of the geologists, Chris Callegari, a fine hunk of Italian meat.
Unfortunately, bosses were in attendance and none other than the nefarious, diabolically, sinister and fake, let’s not forget fake, Stan Steinbach. Pleasantries were duly offered, and thankfully that was the end of our interaction. A good time was had catching up with my dear friends I abandoned last June for the Los Angeles life.
The voice-mail I’d received in Irvine during lunch turned out to be from La Mas Maximum Agency of Services. A sort of misnomer, since it actually is a promotions outfit, although I do like calling myself a model (SHE started it, not me) and tentatively making plans with friends, “unless I’m booked for any promotions.” I happily accepted, but was nervous as to what was to happen.
The happy go-lucky man I am, I put on my game face and prepared for the Saturday night in Long Beach. Four bars, for hours. It almost seemed like a challenge – not even Albert and me had done four in four. But I thought it a fun challenge. But first, Friday.
I had sex. It was fun.
Saturday I spent agonizing over if I’d flounder in the evening, but thanks to caffeine (a large Big Gulp Mountain Dew) and my trusty high energy vitamin pack, I was “ret ta go.” I left early and was in Long Beach by 8:10 pm and decided to do a reconnaissance of the main street. I was unabashedly whistled at and cat-called (“Ola, Papi chulito”) by a group of thirty-somethings coming out of a bar and the coffee-goers on a patio were no different. I was very unaccustomed to working it without my Puerto Rican bombshell who could distract without being tacky. But I successfully peeled their stares from myself to focus on the task at hand.
The first bar was the Falcon, a very small place that probably saw its heyday in the 1970s. A half dozen men were inside and I had much of the same of what I experienced on the street. Had they never seen a cute guy before? Okay, I offered, it’s been a while and I probably would never come into a bar alone. I retreated outside to regroup and review the beer information that Miller Brewing Company wanted it’s “models” to know.
So I’m sitting out on the sidewalk on an old-style park bench, complete with wood seat and green painted frame reading a powerpoint presentation of the original LITE beer, pilsner something, hops, and a slew of information I knew I wouldn’t even mention to patrons tonight. The point, I inherently knew, would be to work it, and work it good. So with a familiar new-found carelessness, I went back inside.
After a wait of about ten minutes, my trainer for the night, Abe showed up and immediately I was at ease to have a know-it-all around. Hastily, he instructed me to change into the night’s uniform – a nice cotton/spandex shirt with the Miller Lite logo, complete with rainbow outline. How gay, how chic, I thought. The fit was great and I sighed with relief. I thought I’d be relegated to wearing a shapeless large shirt bought from an outlet with a silk-screened logo. This logo was embroidered, baby.
The give-aways for the night were Mardi Gras beads, bumper stickers and temporary Miller Lite tattoos. But most importantly, as part of the “sell” we were distributing, Beer bucks “that you can redeem at the bar for one dollar off any bottled MGD or Miller Lite tonight.”
As dead as the Falcon was, we opted to begin the working at the Mineshaft which had a gorgeous leather bartender. Joined by a group of roadies following Chad, the other “model” for the night, we stuffed Beer bucks into our back pockets, grabbed a handful of beads and set out. I felt like the party girl version of Commando.
Right off the bat, I worked the room with a half-faked ease and honest amusement at what I was doing. I beaded older men, offering them a smile and beer bucks which some didn’t quite understand or care about. All they cared about was how I smiled and if I had a boyfriend or if I was straight or gay or if they could hug me or if they could get some other “extra” freebies. I could only sheepishly smile and laugh and offer to tattoo them.
To say the least tattoos were very popular. And many guys wanted to know where exactly could I put a tattoo. The most shady places were someone’s ass and someone’s upper inner thigh, for which I got a good feel of his unit with my elbow. A good many men were ready to proposition me, but were ugly or old or both. I had flashbacks to what Miro, the Principal of La Mas (SHE started it, remember?) told me that afternoon, “There’ll be a few needy men who’ll want to talk to you all night – that’s the fact of it. You’re a prime target for these guys who want somebody to talk to, but you have to remember. You have to sell the product.” So I focused and gave out more Beer bucks.
A lag time would ensue after all the patrons were beaded, bucked and tattooed out. I picked a group of men to “check up” on to pass the time before accosting the next victim to walk in the bar. Especially notable was the birthday boy of the night who in his zeal (or drunkenness most likely) while pulling his pants down low enough so a tattoo could be applied to his pubes, ended giving us all a nice show of his brown, hairy Kielbasa.
On to the next bar we went, The Brit, a nice pub with wood interior. Uneventful, I met a couple cuties who seemed appreciative. Of course there was the Salvadoran marine who flexed for me…
We returned to the Falcon, where maybe a total of three new patrons were present. An older crowd it was the first inkling to me that this could get sleazy. It was at that time I began to yawn and wish for a drink, but that had to wait until Ripples.
At Ripples, the place was packed. Beautiful Latino men everywhere and thankfully at least about half were under thirty. Music blared unlike the jukebox trash of the other bars. Shirtless, buffed men and done-up pretty boys were the staple. I couldn’t even take a piss without being asked for beads. Which was fine – have them come to me instead of me initiating. The other commandos and I went upstairs at which point Chad thought it best to take the downstairs. And not one second later I was completely lost in the dark, on my own, a deer frozen in front strobelights. I knew it would be very hard to work this crowd the same way I’d worked the aging queens at the other bars.
Then I saw baseball cap Richard, my Mr. January-post-Romeo. We small talked and I had to correct him that I wasn’t working for Ripples, but worked “for an agency.” I immediately knew I’d start with his group of friends - One tall & slightly chubby Latino, one skinny homely Filipino and two other Latinos who if they weren’t beneath my notice, I’d have some kind of recollection of them. My schpeel didn’t go over well and only earned me funny looks and a dismissal without a smile or a no, thank you. That being my first real refusal of the night, my confidence sank, but I trudged on.
So many boys to work on my last hour, I went into overdrive and smiled too much. I worked cholos, chinos, and old men (oh my!). My efforts weren’t without some greater reward – a total of two frontal gropes, a couple ass grabs and more than a few cat calls. They should’ve asked for beads.
Working my way downstairs to the pool tables, I had moderate success nearly being accosted by a young pretty boy who profusely thanked me (three times) for the beads I gave him. Maintain!! I thought. It’s the third rule in the book or something. After hitting on some beautiful blonde fag hags and their gay pet, I moved onto the intimidating patio area where upon opening the door I was greeted by shirtless circuit party men too tanned and buffed for their own good. I sheepishly looked around the patio and deciding that there was too much light, I retreated back inside to find my compatriots.
Finding that we were almost done, Chad was all out of beads and beer bucks and was filling out the paperwork, I did a once over at the top dance floor to offload the rest of my stickers and beer bucks.
I returned outside where a circuit party boy whipped my butt with his shirt. Not reacting I proceeded to give my last beads to some older men, when someone asked me, “Tony, you working here now?” I turned around and said, “No, I work for an agency.” It was Drew, the Filipino/Mexican. We small talked about the drudgery of being beautiful (“Aren’t you glad you’re not White or Latino? I mean, you’re Filipino and you’re good looking, which they aren’t used to seeing. And you know what your biggest asset is? You’ve got a great smile,” Drew commented) and the drudgery of having to work amidst the gropes and grabs and drunks.
I knew it was time to get out of work mode when I saw Chad in a plain white shirt ordering a drink from the bar, a no-no when you’re on the job. So I changed my shirt and went upstairs for a drink. I was exhausted and relieved that I survived. I got a few looks from people who recognized me, who were suddenly not as bold with me without my Miller Lite shirt. I enjoyed some more small talk with baseball cap Richard and recounted my experience to Drew outside.
Closing time and lights went on and queens left crying out like vampires. We made nice with the door guy (cute tall White-boy) who herded everyone out in not the nicest way (“I don’t care where the fuck you go, but you can’t stay here! Get out, good night, thank you!”). We stayed inside until we realized we might have to help with the clean up. Packing up our things, I asked Abe how discriminating La Mas was and how do they decide who to hire. “You first have to be good-looking,” he said. “Oh, I know,” I replied.
Sunday night Albert and I were to hang out at OZZ. He complained he hadn’t done anything all week-end (not counting a date Friday – he was sick Saturday night) since Thursday when we went to West Hollywood. I conceded and we got to the front of the line at OZZ whereupon Chris, the ugly, bitter doorguy informed Albert that he would not let Albert in due to his expired Driver’s License. Gee, I thought, I guess that means his AGE isn’t valid until he renews it. Smart, really smart. We said Fuck it and went to West Hollywood.
Albert informed me that Poppa wouldn’t be in, he’s our bartender at Revolver, but I thought we’d take a chance anyway. Ron’s his name and he’s practically married, but Poppa sounds better. John, the manager, was also there and I expected a run in with him, since last Thursday he’d given me his card with a number on it. I knew he’d only given it to me because Albert told him he was now dating someone, so this was one of those “Well, if he won’t have me, his friend’s kind of cute too”. But anyway, last Thursday night after going home, I called the number and was surprised that it actually was his number. I’d left a message saying if he wanted to call me or hook up to give me a call.
The run in came later that night when John spotted us and immediately told me that he did receive my message, but had accidentally erased the message instead of saving it. Yeah, right, I thought. Albert didn’t think so either. After small talk it was clear he was after ass. With Albert no longer in the equation, John became friendly. A flirtatious pat here and pat there. He must have been drinking because he tried to roughhouse Albert, pushing him playfully, but firmly away when Albert tried to intercede between the two cats pawing at each other. Albert promptly flicked John’s nipple which he unfortunately liked. John also informed us that he managed the new restaurant “Luca’s” a couple spaces down from the bar. My ears perked up and the thought of having John buy me a dinner there entered my mind. So I gave him my pager number, but not before showing Albert that I was following rule #1 of the book: “Only give out your pager number to possible dates. They may end up becoming tricks.”
August 24, 2000Last week-end was fun though tempered by a sense of impending doom at the workplace, which will be thankfully omitted in these pages. If you’re not having fun, what’s the friggin’ point??!!
No call from La Mas for any bookings. Now I know what wannabe, wouldabe, cannotbe actors feel like. I mean waiting all week for a call that doesn’t come? That’s stress. At any rate, it worked out fine, because I was able to go out, and that’s the point.
Last Wednesday Albert and I went to see “Bless the Child.” From the outset, I knew it was going to be bad what with the bad acting and the horrible pacing. And I thought that my threshold for bad movies was better. However, more than once we let out schoolgirl screams much to our amusement and to the two women sitting in front of us as well. They openly laughed at us.
Friday night I had dinner with one of my best friends, Marjorie. We agreed to meet at her house at about 6:30pm to go to Old Town Pasadena for a “quiet night.” That suited me fine since I could feel my exhausted body begging for something less than the all-night insanity that is the staple of “Tony and Albert are NOT together” week-ends. Getting into Baldwin Park at 6:00pm, I decided to wander around for a while at the West Covina Fashion Plaza to see if there was anything I needed. Well, it turned out you can’t buy speed or ecstasy in the mall so, I decided I wasn’t going to find anything to boost my waning energy level since it was too hot for Starbucks. Then I remembered that I’d had the craving for new music all week.
At Tower Records, I got lost in the music at one of the listening stations. And then a page. Voicemail. I went to my car just outside to use my cell phone. After a long pause that is characteristic of the piece of black plastic crap that passes for cellular service, it disconnected and beeped. Again, I dialed and it disconnected. Considering my frame of mind, it was easy to see why I was ready to throw the shit phone to the curb. I opted to go inside Tower again. Then, another page. This time I went inside the mall to use a pay phone. With exactly 35 cents I was able to get through, after of course the Mexican with a bad ponytail hairdo which made him look stuck in 1990, finished his call. I accessed my voicemail only to hear the recorded click of a phone hanging up on me. I almost cried, it was nearly 6:40 pm and I was sure it was Marjorie trying to summon me. I decided to meet her at home.
Marjorie answered the door. “I tried paging you but it was a really weird message…” It was Marjorie all right.
We had a nice dinner that night at Il Fornaio at Old Town Pasadena, despite her having to re-order her dinner when the spinach dish she received was flatter and less-tasty than she remembered and had to be sent back, and despite the older, rich bitch sitting next to Marjorie, making ugly faces every time Marjorie coughed (she’s getting over a cold). I’m glad we possibly ruined that wrinkled prune’s night by talking incessantly about sex and strippers – loudly, I might add. Cheers!
Later, we milled around a while and after a failed attempt to find seating at the now too chic, too crowded and too noisy Equator coffeehouse, we spent the rest of our visit at Z Gallery poking sexual fun at anything and everything phallic. I returned home with a message from Albert to call him. Something I’d promised to do earlier that evening.
Suffice to say, I heard it the next day when Albert left a voicemail (“Tony, this is Albert, I’m just calling to tell you that you SUCK”) and I promptly replied apologetically via voicemail which prompted another response later that night (“Can I speak to the bitch, please?”). We made plans to go out Saturday night at OZZ of course. It was to be a Homecoming after Albert’s New York adventure, of which I received a Charlie’s Angels t-shirt, a shot glass, and a 80’s stylish metallic print that now sits proudly in my office cubicle as a reminder of the summer trip that never was.
But the daytime – that’s a story. Me, my brother, his friends, dad, and paintball. We went, I got hit more times than I care to remember and I have a nice bruise on my leg I could conceivably claim an abusive spouse gave me. But it was fun. In the first scrimmage (that’s what they call a match of about 15 minutes where your team tries to capture the opposing team’s flag and return it to your headquarters that is on the opposite side of the designated playing field), I took out two men, one on the leg (he was sooo unaware that even though he was in a bush, you could sooo still see him) and the other guy right on the side of the head. Luckily his headpiece kept him safe. But after that I might as well have given up. The heat, the pain and then eventually the fear of bruising made me ineffective to my team at best. The one good thing was that I got to bond with my father (who ironically, or NOT so ironically, took out more men than I did) and most importantly my brother whom I had all but not talked to for 4 years. His marriage is next week, so that’s for later.
Saturday night – two words: Drunk Tony. How fun, how typical. A quick run down of events is as follows. Tony gets drunk at brother’s after paintball barbecue, Tony gets drunk with Albert at OZZ, drunk Tony tries flirting with guys, drunk Tony is elated to see friends Jose and Mike and Felipe, and drunk Tony goes home drunk. But he doesn’t sleep before drinking a large glass of water to avoid the impending headache the next morning. Of note was the hit & run kiss on the neck I got from David, whom embarrassingly enough I ran after calling his name as he exited the club. I know I danced ridiculously and that I reprimanded Albert because an acquaintance was hitting on him (not the other way around, mind you) and because Albert’s dating someone sweet right now (for once). We left and opted to eat at Del Taco since McDonald’s deep fryer was broken (What is this? Eastern Europe?).
August 31, 2000Everyone must go to the Hollywood Bowl during the summer, even if it is as late as August. Marjorie and I went to see the “Spirit of the Gypsies” by the L.A. Philharmonic and some Flamenco dance troup. Now, me not being one of extensive culture (I do however know how to eat sushi properly & listen to classical music on the freeway at times “to make the traffic something of great moment” as my friend Ching reminds me to do), this was a nice change of pace. Or at least it would have been had I not been exhausted from the night before.
The night before, Albert and I went out to West Hollywood to visit Poppa and John. Knowing that Albert’s steady for the time being wanted to see him at Rage, we opted to stop there first and before making our rounds on Santa Monica. Indeed we saw him with a friend, said brief hellos and made it to Revolver where the remnants of a “Survivor” party were still evident. Grass skirting lined the bar and tropical decorations were still up. No incident with John, the manager, though he did say Hi. I guess I won’t be having dinner at Luca’s after all.
Michael, my friend from UC Irvine, had his party at his house in Seal Beach (Brian’s his spouse). Going into this week-end I recalled the last time I was there in 1997. An avid ghetto party-goer in 1997, I remember leaving thinking what a boring set of old men were in attendance. Going into the week-end this time around, I almost wet my pants thinking about which lawyer or doctor I could bag. With Albert on a date and my other friend Mike feeling under the weather, I went stag.
Funny how small the gay world really is. Thinking I wasn’t to see anyone I knew, a friend from UC Irvine whom I’d pledged with in 1997 for the only “co-ed” (translates as “straight women and mostly gay men”) fraternity in UC Irvine, was there with a friend. We spent most of the night talking to another man who works for a production agency in Hollywood. Coincidentally, he made it known that one of the Executive Directors, Roger, of an agency whose contract I oversee at work was there, and insisted I be introduced to him. It was a nice gesture, and the conversation was friendly enough, but upon relating my happy, chance meeting to my supervisor on Monday, she promptly warned me to stay away from Roger. At any rate it was amusing and endearing to make the Hollywood production guy nervous enough by staring into his eyes and smiling incessantly to make him begin stuttering, no doubt a trait he was hiding very well until alcohol and Tony got to his system.
Luckily I was invited by my fraternity friend to join him at Fire Island following the party. Of course with no debate (“Sure, why not?) I followed them to Fire Island. Lo, and behold, it was OZZ in Long Beach. At least that was what I saw it to be. Nicely enough, my co-workers and one-time buddies for the night from La Mas were working for Miller yet again. I was perturbed that Chad was not scheduled for the night but had to fill-in, indicating my request to have that night off resulted in his unplanned appearance at Fire Island. No problem, besides, I don’t think either of us minded being around the husky, tall, dark, buff Latino guy clad in only white boxer briefs and a tank top who incidentally also works for La Mas (he was working for Pucker that night). His name, though we were introduced, escapes me. We had a “brief” conversation about how uncomfortable he was wearing his uniform for the night and how he really didn’t remember me from the orientation meeting earlier this month.
Bored with the music and intent on seeing how it is like to hang out without Albert comfortably warding off any potential dates (they think we’re together whenever we hang out), I set out off the dance floor to enjoy, what else, a Corona in memory of Albert. Lucky me. My eyes set onto a tall green eyed blonde with the most inviting smile. He wore spiky hair, a non-descript crew shirt and cargo tech shorts. I noticed his friend motioning to me, as they talked. Rejoining my fraternity friend, I knew I’d look for him later.
Later turned out to be out on the porch when my fraternity friend’s roommate went out to smoke. Quickly engaging some drunk bar-goers in conversation, I accepted a smoke and soon noticed blonde guy and his quarry just opposite me. Knowing I wasn’t into any time delays that night, I waved hi and he smiled back. My heart melted.
Turns out blonde guy is 33 years old, an obstetrics/gynecologist. To my dismay he mentioned that he had a wife and has two kids. “You have baggage!” I exclaimed, very much disappointed although I was in his lap as he sat against the pool table looking into those welcoming eyes. “No, its not” he retorted, after which I don’t recall much of anything except for feeling his mouth swallow me, my nostrils taking his pleasant scent in. “Nothing but a SLUT!” my Albert-infused conscience declared.
We exchanged numbers by the end of the night. He would call Sunday while I was out partying some more with Albert at Sunset Junction.
We obviously went too early to Sunset Junction. But had we not gotten there so early, we would have missed out on a chance verbal confrontation with the Filipino man sitting on his porch. We were squeezing into a space in front of his house, after waiting about an eternity for his kin to pull out (they found it necessary to take there time with their goodbyes which sounded like mating trumpeter swans). He persistently tried to shoo us away, saying we were nearly blocking the driveway. “I’m just saying, you might get hit,” he insisted. “I think we’re fine,” Albert responded, urging me to speak to my people. Agreeing to make him shut up, I finally said, “Sir, I think it’s fine.” And with that we turned away and walked to the festival. “No, no, that’s all I have to say,” we chimed – a la Romy & Michele.
Too early at the festival and feeling a bit lazy, we decided to hit Melrose and shop. Elated that we would finally fulfill our months in the making promise to for shopping, we were surprised at how not into it we were. After entering a couple shops, we realized we were stuck in Ground hog Day, with all the clothing stores owned and staffed by snobby Habibis (that’s English for Middle Eastern; it means “sweetheart”) who wouldn’t assist us (“I don’t think we have anything for you here. Please leave”) and the merchandise flanking either side of the rectangular, closet-style store space. We opted for lunch at, where else, Antonio’s, for supposedly the best Mexican food for the stars.
We returned to Sunset Junction to find that the fags had awakened from their ecstasy-induced slumber and were out in full force and minimal clothing. It never fails to amaze me at how many six packs and hard-ons are on display at every gay festival. Beers in hand, we did the rounds admiring our kinfolk and did the favor of returning their smiles and eye contact. Short of doing the pageant queen wave, we were very gracious. Toward dusk, we made our way to El Barcito on the main thoroughfare, where Mike and Jose were to meet us.
Nothing more than a ghetto bar, Albert and I wondered if it was ugly-guy night and were not informed. However, Mike spotted a nicely built, shaved head Latino all by himself in need of our graciousness. Naturally, I stepped up to the plate for my friend. Waving him over, he shyly realized it was indeed he whom we wanted to speak to. “Hi, who are you here with?” I asked. “Como se llama?” I flashed a blank look at Mike and then turned it over to him, confident that my Spanish would fail me miserably.
Turned out Mike wasn’t interested in him after all and Albert nor I nor Jose had much time left nor energy for the festival although we had the nicest time. We did spot J.P. Pitoc from “Trick” and the big, scary black man from “Hustler White.” No porn stars unfortunately – unless you count the insane short, German boy we see at OZZ. We found him on the cover of Freshmen at Drakes and had the best laugh while we admired his penis.
Tired, Albert and I trekked back to the car (we’d parked blocks and blocks away from the festival and had a good argument over where we were parked), but not before savoring another obscenely shaped hot dog from our favorite cholesterol vendor – the hot dog lady.
