Twittering

Pencil Erasers In The Sky

The knock on the door was so subtle, we thought it might be the cat at first. But it wasn't. It was Pencil Erasers, standing there in nothing but jogging shorts. He was sucking on a cigar.

"Dude, this is a funny question," he said. "Do you have any porn?"

"Not that you can take with you," I said. "Well, at least that has women in it. It's all dicks and stuff."

"Oh, not into that," he said in a sobering tone.

"I know. You must be horny," I said, looking down at his crotch. He giggled. His shorts left little to imagine.

"Yeah," he said with a look that said anything goes.

Flap of the Birdy

Daniel, the straight boy with eraser-sized nipples who lives next door stopped me on the way in tonight. “Dude,” he said. “What were you doing tonight?”

“Oh, I was just out with my friend,” I said.

“Dude, you were trickin’. You were trickin’, weren’t you?”

My friend, who is far from a trick, had just dropped me off, and Daniel was hanging out in our common driveway, cordless phone attached to his ear. The irony is that he is more of a trick than I could ever be. Just last week, he told me how proud he was to be paid by other men to pleasure their wives in front of him. ‘I’m not proud,’ he said, as he took a drag on his cigarette, ‘I’m just goooood,’ he’d say with a giggle.

“Who you talkin’ to? That whore girlfriend of yours?” I asked.

“Shut up,” he yelled. “It’s my mother.”

“Oh. Sorry,” I apologized. “Well knock on my door when you’re off. I’ll make you a cocktail to make up for it.”

Not ten minutes later, Daniel knocked on my door. He had put on his birdy shirt, covering his chiseled hairy chest. He’s got a blue tailed conyer, who doesn’t have any wings, and can’t fly. But the bird is always on his shoulder when he’s got his birdy shirt on. The bird is always trying to commit suicide, he says, and the bird knows it can’t fly. And when the bird is home alone, he leaps from his perch, throwing himself on the floor, where he flails in drama.

Me and Cher

I had this wild dream last night that I was attending a Cher concert. Only, I wasn't sitting in the audience, I had the seats on the stage, and the seats weren't bleachers or theatre seats; they were folding chairs. And, as Cher moved around the stage, the twenty of us on stage had to pick up our folding chairs, and move around her. We were told before the start of the show to stay about 10 feet away from Cher so she could do her hair flips without injury to herself, us or another audience member. This was, of course, unless Cher made eye contact with you. If that happened, you were to play along and interact with her and follow her lead. If she wanted you to dance, you were to dance too. Or, if she just wanted you to ogle, that's what you did - ogle. It was everything I dreamed American Bandstand would be, only better.

More Mall Fun

The Professional Musician and Entertainment Club of Iowa performs for folks at the Southridge Mall Health Fair in Des Moines, Iowa, while a woman enjoys the entertainment and her lunch in the food court.

Summer Slump

It's that time of year when nothing is more apealing than sitting pool side, or hopping in the car and going on a road trip, or escaping to the beach and doing nothing but read a pile of magazines. It's an urge so strong, you almost want to be a school teacher.

And then you go to the mall, and you see a gaggle of kids, and you think, "No. The nine-to-five, Monday-to-Friday, fifty-week-a-year schedule is completely okay."

Road Signs

After a few modifications, the Road Closed Sign on 14th Street now says something more appropriate.

Tune In to The Next Episode

While others become fixated on ‘their’ prime time show, I’ve got my own. Only, it’s not on any network. One night a month, I watch it religiously. I walk down the street to tune in with my neighbors as the characters interact, and the plot unfolds. It’s my neighborhood’s community meeting.

There is nothing like a passionate neighborhood meeting to get your blood stirring and adrenaline pumping. Television is predictable, and filled with too many commercials. Just when you’re into the show, as the baby is about to either live or die, gears are switched as you are forced to learn about the latest technology in feminine hygiene. Total buzz kill.

I’m a neighborhood junkie, and it’s all about the buzz. Heat up my Swanson’s dinner and send me off to the community meeting. Why sit on your sofa watching reality television, when plots twist and turn all around you just blocks from your home? If you think Sex in the City can pull out a doozey leaving your lower jaw in your lap, just try the next episode of your neighborhood association.

Neighborhood meetings have all the elements of a great television drama: power struggles, infighting, backstabbing, gossip, sickness and death (well, no one has died at any meetings I’ve been to, but don’t rule it out as an unexpected possibility), and for all I know, quite possibly bed-hopping. There are classic tales of good vs. evil, right vs. wrong, all interwoven into a complexity of land use, public safety, and potluck subplots. The list of ever-changing guest stars keep the script fresh, while complimenting a regular crew of characters.

Queer as Folk hasn’t anything on the cast of characters at your neighborhood meeting. Neighborhood folks are about as queer as they come, with any imagination hard-pressed to create a more diverse group of players: A flamboyant twenty-something who can never clearly articulate a thought who befriends the neighborhood fool disguised as a wise old woman. A peacemaker who always brings God along. A visionary adored by everyone, except for those who don’t agree with her vision.

And when the conservative conspiracy theorist agrees with the paranoid liberal, after the pragmatic pessimist suggests a course of action, you’ve got a cliffhanger worthy of the November Sweeps. It’s a moment about as paramount as the Borg kidnapping Picard.

But, like all good television programs, there is order in the chaos. One character represents the social conscious of the show—the person you hate to love, which reminds you not everyone is bad and there is reason to hold on to hope. The Mark Green of the E.R., he or she brings balance, and a sense of order to the proceedings, and they do it with compassion and inclusion.

Life is better than a soap opera, because you know these characters, and they know you. On TV, you look into their Young and Restless world of Genoa City through a scripted and edited one-hour window. But at your neighborhood meeting, you can touch these characters, be moved by them, be challenged and learn from them. That, in my mind, makes for a great program.

What You’d Expect from Decatur

There is a place on the Decatur Square, that’s now called Birdi’s. And while it’s been a restaurant before, this place is unique. As the ad says in the paper, it’s a Decatur kind-of-place. And it’s exactly what you’d expect from Decatur—a relaxed, diverse hustle with class.

It’s a place where a dyke named Pat and a fag named Chris can go on a date together. A place where a lesbian can run into a former lover on a date, and sit down to join the couple for a cocktail. Where the oversized, fluffy leather sofas disappear behind lesbians, who split a Cesar salad, but each order their own strawberry short cake.

In the corner is a woman sitting on a barstool. Songs that hark back to days when a Vegas lounge act consisted of a voice and an instrument roll from her tongue as smooth and intoxicating as a top-shelf cocktail. Behind her sits a keyboardist who creates the synthesized sounds of an entire orchestra.

The service is attentive and upbeat, and the food, while not particularly special, a great value for the price. But you’re not there for the food; you’re there for the all the elements that add up to the total experience. And it’s that experience that makes Birdi’s special. In that sense, it really is a Decatur kind-of-place.

Desperate Guy

He stood there in his pressed denim jeans and painted on black-muscle shirt. He didn’t understand why the muscle shirt was so fashionable today, after all it made him think back to the eighth grade and the brake-dancing craze of the early 80s. But right now, fashion was not at the front of his mind. He was desperate.

Desperately in search of a condom. The wall at the local gay gift shop was filled with a rainbow collection of lubes. Lubes in every flavor, for every type of situation. But what he needed was a condom. Just a regular condom. Not one with mint flavor. Not one with tingling fingers that provide unique sensation. Just something he could cap it with so he wouldn’t have to whack it.

“Where is a fucking regular condom?” he yelled, not realizing the entire store heard him. The twink sales person, who really spends more time selling himself to customers than merchandise was suddenly interested. He leaned over the counter.

“There, right there, for 45-cents each,” he said, pointing to a fish bowl filled with Lifestyles condoms.

“Where?” He was desperate. What the store didn’t know was that not even at sundown yet, he had the hottest guy waiting for him in the car. And that was just the driver. In the back seat was another hot guy. He didn’t care if people knew he was desperate, because if they knew what he had waiting in the car, they’d be helping him find the fucking regular condoms.