| dewy decimal |
2003-01-10 - 1:44 p.m.
So yeah, I guess this is my attempt to start making sense of the utter nonsense that is my life.
Last night my bestfriend, Keoni, of almost twenty years decided that we would go out drinking and hit up all the gay spots on the island. When I use the term "gay", I would like to clarify that it is not in the context that is equivalent to "lame." I am gay and i would like to object to any claims that I am outright lame based solely on the fact that I am bemiusingly affected by the male pheremone. Being the alcoholic I am, I thought that this would be a fun night. I was earlier suppose to go with my friend Ara to the coffeehouse to watch my friend Mindy's band Postmodern, which I inevitably flaked on. typical me. Sign one of clinical depression, unwillingness to cooperate with given schedules.
So i got ready which entailed fixing up my mangy coiffure, which I fear is becomming increasingly "emo", throwing on a pair of my favorite jeans that, although did cost an unprecedented 160 dollars, I do manage to wear 4 out of 5 nights a week. I then proceeded to locate and apply a plain black t-shirt, and green zip up cardigan on my rail-thin body.
After Keoni got to my house we drank a few beers to save money from the ever inflating prices of Miller Light at the bars. We went to a little Tavern that my friend Kiyoshi told me about. According to him, this little homely bar was gathering an increasingly gay patronage and boasted three dollar gin and tonics.
When we got there, we found an assortment of older men of dubious sexual orientation. The dim light in Chiko's tavern fell mutely on a table of bleached mullet-laden women singing to obscure local lullaby.
After consuming a beer each we decided to go to Hulas Bar and Grill which I find much more agreeable than the other gay bars. It's all about space baby. My only qualms are the three urinals separated by thin marigins of air. Ideal for the pooching male consumer. I drank two pitchers and saw a few friends. Among who were my lesbian, activist friend Trisha, and Jamie (who is not lesbian but has adapted to our culture with great affection). I also saw whom i shall refer to as Chester, oh Chester. The Abercrombie and Fitch-esque model that consistently makes failing attempts to get me in the menagerie. He unfortunately seems to suffer from acute schizophrenia despite a relatively cool exterior. My rejection of his insemination has left me to defend myself from a few friends who persistently scold me for my prudish ways. Dustin the ever-bitch.
No one else in the bar seemed to be paying attention to me. I think its the grandpa sweater which was actually my grandpa's sweater. I sometimes wonder if all the gay men with tucked in T-shirts find my apparel too old fogey. They obviously are missing my attempts at irony. Anyhoo, I would like to clarify that the only reason that I don't reciprocate the affections, despite his copacetic good looks, is that it's too fucking easy for him. DO YOU HEAR ME? holla back youngun.
A little drunk, we left Hula's and traversed the lit streets of Waikiki to Angles bar and grill. As ususal, the place had apparently met and long surpassed its maximum capacity, as drunk men of different creeds and manifestos engaged each other in their sexual prayers.
Keoni, who was broke left to go back to my car to drink some beer that he brought to conserve his nonexistent cash pool.
I was left to drift between the sea of gayness unnoticed like the phantom of the gay opera. From my periphery I caught sight of my dear friend Twan who although showed an immediate outburst of affection soon left me on my own without warning to pursue less familiar and more phallic confections. I realized at the moment that I wanted to leave. sorely. In my simmering and drunken disdain I walked out of the club to go to my car.
Self-pitiful and lonely, I quietly asked why a young boy such as myself could get no action on what was suppose to be a night of nights. I arrived at my car where Keoni sat in the passenger's seat doing I don't know what
. I drove home between lines and under speed limits. Not being able to find any other CDs, I put on my Bjork's Debut and repeated track 8, "One Day".
Keoni got dropped off and I dropped on my back staring at the Hawaii sky wanting to slit my fucking wrists. Typical night actually.
So I am here today typing my guts out to probably no one, a little jittery from my new anti-depression medication and a Nicoderm CQ patch clinging to the skin above my right nipple. It will be by the grace of god that I don't hurt anyone or myself during these weeks of detox.
I read a book called Carter Beats the Devil today and listened to music which included the Smiths, Cat power, Interpol, and strangely Le Tigre which brought me the most comfort.
"Is it time for me to act mature, the only words I know are more, more, and more." Eau D'Bedrrom Dancing