Saturday, October 27, 2007

It's shaping up to be arguably the gayest autumn of my life. In addition to meeting the little mermaid and making pretentious French salads, I just returned from Gio's. That's right. amosVeh went to a gay bar on Halloween weekend. (For those of you not in the know, Halloween is, traditionally, to the GLBT community what Christmas and your birthday rolled into one would be for all y'all.) And why did I venture out, at 12:30am no less to said gay bar on this night? To meet a boy. And not really even to meet and get to know, but rather to be within a foot of each other, give a semi-desired/semi-obligatory hug and to dance awkwardly while he and his hags laughed it up on the dance floor. Fortunately, the entire experience lasted a mere 45 minutes as his ride left soon after my arrival, though to be honest, I was glad for a reason to leave as I have been up since 5am and not out of choice.

Now, he was very pretty. Tall, somewhat burly if a bit effeminate. Hungarian (= 100 points). Seemed sweet, if a bit light. Essentially he is the antithesis of the subjects of my previous blog. As opposed to finding him mentally stimulating and not all that attractive, I pretty much just wanted to do bad things to/with/at him. This is not to say that I wouldn't find him intellectually interesting, but a bar setting isn't really the best in which to find that out. When describing the lad to my friend A earlier this week, I was lamenting is possible lack of wattage, to which my good friend responded simply, "So?" It was his view that often the sweet, light, cute ones may be the way to go as they provide the ying to our overly-cerebral yang. I've never really delved into this too deeply, as I've always assumed that a balance was necessary, but perhaps he his correct and you serve to balance each other out. Mmmmmi dunno. We'll see.

Also, I had a brief desire to stay after he left, just by myself, in a club, dancin', tryin' to look all fiiiiiiiiiiine. I didn't. But I could have and probably would have been happy for at least a while. And this is good cause tomorrow I'm doing it for real. I'm going to one of the biggest raves of the year...solo. I don't think I could have three months ago. The fact that I now spend about 80% of my time by myself and that it doesn't drive me insane is conditioning me to embrace this solo life. I feel it's very adult, and I say that not as a pat on the back but rather that it's simply a fact. If you're an adult without a significant other, you live you live largely in solitude. And it's really ok. Notice how I keep saying that...

Alright, I don't feel like coming to a neat conclusion. That's all, bitches. G'night.

Wednesday, October 24, 2007

(For Mikey...

...about whom this entry certainly is not, but whose clear addiction as manifested in his comments I hope to assuage.)

I’ve discovered a new and not altogether awesome psychological trait in myself, which may possibly serve as an unfortunately good explanation for my lack of gay male friends. (I have a few, but they’re scattered and only one has been consistently present during my adult life)

This trait occurred to me after an evening of baking, Beauty & The Beast, and light physical contact last week. He is a perfectly nice fellow. Smart, witty, pleasant to be around – all the trappings of good friend material. In addition, he is also nicely-proportioned, red-haired, and kinda looks like a gay cross between Archie and Shaggy (the cartoon, not the egregiously lame ‘singer’). I didn’t feel that I necessarily wanted to partake in his Scooby-Snax, but I felt an urge of a different sort, something between lust and curiosity. We had hung out a couple times previously, with no strong indication on either side that there was desire for anything physical, but through more recent msn discussions, it became apparent that if something was going to happen, twould be this night.

The cookies were yummy; Belle didn’t disappoint. All of a sudden it was midnight and we were just staring at the DVD menu screen making awkward conversation, waiting for an ending or a beginning, whichever was going to happen. Eventually we went to my room. Nothing remotely pornographic happened. Clothes stayed on, for the most part. Hand stayed north of belt lines. I’m lying there and it’s not awful by any stretch, but I just don’t have my heart in it. I realize that this question will only apply to a particular demographic of readership, but you know when you’re making out and lips are doing their thing and hands are wandering, and your fingers graze their underwear elastic and you know that this is the moment where a decision needs to be made? I had no desire to venture forth. This wasn’t a commentary on him, not at all. I just didn’t feel like going down that road. Again. Instead, I was down a different, far too familiar one.

This was not the first time I’d been there. I’ve become aware of what it’s like to be making out with someone new, someone great, but someone who you just never want to see naked. I know this feeling because looking back at all the gay males with whom I’ve had 1-on-1 friendships (group friendship doesn’t count), I’ve done this with all of them! I need The Night. I need that one moment wherein my belief that I’m not into them romantically becomes hard, cold knowledge. After that (and usually a period of a couple weeks to readjust the friendship), I’m good to go. How sick is that? I’m so overly-concerned with not missing an opportunity, that I allow the possibilities for ones to exist where they have no business existing. If one were to compare this to those guys who sleep with someone and then drop completely off the radar, I suppose it would be like comparing murder to manslaughter. Although, to be fair, past participants have been perfectly willing themselves, so it’s not as though I’m conducting a completely selfish social experiment. At least I don’t think I am. Perhaps it’s only assisted-manslaughter.

Friday, October 12, 2007

This week marked the commencement of my attempt, nay my determination, to become a regular gym-goer. Thus begins my bunnitude. For those not in the know, a gym bunny is a LGBT term (and maybe a conventional one as well) for a man who lives at the gym. This shan't be me. Not really. However, it's actually been going fairly well and I now feel rather an expert on the matter having now gone twice. That's right, kids - Tuesday AND Thursday. Contrary to what I expected, the first session did not, in fact, end in exhaustion and/or vomiting. Apparently I don't suck at everything. Like, I'm pretty sure I killed at cardio. Like, full-on slayed, yo. And here's another revelation: out of shape, unattractive people go to the gym too! It's true! I was expecting it to be myself and a bunch of rejected Men's Health models, and while there were certainly some aesthetic confections, I was unhealthily relieved to find myself in good company, if the minority. It's odd how different I’ve felt in these few days; I don’t realistically think I look different or really feel all that different (perhaps slightly more hormonal – more on that in a moment), but looking in the mirror just feels different knowing that it’s heading somewhere. It’s kinda that whole glass-half-full/empty thing. The level of water is essentially holding steady at 50%, but now I see the good 50%. Does that make sense? Not really? Suck it, it’s my blog.

Now, my final observation on gym culture is not for the squeamish. In fact, it makes me feel a little bit pervy even bringing it up, but as it’s a somewhat humorous sign of the times, I’ll share. I was in the change room (aka the place wherein my manhood shrivels to the size of a Cheezie) when a moderately attraction (read: pretty g.d. hot) feller joins me in the locker bay. All is well and good and I’m thinking that I’ll get to see some ab action, maybe even some man lines, and the next thing I know the guy is totally naked and I’m incredibly uncomfortable. Nooooooooooow, here’s the thing. If I was a straight guy in a locker room, I’m not sure how comfortable I would feel being naked and ogled by another guy. Hell, as a non-straight guy I’m not ok with it in my bedroom. And I really didn’t ogle. In fact, when the towel dropped, I did my best to stay exactly above shoulder level with my eyes…but c’mon. It’s not that I need to see another naked guy (I might as well have a commitment ceremony with internet porn), but it’s just there. Like a big (not Jewish) pink elephant in the locker room. Like a (not Jewish) accident that you can’t help but glance at and not because it’s a turn on, but…oh god I’m so creepy! But do you see where I’m going with this? Not so much? Eat me, it’s my blog. *sigh* Ok, let’s approach this a different way. Straight boys, could you really be in a change room which contains many hot women and deal with one of them changing next to you and not feel a bit awkward? See? Who’s pervy now? Still me. Ok, that’s fair, but only because I’m the only one who realistically has to deal with it. Perhaps the time of gender-divided locker rooms should be over. Perhaps there should be four, according to gender and orientation. Mind you, then the gay change room would just be one big circuit party orgy and the lesbians would replace their hand-dryers with power tools.

Monday, October 08, 2007


First off, I have become an absolute hermit and have spent waaaaaaaaaaaaay too much time in my apartment in the last week, culminating in a near-break down on Saturday. On the plus side, I've spent a good amount of that time cooking really amazing food, like the adjacent salade ni├žoise with seared salmon. Possibly the most epicurean thing I've ever made. So cool.

Now onto heavier subject matter.

(from last Friday) When I was 9 and 10 I took the blue level in swimming five times. This was shortly after I had been diagnosed with a 46-letter neuromuscular condition, so times were slightly tense. I really do think that my parents could not have handled it any better (they really were amazing), but still, there were frustrations. Certainly one of mine was my inability to get a fucking blue badge (I did eventually, and actually went on to get my life guard qualification).

It was the last day of class, which means that no matter the outcome of pass or fail, we were allowed to go play on the diving boards. My father had actually borrowed a video camera for this occasion, my first jump off the three meter springboard. I remember years later watching the video as my little (ok, slightly doughy) 10-year old self climbed up to the top, my father zooming in as much as he could, but I was still only about an inch high on the screen. I remember the noises in the background of whistles and children shouting as on screen I shuffled around the edge of the board. Finally, after a couple of minutes, I descended back down the ladder. My Dad certainly isn't one of those fathers that considered this a personal failure and probably never really thought about it again.

A year or two later, I think grade 5, I was once again at the Pan Am pool, this time on a school trip and three friends, a couple girls and a boy, and I decided to try the diving boards. Naturally they all went off and when they reemerged at the top again, I was still standing there. Now these were really nice kids and they all tried to be encouraging and supportive but eventually it was all too much. All I could think of was my father and how I wished he was there and I started sobbing. The four of us walked down and went to fool around on the 1 m. boards and had a great time.

These anecdotes lead us to today's adventure. On Thursday, I did something that was challenging, personally. Sweating profusely, I bought a membership to the U of M gym. This was not a small amount of moisture but rather full-on flop sweat. I'm fairly certain that the blond too-short-to-be-an-Earl's girl at the front desk thought that I had been hitting the crack pipe with Whitney and Bobby. Even writing about it now, I'm getting dewy. But it needed to happen. Something needed to happen. This should be, as they say, my prime and I just really don't feel in it, not only aesthetically (cause God forbid this be purely about health) but more about every day activity. And holy fuck does it scare me, the notion of actually going through with this as a lifestyle. I have no clue why. I thought there was going to be a tie-in with the preceding childhood fuck-uperies, but now I can't really seem to marry the two other than I am still harbouring an ardent fear of not being able to jump off. Or something Sally Jesse stupid like that. Support will be needed. Oh yes. Friends, feel free to call me on Tuesdays, Thursdays and Saturdays to say, "Why isn't your soon-to-be-hot ass at the gym, beehatch! Love, Amy."

Sunday, October 07, 2007


Holy crap, you guys. I totally met Ariel. As in, the Little Mermaid. And not some cokehead in a mermaid costume in the Disney 'Holiday Fantasy' parade, no no. I met the actual, honest to God, voice of Ariel, Jodi Benson.

She was doing a show this weekend with the symphony entitled Bravo To Hollywood, along with two other semi-known Broadway actors. All in all, the show was a very typical pops concert, with lots of cheese and cotton-ball hair in the audience. There were some really great moments (Little Shop of Horrors medley) and some really not so hot ones (My Heart Will Go On goes to the Branson county fair). Now, the thing with voice actors is that what they do on screen is not the same thing as when they appear on a stage. So when she didn't sound like Ariel (read: the titanc travesty), I started to get very frightened. Every one has their Disney movie, and mine is The Little Mermaid. It was almost a weekly ritual in my youth and even though I haven't seen it in years, I am still very capable of knowing what is and what isn't the motherfuckin' little mermaid. So come intermission I was in quite a state. I pounded back my caramel latte (tepid) in the hopes of refocusing for what I knew was essentially the finale of the evening: Part Of Your World.

The second half is a lot of fun and yadda yadda yadda, but everyone knows what's coming so it was kind of like, "Um, yeah, that was really great, now GET THE FUCK ON WITH IT!" followed by heavy panting. One of the men finishes the second last number (couldn't even tell you) and she reemerges in a sea foam green dress. Holy Hanna, this was it. But before she was it, she decided to talk to us about what this twenty year journey had meant for her, which you would think would drive us crazy, but actually, hearing the little mermaid talking about being the little mermaid, um, pretty effing cool. And then it began. A huge swell in orchestra that lead to a ten second prelude which lead to those immortal ascending triads that everyone knows so well. And suddenly..."Look at this stuff, isn't it neat?...." And it was her. It really was that little mermaid. The scene in the cavern playing in my head, I listened to those colours that I'd heard so many times as a child and it was just unreal. I swooned.

Seriously though, kids, I was gayer that night then I have been in the last two years combined. Like, when the orchestra started with the opening strains of Part of Your World, I nearly leaned over and gave the guy beside me a hummer. Cut to the show being finished and me quite literally vibrating and we're walking out through the foyer when we see the former dean of the school of music and current executive director of the WSO, with whom we chatted briefly before the show. After some debate between my companion and I, we went up to him and said, "So, like, can we meet the little mermaid?" and he laughed and took us backstage. And...CHECK IT OUT!

Ok, not my best photo, but check her out! Gorgeous, no? The woman is 46! Dayimn. Anyhow, she was lovely. Clearly on Perkisets and crazier than all get up, but whatever! So nice and gracious and...oh who the fuck cares? I MET THE LITTLE MERMAID!!!!!!!!!!

*gets paper bag?*