Well, the holidays are upon us. Christmas Eve. Or Erev Chrachsmas in Yiddish. For us Jews, we just stare at the corner where the tree might have been, and then call 777-FILM to assess our movie options, and then decided on which Chinese restaurant would be most appropriate for this particular yom tov
I find myself much happier this year than last year at this time, and that's good. Of course, as it's one of the laws of physics that if you are soaring, others must bring you down. Honestly, it's the law. But the secret is to evade the law and stay happy anyway. It was very gratifying to have a casual acquaintence say to me that he has never seen me happier.
For the past few weeks I have been walking around saying "La LA LA-AAA!" I thought it was something I must be something I picked up from Seinfeld. But I couldn't quite pinpoint its origin. I also found it to be a useful tool. Especially when people are in my way. Since I hum a lot to myself (usually Crowded House or Aztec Camera), blurting "la la laaaa" behind a lummox on the escalator at Macy's is very helpful. It's pleasant sounding but annoying. People more right out of your way. They think you're crazy, or religious. It's also easier than yelling Bible passages. I often suspect people are screaming about the Lord on the subway because they simply want a little more elbow room.
It does work.
Well, imagine my horror when I discovered that my merry little musing comes from none other than Hollywood's favorite singing pig, Babe.
I knew this came from an unkosher source. I will still use it, though. It's easier than telling people that God wants them to more out of my way.
Christmas Day. Tony and I usually do something on Christmas. Last year we watched two teenagers have sex in a car on a boat (i.e., we went to see Titanic. This year we watched French & Saunders on the telly while feasting on goat cheese and roasted garlic crackers, and blue corn chips and salsa. Franky, it was a delicious nontraditional meal. M and T next door were having a party. Actually, they were having a piano bar sans piano. There were 17 gay men in that 9 x 15 room, most of whom were well older than 60, sitting around a turkey, a ham (poor Babe!) and assorted treats. Tony filled his plate with turkey and potato salad and went back across the hall, as the smoke levels were hazardous. I stuck it out a bit longer, and returned a bit later before going home.
The challenges of living in studio apartments in New York City.
It's Boxing Day in England. Don't know what it's about. It's the servants' holiday, or the day you give money to tradesmen. I went out for dinner with P. He lives in Murray Hill in a largish one-bedroom and of course I always mentally calculate how many of my apartment will fit into any apartment that's larger than mine. What's frightening is that I have seen apartments smaller than mine, like Tony's. But Tony lives on Charles Street and has free electricity.
It's an outrage.
So P and I had a big fat Indian dinner. Somehow we got onto the topic of sticking with one's own. P hypothesized that perhaps it's best to stick with one's own kind. In this gay, other gay Jews. I'm not sure if I really see that as necessary. I think the first priority is to find a living, breathing man first, and then worry about heritage. Frankly, I find myself taking a longer look at our subcontinental friends. A girlfriend of mine assures me that Indians and Sri Lankans are sex maniacs, and I really cannot find anything wrong with that...
It was bitter cold but that didn't stop me from (finally) re-entering the gay demi-monde of going to a bar. Apparently a tawdry bar is in my own prim and proper neighborhood. So, I ventured forth into the midnight cold and sought it out. It was indeed tawdry and I was molested almost immediately upon my arrival. And to think I was just two avenues away from Mayor Giuliani's residence. If he only knew...
So, I wound up getting home at 5 am. A brisk 20-block walk in subfreezing temperatures, and postprurient pizza. Longtime Companion was on Bravo, which I have mostly boycotted since they started commercial interruption. I wound up staying up until it was done. Cried my eyes out, as always. Not just because it's moving, but because it's almost unbelievable that it's just eight years later, and so much has changed. For the first time in years, the gay paper out in San Francisco had no obituaries for the first time in 17 years. All the intense sadness of that movie moves me every time--especially that finale, when all those dead people show up at the end, like nothing ever happened, and it was all a bad dream.
So here I am: 35 years old, healthy, comparatively no experience with HIV+ people or AIDS deaths, compared to my seniors. The AIDS death rate has dropped dramatically, although infections are on the rise in the under-25 set. Being a bit on the periphery, it's almost an abstraction, watching a movie like this, or reading about the pandemic in novels and magazines.
But it isn't. So when I blubber during the end of the movie, I am never quite sure who the tears are for. It's hard to know how much different, better, or worse my life would have been if none of this had happened.
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