Robert Evans - The Comeback. Kid
January 10, 2003, 05:00 AM
Could self-obsessed gay man with gargantuan ego fall madly in love with himself??
Hello, to every [insert your petty, insignificant name here]... special seasonal greetings to all of you (yawn).
Now, I sweared this year to leave political arguments to the birds and start living the normal life of a self-obsessed gay man with a proclivity for cliches and bad puns, to get over my boyfriend lies and betrayals... except I COULD NOT. I worked from 8 at the morning till late, late hours my weekdays (corner of 53rd a 3rd), I was gloomily sitting at the ‘Fist & Leather’ fetish club (corner of Robertson and Pico) with my Roger Maplethorpe book over weekends, and I never got past page 12, I was just re-living and re-enacting mentally the scenes of me and my amore together, all the humiliating, self-deprecation, I alternatively raged against the heterosexual world and imagined myself as the self-obsessed, narcissistic , self-involved, hedonistic, ineffectual walking cliché that I am. Then, in half an hour, started blaming the world for all that has gone wrong with my life... Anything would make me upset, even stupid Brandy song "What about us" at K-Mart would make me literally crying all over my shopping cart...(I spend a substantial time feeling sorry for myself). All stereotypes about queenish, mentally unstable, Depeche Mode and Broadway musical's listening gay males are... TRUE, TRUE, TRUE! Finally... one gloomy Sunday, as Billy Holliday would sing, I took all my courage to call HIM (“HIM” being a metaphor for the outside world)... only to find out his cell number had been changed... bastard! So, unfuck him then, decided I, and to the gay bar I went... And I'm telling you, it is a lot of fun to go to gay bar with your boyfriend... I just felt silly, but continued to hope that the defeat oozing out of my pores would attract the sympathy of some hormone-driven stranger... it’s impossible for me to fell for others, for godsake, I was thinking... So to another "older crowd" gay bar I went, crossing Santa Monica Boulevard, only to find myself encircled by mustached horny Levis-clad men in their forties. I pretended that their cheap cologne and cheap smiles were beneath me, but at least I was getting some attention (that’s all I wanted anyway). Was it because I was wearing cowboy boots??? Or because they could sense that I was an attention-starved whore looking for companionship no matter how cheap or primal? I patiently explained to those "urban cowboys" that I'm really not a hustler from Nevada, but if this satiated their loin-driven fantasies they could do with me as they wished, just so long as my ego-driven foray into their seedy underworld would end with my pants around my ankles... So hurriedly I left... alone, of course (leaving alone allows me to pretend I’ve retained my dignity).
I made it at a lesbian bar at one piece, bought myself a white russian (nothing says “notice me” like a white russian) and... whom do I see... Gertrude Stein and her devouted female friend Toklas, , two wanna-be Eastern European femme fatales (obsessed with Nordic aesthetics), madly in love with themselves and…...well that’s it. Of course, they started to cheer me up, after all, they, married for years (sham marriage – never certified by State authorities), could afford to lend me their souls (I sap souls), if only for a few drunken hours... So back and forth bytch bartender went, bringing us more scotch and stoli, and I was whining and moaning like the self-obsessed bitch I am for any and all to hear it.
I woke up at Valentina and Sonya (2 above-mentioned victims) Melrose street pad in the Russian Red Army style sleeping bag with my gigantic ego to keep me company.
That Monday was cold, very unpleasant day with massive headache and a bottle of a grapefruit juice left for my cure on the little table... I called sick at work from my cell (I do this often – demanding that my employer suffer for my decadent lifestyle). I drank a glass of vodka as I often do. I looked at mysterious, trendy-if-incomprehensible art on walls. Girls apparently went to work (corners of Washington and Sunset, respectively). I almost felt guilty. I didn't remember what the fuck I said to them yesterday in the bar... SHIT! Almost without exception, when I drink, the night becomes one long exercise in self-pity and/or slurred self-congratulatory salutations. They will never invite me again to their literary salon. My reputation is ruined forever (I ruin it, night after night, like some bad drawn out Tennessee Williams play). "that American idiot who drank himself to stupor while attempting to name-check archaic Russian authors, wax esoteric, etc ad nauseam. No wonder his boyfriend (*Boyfriend #22) left him... we had to carry him to our car... he can't hold his alcohol, America goniff!!!". Damn Russians! But my further humiliation was ahead of me: on the kitchen table I saw a notice, written on broken English by Russian hand:
"David! Since you are a morbidly self-obsessed gay male with unresolved issues concerning your father, please kindly leave.
Hello, to every [insert your petty, insignificant name here]... special seasonal greetings to all of you (yawn).
Now, I sweared this year to leave political arguments to the birds and start living the normal life of a self-obsessed gay man with a proclivity for cliches and bad puns, to get over my boyfriend lies and betrayals... except I COULD NOT. I worked from 8 at the morning till late, late hours my weekdays (corner of 53rd a 3rd), I was gloomily sitting at the ‘Fist & Leather’ fetish club (corner of Robertson and Pico) with my Roger Maplethorpe book over weekends, and I never got past page 12, I was just re-living and re-enacting mentally the scenes of me and my amore together, all the humiliating, self-deprecation, I alternatively raged against the heterosexual world and imagined myself as the self-obsessed, narcissistic , self-involved, hedonistic, ineffectual walking cliché that I am. Then, in half an hour, started blaming the world for all that has gone wrong with my life... Anything would make me upset, even stupid Brandy song "What about us" at K-Mart would make me literally crying all over my shopping cart...(I spend a substantial time feeling sorry for myself). All stereotypes about queenish, mentally unstable, Depeche Mode and Broadway musical's listening gay males are... TRUE, TRUE, TRUE! Finally... one gloomy Sunday, as Billy Holliday would sing, I took all my courage to call HIM (“HIM” being a metaphor for the outside world)... only to find out his cell number had been changed... bastard! So, unfuck him then, decided I, and to the gay bar I went... And I'm telling you, it is a lot of fun to go to gay bar with your boyfriend... I just felt silly, but continued to hope that the defeat oozing out of my pores would attract the sympathy of some hormone-driven stranger... it’s impossible for me to fell for others, for godsake, I was thinking... So to another "older crowd" gay bar I went, crossing Santa Monica Boulevard, only to find myself encircled by mustached horny Levis-clad men in their forties. I pretended that their cheap cologne and cheap smiles were beneath me, but at least I was getting some attention (that’s all I wanted anyway). Was it because I was wearing cowboy boots??? Or because they could sense that I was an attention-starved whore looking for companionship no matter how cheap or primal? I patiently explained to those "urban cowboys" that I'm really not a hustler from Nevada, but if this satiated their loin-driven fantasies they could do with me as they wished, just so long as my ego-driven foray into their seedy underworld would end with my pants around my ankles... So hurriedly I left... alone, of course (leaving alone allows me to pretend I’ve retained my dignity).
I made it at a lesbian bar at one piece, bought myself a white russian (nothing says “notice me” like a white russian) and... whom do I see... Gertrude Stein and her devouted female friend Toklas, , two wanna-be Eastern European femme fatales (obsessed with Nordic aesthetics), madly in love with themselves and…...well that’s it. Of course, they started to cheer me up, after all, they, married for years (sham marriage – never certified by State authorities), could afford to lend me their souls (I sap souls), if only for a few drunken hours... So back and forth bytch bartender went, bringing us more scotch and stoli, and I was whining and moaning like the self-obsessed bitch I am for any and all to hear it.
I woke up at Valentina and Sonya (2 above-mentioned victims) Melrose street pad in the Russian Red Army style sleeping bag with my gigantic ego to keep me company.
That Monday was cold, very unpleasant day with massive headache and a bottle of a grapefruit juice left for my cure on the little table... I called sick at work from my cell (I do this often – demanding that my employer suffer for my decadent lifestyle). I drank a glass of vodka as I often do. I looked at mysterious, trendy-if-incomprehensible art on walls. Girls apparently went to work (corners of Washington and Sunset, respectively). I almost felt guilty. I didn't remember what the fuck I said to them yesterday in the bar... SHIT! Almost without exception, when I drink, the night becomes one long exercise in self-pity and/or slurred self-congratulatory salutations. They will never invite me again to their literary salon. My reputation is ruined forever (I ruin it, night after night, like some bad drawn out Tennessee Williams play). "that American idiot who drank himself to stupor while attempting to name-check archaic Russian authors, wax esoteric, etc ad nauseam. No wonder his boyfriend (*Boyfriend #22) left him... we had to carry him to our car... he can't hold his alcohol, America goniff!!!". Damn Russians! But my further humiliation was ahead of me: on the kitchen table I saw a notice, written on broken English by Russian hand:
"David! Since you are a morbidly self-obsessed gay male with unresolved issues concerning your father, please kindly leave.