Robert Evans - The Comeback Kid
Could gay man fall madly in love with bohemian graphic designer woman?
Hello, to every [warm] body here, from Mancurian Boy Named Steven Patrick to homoerotic poet-laureate Pillow, from Clevelend's own Drew Carey (aka Loafing Oaf) to Imperial County Drama Queen Miss Tibby... et cetera, et cetera... Nonastitchtowear and Mindy, Suzanne and Helen, you are darlings... special seasonal greetings to all of you, girls.
Now, I sweared this year to leave political arguments to the birds and start living a normal life of an healthy gay male again, 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, I was gloomily sitting at Starbuck (corner of Robertson and Pico) with my Neil Geiman 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 bad and good times, I alternatively raged against my ex-love and imagined myself as a sacrificial lamb for my ex boundless egotism and libido, then, in half an hour, started blaming myself for all that went wrong with us... 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... As if I wanted to prove to the world that 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... 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, but by yourself... I just felt cosmically stupid, balding man in his late twenties surrounded by Gucci clad teenage kids dancing over Eminem... Is it time to grow up, for godsake, I was thinking... So to another "older crowd" gay bar I went, crossing Santa Monica Boulevard, only to fing myself incircled by mustachoed horny Levis-clad men in their forties, who mistakingly took me for hustler from Reno, Nevada and started inviting me to their "Hollywood penthouses" (aka crampy one-bedrooms at seedy sections of Hollywood blvd) to watch "movies" (Jeff Stryker's? Definitely not Jenna Williamson's! :-) ) with them... Was it because I was wearing cowboy boots, white "Huston is hot tonite" leather pants and Tanya Tucker t-shirt??? :-) I patiently explained those "urban cowboys" that I'm really not a hustler from Nevada, but lost & confused Argentinean farmer boy from Patagonia, but that only made their inquiries even more urgent... So hurriedly I left... alone, of course.
I made it at a lesbian bar at one piece, bought myself a white russian and... whom do I see... Gertrude Stein and her devouted female friend Toklas, I meant 2 of my gliterrati female Russian friends, the hosts of famous WeHo poetry readings, two brillian erudites of cosmopolitan feminist fiction and poetry, two drop-dead gorgeous Eastern European femme fatales, madly in love with each other and with written word... Of course, they started to cheer me up, after all, they, happily married for years, could afford to lend me their happiness and support, if only for a few drunken hours... So back and forth bytch bartender went, bringing us more scotch and stoli, and was I drowning my sorrow in oceans of liqueurs and seas of vodka!...
I woke up at Valentina and Sonya (2 abovementioned girls) Melrose street pad in the Russian Red Army style sleeping bag with big gorgeous snow-white Siberian cat 'Koshka' napping in my arms.
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 drank a glass of vodka to chase my hangover. I looked at mysterious russian icons at the walls. Girls apparently went to work. I felt very guilty. I felt I abused hospitality of my russian lesbian friends. I didn't remember what the fuck I said to them yesterday in the bar... Was I crying loud my love to Russians and Dostoevski, was I singing Cats tunes, was I making a total fucking idiot of myself in front of Valya and Sonya? SHIT! They will never invite me again to their literary salon. My reputation among Eastern Europeans is ruined forever. "that American idiot who drank himself to stupor while enacting duke Bolkonski monologues to Natasha Rostoff from Tolstoy's War and Peace... who tried to quote Pasternak while drunk like a skunk. Those clueless Russian-studying Americans, one-cell amoebas... no, this moron does not belong with us... No wonder his boyfriend left him... we had to carry him to our car... he can't hold his alcohol, America goniff!!!". Damn Russians! They made me drink those shots, we won the cold war, and now they are winning at the drinking battlefields... 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 got pissdrunk on us, do us a favor. We go to work to bookstore. You, drug,
1.) Feed a cat (catfood in fridg, put it in milk, no cold! Koshka love warm milk! Koshka very sensative, unlike you!)
2.) Walk a cat (take cat in hands, Koshka too sensative for a lesh"
3.) Vacum-clean. Good cure for a male pig like you, drug! You throw on carpet, piss all over toilet seat, now you clean...
4.) Buy us food for dinner at Palisades Supermarket (next to Troubadour club!) Buy: black bread, milk, cod, cabbage, carrots, apples, oranges, beef and chicken drunsticks, all dengi ($$$s) on the fridg...
5.) Females of the World, Unite!
6.) Feminism Rules!"
Great! Now I'm a slave for ya, right Britney! Slave to 2 gorgeous gay Russian females... feeling guilty about my pig chauvinism and oblidged... Walk a cat? Do shopping? Clean? Am I a gay male or a fucking pussy-licking slave! Just leave! But guilt and remorse makes world go round... Walking Koshka (Siberian cat) in my trembling arms I went, cleaning I went...
CONTINUATION WILL FOLLOW...