Vanguard: A Miscellany

The B Word

Maybe I do sabotage relationships that have a possibility of working.  Maybe I only date men incapable of the kind of relationship for which I claim to be looking.  Maybe.

Like Will.  I remember the day it turned sour.  I remember it like it was yesterday.  We were out by the pool with some of our friends.  He had had one drink.  I had had a few more, maybe more than a few more, but it was one of those hundred degree summer days where nothing could be more perfect than a poolside mojito with friends and a man who you found sexy and found you sexy in return.  

And he was sexy.  Dark hair and olive skin, a body so well defined even my straight friends couldn't help but notice...and comment on.  And on that day, in his body hugging square cut, I could barely keep my hands off him...and underwater, I didn't.  

We were inseparable.  And it was obvious that we were together, even though we were discrete.  People we barely knew asked how long we had been together or commented on how good and happy we looked together.  It all seemed perfect...until it turned sour.

One of his friends had arrived in the late afternoon, and he introduced us, "This is my boyfriend, Van."

The B word.  He used the B word.  And though I'm not afraid of commitment, I did at that moment get cold feet.  It was too early, wasn't it?  Wasn't it?  I mean he'd met some of my best friends and loved them.  That's important.  We had a lot of physical chemistry.  That's important too.  And we got along together great.  Up until that point, we had not once had an argument.  But for me it was far too early.

And I think, maybe he realized it.  Or maybe not.  But his subsequent voice mails carried an air of urgency or desperation.  We had planned on meeting up again at 7:30 after he had a chance to run an errand, and I'd had a chance to take a much needed nap.  Unfortunately, I didn't wake up until 11:30 with nine voicemails from Will, each more frantic and more desperate than the last.  "Call me when you get this," he pleaded.  "I don't know if something went wrong, but I'm just waiting for you to call," he said next.  "Is something wrong?  Did I do something?"

I didn't call back.  

I was afraid to.  I admit it.  And I felt badly about it.  I still do.  I remember it well.  Like it was yesterday.  

Actually, it was Friday.  Three days ago.  The day it turned sour.  Also the day I first met him at the pool at The Palms in Vegas.  I don't know.  Something just told me he wasn't the one for me.

Week In Review '08.26

6/21 - There is nothing more annoying than going to work when it is 110 degrees out.  Well, except when traffic is really shitty and a forty minute commute turns into an hour and thirty.  Oh, and then when your car's A/C goes on the fritz.  That's more annoying.  Need to get a new car.

Anyway after Job #2, I had just enough time to shower and get dressed for the birthday party of one of Guido's best friends.  It was at a place in Hollywood called La Defence.  It's a Eurasian karaoke restaurant where large parties rent rooms for dinner and karaoke.  I was fun...sorta, especially when the drunk girls from the room next to ours stumbled into our room and started being completely trashy.  But the place itself?  Eh.  The food was kind of crappy, and frankly karaoke just isn't my scene.  But as always, being in the company of Razor Burn, Unicorn, Sunshine, Cheerleader, Guido and the Spainiard is always a guaranteed good time.

6/22 - I was supposed to go to my parents' for lunch.  I was supposed to go play volleyball.  I was supposed to go get drinks with a friend.  I was supposed to go to the movies with other friends.  What did I do?  Nothing.  It was glorious.

6/23 - Nothing really.  Went to work.  Worked out hard with my trainer.  Don't think I've ever sweat so much.  Then went home and slept for only three hours because I was on call.

6/24 - I went and did some retail therapy til relatively late at night.  I was ready to go to bed by 11:00 which I did, only to wake up again at 1:00 a.m. then was plagued by a bad case of insomnia.

6/25 - I was sooo tired the entire day.  Just wanted to go home and go to bed.  Strangely, I ended up with a lot of visitors that night--my sister Vanessa and her husband, Dutch, and then G Squared.

6/26 - Again with my trainer.  And because it was Thursday, O-Bar.

6/27 - I woke up at 4:00 a.m.  This time on purpose despite the shitty sleep I'd had all week.  I probably could have slept right on through the day, but I had shit to do.

I drove over to Sunshine's house at 5:00, meeting there with Razor Burn to try to get on the road by 5:30 because two days before, they told me there was a trade show that we needed to go to.  So, road trip with my business partners who also happen to be among my best friends in Vegas?  No question about it, I had to call in sick.  Besides, I needed a mental health day.

So off to Vegas it was.  Now I've never been a big fan of Vegas.  I don't gamble.  I don't get a boner from all the glitz and lights and stuff.  The last time I went was to meet up with an ex, and I never really ever left the hotel room.  This time however...wow.  After the trade show, we made a pitstop at a little pool party at the Palms called Ditch Fridays.  It was a lot of fun.  A LOT of fun.  The only thing about these kinds of pool parties is that it always leaves me feeling like I need to get myself to work out a shitload more.  Dudes are always amazinly yoked!  Anyway, ever the perfect friend, Razor Burn did everything to try to hook me up, despite the clearly uber heterosexual vibe of the party.  He tried to strike up conversation with anyone he thought might me gay, i.e. anyone not in board shorts.  He dragged me along to talk to these guys.

Only when talking to some girls they had just talked to, it turns out they weren't gay.  They were mixed martial arts fighters who thought it would be funny to dress in more revealing swimwear.  But seriously, how cute was the guy in the Speedos.  Then he talked to the guy who was clearly gay--a black man in speedos with a Brazilian flag motif.  Turns out he was one of the performers from Mystere.  I was then introduced to one of his friends, a 5'7" dark haired, green eyed Brazilian/Greek who had a tendency to get very friendly in the pool.  

It was a great way to spend a Friday.

Me Likey

Caveat Emptor

I talked to the dealer during my lunch break.  Honestly, I was just futzing around, totally frustrated by the piece of shit that my Audi TT cabriolet had ended up being--the non-functioning instrument cluster, the A/C motor that started to work only intermittently during our recent two hundred and sixty thousand degree weather, the persistent beeping of the oil guage alert even though the oil was just changed last month, the irregular high idling of the engine.  I could go on and on, suffice it to say that I just wanted to see some pretty cars, and the receptionist directed my call to him.  "My name's Rick," he said.  "I'll see ya at 6:30."  He sounded nice enough on the phone when I scheduled the appointment, a regular guy's guy.  

I walked into the showroom, and was immediately greeted by the quintessence of what a car dealer should be, middle-aged with a receding hairline that had also transitioned into 50% grey with slacks that appeared to have no waistline because it was hidden from view by the prodigious beer gut.  He was probably a high school football star.  He even had one of those gaudy class rings.  

"I'm here to see Rick," I said holding my hand out to shake what I thought was Rick's hand.  I was wrong.  This dealer got on his Blackberry then got back to me, informing me that Rick was just finishing a bite to eat and would be out as soon as he could.

I looked around the showroom for a few minutes, loving, LOVING the cars when, lost in daydreams of the all the ass I could get just driving one of those babies, a voice startled me back into reality.  "Van?"

He was so not your father's car salesman.  This was being woken from one dream to enter an even better one.  Holy shit, Rick was hot.  Late twenties with dark hair and that all-American look, complete with a dimple on his chin.  And even with the dress slacks, shirt and tie, there was no mistaking that that boy was rock solid underneath.  His shoulders were wide and his torso narrowed to what had to be a 30 or 31 inch waist.  It was all I could do not to stare.

And even more atypical, this guy was so nice and easy to talk to without the expected insincerity.  As we took the car for a test drive, he talked about moving to California from the midwest only a month ago, how he hadn't really gotten his bearings yet and hadn't had much opportunity to explore the city.  I told him about volleyball.  He plays too.  He told me about surfing, and told him I did too.  It got to the point where it was clear that under other circumstances, we could probably hang out.

But in my mind, he was trying to sell me a car.  In his, I'm sure, I was at best trying to weasel down the price thereby taking money out of his pocket and at worst, just wasting his time.

As I left, he shook my hand: "Hey Van, it was good meeting you.  It's nice to know not everyone in L.A. is a dick. Here's my card with my cell number, and if you don't mind I might give you a call to maybe play volleyball or something."  He was either just a really good mid-western boy or a really fucking good salesman.  I'm hoping he's the former.

It doesn't matter though.  He's straight.  It was obvious from his homepage.  Well of course I Googled him when I got home.  What self-respecting gay man with a crush wouldn't have.  But I was right about him.  The pictures on his site, from his days as a personal trainer, showed that underneath the Clark Kent attire was the physique of a Superman.  

Punchline

"And that's how I ended up dancing shirtless in the middle of the Friday night crowd at Rage.  At Rage!"

It's like the punchline of some bad gay joke.  If Typepad had sound effects, the line would have been followed by a snaredrum rimshot.  Ha...snaredrum rimshot, now that sounds like the punchline of some bad gay joke.

And yet...no joke.  I actually did find myself at Rage.  Let me just offer for exposition a little background about Rage.  It is described as the iconic West Hollywood gay bar which loosely translated means it is quite possibly the oldest surviving West Hollywood gay bar, outdating much more popular bars like The Abbey, Here, and Eleven by decades.  And as with all things in the gay community that outdates others by decades, it has, for the majority of the young and the pretty, fallen out of vogue, cast off in favor of the newer, shinier, prettier bars.  But again as with many things in the gay community that outdates others by decades, it has found its audience--underage twinks.  Yes, Rage on Fridays is filled with the 18-21 crowd and the men who love them; it is an 18 and over bar.  It is also on Fridays filled with lots of young Asian men...and the men who love them.

I guess it came as no surprise that he suggested it. 

We met on Wednesday, two nights before our date.  He was a new face at volleyball.  He was also a very cute face.  Great big green eyes, an impish smile and brown hair that he wore down to his eyebrows in front.  His shorts were slung low, riding just below the prominent bones of his hips, showing off the V of his lower abdomen.  

I didn't speak to him at the beach.  It's my version of flirtation--don't make eye contact and God forbid don't try to talk to it.  He, on the other hand, was bold.  He sat across from me at the dinner table, and within minutes announced to all that he was really into Asian men.  REALLY into Asian men.  I figured he was talking about other Asian men, not that there were any others at the table, just other Asian men in general.  

He couldn't be interested, could he?  Well, I found out that he was at least partially interested.  As he got up to leave, he pushed his phone into my hand: "Give me your phone number.  We should go out."  I realized he was more than partially interested when, ten minutes later, he sent me a text: "It was nice meeting you.  We should go out."  OK I guess he was persistent too.

We exchanged a few texts before settling in for an actual phone conversation.  A two hour phone conversation that ended with the plans to go out to Rage on Friday.

So a pleasant dinner and one beer later, I found myself on the dance floor at Rage.  He had taken off his shirt, making sure the six-pack was prominently on display.  Then he unbuttoned my shirt.  And that's how I ended up dancing shirtless in the middle of the Friday night crowd at Rage.  At Rage!

So see even though it sounds like the punchline of a bad gay joke, it really isn't.  And it's not that the story isn't funny, it's that the true punchline of the story is:  "And that's how I ended up dancing shirtless in the middle of the Friday night crowd at Rage with my twenty-year old date because he couldn't get into any of the other bars."  And it would actually be a little bit funny except for the fact that I feel a little bit dirty and a little bit NAMBLA adjacent.  

Week In Review '08.25

6/14 - While working at Job #2, I found out definitively from one of the women in our employ that Smooth was most definitely not the man for me.  The gild was already off the lily, and in the past I'd had my suspicions, but she put the last nails on the coffin for me.

It was OK.  The wheels were already in place for me anyway.  My sister had been invited to a barbecue that afternoon by one of the interior designers she works with.  First barbecue was clearly a misnomer.  The hostess upstaged any homo I know as far as the food was concerned with a variety of amazing gourmet rustic grilled pizzas and hors d'oeurves.  Second, the designer had wanted Vanessa to invite me because of another designer she wanted to hook me up with.  He was nice; not my type, but I like having people bring men to me rather than have to hunt for them on my own.

I left that party to meet up with Razor Burn, Unicorn and Guido.  Guido wanted to take me to the birthday party of one of his friends--a gay friend.  It was another potential potential.  

6/15 - I wasted the whole day pretty much until dinner.  Sunday sushi at Blowfish is apparently no longer going to happen.  The restaurant is no longer open on Sundays.  No worries.  Turns out Razor Burn and Unicorn's new fave sushi spot is one I had suggested a few months ago--Fat Fish right in the middle of boys' town.

Afterwards, I hung out with a newer friend Pocket Muscle Gay (PMG).

6/16 - I worked out with my trainer after work and had planned on meeting Dutch afterwards for drinks.  I had no idea where to go, but Trainer suggested Mark's: "It's half off Monday and it's always crowded.  Lot's of hot boys."  Well since we are both single, that sounded like an awesome suggestion, and so joined by Groeg as well, we headed to La Cienega for the half off food, the crowd, and the hot boys.  Turns out only two of the three were in evidence, and sadly included in the two was not the hot boys.  And the food was pretty shitty.  

I'm going to accidentally drop a weight on my Trainer's foot at the next available opportunity.

6/17 - Not much.  Worked then met up with Dr. Faux for a three mile run.

6/18 - Volleyball is a weird crowd.  It's a bunch of mo's running around half naked in the sand, all sweaty and hot, and some of those mo's are somewhat attractive.  So there is frequently a lot of sexual tension, as there frequently is with Shirley Temple.  Actually Shirley Temple has always been flirtatious with me for as long as I have known him which is close to six years.  Nothing has ever happened except being turned down early on when I asked him if he wanted to go on a date, and then turning him down six months later when he asked for the same.  Our stars are never in alignment or whatever astrological bullshit mumbo jumbo applies in situations such as these.

But on Wednesday, he made sure I went to dinner with the group afterwards.  He threw his arm over my shoulder as we walked and I wrapped mine around his waist.  I bought him a drink or two.  He ordered dinner for me, knowing I was trying to stick to a healthy diet.  It was so butch!  Throughout dinner, flirtation was running rampant.

So it was kind of funny that I spent the two hours after dinner talking on the phone with the new boy who had sat across the table from me who had been very forward about asking for my number.  That's a story for another day.

6/19 - Oh O-Bar.  Why must you always call to me?  I arrived at 6:30 soon to be met by Dutch, Fishering and three other friends.  Several mojitos and a half order of calamari later, we decided to leave.  It was 8:30 after all and there was work the next day.  The problem however was that as we said our goodbyes in front of the bar, Boy Next Door who wanted to meet up (although I thought he'd be there earlier) showed up.  So thus started by second shift of the evening, staying til 11:00.

6/20 - I had a date.  With the boy from volleyball.  We went to dinner where I ran into some friends and almost died of embarrassment.  Then we went to Rage, yes Rage where again I almost died of embarrassment.  Why Rage?  Why shitty, hasn't-been-cool for decades Rage?  Because of the boy...more on that later.  

Bitches, I went to Rage!  I'm going to go cry now.

Swarm

By the time I got there the regular Wednesday volleyball group had already been playing for some time.  I kicked off my flip flops, took off my shirt and walked to the nearest familiar beach umbrella when all of a sudden everyone started yelling at me.  It took a couple of seconds to register that they were all trying to tell me to get away from the umbrella.

Apparently within an hour of the umbrella being opened and staked into the ground, a couple of bees had made their way into the undersurface of the umbrella, then a couple more, then a whole swarm.  As the afternoon wore on the weight of the mass of bees pulled the umbrella onto the ground and ultimately completely upside down.  How freaky is that?  And yes that is the actual picture of the bees.

Proof

There is a God.  I have proof.  And it is not derived from my years of Sunday school, nor is it from my extensive studies as a Religious Studies major under the tutelage of some of the foremost authorities on the matter at Berkeley.  No, I had proof of it on Sunday.

I was driving back from a business meeting in West Hollywood, and no this isn't  euphemism for primal, unadulterated, man on man physicality...not this time anyway.  I was in my car, right foot firmly pressed on the gas when, for a fraction of  a second, I felt the car give out, just lose power, as though the line connecting the accelerator to the engine had been cut.  But it was only for a fraction of second, so brief in fact that I had to think twice about whether or not it actually even happened.  Did I just imagine it?  Did I absentmindedly release some pressure on the accelerator?

It did in fact happen, however.  I knew it had because it happened a second time.  Only this time, I could feel the power steering give for a fraction of a second as well. 

And then I knew it must be the gas.  I must be running low on gas.  Now in most cases, it would be as easy as just checking the instrument cluster to see what my fuel guage reads.  Sadly, that's not the case with my car.    There is actually a class action law suit against Audi USA regarding the faulty instrument clusters installed in their TTs, particularly the model and year of the car I own.  So no, my fuel guage doesn't work.  Neither does my odometer.  Or my speedometer.  Or my check engine light.  Basically, my car is a piece of shit death trap...but it  does look fucking good.

But I didn't think I'd be low on gas.  Generally, I just tank up every three to four days to make sure I'm not running low.  And I'd filled up only three days before.  But as the car briefly stalled for a third time and my heart rate doubled at the thought of breaking down in the middle of Wilshire Blvd., I retraced my steps this weekend--driving twenty miles to a downtown meeting, followed by a training session in West Hollywood, then back to the west side on Thursday.  Friday, driving fourteen miles to Job #1 then to West Hollywood to meet friends for dinner, then back to the west side.  Saturday, driving thirty miles to Job #2, then to Pasadena for a barbecue, then to the valley for a party, then back to the west side.  It was no slower on Sunday.  Yup, I had most certainly run out of gas, but I knew my regular gas station was only three blocks away.  

"Thank God" I thought to myself, not actually conscious of the significance of having thought that.  All of a sudden I thought, "Oh shit" as the car stalled for a fourth time.  "Oh crap," as engine cut, as the steering became more laborious.  But the station was only a half a block away.  Unfortunately it was on Wilshire, a street heavily trafficked even at 2 a.m. and it was only 7 p.m. at the time.  Surprisingly, there were no oncoming cars.  I stepped on the brakes that didn't seem to respond; the power brakes were no longer functional, and I pushed as hard as I could feeling as though my foot was going to go right through the floorboard.  To make matters worse, the steering wheel had also lost the power assist and I cranked it as far to the left as I possibly could with as much force as my arms could muster.  And I slowly cruised in, with just enough inertia to allow my car to barely stop right in front of the gas pump, literally RIGHT IN FRONT OF THE PUMP.  I couldn't have parked it any more perfectly had I had a full tank of gas.

And that's how I knew that God does indeed exist.  I stood completely relieved as the gas pumped into my car, fully aware of the bullet I had just dodged.  And as the pump nozzle clicked indicating that my tank was now full and I pulled the receipt that documented my $75 gas purchase, I also had incontrovertible proof that Satan was just as real.

P.S.  I got further proof today of God's existence.  Several years  ago I had joined a dating site which for the most part has lain dormant, but when I opened my email today, I had a note indicating that someone was interested in me.  The subject line read "Jesus is interested in you!" with an exclamation point even.  It's like my mom always said, Jesus is always looking out for me.  But who knew that Jesus was 39 with a fit build, brown eyes and dark brown hair, doesn't smoke, drinks occassionally, is self-employed in the entertainment industry and spiritual but not religious?  

Week In Review '08.24

6/7 - It was a marathon day at Job #2, working from 9 to 7.  But it was good.  We brought in a lot of business, and clients were so satisfied and impressed with the services that they no longer plan to go to our competitors in Beverly Hills.  

Sunshine, Razor Burn and I ended the successful day with a "family dinner" along with Guido and significant others at Senor Fred's.

6/8 - I really don't know why I insist on going (every year for the last five or so), but there I was standing along the Santa Monica parade route with Dutch, Mercury and Groeg watching the L.A. Gay Pride "floats" drive down the boulevard.  Sadly, the only interesting thing about the parade was our group and our snide comments.  Oh that and the fact that the Randy Blue boys were followed immediately by a float that advertised free hepatitis vaccinations.  I'm not sure if that was planned or if the hepatitis crew just always followed the boys around.

The parade over, Groeg and I kicked back at Fishering's for a little bit before I realized just how tired I was and left for home at a very early 6 pm.  I thought I'd get a really good night's sleep.  It wasn't meant to be.  I sort of had an unexpected guest who didn't leave until 3:30 am.

6/9 - OK working a full shift after only four hours of sleep, especially after a day of being out in the sun, is all kinds of fucked up.  I dragged myself through that day.  It wasn't all bad.  Sunshine, Razor Burn and Unicorn wanted to meet up for lunch.  And after work, all of us except Unicorn met up to plan our summer vacation. 

6/10 - I actually had a half day on Tuesday!  Worked out with my trainer.  Seriously, this is the best money I've spent.  Finally feel as though I've made some steps toward my work out goals.  By 2010, I think I'll feel comfortable taking off my shirt in public.  Then I did a bit of retail therapy.

6/11 - After a LOOONG absence, I finally made my way back to the beach for Wednesday night volleyball.  I didn't think I missed it, but I kind of did.  I'm going to have to start going back regularly.  The remainder of the night was shit--heart attack and a patient with AIDS with pneumonia involving the entirety of both lungs.  Didn't get to sleep until 3:30 again.

6/12 - My second half day of the week.  Again went to my trainer, ran a few errands, and since no one was doing O-Bar that night...home.  Is anyone else watching So You Think You Can Dance?  Am I the biggest fag around?

6/13 - Friday was nice.  I reconnected with The Greek, Manfriend and Blue-Eyed Dan.  It was an evening of tapas (Tinto Tapas...yum) and heated debate about the healthcare system.

Violated

Sometime between 2 pm Thursday afternoon and 8 am Friday morning, someone broke into my car, smashing the passenger window to steal a pair of sunglasses and my 80G iPod classic. 

It was nice.

The week up until that point was notable for just being shit.  Work had been miserable.  I felt overwhelmed by the volume of patients I had to see and the limitless amount of paperwork I had to do.  On top of that, I had friends and acquaintances calling and asking about the possibility of coming up to be seen: "It'll be quick, just 20 minutes" and the ensuing feelings of guilt over having to say no...well sort of no.  It ended up being "You can go to an urgent care or if you can wait, I'll double book you for tomorrow morning."  I was being pulled in all directions, spread too thinly, culminating in the mess that was my Thursday morning session.

Besides all that, I was in full pity party mode.  As much as my professional life had been over the top, my dating life was not much better.  The potentials I'd had had quickly evolved into not-a-snowballs-chance-in-hells.  

So on Friday, as I stared at the jagged borders of shattered window that remained in the passenger door and the thousands of pieces that littered the passenger seat and floor, I thought what next...what fucking next?  How could my life possibly get worse?  And after that second or two, a sense of calm just washed over me as I considered the possibilities of how much worse my life could truly be.

Things really weren't so bad, and all of my drama was is temporary--crap that will be little remembered in a year's time.  My life, in truth is not so bad.

I worked at Job #2 with Sunshine and Razor Burn the following Saturday, working my ass non-stop from 9 am to 6 pm.  At the end of the day, they both gave me big bear hugs.  That wasn't unusual.  What was was the announcement that they had spent a good portion of the morning trying to get a mobile glass company to come and replace the window for me.  They had no luck; on a weekend, no one was willing to dispatch someone to do that.  So instead, after having gotten estimates of the cost of the repair, they handed me the money and a company's phone number for the repair.  It was one of the sweetest, most considerate things anyone has done for me.

So really, what's a busted window? 

Besides which, with my iPod stolen, it doesn't seem all that ridiculous to upgrade to the 16 gig iPhone 3G when it comes out.