2004-01-01

Happy New Year. I hope that 2004 treats everyone with the respect and courtesy that they deserve. I was a bit adrift this year. I was supposed to go up to Tahoe and enjoy the company of Sister, Husband, and Dog. But alas, a storm threatened and so I decided that I didn�t want to risk it, or spring for air fare. So I stayed in. I was invited to a party in the Mission, some friends of mine from school were throwing a large party and so, for lack of a better offer I went. And was I glad that I did. The loft was rather tarted up, like ones Great Aunt for her Worthy Matron Ceremony. The hosts of the evening was also rather tarted up, the tarting being something that her partner had insisted on. I commiserated with her but told her the place looked great, and it did. So we started drinking. And I started talking. As the party raised in both tempo and quantity of people, and the volume of my bottle of Kettle One and Odwalla lowered, things got fun. I told stories of the old people. I told stories of the Ugly People. I spoke of Bimberly and Plain with fondness. And life was good. Much to the delight of many and to the chagrin of the skeletal black man who normally entertained all with his tails of a stupid coworker. He had shown up with an unpleasant woman of what I assumed to be East German descent. Or possibly the wrong side of Prague. He could finally take my popularity no more and made a disparaging remark about me getting my accounting certificate from the school that Sally Struthers pimps out during Jerry Springer. I told him to take his Merona sweater and shut up. Sure, I hate the job, but dig me on it and I will hurt you. He retaliated with a Sally Struthers remark that referred to my build. I told him to take his faux marina look to somewhere people would buy it. At this point his hag made a sniff and I told her �You too, J Jill� to which I think she may have gone to hit me, but either broke her cankle or split through her shoe. It�s hard to say. They then had to leave, once the cab got there. The cool part was the host apologized to me, when, I kept it going. I was relishing a fight. Especially with the hag out of commission. Things were still good though. I finished off my vodka and orange. The lesbian loft was crammed like an MTV add or music video and I was feeling popular. I had dressed down a bit for the occasion, wearing Dickie work pants with Vans and a Paul Frank Industries t-shirt and was glad, as the black guy had worn my pinstripes and french cuffs with a sweater look and there were no less than three bantam weight Hispanics and one obese lesbian wearing variations of my washed denim with cowboy shirt look. And so I was cool, aloof but approachable, the outsider that everyone wanted to play with and talk to. And so the evening progressed nicely until after midnight were we sat sprawled on a psudeo harem made especially for the evening and discussed weighty topics like Bennifer and E True Hollywood stories. Inevitably Porn was brought up and there, for reasons that are not very clear to my vanilla self, was were I excelled at coming up with scenarios. It seems that I have a talent for scripting pornography scripts into mini melodramas. Lesbian, Gay, Straight, I had the answers to them all. One woman, whose homosexual escort had left her stranded thought that I should move to LA and pitch my scripts. I believe that my shining moment came (though not literally) when I comically and believably came up with a fisting scenario that was neither tacky nor contrived. Yes Fisting. And as I walked home in the frigid New Year air (alone despite offers from all over the fence) I thought on my evening and was amazed at how clever and alive I felt. And that was with a bottle of Kettle One in me. So, while I swayed, attempting to stand at the corner of Church and 16th waiting for the light to change I was struck with inspiration, either from god, the devil, Larry Flynt, I�m not sure. Why not combine Cirque de Soleil and fisting. No, not just fisting, but the entire gamut of (legal except in Kentucky, Idaho and Utah) perversion. It was time to bring the perverse like fisting into the American lexicon. To have the fads addressed by Congress, regulated by a nation increasingly lulled into complacency. And I decided that I was the person to do it. I would start with an MC, a dwarf mulleted lesbian in a wifebeater and jeans, rage so fierce one would swear that it was the seething within that had so stunted and gnarled her body and limbs. She will carry a stool out with her, lit by a single spot to the center of the stage. A bulky, heavy thing as large as she. And when it is finally in place, she will climb its heights and strip, defying our perceptions until she stood there, nude and transformed. Her anger gone with the accoutrements of her alternative lifestyle, oddly transformed. Out of the sky would drop a jeweled phallic scepter and a sparkly top hat, which she would use to guide not only the ceremonies but herself. And the acts would come out one by one to do their contortions and depravity, accompanied by new age music and our trusty MC. The acts themselves would also be incongruous and wrong. Obese Bear types with Japanese Schoolgirls, Leather Daddies with Lipstick Lesbians. Dykes on Bikes shoving pool balls up the asses of preppy stock brokers. It elevates it from smuth then. It becomes �Performance Art� and makes it eligible for grant funding. And so then, when the whisper thin bottom boys are finished with the sodemizing of the beefy linebacker types and the lights go out on their tear stained faces, we are left again alone with our MC, spent and weary, still on her stool. And she will again put on her anger along with her clothes and drag the heavy stool off stage with her. The end. It requires some refinement. And a cast. But I think I could make it happen. I imagine I could get 1,000 people to pay 40 dollars a seat to see it as well. And so I drifted off to sleep on that cold morning to dream of my future and hopefully sleep through the hangover.

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