125

fringe theatre is hit-or-miss, and conflicting time out reviews resulted in me begrudgingly meeting up with the two scottish davids [the teevee one, and the non-transvestite one] on wednesday. before the show, we had dinner at the restaurant where i recently broke up with #117, sat across from a few friends of #108, whom i haven’t seen since that breakup. no stabbing, shouting or painful awkwardness—just lighthearted discussions of lgb politics and scottish pish-taking. the night is turning out to be a boulevard of broken dreams.

traipsed over to the menier chocolate factory in london bridge to see if destroyed true, a brilliant, fast-moving scottish play which follows the intertwining, disenchanted lives of some souls in the fictional scottish town of new flood, which has just won a £500,000 grant for being the worst town in scotland. rather than using the grant money to improve the town, a group of 6 conspire to use the funds in a more effective way.

intimate theatre, brilliant staging, a few modern gimmicks [video montage, nouveau music] but it’s mostly the solid delivery from the 6-person cast that makes it a treat. i adored it, my companions seemed a bit more critical. afterwards, drinks with the cast, where i failed miserably to flirt with alan, the adorable actor who played the chavvy neddy youf in the show. i do adore my thespians.

after many months apart, i finally had dinner with #51 in covent garden on a sunny sneezy london evening, where we managed to catch up quickly, maturely work through our lingering breakup/holiday/eric’s-an-awful-person issues, and have a few laughs like old times. and, we both offered our own ponderings of the possibilities of love versus big-city temptations. he’s becoming quite the music journalist, which makes perfect sense, considering we met at a concert, our relationship had a soundtrack of its own, and i’ve never seen him without his trusty discman.

up to islington for wayne’s monthly urban showcase. it’s still a bit confusing for me to realize that somehow i’m in the middle of the london r’n'b / urban music scene. spent a few hours bouncing to some r’n'b and soul and garage and smoove grooves. behind mz. fontaine‘s cockiness and smile is an amazing voice, and her new tracks left me glowing and proud, to see that she’s more than just a talented rapper—grrl’s got a voice! grace orlando always manages to deliver flawless, beautiful vocals, and also cracks me up. of course marcos was stepping back in full-force, now that he’s a full-time artist dash deejay dash rapper dash writer dash singer dash dancer.

#23 buys me just enough drinks to convince me to head to .discotec with him. my hair’s newly bleached, and at a club like .discotec filled with brazilians and miscellaneous latin types, i feel like the bloody chum in a tankful of sharks. gross analogy. really, gross. don’t try to visualize. i’m just sayin’…

on the way down the stairs, i clock #73, the tall lanky punk-rawk brazilian boy whom i think i’m on bad terms with, but i can’t quite recall why. something involving me forgetting to set an alarm and him missing work and getting fired. or something. i don’t really remember.

ordering drinks at the bar, i spy #92 leaning up against the wall, giving me the smirkiest, fakest smile imaginable for someone who took me on one of the worst dates of my life [when he talked on his mobile throughout dinner, in german to his sugardaddy, thinking that i wouldn't understand him]. yet every time we meet, he flirts and toys with me all over again.

#23 spends just enough time in the r’n'b room to hear hollaback girl twice, which is fine for us, as we have our choreographed routine down pat. it’s amazing how easy it is to invent moves for poetic lyrics like this shit is bananas, b-a-n-a-n-a-s or, even better, ooh, this my shit, this my shit.

waiting for him outside the toilets, i’m in the no-man’s land between the two rooms, precisely where the unsynchronized basslines merge, resonating through my skull, causing the left and right sides of my body to uncontrollably dance independently. i vaguely recognize #28, who moved to wales years ago. he invites me to his birthday party next week, where i complimentarily joke [like i always do with anyone who's having a birthday], aha, so you’re turning 21 at last! #28 smiles, wow, you have a good memory! i must have been… 17 when we first met? he’s not joking. eek.

i do an incredibly great job of avoiding #94, for my own sanity, which is tough in a place so cruisy and so drug-fuelled as .discotec. i turn my back for one minute to see #23 riverdancing [yes, riverdancing] in order to court some freaky irish bloke. i turn the other way and a girl jumps into my arms, saying i sure hope you’re straight!. i turn the other way to run into an old old old friend, who becomes #125. on 05/05/05. you do the math.

a funny thing happened at 117am last night—it all became clear, just for one moment.

did you ever wish that you can go back to your youth and re-live certain events, certain days? we all wish that we knew then what we know now.

i can look at my life and my upcoming move in a variety of lights.

one light suggests that i’m going back to california, that it’s a retreat, and that in many regards i’m starting over. although i’m a very smart cookie and have done brilliantly at every job i’ve worked at, i am somehow feeling a bit like i’m floundering in my career, starting over again in a new city, new peeps, a new role.

the same light argues that giving up my london life is solely a bad thing, that i’ve never been as content and happy and successful as i have been over my four years in london. saying goodbye to a brilliant network of friends and associates will hurt as much as pulling out my kneecap through my belly button.

when i first stepped into the .g-a-y megaclub in 1998, i was overwhelmed and nervous. after rising to the top of the london social scene during my days at xy magazine, i went back several years later to the very same club and felt obnoxiously above it all. yet, last night, i felt bewondered and bewildered and bemused by it all. and a bit uncomfortable. of all these cocky 17yo shirtless kids gyrating around me. of these happy bouncing masses that will continue to bounce long after i’m gone.

7 years ago i fell in love with a loverly irish lad, resulting in a roundabout long-distance romance, replete with handwritten love letters and expensive international phone calls and visits to dublin and los angeles as we tried to make it work. over the years, we’ve remained friends, but i’d managed to lose contact completely with damien a few years ago. running into him last night was pure serendipity, of course.

damien, of all my friends, can relate to my madcap existence, having lived and loved in dublin, london, poland, italy, chicago, cape town and god only knows where else. as we began to frantically catch up, then and there on the smoky dancefloor of .g-a-y, late on a bank holiday monday, he helped me to put it all in perspective.

we were interrupted mid-sentence by a talent show on stage. singers, dancers, strippers. as we watched the show in silence, i had time to process all of the reassuring advice that insightful damien, visiting from dublin, had just dished out. my life is great, moving back to the states is great, seeing my family will be great, starting the magazine will be great, unplugging from london will be great. and, somewhere along the way i’ll find romance.

at 117am, just as some drag queens finish their dance routine, a dashingly handsome lad takes to the stage, sheepishly grabs the mic, and starts belting out a beautiful rendition of your song by dame elton john via moulin rouge. i was feeling particularly vulnerable at that moment, having been reunited with a brilliant long-lost friend, having just been psychoanalyzed, torn apart and put back together, and this love song just managed to find its way into my exposed nerve…

reminding me that the greatest loves of my life have been the artists, the singers, the passionate creative boys who have been the ying to my nerdy, pretentious, self-absorbed, analytical, stressed-out yang. so, i stood there, staring up at this talent show contestant crooning away on stage, focusing all of my romantic intentions on him—or someone very much like him.

having dramatically uprooted myself several times in my life, i know with certainty that i will meet the man of my dreams 3-4 weeks before my departure. that’s the way love goes.