tag archive for chicago

pickle pen

when you’re 17 in indiana, prom is a very big deal.

when you’re 17 in indiana, just coming to terms with your sexuality, and have nothing but testosterone and clearasil flowing through your bloodstream, a night like prom is something you both cherish—and dread.

by the time senior prom rolled around, i’d already dealt with all of the drama of self-discovery, a wee bit of experimentation, i’d managed to come out to 2 close friends, and i’d even confronted my closeted lesbian principal [who was of no help whatsoever, but that's another story, to be sure].

5 couples rented a stretch limousine:

  • myself & kristi-lee [adorable, friendly lass, voted best dimples]
  • salem [my #1 best friend and fag-hag, best laugh] & victor [also gay, also closeted, best actor]
  • nick [my best friend 5-8th grade, voted best smile] & liz [voted friendliest]
  • matt [my best friend 1st-4th grade, most gullible] & natale [neighbor, also most gullible]
  • jen [my one and only ex-girlfriend, who had recently forgiven me for breaking up with her the previous year, after i finally told her the real reason why, best actress] & tom

not relevant to the story, but in case you were wondering, i was voted most likely to succeed, and teacher’s pet. they were right on one count, at least.

none of us had met tom before prom night [much less heard of him]. apparently jen had met him at some sort of swim class a few towns over, where tom was lifeguarding. we were all a little bit curious about this new addition to our clique, but were mostly just anxious about having the best night ever evar!

the limo picks up each couple, and at each stop we all pile out for photos [shut up mom, we gotta go!]. the last couple we pick up is jen [my ex-girlfriend] and tom [her date, the lifeguard]. we all pile out, compliment jen on her amazing dress & hair, exchange pleasantries with tom, and start posing for photos with jen‘s folks [whom had finally forgiven me for breaking up with her daughter].

throughout the 5-minute long photo shoot [ok, now just the girls! ok, now eric & jen!], i notice tom glancing my way several times. my first instinct is he’s sizing me up as jen’s ex-boyfriend, trying to figure out if i’m a threat—or not—to his [presumed] interest in jen [jen assured me that not even her parents knew of my "secret"].

the 10 [!!!] of us pile into the limo, and drive the 4 miles to the not-so-fancy-but-it-will-have-to-do-considering-we’re-in-smalltown-indiana banquet hall where our “night to remember” prom is being held. along the way, i observe tom observing the 9 of us interact [most of us have been childhood friends for 8 years].

i observe that he has an all-american winning smile. i observe he has floppy blond hair, in a teen heartthrob kinda way. i observe he has rosy cheeks which create an air of permanent bashfulness. even through his rental tux, i can observe that he’s most definitely a lifeguard, with broad shoulders and a taut frame.

we spend a few hours at prom, dancing poorly to hip-hop, dancing well to country music, posing for entirely too many photos, and having as much fun as you can without drinking. unlike in the movies, nobody spikes the punch or sneaks in a flask in 1995 smalltown indiana.

we collectively decide it’s time to start phase two of our prom night—a limo ride to downtown chicago, to hang out at ed debevic’s diner. on the way to the limo, i confer with victor [the other gay in the village, whom i'm sort of friends with at this point but it's complicated so i'll mostly refer to him as an 'ally'] about this new tom lad.

as cocky and articulate as i am now, at the time neither of us could ascertain or verbalize as to whether or not tom could be p.l.u. [people like us] or not. we were both excited, though, and as we piled into the limo we somehow ended up bookending tom in the cramped backseat of the limo, much to jen [his date]‘s chagrin.

it was about a 90-minute ride to chicago, filled with jokes and stories and singing and loud music and shouting out the sunroof at passing cars and reminiscing about 4th grade.

for me, it was an incredibly slow, deliberate, calculated, heart-in-my-throat, lump-in-my-pants, so-enthralling-i-might-just-faint game of pinky touching combined with knee rubbing with tom—the whole time we’re carrying on conversations with the rest of the limo, all of whom are no more than 4 feet away from us.

when you’re a closeted 17yo in indiana, i think this qualifies as 1st base.

our pinkies entwine as he presses his leg really hard into mine, our knees in a wrestling match that neither of us want to win. he glances over, smiles, and looks away as his rosy cheeks get rosier.

piling out of the limo at ed’s diner around midnight, we luckily get a table for 10. as i casually ["oh, i guess i'll just sit here"] sit next to tom [at the opposite end of the table from my date] jen shoots me an all-knowing look that makes my heart skip a beat.

oh, shit.

the wounds of our failed 6-month relationship are still very fresh for the both of us, and the last thing she needs from me is to steal her prom date [foreshadowing, anyone?], so i do my best to ignore tom. perhaps to make me jealous, perhaps because he’s confused, perhaps because he’s straight, tom is all over jen—playing with her hair, whispering in her ear, feeding her french fries.

gross.

my best friend and fag-hag salem asks if i would like to go to the front of the diner, where they have a little photo booth and gift shop and pinball machine. what the hell are you doing? she asks me as i look at merchandise in the display case. i’m going to buy a pickle pen!, i tell her, pointing at the phallic-shaped writing utensil. she grabs my arm, purses her lips and tells me, eric, don’t you dare try to steal her date! she will never speak to you again! i shrug [that's eric!] and we play some pinball and get photos taken before returning to the table.

as salem and i sit back down, tom turns to me and says we missed you! with a smirk. as i show off my purchase, he grabs it, my, that’s quite a pen you have there!. i turn to him, pretending to be angry, give. me. my. pickle pen. back! and try to snatch it. turns out this lifeguard has a very firm grip, and my attempts to retrieve said pickle pen fail.

retreating to my chili cheese fries, i see him write something on a napkin using my pen. my heart races as he scribbles sentence after sentence. he finshes his napkin note, folds in half, and hands it to… jen. she opens it, reads it, giggles and they kiss.

retreating, again, to my chili cheese fries, i catch up on gossip [in a very high-school way] with my [neglected] friends at the other end of the table [did you see what tina was wearing? who was that skanky date that scott brought?] i feel a familiar nudge against my leg, and instinctively reach under the table to grab the note that tom’s passing to me.

i turn away from the table and slyly open up the napkin:

meet me in the bathroom in 5 minutes.

xxxx,
tom

p.s. will you be my prom date?

incriminating photos.

5 years, 2 months ago
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pass the flan

squeezing around a tiny dinner table at a friend-of-a-friend’s 3rd story apartment in the mission, i loaded up my plate with some delicious mexican stew, and the host topped up my wine glass with some slosh from trader joe’s. as i settled into my second helping, conversation bounced from inside jokes to san francisco politics to gossip about mutual friends to tales of gay debauchery from the 70s and 80s.

it was exactly my type of dinner party… 9 or 10 smiling, laughing, witty faces, brought together for a casual sunday evening, most of whom knew each other, but none of whom made a particular effort go get to know me. that’s perfect… there’s no need for us to share life stories, when we’re all pretty certain we won’t be crossing paths again. you had the single gays, the gay couple, the straight couple and the newlyweds.

for me, though, i was most intrigued with rod, the older gent sat in the corner. he remained silent for the first part of the evening, but after the plates were cleared, his stories started to percolate up, dominating the conversation for most of the evening.

stories of how fun, how outrageous gay life was like in the 70s and 80s before the aids crisis. the wild 3000-person 3-day long party with 14 grand pianos, a vip an v-vip and v-v-vip room, where everyone did everything and nobody batted an eye. his amazing apartment which had disco balls and a fog machine and dancers. the porn films that would be filmed in his apartment, and how he had to repaint the outside so that fans wouldn’t come knocking on his door. his stories of debauchery at studio 54, his gentle namedropping of friends from back then, such as frankie knuckles

he wasn’t showing off, he wasn’t bragging, he was just sharing. proving to me that san francisco used to be a very different place, and that i’m justified for feeling disappointed and let down by the supposed gay mecca. life in san francisco is a bit better than when i lived there 1999-2001, but it’s still pretty sad, relative to, say, chicago or austin or san diego.

reading tales of the city and hearing stories from guys like rod confirms that people used to know how to have fun. i’m not talking just sex and drugs and hedonistic clubbing… i’m talking about a general fun-loving, adventurous attitude, from social groups to political rallys to big parties to having a sense of community. san francisco still doesn’t feel like a gay mecca to me—it smells much more like a homogenized, corporate version of gay life… more like a gay starbucks than a gay mecca.

7 years, 9 months ago
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blogligation

blogligation (blŏg’lĭ-gā’shən), n.

  1. a duty to inform the readers of your self-aggrandizing website of your mundane life, even though you’d rather just go to bed.

  2. a carefully-constructed, yet deliberately vague post to your online journal mentioning just enough to let your readers know you’re alive and that there’s more coming.

  3. this entry.

—

life after vegas has been wonderful, but… well, i shouldn’t complain. life is great. insanely busy, so much running around, meeting people, doing stuff… but, yes, l.a. life is wonderful.

the movers came today to haul away all the extra rubbish from my move, which i suppose means i’m moved in. doesn’t feel that way, and i still haven’t had a decent night sleep in… weeks.

i blew most of my vegas winnings on gratuitous home furnishings. a shiatsu message chair which is rockin’ my casbah. a radio frequency remote control system which adjusts the lights throughout my place—we know how i like to set the mood.

still haven’t had a chance to spend time with several of my l.a. friends, even though i’ve been here for over three weeks.

still haven’t been to any bars or clubs, really. aside from 20 minutes of dancing in vegas, and an hour of boogieing in chicago a month ago, i haven’t unleashed my london lifestyle on america yet. it will come—oh yes.

so much to do, still, but it’s coming together slowly. i have a few days before i jet up to san francisco for some business.

7 years, 10 months ago
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who are you calling loose?

slots slots slots

it was my mom’s idea, but somehow i got blamed for all of us ending up at the trump casino riverboat on saturday for some family bonding.

ever since i left indiana in 1995, the whole region has been inundated by so-called riverboat casinos. first off, they’re all parked on lake michigan, not any rivers. second off, they’re permanently moored [they never move]. the state quickly passed legislation 10 years ago allowing gambling on water, with local politicians drooling over the promised tax revenue and the promised increase in tourism.

alas, 10 years later, pretty much everyone seems to be disappointed with the casinos. apparently everyone’s been swindled, there seems to be no tax money coming in, although they’re as popular as ever, packed 24 hours a day with locals and people from chicago sneaking over.

i’ve been listening to everyone, including my mom, bitch about it for years, but all of a sudden on saturday she had a burning desire to take me. so, we grabbed a few benjamins, got spruced up in our best vegas bling, and hit da boats.

donald trump built two boats in gary, and those are apparently the nicest. gary [birthplace of the jacksons, shamone] was the per-capita murder capital of america for half of the 1980s. but, alas, trump has installed some beautiful tree-lined streets coming off the highway, and managed to rename his little slice of gary to the faux-posh sounding buffington harbor.

walking in, for the first 60 seconds, it feels just like vegas… the blinking lights, the sounds of slot machines, the hustle, the bustle, the shimmering gold and the shiny mirrors everywhere. but, after that, you start to realize that you’re definitely not in vegas.

for starters, the boat was crowded. low ceilings, tiny aisles, cramped seating… people seemed to be pushing and shoving just to get anywhere. and it was smoky, my god it was smoky, and that’s coming from someone who’s just spent four years in the big smoke.

looking around, i was shocked to notice that about half the crowd were elderly/handicapped/obese. when i say obese, i mean like, larger than my refridgerator obese. maybe 10-20% of the people there have canes/walkers. i [swear to god] even saw one woman with an oxygen tank. so sad.

and everyone looked so miserable. in vegas, you see smiles everywhere. smiles from people on vacation, having some fun gambling. smiles from people who are impressed [rightfully so] by the scale and graneur of vegas. vegas casinos -are- impressive… gold, marble, fountains… they’re classy in their own way. this place lacked character.

no, i take that back. it had all of the character of a bowling alley, crossed with that of an unemployment office, crossed with that of a bus station. yuck.

we had a blast, though. after sitting and watching my mom get bored with the $1 slots, we moved to video poker. she feigned ignorance for 2 or 3 hands, then next thing i know she’s up like $160. card shark.

after a few hours of jumping around, i tought the family how to play roulette. i explained to them my foolproof system [which never works for me, but still, it's foolproof] and i watched again as my mom doubled her money. i was more fascinated with the crazy chinese guy next to me.

after each spin, he’d scribble down all sorts of markings on his clipboard. for example P B 41 BB or ₪ 14 14 1. and he had a printout circle replica of the roulette wheel with all kinds of equations on it. when betting would start before each spin, he’d carefully place, say, 10 chips on 15, 3 chips on 18, and one chip on 18/19.

the dealer would spin the wheel, and betting would come to an end. then, just before she’d do her final wave, he’d frantically plop down 10 more chips, scattered all over the board, in a haphazard way. 31, 4, 5/6, 22, 31/32/34/35, black, 00. he’d keep throwing chips everywhere until the dealer would yell at him.

this happened for each spin. and he lost. he was crazy.

afterwards we gorged ourselves at el taco real [that's pronounced ray-ell] where i add another 2 lbs to my body, in an effort to catch up to the rest of the american population.

7 years, 11 months ago
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ribs and ribs


ma, pa, and betty-sue

on friday, i finally found time to hang out with my sister and her boyfriend… although they’d been dating for like 7 years, i haven’t really had the chance to spend time with them at all. i’ve been so lax [lax meaning lazy, not lax as in sweet dreams, my l.a. ex] in my familial responsibilities, it’s tragic. but, hey, that’s why i’ve subjected myself to been in indiana for the past two weeks.

on thing i’m realizing about america is how perfectly polished so many things are. i have a critical eye, and living in london, one was met with constant examples of sloppiness or lack of attention to detail. for example, you go to the bank, and everything’s a little bit dirty, the plastic pens are all broken, and there’s a sign taped up to the teller window, in times new roman font, with two punctuation mistakes and one misspelling. or, you buy some orange juice from the shop, and the packaging wasn’t properly designed and the label doesn’t really fit and the color printing was askewed. or, you go to a tourist attraction and you get a photocopy of some brochure from 1982 and that’s it.

needless to say, coming back to america, i’ve been impressed on several occasions, the most recent example is our visit to the museum of science and industry in chicago, which i hadn’t been to since i was but a wee [wee meaning small, and having nothing to do with urine] lad.

anyway, just inside the museum, before you even pay admission, there was this exhibit showing off the pioneer zephyr, the streamlined train from the 1930s, which zipped across america in record time. keeping in mind that we’re still in the free section of the museum, i expected it to just be a train that you could walk through and read little placards explaining bits and bobs about the train. my expectations were a bit low, presumably due to spending four years in england.

you go in, and are greated by a man dressed like a conductor, who explains that we’re just about to start our journey. he closes the door, and the train starts rocking back and forth, creating the illusion that we’re moving. you can even feel the clink-clink, clink-clink bumps on the rail. then he starts talking to this animatronic donkey, who explains the purpose for a high-speed train in 1930.

in the next carriage we sit next to passengers [mannequins] who are having a loud conversation with each other about the train. it’s cute, and they all have authentic 1930s accents. the conductor tour guide fella stays in character throughout.

we eventually end up in the first-class carriage, where the animatronic inventor of the train and his animatronic family tell us more about the train, and through the windows we can see the fields of nebraska zipping by.

i could go on about the amazing bodyworlds [phalanges! ribs! tendons! eyeballs!] exhibit or the submarine exhibit [mister smartypants learned a lot!] as well, but let’s just say i left the museum feeling a bit like i’ve been living in a third-world country for the past four years.


i love my combine harvester

had a blast catching up with kimmy and kevin… it’s great realizing that my lil’ sis is very much an adult now, and watching their dynamic was like watching a typical sitcom married couple [for better or for worse]. after driving around in kevin‘s huge four-door pickup truck monster truck, we stopped in at this amazing rib shack, presumably called the chicago rib shack.

home cookin’ home cookin’ home cookin’… ribs in a tangy sauce that just fall off the bone, hot wings the get your fingers all messy and your lips orange… proper soul food that i hadn’t had in such a long time. and we got to sit outside, something that is next-to-impossible in london, but what i’m already fantasizing about in l.a.. had a great time catching up with those two, kimmy and i retelling lots of family memories, kevin and i trying to ressurrect memories from our middle-school days long gone.

7 years, 11 months ago
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memories for sale

my mom has been nagging me for years, eric, when are you going to go through all your boxes in the attic?. she’s also been nagging me, eric, when are you going to come back to indiana? and eric, don’t you love your family anymore? see, when i moved out at the age of 18, i raided the house, and took pretty much any belonging of mine with any sentimental, emotional or resale value. i made sure of it—i like to keep my life tidy and organized and portable.

everything else was put away in boxes, and for the past 10 years these boxes have been sitting up in the attic. crawling up the attic stairs this morning, before the hot afternoon heat set in, i found 20 21 22 boxes. what’s inside? no idea. why don’t you look with me, which i’m sure will be as exciting and as long-winded as when geraldo broke into al capone’s vault…

box #1: 1000s of baseball cards, once valuable, now all bent and moldy. i’m guessing the childrens [sic] of 2005 don’t spend much time playing with pieces of cardboard with photos of steroid users on them? treasure: nothing.

box #2: wrapping paper [huh?] and blacklight posters. i don’t really remember having a blacklight. treasure: nothing.

box #3: 8×10 photos of eric in 3rd, 4th and 5th grade. not for sale, but saved for safekeeping, for potential use in upcoming jonny moirée: behind the music special. local newspapers from 1993, featuring dorky interviews with me, with titles such as sommer auf deutschland. star trek books and disturbing books with terrorism themes [e.g. black sunday and the president has been kidnapped!]. empty piggy bank, pinewood derby cars which never came close to winning any races cuz my dad wasn’t that technically inclined, mess kit from boy scouts, probably with mummified peach cobbler inside. 1991 upper deck hologram baseball cars [ebay says they're worth something]. treasure: photos of 8/9/10yo me, $180 worth of baseball cards.

box #4: back issues of boys life magazine [for boy scouts, silly!] and nintendo power [maps of zelda and tips on how to get to the minus world in super mario bros]. gonna keep a few of these for retro kitsch value. trapper-keeper binders from high school. an angry letter i wrote in to the local newspaper, complaining about class size, financial problems, dress codes, drugs, attendance policies, gangs, fights, suspensions, beepers… american schools are falling behind. i was a pretentious faux-foreigner back then, too. term papers on the works of kurt vonnegut. treasure: 1 issue of nintendo power.

box #5: awards: kiwanis scholar, presidential academic fitness, calculator mathematics olympiad, a blank certificate congratulating me for exceptional service in ________ [yet signed by the principal], academic super bowl, science olympiad, german club, honor society, young scientist, teacher’s pet. and like 100 medals from science olympiad. treasure: nothing except the inner geek.

box #6: a few old-school xeroxed zines that i subscribed to through BBSes [pre-interweb]. ooh, and a letter from lisa, this pretty girl whom i worked with at dairy queen, analyzing my flirtations with her and asking me out. via folded-up note. she writes, whatever girl wins your heart, remember to tell her that i wish i could be her. eek! she was the first girl i came out to at work. treasure: nothing except the repressed memories of that complicated summer.

box #7: more awards [geek!]. photo of me with a garter belt on my head, from prom? german magazines. stuff from the chicago cubs convention, 1993. boxes and boxes of baseball cards. most are worth only $0.08. i have notes on some cards listing their value as $125.00 but are now valued for $10. actually, wait, a few are listed at $100+! that’s jamba juice money, my friend! neon yellow sign stating the rules for entering eric’s room [enter at your own risk!!!], heavily worn boy scout manual [troop 10, killer whales!]. regarding drugs: when a junkie gets hooked, he can’t help himself. he must have more and still more. to get money he needs to by drugs from some other ‘junkie’, he may stage a holdup. he may even commit murder. boy scout beads, merit badges, belt. class of 1995 fluorescent pink water bottle… probably matched my l.a. gear shoes at the time. treasure: $500? worth of baseball cards.

box #8: photo of me in new york with my german friends in 1995, wearing a pansy division t-shirt with giant pink triangle. homo! tons of cassette tapes… mostly respectable: tom’s diner, motown philly, now that we found love, i got the power.. some not: unskinny bop, do the bartman, i wanna sex you up. my first communion prayer book and rosary. photos of my high school friends conga-dancing around a mexican restaurant for my 17th birthday, me with sombrero on my head. treasure: a few photos.

box #9: photos from when we snuck mike, our foreign exchange student from germany, to the canadian side of niagara falls, without a passport. jailarity ensued, and [apparently] i’m not permitted to ever go back to that border crossing. letter from q101 deejay samantha james, regretting she will not be able to attend our 80s-themed senior dance, but rather she put together a special mix tape for us with shout-outs from our favorite deejays and a remix of tainted love. photocopies of a dot-matrix, wordperfect printout of the rocky horror picture show script. original nintendo nes controllers and some bits from the power glove which i don’t remember owning. tons of comic books, mostly archie and jughead comics, some other random ones, apparently worth up to $100 each. treasure: $300? worth of comic books.

box #10: an appraisal from phil’s cards and collectibles offering to buy my baseball card collection for $100. funny thing, though, is that it’s dated 1996, when i was away at university. how thoughtful of my little bro to try to make some money off my junk. about 400 more comic books. i look up a few online and see them valued at $40-$100. i gently transfer them to a new box. treasure: $300? worth of comic books.

box #11: rubber-banded cache of folded-up notes from my ex-girlfriend jennifer. she writes: sorry it took me 4 years to write you back, but my intestines fell out, on the titanic, p.s. i must commend you on your last kiss, oow!. floppy disks with games for my old 386. flag of germany. my eric bogs stationery from elementary school, which i used to correspond with penpals in japan and alaska and brazil. a very wrinkled warning: teenager lives here poster. calvin klein underwear advertisements [hmm...] dot matrix print out of local BBS numbers, with hours of operation and accepted baud rates. l33t! a light in the attic, a witty children’s book given to me by my loving grandma whom i lived with for a few years. keeping that one. more end-of-the-world books, e.g. star bright: planet earth is burning, every hour is now a lifetime! one day soon, there will be no future! colecovision donkey kong junior cartridge. garter belt, presumably from one of my 3 [females] prom dates? d.a.r.e. bumper sticker [dare to keep kids of drugs]. treasure: embarrassing photos, book from grandma.

box #12: my actual boy scout uniform. there are too too many badges on it, and i can’t remember what any of them mean. should i wear it in a doubly-ironic way? you know, making fun of all the gay boys who wear them, making fun of the boy scouts? ooh, and the matching red uniform beret. folded clean handkerchiefs, strange. sunglasses from the tom cruise-in-footloose era. pocket telescope [no longer works]. all of the youth for understanding manuals and paperwork from my trip to germany. big novelty eraser which says my brother doesn’t make big mistakes from my lil’ bro. 4 complete sets of baseball cards, probably worth $20. photo of my girlfriend jen hugging me, i have a naughty smirk on my face. treasure: boy scout uniform, baseball cards, embarrassing photos.

box #13: box of chinese checkers, unopened [what a boring game]. my capsela kit! capsela was the bomb. i used to make remote-controlled boats and robots and cars and all sorts of other things. vhs tape labeled german honors project with barry which was my good friend barry and me pretending to be german on film for 30 minutes. christian children books which don’t look the least bit familiar. dot matrix printout of how to configure ansi.sys in dos. photo of me when i had chicken pox. photo from 16 years ago of kevin [who is now dating my sister] kissing cathy [who visited me in london last christmas and whom i'm having dinner with tonight]. printouts of how to cheat in sim city and have infinite money. copy of pc magazine explaining the features of upcoming windows 3.0. chicago bears earmuffs. treasure: incriminating photos.

box #14: spirit of america remote-controlled boat which i used to race across wolf lake. missing the remote control. treasure: memories of when we lived next to the lake.

box #15: my first silkscreening project… a black sweatshirt with bart simpson spraypainting eric graffiti onto a wall. little league baseball mitt. cross country ribbons [orange means 14th place, i think]. trigonometry notebook. b96 bumper sticker from 1993. membership card to american coaster enthusiasts. my first pair of geeky eyeglasses. treasure: nothing.

box #16: complete set of how it works encyclopedias, as seen on teevee. i remember reading each new issue cover to cover, definitely helps to explain why i’m such a know it all. the “H – Le” edition was my fave. can probably find entire contents at howstuffworks.com. treasure: nothing.

box #18: approximately 25 trophies. they look nice. they make my mom proud. we’ll leave these in the attic. treasure: put back into storage.

box #19: more baseball cards. vhs tapes of when i was in germany, some converted to ntsc. the first cassette tape i ever bought [dick tracy by madonna]. i remember being at the mall with my friend matt and his mom… his mom made me call my mom and ask permission before i could buy it. my address book from before university. more comic books… many worth $40, $110. my admissions letter from caltech, dated on my birthday, with a little handwritten happy birthday! note from the director of admissions.

another letter from my ex-girlfriend jennifer. this one dated just after i started sleeping with her boyfriend, but before he and her broke up. i think i was trying to convince her to break up with him—eek! die fantastischen vier postermagazin. a letter from someone in germany named frank. sheet music for joseph and amazing technicolor dreamcoat. letters from different local organizations that gave me scholarships all those years ago. i owe them all a huge thank you for helping me flee indiana all those years ago. treasure: comic books.

box #20: cassette tapes: teenage mutant ninja turtles, california raisins, m.c. hammer, ghostbusters soundtrack, beach boys. 7th grade leaf collection. more photos from germany, high school. chicago cubs puppet, baseball hats which i’ll be giving to my baby sister. german newspapers. autograph from eric clapton. notebook with all my nintendo passwords. the best one is for faxandu: ipgIAItkCEAiEIQtCEA. you can use it if you’re stuck on level 17. junior achievement awards banquet [i help run a chocolate factory for two years in high school]. elementary school yearbooks. freshman speech on alabama, which starts although most of you probably think alabama is just a state full of whiskey drinking hicks, alabama is much more than that. alabama is a very important and interesting state. stuff from my science fair projects. catechism notes: we are to live as adult christians, saying YES to christ, then we will live as he directs us, caring for others as he did [in my own handwriting]. copies of the nintendo newsletter i made for my friends and my mom photocopied at work. hand-painted ceramic statue of e.t. from my babysitter. treasure: cubs stuff for sis, elementary school yearbooks, nintendo newsletters.

box #21: every photograph, film negative, train ticket, scrap of paper or used kleenex from my trip to deutschland in 1993. treasure: fond memories.

box #22: 100s of copies of video game magazines, and of my favorite catalog, 1001 things you never knew existed where i bought entirely too many magic tricks and practical jokes and spy watches and insect repellents and pocket fishing poles. treasure: memories of playing video games 16 hours a day for most of my childhood.

phew. exhausting. i’m not sure how we’re going to dispose of all of this crap… most of it is books and magazines, i wonder if it can be recycled? i’m taking away a small briefcase full of memories, of photos, of letters, of yearbooks. some cubs memorabilia for my lil’ sis [she's a huge fan, it turns out, her whole bedroom is done up in a baseball theme], and a cache of baseball cards and comic books, with an apparent value of $1000+, but which i’ll bequeath to my lil’ bro to sell.

7 years, 11 months ago
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berlin, part one

shoddy

two weeks, no clubbing, no pubbing, no drinking, no sex, no pulling—a decompression, an escape, a detox. that was the plan for my two weeks in indiana. in all honesty, a straightforward goal which should be easy for eric to achieve.

the second day i’m here, i come out of the shower to hear my brother talking to a friend in his bedroom. i get dressed and wander in to see my brother at his computer, chatting to his best friend jeremy who is sprawled on the bed. i stand there in the doorway, and make a very loud, cartoon-like, gulp sound.

i’d never met him before. he’s tall, skinny, 22. brown hair, pale skin, a bit of facial fuzz and cocky sideburns to match. he’s wearing a black baseball cap, baggy jean shorts, and a belt with stars matching my tattoo. under the sleeves of his tight black freshjive tee, i can see some skater tattoos sneaking down each skinny arm.

exactly my type. no, no, no—it all seems so incredibly taboo, in my brother’s bedroom, in my mother’s house, in suburban indiana. eyeing up a 22yo boy on the dancefloor of a gay club in london is one thing. eyeing up a naive 22yo american friend of my brother’s—in indiana—is downright predatory.

we’re chatting, we’re smiling. i’m trying to play it cool and not come off as the annoying older brother, or even worse as a creepy pedo. he goes to the local community college with my brother, where they both mostly slack off and smoke pot. his parents live just around the corner, but he moved out when he was 17. we laugh when i discover he works at the same dairy queen that i used to. and, yes, some of the same people are working there.

there’s a lull, and he shifts the topic of conversation. so mike says you’re starting up some kinda magazine? i smile, and give him the elevator pitch of what qr is all about. he nods, wide-eyed. i explain how i feel gay youth in america needs a voice, needs a new magazine now that xy is gone. he smiles.

hey, what are you doing this friday? he asks. i turn to michael, and shrug. cuz, this friend of mine… well… this girl i know, her ex-boyfriend… well… this weekend is chicago pride, and we were thinking of going to berlin.

i’d never been to berlin before… i do know, thought, that it’s one of the bigger gay bars in chicago, and also one of the most ‘mixed’. the idea of going there with him and my brother is the most alien concept imaginable. but, knowing that in a few days my clubbing [dancing + flirting + drinking + seducing] itch will need some scratchin’, i tentatively agree.

—

the next day, my sister kimberly comes over, giving me the download on her life while puffing her way through a pack of cigarettes. i brace myself, trying to take it all in—it’s a bit like drinking from a fire hose. when she pauses to come up for air, i mention that i was thinking of going downtown on friday with mike and jeremy.

with no prompting, she blurts out, you know, i think he’s bi, and continues outlining a series of i heard and someone saw statements, conclusively [in my mind] proving that there’s something more to this innocent, heterosexual country bumpkin suburban punk.

—

the following day, i find myself visiting my 94yo great aunt, sitting on her front porch listening to her stories. it’s swelteringly hot heat [90 degrees plus humidity] but she loves sitting out in the heat. i pop into the kitchen to get us some sodas, and peek out the back window, to perve at jeremy painting the back porch.

i casually saunter down, and try to drum up smalltalk, trying to start a conversation, but fail miserably. there’s definitely a divide, perhaps it’s just my own silly interest over this 22yo skaterboy, perhaps i’m just used to having more people to stalk/seduce, perhaps i can’t resist a challenge. we talk a bit about dairy queen, a bit about my brother, but it’s generally just… strained. i leave with my tail between my legs.

—

last night everyone came over for a barbeque… my sister kimmy and her boyfriend kevin, my brother mike and his girlfriend alex. jeremy would be showing up later, with “some girl”. my mom’s made a few salads, made mainly out of mayonnaise, and i put together some kabobs to be grilled up all nice and spicy.

we chow down, we play some music, we drink some beers, we reminisce and catch up and have a great laugh. jeremy and his date arrive, the parentals sneak off to the cinema, and we crank through a few cases of beer. i’m clicking with kate [the "some girl" that jeremy brought] in the kitchen [i'm always in the kitchen at parties], laughing about new york and fashion and highschool rivalries and shut up! i exclaim as i notice her tattoo—the rose from depeche mode’s violator album. i almost want to slap her, i’m so excited.

a few hours later, i [soberly] transport everyone from family-centric suburbia to Another Dancefloor at Yet Another Gay Club, across empty tollroads, zooming past people escaping the taste, with loud music, 2 drunken lads and their 2 drunken dates in the car. i miraculously pull into a parking spot just across from the club, where i’m beginning to think i’m about to explode in a big fountain of sexual frustration.

7 years, 12 months ago
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rock the boat, just a bit

john hancock

san francisco? hell, i don’t even consider that to be part of the united states! my buddies and i from the steel mill went to california, but would never go up there! buncha freaks!

i grimaced, and my mom looked away. awkward silence as the boat rocked up and down, in the wake of another, larger boat that had just passed.

well, i consider san francisco to be as “american” as chicago, or indiana, i replied with a smile. regardless of what your beliefs are, this country is divided, straight down the middle, red states versus blue states. if we can’t all get along, then the blue states might as well secede into their own country.

perfect, breezy 78° weather. gilmmering sunset behind the chicago skyline. 80s music playing off the satellite radio. i’d whipped up a few jugs of pimm’s and lemonade. everyone was just chilling out, on the back of the cabin cruiser, waiting for the navy pier fireworks to begin.

ray seemed like a nice enough guy, taking us all out on his boat, giving us a tour of the skyline. maybe 50 or so, pretty well-spoken, very sharp wit. but the off-color jokes and comments just kept percolating to the surface. he asked my brother’s girlfriend, do you people like to be called hispanic or latin or what? to which she replied, well, i guess i prefer mexican.

his questions about life in london seemed very peculiar…

what do they do to drug users in britain?

well, generally i think the government is realizing that a war on drugs is a waste of police effort. they’ve decriminalized marijuana, and seem pretty relaxed on drugs generally, as britain’s population seems to be quite into recreational drugs. and, the multitude of ports of entry into britain makes it difficult to keep drugs out. i think focusing on dealers and organized crime connections might make more sense than focusing on users.

what about crime? is there a big crime problem in britain?

well, one major difference is the lack of gun crime. there’s no ‘right to bear arms’, which dramatically decreases the likelihood of a gun being used in a crime. big cities have their problems, sure, but i’d reckon britain is generally quite safe.

are there lots of immigrants in britain?

immigrants? yeah, london in particular is filled with foreigners, like me. i think london’s less than 50% british, in fact. london, and britain and a whole, is very much a melting pot. some people are against immigration, particularly asylum seekers, but the fact remains that britain’s national identity is much more than just english.

what i mean is, well, do you have many, you know, hispanics in britain?

aha… alles klar. now i understand where he’s going with this. are you serious? you’re trying to relate crime to… hispanics? do you know what that word means? just because you xenophobically surmise that mexicans and latin americans are criminals in chicago, you’re curious if your theory holds elsewhere? you realize that most ‘hispanics’ in britain would be, in fact, from spain?

what do you mean?

some might argue that much of mexico is a third-world country, and that explains why there’s an influx of workers from relatively poor mexico to america which is ripe with opportunity. i’ve heard the they’re stealing our jobs statement so many times from so many people. but you do realize that spain is an entirely different country from mexico? a ‘wealthy’ european country, rich in culture and history, no different from, say, france or germany? so, like…

what about blacks? you got many blacks in britain?

at this point i excused myself to go refill my drink. what could i do? i didn’t want to just let him off the hook, but at the same time i didn’t want to have a full-out educational argument with this [otherwise lovely] 50yo friend-of-the-family who took us out on his boat this evening.

i returned, just as the firework show was starting, and told him, the world is a big and magical place, and it’s opened up my eyes to the variety of people out there. despite our differences, of race or sexuality or nationality, people are much more similar than different. you should try being a bit more color blind, it might help you to not come off as being so racist and bigoted.

the evening was a perfect slice of americana—early fourth-of-july fireworks overlooking chicago, with my mom and her boyfriend and his cousin, my brother and his girlfriend. our discussions continued throughout the fireworks, and i think we all learned a bit more about the world—particularly me, i’d forgotten how the midwest works.

photos and videos…

7 years, 12 months ago
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you only tell me you love me when you’re drunk

my love is your song

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.

8 years, 1 month ago
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to readjust or rearrange

when i was a webwhore highly-qualified internet consultant, i remember living for a few weeks out of a suitcase in chicago whilst working for a big phone company telecommunications client. expense accounts, incredible views from my swank hotel room and yet little free time and no friends to play with.

anyway, i digress… in one of our meetings with the vice-president of corporate rebranding and internal innovation and strategic consulting [he had a very large business card, you see], he used a word when describing how our project would affect his division of the company. it was a word which i had never heard before, and haven’t used since. see if you can spot it in the sentence below.

i’ve decided to rejigger all of the bits-and-bobs and odds-and-ends of my website [blog, photos, calendar, playlist, reading, portfolio, travel guide, etc.] into one umbrella page, http://bo.gs.

wake the kids, put on the kettle and update your bookmarks… bloghserf is now part of evijhserf, which is my site + my blog + my links + my crap all rolled into one page, accessible at http://bo.gs [rather than http://bo.gs/blog].

9 years, 5 months ago
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