The Gayer the Better

I was reflecting just now on the first blog in this series, Better Recordkeeping. It was starting to seem a bit gay, both in the old/offensive sense of being "lame," but also in the literal sense, of being a behavior engaged in by only women, gay men, & effete but straight men, or, (& this broadens the category significantly), any straight man desperate enough for sex or the money for sex or some dumb combination thereof & who also has the "gift of gab." For every pewdiepie, I gasp to reckon the number of subhuman man children racing to bring about Idiocracy while me & my fiancé waffle on having children, with my guess being that we will continue to do so until the last biological clock tock.

 The fact that I think about anything other than sex & sports is as stunning to me as the fact that I'm compelled to think about sex & sports in the first place. & society expects little else from me.

That being said, when I "express" myself it seems effete & thereby like unto gay people. Unless of course I'm yelling (about sports or sex).

It reminded me of the single gayest day in my life. I stayed up past all my male friends, in order to hang out with two beautiful women. Turns out they were big fans of this fresh pop singer from Alaska. 

They whipped out Jewel's Foolish Games album & played it from beginning to end, I hope only once, I can't be sure because I know the night didn't end until bike rides at sunset with hot chicks in bikinis (& one doughboy in a t-shirt that was never coming off cuz of body image; does this story get any gayer; make it stop).

 I already knew the words, you see, to Jewel's entire album, don't ask me how other than we had this thing called Columbia House, before Napster, before whatever the f it is you dopes do now. 

If those unnamed beauties of my youth didn't think I was gay, heaven bless them. While gay boys in the South were hiding their homosexuality en masse from their parents, family & friends, I was unwittingly, Rain Man-style, compensating by flaunting their own future lifestyle, while really just being a more functionable rain man, or in great moments Larry David but spazzier, less jewish, more asperger's.

Regardless of the fact that the only bases I ran that summer were in the form of gay but beautiful unrequited love letters with one of the two girls from the night of Jewel only karaoke, it was exhibit A in a medium-sized line of exhibits pointing squarely in the direction of -- when chicks think you're gay they want to jump you, almost on par with total jerks who've learned a bit of the NLP. Neg you very much, Bloodhound Gang: "I wish I was queer so I could get chicks." 

Instead of avoiding it I'm going to lean into it. I'll either wake up tomorrow, reverted back to whatever shallow husk of a moral animal this is, or I'll wake up in ten years the faggiest dr. Oz bullshit artist this side of Richard Simmons.