Who Do You Love?

Stranded on a desert island? Stuck in an elevator? Thrown together by circumstance like #work or #werk or community service? Who would be the ideal person on the other end of the scenario, if, say, said scenario were happening right now? Hmm, lemme think. I wouldn’t want someone in politics to make me feel as if I am not giving my all (I’m not) or someone from one of those narrow-minded red states (a die-hard racist homophobic #bro, etc.) because even though they would fuel my innate superiority my patience with #followers is as nil as with those who use a lot of #hashtags. Just kidding about the last part I love #hashtags even more than emoji’s that hint at sex like the banana and the three droplets of spray that look like water but most often get used as #ejaculate. Millennial celebrities? l can’t think of one that I wouldn’t end up punching in the the face after listening to them complain about how hard it is to fake self-depreciation. Movie stars? Ryan Gosling or Ryan Reynolds might make the cut, but I’m sure my disillusion would be imminent after a lot of awkward silence. I guess it’s too easy to say it would be some hot stranger I’d want to have sex with but no, it would come down to someone who wasn’t real, a false deity, a fantasy.

So that whole passage was too parenthetical for you? Pickin’ and choosin’ from the comfort of a keyboard?   I want what I want but let me break down exactly what I don’t want. Really, I’d rather just be by myself but since that’s out of the question it’s up to me to dreamily wander down the street of hyperbole via fake scenario with unrealistic possibilities, my favorite of all accouterments to the main course of life known as adulthood (paying bills).

Last night I caught a podcast from a while ago where fifty-something female author Laura Albert was interviewed about the after-effects of her outing as the teenage boy hustler writer J.T. Leroy who had quite a cult celebrity following before it all came crashing down as “the greatest literary hoax of all time.” Boo-fucking-hoo. OMG someone lied! What a terrible world it is when we put our faith in what we don’t know to be real. I’d read about this story years ago in The New York Times while I was living in San Francisco where Laura Albert was also living at the time and even paid to see one of the indie movies made from one of J.T. Leroy’s books, The Heart is Deceitful Above All Things. I only bring this up because it reminded me of the fallacy of hero worship, allowing a stranger’s words and actions to affect personal feelings and outcomes. Dare I say this affliction begets the #followers of today more than ever based on Intel from the complaint department at Twitterbook or whatever…  I never read any J.T. Leroy books because, based on what I’ve gathered through good literary criticism, the subject matter of child abuse and drug abuse and psychosexual diagnoses in teenage runaway culture is not what I’d consider a useful wasting of my brain cells. That’s right, I’ve been waiting forever to use the word psychosexual outside of Scruff and Grindr taglines, so what? After listening to Laura Albert talk about what lay beneath the paradigm of her thoughts-into-words and why she never took the celebrity worship thing seriously, am I more apt to read one of her novels if I ever find the time again? Maybe. Expanding the overdose of my brain cells. Going on a cerebral shootout with the discomfort of diversity as my main dealer.

I re-read some of my own stuff after listening to Laura Albert and concluded that I mask a lot of my feelings with wisenheimery and glittery innuendo meant to provoke both ire as well as thought. No shit, though, right? I’m an Irish man. Two things that don’t part easily with outward emotion. Every time I try to wear my heart of the sleeve of my own written words it seems very, very inauthentic, as if I am lying when all I’m really doing it spewing gut truths. Perhaps this is my own comfort zone, whether or not I’m comfortable there; the peripheral satire of life and its meaninglessness and need to continuously poke at its inconsistencies and imperfections. It comes down to basics. Like I said, I’m a man, Laura Albert is a woman, two different sets of what we see is appropriate when it comes to letting YOU know what’s inside of us.

Try as I have to read female authors I always have a hard time catching the essence of what they’re saying. I suppose Jennifer Saunders is one exception (although to my knowledge Miss Saunders hasn’t yet written a novel), because she writes with a witticism that is kind of burlesque in its debauchery, like Miss Saunders would know that if Auntie Mame were alive today, she (Auntie Mame) would know exactly whose face to slap and on whom she’d turn the other cheek whilst never letting her cigarette holder get too close to becoming extinct. Follow me? No? What I’m saying is a penis and a vagina both spray and pray in a different way. See, only someone with a penis would write something like that. But what about the trans community?

What about them? 

So, when I was in high school in the mid-eighties I had idols too, the writer Bret Easton Ellis, Keith Haring, Bono of U2, Andy Warhol, sometimes Madonna and Sean, and of course, Rob Lowe’s high top sneakers in St Elmo’s Fire. Rob Lowe is probably the handsomest person ever to walk this planet, even Marlon Brando circa 1953 got wood at the sight of Rob Lowe and his high top sneakers and sweaty saxophone.  So, aside from everyone I’ve mentioned, living, dead, irrelevant or just plain past their prime, I suppose I would choose Rob Lowe as Billy from the Roof in St Elmo’s Fire as the person I’d most like to be stranded on a desert island with, and not only because I’d have sex with him, but because I’m sure he still has some good stories to tell.





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