First day back in the gay bar and my spirit is flattened and humbled beyond all recognition, hands already dry and cracking. The small taste of glamour that was my most recent tour is now a fleeting memory and reality is setting in hard and fast. The DJ plays his predictably predictable continuous round of hits for the unenthused unhappy hour crowd that resembles more of a scene from the Town House, the old man gay bar on the East Side. He loops Britney, Rihanna, and Katy Perry over and over and over and over and over and over and over again in a sickening, unending circle of songs that intrude themselves past the barriers of my subconscious and into my sacred dreams. Get out of me California Girl....GET OUT!!! If I was faced with either listening to miss Perry sing Firework on the Oprah show or trying to shove a huge orange traffic cone up my ass I'd choose the later! These pop star princesses sing digitally enhanced robot lullabies that remind me of better times as the one actually on stage. I love a seven-thirty half hour and no more than three strong hours of work every day followed by drinks and a late dinner. I like sleeping in forever with the hotel blackout curtains drawn as tightly as possible with no peep of light sneaking through till I say so. I will duct tape a bitch shut like an insomniac vampire watch me! I have light sensitivity issues when sleeping. I love an evening show call and eating late. Thoughts of shiny blinding stage lights and weekly paychecks automatically deposited into my checking account have me daydreaming and foaming a the mouth. And just like that, and with a quickness, I'm jolted back into the unhappy hour shift of doom and gloom where vodka glasses pile up like small leaning towers faster than I can wash them. I am the "help" in Hell's Kitchen and my dignity is in check when I avoid a particular table of boys I know (sipping peach n' sodas and tequila sunrissssssesssssss with a twissssssssssst). I've been either working along side of or auditioning with some of these boys since I moved here in '98. I face down the panic of yet another and another congratulatory hello and the old "I didn't know you were in That!" The frigid ice skater hugs that follow give me flashbacks of my former world of insincere athletic competitors. I thank god I don't work Mondays anymore because all the Broadway theatres are dark and all those faggots come marching right into my bar for happy hour seemingly just to remind me of what ended up not being the most dazzling story of a young man getting discovered here in the big city. I'll drink to that!
An" A-list" reality TV star is here promoting his new fragrance that is quickly making the entire bar smell like a french whore house in the hot summertime. My stomach is churned into knots and a Tums would be like a snowflake on the sun. Safety jobs have a tendency to become a black hole of sorts but I do love the instant cash in hand at the end of the night. Boozing homosexuals can be....well.....torture but occasionally forgivable. It kind of kills the joy of going out and meeting my friends basically anywhere ever. The bar smells and intrusive sounds are as familiar as the underlying nervousness that comes from just five minutes in the big apple much less 13 years later yo!
show dog
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