Wednesday, July 23, 2008

Sunday Brunch

(Ostentatious man sitting at the table, outside on the veranda, of a chique restaurant. White tabletops, he’s wearing matching cream blazer with a lime green blouse underneath it. It’s a sunny day with mild traffic, and he’s on his cell phone)

Well, he was gayer than Clay Aiken on Tyra, unfortunate highlights, talked an awful lot about his mother.

I couldn't say, maybe it was something about the way he walked. His left elbow kind of jutted out so that the entire arm swayed with him so he looked like a post-cornea victim.

Are you sure it’s the right?

Anyways, it was distracting. Luckily, he's one of the few bearded men I know who can pull off v-neck; usually the facial fuzz casts this shadow just above the neck line so that they look like Arabian bobble-heads.

I know, materials weak today.

Well, I was thinking somewhere along the canal.

There’s this new place, relax! A friend of mine works there. Well, more like a third cousin. And what I mean is that I hope he's a third cousin. Did I tell you what happened a few weeks ago at the Ivy? Well, you are not going to believe this. I was just sitting by the bar, you know, tilting my head ever so gently to the right so the light overhead would fall on the better side of my face. It lures them in like park lamps do shadflies.

Have you ever wondered why bugs aren't drawn to firelight? I mean, you light a candle and it's not like a swarm of mosquitoes comes issuing past and suddenly there's this airborne fireball buzzing around.

Good for you! It's not every day you see a moth dive into a fireplace. What I was saying though is that I was tilting my head when suddenly this kid, believe it, this kid comes prancing and plots himself on the barstool right beside me.

I don't know, scruffy, mid-twenties; for the most part I was impressed that he could somehow pull off Sean Penn hair. Well, he turns to me and says-oh and he was chewing gum, the arrogant twat was chewing gum like an absolute cow- and he says, now hear this out: “You're a walking gay paradigm.” Gay paradigm! How does he get off calling me a gay paradigm!? Now, before I went and got my tail feathers all in a twist I turned to him and said, calmly now: “What do you mean?” To which he repeated: “Gay paradigm.”
Now, he seemed to me to be one of those artistic, liberated fellows- his jeans were patched up and his shoelaces untied. And I wasn’t in much of a mood to tolerate, rather to interpret what it was he meant by “Gay paradigm,” so I slammed my drink on the counter and told him off, I mean I really told him off:

“Who do you think you are?” I said, “Who do you think you are you insufferable chump, getting off on calling me a gay paradigm?”

Now, I didn't want to copout like some Creatine-pumping bros with a few “Youdonknowme's” or any “I'lltellyouwhayouare's,” so instead I looked him dead in the eyes, and I said, with a deep breath:

“You, you, youuuuuu”

And then I breathed out, and then I breathed in again and said:


And then one more breath and with that:

“Well, I’ll let you know something, my gay paradigm certainly doesn’t include any washed-up, frowsy, freeloading, kid as some mid-90’s backwash. I work over 60 hours each week. I come home each night to a hungry, slobbering Doberman who knows more about my needs and wants than anyone else I know, or more than you for that matter. I am liberated, and competent. I might come off to you as some well-to-do dandy but hell if I’m going to be pigeonholed as any one thing or lifestyle in particular. It must be easy enough for you to slot any well-dressed pomp like myself as a “Gay paradigm,” which only seemingly makes sense, I though you should know. I'd rather not be reduced to a walking simplification.” And I hurled myself out of there.

And...his name is Ralph, he works for some publishing company and we’re supposed to go to the Y this weekend for date #3.

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