Eclectic Oatmeal

The Flaming Dissillusionment.

Posted in gay, gaydar, hilary, Pathetic, resentment of the world, sadness, self esteem by Bryan on February 24, 2009

Boarding the sub with my rag-tag group of lesbians, and those whom like to think they are, I journey to PRIDE. I look at the window at the swirling greens of trees, the neon oranges and purples of graffiti, and the ungodly manliness of our chaperone. I am half there, half somewhere else. I only got an hour of sleep, attempting to sleep in a dark turquoise tent, with my cushions being replaced by rocks. I went outside during the night to try to read my summer reading project, but give up due to the black sky. I look up to the giant moon for hours, and behold the silence of twilight. I’ll need it for the loud, camp people of the festival.
After the trip, we’re an hour late, missing the parade. Our group only gets to see the Queen of all Drag Queens waving to her admirers while her car crawls on by. I am instantly bored, this isn’t my scene. My group consists of Hilary, the leader of the group and my then best friend. There are many words to describe her, many of which wouldn’t be appropriate. Yet, She was my confidant, someone to be chatty, nerdy, and destructive with. She was my long lost sister at that time. She had her boyfriend with her, a blob of a boy who is being pulled by her hand to watch the events of the day. There is Julia and Renee, two girls who talked endlessly on the way there about how they were going to dress up as Disney princesses for homecoming. There was Justin, who annoyed me with his camp nature, and his dire need to use long words that don’t flow or fit into his sentences. Brutus, which wasn’t his real name, but it fits his thug demeanor, and his mom, who was the manly chaperone from before. She could also be named Brutus.
Our group enters the fairground section, littered with booths containing porn raffles, anonymous groups, hemp salesmen, and gay newspapers. In beginning was able to fill a bag provided by metro health, it mostly contained condoms, coming out pamphlets, and PETA cards. Hilary was enjoying the nature of the fair, being the free spirit she is. She won a corn holing game, which granted her a special bikini. It was the gaudiest, most worthless, and explicit bikini ever. It was held together by one inch white rope that holds boats to docks, and the bikini part was made of pink pleather. The best part was that it had holes in all the worst (or fun, depending on whom you are asking) places. It looked like something Barbie would wear to the beach, in hell. She placed it over her newly minted GSA shirt. It wasn’t complete, she needed to accessorize. Eternally damned Barbie would be proud. She grabbed her Marti Gras necklace from her bag, and slung it over her head. She rummaged through her handy-dandy bag of pleasures to find a condom, tied that to the necklace, she continued to do this with all of her prizes of oversexed gay people until she made a tribal amulet of erotic power. Julia and Renee were disgusted, they thought Hilary took it too far, and over eroticized  the whole occasion. I thought Hilary’s attire was hilarious.
I didn’t like the other people at the convention besides a few members of the group. I wandered about, looking like a ghost. It was a hot summer day, before a horrible storm, the dark clouds illuminating my mood. I was newly outed, still handling the gay concept with a grain of salt. I sat in the audience, staring at the clouds, still dead tired from not sleeping, I gorged myself on pretzels, we were in a grassy pavilion, which showcased LGBT bands who wouldn‘t be note worthy if it weren‘t for the fact that they are gay. I tried to listen to Acoustic Lesbians, but didn’t have the will to actually pay attention. I saw Dennis Kucinich, that was pretty cool, he was probably the only person I could relate to in the whole festival, only for the weird last name. I just couldn’t relate to the flamers that I was supposed to call my family, I didn’t find them attractive, interesting, or funny at all. It made me uncomfortable, ashamed, and claustrophobic. Is this what I have to look forward to? Being forever bound to a lich with a lisp? Even worse, Is this how I act? Do I run throughout the halls with a long, rainbow ribbon, singing Cher to express whom I am? Is that what I have to do to gain acceptance? Should I construct a necklace of eccentric objects to make people more aware of me? I didn’t, and don’t think so.
Alas, I eventually find someone sane, and dating material. Bearded, holding a camera, looking for something to snap a picture of, there he was. I could instantly imagine him and I sitting around, listening to Death Cab for Cutie records as he is in his red lighted room, looking at the negatives at the freaks he took pictures of, and I am scribbling away at my comics on the couch. I couldn’t pass this chance up. I head over, not paying attention to my surroundings. I don’t hear Julia’s and Renee’s cry’s. Now I can see them, waving me down, in slow-mo. I feel like I’m from a Vietnam movie, slow motion, heading towards a landmine. I approach him, I have no idea that my hopes for the day will be slashed down.
“Hey, Are you gay?” I ask timidly. It was a reasonable question though.
“Why do you ask?” Beard-face responds, a petite friend next to him.
“Because I totally find you attractive.” I feel like I’m throwing myself to the mercy of the jury. I mean, Russell Crowe from could come up with a less awkward pickup line than that.
“This is my girlfriend.” He points over to the nymph I mentioned before, I die inside.
“Don’t worry, I find him attractive too.” Its like I’m being dragged to the electric chair.
“Well, I don’t blame you! Well, see you!” After that was a blur, I think I brushed his porcupine haired arm as I walked back to my adventuring party. The girls tell me that they saw them acting like couples, but that they are proud of me, that was my first “walking up to someone and making a fool of one’s self” ever! I felt proud that I was able to do that, but I still felt like shit for not snagging Beard-Face. We go back to the pavilion, where Acoustic Lesbians were playing earlier. We sit on the grass, I eat more pretzels, as if consuming them will rid me of my humiliation. I see the couple walking by, I dive behind Renee, to avoid their laughing stare.
I want to go home after this. This community has no home for me. I will go back to the days of being the fifth wheel if it means I don’t have to spend eternity with Boy George. We leave, in the same subway station, now complete rain! Attacking anything it lands on. I go home, lay on the couch, shrug at my parent’s questions about Gay-Day. I slip in a coma, while watching anime I’ve seen a thousand times over.

In this essay, I show my disillusionment to my “group” of people by telling a story. I don’t fit in, I don’t have a place for me to be. I’m like a nomad of people. I illustrate this by telling a story.

I’ve been writing essays for my LA class. So I’m going to double dip them and post them here!

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Being crafty is being devious.

Posted in Crafts, divination, Humor, Pathetic, Stalking? by Bryan on July 17, 2008

I should befriend a diviner, or I should practice divination techniques. I think that should be my new hobby. I could grab an 8 ball and shake it endlessly, giving people relationship advice and asking it how I should treat people, because its really getting confusing now of days. It would be neat if I actually believed in that stuff. If someone knew their fate, then they’d just wait around endlessly not doing anything to achieve it, and then it would be screwed up. Still, it’d be nifty.

Is it pathetic that I go to Starbucks, not for coffee or artsy atmosphere, but to possibly encounter the group of extraordinary attractive gentlemen? I’m constantly looking around when I’m out and about, hopefully seeing them and come up with a plan. I’m chalk-full of plans. I’m a planner. Debating jokes and ice breakers. I was thinking of the line “Oh, you enjoy scrapbooking? I think it would be a great way to relieve rage. Scissoring and Gluing is like egging a house, or saran wrapping a car in the mind of the Scrapbooker.” or “You know, in a movie Assassins use cloth to exchange murder targets. Those prints are just too adorable to be used for the purposes of baby clothes.” at Pat Catans. Of course, I would never approach them if I didn’t consult my tea leaves first (I bet if I ran into the bathroom, I could use the toilet as a boiling device.)