can we just once and for all put this idiocy behind us now?

and maybe turn our focus to slightly more pressing and tangible threats such as, oh i dunno, the impending utter and complete collapse of the financial and monetary systems of the western world, or the calculated, systematic and ongoing destruction of our civil liberties?

just a thought.

link

so should i suffer beheading, or merely the loss of a limb?

believe it or not, i actually experienced a twinge of reflexive guilt when i pulled into the parking lot.

slapped myself three times--hard--my vision cleared, rationality returned, and i ordered my sandwich.

it was as i remembered--very tasty, and a little overpriced.  goddam greedy christians.

spike and jason don't live here anymore

"whaddya think--doable?", paul asks, pointing to a tiny blip that had just turned the corner at the end of the block.

royce, instantly:  "nah, he walks old."

it's autumn 1990, and i'm sitting with my new roommates in royce's mitsubishi galant on a saturday evening, parked near some seedy bar i'd never heard of but would come to know well, getting my first lesson in the fine art of cruising, LA style.

"he walks old?", i ask, incredulous, from the backseat.  "he, if it even is a he, is half a mile away, for chrissakes, and it's dark.  how can you possibly--"

"shut up and watch, and maybe you'll learn something," paul snaps without taking his eyes off the target, and sure enough, as the guy nears, his age becomes apparent even to me.  as this geriatric all-of-40 year-old comes abreast of the car, he mistakes royce and paul's triumphant grins for interest, leans in hopefully and then back out again just as quick when they break into the opening lines of "from a distance", wave him away and start laughing (they were real funny that way, those two). 

as noted more than once in these pages, i've often wondered how much my choice of first gay roommates had to do with the fag i would end up becoming.  academic at this point, i suppose, but i will say this for 'em:  those boys taught me well.  within a month, i could pick the three doables outta a crowd of a dozen at a hundred yards, just from the way they walked.  it's a skill that would serve me well in what would turn out to be the fading days of a golden age.

*     *     *     *     *

i try to explain to the young'uns sometimes what it was like living gay in weho in those days, before the meth and the internet changed everything, and the opportunities for instant, baggage-free sex were everywhere. it was a heady time, especially for a sex-starved 34-year-old just off the turnip truck, and saying i took to it like a duck to water--to the point where i started to scare even my seasoned, slutty roomies a little--would be a bit of an understatement.

in those days--and even now, really--west hollywood was divided vertically by the berlin wall known as la cienega boulevard; the glitzy, worked-out, pubic-hair-trimming types tended to stay west of this line (unless they wanted to go slumming), and the rest of us preferred the cheap drinks and cheaper company to be found to the east.

the two principal cruise bars of east west hollywood in those days were gold coast (still there, sort of) and spike (god, i miss spike), and i would become equally at home in both.  but since my primary interest in going to these places was never clubbing itself, i quickly became far more at home working the streets that surrounded them (see the helpful infographic i just whipped up below).

(oh, and where did we live?

if i hadn't understood why paul had been so insistent on that particular house when we moved in, i would soon see his point.)

by way of shorthand, paul, royce and i quickly adapted the nomenclature that pretentious LA realtors used to put lipstick on crappy neighborhoods (i.e., every low-rent shithole within 10 miles of the place being advertised as "beverly hills adjacent") to describe these areas, and thus our favored hunting grounds became

1.  gold coast adjacent

what can i say about gold coast?  it's one of those bars that looks about the same now as it did when it first opened, and back in the day, it attracted lotsa beer-drinking boyhounds and the boys who loved 'em.  while i spent many happy hours there, it was its immediate sphere of influence that interested me far more.

see, gold coast was ideally situated for my purposes--right on the boulevard just across la jolla from the smutty bookstore (a), big parking lot out back (b), and, most important, backed up by a cut-through with diagonal parking--well, here, i'll show ya--

note to the four forlorn guys parked diagonally above: 

give it up, bitches--it ain't coming back

known infamously, affectionately and forevermore as vaseline alley (c).

by day sedate and businesslike, this little plot of pavement was transformed after sundown into an ever-changing panoply of sexual seekers of all ages and stripes, the only thing uniting them being that fire down below, as the line of cars went round and round.  it was here that i scored some of my most memorable conquests--the stardust twins and that guy with the infant-seat that a certain commenter will never let me live down (and yeah, noblesavage, i know i'm gonna go to hell when i die) in the parking lot, and my first love in my favored pole position spot in vaseline alley, for instance.

and if the crush got too much, all you had to do was take a walk (or a drive) down la jolla towards melrose, and watch for the boys on foot and the headlights coming toward you.  guys would beckon to you from the bushes of the more well-landscaped houses you passed, and drivers would slow, check you out and throw their doors open for you if they liked what they saw.

eschewing the shiny benzes and bimmers (invariably, either desperate oldies or coiffed weho faggots), i would always keep an eye out for the dented subarus and nissans with duct tape and different-color fenders, because i knew therein would be the wild young boys i loved so much, fresh off their dishwashing jobs at trendy westside eateries, looking for a little action before heading home to their girlfriends in inglewood and montebello.  if they were willing, i'd drag 'em home to 841; if they were gun-shy, no worries--i knew every dark alley and unattended parking garage within a five-mile radius.

i drove down la jolla yesterday, stopped at the sign at waring, reflexively looked left (old habits die hard, i guess), wondered if the upscale yuppies living behind those protective walls of dense foliage had any clue how many truckloads of used condoms had to be removed from their pretty little back garden in the process of transforming it from the boarded-up derelict it had been 20 years ago into the polished jewel it is today.

i'm thinking their realtor may have failed to disclose that little factoid.

2.  spike adjacent

one night, wanting to get away from yet one more houseful of royce's friends from texas, i announced on my way out the door where i was headed, showed up all bleary-eyed next morning and when one of 'em asked me brightly if i had had fun with spike and jason--and once paul, royce and i managed to pick ourselves up off the floor--the place gained its new name.

i remember one time--i still feel kinda bad about this--i was leaving spike with some guy when a much hotter guy pulled up to the curb with a wave, i leaned in, he grabbed my shirt, pulled me halfway through the window with one heavily-tattooed arm and, nose-ring to nose, snarled, "you'd rather be with me, right?", i said, "drive", and he took off in a screeching puff of smoke with my legs still waving in the air, leaving the other guy behind in his dust.

that was the way you had fun with spike and jason.

oh, and to those readers who may feel i'm giving west weho short shrift in this post, lemme just sum up that most sanctified holy of holies like this:  you could tell the main cruising streets over there--larrabee, cynthia, and (especially) keith--by the trail of blood left by herds of manicured queens dragging their poor lil' pomeranians up and down the sidewalks until their tiny paws were raw on the pretext that they were just out for a "walk" in case they ran into one of their equally secretly-slutty girlfriends (and tell me i'm wrong about this, anonymous).

me, i preferred the no-bullshit honesty of east weho--you ran into a guy on the street at 4am there, there was no pretense--you were there because you wanted to fuck, and you both knew it.  saved everybody a lot of goddam time.

anyway, moving on...

3.  drake's adjacent

[you know how you always laugh at people in respectable neighborhoods who raise a shit-stink when some porno establishment moves into their midst outta fear of the element it'll bring with it?  well, turns out they might be onto something.]

for the first few weeks, i was behind the curve on this one--i'd follow the trail of cars down la jolla to melrose as usual, make the left along with 'em, and then watch as, instead of making the next left back towards gold coast,  more and more would keep heading east.  what the fuck?,  i'd ask myself, and one night i followed to find out.

and, holy shit, what i found--a whole new hunting ground had sprung up around a glossy new adult video store named drake's that had just opened in the trendy melrose district.  and, unlike the darkened slightly-seedy neighborhoods that surrounded spike and gold coast, these were clean, brightly-lit streets filled with neat little bungalows full o' moms and pops who clearly had no idea what had just hit 'em.

to this day, i still dunno what it was--maybe it was all the light, or maybe it was the fact that the cops hadn't yet caught onto this movable feast--but, where business at the previously-discussed locations was generally conducted somewhat furtively and under cover of darkness, drake's adjacent was more like the american graffiti of gay cruising.  seriously--streams of cars full of young guys waving and hollering at each other with music blaring as they passed, others making out with each other on their hoods and trunks and hollering back, doors opening, occupants exchanging--it was like nothing i had ever seen before.

and lemme tellya--it was fun.

key memories:

(1) horrifying grandma.  it's like 3am and i'm stopped in the middle of the street--curson or sierra bonita, i don't remember which--talking to a buncha kids who are leaning in my windows, and some woman in curlers and bathrobe comes storming outta her house, waves her fist and curses us from the middle of her yard, and we just look at her until she gives up and goes back inside.

(2) the night the empire struck back.  i know what they are the minute i turn the corner onto sierra bonita, and what they mean--those ugly black rubber hoses stretched halfway across the street--slam on my brakes, and, after thinking a minute, wave my arm out the window in a "follow me, boys" gesture, slalom left around the first traffic-counter and then right around the next, with a whole line o' cars behind me doing the same, as we form a continuous serpentine conga line dodging the traps the evil homeowners had induced the authorities to lay for us in an attempt to kill the party.  it's the only gay trend i can lay claim to starting, and i take some small pride in that (shut up, noblesavage).

(3)  the night the universe told me the fun was over.  as dawn is breaking over the stubbed-out end of a long, fruitless saturday night, a really hot, well-dressed guy rounds the corner into the alley, gives me a long look

finally, i think

disappears back from whence he came

what the fuck?,  i think

and then reappears, glaring, leading his equally well-dressed wife and their two young daughters in frilly dresses, their eyes shielded by their mother from the sight of the degenerate in the car across the way.  i assume their destination is, first, the garage adjacent to the house, and then probably church, but i'm so far down in my seat by that time that i really can't tell you for sure.

*     *     *     *     *

this, folks, for better or worse, was west hollywood as i experienced it in the early- to mid-nineties--no AOL, no manhunt, no grindr, no digital at all; just analog, up-close and personal.

i really don't know what else to say about those years--i was a kid in a candy store, and, like any kid gorging himself on long-forbidden treats, conscience really didn't play a large part in some of the decisions i made back then.

kids today just look at me when i tell 'em these stories.  "you're telling me you used to could just drive around and pick up guys on the street?", they ask me incredulously.

if you only knew, boys--if you only knew.

god, i love this medium

there was a time, boys and girls, when mkf might've jumped through hoops like this, but that time has long passed.

as is typical when i flatly reject a boy who's used to calling the shots, it took him about three-and-a-half minutes to process his disbelief before coming back with

god, one of those.

i won't bore you with the three more back-and-forths it took me to convince him we weren't a match, but it just goes to show the power of the guttermorality indifference technique--it works even when you don't want it to.

on a lighter note, joey got back in town last night, which made me doubly glad i had hung onto my weekend virginity.

now if you'll excuse me, i gotta go floss.

the guttermorality of homewrecking

i'm not put off by it anymore--i know by now that when he rolls away from me and faces the wall afterwards, it's nothing personal, and that within five minutes or so or whenever it passes, he'll look back over his shoulder with that sheepish smile that just kills me, roll back into the crook of my arm, and we'll talk.

for the longest time it was just generalized post-coital catholic-boy guilt that caused him to do that, but now it's something more specific.  because now he's dating someone--the first guy he's felt something for in a long time.  he's closed his adam account, but he can't figure out why he still needs to keep me (and who knows, maybe one or two others) on rotation.

i ask to see pictures, he grabs his phone, shows me proudly.  guy looks like matt in his prime (either leblanc or dillon, depending on the angle), so god knows looks aren't the problem--i can only imagine the visual these two make as a couple.

i ask him if the guy's withholding and cool, but no--just the opposite.  he's apparently crazy about him, calls and texts him all the time, so affection's not the problem, either.

i ask him if it's the sex, and he says no--it's really good too (i almost ask if it's as good as with me, but stop myself in time).

i know his history--large, close family in mexico, came to LA at 21, met and fell hard for a player, got hurt bad, rebounded into the fast lane, danced and then tended bar at one of the most raging watering holes in weho, met lots of people, got into trouble, came out the other side ok.  now, at 32 and past his weho prime, he's grounded and sane, and still sweet and sexy as hell.  but he tells me he's not the same as he was.

i ask him, "you ever even think about cheating on your first boyfriend, the one you were so crazy about?"  nah, he never even looked at anybody else.

"so what happened between the first one and this one?"  we both know:  weho happened, that's what.

"you think you could be happy in a monogamous relationship at this point?"  he doesn't know--he thinks so, except for when he gets that itch.

"how about him--you think he's seeing anybody on the side?"  he looks away quickly, which answers that question.

"look, you want this to work or not?"  yeah, he thinks he does--he's been lonely a long time.

"then you know what you have to do."  yeah, i guess.

over the months i've known him, i've loved every minute of my time with this boy.  damn shame i have to give him up.

sober update:  sorry about this one, folks--they can't all be winners, right?  i was having a cocktail and waxing a little sentimental last night, but all i really meant to say here was this:  i'm no saint mkf--far from it.  i'll fuck you and your boyfriend too, but only if you're unconflicted about it, and the damage, if any, has already been done.  will this boy be able to make a go of it with his matt dillon-leblanc?  i dunno--i hope so, for his sake--but if not, it won't be because of me.

on psychopathy in high places (or, one of the reasons i drink)

[once again veering wildly from gutter to morality, because that's how we roll here.]

While there are always a certain small portion of the population who [are sociopaths or psychopaths], normally society acts to restrain them and their more vile impulses.

However, from time to time, the small percentage can gain enough power through ruthlessness and deception to foster an atmosphere that not only tolerates their excesses, but actually holds them up as an example for the young as well. When the power of greed in business finds a suitable match in the political arena, that partnership can seem almost unstoppable for a time. It is increasingly difficult to effect reform because so many of the more effective elements of society become corrupted and cynical to the point of apathy.

In a word, the governance of society becomes an organized hypocrisy engaged in systematic destruction, of not only others but also of society itself, especially as the others either resist more effectively or collapse from sheer exhaustion.

As I have mentioned before, in discussing this with some older fellows who have a bit of a broader personal perspective, and in reading deeply in history and its cycles, it seems as though the West entered into such a cycle, in the 1980's. It is merely reaching its full flower today.

The consequences on society as a whole, if history is any guide, will be profound, even moreso than we have seen so far.

the above from jesse, blogger extraordinaire, one of my never-fail daily reads. a clear-eyed, seasoned, successful trader who's lived all over the world, seen it all, made lots of money yet has never lost his humanity, jesse is a philosopher with no apparent ideology other than a humble, non-intrusive christianity (skewing classical-liberal if anything), whose knowledge base is broad and deep, and from which he attempts to put the events of the day into a historical perspective.

one of his strong beliefs is that psychopaths are running the world today; he backs up this contention with all sorts of compelling evidence, two examples of which are featured in his latest post.  from one of the articles he cites therein:

[T]hey seem to be unaffected by the corporate collapses they have created. They present themselves as glibly unbothered by the chaos around them, unconcerned about those who have lost their jobs, savings, and investments, and as lacking any regrets about what they have done.

They cheerfully lie about their involvement in events, are very persuasive in blaming others for what has happened and have no doubts about their own continued worth and value. They are happy to walk away from the economic disaster that they have managed to bring about, with huge payoffs and with new roles advising governments how to prevent such economic disasters.

Many of these people display several of the characteristics of psychopaths and some of them are undoubtedly true psychopaths. Psychopaths are the 1% of people who have no conscience or empathy and who do not care for anyone other than themselves.

while the above article focuses on corporate psychopathy, jesse (and i) believe that this rot has pervaded the realm of government as well (because, after all, the former couldn't thrive without the wholehearted collaboration of the latter, who know they will be richly rewarded for same via campaign funds and upon leaving office).

this goes a long way towards explaining how such luminaries as bill clinton, robert rubin, larry summers, phil gramm (and his wife), hank paulsen, tim geithner, alan greenspan, chris dodd, barney frank, jamie dimon, lloyd blankfein, vikram pandit--i could go on and on--can not only self-righteously deny their clear responsibility for the roles they played in the tragicomedy that is our economic downfall, but brazenly put themselves forward as the voices of reason who can lead us out of it.

[this also explains why, in last night's debate, mitt romney chose not to score a direct hit by slamming his opponent for not only giving the fraudulent banksters who caused this mess a free pass, but elevating many of the worst offenders to positions of power and influence in his administration--because how can he, when he too suckles from that same, pus-filled teat?]

i try to explain this to people sometimes, but they just can't get it--to them, psychopaths are serial killers, or villains in movies, or maybe hitlers and stalins.  this is understandable, i guess; people with consciences find it very difficult to wrap their minds around the idea that perfectly normal-appearing men and women who are possessed of no such constraints can walk among them undetected, and that such people are naturally drawn to positions of power over others.

and it is this collective blindness that allows psychopaths and sociopaths to thrive.  of course, as jesse also points out, a society possessed of a strong, collective sense of right and wrong tends to act as a natural check on the impulses of these monsters.  the problem comes when, through decadence, political correctness, apathy and/or other means, the pathology that takes root in high places begins its inevitable trickle down.

*     *     *     *     *

have you heard this story yet?  seems that last night, a couple decided that, screw the hotel room--they'd just have sex where they were.

"where they were", in case you haven't heard, happened to be at a table on the outdoor patio of a restaurant.

lest you assume that these were two lowlife, drug-addled cretins at some low-down dive, au contraire--we're talking an attractive, well-dressed young couple at a nice, midrange chain restaurant in an upscale area of orlando, at prime dinner hour, surrounded by a large crowd of middle-american tourists including families with small children.

and yet there they were, fucking on the table.

and lest you think that a hail of immediate and vociferous outrage on the part of said families arose and drove these vile corrupters of their precious youth from their midst, au contraire again.

they sat there, and watched.  and they let their children watch.  happiest place on earth, indeed.

oh, and lest you think this story has nothing to do with what the fuck i'm talking about here, may i just say au contraire one last time.

because, gentle readers, i want you to think about this:  if this is where we are as a society--and please don't tell me this incident represents an aberration, because i can give you a thousand more if you want--if we have devolved to the point where our middle classes can so easily and collectively turn a bland eye to corruption when it manifests itself in full view of their children, how can we ever muster the will to even acknowledge it, much less fight it, when it hides behind glossy corporate advertising and well-crafted campaign slogans?

ah, fuck it--it's happy hour somewhere, right?

other than that, mrs. alvarez, how did you like the neighborhood?

johnnie lives with his mother in the westlake district of los angeles, a once-grand neighborhood near downtown that today would be described as sketchy at best. on the way to my place, i asked him by way of conversation how he and his mother liked living there, and he said, "it's not bad--we've been there a long time."

and then he told me by way of conversation about how back when he was in high school, a gang in the neighborhood sent a rival gang member a message by shooting and then garotting the guy's kid brother--a classmate of johnnie's--and then hanging the kid's splayed body by the neck from the front doorknob of their apartment for his mother to find when she came home from work.

"this happened near you?" i asked. "oh yeah," he said. "the building next door."

i thought about that a long minute, asked about the kid's mother. he said, "oh, she moved after that." that wasn't what i meant, but i let it go.

on the drive home after dropping johnnie off, i thought about his ordinary-looking building, the ordinary-looking building next door, the dozens of times i had walked those self-same ordinary streets at all hours secure in the knowledge that my white, middle-class bubble of immunity followed me everywhere.

and it occurred to me, and not for the first time, that after twenty-three years here, i still don't know shit about this city.