Sometimes there is just too much to explain. Sometimes you have to try anyway.
So you may remember an earlier-mentioned plan to go see a particular play and meet a certain person in this play who I do not want to name for fear of showing up in Google searches related to this actor's name and then his fan club will find out about my diary and they will hate me because I am about to say that they are completely freakish, which they were.
One of them was this 16 year old boy. Who almost made me cry. Why cry, you ask? Because he was easily the most stereotypically, overdone gay person I have ever met in my entire life. It was like everything he did and said was specifically calculated to make himself seem more gay. During my coming-out phase I did things, like buy a set of pride rings, that I would not do now (pride rings do not go with any of my clothes, ha ha), all of which were probably an attempt to help me define myself. I never really had to go overboard, though, as in what I now see as an incredible stroke of luck, my high school's atmosphere was remarkably tolerant. I never had that homophobic opposition to fight against, I suppose. The only reason I can think for this kid's attitude is that he thinks he has to behave that way (in self-defense? in defiance? in only having Hollywood stereotypes to look up to?) -- which is what makes me sad.
Add to him a gaggle of other freakish flustered fluttering fans, all wearing matching logo-marked sweatshirts, and who all flipped out when the actor in question arrived. When this sixteen-year-old boy invited me to hang out with the rest of the fan club that evening, driving around in their rented limo, and included the whispered excited phrase, "the limo even has drinks inside!!!", I politely declined due to two birthday parties I had to attend(which was true), but under my breath I muttered something to the effect of "I would rather stab myself in the face."
Rather than risk being vaguely associated with these fine folk, I just gave a quick handshake, congratulations, and a comment that the show was good, and then I was out the door. Result: plan to get an actor boyfriend derailed, but I really think I'm OK with that.
I went from there to Birthday Party # 1 (BP1) to pick up ArtStudent. BP1 ended rather abruptly as soon as I got there, which was a little bit disconcerting (was it something I said?) but apparently they had all been waiting for me before disbanding. ArtStudent and I went to the other party, BP2 -- also known as the Burning Man Decompression Party, in what has to be my least-favorite-named-neighborhood, DUMBO (Down Under the Manhattan Bridge Overpass). Comment to whoever names these things: ENOUGH WITH THE ACRONYMS for fuck's sake.
I do not think my descriptive talents are up to the task of talking about this event in detail. Provided for your amusement, therefore, are a few flashes:
Naked boys on rollerblades shouting anti-war slogans.
A big air-puffed bubblehouse to walk around in.
Kneeling inside a dark tent to a king and queen (only of the tent, presumably) to receive the blessing of Jagermeister.
A bra made out of candy.
ArtStudent being perilously (and hilariously) close to exposed penis.
A bed of nails.
"This place smells like fruit and fuck."
Naked granny-ass wearing (appropriately, I suppose) a fanny pack.
Scottish people inviting me up to dance on a platform.
Projection screens on every surface.
40-foot ceilings and musings on what we could do with the space if we lived there.
Impromptu informal crazy jumpy-hoppy dancing with another guy, spinning around each other in crazy-jumpy-hoppy circles for an hour, followed immediately by utter dehydration due to excessive sweating. My thighs are still in excessive amounts of recovery-pain.
The Manhattan skyline directly across the water.
Hearing a couple have sex in the stall next to me.
Seeing a couple have sex in the corner.
Merry-go-rounds.
Big wooden swings.
A Coat Check right next to a Soul Check.
More naked breasts than I could comfortably shake a stick at.
Riding the subway home with Shiv's roommate as the sun came up.
I ended up sleeping until 5 pm Sunday -- after which I spent an hour and a half chopping sage and thyme and parsley for herb-butter for my turkey. And then I went back to bed in my (are you sitting down?) CLEAN BEDROOM. With clean, flannel, winter sheets. And I slept in the single most comfortable bed in existence.