The Magic of Queer Self-Loathing

"The Magic of Queer Self-Loathing" is going to be the title of my memoir of being young, gay and talented in Connecticut.

Last night Brian F and I went down to BAR in New Haven for "alternative night." In case you don't know, thats code for "gay night" without actually having to write the word "gay" on your website, which potentially could be bad for business. It was a good idea on Brian's part, a plan that was reached after several minutes spent bitching on the phone about nothing to do and feeling trapped, etc. Driving to New Haven retains the illusion of getting out of town, even though its a mere 45 minutes down 91S and its still Connecticut with only relatively little to do. It was Tuesday, after all, and something needs to replace Tisane for gay night because that place is terrible.

I realized perhaps for the first time, however, that the notion of a "gay night" is upsetting, inherently flawed as a way to find what you're looking for, and should come as no surprise that I usually go home alone. Looking for a boyfriend at a gay bar is like shopping at KMart. Even if you find a pair of jeans that fit well, they certainly don't feel or look too good. And besides that the experience of having to buy anything at KMart is really gross and often a little troubling. At gay bars no one can dance well, men are dressed like shit yet they think they look cute, and men feel free to indulge every queeny behavior they want with no fear of judgment or ridicule (thank you, gay rights movement). No one expects these boys to grow up and behave like men, which is why I find gays such a major turn-off, ironically, because I am attracted to men who act like it and believe in it.

Regardless, it is better than Tisane on a Tuesday, and it was good to go to New Haven with Brian, especially. Don't get me wrong, I like BAR a lot as a nightclub, especially on Sunday nights when really awesome touring bands play there for free. I think I need to get off the gay party circuit for a while.

Oh, 2001 called. It wants it's torn up faded jeans and studded belt back.

Chris and Brian F. Chris gets a lot of ass at this bar.

I didn't even have to ask this guy to pose

the Dream Team coup d'etat

This week the party production group known as the Dream Team is taking over Sully's Pub and is hosting two nights instead of only one. This can only lead to an eventual overthrow of Sully and the Dream Team's ascension to total power. No more lousy open mics or fuckless drum 'n' bass night. Get Humped every night of the week.

Anyway, tonight there will be dancing and $2 drafts and well drinks. The music is the usual early 90's r&b and recent disco, spun by the DJs you can trust, Partytime, Prowler, Chip Crane, and Dirty D. On Friday it should be much of the same, plus Benn Grim spinning records as well. I'm starting to like Sully's a lot. I love Mehl and Sarah Z the bartenders. I want to do hard drugs in the upstairs lounge. I love all of the shitty murals on the walls. No just kidding, those are terrible. Brian F. and I have plans to get together tonight and we'll probably go to Sully's if we decide not to go cruise the docks, I mean Tisane.

Fast Times at Hartford High

Last night we tried to leave off-campus elitism behind us so we could party on campus at someone's dorm. I bitched for an hour before we left about how no one will take me seriously if I hang out in dorms and get drunk with undergrads, but then Ross went into his "i want to live my life" speech, at which point I decided to get dressed and have a fun time.
I must say, kids at the University of Hartford have gotten slightly more attractive since I graduated. When I was there I always thought that the number of unfortunate looking students was campus's biggest detractor. All of the hot babes were renting barely habitable apartments in shady Hartford neighborhoods. I still think that art students should live in their own apartments off campus. Otherwise, all of the Hartt people get the decent places and ruin UHA's reputation around town.

I was trying to take a picture of Lindsay, but then this guy walked into the picture. Look at this asshole's t-shirt.

Ross, hiding under the table while also living his life.

really cute babies

plaid on plaid action

Look at all of these beauty princesses

In retrospect, this picture would have been better if I weren't wearing pants

Further evidence that the Courant has no idea how to party

In the Courant's Java section today, MaryEllen Fillo wrote about last Friday's benefit for TheaterWorks which was apparently held at "Baby Jane's" on Pratt Street. Really Mary? I guess you probably meant Sweet Jane's. I think your partying days are over, and not to mention your reporting days. I went to that party for like 5 minutes. It was terrible. Everyone needs to read about it?
Obviously she used my favorite phrase, "young professionals," the Hartford Courant's favorite target demographic, of whom so little is actually known. Regardless, they are constantly reaching out to these ubiquitous, yet elusive "young working professionals" on almost a daily basis.

terrible

Heath Ledger is dead. He was my James Dean. Ennis Del Mar is one of my favorite characters ever played on screen. I think you'd have to be gay to truly understand the significance of that role and his contribution. I have felt pretty awful all afternoon.

Meghan Dahn sent me the poem below and it's great:

Poem
FRANK O¹HARA

Lana Turner has collapsed!
I was trotting along and suddenly
it started raining and snowing
and you said it was hailing
but hailing hits you on the head
hard so it was really snowing and
raining and I was in such a hurry
to meet you but the traffic
was acting exactly like the sky
and suddenly I see a headline
LANA TURNER HAS COLLAPSED!
there is no snow in Hollywood
there is no rain in California
I have been to lots of parties
and acted perfectly disgraceful
but I never actually collapsed
oh Lana Turner we love you get up 

Shag'd

Ross and I went to Shag Frenzy on Saturday night to celebrate with DJ Johnny Strangler (aka Derek W.) who had a birthday. The music was great, as usual, and there were more than a few cute people in the crowd, but you had to wade through a sea of top-heavy muscle-head bros to get to them. Unfortunately I couldn't get my camera ready in time to capture the shirtless guy out on the dancefloor revealing his HGH-addled upper body decorated with tribal tattoos. It would have perfectly illustrated what I'm trying to say. Sweet Jane's owner/manager, Russ, has visibly been working overtime to promote his club and apparently people have noticed. Now, I only have these suggestions:

1. Sweet Janes/Shag Frenzy could evolve into a successful and popular alternative nightclub on weekends offering their signature alt/indie/disco vibe to compete with the Pour House's monopoly on Top 40, and the Pigs Eye's corner on frat dudes ogling chicks. I think it makes sense. Shag Frenzy has grown up into a proper nightclub and the crowd has also grown from a small scene of loyal supporters into a major crowd of college co-eds and working adults. It seems these people have finally figured out that its not a gaybar. Hire more DJs to diversify the talent, but hold onto Strangler and Garage Flower as the resident jockeys.

2. Open the lower level bar for crying out loud. You have it, use it. It took my baby Ross 30 minutes to get a gin and tonic. Most clubs of that size have more than one bar open. Literally squeezing through what feels like a wall of sweat, flesh and bone to get through the bar area wouldn't have to happen if the crowd was better disseminated.

3. PAINT OVER THE TRANNY MURAL! Everything will improve! Just paint it white, but I digress...

birthday boy Johnny Strangler, at left, on stage with the DJ booth posse

Best-dressed smokers of the night- best shoes at least.

Basement Birthday

Ross, Alice, J and I went to Tiff Nevers' birthday party late last night. It was held in the basement at a secret address in New Britain. Ross drove while I napped a bit and J sang Weezer songs (blue album). I was trying not to talk too much because I was a little drunk and didn't need to further embarrass myself.
Shag Frenzy at Sweet Jane's tonight for Derek Warren's birthday. I think its number 35, although he looks a mere 28. His sweet bride Sara is preparing celebratory set lists as we speak, I'm sure.

that Budweiser really touched Alice's soul

basement music

birthday girl

Melanie stop moving to Paris, bitch

BREAKING NEWS: EVERYONE GOT LAID AT REAL ART WAYS.

Everyone did have fun. Thursday night's Creative Cocktail Hour was absolutely one to remember. The installation of Bradley Dean Wollman's photographs was breathtaking. Unlike most political art (which makes me want to claw my eyes out), or any thoughtless anti-war ranting, Dean's process of meticulously constructing the carnage of war (the spectacle of war) and then photographing it implicates how fabricated and dubious a photograph can be. Also, Wollman is made complicit with those who make war. The violence he recreates is the violence which another American has created, which we consume, support and do not make an end to. Through mimesis, his art is sympathetic to the war machine, a stance which makes the pictures so terribly disturbing but also seductive. The Little War is chilling and too real.

After CCH I went to the after-party at Vegas Boulevard and regret not having made it to MiBar or even to Paper/New England's new show Focus:New Haven, which was in the same building as CCH. Oh well, perhaps I'll make a trip over there this week and pretend to afford I can buy something.

Jenifer Sanford and Bradley Dean Wollman in front of The Little War

Artists Emily Cappa and Paul Theriault

The brass section of The Landau Orchestra

Pretty baby Skylar Hughes

Phoebe Augustine and Will Wilkins, who finally got a searchlight for the parking lot

Uh-oh.

Vegas After Party

Daniella (right) not working.

Me, not even trying to keep my hands off of a very non-plussed Kevin Kelly

This guy loved me

South Americans who couldn't understand why I wanted their picture (but, duh)

Sweet air-bongo, Mike Birnbaum