MY EX-RIDES

It's been nearly a year since I have survived without an automobile of my own; sure, my friends have been overly generous in allowing me to borrow their vehicles, and I am beyond grateful for the privilege. But it's not the same as having a ride of my own. I get emotionally attached to automobiles. I give then names, polish them and feel more than a slight tinge of physical pain when they get dinged or damaged.

But you know what? I'm so fucking glad I don't have a car to fret about these days. The city is cracking down HARD on all types of shit, and you only need to have 2 outstanding tickets before they will boot you know. It's such bullshit. And don't get me started on the Red Light cameras.

But whenever I see a car that I used to have, it makes me nostalgic, sad and even angry. Let's take a look at the 3 rides I have previously owned and loved the shit out of.

1998 VW Jetta GT (aka Jettadia I)

This was not a fast car, as it only produced roughly 125 HP, but I worked that 5-Speed tranny like my life depended on it. And it was my first car! The feeling I felt while driving it home from the dealership was intense, I still remember the smell even. It was not easy giving it up at the end of it's lease, and I still wish I had it, because even though it would be a 11 year old piece of shit, it still rocked.

2002 VW Jetta GL (Jettadia II)

My fetish for German cars continued unabated, to the point that a deal breaker was the color (gotta be black). It was also slow, but perfectly capable, and the blue/red interior lighting scheme was the shit. Unfortunately, it literally burned my ass once. The seat heater over heated and literally left a mark on my ass. That sucked. But I drove that fucker from Chicago to LA and back, and damn man, I still remember pulling to the side of the road in Monument Valley. Fucking amazing.

2006 Acura RSX Type-S

When I bought this car I was so fucking hungover. But I was insistent on getting a great deal (always buy a car near the end of the month when salesmen are eager to make their numbers). I went to one dealership, than a competing one. I took a salesman's business card, and wrote down the offer, than took it back to the first dealer...and they totally fucking caved! God, that car was sweet, fast as hell and so good looking in that paint color. Of course, "Lil Bad Ass" was bad news...rear ended 3 times, wheel stolen, side swiped and ultimately jacked all together. Sigh. It was not meant to be.

So now my "ride" is the bus, or the train or my feet (or my bike, although that didn't turn out so well!). But it's all good. Having a car in Chicago is such a source of stress, not to mention excessively expensive. I really miss shifting a manual transmission though...it was an unlikely source of pride.

NOT SO DEEP THOUGHTS

A few posts ago I mentioned I had met a guy, named "Justin", whom I thought was a great guy. Totally cute, funny, seemingly normal, etc. When I met a guy I think has potential it gives me hope that there actually might be someone out there, which then manifests itself in a high that lasts for some time. You know that nervous anticipation of wondering what could come next? I love that shit. Call me a hopeless romantic if you will...but I never intend a random hook-up to be just that.

Well, that awesome high was completely obviated by a seemingly innocuous text sent to me by mistake, by the guy I had held some hope for (see above). About an hour after i had invited the other Justin out for drinks on Tuesday night, he responded, and I quote: "one day some guy sucked my dick 3 hours before I fucked you".

Since he didn't fuck me, I was confused, not to mention crushed, but I sought clarification. His response was that the message in question was meant to be sent to someone else, and later added "it was a joke". Awesome. And I mean to use that adjective with extreme sarcasm. At this point, I won't be seeking his company anytime soon. And good luck to him if our paths ever cross again, because if so, he can expect a swift kick in the dick.

Moving on to this weekend's festivities, namely "Market Days", which I hereby propose be re-named "Un-Pride" since it's only purpose is to provide a venue for people to get fall down drunk and hook-up. Which is fine and all...but they need to add a Mardi Gras theme? Seems it a bit much...

After the recent experience with SLUT-BAG/SHIT-HEAD, I resolved to literally keep it in my pants last night. Not that I'm against hooking up and having some hot boy-on-boy action, but I wasn't then, nor am I still in the mood for that shit. I went down to Boystown with ex-roomie in tow, a belly full of whiskey and a mission to just take it easy and enjoys the "sights" (and also to see my favorite NYC blogger who happened to be visiting).

All was well in good, with the exception of the line wrapped around the block to get into the bar we were at. After 2 hours and several beers later, I needed a cigarette. However, the bouncers wouldn't let you leave and come back in; I'd have had to leave and stand in the insane line to re-enter (DICKS).

So I opted to just chill in the little spot my friends and i carved out for ourselves. Then they all went to take a piss en mass. I guess that was the cue for this dude to "make his move". At first i assumed someone was just trying to get past me, but when I turned around, he planted his mouth directly on mine, while also grabbing my junk. Classy.

I asked him to back off, and at least introduce himself first (see! I'm a gentleman!). He was cute, in a I-JUST-TURNED-21 kind of way, but like I said before, I was not looking to hook-up, and asked him again not to grab my junk, which he took as his cue to try to put his hands down my pants. Rather than break his wrist, I opted to leave the bar and have my much desired nicotine fix.

He followed me outside. UGH. It seemed like perfect timing when I spotted a friend of mine on the street outside, chilling on his bike. I was barely able to get in a "hello" before...said 'friend' and horny twink dude started making out in front of me. DOUBLE UGH. I walked away, and when I looked back, friend was riding off, and the twink had vanished into the ether.

These big Mo-Fests just aren't for me, I've decided. Too many people, too many expectations and frankly, I just don't feel like I fit in. Last right, while walking down the litter strewn stretch of Halsted between Belmont and Addison, I felt like an outcast, and also that the larger gay community in Chicago doesn't value uniqueness; I mean, (and to quote ex-roomie) "a gym teacher couldn't get this many people to dress this much alike".

Perhaps I simply have my head wedged up my ass (it's happened before)...I dunno. But I do I feel rudderless, and, to be annoyingly "poetic", adrift in a vast sea without a harbor upon the horizon. *BURP*. I need another beer.

R.I.P. FAST EDDIE

"The Final Game"

I am headed to the nearest pool table where I will kick the fucking shit out of anyone and everyone, just to make Paul proud!

"Kiss Me"

SEX AND THE OLYMPIC CITY

I'm not really into the Olympics, and therefore don't watch them. But still, it's obviously impossible to avoid them, and in the case of the swimmers (like everyone else) I'm glad I don't (goddamn, why didn't I join the swim team in high school? Oh right, I hate swimming).

Anyways, I don't know when I thought about this...but I was thinking about all the hot studs, all living in close proximity together. And I concluded that towards the end of the Olympics, when the competitions are over, that Olympic Village has got to be the hottest, sexiest place on Planet Earth.

Now, I usually only read the Times for Jeremy Clarkson's columns, but this headline caught my eye today, "Sex and the Olympic City", which basically confirms my suspicions, that towards the end of the games, the Village, is indeed, a total Fuck Fest. Here's a few choice quotes:

"There is a famous story from Seoul in 1988 that there were so many used condoms on the roof terrace of the British team's residential block the night after the swimming concluded that the British Olympic Association sent out an edict banning outdoor sex."

"It is a common sight to see recently knocked-out athletes gorging on Magnums and McDonald's, swilling alcohol and, of course, shagging like crazy. Sometimes all three at the same time."

“It is unbelievable in there; everyone is totally crazy once they are out of their competitions. God knows what it is going to be like this weekend. It is like a world within a world.”

Read all the hot, sordid details here: Sex and the Olympic City. Can we got NBC to cover some of this action?

THE NEW WHIP!

Now, I know what you're thinking, "Justin, how did you acquire such a fine automobile?" The answer was this lavish Chrysler Pacifica. Yup, I decided that instead of a sleek, low slung sports car, I'd replace it with a Mini-van disguised not so convincingly as a SUV thats really a glorified station wagon.

And in cased it's not painfully evident, it's a piece of shit.

OK - I didn't actually buy it, this my rental for the next few weeks while my Baby is at the body shop. It seems that the Motherfucker that hit my car caused enough damage the body shop estimates it will about 2 weeks before they fix it up.

I naively thought that the damage was mostly cosmetic, but I was wrong. When I drove in to the body shop for an estimate, one of the guys working there pointed out that the rear right wheel that was on an angle. Which means suspension damage. Ugh.

Though annoyed and exhausted, I'm trying to remain in good spirits. After all, no one got hurt (that is until I find the person responsible and rearrange his facial features with a Louisville Slugger). And thus far everything has been a breeze.

The insurance company has been awesome, the body shop guys were empathic and the renting of that God-Awful car/truck thing was painless (with the exception of having to pay $16 a day for the insurance - that's kind of a bitch). Also, my friend lent me his sweet Mini Cooper! I love that car! Thank you friend!

The only static I got was when I filed a police report yesterday. Man, that cop was not so friendly. Because my situation required him to fill out a ton of paperwork, he made no effort whatsoever to mask his complete resentment of my very being. Basically, he was a dick.

But I'm moving on and putting that ugliness behind me. And in the meantime, that Chrysler is going to be driven like the fat bitch she is (apologies to any readers that drive a Pacifica). I want my car back!

ME MYSELF AND I

Just got back from a friend's wedding tonight, and I have concluded that it is simply depressing to attend such an event as a single, gay man.

Of course, I was grateful to watch an old friend marry her man. She looked amazing (it's really something how women have this "super hero" ability to morph into super beautiful beings; brides look positively radiant on their big day) and the ceremony was very touching, even to this hardened soul.

To see a Father "give away" (bad phrase) his daughter to her husband is something that never fails to move me. Even if the speech is cheesy, its still (read: sentimental to the extreme) a moment that holds its own particular gravity.

From my perspective, the Father's speech was plodding and slightly awkward, but to the parties directly involved, it was full of naked emotion and love.

Per standard protocol, a slightly mediocre dinner followed, along with the usual lame conversation with the people you are forced to sit with (i.e. "so how do you know the bride/groom, etc?). Fuck, I sound like a grouch!

But when it came time for the "dancing" (if you could call the spasms exhibited by white middle aged people on display) I was left by myself at a large table to contemplate by future.

One of my best friends, one who got hitched back in May, was a Bridesmaid, and I was seated next to her husband.

This guy is awesome. He is a Marine who served recently in Iraq, but well adjusted (as much as could be, I suppose) and we chatted and drank the night away.

But once it was time for him to "claim" his wife and cut up a rug, which was totally within his right to do, it left me sitting in front of a lonely bottle of beer.

All dressed up in a black Calvin Kline suit with nowhere to go.

I could have asked one of the random women to dance, but the 3 that I identified as not having a male partner present, were all taken, and really....I'm not much of a dance type of guy.

Perhaps if I didn't have to drive such a distance home, I would have consumed additional alcohol to overcome any social anxiety, but as the night went on, I resolved myself to stay sober (relatively speaking).

And I felt increasingly disassociated from the straight, partying mass of those already married, or those intending to do so (SOON!).

Overall, it was a lovely occasion to passively experience, but it also made me feel lonely.

I want to go to a wedding just once with a boyfriend (hopefully also clad in Calvin Kline, maybe Armani, haha) as a couple.

I thought by this point in my life I would be coupled and have someone to attend such events with.

But as I am not, they tend to weigh on me negatively.

And this sucks because these occasions should be about the proud and happy Bride and Groom, but I leave feeling vaguely dejected, and more than out of place.

EMANATING NEGATIVE ENERGY

Last night I was fortunate to spend time with an old and dear friend from high school, who happened to be in town for the weekend for a mutual friend's bachelorette party. Since the festivities are due to occur today/tonight we had time to hang out last night.

I had been looking forward to her visit for weeks, especially since I have been suffering from a mild case of depression as of late. Her visit would surely brighten my outlook, I thought to myself, and for the most part it did.

Until, that is, we found ourselves at a bar last night. Said bar decided to re-appropriate their private dining area to a tarot card reader for the night, (for the Halloween weekend perhaps). No one was aware of this woman's "services" until I passed the room on the way to the pisser.

Upon arriving back at our table, I mentioned the awkward exchange of eye contact between myself and ESP woman to my friends. Old and Dear Friend announced her intention to get her palms read, or failing that, having her tarot cards read.

Once our other friends vacated the bar, she decided to "go for it" and I expressed my desire to "watch this bullshit". We situated ourselves in the small room and ESP Reader began to lay down the tarot cards...

Granted, I know little to nothing about the practice of reading/interpreting tarot cards, but my embedded skepticism seemed confirmed upon observing the practice. Every "reading" was very general in nature, however my friend seemed to be getting something out of this experience.

After 15 minutes or so:

ESP Reader (turns to me and says): "I have to ask you to leave the room".
Me: "Why?"
ESP Reader: "...I can sense that you recently had an important relationship in your life has recently ended, and because you have not resolved this situation, your negative energy is interfering with my session".
Old and Dear Friend: "huh?"
Me: (clenching jaw): "...I'll be at the bar".

Ouch. Here I am trying to get over whatever bullshit is depressing me and this random person throws my "negative energy" back in my face. Fuck you very much ESP Reader. Needless to say, I went home shortly thereafter, and not in a good mood.

Tonight, I am supposed to go to a costume party, although I am 99% sure I will not be wearing a costume, unless you count pretending to have a good time as a "costume". Perhaps it will be a NetFlix night home alone. I dunno...but I am trying not to dwell.