Androgenius

It’s never been considered normal behavior for a grown man to have a conversation with electric appliances, but that’s just what Chris was having with his television set.

He shook his head disgustedly in front of the set by what he heard on the network news.
“That’s the most ridiculous load of bullshit I’ve ever heard”, he grumbled. “What are you doing transmitting this bullshit to me, anyhow? I can’t believe the idiotic crap you’re programming to me these days. Shit!”

The source of his revulsion was a news clip of a far-right statesman, old, white and gray of the male sex ignorantly stating in pompous tones that…”rape is perfectly legal between two consenting adults”. This remark made Chris’s head nearly explode.

Rape wasn’t sex. What was this senile moron talking about? Rape was extremely violent beating of an innocent person and violating their body and destroying any semblance of their self-respect and security. It was the ultimate degradation of a human being, scarring them for the rest of their life. It has made victims go insane and in some cases commit suicide.

Chris’s head throbbed with anger, wishing he had someone to slap, beat, kick, bite scratch or maim. Lawmakers advocating assault; it was the end of all rational thought to him and it made him furious.

**********

Chris had the peculiar problem of being confused for being a member of the fairer sex, a girl, a woman, a lady, etc. Was this point of confusion due to his looks being somewhat feminine or that men simply were too lazy to deduce that he was a man who looked a wee bit different?

Case in point, when he sat in a restaurant with a girlfriend the waiter would ask, “And what would you ladies care to order?”

Was it really so hard to distinguish between him and other women or were these waiters too thick to recognize the difference? Chris never protested aloud about this faux pas but it made him tired time and again.

But it didn’t just come from service workers; he’d get the same remarks from his girlfriends, too.
“I almost hate you – how dare you have better legs than me? Well, as long as you don’t wear shorts no one will ever know”. Ha ha.

What made the whole matter ridiculous was that he wasn’t terribly androgynous. People simply didn’t want to make the effort to notice him, as if passing him by consisted of glossing over the finer points of his appearance. He was not only faceless but sexless.

Things finally came to a head when his girlfriend blurted out to him, “I miss the old Chris. I mean, look at you! Ugghh! You’re just half a man!”

*********

Left to his own devices, Chris began the detestable sojourn of going out alone at night. Now that he was without girlfriend most of his friends had taken sides, meaning his nights were going to be spent alone.

He came home late, about 1 am, and it was a weeknight, in a slight buzz from a few weak drinks tossed back reluctantly. The drinks were now just a distant echo running through him like the forgettable music played in the club.

He lived above a store front on a main street, and he reached for his keys as he approached the entrance. The street was empty and still, no cars to be seen for miles. The atmosphere was dark and tranquil, but it was abruptly disrupted by masculine sounds of whooping and whistling coming closer.

He heard sounds of old boys laughing derisively and getting nearer by the minute. He slightly pivoted to see what the row was from the corner of his eye. Old boys, old boys…stupid, klunky late teenage boys in baller caps and board shorts riding on stick scooters down the sidewalk towards him. Sharp, little lights beaming out towards him from these little stick things.

“I don’t have any money”, Chris grumbled under his breath. “What the fuck do they want?”

“GETTIN’ IT WET, HA!”
“WETTAGE TONIGHT, DOG!”
“DOG’S GONNA BARK TONIGHT, SON! HEEHEEHEE!”

Chris broke out of tension in his body for a second when he got it. “Oh, for Christ’s sake”, he gave a cold chuckle.

“HEY BABY, GET OVER HERE!”
“NOOKIE NOOKIE NOOKIE!”
The boys in scooters were already on his block getting close enough for trouble, so he very slowly pivoted towards them so they could get a full look. He fisted his keys so the largest one stuck out of his fist like a claw jumping out of his knuckle.

“HEY BABY!”
He turned full on to them, revealing a cold, hard grimace pretending to be a smile. He caught the horror in their eyes and wanted to laugh out loud.

“AW SHIT, BEN THAT’S A DUDE!”
“YEAH, WHAT THE FUCK??? I TOLD YOU THAT WASN’T TRIM!”
“DAYYUM, SON!”

They spun their scooters into a complete 360 and almost crashed into each other in the process. Chris could hear some more scattered yelling fading down the street, disappearing into the concrete darkness. He was amused but thanked himself it didn’t turn into some sort of gay bash.

Chris turned the key in his door, walked up the stairs to his apartment and decided to end the lone wolf bullshit as soon as he had the chance. Maybe tomorrow.

All Yesterday's Parties

Bad parties can be more legendary in one’s mind than the good ones. In fact, if you asked me what the three best parties I’ve been to were like I couldn’t even tell you, but the terrible ones are relegated to immortality. I don’t know if my terrible parties beat yours, but these ones are unforgettable…in every bad way possible.

There was the “Pimp and Ho Party” in the Hollywood Hills, the real swanky part of the Hills, too, valet parking, luxurious digs and all. It looked promising until Rebecca and I realized we came from another generation. My pimp look emulated some Cab Calloway fifties greaser pimp – every “Pimp” however went for the Fifty Cent rap star look. I was totally out of place. Rebecca went for the “Sweet Charity” slut look – every “Ho” at the party looked like some two-bit Pussycat Dolls wannabe with clear heels and clear French nails. Yuck! To add insult to injury it turned out that these weren’t just ordinary film crew folks, they all belonged to some EST cum Scientology cult. Help! People were telling Rebecca about “The Revision” and how it changed their lives. “The Revision” put them on the right path on the condition they tithed 25% of their earnings to this cult. What a pity, the house was so beautiful and the drinks were good, but the company was Hollywood scary.

I also remember Emma’s Penthouse Magazine “Pet of the Month” bash in the Hollywood Hills again – does that guarantee schmaltz? Don’t worry, we’ll get to Silver Lake pretty soon, it was in February and raining cats and dogs. As soon as you ascended the stairs from the road the first thing you walked by was an unlit infinity pool. I almost fell in, but Rebecca grabbed me and pulled me away from a certain drenching. Unfortunately others didn’t fare so well, in fact when things got boring we would watch new party goers walk right in to the infinity pool, like some bad college prank. The house was packed with swingers, including some fried old British glam rockers with their old man faces arguing about New Wave cinema = not Thomas Dolby new wave, but Francois Truffaut new wave. There was dancing on the second floor, and in the bedroom by the dance floor there was some gross swinger orgy smelling like a tuna cannery. It was so bad our friend Renard had to stand guard by the bathroom so Rebecca could use the crapper. Renard had a great time though, his glasses kept fogging up from all the steamy shenanigans!

Sofia Coppola’s birthday party was a real fizzle, too, no blast, sorry Chief, and took place in her swanky digs in the You-Know-Where Hills. We took our friend Stefan – we always bring friends with us, we need our own entertainment – and after the Princess of Honor greeted Rebecca and snubbed Stef and I in her raging homeliness, we both looked at each other and in unison whined, “THAT’S IT?” The tantalizing princess of cinema? The other party goers were easily the prissiest load of snobs I’ve ever met, and that’s just the guys. The girls thought their shit didn’t stink; one of them even said aloud to her date, “I don’t like him – he’s creeping me out”, pointing at me. After a few drinks I started throwing the gross-out sushi toxic treats in the kitchen against the wall, and needless to say they stuck like Play Doh at Mother Goose Nursery School.

Okay, here’s a shit Silver Lake party for you: Chuck Mosley (ex-Faith No More singer) threw a birthday party for his daughter, a phoney baloney little brat who cracked the most rehearsed pissy smile I’ve ever seen. I couldn’t stand her, but not half as much as Chuck and his woman who proceeded to ignore me because I’m white but loved Rebecca’s negroid coolness. Every black guy in the place with their trendy bullshit dreadlocks improduced hisselfs to hers, and Gentleman Chuck gave her his newest CD, which sounded like every terrible Red Hot Chili Peppers ballad ever recorded. Two hours after we got home he called us and axed Rebecca what she thought of the record, and she said it sounded bland. Chuck mournfully announced to the Dreadlock Brigade over the phone, “Rebecca doesn’t like our record”. Ho, Ho, Ho!

If people catch wind of this blog griping about their crummy parties I’ll probably never get invited to them again, but that’s okay. If there’s one thing I’ve learned it’s that the best parties are with a tiny bunch of pals that don’t judge you and know how to simply chill and not work so hard at trying to be hard and superlative. It’s all about fun, not networking. I’ve already got a motherfucking job.