nothing human disgusts me

The summer doesn't provide the thrill that it used to.  And this summer had a very mediocre start.

Luckily, since time speeds up as we age, summer is always around the corner, so I don't get bothered as much when one is spoiled.  In The Magic Mountain, I seem to remember a discussion of how doing the same thing every day (sitting around in a sanatorium; going to work in an office) causes the days to blur together which then makes time seem to go faster. When there is little to distinguish one day from another, our mind can't really tell the difference between a week, a month, or a year.

Time has no divisions to mark its passage, there is never a thunderstorm or blare of trumpets to announce the beginning of a new month or year. Even when a new century begins it is only we mortals who ring bells and fire off pistols.

This summer has had its share of thunderstorms and blaring trumpets, although they didn't announce anything in particular.  At the recent street fair with sadomasochistic decorations, about which a handsome, non-heterosexual, half-Greek, half-Egyptian, Muslim acquaintance said: awful, rain poured down upon the celebrants, causing throngs in thongs to run for cover lest their leather accessories and Internet-connected, multimedia smart-phones be water-damaged.  My mobile phone is now so antiquated that it triggers gasps and laughter from passers-by whenever I whip it out, so I don't worry about it getting ruined.

I had spent the morning of the day of this street fair watching my favorite Israeli reggae band perform in Central Park.  The lead singer, on whom I have a crush, was as adorable as I had expected, although I wondered what the anti-Israeli racism-fixated Left would think about the fact that he spoke English with a Jamaican accent.  The occasion for their performance was a celebration of the 100th anniversary of the founding of Tel Aviv (on the pre-existing Arab town of Yaffa/Yafo/يافا), and there were pro-Palestinian protesters confined to a pen outside the designated celebratory area.  I looked over and saw flowing Palestinian flags and New York Jews engaged in finger-wagging conversations with the demonstrators.  I chose not to look at that scene again.

After the reggae band finished their lively set, the lead singer asked the next performer, a non-heterosexual, former boy-band singer with no body fat, if they could do one more song.  But his request was done not in Hebrew but in his deep and hearty pseudo-Jamaican accent.  The non-heterosexual, former boy-band singer with no body fat responded with a shrill, girlish Israeli whine: "But we have a schedule!"

Everyone laughed at his effeminacy and foreignness.

Once the non-heterosexual, former boy-band singer began to sing, two women in bikinis -- one of them blond -- appeared on stage and started gyrating to his off-key warbling.

Do you just want the Arabs to hate you as much as possible? I wondered.  It seemed gratuitous.

I then headed down to the non-heterosexual street fair with sado-masochistic decorations, meeting up with my young friend who a Canadian correspondent described as "iceblond", and a young person I met in Israel last year (!ת-ו-ם) who is thankfully attracted to old and fat men.

When we arrived, someone began to fondle and grope my iceblond friend.   I looked at the fondler and thought, you are not worthy to unloose the latchet of his harness.  I can be excessively jealous and over-protective of friends.  This is one of the many hardships associated with being a non-heterosexual in these last days.

I had a good time.  Several persons commented on the mixed emotions engendered by the sight of many nearly-naked bodies that did not conform to mainstream beauty standards, often swathed in fetishistic accoutrements.

"I think it's wonderful for people to be able to express themselves and to be accepted for who they are and to live out their fantasies," I said.  "On the other hand, I don't think persons over 30 should wear shorts in public."

After being caught in the rain several times, I contracted a respiratory infection.  I supposed I could have contracted much worse, given the circumstances.

The next weekend my Turkish friend who comes from a good family and who likes the aesthetic of exposed dishware invited me to go to the private club to which he belongs.  It is a club reserved for the creative and successful.  As I went in with him, I felt like I had entered a movie, or at least an episode of Sex and the City.  Everyone was well or interestingly dressed.  The decoration was pleasing and cheerful, and reminded me a bit of a bar I had gone to in Buenos Aires last November with my friend who applied for asylum in the United States because he is only attracted to somewhat overweight men, and they don't have those in Argentina.  They don't have those in my Turkish friend who comes from a good family and who likes the aesthetic of exposed dishware's club either.

We sat outside and I drank margaritas or mojitos or something while my Turkish friend drank water, since he is a Muslim and had been drunk the night before.  There was a band performing slightly Cuban music.  I looked around for Salman Rushdie but could not find him.  Everyone looked like the type of person who gets profiled in the New York Times Styles section.

Eventually, of course, there was a torrential downpour so everyone had to flee indoors.  I had been afraid to take a photo of the outdoor area, as that would have revealed that I was neither creative nor successful, so I went into the restroom and took a photo there.

The next day I had agreed to go march in the parade that takes place at the end of June every year.  Asaph had invited me to march with the Israeli mission to the UN, but I had refused, since I am not Jewish, not Israeli, and don't want to get killed.  Even showing me adorable interviews with the stars of a recent pornographic film set in Israel directed by the absurd Russian immigrant to New York who used to go to my gym and who needs to lay off the collagen injections failed to convince me to join him.

I had heard that those who maintain on-line diaries were marching together, and this effort was being coordinated by Father Tony, a person whom I hold in high esteem, for a variety of reasons, including his compassion, his intellect, and his calm in dealing with New Atheists.  So I decided to march with his group.

The night before I had suffered from intestinal distress, for no clear reason, since it had been years since I had put anything to my mouth that hadn't been thoroughly swabbed with alcohol.  I was upset.  That morning I took a synthetic piperidine derivative, despite fears of toxic megacolon, and headed out with Asaph towards the staging area.  I dropped him off with the Zionists.  There were numerous young men with zero body fat changing into t-shirts that read "proud Israeli".  

"Try not to get killed," I asked.

I found my group.  I met a very interesting person with whom I had corresponded, as well as others whom I had known for years.  I had missed a memo about creating customized t-shirts with the name of one's on-line diary through an Internet site.  I was wearing a black tank top and a sour expression.  Not very festive.

We waited.  Since I was afraid of having to use a restroom during the parade, I ate no food and drank no liquids.  I arrived at around 11:30.  By 14:45 we had still not moved from our staging area.  I was starting to feel a bit cranky.

Finally, there was movement, although thankfully not in my bowels.  Early on in the parade I observed an egregious mistake in an MTA bus sign.

As we passed St. Patrick's Cathedral and its secular rebuttal Rockefeller Center, I saw that a couple of  members of the American Orthodox Jewish community were expressing their opinion.

I wondered when the Anglo-Saxon word "God" had become conflated with the tetragrammaton: יהוה.

We passed the library.  What else good came out of 1969?

I realized that I would never be the kind of free spirit that makes our nasty, brutish, and short lives worth living.  Actually, I had already known that. 

As time went on, I started to feel a bit more physically uncomfortable, owing to my self-imposed fast and the intestinal issues.  I kept my eyes on the road. 

Several persons commented on my grim countenance.  I was having fun!

Asaph arrived at a party held by his hot non-heterosexual accountant hours before I did.  I finally got there as they were cleaning up and people were heading to the pier for the dance.  I wasn't going to the pier, owing to unconvincing arguments.

I convinced Asaph to go out later.  We arrived at an empty club and were given a thorough search that stopped just short of body cavities, which, given my intestinal problems, was fortunate for all involved.

Later, people arrived and complained about their treatment by the club security.  Everything in New York is very difficult.

I had fun, but everyone seemed quite evil that night, in that special sly evil way that New York non-heterosexuals are so good at being.  I imagined that everyone was maneuvering to set up some sort of methamphetamine-fueled orgy ending in something else even more sinister, like tax cuts.

I got home at 3:30, and finally the weekend came to a spectacular climax.  Well, an ending, at least.

The next weekend I headed out to Pinès with my young friend Josh, who had never been there before.  Asaph had already flown to Israel, so I had invited Josh to go in his place.  We met at Penn Station and accidentally boarded the Hamptons direct train.  The aggression and entitlement in the air was palpable.

As we got on, Josh and I were slightly separated.  I found a seat.  A man tried to claim the one next to me.  "My friend is sitting here, " I said

"Are you [expletive] kidding me?" he said.

"No, he's right here," I responded, putting my hand on Josh's shoulder.  He was standing right behind this man.

"You're [expletive] kidding me!" he yelled.

"No, this is really my friend," I asserted.

He shook his head in outrage and disbelief and then took the seat behind us.  It struck me that the aggression that one encounters in New York is not what's annoying:  life in New York is indeed very hard.  The thing I don't understand is that, unlike in other places where life is hard, like India, people in New York seem to be continually surprised and offended by conditions to which they should probably be used to by now.  Things are crowded; this is not new.

We somehow managed to make our way to the Pines.  It was great to have Josh with me.  Josh is pretty much my opposite: he is young, thin, optimistic, cheerful, and always smiling.  I am not those things.  Every time we walked by someone, he would say "hello!"  In response, people continually offered him sex.

We went to High Tea after dropping off our bags.  There we ran into the mutually betrothed couple who make me feel like garbage, although, frankly, they don't really make me feel like garbage anymore.

Time cools, time clarifies, no mood can be maintained quite unaltered through the course of hours.

Josh is pretty débrouillard, so he spent a lot of the time doing his own thing.  After coming back from a late-night walk, he described how the path to my house through some tall grass reminded him of a particularly scary scene in an M. Night Shyamalan film, thereby making any nighttime trip home full of terror from then on.

I forced Josh to attend a unique non-heterosexual event: the underwear party.  The minute we entered the club full of adult men in their underwear dancing around, I remembered how stupid non-heterosexuality was.

Occasionally I would catch a glimpse of my body in the mirror.  I would have to remind myself: I chose my face, I chose my face, I chose my face.

A group of my friends came out for Independence Day, and they weren't interested in the drag queen so-called Invasion, so we passed the time at the beach and at the pool, trying to see who could make the biggest splash or who could do the most back-flips or who could say something underwater that could be understood by everyone else.  It was very sixth grade.

Everyone came up with dirty things to say underwater, but one person just said "hey".  Since that had already been taken, I had to pass when it came to my turn.

I was surprised that it was blurry when I opened my eyes under water.  I had thought it would be clear.  I hadn't had good vision underwater since I was eight.

Later we went to Low Tea, which is my favorite Fire Island institution.  The light was beautiful.  I observed a dramatic scene at the so-called hotel.

The light was so flattering.

 

I tried to impress an Arab by spelling his name, but I guessed that it began with أ and in fact it began with ع.  I was disappointed in myself, since ع is of course my favorite letter.

Still, he seemed impressed.

That night I stayed in and watched The Night of the Iguana.  I learned that there are worse things than chastity: lunacy and death.

There was a cool wind blowing, and I slept very soundly.  I wasn't even awakened by those birds!

I left early Sunday morning since I had to get home to prepare for an upcoming journey.  It was another beautiful clear day.  I left my shirt off while sitting on the upper deck of the ferry, throwing caution and propriety to the literal wind.

Comments

[Jérôme]

Shouldn't we live sometime, and especially as we age, throwing caution & propriety to the wind?

[Andrea]

Mercifully, "free spirit" doesn't have a narrow definition. You definitely help make my life (nasty, brutish and short or not) worth living. :)

[Michel]

Which of the two Joshes accompanied you to Pinès? (I know you don't respond to comments, except sometimes within mysterious brackets, but I'm asking anyway.)

Another lovely post. You do more in a week than I do in, well, at least a fortnight.

[David]

You didn't seem THAT grim to me at the parade.

I can't help but agree with you regarding your observation at the underwear party.

I imagine my sexual opportunities would have been exponentially higher had I adopted Josh's débrouillard style back in my youth. Soupire.

[max]

The dramatic pic at the so-called hotel looks like something from an early, Pre-Hollywood Almodóvar film. Cool.

[Mike]

I loved reading this entry as always, but I have to admit that "debrouillard" will send me running to the thesaurus or Google Dictionary. I'm not bothering with the accents, but I thought a literal translation would be "unfoggy?" Anyway, thanks again.

[henry]

There is a content and almost happy general disposition underlying your recent posts. You're not going mellow on us, are you?

[Dans]

super style thanx..