You can’t say no to hope / Can’t say no to happiness
Last week, as those who picked up on the title to this post will have figured out, I had kind of a Bjork moment. And then, as if by magic, Beautiful Atrocities linked to this impossibly hilarious video parody. (How did the Flea not get to this first?) Bjork’s such an easy target, you’d think result would be kind of lame and surprise-free, but no. Totally made my day.
Speaking of experimental-ly people we listened to in college during the early 90s, the new Massive Attack retrospective made me realize that Blue Lines came out fifteen years ago. Fifteen. Years. Ago. Kids who were conceived to it are, like, finishing junior high school soon. Sheesh.
Oh, Bjork wasn’t the only funny video-related encounter I had in the last few days. The other night, some Simply Red video–I assume it’s new–was playing, and one of the guys was like, “Sean-chan, everyone else thinks I’m crazy to say this, but doesn’t he look like Kim Jong-il?” My buddy was referring to Mick Hucknall, with his pouffy receding hairline and owl glasses, riding standing up in a car. And he was right. He did look like Kim Jong-il. The resemblance was so unmistakable I almost fell off the stool–seriously, it was spooky. Give Hucknall credit for not having facelifted and hair plugged and Botoxed himself into an animatronic wax figure like many other celebs his age, but the guy seriously needs a new stylist.
Yes, that’s bitchy, but it was that kind of weekend. Atsushi was supposed to come home, but through no fault of his own ended up having to stay in Kyushu for business. So I was kind of in a mood that my friends took it on themselves to yank me out of. I was entertained the whole weekend, but I think I ended up exhausting my entire ration of gayness for the next six months. No one tell the board of the International Homosexual Conspiracy, or they’ll send their enforcers to keep me in Dockers and Miller Lite until October.
Not that anything newsworthy happened. In a way, it was the according-to-recipe-ness that made it comforting: The packed club where someone jostled my buddy’s arm and sent half his shot of tequila across the front of my sport jacket. (I had fun explaining that one to the dry cleaner.) The two Japanese guys in their early 20s who, in addition to looking about thirteen, did that junior high school thing where they come up to you and say, “Our friend over there? He’d really like to talk to you? Is it okay if we bring him over?”
One thing that wasn’t comforting: DJ types? Guys? Seguing from “Gimme! Gimme! Gimme!” into “Hung up” was a tired idea before you even did it the first time last fall. Enough, already.
When I went to dinner with a friend–this was the next day–the headwaiter swooped down on him in full service-industry swish mode: “HONEY! Haven’t seen you for ages the sweater is working for you how are you who’s your friend you’ll love today’s fish let’s give you a table with a view I know you want a bottle of Italian white BAY-BEE!” In the silence and stilling of air currents occasioned by his departure, I asked my friend who he was. My friend responded (gay readers will know exactly what’s coming) in his usual confiding Australian drawl: “Sean, I have no idea. I was hoping you‘d remember him.” If you’ve ever wondered why gay guys resort to calling each other “darling” all the time, it’s there in that moment.