Curses! My Nefarious Plans Are Foiled!

The Bike Stop. I decided to go to the Bike Stop last night. My father's parting words to me were, "Do you have to?"

On the way down, I stopped at a 7-11 to pick up some Rosie's. (For the uninitiated, "Rosie's" refers to iced tea made by Rosenberger's Dairies, a local operation. Not too sweet, but with a nice bite, blue collar work in these parts is fueled by Rosie's.) I got two half gallons, got back in my jeep, and then noticed that the vehicle next to me was parked awfully close. The driver was going to have a hard time getting out. And then I saw who was driving.

This... this... man. Big man. Bush beard. Like, reeeally bushy. And big, beautiful brown eyes. And then I realized he wasn't getting out. He had pulled off the road and into the 7-11 parking lot so he could light a big cigar.

I mean, Wow! Thanks God!

I sat there, transfixed, for as long as I could before it got awkward. But I was so rattled by the experience that I drove a good mile and a half with my lights off.

Surely, I thought, this is a Sign. Surely it's going to be a good night for me at the Bike Stop.

I got into Phila. without too much trouble. Parked in my regular lot on Walnut Street. At this point I was starving, so I headed to More Than Just Ice Cream for a chicken quesadilla. Over dinner, I thought some about the big man in the big Mazda with the big cigar. Now, obviously he was straight. But I mean, he's the total embodiment of the archetype that I and so many gay men I know seek and seek to emulate. Is he aware of that? Could he have any inkling that there are legions of men out there who would pay a lot of money to watch him sit naked except for his boots and smoke a cigar. If he ever decided to sell his underwear on eBay, he could retire early.

Further, how did he come to look that way? I mean, it didn't just happen. He's homo sapiens. Res cogitans. He has self-consciousness like the rest of us. Who was he modeling? Does he see himself as a biker guy, and so that's what a biker guy looks like? I mean, gay men do it because they're following the principle of Look Like Whom Thou Wouldst Fuck. But what's his motivation? Is he doing it to get laid, too?

So then I headed to the Bike Stop. And whaddya know, there were lots and lots of very hot men there. Perhaps Mazda Guy was a good omen.

Ran into several guys I know, including a Los Angelino who works in Phila. from time to time. There were so many hot men there last night, I had a hard time figuring out which ones to go for. But not too hard a time.

And I struck out five times.

Five!

In most cases, the men I was after all seemed to be there with their boyfriends or husbands. (There ought to be a law against that. Or if you're off the market, you should have to wear a purdah when you go into a leatherbar.) But in some cases it was just, "Great meeting you. See you again sometime. 'Bye." And this one guy gave me a great bear hug, lifiting me up off the ground.

Okay. Desparation was setting in. I wanted a connection dammit! Not going home together (chances are that would be way unworkable). But just swapping phone numbers. Or even spit. Something!

Nothing. Nothing at all.

I headed to my car. At this point, I was boiling. I decided to indulge myself, and as I drove up North Broad Street, I was screaming "Fuck you guy wearing the leather harness! Fuck you red headed bear in the baseball cap! Fuck you skinhead boy! Fuck you Philadelphia!"

With all that adrenaline pumping, I was wide awake for the ride home.

And then, I saw flashing reds and blues in my rear view. I got a ticket for running a redlight. It was yellow when I went into the intersection, I swear! The cop--who wasn't hot, dammit--was nice enough about it. And told me that if I went to a hearing (another hearing), then we could work something out so I wouldn't get points on my license. (It was yellow!)

Dammit dammit dammit.

And then, within ten miles of home, I started hearing this noise coming from the engine.

Unbelievable! Car trouble? I just got new fluids belts and filters three months ago!

Ker-DUNK. Ker-DUNK. Ker-DUNK. Except when I accelerated. Then it was KerDUNKkerDUNKkerDUNKkerDUNK.

I took it slow and managed to get home. I discovered that my engine belt had partially worn away. There was still about 3/8th of an inch of it left. But apparently the part that had split off had been whipping around under the hood. And had severed an air hose going to my carburator.

Why, that would be more money I don't have!

Oh man.

Not to mention, I'll be driving the White Ford Taurus till it gets repaired. (I swear, if I have to drive a white Ford Taurus to Santa Saturday, I'll kill myself. I just will. I'm serious. I'm making a plan and all! It'll be dramatic. Caffeine overdose, right in the middle of Starbucks.)

So what's up with that?

They say "bad luck comes in threes," but usually those situations involve a chain of events. This trio... there was no relationship. They were all completely independent of each other.

I've been getting on so good with the Universe lately. Why now do get kicked when I'm down?

Anyway, I'm keeping at bay abject self-pity and self-criticism the likes of which hasn't been seen since Mao's Cultural Revolution. But it ain't easy.

Anyway, time to head to Starbucks. Starbucks never lets me down.

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