Monday, September 19, 2005

The Gawker or The Gawkee?

Five years ago, Josh – my personal trainer/entertainer – warned me. He said “be ready, you’ll turn from a Gawker to a Gawkee.” His point was clear; he would turn me from a scrawny geek to a hot guy that would look like the love child of Takeshi Kaneshiro and Gerard Butler.

It was true. Before training with Josh, I was this scrawny guy with dorky glasses. Whenever I went to a gay bar, I would be the shy guy standing on the corner waiting for some compassionate geriatric to hit on me. I was the Gawker.

Occasionally, I’d get hit on by military guys who were on their home leave from Korea and wanted to get their fix of Kimchee on this side of the ocean. I wanted to scream “I’m not Korean, you quiff!” But the testosterone build-up was unbearable, so I succumbed. I became the Cio Cio San for the US Army 2nd infantry.

I wore sweater vests and button-down shirts so I looked less scrawny. My collection of pants were mostly pleated, a necessary tool to cover my non-existent tush. Even in the hottest day of the summer, I wore two undershirts in my desperate attempt to look a bit built.

I toyed with the idea of going twinky. Besides, the heroin chic look was somewhat fashionable at that time. I changed my mind after seeing how those twinks aged. They pruned, shriveled, and became geezers. Besides, the type of guys who dug twinks usually looked like Jeffrey Dahmer.

After three years of personal training and $3000 worth of protein shakes, I became somewhat chiseled. I can feel the DL brothers at my gym mentally hump my legs whenever I flex my arms. After doing a lot of power squats, my ass can nicely fill a low rise Rock & Republic jeans. My transformation was completed by Dr. Yuri, a Russian trained dermatologist who believed in industrial-grade treatments.

Along with the physical transformation, my career took an upturn. After two grueling years in business school and long hours in investment banking, I landed a cushy job in the elusive world of LBO funds. I began to have a nice disposable income.

Consequently, my position in the pecking order of homo society changed. Whenever I went out to bars, I hopped from one circle to another. I learned the skills of exchanging air kisses and brief (but pointed) pleasantries. I flaired smart quips that I heard at places like Kudeta, Therapy and The Abbey. I started to hang out with the beautiful crowd. People gawked me; I became the Gawkee.

I got invited to parties with gay appropriate themes. Last year alone, there were at least three parties with colors as the theme (Lavender and Pink were the faves). I attended fund raising parties for gay causes, ranging from Stop Fugly Gay Abuse to Eradicate Gay Lisps.

Being a gawkee was fun until you realized that you were still a gawker at another setting. A friend who worked for a major agency in Hollywood took me as his plus one to an “industry” party. The judeo-homo crowd led by David Geffen was there. So were the aging divas and the flock of Ashton/Ashley clones.

There I was, a plus one at a Hollywood power party. Everyone seemed to be more connected, more powerful, and more beautiful than me. The low was unbearable; I left after a queeny skankerella said that my watch, which was a college graduation gift from my parents, was tacky.

At the end, it was a humbling experience. I closed my power-broker practice. I resorted to keeping genuine friends despite of status and looks. Just like Buddha, I have found my homo inner peace…

Friday, September 09, 2005

Evanston!

I live in the burb. I know... New acquiantances would never think that I do. They asked how it could be. My fashion sense is so avant-garde it needs its own name; no way it comes from the burb!

Truth to the matter, I live in Evanston, a leafy northern suburb of Chicago. This is a town on the shore of Lake Michigan, where Northwestern University is located. On a nice day, its lovely parks are filled with jocks playing rugby and peeping tom homos with camouflage outfits and telephoto lenses.

The town's social structure is nicely stratified. Its ghetto is notorious for the drive-by shootings and 24-hour Currency Exchanges. One mile away, illegal immigrant workers cultivate Louis XIV-style gardens on lakeshore mansions. Half of the high school graduating class goes to prestigious universities for a four-year journey filled with Cliff Notes and date rapes. The other half goes to flip burgers at local McDonalds.

The most obvious clash of personalities occurs right in front of my house at an 18-screen movie theater. It's so luxurious The Chicago Magazine voted it as the best movie theater in Chicagoland. On a typical Saturday night, soccer moms in their LR3s drop off their teenage kids. Ten feet away, queens from the neighboring gay ghetto sashay down the sidewalk in their lilac Hollister shirts and Capri pants.

Even the movie theater is split to cater to the dichotomy of characters. Half of the screens plays exciting cinematic breakthroughs like “40 Year-Old Virgin” while the other half plays artsy-fartsy flicks like “Eat, Drink, Man, Woman.”

Charlton Heston, the most iconic Evanstonian and Northwestern Alum, also presents a conflicting image. He is the president of the NRA, the gun-touting extension of the Republican Party. He did so after making a comfortable living starring in movies such as
Planet of the Apes, Of Human Bondage, The Private War of Major Bensen, and Agony and Ecstasy. Is he a straight-laced Republican? Baloney! He made homo-erotic movies about privates, ecstasy, apes, and bondages. Ooh yees, he's gaay.

Evanston is apparently the destination of choice for upwardly mobile gay men who have coupled up with either men or women. My gym is filled with them. While the straight and gay guys typically work out from 6pm to 7pm, our down low brothers flock the steam room at around 8pm. It would be a sociologist's dream to study DL brothers exchanging subdued flirtations in the locker room.

Janette, my trusty fagnet, and I share the same favorite pastime activity. We love sitting on my patio on a Sunday morning. With cocktails in our hands, we would count the number of gay dads that passed the street in front of us. Sometime they would stroll the street with their cute adopted Chinese daughters. The whole scene was totally Ellen (before Anne turned straight). If Log Cabin Republican needed to pick a place to do a photo-shoot for their promo, they should do it here.

I love Evanston!

Pictures are courtesy of:
Two rugby players and a hiney - Mayhem RFC
Century movie theater - Fehlman LaBarre
Charlton Heston touting a gun - NRA
Charlton Heston in a leather daddy vest - MGM
Four guys in the shower - Kings Cross RFC