A Medley of Extemporanea
Some weeks ago, I posted yet another redaction of a yet another bar crawl that Tim and I had indulged in.
In that post, I gave a shout-out to a bartender who was especially nice to us. This young man has a name most typical of the Mediterranean country he hails from, and I mentioned it, in conjunction with the word "Hi!".
Imagine my surprise last night when I received a posted comment from a gentleman residing in one of those Anglo-Saxon countries in Western Europe, who just happens to share his given name with the bartender in question. This man took extreme umbrage in having his given name appear in a gay blog. Gay people were disgusting to him. He has had many successful encounters with women, and there were many people who could attest to that fact. He then laid out his legal plans to bring suit against me and anybody else who might cast aspersions on his good (first) name.
I was puzzled as to how this guy was able to single out The Mark of Kane, which resides in a small, brackish backwater on the blogosphere. With a quick bit of investigation, I discovered that said gentleman had typed his given name plus the word "gay" into a blog search engine. Voila!
Well, I've removed the shout-out and will reserve the high spirits for the next time we visit that friendly bar-keep. I've also deleted a pertinent detail or two throughout my blog which qualify as TMI (too much information). Call me paranoid, I don't care. I don't need anyone calling down the wrath of their god or that of their solicitors. I have a feeling you can't really sue for much of anything on the internet. Anybody know what the rules are?
In other news today:
Yesterday, I became the very last queer on the planet, even quite possibly the galaxy, nay, the universe, to see Brokeback Mountain. I know. Sheesh. What took so long, right? Actually, I'm not the last queer. Tim is. I went with my co-worker.
The movie's alright. It's not the second coming or anything. And boys, there are much older movies with adult gay themes, and no, I'm not talking about The Boys in the Band (Hint: Sunday Bloody Sunday). It was well done, had some genuinely touching moments, and captured the short story to a degree, albeit in a majorly bloated fashion. I watched Sense & Sensibility on Monday night, and I think Mr. Ang Lee has a penchant for sheep. To my surprise, I did not dissolve into a pool of tears; in fact I didn't cry much at all. I re-read the Annie Proulx story tonight and found those missing tears all over again. Hers is a story of crossed connections, broken hearts and dead dreams. The film seemed to mostly about two dudes who couldn't stop fucking while their worlds crumbled around them. I felt very bad for every one of the characters involved. The men, their wives, their children, even their employers. What tragic, wasted lives. And for no good reason, either. And sorry, but I don't buy into the revisionist idea of how hard it was to be openly gay in the 1960's and 70's. Shit, I came out at the end of 1972 and never looked back. It was NOT difficult. And trust me, there were lots of boys in San Francisco in 1968 who had drifted down from the mountains of Wyoming and the wilds of Montana, come to check out the hippies in the Haight and then take that nice walk over the hill to what is now the Castro. This damn story ends in 1983. The love that dare not speak it's name was quite hoarse from shouting by that point in time.
As far as the boys go, I found Jake to bear more than a passing resemblance to a circus clown who's spent quality time at Gold's Gym on Market Street. However, I did find myself susceptible to Heath's charms for the first time in his career. They did make a handsome couple, however. I'd like the opportunity to check in with them again some years from now.
Men only get better with age.