It has been far too long since I have taken time to write something. Anything. It is not because I had did not have anything to write about. With the new economic policies proposed, the GOP all over the place, the start of the operating year of the Foundation, etc. I just have not found the urge to sit and put anything out. Would that be a writer’s block? I doubt it. I suffered one of those just in time to flee the sinking MySpace ship. This was a different type of thing. An odd sort of thing. It was a combination of apathy and disinterest.
This disinterest seems to be a still running thing for me as I am paying more attention to this rerun of “Family Guy” on [adult swim]. See how nice I am? I left links for you in case you wanted to wander off and wander back as you read like I was doing when I wrote this. You can share my apathy and disinterest. If you do so, the joke is actually on you as you could be getting sucked into my ADD addled brain and not truly being apathetic and disinterested. Next thing you know, I will have you running around the dining room table between forkfuls of food as your mommie tells you to sit the fuck down because you are embarrassing her in front of the guests.
A while back, I went to visit my dawg Manthony at one of his clubs. The club that caters to a “mixed” crowd. At first, I was excited about the prospect of this club, I thought it would be a grand affair like the old Mulatto Balls back in Louisiana. I could roam about in my finest of southern gentlemanly attire, admiring the debutantes and chasing their well-bosomed mothers while sipping mint juleps. A grand time indeed, I must declare! However, this was not to pass. This bar is a club that caters to people of various sexual preferences. I would like to say a gay and hetero bar, but that would exclude people and apparently, you have to add all of the types of orientations when speaking of the group that was once known as “queer.”
I went to the club to visit Manthony and was dressed as I am in the picture here. Let me digress a bit and say that I took a few pictures of me on my motorcycle with an attempt to look cool, or like a badass. Personally, I look like someone that I would not want to mess with, but then again, I know how long I have been studying martial arts, who taught me, and how many weapons I may be concealing at the point, so I am biased. But I took the picture and decided to put it in here anyway. Tough looking or no, Apparently no, as you will soon see.
I almost did not add these pictures to this writing. For one, I am not wearing my trade mark black…in its entirety. Instead, there I am in jeans. Jeans that completely remove my ass from existence. I have on a leather coat, but the shirt is some sort of muscle shirt thing, and there is no tie. Instead of looking like a suave, seductive funeral director, I look like Jamaican greaser. Or apparently, something else. As you will soon see.
Personally, I thought I was going more for that Eighties look. It is hard to tell what I mean from that photograph. You can only see me from mid-shin and up. However, I am wearing black shoes and my pants are cuffed (which is usually the case given that I have short legs and a small waist, shorter-legged pants are made for chubbier stock is what the tailor tells me. Whether that is true or not, I do no care. I like to cuff my pants. To be honest, I felt that having the pants French-cuffed would have made the Eighties look more evident. However, that horrid secretary of mine said that if she ever saw me in pants that were French-cuffed that she would steal all of them, have the permanently altered, and have all of my finances put in her name so that I could never purchase clothes again. So, instead of the Eighties, I have a type of rockabilly thing going. Or apparently, something else. As I will get back to now.
When I finally arrived at Manthony’s club, I parked my motorcycle and was greeted by a group of dudes who apparently were into motorcycles. And classic television. This was the first time I was told what it was that I may have looked like: Fonzi. Some guy walked up, said he like my bike and my outfit. He said that I looked like Fonzi. Really? Fonzi? I guess I should not bitch too much. He could have been some nerd and called me “Dally” or “Ponyboy.” He could have said Black Fonzi, that would have been pretty bad, as well. So, in all things, I discovered that it was not rockabilly, or Eighties that I was in style of, it was Fonzi. So, I had the greaser part down without having the white tee shirt. Not too shabby for a guy whose wardrobe consists of several black suits, white shirts and neckties, a couple of hoodies, and a few gis.
However, the dudes outside were wrong. I did not look like Fonzi. I was not of the Fonz Club for Men. Rather, upon entering the bar, it was discovered that more of the men inside of the club thought that I may be a “Leatherman.” The musclebound man who does what he calls dancing on the stage in his whitey tighties took a close gander at me. A few other guys took a look as well. Maybe the were looking for some sign that would tell them whether they should don a gimp mask or attempt to make me their bitch. Ha! I found the whole thing amusing. For one, I have been know to have my, er, fascinations with things of the leather, chains and whips variety. Yet, I do have to admit that I have never donned a gimp suit, mask, or wanted to be a member of The Village People. Seriously people, just because a guy wears a leather coat one should not think that he wants to lash you to a huge wooden X and barrage you with the sting of the cat o’ nine’ before anally sodomizing you with a giant dildo while using your mouth for a rectum.
Okay, that was a bit graphic and extreme. But that is what you all have come to expect and love from me. There was one other picture that was to accompany this blog. It has been let on the editing room floor as a friendly gesture to you, dear readers, and mostly as a sacrifice to the gods of my vanity.