THE HOMEOWNER

Thursday, June 19, 2003
Copyright © Las Vegas Mercury

The Homeowner: This one's optimistic

By Mike Prevatt

I'm walking inside the mall. There's a sale at FCUK, a store I like but normally cannot afford. I rummage through the clothes that might last a few seasons, and find a retro-style T-shirt for $23. Neither a bargain nor the greatest shirt I've ever seen, but worth the $1 parking fee.

An atypically friendly clerk rings me up. Once he's done, he hands over the bag, wishes me a nice night and smiles widely. I barely look him in the eye to return the thought, and briskly exit the store. Was he or wasn't he? Doesn't matter--I didn't give him a chance to let me know. I'd already written him off as acting kind for the sake of business.

Once in the mall's echoing corridor, where Europop blasts out of the designer clothing stores, a mixed crowd is revealed. It doesn't take gaydar to tell who the homeowners are. They strictly adhere to code here: pec-hugging sleeveless tees, leather flip-flops, jeans that run in the triple figures. Their skin--bronzed, though summer still looms--is stretched nicely over muscles labored over like those of the most obsessive athletes. I'm in the wrong dating pool.

I head over to the music store--I've got some CDs to pick up (don't I always). I walk toward the entrance as three boys dressed in a combination of thrift store threads, Diesel duds and low-top Cons approach. I recognize their strut; the bell pangs in my head, but I dare not offer the requisite three-second, turn-and-look confirmation. Don't make it obvious.

I check my bag, take a deep breath and finally glance over a second time. They're already off to the vinyl section, probably to pick up the new Radiohead album. I've blown it, feigning disinterest so I could stop them from shooting me down. Whatever--I mean, who courts hipsters? For the time being, I discount the idea of any missed opportunity and chalk it up to Darwinian selectiveness. Clearly, it's not meant to be. This is not missed on the in-house DJ; the Radiohead song playing is "Go to Sleep." I can take a hint.

I drive toward home and spot the sole gay bar around, called the Spotlight--the universally accepted name for the "neighborhood" gay hangout in any major city, it seems. It's a homely little place on the corner, with someone always smoking outside the door. Tonight, the puffing crew includes a wavy-haired actor type, probably from one of the productions being housed nearby; a thirtysomething with leathery skin and a flannel; and a few bear-types. Conversation looks lively enough, but, despite that, they're too socially conservative. I've ascertained all this just waiting for the light to turn green, and it's not even a busy intersection.

I speed down the freeway. I pass a few cars sporting the sort of bumper stickers you don't find at the local car wash. A Human Rights Campaign sticker--y'know, blue square with the yellow equal sign--adorns a nu-school Beetle; a rainbow peace sign is plastered on the ass of an Explorer. I took off my own curling HRC decal, and hadn't bothered to replace it. Wish I had, but no matter. The Beetle driver has a passenger--probably his boyfriend--and I can't even see into the Explorer driver's tinted window. Besides, who ever landed a date on the freeway? I scoff at the thought over a song called "How to Disappear Completely" (I'm in a Kid A mood), trying to assure myself I'm genuinely ambivalent.

I make it home, drop my things and head for the computer. I log in to a chatroom, unsure if I'm in the mood to make a new friend or actively cruise (why am I here again?). I peruse the list and pics of members in the room anyway, clicking for the profiles of those in their twenties and facially qualified to earn a photograph in any A-list style magazine. Most profess to be jocks--looking for other jocks, naturally. There are a few hot fratboys whose girlfriends are out of town for the weekend. Boys like the ones I saw in the mall are here, but unresponsive when asked a question in the room (the devil does wear Prada). Ditto for the indie-rock waifs looking for a post-gig trick, and the Spotlight frequents who never seem to log off. Anyone want to talk out there, now that we're not face to face?!

I get an instant message. The picture in the corner reveals an older gent with a few to lose in the belly, which still doesn't diminish the tumescent appendage he's got both hands around. It's apparently got my name written all over it. I'm charmed.

Depravity having peaked, I punch the power button and walk away. Irony, social anxiety and cynicism have all had their way with me, and now, defeated and exhausted, I flop onto my futon, which hasn't seen any other sort of flopping for some time now. I ponder this as a chorus I'd heard an hour earlier does the cranial loop: "You can try the best you can, the best you can is good enough."

Yeah. Try telling that to Prada Boy, or the Gay Strokes Boys, or the Troll--or me, just another life in a glass house, arm cocked, stone clutched. I get it, okay? Karma police, uncuff me already.

The Homeowner appears biweekly. Send your comments, questions and nude pics (especially if you look like Alessandro Nivola) to oughtabeinporn@yahoo.com.