THE HOMEOWNER

Thursday, May 08, 2003
Copyright © Las Vegas Mercury

The Homeowner: Anger management

By Mike Prevatt

I can't remember being as angry as I was yesterday. It was a Sunday, and I woke up feeling miserable. I was nursing a cold, and it had stuffed up my head so much I was dizzy. I knew I was not going to be able to work, and so I called in sick. Well, long story short, I was pretty much harassed into coming in anyway. And like the pushover I am, I did just that.

Wooziness be damned, I angrily sped down the freeway, blasting the loudest, most angst-ridden CD I had in the car (Idlewild's 100 Broken Windows), hating myself for putting up with such bullshit, as well as the bosses dispensing it. Once I got there, I worked my mercifully brief shift, hyperfocused on customers and ignoring my rigid managers whenever I could. I felt my anger working in my favor. This worked until it was time to clock out, and I was left with my thoughts. The anger was gone, but the melancholy had started to settle in. Once I returned to my car, Idlewild got edged out by Lucinda Williams, and I was more depressed than anything.

Why didn't I just quit? To list all my reasons, I'd have to hijack all the space between this page and the film section. But on that day, I'd have to credit guilt for my hesitation. You see, my boss is also gay, and I suspect it's part of the reason I've escaped his heavy-handed approach to running the store we both work at. Admittedly, he cuts me slack where he might not for others. I've gotten away with mistakes that are grounds for punishment. I feel he trusts me, and to betray this odd loyalty with a resignation is to tempt some serious drama. Question is, I'm not sure which one of us is the real drama queen of late.

I've never made more progress as a homeowner than I have in the past year, embracing the gay community just as I was finally allowing it to embrace me. And now, regardless of its source, I feel the need to rebel against it. If there's an institution, groupthink, ideology or other entity that seeks to unite or define all of us queer folk, my first inclination is to identify myself as being outside or above it. I don't know why. The whole internalized homophobia thing was more of an issue when I was in the closet, so I doubt it's that. I don't hate gay people; I just can't seem to relate to them, except for the notion that I too am sexually attracted to members of my own gender. Which sucks, because I feel I have even less in common with the collective hetero population.

I have repeatedly remarked about the dynamics and diversity of the gay population, and how we can't be defined by stereotypes. But recently I feel like I have to blame my fellow homo for my personal frustrations. Take, for example, passing someone and making eye contact. Should a guy look at me for more than a second, I bristle with discomfort and mentally label him as a sex fiend who'll seduce anything in sight. Should he look at me for anything less than that, and I assume he's only interested in guys who have made muscle definition their religion. Either way, he can't win, and neither can I, so I keep my eyes to the ground and my portable MP3 player blasting whatever band is updating Jesus and Mary Chain this week. Emo kids have nothing on me.

It gets worse. Gays reportedly wield this massive amount of disposable income, but where's my German lifestyle car? We're supposed to be these politically outspoken and involved people, but I can't even count the amount of homophobic state laws--including these asinine and blatantly hateful "definition of marriage" measures--that get passed on what seems to be a daily basis. Thanks to cocktail complacency, condomless anal sex is on the rise, as is the amount of new HIV transmissions. AZT isn't even the drug of choice for homo America anymore--it's crystal meth, and to say you've never done it is to earn a look of cracked-out disbelief. What passes for gay-oriented entertainment these days makes the lot of us look like superficial nymphomaniacs; I can't speak for lesbian art and culture because I almost never see it. And don't even get me fucking started with all these Republican senators and federal judge nominees and baseball players and religious zealots who think their idea of promoting morality is to liken a human being like myself as a sexual deviant.

The last time I carried on me-against-the-world style, I was a teenager, and the only solace to be found was in the music and words of bands like Pearl Jam, the Smiths, Social Distortion and Nine Inch Nails. Not much has changed.

Maybe all I need right now is an angry punk rock band I can sing along to. There's little about me that's punk rock. However, I catch myself repeatedly listening to anything that comes close, from the Clash and At the Drive-in to Alkaline Trio and Face to Face.

If you have recommendations as to some new, passionate, halfway-coherent punk artists I should check out--especially if they're gay--e-mail them along (address below).

And if I can't find one, who knows, maybe I'll just start one. God knows I've got enough contradiction and pent-up fury.

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