Gays of our lives

exile in guyville

Dave White, author of Exile in Guyville: How a Punk Rock Redneck Faggot Texan Moved to West Hollywood and Refused to be Shiny and Happy, is the kind of gay who thinks he’s a special kind of gay, who thinks that by frequently silently judging gays he despises, which he claims he would hate too had they been straight, he’s exempt from being the kind of gay other gays would also find despicable. Except that the world he lives in (Los Angeles) and the world in general has no shortage of haters and haterades. We each and everyone of us fill the world’s quota of someone’s hate. And this is true even or especially within “The Gay Community” (“Gay Community”, to me, will always and forever evoke an image of a subdivision filled with gays with really excellent gardens and exclusively non-tacky decors, with the exception of only a very few tacky, unaware gays who will of course be treated as anomalies by their super classy gay neighbors).

In DW’s community there are these types of gays:

1. Entitlement queens

2. Disco faggot douchebags (‘I’m not saying that house music is the internationally recognized sound-signifier of the faggot douchebag, but there’s a very specific type of faggot douchebag who only listens to house music, and so as a genre it’s a little guilty by association’)

3. Gays who kick your car

4. Dress-all-stupid queens

5. Gay bears

6. Gays who are like the gays in Will & Grace

7. Crystal meth queens

There are so many, but in other worlds there are these other types of gays:

1. Big word gays – gays that use multisyllabic nonsense because it makes them feel like they are wise gays.

2. Spiteful gays

3. Gays who hate Anne Hathaway

4. Gays who hate the Catholic Church

And there are many more. Feel free to create your own list.

Dave White is a film critic whose boyfriend is MSNBC’s Alonso Duralde who I like because in his review of Precious, he praises Mariah. As he should! Because of an all-consuming, mad love for his lover, Dave tries to overcome all odds and transfers to Los Angeles, leaving his beloved Texas. Among LA’s great barriers to Dave’s achievement of happiness and contentment are the aforementioned entitlement queens, reckless drivers, shouty neighborhood gays, and rude bookstore clerks. Such are his LA life’s difficulties that you can’t help but think, ‘You are so brave, Dave.’ In between battling these great obstacles, he goes from one temp job to another because he will not suffer the oppressiveness of a permanent job.

Clearly, he’s a bit of an entitlement queen himself. His real problem is that instead of 14 hours of couch-surfing and snacking, he gets only 12.

Actually, Dave White is a fun person who is not a typical gay. He calls gays faggots, which is a slur, and you get the feeling he gets away with it every time he uses it with/to his boyfriend and friends. He’s ruthless with the gays — you know how when someone who’s also a flaming homosexual refers to his fellow gays in a hissy, spiteful way because he feels like it? He’s like that with gays he dislikes and to chubbies and bimbos, too, because he’s fair. With seemingly little regard for human feelings, he talks about them in his diaries scathingly and hilariously, whether they’re directly harming him as to warrant the hissiness or they’re just existing near him. He doesn’t care for euphemisms. He will call a fat person a fattie and he’ll tell funny anecdotes about them abandonedly. In short, Dave White is a precise, funny and beautiful describer of people.

My favorite chapter is ‘Motherfucker’ because it contains one of the most breathtaking paragraphs I’ve ever read in a memoir:

‘Yes, I watch crotches. I’m a faggot. I was put on this earth to do a whole lot of that and I don’t want to shirk my responsibility to humanity… I have a soft spot for sex workers.’

Dave White is real.

If Queens Burroughs and Sedaris could kindly step aside, please. There’s a new queen in my community.

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Responsible, Sensitive Social Media Person

If you find yourself having a bad day, you are probably itching to say, ‘This day can suck a cock’ up in your Facebook or Twitter because there’s only so much you can do to put a little spin to the all too familiar expression, ‘This day sucks’ into something more specific, concrete, and pointed. But since you ought to care about the morning-after regrets of posting such negativities, you restrain yourself and let out a little scream deep inside yourself, out of reach of everyone’s social feeds.

You get like that sometimes, do you not, all itchy to let the world know of your yuppie, middle-class inconveniences and relevant-only-to-you rants? It’s as if the anger that sprouts from the little hasslefest that is your daily morning rush hour commute is invalid or false if they don’t get social media’d.

Tough if you’re into social media and you care about impressions. I try to refrain from vomiting all over the net where people in my life of all shapes, sizes and cuss-words/dick and bitch ‘jokes’ tolerance converge and manage to gag word vomit reflexes. But if you’re completely uncaring about the kind of character your feed is shaping for you, these might be some of the things you have been itching to say:

  1. This week can suck a dick.
  2. This day can suck a cock.
  3. Philippine transportation system, please suck a dick.
  4. Right to say shit about people who deserve it is worth fighting for.
  5. Sometimes your friend invites your for a drink so they can Facebook in front of you. (For friends who can’t get enough of socializing even while in the thick of socializing, who feel compelled to impose their socializations in every imaginable and available dimensions.)
  6. In case purgatory gets tired of its name, it can call itself ‘Wednesday’.
  7. The MRT is truly one of mankind’s worst inventions. (Sometimes, tagging whoever manages that awful piece of  transportation trash, to impart such simple a message as ‘MRT is the worst train on Earth,’ or ‘Riding the MRT is one of the most dignity-defying transport experience no one deserves to live through.‘ might be more effective. But if you think really hard, there are other awful public transport options and you realize they all deserve this kind of criticism. To economize, use #3.)
  8. Counting one’s blessings is exhausting. (For when you feel like complaining, but you’re aware that you’re somehow ‘still blessed’, and you’re concerned you might come off as an ungrateful whiner, but you just cannot shake off the feeling that sometimes, certain blessings are indeed exhausting to have and count, wicked as that may sound.)
  9. I’m too dressed for stress’ is a better platitude. (Not to pick fights with friends who have perpetually bubbly dispositions who say things like ‘I’m too blessed to be stressed’, but reducing the genuine stress some of us feel to a bunch of feel-good rhyming words deserves a little dig.)
  10. This bus/shuttle/cab is so hot. Satan must be driving it. (For the daily commute anger-causer.)
But a responsible, sensitive social media person will avoid very public displays of hate and try to practice vitriol-control, although some still fail, to the detriment of his conscience and anxiety-tolerance systems. There is an idea of just such a person. He’s the kind who likes check-in statuses, changes in relationship statuses, pictures of himself, pictures of people who tag him even though he’s not in the pictures. He posts in Instagram, shares such photos on Facebook or wherever, and adds a vaguely humorous but more important, safe caption. He reiterates fun just had through a reassuring tweet. If he is committed to creating and perpetuating this proper, pleasant online persona, he may occasionally say things like ‘Back to reality’, or any of the go-to platitudes and vague, cryptic stuff that are terrific substitutes to specific realities one must face, for instance, work. So instead of saying something like, ‘Back to my shit office to deal with my shit boss!’, it’s just plain, old Back to Reality. Whether these characteristics are the true marks of a RSSMP is highly debatable, because of course a true RSSMP can always prevent damage by saying nothing.

If I win the Lotto, I will…

1. send my daddy to the states for medical treatment, just like in the teleseryes and the movies where the rich families send the rich dads to The States for the super serious medical condition consultation. We’ll fly first class because we wouldn’t want the masikip flights of the budget airlines. The mention of Budget Airlines will make us shudder by the time we’re swimming in cashes.

2. buy my male girlfriend the latest iPhone. 50 pieces. Then he’d go in to the buy-and-sell business and make a profit which might one day be our safety net if and when I get stupid with the rest of my winnings.

3. not buy friendship. Maybe I’ll treat some of them to beer-all-you can binges or Thai dinner buffets in honor of my unbelievable luck, but I promise I won’t one day bitch about it should the same silly luck befall them and they refuse to do the same, or if they refuse to treat me like royalty after I shower them with my tremendous riches. I will of course act like a King (or Queen) after I win the lotto as is my right, but only in private.

4. see Radiohead in Taiwan this July, so I better win soon.

5. launch a lugaw business and really invest in it. Since I have quite a distaste for chichi concept overpriced restos that have minimalist decor, I’ll make sure my lugaw business is tasteful and tacky in all the right places but still super good. I will most certainly not market it as a fusion-something of the old and the modern lugaw. I will most certainly not call it Le Leugaw or something vomitty like that. I will buy out of the fancy ass Greenbelt 3 diners and represent. Maybe I’ll just buy Greenbelt 3.

6. resign and buy at least 25% of my employer. For kicks.

7. buy 100% of MRT and sell it to the Philippine Government at a discount, and expect (foolishly) that something good will come out of it.

8. hire the best goddam financial advisor in the whole world.

9. pay off my life insurance and since I’m flush, get death insurance too, for my kids that I will have or adopt from the sinking island of Tuvalu, kids that I will call Lestat, Trip or Christina Aguilera.

10. make Vicky Belo do something to my skin.

11. invest in Raymond Lee films.

12. see Florence & the Machine, Madonna concerts.

13. house, condo, car, boy-servant.

13. donate to charity, ie the Fresh Air Fund and Camp Mariah. Local charities too, sure. I’ll donate but I won’t ever blab about the amount ever because together with my newly earned riches, comes classiness.

14. build the sickest library.

15. go to New York and buy penthouse. Which reminds me, buy all season of F.R.I.E.N.D.S. and maybe, just maybe, all the CDs, DVDs and books that my heart ever desired. Just maybe!

16. work out all day every damn day, hire the hunkiest fitness trainer who I MIGHT SHARE.

17. not post the amount of my winnings in the blog and in FB. Just ever so subtly drop hints but never flat out disclose.

18. prove people wrong about the falseness of the statement, ‘Money can’t buy happiness’ because it totally can. Some people just don’t know how and what to buy. Sometimes, too, a person’s richness/poorness is wholly independent of his emotional well-being; rich or poor, a person born sad is just gonna be that way for the rest of his life if he doesn’t know what to buy. Ask a middle-class nine-to-fiver what makes him sufficiently happy just being alive in any given day and he’s likely to answer: a good, long, peaceful massage. Imagine a hundred of that!