On the final evening of a not-so-recent trip to Boston I was treated to an evening of laughs with old friends and arguments with new assholes.

The friend I was visiting ditched me for a date that night so I made plans with her roommate, Mikala, also an old pal of mine. We met after her shift at the restaurant and sat outside making our plans. A small man walked by and instead of blatantly ignoring him I nodded a congenial, “Hello” in his direction. Something about his eyes suggested that my choice may have been a poor one and I immediately returned to the discussion at hand.

Mikala and I ended up two blocks down at Sister Sorel, a favorite of the locals here both gay and straight. As we sat enjoying our nightcaps I noticed that the guy who had struck my defenses earlier was sitting just two stools over. To make matters worse, the bartender mixed up our orders. I was caught off guard as I looked to see which lucky guy received the smashing India pale ale. It was him. Eye contact was achieved a second time and I would soon be wishing I had stayed with the Irish stout.

I turned to Mikala and asked if he was staring our way.

She replied with a quiet “Yes.”

Great.

Mikala visited the WC and in her three minute absence I managed to involve myself in a slight altercation with a woman that felt justified using the word “fag” in a derogatory fashion. When I refused to call her a dyke to “even the score” she proceeded to try her case to every gay man in the bar seeking any sort of validation for her ridiculous opinion and behavior. Not surprisingly, the small, staring man had befriended the group of people belonging to the poor word choice lesbian and I knew it was prime time for a switch of venues.

We continued to another local hotspot, Stella, which has more space and a less offensive crowd. Just as we were getting settled the entourage we left behind at Sister Sorel staggered in the door. I can’t be certain, but it did seem like Mikala and I were the subject of many hushed discussions between members of the hostile posse. We kept our distance in hopes of salvaging what was left of the evening.

As the night progressed and the liquid courage flowed I narrowly escaped several attempts by the small, staring man to engage me directly. Unfortunately, there is only so much you can pull off with fake mobile call tactics and he finally caught me off guard.

Standing on his tip toes he slurred into my ear “What difference do you find with the people of Boston and the people of the rest of the US?” I took a deep breath and looked down at him long enough to say “Sometimes they can be very annoying.”

He grimaced in defeat and returned to the growing group of drunken patrons. Glancing in their direction I took notice that the self-proclaimed “dyke” was making out with some guy and eating something from another restaurant’s take-away container with her fingers.

A few more of my Bostonian friends had joined us by the time the persistent and completely pissed small, staring man returned for yet another go with me. His entrance statement this time was “Has anybody heard the new Pink album?” I was done. The time for diplomacy had expired. I hissed into his face, “Yes, my favorite song is the one that goes something like “don’t talk to me, keep your drink and give me the money? I can really relate to that”.

The level of hostility I exhibited cued one of my newly arrived friends to intervene. He sent me to the gents and tried to neutralize the situation with the aid of Mikala. Somehow even after all she had been through she still had faith in the power of kittens, rainbows and bubble gum to make everything better. That didn’t last long. Once the small, staring man thought he could intimidate her with a little close proximity verbal abuse Mikala traded in the sunshine approach from some good old fashioned whoop ass and shut him down pronto. The small, staring man finally departed with a half-assed finger gesture that nearly caused him to lose his balance.

I was happy to see him leave, but most of the night has been tainted and it was nearly closing time anyway. I started to feel bad about my thoughts and actions towards the little man, who meant no harm and probably just wanted to make some new friends albeit in an intrusive and rude manner. I am not usually impatient, but I just didn’t have it in me this time around. I think the encounter with the “lesbian” at Sister Sorel served to strip all of my patience reserves for the night.

I am human first and foremost and deserve to be left alone to enjoy my time by myself or with my friends. I tried to be kind, polite and even used sarcasm to get the message across without hurting or even worse, embarrassing him. We all have our limits and he pushed me to mine. There are people with no social filtering mechanism and when they are inebriated it seems like nothing will get through to them. If he has any recollection of the night at all it will probably be what a raging asshole I was to him. He will gloss over his terrible behavior and label me a jerk for not inviting him into my circle. Perhaps my guilt is somewhat misplaced, but at least I took the time to see the situation from his perspective.

Tampa was cool, really cool. It was one of those gigs that had no expectations. My only requirement was to have fun and that was not a problem. Hanging with my cousin was the highlight without question. He was more into my gig than I was. This was work after all, well sort of, and to him, well I don’t know what it was, but he had an absolute blast. Seeing him so excited about what I do and hearing from him that he tells his friends about me made me feel really good. I think he may even return to G Bar on his own and he even mentioned that he would like to work there. I don’t know if he remembers that, but if he did he would do quite well; he is quite the looker.

Unfortunately this time around you will not be able to see him. I was not about to drag my expensive camera along to this gig. That was a mistake. Not only was I bummed that I could not get a picture of us or the club or the night or, well, let me backtrack a bit.

About a year ago it came to my attention that someone named Vince was sporting a Hazzard emblem tattoo on his opposite shoulder. I did not know whether we had the same artist (which would have really pissed me off) or he purposefully chose to have my tattoo as his own. Either way you sliced the pie the filling was still spoiled. So pan over to the bar Saturday night and I am well into my buzz with my cousin and his buddy when this dude stops up and says hello. He was handsome and looked harmless so I returned the salutation. With that he lifted his shirt and there was my emblem. I was completely dumbfounded. I also noticed that all my ill feelings toward him had left or maybe I was buzzed well enough that nothing was getting me down. After chatting with him for a bit and seeing how excited he was to see me (and finding out that he drove an hour just to see me) there was no way I could harbor any negativity towards the guy. Besides that he was HOT – really HOT! And we all know that always helps any situation. He was so hot that I kissed him, three times. At least now I know that the man can tongue wrestle really well.

Imitation is really the best form of flattery. It was most enjoyable to meet him and it felt nice to be emulated in that way. I suppose though if he had not been the super sweet man he was and was some rabbit cooker with intentions other than to meet and make out with me than I would have had to call security. But he wasn’t. On stage when I was doing my number I was really “feeling it” and I made out with this ADORABLE girl on stage after she gave me a 5 in my crotch. Then Vince came up with nothing but a smile and that was OK. He got a kiss too – a big one!

That probably wasn’t a good choice because that sent a message to the crowd that Johnny would kiss for a dollar. And let me tell you, that is NOT the case! The crowd surged forward waving dollars back and forth with their tongues wagging about. I was instantly taken back to “Star Wars: Return of the Jedi” when Princess Leia strangled Jabba the Hut and that brown pasty tongue of his popped out of his mouth all covered with spit and whatnot. I was not feeling it so much then and was looking for a way out. I contemplated feigning a seizure just to escape the salivating men that were collecting in front of the stage. Luckily the manager sensed my troubles and announced that I would be in the back signing autographs. I thought I would be safe back there away from horny masses. I should have known better.

In the back of the room the guys who weren’t in the front of the stage had a chance to ask me for a kiss directly with no barrier and no Vince or cute girl. I really could not believe that they thought this was acceptable. I gave a couple of guys a peck on the cheek, much to their chagrin, but it was better than my usual “No, I will not give you a kiss.” That was a good lesson to learn, reserve the self-indulging behavior for before and after the stage show. It was fun though. My hangover was not. I drank a lot of water all night but it wasn’t enough to curb the headache from dehydration and the shots of peach Jaggermeister that were freely dispensed to Joe and me.

Of course the flight from Tampa to Atlanta was THE WORST. I was in the middle of two large men that were spilling over their seats. One was so big that the armrest was hurting him so he lifted it, thus pouring his slack into my lap and onto my shoulder. I prayed to God that we didn’t have to wait for any reason and that we took off and landed without a hitch. My prayers were answered, 74 mins later I was pulled out from under the flesh that had consumed me in 18E. The next flight was less constricted and I got a window seat and had a recovery nap because I still had to drive from LAX to Palm Springs. That sort of excessive, uninhibited drinking is not a good idea when one has to fly on two planes across the country unless one is in first class. Lessons lived. Lessons learned the hard headache way.

Before I left Boston for LA we had the hottest days of the summer. While my roommate and friends were complaining of exhaustion and void of any energy, I was charged; laying carpet, cooking, cleaning and designing my t-shirts. That is the weather that my body is supposed to be in, it must be in my Mediterranean genes. Moist heat is glorious to me.

So here is another little amusing story involving faulty memory. To make sure the full effect is administered I must give you the history. I hooked up with this guy a while back when I was still living in Boston full time. It was fine, no fireworks, bells or trombones, but decent. Well I had seen him upon my returning here off and on and I said hi to him every time. Every time I said hi I was met with a smug response that led to me to believe he was a dick; typical stereo type Boston Mofo.

I was not going to back down and I kept saying hello to him and kept getting the same response. Fine. Whateva! Then I met some co-workers out, an old friend had returned from NYC and was working back with all of us at Aquitaine, so the evening was very sentimental since it was the first time I had seen him since he was back. As I walked in to the bar who was my friend sitting with? You got it….the MOFO. I became quite cocky and confrontational. When we were introduced, he acting as if he never met me and I responded with “Good to see you again” “Again? Have we met?”

This cannot be real, is he serious? But he was. I then moved over next to him and began to tell him how we met. His smug look was replaced with a blank stare. It was then that I realized that this was not the man I had slept with. I told him that I thought we had been together and he said that it wasn’t so because he would have surely remembered. Good answer. After ordering another beer and a couple of nervous laughs, I shook it off and asked him for his card.