Scott Capurro

He’s also doing a show at the Camden Fringe. See him. See me. Be proud.

“If you are not planning to head to Edinburgh, then you are highly recommended to check out the 4th annual Camden Fringe. Fast becoming the best performing arts festival south of Scotland, it boasts new, full-length shows from some of the best comics working today.

Founded by the unstoppable Zena Barrie and Michelle Flower, the first Camden Fringe took place in August 2006 and included 57 performances by 22 acts over a four-week period. It has grown rapidly since and from 3rd - 30th August and will include 399 performances of 118 different shows. Zena and Michelle produced comedy at the Edinburgh Fringe Festival from 2002-2006 and have run the Etcetera Theatre in Camden (one of London’s best small theatres) since the beginning of 2004, so it comes as no surprise that the standard of comedy on offer is extremely high.

This year you can see shows from some of the best comedians working in the world today. If you thought comics like Ricky Gervais pushed boundaries then nothing will prepare you for Scott Capurro. Having won the coveted Perrier award in 1994, the San Franciscan comic has gone from strength to strength while refusing to sell out, making each show more uncompromising than the last. He is, in my opinion, the bravest and funniest comedian on the circuit.”

I’ve enjoyed writing for this magazine, but all good things must fade away and die. Or something. But don’t worry. Hopefully some other glossy mag will hire me and underpay.
see you at the soho theatre? may 25 - 30. it’s in london, cretins.

GT
June 2009

At a Paris book lunch, the fashion writer rattling on about red carpet dresses couldn’t really grab the crowd in the corner. But then they were young and sleek and local. A chatty Canadian lady with shoulder-length hair wasn’t in their radar.

During supper at George’s, atop the Pompidou Centre, I sat next to her and watched her teeth. She must have had 80. They were glowing, but not as impressively as the Eiffel Tower, which changes from still yellow to sparkly silver. It glitters, every hour, like a disco ball. Our seats were powder pink plastic. The waitress wore Versace. Can Paris get any more camp? Carrie Bradshaw wannabes inhabited every table. The food, like their male companions and their conversation, was irrelevant.

The writer told us, “It’s very important to have boundaries. I have a friend who writes about her family, and they’re angry. I mean,” She continued, “I did write about my ex husband. Twice. For the Observer. But I don’t now. I mean, I have, reluctantly, for the Times, but divorce isn’t chic. I think there’s more interesting creativity happening. Like Oscar night.”

Our bill was huge, to me. But I’m broke. I paid my portion in coins. A drunk gay sat across from me and every so often he rolled his eyes back so far the pupils almost disappeared. He’d met every name the Canadian lady dropped. She quizzed him about a designer’s mother. She was desperate for an interview. Once again the Eiffel effused.

After pissing asparagus juice, I watched my reflection in the snakeskin sink’s mirror. My eyes seemed insular. I looked lost.

Later, at a cramped, fashionless gay bar, a tiny Gaul told me George’s was for wankers.

“And this place?” I was petulant.

“Oh,” he sipped his beer bottle, which was almost bigger than his head, “I never come here.”

And yet here we were. The French are as enigmatic as addiction. And almost as coy.

“Do you speak French?” It’s the only question the French ever ask.

“No. I have a future.”

He stares. Irony isn’t his strong suit. But Parisians adore thin ties and sarcasm.

“Do you have an American flag on your lawn, like Obama?”

“I have an Obama on my lawn. And a Sarkozy in my toilet.”

I’m not even sure what that means, and actually I think Sarkozy is hot. But frankly, my boutique hotel room has one narrow bed, and I’m not sharing it with anyone who disrespects Obama. Not even with Sarkozy. Him, I’d finger in the shower.

The hotel staff is new and obviously trained by some corporate moron to be nice.

“Did you have a good evening?” I’m asked at breakfast. Their smiles are like grimaces. They grip the coffee kettle so hard that their knuckles are white. The tip I leave behind is stared at blankly, as if I’ve deposited a semen sample. I almost buy a Paris mug at Starbucks, until I notice the girl serving me has one eyebrow up. You can’t change custom. Why Americanize French service? Parisians aren’t rude. They’re passively aggressive, but that has kept their city in tact.

At Brasserie Lipp, the lighting is so bright I think it’s closing time. My food arrives quietly, the waiter is ancient and invisible and thankfully without a nametag. There’s fuss, then a profile sweeps by. She’s in black sequined trousers and sports a bright red something on her lapel. It’s Kate Moss. My two friends disagree. But I can hear her common chatter over the buzz.

She’s encased in entourage. Her female friends are younger and more beautiful, but no one cares. They flank the table like bodyguards, while Kate performs for diners. She’s quite gregarious, but then the French adore her. Her French mocks them. It’s a win/win.

She doesn’t eat. She is quite tan. I walk by the table several times. She leans forward and laughs as men come and go. They squeeze in to be close to her, only to be replaced by another designer or a different conceptual artist. She’s 35 and rich and I want to crawl inside her body and molest every person at her table.

Next morning, my bags are packed early. I would usually email my mother and give her all the details, avec photos. Once home in Hackney, I’d call and she’d ask, “Now honey, remind mom. Who’s Katie Moss?”

I miss my mother’s laugh. It’s like time isn’t passing. This I suppose is grieving. Shutters drawn, I curl up.

I wish it were a year from now, and some of this pain had passed.

Scott Capurro
GT
May 2009

My Mother, Donna, has died, and perhaps I shouldn’t be writing about this, but I have no idea what else to do.

Everyone who knows that my Mother has passed asks, “How are you doing?” My sister Liz and I laugh privately about this. Our days are so humorless; we appreciate anything remotely near levity. What should we say? Do neighbors really want to know? OK then, here you go: We’re in great pain. Our best friend is lying in a mortuary. My heart actually aches, like it might split in two. I lie in bed at night listening to it beat loudly. So loudly, I wish I could harness mine to my Mother’s heart, so hers could beat again. All that mushy stuff makes sense. My heart is, figuratively, broken. Liz and I walk in circles in our Mother’s living room, searching for our cell phones.

Donna had boxes of photos, which my sister and I are trying to arrange, chronologically, for viewers at her wake. I’m surprised how disorganized these boxes are. The photos are in good condition, mostly, but they’re stuffed and stacked and some have been torn in half, removing an unwanted relative. My mother was usually very neat. She was a Capricorn. But then she was never typical.

I write ‘was’ like I believe she’s dead. But I don’t. Not completely. I’m not crazy. I’m not hearing her voice or anything, although frankly I wouldn’t mind. Some part of me, however, keeps thinking, I have to call Mom, like she’s waiting, somewhere, to chat.

I don’t believe she’s now a tree or a leaf or a picnic table. I don’t think we change forms. I have no human experience of this. What I am sure of is that I’ll never again hear her sing Happy Birthday, which she did, into my answering machine, every year. I have the most recent recording in my flat in London, and my hands shake every time I walk by my landline. I want to listen, but it will just remind me that the only person who never asked me to change, who never wanted me to be anything else than who I am, is now ash.

My sister is miraculous. Somehow, she manages to look after her daughter, Olivia, and chose a church, talk to a priest and pick an urn. When shown the urns, my stepfather just stared. Liz pointed to a lovely Egyptian patterned jug, black and gold, which my mother would’ve actually liked, and then moved on to other arrangements. She knows the urn isn’t the subject, and it’s not the problem. The problem is that our Mother, who helped raise Olivia, has succumbed. Loss is terrifying.

What’s going to happen next? Who will I call when I need a recipe, or hand holding, or a practical resolution? My Mother would often say, “I wish I could tell you something to make it all better.” Just hearing her voice cooled me.

She died peacefully, thankfully, in her sleep. She’d been ill for a while, and though she was able to look after herself and her husband, Liz and I discussed what we might do if Mom ever needed full-time care. We never came up with a plan. Maybe we knew our mother was too thoughtful to put us in that position. She was also strong willed. She had a ‘do not resuscitate’ order. She did not want to wind up in a hospital, surrounded by hovering doctors. Her mind was strong, her lungs weak, and they stopped breathing out.

After having suffered for so long with respitory disease, I’m a bit thrilled she took her last leap painlessly. But she couldn’t have planned this, right? She loved her kids too much. She had company arriving on Sunday. Liz was on her way, with gorgeous Olivia, and Steven, my brother, was dropping by. I was in London, sipping green tea on the edge of my bed when I heard my sister cry, “We’ve lost her. She’s gone.”

My hand clenched my robe, and I looked down, my face twisted. I’d just joked with Mom whilst at the San Francisco airport, five days ago. I was proud. I could still make the funniest person in our family laugh.

That same woman, who outed me to myself, then sent out Indian runners to save me the misery of telling everyone else, is now living in her children. We’re what is left of her. I know this. I just don’t believe it.

I’d forgotten I did this, but then when asked my favorite film, book and piece of art, i was eating a sausage roll and running for a bus, neither of which is a euphamism, because a.) i can’t spell and b.) the glamour never ends.

These are a few of my favourite things: Scott Capurro, comedian
The Scotsman

Published Date: 21 March 2009
FILM
REAR WINDOW
THIS is easily my favourite film – it’s really well acted, I think Grace Kelly’s angelic, and I love the way there are all these little stories and they all tie in. I also think it’s really amazing how you get to know so much about so many of the characters without even hearing most of them speak. It’s a great way of using film. Often I see films and I think, “why am I watching this in a cinema? Why isn’t it a play or a book?” But with Rear Window it’s almost all completely visual, which I think is great. I saw Slumdog Millionaire and it’s visual too, but it’s an MTV video, you know? The recent film Doubt, starring Merryl Streep and Philip Seymour Hoffman, was also very clever in the way it worked visually, but to be honest, neither of those films is really in the same league. Every time I watch Rear Window I see something in it that I didn’t notice before.

BOOK
THE SECRET HISTORY, BY DONNA TARTT

I was absolutely captivated by this book and after years in the Hollywood wilderness it now looks like it’s finally being made into a film, with Gwyneth Paltrow as producer and her brother Jake as director. The writing’s really strong – in fact that’s the thing that makes it stand out: some of the passages are incredibly smart and canny.

WORK OF ART
GUERNICA, BY PICASSO

This is a huge, gorgeous piece – very moving and very modern but also quite traditional, in the sense that it’s a narrative painting, telling the story of a terrible atrocity. I saw it in Madrid when I was about 21 and I just stared at it for hours. I think it’s still as powerful today as it was when it was painted. A lot of people protesting about the Iraq war have used it because it still affects people in the same way.

• Scott Capurro Goes Deeper is at the Tron, Glasgow, on 27 March, tel: 0141-552 4267. Capurro will be hosting American Homecoming at the Stand Comedy Club, Glasgow, on 28 March, tel: 0870 600 6055. Both events are part of the Magners Glasgow International Comedy Festival. For more details, visit www.glasgowcomedyfestival.com

I’m not necessarily proud I Yogayed, but I did. And I want my friends to know about it.
Actually, I am proud. It was fun to be a hippy again. Wait. I was never a hippy. I grew up in Marin, sure, but I was less organic farmer, and more an Yves Saint Laurent closet case. I was far too pinched and tense to be a tennis playing skate boarder, which, if you haven’t guessed, is what all the guys I had crushes on were. Oh Frank and Martin, where are you now?
Playing on a yoga mat with naked gays was like re-visiting my childhood, only with better lighting. And a lot more cock.

GT
April 2009
Scott Capurro

Yogay beckoned. I had such an adverse reaction to flamboyant balancing gays that my friend Vincent accused me of homophobia.

“What does a Vegan Buffet have to do with asana?” I asked, begrudgingly sipping soy.

“Why not boil some lentils and find out?”

When I arrived at the sprawling Victorian home on a quiet street in San Francisco, I was nostalgic yet apprehensive. I knew the house was a hotbed of gay radicalism. And though I’d attended Solstice parties there, and heated up a few beds myself, I’ve never been victimized. I mistrust sloppy political expounding and I think mythology is for druggies. Yet as I walked up the rickety stairs to the main floor, Radical Fairies, those gender bending, tambourine playing, mother earth loving gay heathens darted about like forest nymphs. My palms perspired. Am I too hip to strip? My yoga mat is by Paul Smith!

After slipping off my brogues, and noticing the wood paneled, cock painted, fern hung homage to the 70s that surrounded me, and which, like most childhood memories, I found both charming and suffocating, I strolled past dark closed doors and a large circular glass shower into a larger room that contained, in the center of the shag, a naked, undulating, bearded white guy. He was on his belly, and his hairless, pale body writhed from top past bottom to the brown underside of his bare feet. He was humping the ground. I wondered how fast I could make it back to my car.

“Hey Scott, what are ya’ doin’ here?”

Around a corner came Richard, a teacher raised in Texas whom I’d cruised locally for fifteen years. Blushing with arms akimbo, he appeared annoyingly fit, even in black socks.

“Vincent sent me. I’m really here for the free booze.”

“Don’t tell that to Yoga Daddy.”

“I brought lactose-free brownies.” I was trying to acclimate, organically.

“Very kitsch. Put them in the fridge but mind the bullets. They make a lot o’ noise when they spill, and this is a safe space.”

Matty, the home’s owner, is a cop who’s ready for the Revolution. That night however, he was disrobed and in full Lotus. Others ambled in, sporting tiny shorts, chatting quietly.

I unzipped my cardigan, then looked around for a hanger.

“I’ll put that on my bed.”

Richard lives here? Can I move in?

He turned back. “Shall I take your tie?”

“Do you need one?” I trembled with angst. I became Julie Christie. I pouted.

“Yoga Daddy’s watching you.”

I turned and saw nothing but a kitchen scene on a laptop screen. Then I heard his solemn, monotonous voice.

“Hello. Can anyone see me?”

A red bearded face pressed itself against twelve inches.

“Uh, yes. I can.”

“Hey Scott. It’s me, Carl.”

Carl the builder? We went sailing together once. He has a tail. Well, an extended spine ending with a patch of hair. So…a tail.

The other boys chimed in, praising Skype and greeting Yoga Daddy, who was in Portland on a gay-lesbian-bisexual-transgender-questioning AIDS yogic healing circle.

“I’m sautéing spinach now.”

Yoga Daddy led us bumpily through a series of poses. The sound crackled. So did the wood fire. The room grew very warm. Eventually almost everyone was exposed. Eyes were half closed as glistening bodies swayed and swooned through headstand, shoulder stand and downward dog. Each practitioner moved at his own pace. Some even skipped a pose or two. With Carl in another city, discipline lagged.

Starfairy Trilogy (AKA: Henry.) kept his red jock strap strapped. I retained my white unitard, but then I studied modern dance for one semester. We watched each other without eyeing one another, moving cautiously beneath the stained glass. As we both lay panting at the end, I could almost taste the sweetness of his youth. He smelled like straw.

Yoga Daddy mumbled goodbye and we eagerly ate rabbit fodder. Gays disappeared to the Jacuzzi, then reappeared embracing, giggling and much hungrier. Somehow we all wound up in the triple headed shower, rubbing mint gel on one another’s damp, sinewy backs. Starfairy leaned on my arm, and I caressed his smooth balls.

“I shave them in support of our Muslim brothers in Palestine.”

Genuflecting, I pleaded silently that this might be the evening’s final protest. His lack of circumcision surprised me. He smiled. I thought, ‘He’s kind.’

“Are you Canadian?”

“Yes,” whispered Starfairy, “but don’t tell the Fairies. They’re boycotting Maple syrup. Sapping is territorial.”

As my head bobbed, also in agreement, mandolins strummed softly on the outside deck.

So many people have said they can’t tell the difference between my old (mangled, deformed, shockingly awful) nose, and my new (vastly improved, much more useful, both aesthetically and in every other way) nose. But then that’s the point. That’s good surgery bitches, live it - learn it.
Actually, right after I got the bandages off, a minor friend asked if I’d had a face lift. That’s a compliment. Of sorts.

Scott Capurro
GT
March 2009

Next day, post-op:

It’s done. I’ve been cut. My vanity embarrasses me, but my doctor told me the growth would only grow stranger. Soon the nostril would be blocked, I wouldn’t be able to breath properly, and I’d die in my sleep. Actually, the death part I added, but we all die. We’re all the same. We all distrust our noses. Or is that the painkillers talking?

I woke up during the surgery. Twice. Unexpectedly, there was a second man standing over me. Not only standing. Digging. Both doctors looked as though they were scraping away at my face with putty knives. They were leaning forward, grimacing, like it was hard labour. I felt a great deal of pressure against my cheek bones, but my hands were tied to the table, I couldn’t move, so I moaned, “I can see you. I can feel that.”


When I met with my doc this morning, I asked if I’d dreamt the assistant.

He said, oh no, that’s my technician.

Right. And were you both scraping away?

“Might have been.”


Weird the trauma one must go through in order to return to whatever one was. Or thinks he was. I’m not sure if the surgery was successful. I’m still bandaged like the invisible man. I really thought it would be a ’slice and plaster’ kinda thing, where I’d be dancing and drinking at Daddy’s in the Castro that evening. But I’m not going anywhere. Apparently there were more obstructions than had been presumed.

Typical. I love building walls. Then walking into them.

Actually, I went out for a meal last night with my sister, and if there were anyone that enjoys seeing me bandaged, it would be her. Not that she’s malicious, but I have won a lot of arguments.

On the way into some Vegan Trendy Hell restaurant chosen for proximity’s sake, a guy skateboarding by said “Skateboarding?” He’d assumed I’d injured myself flying off four wheels.


I said, “No, I’m 46.”


His reply: “So am I.”


Me: “Then stop skateboarding!”

San Francisco is full of people seeking their youth. Either through baggy shorts or sinoplasties, we want back what we think we missed out on. I’m viewing a photo of myself at 19, so sweet, fresh, girley; and one of myself this morning, 27 years later, battered and bruised. It reminds me my nose is a bridge to nowhere. I can’t go back.

Two days later:

I’m still bandaged and drugged. I’m on steroids to reduce the swelling, and my apartment has never been cleaner. I’ve cleaned it three times, starting from three different angles because dust is clever.

Spoke with my doc today. He has a lovely, melodious, reassuring voice. I’m honored to have shared a putty knife with him. Anyway he offered more surgical details. Secure a barf bag, if you haven’t already.

He started by filleting my nose, then peeling it back. Look at me, I’m a trout. Finally. Then he scraped grooves into one side of my septum - the lucky side, obviously - so it would bend easier.

“You know, the way you do with a piece of cardboard.”


Yeah, whatever hot stuff. 
 Then my septum, which was pointing one centimetre to the left, he bent straight. There goes my French film career. He then secured my septum in place by sowing it to the bone behind my upper lip. Hence the stitches in my gums, which I thought had magically appeared because I’m - what? - evolving.

Then - oh yeah, there’s more - he grafted cartilage onto my air holes, where bone had grown over. That sounds dirty, which I like. Of course he had to GRIND down the bone first. Hence the pressure on my cheekbones that woke me up, further reducing my dignity because I peed.

Immediately after the procedure, I demanded I be allowed to piss some more. Lots. The nurse called me at home to suggest I get tested for diabetes.


“You urinated before, during and after the surgery. Is that normal?”


You mean, do I pee a lot when I’m having face work done? Who wouldn’t? It’s so exciting to be renewed. Fact is, BITCH, I’ve never had work done. If I had, do you think I’d voluntarily resemble Kevin Bacon?

Actually, this surgery seems to have worked. I’m inhaling easier, and soon, once my nose is unpacked, it’s off to a gay sauna, to see if all this has worked to my cock-attracting advantage.

If only breathing clearly were enough!

I was just so so offended by some culturalist retard’s reaction to my little area, that I wrote the following. Actually the end result was much improved, an appropriate, lovely man is now looking after my flat, but at the time of this violation, I turned violet with rage. Hand to pearls, I was so hurt, I wanted to kill the below mentioned Kraut cunt.

Gay Times
February, 2009

Some Belgian sounding cunt that was supposed to drop by my top floor flat for a look-see, with the possibility of subletting, just called my cell.

“Yes, well, we’ve had a walk around the area, and we’re not impressed.” Apparently he has a girlfriend, probably a toothless concubine. “We did not want to waste your time, or ours.”

I wanted to yell, “Not impressed?! By what? The fashionable Brick Lane? Or the lovely Columbia Road Flower Market, five minutes north? Or the park I overlook? Why don’t you go back to whatever fucking off-ramp you drove in from, you chocolate promoting, language flipping, EU loving leeching piece of shit.”

However, because I’m middle class, I hung up on him and instead scribbled a lazy, slightly racist retort.

Look, I know Bethnal Green Road is the ugliest high road in Central London. From the defunct Walgreens to the beat up Tescos, and every browned fruit and wilted vegetable stand in between, the street looks like Wales. It’s grim and it’s shit. It has sixty – yes, SIXTY – sari shops between my front door and the tube, which is a seven minute stroll. I might be missing some, since I wouldn’t dare set my Paul Smith encased foot inside any of those narrow, terrifying little ‘malls’ that dot the long runway toward Liverpool Street. There might be eighty or a hundred sari shops nearby, but wouldn’t three be enough? It’s not like the fabric or styles change. Ever. Once you’ve seen one shiny white plastic torso wrapped in thin orange cotton, you’ve seen too many.

But the area has its charms. Pelucci’s, an old, camp Italian restaurant with ancient woodwork and a red neon sign that sometimes buzzes, is cheap and good and the food is prepared by a woman as gracious and old as – might I say it, although the comparison is silly, since this lovely lady cooks well and so offers pleasure - the Queen. And speaking of queens, the staff is as mincing as the holiday tin pies above the cash drawer.

After a hearty meal of chicken parts and tomatoes, if you’re feeling emasculated, you can stumble around the corner and buy steroids from any one of several beefy street vendors outside the last remaining “Rocky” inspired gym within thirty years. Whenever I see bloated sweaty mammoths barely jogging through Weaver’s Field, I know where they’ve been rubbing armpits recently, and that’s as reassuring as the warm pinkness of a stuttering local discussing, with austere respect, his first encounter with Reggie Krays.

“He stabbed my eye.” The guy lifted his fringed grey patch to show me the hole. It was late, I was in a pub called The Sun, which is dark and dingy and owned by an old queer, like so many of the pubs on BG’s strip. The hole left behind was more of a wrinkly cross. The type cartoon characters have when they’re intoxicated, which seemed appropriate.

“You’re lucky he didn’t shoot you.” I was distracted, wondering where I could get more cocaine. The bartender was singing ‘Don’t Cry Out Loud’ with a tiny Moroccan near the Karaoke Machine. Everyone was smoking cigarettes, two years after the ban. It was like the Blitz, without the gay sex.

“Naw, mate. He needed me. I found him boys.”

Pause. Back up. Cancel previous remark.

“Did you ever have sex with him?” I felt risky. Bombs were dropping.

“Not here. In prison, but he broke my arms and legs after, to prove a point.”

Like the British economy, this guy was barely standing. The walls of The Sun were damp, they seemed to be leaking, and the music had morphed into an ABBA rant, so I buttoned up my cardigan and headed home, sure I could find a Bangladeshi groom from Whitechapel on line and desperate for a Valentine’s night blow job.

I watched several young Pakistani gentlemen bang their fists into a Barclay’s cash machine. Suddenly I heard a screech, and when I turned quickly (ish) I saw a D3 bus stop suddenly, hitting a stray dog so hard the canine’s head flew off and rolled to within two inches of my nearest gutter. Its tongue hung out of its head, and it smiled up, relieved I think to be spirited to a warmer, kinder place. A fast food employee took pity on the beast, and gracefully swooped its skull up with a blue plastic bag, disappearing into his work. The customers at the counter eyed each other warily, but ordered burgers nonetheless.

Can’t wait to get back to California. I’m way, way too white right now. I need sun and fresh…something. And of course there’s my homophobic president to contend with. ‘Change I can believe in’? But I already knew black men hated queers. That might never change.
Oy.
Oh, and holiday suggestion number 236: Watch The Thing. It’s great. The 1981 version of course, with HOT Kurt Russell, where some guy gets his head eaten. Delicious.
xx

Gay Times
January 2009

The enormous popularity of rhinoplasty indicates that pretty much everyone hates their own nose. Add to mine a bit of scar tissue left over from a staff infection in my left nostril, proving rimming is actually dirty, and I’m left with what feels like a bruised, broken big toe hanging from the center of my face. My childhood was rushed, and I’ve never had the patience for flaws. Ass holes I can lick, but I throw away holed socks and chipped plates; naturally, and perhaps “because gay men are filthy”, to quote my psychiatrist, I crave facial repair.
A visit to a California plastic surgeon was both inspiring and alarming. Dr. Hoover proudly showed me a photo of his five daughters.
“Lovely girls,” I said, as I handed it back.
“And their noses?”
I looked again. They had identical noses.
“When I did the first, I knew I’d have to do all five. Or else people know.”
He transferred my digital image onto his computer, creating a three dimensional revolving me. And as my cranium spun, slowly, he enthusiastically revealed all he could do to improve my nose. He wanted to break my bridge, and make my nose, in effect, larger, to sit better on my large head.
“I have a large head?”
“Look at it!” He wore a bow tie and was gray and slender. “It barely fits on my screen!”
I winced.
“Don’t squint. Your nose looks smaller.”
He also wanted to push down the tip of my beak, and make my nostrils the same size and shape. I trembled with excitement. It was as if he’d read my mind. These were the exact adjustments I’d always imagined doing, yet never attempted, lacking the professional expertise and sterilized instruments. Naturally whist stoned and crying in front of my bathroom mirror I’d pinched and pulled my nose into the image he’d created. It looked wonderful, like a doll’s nose, or a pig’s snout. Still, I wasn’t sure I deserved such permanent magnificence.
“For $6,000, I could just slice open your septum and scrape out the twisted cartilage, but what price perfection?”
$2,000 more, apparently. I was practically writing out the check for 8,000 big ones when I saw a photo of Faye Dunaway over the doctor’s desk.
“I did her. Her nose, I mean.”
She looked like an old cat. I paused.
“Don’t worry,” the doctor assured me, “she’s past her prime. But nobody will ever know you’ve been changed. They’ll think you’ve been on vacation. Or on a diet.”
Still, I settled for the cheaper choice. A young nose doesn’t look good on an older face, no matter how many Oscar nominations you’ve accrued.
We set a surgery date for January, and after having my nipples tortured in the October sun at the Folsom Street Fair, I returned to London.
Following a performance in Leicester Square, I made the mistake of telling friends who’d stayed for a drink that I was looking forward to a new year with a new nose. An actor, eyebrows plucked into submission and clothed ten years too young because he’s a gay asked me “Why would you alter the one thing that makes your face unique?”
“Would you fuck me?” I asked, because I really wanted to know. He has soft hands.
“No, but not because of your nose. Because of your age.”
I’d forgotten he’s a pedophile.
Then Pete, a really large filmmaker on steroids who’s also a very good friend, piped in.
“Clearly you don’t love yourself enough.”
“You’re right. I’ve got a fucked up nose.”
“No.” His shoulders are so large he was practically exploding out of his jacket. “This is about your choices. Like that boyfriend of yours.”
Pete doesn’t think the Brazilian is right for me. He thinks I’m a catch – “A difficult, complicated catch” – and I can do better. But when? With whom? Until recently, I’ve been single for six goddamn years. Whilst Pete has rejected a hot Persian architect, several British nerds and two delicious Germans, merely because they fell in love with him, I’ve been on the sidelines, playing the ugly stepsister and nursing my swollen muzzle. He’s changed occupations, bought a gorgeous flat in South London. I see him less and less, and he wants me to stay the same. Maybe I remind him of his youth. I’m his constant. His consistent broken wing. And for that reason, I’ll always need him, whether or not he needs me.
And that’s why I’m joining a gym.

Hey kids, I’m preparing Thanksgiving dinner, but I’m taking this break to let you know how thankful I am that you read this shit. Especially since, apparently, i’m ‘harsh’, to quote some club booker in London who no longer books me. I thought only the Comedy Cafe avoided my calls, but now I know this other club, in Leicester Square, finds me terrifying. Really? In London, in 2008, a little gay like me is scary? That’s hot. Now if I could somehow get my worrying message out there, maybe text murder threats to children with Leukemia just to prove Americans understand irony, which might wipe Baby P off the front page and, soon, I’ll sell out Wembley, without having to be mainstream and closeted.
My plan is working perfectly….

Gay Times
December 2008

Sometimes my Brazilian is like a child. I practically cut his meat. However the language barrier seems to be working in my favor. Usually, the more a boyfriend gets to know about my demanding and overwrought character, the less he likes. The Brazilian doesn’t listen less; he has, with his linguistic challenges, selective comprehension. But so do I.

I sift through his moaning about stalkers and finance problems, hoping for words of support. Truthfully he’s extremely self-centered, which I ignore, while pretending that quick, rough, slightly violent penetrative sex, with, eventually, a condom, whilst he pinches my side and pulls at my hair and I try to wriggle out of my robe, as he’s giggling then pounding harder, so hard he can’t stop coming, is enough. He fucks me like were cellmates, until he’s threatened by my sexually explicit writing in this magazine and angrily goes to bed early.

I pay for everything - every meal out and all the food that goes through the flat. I don’t mind, he’s a fledgling gay, although I was never that broke; and I was always willing to hold the hand or rest my arm on the shoulder of my date. While out in public, he defends a gay buffer between the two of us as his eyes dart quickly, like he’s prey. His cousins are everywhere. I wonder aloud where they think he’s been sleeping.

“At friends.”

“Every night?”

“In Brazil, it’s normal.”

“In London, it’s homeless.”

He blames his family’s homophobia for his coy behavior. I tell him he’s the culprit.

“You’re afraid to commit. You dumped your fiancé to come here. Now you’re gay and terrified.”

He looks hurt. I know I sound terse, but I’m avoiding adjectives because they confuse him. Why are men so fucking useless when confronted? I watch him tear up and wonder how wars ever get fought effectively?

I’m afraid too. The fact is I’ve chosen an urchin, a nephew really, as a romantic partner. Someone new to London, who’s insular and who’s still never touched my dick. Not even a prick on my dick. Nothin’. Nada. Zip. Oh, I’m all over his, but he’s never even seen mine, which has nothing to do with my size, or lack thereof, or it’s appearance, although I’ve been assured by many strangers mine is a pretty penis. Do you sense my anxiety? Let me illuminate. I’m cutting my dick right now, hoping Brazil will smell the blood, wake up from his nap and like any wild Boar rush at me for a gulp. But that won’t happen because he sleeps like death, so I’m erect constantly. Get the point? Do you?! I’M FUCKING FRUSTRATED!

I may not be scholarly, but I’m old enough to realize I’m avoiding something by steering clear of intimacy, as I drop my anchor on Fantasy Island. I mean, who doesn’t want to get skewered by a thick, hairy, juvenile foreigner? We all have rape fantasies. Why should I, or my priest, or my elected officials, or my cellmate be any different? Perhaps my need to be pursued is overtaking me.

So it’s no wonder that whilst in Budapest, at a 16th Century Turkish bath, I let myself be fingered by a man who looked like he might have been the structure’s original architect. We’re in a large, round, warm pool, with a curved, dotted ceiling above. There is almost total silence, which is necessary for gloom and male cruising. Two bearded seniors are cradling each other, and I’m supposed to pretend this ancient place is, as my tourist brochure alerts me, hetero. Although, I suppose, in a Renaissance way, furtive hand jobs are quite mainstream, if Shakespeare’s closet is anything to go by.

My Buda babe is tough, and he grimaces whenever he pushes his index up my poop shoot. He’s got big, hard tits and a large, solid, white ass that he exposes, rolling onto his stomach and resting on the shallow stairs, like a scheduled exam will soon commence. And commence it does. No one seems to mind. I take his temperature, he takes mine, while an even bigger dude flicks my nipples. It’s the kind of synchronized swimming techniques that might’ve spiced up boring Beijing.

Later, back in his cabin, I’m pressed against my architect and his D & G sportswear. These Hungarian queens dress like George Michael is president. Through the door’s crack, I see an adorable youngarian following an octogenarian. I lick my finger, as the young feed on the old.

As did the presidential election. I agree with those who chose Obama - let’s give the black guy a chance to fuck it up for a change. But then came his uninspiring acceptance speech, the most seamless, unconvincing diatribe about freedom ever delivered from behind several 10″ by 15″ sections of plexiglass. My expectations were lowered further by the outcome of prop. 8 in California. I’ve no intention to wed, but I like the idea that lesbians had one less thing to bitch about. Ironically, the same churches that helped get out the black vote in support of the democratic candidate also robbed gays and lezzies of their democratic right to marry. Now, it seems, chickens have more rights than gays in California.
Marriage, as a formidable institution, is doomed, I know. it’s odd the gays spend so much time and money on a dying subject. Kind of sweet though, that sort of romantic hopefulness, but when will all those queers realize, we can’t assimilate into a christian culture. We need to find out own way, and leave churches, and all their sad, insular traditions, behind us.
God I sound so grand.

GT
November 2008

I’m in San Francisco for a brisk September break and I’ve barely got time to cruise boys on line when a jury summons arrives in the post. Although I appreciate the chance to sit in judgment of my peers, the fact is I have so few. Truthfully, who else works harder than me? And I’m probably not the best jury candidate because I’m psychic, so I’m sure early on how things are going to turn out. I assume most cunts are guilty. I know I am. I trash the document.
But my mother convinces me to respond.
“Goddammit honey, they can put you in prison.”
“Mom I’m queer. Prison is a tease.”
“They’ll fine you $1,000.”
I bolt for court.
About two hundred annoyed Californians stumble into the courtroom listed on our notice. Jury selection happens early. Well, early for me. Noon. I’d taken a Viagra the night before, then drank some beer and smoked pot. It’s SF! I had a hippie to rape. And now, without caffeine, I could feel my pulse in my head.
The roll call begins. Because it’s San Francisco, when the surname ‘Lee’ is announced, four Chinese men simultaneously answer ‘here’. The guy next to me is vaguely hot, Italian, pale with dark hair and - oops! - a ponytail. Who tells straight men ponytails look good? Their jealous girlfriends I suppose. But his arms are sinewy, and not from working out. He’s just tense. He’s wearing all black and he carries a slim script, upon which he scribbles notes, in pencil. He appears to be morphing from mafia kingpin to alternative theatre director. When his name is called, he answers ‘present’. That’s when I realize he’s, sadly, just an IT nerd.
Some people are already asleep when the judge arrives for a pep talk. He’s wearing pleated trousers and - seat yourself - a cable knit cardigan. Either I leave, or this judge goes through an extreme make over. I want to help. I believe in fairness, to a point. But when I see his hairy grey neck I momentarily consider switching to women. The judge whips out a large paper calendar and, with a red felt pen, begins crossing the days we’ll be needed. He marks three weeks, then reminds us if it’s our first jury service, employers won’t cover our financial loss. All those still awake shutter. Some imagine their homes repossessed. Most Americans are one paycheck away from lap dancing. Justice is sweet, but expensive, and clearly not swift enough.
He begs us for our service. He looks us each in the eyes, imploring our good will. He’s flirting Intellectually, telling us we’ll be used wisely to punish a potential drug dealer. I tremble. What if it’s my drug dealer? I’ve got a flight approaching. I need my anti-anxiety meds. If that bitch Tony has been arrested again, I’ll arrive in London in a pool of my own stress and bile. I hug myself, and wonder why I smell of garlic. My appetite surfaces. I don’t care about justice. I want pancakes. Across from me, a divorcee type, 50 ish with pointed breasts, has her legs spread, like Sharon Stone. Obviously, someone else has cravings.
One way out of service, the judge alerts us, would be if we had less than a decent command of English. I’ve experienced the California educational system, first hand. I expect most of the room to leave. Instead, eight Mexicans breath sighs of relief and return to day care centers.
Those who speak English but have excuses are asked to line up before the judge. Especially those who are illegally parked, like me. Actually I don’t own a car, but when asked if any of us are at meters, I raise my hand. Some don’t. Some who aren’t nauseous I suppose. Some who believe more in the call of liberty than in salty bacon. I’m very very weak.
I tell the judge I’m a Communist. No go. Then I tell him I have a relative who’s a cop. Try again. I travel a lot for work, and announce that I’m leaving for the UK very soon. He asks when I’ll return.
“In the New Year, God willing.”
I throw God in for good measure. The judge signs me out. Before I leave the courthouse, I wander the hallways, searching for a shy, thin legal clerk. The type that always appears in 70s porn. Instead I find very polished marble floors that reveal my silhouette. My slim profile. My shadow. My selfishness. I feel diminished.