Malibu Barbie

TowelBoy unexpectedly spent the last week rummaging the cabinets at Camp Carrick looking for anything that ends in “quil”. I'm talking about those delightful products from our good friends at Vicks, like Nyquil, Dayquil, stop-hacking-up-a-fucking-lung-quil, etc. Apparently someone gave me the respiratory virus of death, and just like everything else that comes up in my $125 an hour therapy session, I fully blame my mother. (I absolutely refuse to believe it was one of those four delightful gentleman callers I entertained last week. He was sneezing because of the cat, damn it.) For an entire week, I sounded like Bea Arthur on filterless Camels and looked like Charlie Sheen the Monday after his birthday weekend. And unfortunately, NyQuil no longer contains pseudoephedrine (thanks a lot, Tina queens), so you don't even get high. And even worse, I missed Weezie's fabulous fundraiser at P-Town. I did, however, use the time between bouts of self medicating and Susan Lucci marathons on the soap channel to do some thinking. I've come to some important conclusions. First, the respiratory virus of death is far worse than any of my self-induced ailments and conditions. I should stop complaining and start cruising. Second, my problem with turning gentleman callers into potential life partners is exactly the same foible that screws up everything else: perpetually paranoia. And finally, I may approach most of life's problems like Britney on a bender, but I have become the master at dealing with those insurgent queens. (See the last post.) The phlegmy cough and throat tickle have become minor nuisances, and once the “quils” wear off, I'm sure I'll be back to my old self. Did I really learn any sort of lesson...

PROBLEM #1: IMAGINED ILLNESS AND CALAMITY
I am a huge fan of Sheryl Crow. Anyone who's visited Club Pittsburgh on a Saturday night has probably heard “All I Wanna Do” so many times that all they want to do is take the CD off of me. Every Sheryl Crow CD surpasses the last. (Note to Ms. Crow: Making love maybe free, but if you're going to do it at Club Pittsburgh, you'll have to cough up $15 for a locker. No exceptions, Mary.) And I think we can all agree with Sheryl that “Everyday is a Winding Road”. My favorite part of the song is when she screeches, “I've been swimming in a sea of anarchy! I've been livin' on coffee and nicotine! I've been wondering if all the things I see are ever real...are ever really happening.” (When you have to throw out a tranny that's passed out in the sauna with her nylons around her ankles, reality seriously becomes subjective. But I digress.) Instead of singing about coffee and nicotine, I change it to coffee and Nexium. You see, TowelBoy has a cranky stomach. I guess I always have, and it's far more related to psychotic disorders than digestive ones. Fortunately, the geniuses at AstraZeneca came up with Nexium for these types dyspeptic/dysphoric episodes. Nexium makes it impossible for your stomach to produce acid, so you don't feel the urge to empty the contents of your solar plexis on some liquored-up Miss Mary LaLa with misplaced identification. At first, I was cynical: Doesn't one need stomach acid? Doesn't it serve some essential purpose? What's going to happen to all those cheesecakes and Snickers bars I inhale from the Dixie Narco? But I tried the Nexium anyway, and in a few days I went from the queasy doorstep of hell to feeling like my old horny self again. I know that my digestive calamity has nothing to do with diet or genetics or Helicobacter Pylori. It's all in my head. But at the moment, the Nexium is keeping me blissfully void of gastric acid. I am free to concentrate on anal cleansing and manscaping.

But if I ever decide to make it big in drag, “Diane Dyspepsia” sounds like a fierce alter-ego, doesn't it?

PROBLEM #2: PARANOIA AND BOREDOM
From sport coupes to gentelman callers that bear a striking resemblance to a Romanesque “O.C.” actor, paranoia and boredom eventually threaten just about every good thing that happens to poor TowelBoy. A few years ago, I bought the studliest car I've ever owned: an electric blue Olds Alero coupe. My old sedan had been pumping blue smoke into the clear skies of Pittsburgh for three months, and I took this as a sign from a higher gay power to buy something a little more trendy & fun. My Alero was a certified used vehicle, complete with a flawless finish, tons of toys and gadgets, and the security of a “limited warranty”. This car was a STUD – I was in a pure state of automotive bliss! For about two weeks. Once the newness wore off, my sex-mobile entered the realm of TowelBoy's Paranoid Reality. I began to hear disturbing noises every time I drove the car. Were they coming from the engine or transmission? And then the smells started. Perhaps it was the smell of burning oil, or leaking brake fluid, or some other toxic liquid that would give Al Gore acid reflux. (Nexium, Al.) After a few months, I was driving to work and the “CHECK ENGINE” light flashed. Fuck!?! Surely that means the car needs a new catalytic converter or the intake valves are corroded. I don't even know what that means, but I'm reasonably sure I can't afford it. I began losing sleep over this death trap that I was driving. What if I couldn't get to work? What if it wouldn't start when I desperately needed medical attention? What if it broke down on my way to pick up HotDancerBoi87 at Point Park College? After two years of increasing alarm (and absolutely zero legitimate problems with the car), I traded my love machine for a sensible Chevy Malibu. It's about as sexy as Liza Minelli in withdrawal, but it's covered bumper-to-bumper for the next three years. I do the exact same thing with gentleman callers, too. I had this cool “friends who fuck” arrangement with this great guy who is a dead wringer for Adam Brody. (Google “Adam Brody” and click on “images”. It's worth it.) He's cute, he's sweet, and we're a match sexually. But of course, I start finding “deal breakers” the second time we get together. He drinks too much. His apartment is messy. He falls asleep with semen in his hair. After three months, his list of alleged flaws has become unavoidable. So now I'm not returning his calls.

I wonder what the fuck-buddy equivalent to Chevy Malibu is? That'll fix my ass real good.

PROBLEM 3: INSURGENT QUEENS
TowelBoy does enjoy getting to know the members at Club Pittsburgh. Over the past seven years, I have met hundreds of amazing people and forged dozens of cherished friendships. My boss always jokes that the Club Pittsburgh is like a country club with sex & nudity. The staff, members, and visitors share a unique sense of friendliness and comradery that you wouldn't usually find in a bathhouse. But there's one in every crowd, right? Over the past seven years, I've seen some amusing bouts of bad behavior that middle America just wouldn't believe. A few years ago, some insurgent queen brought her special brand of liquor-induced calamity to the tubs. On this dreary Friday, I'd been working as both a front desk attendant and a housekeeper. A guest approached me while I was cleaning with concerns that another patron had fallen ill in the dark room. I turned up the lights to discover that one of our more colorful regulars had passed out in a puddle of the chunky regurgitated remnants of liquor and regret. More pointedly, he'd finally discovered his alcohol threshold. Admittedly, he'd been more liquored up than usual when he checked in a few hours earlier. He'd never caused a serious problem, so we let him in for his usual detox ritual. He was, however, ranting to the customers in line with him, and he kept spelling every other word. He was particularly perturbed about s-e-r-v-i-c-e, and how the bartenders in Pittsburgh had no idea how to give it. (Our guess is that someone cut him off. Last call, closing time, you've had enough, etc.) Anyway, now he's passed out in the dark room, and I can't rouse him. Panicked, I realized that I was left with no choice: I had to enlist Patches. While I watched the front desk, Patches succeeded in giving Mr. Service a wake-up call. I could hear someone spelling profanity from the other end of the building. While I cowered (TowelBoy is a bit of a COWARD), Patches removed him from the club. When the customer returned a few days later, I grew some balls and denied him entry. He claimed the whole deal was caused by an unfortunate diabetic episode. (No offense to Wilford Brimley, but diabetes had nothing to do with it. This poor queen had an unfortunate episode with the many flavors of Stolichnaya.) He sent a delightful hand-written note the following week. Apparently, in addition to reduced pancreatic function, this poor dear suffers from reverse peristalsis. (Translation: he tends to throw up what he drinks.) Moved by his argument, I welcomed him back.

I am very impressed that letter-writing is making a comeback. It really is a lost art, isn't it?

Speaking of letters, Weezie has written a great “thank you” letter that I hope to share with you shortly. For every insurgent queen there are a dozen wonderful guys out there that make this a great community. You did a great job helping our friend get back on his feet, and the entire Club Pittsburgh family appreciates it. I hope you enjoy the pictures from the Weezie Benefit at the top of the post. I'm curious to see if the photos still look the same when all the ''quil'' wears off.

What I've discovered is that my attempts to solve imagined problems or eliminate overblown dangers just gives me acid reflux. The world will always have the occasional insurgent queen, and all great things come with a little uncertainty. Ask less questions and enjoy more of your life. The grass is rarely greener on the other side of the fence. Honestly, I miss my sexy car. Chevy Malibu is seriously lacking in excitement. The Olds was alluring and sexy. But thanks to paranoia, my wheels are so lacking in stud factor that my 85 year old grandfather bought one just like it. (In his defense, the fabric in the interior looks eerily like one of my late grandmother's house dresses. I sum up the attraction to sentiment.) And for the record, I smell the same smells, hear the same noises, and panic over the same warning lights in this car. Go figure.

Growing up, I always wanted to be Malibu Barbie. This isn't what I had in mind.

Queasily Yours,
TowelBoy