The Dark Blight

Every once in a while, Americans latch onto something with great enthusiasm and little sense of reason (i.e. 300, Barack Obama, crocs). Think mob mentality, only they shower the target with love and praise instead of stones and pointy objects. The frenzy surrounding The Dark Knight is the recent craze that has taken over America, and the whole world really. But mark my words, there was nothing extraordinary about this movie. If anything, it was a bloated two and a half hour circus with no direction or depth.

I have heard over and over that what sets Batman apart from other movies of this genre is the incredible plot, full of twists and turns. While the plot may have had "surprises" (that were altogether quite predictable), there were just too many of them. The entire story became a jumbled mess of plot lines that twisted and turned into itself. About the third time that Batman wrongly predicted the Joker's plan, did they really think I was going to be shocked? In the end, the movie accomplished nothing in the way of moving the story forward and developing Batman as more than a one-dimensional character. Two and half hours later, you are exactly where you started.

I recently read a review from one particularly fervent fan that called the movie, "A masterpiece that combines a critique of the modern political landscape with a deep and thought provoking script." And I thought to myself, this person must not know much about politics or writing. The political undertones of the movie were nothing more than a charade of post 9/11 pessimism and melodramatic bitching. The script was also clunky and overbearing, falling flat even coming from the lips of Michael Caine and Morgan Freeman. Basically everyone with a Rotten Tomato account seems to think they are qualified to call things "masterpieces" and "rare accomplishments." But take note, just because there are contrived allusions to today's political issues and a couple of faux-philosophical one liners about watching the world burn, does not mean the movie is even remotely meaningful.

In terms of the action, I was equally disappointed. The visual effects employed in the second installment are nothing that cannot be seen in the first one. And really, is it necessary to spend ten minutes showing Batman driving through traffic to the fight scene and then show about one minute of the actual fight. Clearly, it was an effort to showcase the ever popular Batmobile in its various incarnations, but it was unnecessary. Perhaps the Academy should consider the Batmocycle, (which looked suspiciously similar to a Dyson vacuum cleaner), for Best Supporting Actor.

Speaking of the Academy, I cannot begin to explain the excessive attention that Heath Ledger has gotten. If he weren't dead, would anybody even care? Yes, he is convincing as the Joker. But to seriously think that he deserves an Oscar for random fits of convulsion and repeatedly licking his lips is, dare I say, a joke. He does outshine Christian Bale though. Which, all things considered, is not very hard to do. After all, Bale is a man who thinks that speaking like he has emphysema makes for a more believable Batman. Somewhere, Michael Keaton is cringing.

After sitting through all this, the universal praise for this movie is just impossible to understand. Every minute that passed left me more and more agitated rather than exhilarated. In one particular scene, Batman and the Joker partake in a skirmish precariously close to the edge of a skyscraper and I am just waiting for one of them to die already and for the movie to end. Unfortunately, the Joker confesses about Batman, "I won't kill you, because you're just too much fun!" The man really is insane.

Preppy Lite

And it's almost eerie how many people come to my blog just because they googled "London Preppy" and I was the one hundredth or so link on the list. I suppose that for all the people who don't get enough of him on his own blog, the little snippets about him on my blog are some sort of consolation prize where their obsession can continue into the wee hours of the night. In fifty years, when little schoolchildren are writing their research papers about LP, I would be considered a secondary source, billed absolutely last in the bibliography section. Perhaps I can learn to live with that.

What I can't live with is the notion that I am some sort of Asian, tan, fat, version of LP from across the pond that harbors the same skeptical outlook on life and rips his writing style with no shame. Alright, the latter might be true, whatever. The former, I assure you, is not. But I suppose that it's my own fault because my inexplicable infatuation drives me to write about him so freaking much on this blog. I might as well be his foil character in the novel that is the universe that is LondonPreppy-dom. Or maybe this was all a clever strategy to increase my hit count dramatically.



So I went to Georgetown today in hopes that I would make it there before Ralph Lauren closes. But Ralph Lauren closes at a ridiculously early hour and I am forced to go to Urban Outfitters instead (big leap, I know) and mingle with the preteens and tourists who are 100% convinced that they are trendy. Then I eat a sandwich at Wisey's with Friend C and we talk about how her parents are obsessed with her getting married and how my parents are extremely liberal because they have said that they would allow me to, "marry a white girl."

I rush across the city to meet with Sister before we go home and I run into her with her group of friends: hot korean guy with lisp, hot white guy with humor, and girl. I end up staring a little to hard at HWGWH, but he smiles back and that is enough to convince me that the love is reciprocated and I am amazed that the acronym I have made for him is a palindrome. Could LP do that? I don't think so.

I'll Do Anything, Coach

So I have tennis practice this morning, just like every other Monday morning. But this practice is different because coach decides it is high time for me to change my grip for my serve. However, the new grip that I adopt wrecks my game. Balls are flying left and right, nothing is going in, I whack my own knee with my racquet, it is all very embarrassing. After about ten minutes of mayhem, coach walks up from behind me, puts his hand around mine, and shows me how it's done/has his way with me. And I don't mind being violated by him because I love him. And this is why:

1) He always teases me when I mess up. Which makes me absolutely furious but also turns me on like you wouldn't believe.

2) He is about 6'3" with less than 5% body fat.

3) He smells so good all the time. I really don't know how that works.

4) He is so straight.

Sigh... he is so hot, I don't even know what to do. I just want to ravage him against the back fence, but that would probably ruin the dynamic between us.

And this is Fernando Verdasco. I should be admiring his forehand, which is considered the best in the world. I am admiring other assets though.

He is so cute!

Foolish Games

On Saturday I have nothing better to do than to go to The Mall and waste some time. So Inside _____ Department Store, I pretend to admire the merchandise just to appease the eager salespeople watching my every move. I fall in love with a Burberry tie. But at 160 USD, it's pretty clear that the relationship could never work. As I walk away, I get approached by a gorgeous sales representative dressed in a dark suit and red tie. He was... a mysterious one with dark eyes and careless hair. He was... fashionably sensitive, but too cool to care. Forgetting all about the tie, I fell in love with him. But I think he was just using me to further his career (think, Borrowed Hearts). No, I don't believe a 75 USD Polo Ralph Lauren oxford is a "steal." He claims that I don't love him anymore and I never buy the things he wants me to buy for myself. But I say, maybe I'm not ready to be committed to that shirt after only knowing it for five minutes. I've only just started shopping and there are so many other shirts to try on. And besides, I have that exact same one already. Please leave me be sales representative, this relationship could never work.

As I leave empty handed, I remember why I hate going to the mall. But I'm sure that by next week, I will forget all about this bad experience and want to go right back again.


Figure 1: And this was what he was wearing underneath, I'm sure.

Anna and the Fling

On this Friday night, I come to conclusion that my readers are refusing to comment in an effort to destroy my self-esteem. But this is a war of attrition and I will be damned if I let them win. So don't leave any comments. See if I care.

On this same Friday night, I decide not to go out with friends. Mostly because my lats are sore and I can't lift my arms above my shoulders. Coach had me practicing overheads for the better part of two hours. I says to coach, "But I'm a baseliner..." And coach scoffs at me and ignores my ridiculous pleas. So here I am, struggling to put on a shirt, wondering how I am going to wash my hair.

Normally all of this would be enough to bring me down, but I am still in good spirits. Sister is coming to visit from the West Coast for the next two weeks. I have cleared my schedule so we can go eating all day and all night and spend her money.

Also, I am thinking of the brief conversation I had with Anna Kournikova on Wednesday during her mixed doubles match. She got into a bit of a scuffle with Justin Gimmelstob, the resident fat asshole of the men's tour. In an interview last month, he had this to say about her, "She's a bitch... I wouldn't mind having my younger brother, who's a kind of a stud, nail her and then reap the benefits of that." But she turns to me and says with her extremely cute barely there Russian accent, "this guy has no fucking class..." I was quite pleased when she decided to hit a ball right at his face. Anyway, she was very nice (to the fans), surprisingly tall (5'8"), and still much more beautiful than that Maria Sharapova (much much more). If she wanted to have sex with me, I wouldn't say no. But I would have to make it clear to her that it is only a one time thing.


I lied, please comment.

Lzoznzdzoznz Pzrzezpzpzyz

So if you've been to London Preppy recently, you'll notice that he tore into some unnamed blogger who wrote a rather acerbic post about him. So if you remember a few posts back, you'll know that I've written (briefly) about London Preppy myself. (Google "londonpreppy" and sure enough my blog comes up) Anyway, I get a few hits every day from the greater London area so I'm extremely paranoid that LP has come to my blog and I'm extremely worried that he saw what I wrote and took it the wrong way. And since I'm desperately working on getting him to marry me / acknowledge my existence, I've decided to post a little follow up explaining myself.

The thing about most bloggers is that we will never know what they look like. Some of us assume they are gorgeous. Some of us assume they look like Chris March from Project Runway. Either way, with nothing to go on, we let our imaginations do as they please and it becomes a non-issue. LP is an exception in that he does post pictures of himself, body AND face. (Yes face, despite the fact that he uses those tiny red lines to cover his eyes and preserve... anonymity? mystery? absurdity?) But the point is, we know what he looks like. And as a consequence, some readers will focus on his appearance more than anything else because there is no easier way to judge somebody.

There is no doubt in my mind that his pictures have attracted many a reader. But we shouldn't forget that it also brings it's fair share of problems. People will inevitably try to judge him by his appearance and bring him down out of envy, lust, or perhaps their own issues with gluttony and sloth (I can't say that I haven't). And when everyone is so fixated on how great he looks, they tend to forget that he is an even better writer. Anyway, I think people are wrong (myself included) when they assume that he shares his pictures out of vanity. The only monster is the one we've created. Really, it takes a lot of guts to be that open to strangers who are so willing to rip you apart.

So MADD

So I spend my Saturday evening in the park. And it is the perfect Saturday evening in the park. The tennis courts are absolutely empty, which I love because I hate to share. I look over to my left and a gorgeous boy has decided that today is the perfect day to play soccer with his girlfriend in the field in the park in the summer. This makes me somewhat jealous. I want to play soccer with my boyfriend in the field in the park in the summer in the buff. But at least I get to admire his nice legs.



The perfect scene is ruined though when a group of early twenty-somethings decide to set up their drunken picnic right in the middle of my park. They are loud, and they are obnoxious, and they shout random curses at the tots playing in the adjacent jungle gym, and they are ugly. The last straw though, is when I hear one of the boys whispering, "This guy sucks..." about me. Little does he know, I have superhuman hearing. He is also oblivious to me giving him the finger. Too much of a self-absorbed dolt, I suppose.

The rest of my evening is ruined because insults from complete strangers are the worst kind. I am genuinely offended by his need to insult me to make himself seem better in front of his fat girlfriend. I can no longer concentrate on anything. I am only thinking about exacting my revenge on him by keying his car. I had half a mind to go pick a fight with this guy and break his knees in several places. But the other half was wondering if I could also take on all of his friends who would surely come to his defense. So instead, I have an argument with him in my head where I challenge the size of his penis.

Doesn't matter. They left soon thereafter, stumbling drunkenly into their cars and driving recklessly away. If there is any justice in the world, they crashed their cars into some poor unsuspecting telephone poles and sustained minor disfiguring injuries to their faces. And by wishing that onto them, the cycle of bad karma continues.

Trapped in the Closet

Sometimes I wonder what's keeping me from coming out. There are so many things I can't wait to do once I take that step. I want to make my friends really uncomfortable when I talk about how badly I'd like to make out with them. Yes, I am so ready for that.

Obviously coming out to my parents is still a touchy issue (I'm debating whether I should break the news on my deathbed or theirs). But why haven't I come out to my friends? They're mostly liberal so it's not like I'm going to be tied to the back of their pickup and dragged along I-95 for twenty miles. Oh wait, I remember now.

The one thing I fear the most about coming out is when the reactions go something like this:

"Yeah ___ is gay, but he's still really cool."

What does being gay have to do with being cool . As if the two are mutually exclusive and if you can overcome that, well then you're something special. I am not "cool" in spite of my homosexuality. Being gay has nothing to do with it.

"I'm still your friend."

Did I run over your dog? Me being gay doesn't hurt you in any way. Why is the state of our friendship even a question?

But even worse is when it goes something like this:

"You know I'll always accept you."

That wouldn't make me feel better; that would just make me feel like a Visa card. In my opinion, this typical reaction seems altogether unfitting (not to mention callous). I am gay, and I told you because I don't want you to be surprised when you catch me in bed with Lance Bass. But to think that I need your approval to love who I love seems awfully self-absorbed and pretentious. I never understood why so many gay guys desperately seek acceptance from the people they come out to. I like to think that we are strong enough to stand by who we are no matter what other people choose to accept.

And worst of all, guys who come out immediately become, "the gay friend." All of a sudden, everyone assumes that you'd love to go shopping, are dying to see Mamma Mia, and are interested in meeting all the other gays on the entire planet. But that's really not true (at least in my case). After I'm out, I'll still be the same me. But to everyone else, I'll go from being just a regular guy to the guy who loves cock. And for the rest of my life, I will inevitably have "gay" attached to my name like some sort of unwanted epithet. "That's the gay guy who hates Madonna, how novel!" "That's the gay guy who loves A&F, how typical..."

What I'm really trying to say is that being gay doesn't define me. But if I come out, it probably will. And I'm certainly not ready for that.

A Good Man is Hard to Find

So it is a Sunday night and hence the perfect time to lay in bed and ponder about what my perfect guy would be like. And I determine that he has tousled brown hair, an effortless smile, and very large arms. More importantly, I decide that he enjoys chopping wood in the backyard, watches football while I protest that Sex and the City is on, and has a secret obsession with N*Sync that he made me promise I would never tell. But ultimately, I come to the conclusion that I have so many flaws, my perfect guy would never want to be with me. Perhaps, because of his charitable nature, he could find it in his heart to love me. But even then, I imagine that it would be in spite of everything wrong with me, and that's not the kind of love I want. I want somebody to love every single thing about me completely and fully. I want him to love me more because of my silly looking ears, extreme emotional issues, and the embarrassing way I sing in the car. But when I hate so many parts of myself so much, finding somebody who could love me seems damn near impossible.

There are so many things I feel like I deserve. Why isn't the perfect guy one of them?


Figure 1: The Perfect Guy


FYI - I made a screen name (dccised) for those of you who would like to talk to me. Actually, I won't even pretend I made it because you want to talk to me. I made it because I desperately want to talk to you. But alas, I am a little too shy, not to mention awkward at starting conversations (two more flaws), so please take the initiative.

Chest Pains

After my last entry, I become keenly aware that people don't care about the ridiculously boring drivel that is my everyday life. But I wonder to myself how LondonPreppy can write about mundane things and still get a bazillion comments from adoring fags all over the world (I am one of them). "Today I went to work and I hate work and then I went to the gym and I hate the sun and then I ate dinner and then I thought about killing myself but was too tired." Granted, that was very much paraphrased. Oh right, LondonPreppy posts pictures of his very own bulging pectorals. I don't want to be shallow and judgemental but I really think that one difference between us makes all the difference. But the gay blogging community isn't completely superficial. They probably also recognize that his writing is funnier/better than mine. Which is quite embarrassing for me seeing as how English is his second language. Kind of makes me want to crawl under a giant boulder and play tic-tac-toe with an earthworm until I die. But alas, something of interest has come up in my life that will certainly make for some Pulitzer worthy material.

So daddy comes home early and I ask him why he is early and he tells me that he went to the cardiologist and I say oh. I don't press it any further because I really don't know how to speak to daddy and I never have and I never will. So after the short discourse, I continue with my business until later on in the night when daddy confronts me angrily and asks me why I don't care about him and why I don't love my own family. Apparently he had a checkup for a possibly serious heart condition and was very hurt that I didn't ask him how he was doing. And the entire time, I sit there silently because I want to tell him that I do care and that I do love my family to assuage his pain, (and my own guilt), but that would be a lie. I stopped loving my family a long time ago. And despite what they claim, they stopped loving me long before that. They love the person they think I am, the person they expect me to be. But my, "persona" if you will, is just a big charade. If they knew who I really was, they would never love me.

I try not to think about it too often, the fact that nobody knows the real me. Because when I do, I can't help but feel like I am completely alone. As much as I would like to come out, there isn't anybody in my life that I trust enough not to rip my heart apart. And although I pretend like I don't care about any of this and I don't mind being alone, I really hate it. I am getting so tired of not having anybody to talk to. And my desperate attempts to find a boyfriend are probably funny and everything but really they are just part of my pathetic search for the unconditional love that I have yet to experience and maybe never will. But I'm a big boy, I can take care of myself.

As far back as I can remember, I've always solved my own problems. Even as a kid I knew that the last place I should go when something goes wrong is to my parents. Because if it's emotional they don't care and if it's academic they care too much and if it's a cold they just yell at me for not wearing a coat. In the end, getting them involved just made my problems worse. And judging from their reaction to the little things, I knew that coming to them with weighty issues would be suicide for me. So yes, I find it ironic that daddy would accuse me of not being there for him when I know that in my time of need and when I need him the most, he will look right into my eyes and turn his back on me.

Wishful Thinking

I had this friend in high school that was from a pretty rural area of the suburbs. He bragged constantly about his collection of guns that his grandfather had passed down to him and he went hunting regularly with his uncle in Pennsylvania. So basically, this kid was as redneck as you can get in DC. He had the blond hair, blue eyes, and huge muscles, so naturally every girl in school wanted him. And since he was the quintessential unattainable straight guy, I wanted him too. Oh how I punish myself...

The interesting thing though, was that he never even seemed remotely interested in any of the girls that fought viciously for his attention. One time we were talking and I asked him if he had a girlfriend (because I like being sarcastic and bitter like that) and he said no because he thinks girls are a waste of time / he never wants to be with a girl / and he is never going to fall in love. I just nodded and laughed nervously because I hoped with every fiber of my being he was wrong about the love part. He was going to fall in love with me. We were going to get married and we were going to have enough children to form a soccer team. And we would have our children this way: We would take the genetic combination of our two sets of chromosomes and combine it with one of Petra Nemcova's sets of chromosomes and use Ana Ivanovic as our surrogate mother. And our children will win the World Cup.

But practical scenarios aside, this friend did always seem somewhat ambiguous in terms of his sexuality. He is extremely masculine, (which isn't always a good indicator either way), but there were some things he would do that would inevitably raise the fag flag.

In high school, we had a lot of classes together and he would always try his hardest to do things to get my attention / annoy me. He would steal my pencils, write his name all over my paper, and kick the back of my seat. It actually made me pretty angry and I sometimes acted like I hated him. Really, it only made me love him even more. He also used to walk up to where I was sitting and sit on my lap and put his arm around me like it was nothing out of the ordinary. Not wanting to look gay in front of everyone, I'd just laugh a little and punch him in the stomach. But really, I wanted to have him right then and there, A.P. Physics be damned.

One other time, I was in the middle of a scrimmage match during tennis practice and he had just finished his soccer practice. I was completely focused on my match so I didn't even notice him creep up behind me. All of a sudden, he smacked my ass so hard that I can still feel the sting today. And when I realized it was him, I almost dropped to the ground and cried because let's face it, it was a dream come true for me. I didn't though because that would have been terribly confusing for my opponent. But then again I completely lost my mental focus after that and lost the match horribly. Grrr...

Also, a couple years ago at my birthday party, we were walking in the woods for some reason, (I don't remember why... it was that kind of night) and I'm basically shivering to death because I hadn't planned on our little jungle expedition. But completely unexpectedly, he takes off his team jacket and hands it to me. Is that not the gayest thing in the entire world? It basically took all of my self control not to pin him against a tree and ravage him.

So what I want to know is if my suspicions are legitimate. Or am I just seeing what I want to see? Anyway, he goes to my university so I still have three years to figure him out, ravage him against a tree, and write that awkward letter to Petra and Ana.