The New Jerusalem

Here is the Thing Itself

In the Lear sense.

I don't know what I'm doing in LA. Last week, last thursday, I went to West Hollywood for the first time ever (no WeHo for me. slang means you've gone native. trying to go native too fast is simply tacky.) LA has the best gay boys ever. The finest, prettiest gay boys in the world, the ones who really want to TRY as hard as they can to turn themselves into engines of sex, they come here and work themselves out in the finest race of human potential known to man on man.

They are exquisite, each more stunning than the last. They are frequently 23 and when they are not, they are a 37 which claims 29 and could, in the poor lighting of a gay bar, pass for 25.

What the hell am I supposed to do with this information? How the hell am I supposed to convert this into some sort of useable behavior? There is, around me, a slew of gay guys who are AMAZING and will have, we can presume, absolutely no interest in me.

Water water, it seems, and there is an albatross somewhere here, and thousand thousand crawling things lived on, and so did i.

All these guys seem like jungle-cats, constantly stalking to declare their territory and look for prey. I feel like i'm among them, but not of them, ignored. I feel like the jane goodall of the homosexuals, taking notes, but not particularly doing anything to interfere.