The host hotel has lost its Howard Johnson franchise. It then joined an even lower value chain, but was booted out of that too for failing to meet minimal standards. It is now a member of no chain whatsoever, and charges 59 cents for local calls. One of the guests remarked that when he took off his shoes to take a shower, his feet got much dirtier just walking into the bathroom. I saw it briefly - oh my God, it makes that Soviet hotel I stayed at in Tbilisi look modern and luxurious. It is an abomination. I can't believe anyone would stay there.
I can believe many of these men would stay there because they same to have absolutely no sense of taste or personal hygiene. This has got to be the most revolting group of people I have spent any amount of time close to. I don't know why it is exactly, but they are loud, ugly, rude, and will fuck anything that moves, to paraphrase Frank from Blue Velvet. People are genuinely excited by the fact that someone got their dick sucked on the dance floor, and squirming in ecstasy at the notion that the swimming pool at the host hotel has become something like an Erica Jong novel's hot tub (think brown suede sofas, Zen monks chanting in quad, and a hip dentist hanging out in his Hollywood Hills hot tub, that kind of thing, but without any kind of humor or eroticism, just raw fucking).
The worst bear tchotchke of all time was included in the run packet this year, and again it is from the fine folks what brung ya "Bears in the Keys", an event in Key West. It is a ruler. An eight inch ruler. And it's got words on it. Apparently you are supposed to measure your dick, and then according to how small it is, or how manly big it is, you are Bear-Ly There, Bottom, Versitle [sic], Woooooof!, or Yea Daddy!. I suppose I could go off about how dick size has nothing to do with whether or not someone prefers fucking or getting fucked, but of course what galls me the most is the notion that a preference for receptive anal sex is of course assumed to be the same as having a small dick or being less masculine. God, I hate that. However, I know that these ass clowns can't think critically by any stretch of the imagination, and that they probably threw this thing together in twenty minutes, thinking it was really clever. I still despise them though.
For the record, my dick is unexceptional, and I enjoy getting fucked by a man that's larger than I am, but I also enjoy fucking a handsome young cub until I run out of breath. (Another good reason to have started hiking recently: this now takes me much longer than it did last Spring.) But I digress.
My badge is the most unique badge at the event. Because I've spent a lot of time sleeping due to jet lag, I didn't make it over to the badge office in time for their machine to take my picture. In fact, none of the badge making equipment was there when I was; I got there about ninety minutes too late. So, I have a crumpled manila envelope (the kind you'd put a class ring in, very small) with a handwritten note from one of the event organizers on it. I believe this happened because he was smitten with my appearance, and wanted to make damned sure I'd show up for the beauty pageant with Danny Williams, and that he could hit on me later.
I didn't attend the beauty pageant, especially because Danny Williams was hosting it. The "top or bottom?" humor doesn't strike me as particularly funny.
Other items included in the run packet are a small vinyl bear-shaped pouch filled with liquid that can be frozen and re-frozen, presumably to keep your ecstasy pills cold in the Florida heat. Yuck. There's also a pen and green foam rubber ball. I don't know what any of this is supposed to mean.
Dan's friend J.'s partner B. has gotten rid of his absurd facial topiary and stopped dying his beard. For the first time ever, I found B. attractive, but then looked down and noticed that he was still pumped up like Bib the Michelin Man. Those musclebears are frightening to me - they don't look human. I wonder how much the steroids cost.
I ran into an ex of mine from eight years back, and we spent time talking for the first time since 1993. This seems to be happening more frequently after the FUE of September 11. It's as if folks want to tie up their loose ends because it's more vibrantly clear now that things could possibly end sooner than you'd think.
I haven't had sex with anyone. This is probably due to a mixture of my not wanting to especially (I am feeling very snuggly towards Dan as of late), and my inability to get laid. I never could do it.
I have an offer from a very handsome professor of English from a small university in Oklahoma to fist him tomorrow night. I am somehow both attracted and repelled by this. I'm not sure if I'll call and cancel, ask that we have dinner but not sex, or just go along for the experience. I don't think I'm alone in wanting to experience things I know I probably won't like just to say I've done them. If I do, I am demanding latex gloves in XXL. I don't like ass play, generally speaking.
Apparently there was a brunch today at the bar. I'm glad I missed it. I imagine salmonella is an option.
The rest of the schedule looks like this will all be over soon. Dave's downstairs eating; I'm up here typing; I'm kind of hoping we'll be out of the host hotel soon. Just exiting the lobby is a major opportunity for all kinds of heinous behavior. I just don't feel comfortable with random losers telling me that my beard is "neat". The problem with compliments is that they imply obligation, socially speaking; you're supposed to find something nice to stay about them, or at least say thank you, but what if you just don't want any interaction with them whatsoever?
I wish I'd taken a notepad to the vendor fair yesterday. I don't know what's happened, but the merch is even more retarded than it has been in the past. They've started to make up phrases that are hard to say and pass them off as the hot new Bear trends. Ouch.
Well, Dave is back now, and I am going to stop here. Bye!