I used to be terrified of death. The summer before my sophomore year of college I was sure I was going to die before I had a chance to get back to my friends in Minneapolis and the greatest semblance of freedom I’d yet to experience. I made it, clearly, and have since realized that what I was really afraid of was never getting a chance to realize my true identity, to come out of the closet and make a stab at an honest, unapologetic existence.

While my daily commute here in Los Angeles proves more harrowing than a week’s worth of routine back in the Midwest, I no longer fear an untimely demise. Sure, it’d be a shame to be extinguished before I have a chance to fall in love, to sell a screenplay, to return to Paris; but so long as I continue to find a smidge of gladness in each day, I’ll be ready. There are always more reasons to be happy than sad; however – even for one as enlightened as I, negative stressors aren’t always so easily ignored.

“Mmm,” my stylist began to nod, scrunching up his nose, “yeah…it looks like you’re hair is thinning.”

“AH!” I gasped. “WHAT AM I GOING TO DO?”

“At least you’ve still got your body,” he attempted to assuage the alarm he had ignited.

“There’s no cure? No pill I can take?” I begged of his reflection.

“No,” he shook his head, “not to grow back what you’ve already lost.”

“Come ON, science.”

“There is Propecia,” he proffered. “But that’ll only stop any further recession.”

“I’m going to have to look into that. I mean, how much could it be? Whatever, it’s worth it.”

A $100 a month, he said. A $100 times twelve months is $1,200 a year. $1,200 times, what? I’m 23, so, I really won’t care once I hit, say, 70? Yeah, 70. That’s 47 years from now. 47 times $1,200 that’s, ah, that’s – $400 and something THOUSAND. Oh Gawd. Oh – no. NO. YES! Only $41,400. That’s better. That’s worth it. Riiight?

“No, JJ,” my mom stepped in over the phone when I got home. “There are a lot of unworthy side effects that come with drugs like that.”

I can’t remember the rest of her words, exactly, but I do believe sexual consequences were implied and what good is hair on my topmost head if my other one is all but dead. Good point mom. “I NEVER SAID THAT!” She’d be likely to respond, now.

“Your dad never had hair like you, either, JJ,” she’s had to calm my paranoia on other occasions, as well. “He had wispy, baby locks.”

“That’s not how male pattern baldness works,” I whined. “They say it all has to do with your mother’s father and grandpa is almost COMPLETELY bald.”

“- Well –“ she shrugged. “What can you do, I guess.”

Chill the fuck out, is all. According to an ABC news study, “about half of all [American] men” tend to go bald. That softens the blow a bit. And allows for me to savor the compliments in the meantime.

“You know how I knew it was you?” My friend Liana asked after making her way across a crowded bar a few months ago. “Because of your perfect hair.”

While being a hot piece of ass is as new to me as integrating into the gay community, I know it’s the existence of the latter that means so much more than the potential fleetingness of the former. At least we live in a city, in a country, as generally progressive as Los Angeles, USA. At least we’re not soldiers fighting a war that we were misled into. At least we don’t have warts that create the impression of tree bark in place of our skin or fur on our faces, conditions which Liana recently Googled in an effort to bring some perspective to her own self-pitying state.

I’ll take any of those pieces of mind over this glorious swatch of hair.

Filed Under: perspective by JJ
1 Comment So Far

Or antibiotics are necessitated. Whichever comes first. Well, not in my case, of course. In the instance of the amendment, I’m only speaking to the rest of you.

I mean, clearly; ’cause, you know, even though its incidence in the United States is second only to chlamydia in terms of bacterial STDS, (fingers crossed) applause is about the closest thing to the clap I’ve ever received after sex.

Filed Under: Wis(e ass)dom by JJ
No Comments Yet

Food isn’t the only thing binged upon and subsequently purged here in Los Angeles – phone numbers are also taken en masse and later tossed just as flippantly. It’s a given in any town built on networking, any mecca for free and adventurous spirits, and most certainly, every bar brimming with booze soaked singles. A recent inventory of my own contact list took me on a journey back through a slew of previously forgotten encounters, a hearty cross section of social misadventure through which I may impart, unto you, guidelines towards deletion etiquette.

There are those whose advances you welcomed beneath a liquored haze and have since made your lack of sober interest subtly, but definitively known. You need not worry about them ever attempting to solicit your sexual prowess again.

Randy B@d.
Redheaded something or other.
Keith of whose last name I’m not sure I was ever aware.

Alternately, we all have a few contacts that cannot take a hint, much less a blatant refusal. Lest we get daring and answer a call from an unidentified number, these persistent pests should remain on file until at least six months have passed since their last unwanted advance.

Mario standard Hispanic apellido.

Sometimes their name is too common to be enough of a warning and is best replaced with a nickname that screams, “DO NOT PICK UP!”

Some you thought were flirting with you and you’ve since realized they’re straight (or gay, depending on your own fancy). Best to remove any temptation to test their placement along the Kinsey scale.

Piers Bosley.
Shane blonde guy.

Others are most certainly on your team, but just as obviously lacking any desire to play with you.

Vasyil ethnicity unknown.
Rahm like Emanuel.
Mark that closet door is so weathered it’s about to fall of its hinges.

Sex isn’t always the goal, well, the only goal. I’ve made plenty of platonic connections while prowling for lovers. Like romance, though, acquaintances don’t always evolve into full-fledged friendship. And if so, non-sexual relationships are rarely cultivated through verbal communication, but rather Facebook or email. Even then, we’re usually either too lazy to hunt them down or the window seems to have closed by the time we get around to typing their names into the search field.

Sarah “with an H” Wittle.
Libby ???.
Moises Muñez.
Cassie Lawharm.
Alessandria Ruskie.

Finally, there’s that handful of people of which you haven’t a clue as to who they are, where you met them, or WHAT possessed you to type in their number.

Corrin.
Julie.

All this said; should you decide to text someone from your not so distant past, don’t waste a moment by taking offense if they reply with, “Um…Who is this?” Don’t kid yourself that they’ve lost their phone, either. Almost indubitably, you have been deleted. Just as usually, though, they did so not out of disdain, but in an attempt to minimize disorder.

And if you’re the one asking for clarification, it won’t matter if they’re miffed because either you don’t want to see them again anyways, or your supposed lack in interest will only drive them to dial their way back into your call log – and hopefully your pants – once again.

Filed Under: etiquette, Wis(e ass)dom by JJ
No Comments Yet

Only this time I was the one whose attention was being sought.

“I’ve never seen you this sober,” my friend Carla observed at Akbar last Saturday. “You still dance exactly the same, though.”

“That’s cause I just love dancin’.”

So much so that I was still kickin’ up mah feet and makin’ shapes with my arms despite the fact that I was both exhausted and had to fart. Relief was in sight, just 10 minutes away from our previously decided departure time of 1:30 a.m. when a buxom blonde swiveled her way across the room.

“Heyyy,” she smiled.

“Heyyy,” we, of course, returned without missing an undulation.

“My friends wanted me to come over and ask you to dance with them,” she pointed to a pair of males 10 short, black and white, 80s holdover floor tiles away.

The taller of her two friends was shirtless, his taut abdomen rippling to the beat. So, “Uh – yeah,” duh I accepted her invitation.

He had some rhythm, himself, not to mention a roguish smile that extended past his imperfectly aligned teeth to his anticipatory eyes.

“What are you doing that for?” I asked slyly, touching his chest as he began to slip his shirt back over his head.

He kept it off for a while longer, but unfortunately that was all I got to see of his luxuriously lean physique. Once again, I went home to chips and dip, not dick. Alright, okay, it was salsa.

Plus, while I may have subbed white corn for coitus that evening, I did get his phone number, promise of a date, and proof of stamina as our final exchange went down after the lights went up.

Filed Under: food for sex, last call, pursuit of *ME* by JJ
3 Comments So Far

I LOVE that it’s already Thursday. As I inch nearer to death, I imagine I may not be quite as excited by how fast the weeks progress, but for now the hop and skip from one weekend to the next is much appreciated.

Hugs, buds, and ecological awareness,

JJ Wienkers

Filed Under: perspective by JJ
No Comments Yet