FRIDAY NIGHT REVELATIONS

U get to be a man of a certain age, even a relatively well-preserved one, and U learn that taking life's pleasures where U find them is a big part of contentment . . . now when the weekend rolls around U may want to be out hitting all the bars or hooking up on line, but me, i'm glued to the old media precisely at 9 p.m. because i can't wait to see what's up with Tim Riggins, at least so long as the stockpile of Friday Night Lights episodes lasts.



is there anybody more beautiful or more misunderstood at the moment? . . . those are the keys to my heart, they always have been . . . rebels without causes, bad boys like Tim and Jordan Catalano . . . i guess that's why i identify so strongly with Angela Chase . . . i'm living the 54-year-old version of my so called second-hand life, finding so much satisfaction in the melodramatics of Dillon, Texas that it sometimes scares me.

not that Friday Night Lights is anything to be ashamed of . . . the cast as talented as it is attractive . . . the heartfelt scripts tackle contemporary American life even better than the Sopranos so far as i'm concerned (heresy, yes, i know) . . . and the producers totally nail the place . . . U see i grew up in the scrubby deserts of West Texas and i spent every Friday night during football season pretending to cheer on the Andress Eagles while searching the bleachers for Gary Simon, a hood so hot that i got to school ten minutes early so that i could watch him make out with his girlfriend in her Dodge Dart from behind the fence . . . and when he got hauled off to reform school, i replaced him with his brother Steve, who ended up in a shallow grave with his head cut off after double crossing an especially nasty drug dealer . . . if cloning ever becomes a reality, gimme those Simon bad boy genes man!

but i digress . . . basically i love the show because it almost always makes me tear up . . . i guess the tears flow partly because of my lost youth . . . whatever . . . but i appreciated last night's show for a completely different reason . . . Jason Street may have persuaded me to hire a hustler.



U see, Buddy Garrity (how is it that i recall the names of these characters so easily when i barely can remember what i read in this morning's Times?) took pity on Jason and offered him a job selling cars . . . Jason, formerly a star quarterback, now a paraplegic, is well suited for the job because of his small-town stature and all-American good looks, but the hard sell doesn't come quite so easily to him as tossing a football and he gets down on himself when he fails to close a deal with Looky Lou, a tire kicker notorious among the sales crew for wasting their time . . . so naturally, Buddy gives him one of the pep talks that characters in this show deliver so generously, the kind of pep talks that turn lives around on television . . . Buddy tells Jason to focus and of course Looky Lou doesn't know what's about to hit him the next time he walks into the show room.

can i ask U something? what's the problem, exactly? why won't U let yourself have this car? what is it, really? . . . is it that U think if U buy this car you're gonna find another car U like better elsewhere immediately after buying it? or is it that U just think U don't deserve the car?  i'm not insulting U so please don't take it like that, OK?  i'm just trying to understand U. because all these sales people around here? take a look at 'em. they sent me over here because they've given up on U. all right? they sent me, wheel chair guy, rookie, low man on the totem pole to talk to U because none of them believe that U can pull a trigger on actually purchasing a vehicle.  but let me tell U something. i know U love this car.   U love this car so much that U come in two days a week, two days a week to just look at it and then U walk out.   life's too short, life is too short. OK? things change in an instant.  take it from me.  OK? so be a man. take control of your life. be a man. buy this car.  show all these people that they're wrong, that U can make a decision.  no--no more thinking. no more thinking, no more dithering, no more wasting everybody's time, especially your own. cause that's what you're doing, U are wasting your time every time U come in here buy this car. because U love it and because U want this car and U want to drive off this lot, in this car, today.  buy it!

omigod . . . has Jason has been watching me peruse rentboy.com for the past couple of months? . . . i've scrolled through the 300+ profiles for New York City dozens of times, scrutinizing the "boys" i find most attractive: older than 30 with a face pic, bedroom eyes and the unmistakable curve of a bubble butt, versatile, a taste for leather and a smoker (U know how hard that is to find? more guys are willing to admit a fondness for PNP or a tolerance for scat in their stats, but those are both deal breakers for me) . . . these are the flesh trade's equivalents of the features that Jason might use to make be buy a car and drive it right off his lot.



i've even gone so far as writing down Rafael Alencar's cell phone number but worry that if i did arrange for him to "spend some time" with me he'd expect to be worshipped . . . for $300 bucks i want some interactivity . . . and then there's "gregarious" David, the tattooed Latino in Hells' Kitchen who somehow always seems to be at head of the line but whose come on is just a little too accommodating . . . does that mean he's desperate or just better at marketing himself? and if that's the case, how come he's AWOL from Daddy's Reviews? . . . pierced Gino, who looks like he won the Colt stable's wet t-shirt contest, might be a contender if he had a head . . . and then there's Rob Ramos who, hands down, is the guy that most fulfills my bad boy fantasy . . . too bad i blame him for introducing the Blue Light Special to Tina.



excuses, excuses i know and what strikes me as most persuasive about Jason's hard sell is how much of MY time i've been wasting . . . go ahead: pull that trigger

I HATE DEWEY COX

not the thick fleshy kind just before they gush into orgasm, that fuckin' new movie starring John C. Reilly.

how can a sweet movie spoof inspire such ire, U ask? . . . because the poster that's plastered all over bus stops in Manhattan robs my erotic memory bank every time I ride past it on my bike . . . U see I grew up in a time and place when U were more likely to find a picture of a bare chested man in news magazine review of an Andy Warhol movie than in any other media . . . just the other night I was watching Marnie, that overwrought and underrated Hitchcock movie starring a seriously disturbed Tippi Hedren yes, yes, i'm like some caged bird to u aren't I and couldn't believe it when the camera turned away from Sean Connery as he got out of bed wearing only his pajama bottoms . . . today it would have lingered on his pecs and a jpeg would have found its way onto the internet where i would grab it and use it as my screen saver until some other image du jour replaced him . . . sorry, Daniel Craig but as much as I loved you in Casino Royale, in a world saturated with beefcake the bulge in your light blue boxer swimming trunks lacks the frisson that a split second glimpse of Sean's nips would have offered in 1964 (hey girls check out Gapar Ulliel in the Gus Van Sant segment of Paris, je t'aime . . . his hotness is such that i paused the DVD to focus in the thumbnail shot of him that appears in the opening credits and even added the dreadfully reviewed Hannibal Rising to my Netflix queue).

but back to Dewey Cox . . . thank U Columbia Pictures for parodying the iconic image of Jim Morrison . . . i gotta hand it to the marketing department: they got the hair and the beaded necklace exactly right . . . it has been burned into my mind since 1968 when i would go to sleep and jerk off at least twice a night, awakening with jammies crusty from jism . . . in truth Morrison's sulky pout did more to bust my nut than what now appears to be a woefully undeveloped and unshaved torso because i was still at that stage in my sexual development when i tried to pretend he was hovering in my consciousness like an exhibitionistic angel because i wanted to be him . . . when Morrison was arrested in Miami for exposing himself i tried really, really hard to banish him . . . i didn't want to be a pervert, after all . . . of course now i realize now that my fondness for black leather probably dates to that very same period and hey, isn't just about the whole world nowadays guilty of indecent exposure? . . . times have changed, bois, times have changed.

U want more proof? . . . then rent Flesh, released in 1968, and starring Joe Dallesandro as the archetypal male hustler and living embodiment of Adonis . . . now in a world where pornography of the most explicit and rarefied kind is just a mouse click away from the wired bedroom of any teenage boy confused about his sexuality this underground film may seem tame and excruciatingly boring but believe me, Andy Warhol movies, even the ones directed by Paul Morrissey, never made it to the local theatres in El Paso . . . I probably would have had to hitchhike to Los Angeles to see what may very well have been the first film with male frontal nudity.




Little Joe, immortalized by Lou Reed in "Walk on the Wild Side", is, hands down, the hunkiest guy ever to have paraded through my masturbatory fantasies but he earned that title without exposing much of himself . . . maybe that explains why whenever i visit Xtube or Rentboy i scroll past all the dick shots and keep looking for the same combination of face, chest and attitude that fueled my kidnapping fantasies as a kid and got me off hundreds of time during my adolescence.

Fuck U Dewey Cox for trashing my sexual nostalgia!