Dawson's Creek, Roswell and the Droolability Factor; "I'm Not a Man"; Another Homo Moment

When I wrote the first part, I was trying to watch Dawson's Creek and then Roswell and dribble at the same time. No, that's not right either. How about drool. I think that Jack of DC and Max of R both have a very high droolability factor.

If you're not a DC fan, know that Jack is gay, football player and friend to Dawson who is a film addict and budding director. Dawson does a piece on Jack that is broadcast before the first football game. There is also a snippet from the opposing team coach who mumbles something about guys in lipstick.

The first half of the game is a disaster for Jack is attacked from every angle. But in the final scene the Capeside team appears on the field with dirtied jerseys, so the opponents won't be able to pick out Jack. And ALL wearing lipstick, eyeliner and rouge! A great clever way to put across a point without being overly heavy-handed.

Roswell concerns three alien teens who were abandoned ten years or so ago, in Roswell, New Mexico, the site of the supposed crash of an alien ship in 1947. Not nearly as hockey as it sounds. Many subtle funny sequences. Even if it were dull and boring, I'd watch it to gaze at Max (Jason Behr). What an erotic guy!

This year I ordered the few Christmas presents I needed from the Quality Paperback Book Club. In addition to the presents, I treated myself to some gay-related items - "Homme, Masterpieces of Erotic Photography"; "Pictures and Passions, A History of Homosexuality in the Visual Arts""; and "The Columbia Anthology of Gay Literature."

The last two arrived yesterday, and I dipped into the Anthology last night in bed. I did more than dip, I skipped all over the place. One of the items I came across was a poem by Harold Norse who I'm not familiar with. It's called "I'm Not a Man." A couple of lines struck me. "I'm not a man. I won't play the role assigned to me. I'm not a man. I cry when I'm unhappy. I'm not a man. I don't want to destroy you."

I had lunch at one of the Chinese restaurants that line the Interstate. As I was reading the paper, I noticed a new customer arrive who was about as delicious as almond chicken. Khaki combat pants tucked into tan leather, laced-up work boots; black turtleneck sweater; beige and gray camouflage jacket. Tiny stud in the left ear. Very short hair. All in all, a very interesting personage.

I tried to be cool and not fall out of the booth as he glided up to the buffet line. I did think of dropping my paper and seeing if he would pick it up for me. Of course, he was on the other side of the restaurant, so I would have had to have thrown it about 50 or 60 feet.

I suppose I could have wrapped the paper around a plate and then thrown that hoping to knock him unconscious, so I could rush over to give CPR. 'Course the kind of CPR I had in mind might not be approved by the paramedics.

PAX!