Puccini Arias; Lemmings Headed Towared a Cliff; O-Town

I was debating whether to go to bed, "perchance to dream," or to write a journal entry. Amazing that I'm doing this. Around 3, I begin to develop a headache that has plagued me for hours. I took two ibuprofen at work; then two more when I got home; and then about an hour ago, two more. When I had my evening sandwich, I swallowed a Clartin-D, an Effexor and an Augmentin. Around 5, I began to feel incredibly depressed. I found myself trying to sing arias from Puccini. (At least I didn't whip out the Billie Holiday albums.) I can't say that I feel great, but at least the headache is at bay.

Because of the headache, I left work at 4:30. But instead of coming home, I turned the car towards Barnes & Noble. When some people are depressed, they drink, or screw, or gamble, or buy clothes, or eat. I buy books. The logic is that books have made me happy in the past; therefore if I buy books now, I will be happy in the near future, Poor as hell, but happy.

I pounced over to the mag section first looking for computer stuff and maybe a copy of "XY." Picked up a hugh copy of "Wallpaper." Love "Wallpaper," but it takes me forever to finish. Also love the idea of a magazine (XY) aimed at a gay teen audience. But how many teens would be seen with a copy? It would not be received well in all households.

Next I ambled over to the anthology section to look for collections of gay erotica. Grabbed a copy of His3 - "Brilliant new fiction by gay writers." The cover is certainly intriguing. Appears to be a side angle of one naked man bending over another naked man with an elaborate tattoo across his back, who in turns is bending over another body. My! My! Or maybe the implication is supposed to be that they're doing more than bending.

On leaving B&N, in a moment of sheer lunacy, I headed north instead of south. My intent was to take the car out for a spin on the Interstate. Like an idiot, I didn't think about 5:00 traffic on a Friday. (This is one of those times when I need to have someone appear in a puff of smoke and hit me over the head with a nerf bat.) I found myself trapped in a northbound flow of cars like lemmings headed for a cliff. It seemed that everybody had their windows down and the radios tuned to rap. I just stuck my nose ever so much higher into the air and started searching the dial for Slim Whitman or Barry Manilow.

After several miles, I was able to make a left onto a road that accessed the Interstate. Only problem was everybody else had the same idea. Finally got to the entrance ramp, quickly made a left, kicking gravel to the winds and roared onto the Interstate. But I still needed to get over one more lane. But that lane had a very large, ugly, powderpuff blue semi a few hundred feet back, but it was my only chance, so I zigged into the lane and quickly was at 75. In my review mirror the semi looked like he was trying to defy the laws of physics regarding the impossiblity of having two objects in the same space at the same time. I zagged over one more lane, lowered the windows and noticed the speedometer zip to 85. It has been a long time since I've had the pleasure of feeling the wind in my hair. The mirrow showed it curling and spinning like some retro '60s rock star. Dylan at his best would have been jealous.

At 8, I watched the first installment of "Making the Band." The real-life taped saga of 25 guys hoping to be part of a new boy band called "O-Town." The concept was the idea of Louis J. Pearlman who created 'N Sync and the Backstreet Boys. I wasn't sure if I wanted to watch this, cute boys or not, because I detest "The Real World" genre. (Rolling Stone called "Read World" "human cockfight tv.") But this was very slick. Lots of guys with little talent wanting to be big stars. But also lots of guys with lots of potential.

Although the notion of "artifical groups" bothers some, it is almost a staple of pop music. Even the might Beatles were in a sense created. And promoters have always been quick to recognize a good thing. Colonel Parker certainly saw dollar signs in Elvis. Marketing may be more of an ingredient of pop music than actual talent.

The 25 guys were flown to Orlando, underwent vocal and dancing coaching and were narrowed to 8. It must have been a very harrowing experience. One spoke of not having slept in days. Next the camera tracks some of the winners returning home to gather belongings for a move to Orlando. Noticed there were lots of girlfriends. All though the proceedings, there were group hugs and shoulder crys and male bonding. And I kept tuning the gaydar. But there were so many guys that I kept getting confused. But I did play the "I wonder about him" game. Of course, everything has been homoginized by the editing process, so you have no idea what was left out. I doubt that wet kisses in the shower would show up on the screen.

The witching hour full of woe has come, and now it is time for bed.

PAX!