If a Queer Thought Falls in the Hollywood Bowl...

June 24th, 2018. Hollywood, CA. Sometime around 9:00pm PST. I...I think I got a little Gay.

Or a lot Gay! Probably not that, though. But I don’t fuckin’ know! And yeah-yeah-yeah, sure-sure-sure; a few of the not many people who will read this are thinking “You’re not. You dummy.” While mostly all of the not many are thinking “JesusFuckingChrist it’s about time.” However, to those people (the latter, the majority of the not many), I like to dust off an oldie but goodie - my favorite Sex and the City line delivered by Dan Futterman (The Birdcage)...where he’s dating Charlotte and she thinks maybe he’s gay and she brings it up and he’s like “Charlotte. I’m a thirty-five year old pastry chef. I live in Chelsea. If I was gay, I’d be gay.” So put that in your queer fearing pipes and suck on...shit – I forget what I’m arguing for. But I think that’s the point: Josh Tillman scrambled my loins.

He didn’t really (oh my GAWD that screams that he did), and it’s not even necessarily loinal. But even if he did stir a twitchell, good for me! It’s 2018! Free and easy and maybe even tip the scales a little bit! A small twitch for a Man, a giant throb for Manki—FUCK! Okay. OKAY. Anyone who’s reading this knows that I’m doing a thing here. And if last night I really did find that I was running my hands through Father John Misty’s hair in my mind – and if we were hypothetically kissing and if that maybe stirred a confusion down below the borderline and if that were actually a thing that I was worried about – a red, or, rainbow colored flag, rather – then these words would never see the light of day. But if you are reading this now, I am hard-stop (keep going) NONE Gay and just aiming for a couple neo-dipshit- progressive yucks.

Good. Sometimes it’s just better to rely on reason. Logic. But wait. Scratch that, reverse it: If I delete this...will I ever be able to...shake the Gay? That’s not even a thing. I just wanted to say “shake the Gay”. But I had never thought...thoughts like I thought last night. Jiminy Cricket, I would have let him do a buncha crazy shit to me. I fuckin’ hate him.

Okay. Let’s just run through the night. Hollywood Bowl. Big Thief opened with a great set. Had a baby crush on the front-woman – YES! Good. But that didn’t last. Rats. Gillian Welch / Dave Rawlings set was great, as per. Nothing sexual there, just purdy nostalgia, USA. Simpler times. Simpler...times. White Bordeaux, lights go down. And next thing you know I’m a goddamned homosexual?!?! That’s NOT how it WORKS!

You know what: Fuck this. I don’t need to explain myself to myself. That Motherfucker (Tillman) is important right now. And there wasn’t a ticket holder in that white bowl that wouldn’tve fucked him or been ffff...you know. So, everybody put your gay finger pointing parts back in your pants. Objective fact: his white suit fit perfectly. EVERYBODY IN THE BOWL was admiring the cut of the pant! If you have a fucking pulse, be it Queer, Queer, Queer or Straight or whatever, science will have you scouring the inseam of those trousers for the mould of his circumcision or lackthereof! Grow up, guys! His parents had sex and out came a perfect buttock and hip set. Fuckin’ science. And if you can’t appreciate science, well, you’ve got bigger fish to fry than my...appreciation of it.

Okay, I reread that paragraph and it’s still obviously clearly kindof a bit. The old “Yeah, bro – I’m a little Queer” so chicks think I’m more interesting, have some danger layers. “When you were mine, I used to let you wear all my clothes” and shit. I party.

Furthermore, and all of this bumbling attention craving speculation aside: Josh Tillman is a Showman. And good Showmen (ShowPeople) are Sex. If a ShowPerson is great at what they do, there is an intrinsic envy programmed into our DNA – ten fold for the wildly insecure – that projects, through the fantastical envy projector of the mind: River swims in Levi's, Parisian walks, Parisian rainy afternoons, baguettes and kissing and kissing and stuff. Fluids – I don’t know! But definitely the Parisia...that’s just called being evolved. And, yeah – there’s a food chain, Man. And if you’re not gonna catch up, then, like, go be a monkey.

But in reality what it really probably is is this: I see a lot of him in me. And if your mind went where I’m guessing it went, take the fucking A-Train to Monkey-Town. We all fancy ourselves performers in one medium or another, to varying degrees. We’re all stupid. Josh Tillman is just my version - like if I drank the Secret of the Ooze cylinder (honestly, just stop reading if you’re gonna keep being a primate). I am more than fully aware that I could never do what he does. The cosmic-cocksure swagger, the wily intellect that oscillates between self-effacing and self-important; a middle finger’s as good as a wink to a blind horse...to be a perfect blend of satire, earnest, lithe and masculine. Whatever, point being (exactly): He’s just some squandered version of myself that never could have been because, I mean, I don’t have those hips and my voice and my smarmy yet sultry, excessive yet seductive stage presence doesn’t give 35 y/o Dudes’ boners. And his does maybe or probably – no clue, really - but to shun anyone’s fleeting objective universal biology is kinda wack. We all have bodies.  And would have sex with ourselves.

You could – and worry not, I’m wrapping this up here because everyone’s a monkey-child – but you could take it one step further to where this is simply a manifestation of the Darwinian code embedded in my nethers. It is no secret that we (thirty-something’d privileged white dudes) are being plagued out of the arts. I’m not saying that that’s right or wrong – that’s a different discussion – but it just is. Fuck you, sure – it IS right (for a little while). But any which way you dice it, any species, if backed against the wall and staring extinction (or in our case obsolescence) in the eye...I mean – Jurassic Park! Frogs fucking switched sexes! And, like, the first one (switch) had to have happened at some point. And no shit – I know Dudes can’t get pregnant. But. BUT. Lady Frogs probably knew in their heart of hearts that they can’t become Dude Frogs, right? But they evolved. So now even saying that, even writing these words, having to justify myself and Josh Tillman’s pending, inevitable intercourse as a means, an inverted launch pad as it were, toward the survival of (the White, aging, selfish) Man...well, shit: This is embarrassing. A soft scramble on my face --> What a nitwit I am. All apologies Ma’ams, Sirs and Mx.’s for underestimating your sympathy toward, and advanced understanding of, evolution. For it is me: I am the Monkey Man.

However no one will ever see this so no one will ever see this so who’s the wiser? If a Queer thought falls in the Hollywood Bowl...