Jason Rimbaud

Moonlight Will Prevail Part One Story By: Angel Perez Written By: Jason Rimbaud I guess you could say I

The other day I was walking to the B.A.R.T. (Bay Area Rapid Transit), which is another name for the local Subway system, it was late, sometime around 11:PM, when I was approached by three youths, they couldn't have been older than twenty. Even though I was listening to my I-Pod, I am aware of my surrounding, and when they stopped in front of me, barring my way to walk, I took out one of the ear buds, and looked at them blankly. The tallest one, which still didn't come up to my shoulder, told me in his broken accent, "This is my block, if you want to continue then we have to do a pocket check." Now I'm not completely hip with all the new lingo that is floating around the world, but being as I have spent some time on the streets in my youth, I immediately knew that this young youth was basically saying that since I was on his block, then he was going to take everything that was in my pockets. On Saturday, I was witnessed to another crime. This time it was a crack-head looking dude that was hanging around my restaurant's patio. Being that I am rather cynical, the moment I laid eyes on this dirty man, I knew that he was up to no good. I watched him for a few minutes, I first thought that he was going to try and steal something off our patio, maybe drinks from a table, or cash after someone paid for their check. I guess if you've been in the restaurant business as long as I have, then over time you start to develop a keen instinct when something isn't quite right. I'm not sure what it is, but just from the body language, I can usually tell when a guest is going to try and skip out on his check, or when a skittish looking crack-head is going to try something shady. This time, instead of the crack-head f**king me over, he walked over to the bike-rack that is located right in front of my restaurant, and after producing a pair of chain-cutters, he cuts the bike lock and then quickly jumps on the bike and pedals away. Two moments later, the dude who's bicycles the crack-head just stolen, walked outside of my restaurant. Now I don't know why those people who have a love of bicycling insist on wearing spandex. It's like something inside them drives them to wear the tightest garments known to humans, a way to showcase the goods so to speak. I like nothing better than to see a guy's goods. But should I really be able to tell what religion a particular human adheres too? Because no one looks good in spandex...not even Lance Armstrong. There comes a time when the garments you wear outshine the sport you have taken up to pursue. Cycling is one of those sports. And while I'm speaking on the subject of spandex, why is it those of us humans that are weight challenged are most of the ones that abuse spandex. Not even when I was at my best, spandex was never an option. f**k all, I love riding my bike, but I have never once in all my life, thought I would be a better cyclist by wearing those stupid outfits. Do I really need to see if a cyclist has hemorrhoids or not? I don't think so. So the dude that just had his bicycle stolen, who was abusing spandex by the way, took off running after the crack-head who was pedaling his stolen transportation as fast as his half-failed lungs could propel him. I would probably make a considerable wager that by the time that very hour had elapse, crack-head had sold that bike and was already high from the profits. But try explaining that concept to spandex wearing wacko, especially after getting the privilege of watching him run down Embarcadero. In a way, it was very entertaining. He was circumcised by the way...so maybe spandex might be good for something. At least I knew I shouldn't be shouting out Jewish slurs toward him. Not sure if any of you are familiar with Absinthe or the sordid history of this wonderful green liqueur. But my hero, Arthur Rimbaud, and his older French lover, drank this almost exclusively. And a few months ago, I found out that this once outlawed drink was now available in America. Apparently, the powers that be have decided that the terror campaign that was once waged against this wonderful drink was a boatload of shit, they have now agreed that it's a harmless spirit that is no worse than a bottle of Vodka. As I type this, I am now drinking this particular beverage, and I must say, I am quite addicted already. It's more than a homage to my favorite poet and mentor, though I must admit I was first intrigued by this drink because of my love of Arthur Rimbaud, but as I sampled this intoxicating adult beverage, I am now completely encapsulated under it's spell. It's 68% alcohol, and a wonderful green color. Which is why Arthur Rimbaud and his contemporaries called this magical drink, the green fairy. They even went as far as to name this drink the poet's third eye. Now I haven't written poetry in quite a while but I understand why it's nickname is the third eye. As I am now drinking this wonderful beverage, and have been for a few hours, I feel so inspired. Is this inspiration due to Absinthe, is it due to my connection to Arthur Rimbaud, or is it due to my own misgivings and a desperate need to have a connection with a poet that completely saved my life in my teens? It really doesn't matter, I have given up writing poetry in any way. Matter of fact, I haven't written a new poetry piece in quite some time. I have two pieces that I have written and re-written a dozen times trying to get it right, that one day I will post online and will be the last two pieces of poetry that I will ever write. Even two years ago when I first started these pieces, I knew that they would be the last two pieces of poetry I would ever write. Maybe I am scared, maybe that's why I haven't been "able" to complete these pieces even after two years. Or maybe the reason I started writing poetry is obsolete now and I can't let go of the past. Either way, I am two pieces away of being Jason Rimbaud, the poet. Not that Absinthe has any bearing on this decision. I am simply following this train of thought to it's bitter end. I am so close to never writing poetry again and in a way it scares the living shit out of me. For so many years, Jason Rimbaud had been mainly known for his poetry. Yeah I've written a Blog that a few people have found amusing over the years, but I can pretty much assure that when asked who the hell is Jason Rimbaud, most people, if they even heard of me, would say he's that poet that has written a lot of pieces a few years ago. What have I written lately? So I was in the middle of a block and three thugs were demanding that I give them a pocket check. Being that I am not a silly little fag and that I am pretty much a fag that is accused of being straight by even those that know me truly well, I did what was completely in my nature. I took out my ear-bud, looked them over one by one, and said in my most centered voice, "It's going to take more than the three of you." I then put the ear-bud back inside my ear and promptly ignored the three f**k-heads that were standing in front of me. After a few moments, they retreated to either bother someone else or make their way back to their home. It really doesn't matter what they did, because in the end, bullies are nothing more than beings that feed off of fear, if you show them no fear, then they have no power. Make of this what you will...I have already made of this situation what I will...the rest is up to you. Jason

I've been on vacation for the last five days and I must say, I haven't done anything of importance. Okay, that's not really true, I have done things. Yet none of these things were things I had been needing to do. On Sunday, while on the train going home to start my five day vacation, I wrote this in my notes section of my handy dandy I-Phone...'Starting tomorrow, I'll be having five days off work, not really sure what I'll be doing or where I'll be going but it's time to find a warm hole and stick my dick inside it.' Lofty ideals huh...don't judge me, it's not my fault. I blame television. On Monday, I had a plan to go to San Jose to get Hot Wings from my favorite place, Smoke Eaters. I would like to take this time to admit to a problem...nay an addiction that I have been struggling with for ten years. The taste of a really spicy Hot Wing sauce is like nectar of the gods to me. This is a straight up addiction no fly by night flirtation. So much so am I addicted to this sauce, I could probably mainline the sauce on a daily basis. I even go as far as to dip my finger in the sauce and lick it off while I drink beer. I guess I love the way it burns my mouth and lips. Though I must admit, the next day, while doing certain daily activities it burns like I'm stuck inside the seventh level of hell. So I had this idea to go to San Jose and get Hot Wings from Smoke Eaters and then go back home with a case of beer and maybe a new video game and veg out in front of my big screen high definition TV. So on the way, I stop off at the local GameStop to see if there is a new game that might stir my interest. And boy, did I find more than I bargained for... Splinter Cell, the latest one, I was very interested in purchasing so I sauntered up to the counter to this delicious geek that was standing there in all his nerdy glory and asked if this game was satisfying. Apparently, he loved the game because he started talking a mile and minute, his hands wavering in weird motions and he was practically bouncing off the walls. He was a typical looking geek, long hair, scruffy beard that couldn't grow in all the way, dressed like a fashion reject from a bad eighties movie with a Spiderman T-Shirt that was two sizes too small for his lanky frame. I'll say it, sex on wheels. It's four o-clock in the afternoon, I'm on vacation, and I'm randy as goat. While he's going on and on about this game, I couldn't help but to laugh. I say, "You seem pretty excited about this game." "I am." "I usually don't get this excited outside of sex, how about you?" I say/asked, flashing him my most seductive smile. For a moment, he looks at me, then he smiles shyly and looks around before saying, "I get even more excited about sex." "What time do you get off?" "Five o-clock." "Fancy an after work blow job?" I ask bluntly. After all, I only have five days and I don't have time to beat around the bush. Plus I really wanted to eat my Hot Wings from my favorite place in San Jose and drink some beer. It was so cute, he looked down at his feet and turned his head, not bothering to look me in the eye. He mumbles, "I'm not gay." "It's okay, my mouth is gay enough for the both of us." Geek always taste better when it's straight geek. On Tuesday, I had to do laundry and wanted to give the apartment a good cleaning over. Wolfie had been on my ass lately about the streaks and dust on the TV so for a few hours, I lost myself in the mundane chores of keeping house. About seven o-clock, I worked up a mighty thirst so I showered quickly and headed off to the bar to find myself a dumpster. Figuring I would make this vacation's theme, Straight Week, I decided to only try and seduce straight boys. For the last few weeks, there is this little hottie straightie that hangs out at my local neighborhood straight bar, and we have been giving each other the eye. Or to be truthful, I have been giving him the eye and he's been giving me the eye when he thinks I'm not looking. That night I decide that I'm not just going to look from afar, I decide that he's going to be my dumpster for the night. Turns out his name is Brad and he wasn't completely straight. He goes to some college, he's getting his undergrad in some subject. I know, when he was talking I really was paying attention. As he sat on the stool beside me, I couldn't help but notice his bulge, it was so enticing and mysterious. He's okay looking, probably about a "5" with no visible spots. I buy him a drink, make some dirty chit and some flirtatious chat before I say let's go back to my place. "I don't need anything else to drink." "Me neither." I say, rubbing my hand across his prominent bulge. Undergrad students who try to be straight tastes better than your average gay undergrad. Must be something about their pheromones. Sometime last week, I was riding on the train on my way to work when I noticed this young couple sitting a few seats away from me. I would guess they were around sixteen or seventeen and they were making out pretty heavily like only kids can do in public. The girl was cute, curvy and had red hair. The boy was your typical EMO, dressed in black and wearing skinny jeans that couldn't be any tighter unless he just painted them on. But what stood out about this couple, after fifteen minutes of heavy petting, the boy was in a very aroused state. You have to love skinny jeans. The boy looked to be embarrassed about his predicament, trying to place his arm in his lap, his hands, anything so as his erection wouldn't be seen by either the passengers or even his make out partner. I believe the girl was oblivious as to his state and as I watched this for a few minutes, I couldn't help but to laugh. Here was this boy trying hard to hide his cock and yet he still wanted to make out with his girlfriend who's hands had started to roam about his body. As my stop was approaching, I folded up the paper I had been reading and as I walked past them to exit the train, I dropped the paper in his lap and smiled at him. He quickly placed it in the proper place and gave me a look that said he was more than grateful for my act of generosity. I walked off the train feeling like I had done my good deed for the month. On the way home, the very same day, I watched two people f**king on the train. It was surreal, I was on one end of the train car and they were on the other end. They saw me but they didn't care that I was watching. She was sitting on his lap and from the moans they were making, they were having a ball. So I did what any person would do in my situation, I took a picture. So much for my belief in Karma. Whatever good I did with the boy by giving him a paper, it didn't come back to me in the least. The topper to this little tale, she suddenly jumped off his lap and then her head disappeared and the guy almost screamed out in ecstasy. So I started clapping. They didn't even have the shame to look embarrassed. I guess I lost my Bay Area Rapid Transit cherry.

The beginning

I was in a bar earlier tonight and this black guy I have never met before comes over and says, I quote, "For a white boy, you have mad flavor." I'm not really sure what "mad flavor" is, but I gots it. So why would this stranger come over and say things I don't really understand? I guess I should start at the beginning. Well, not that far back, I don't think even my loyal reader would stick around to read this Blog Entry if I started at the beginning. So lets start from a beginning. I got pulled over the other night on the , way home from work. Apparently my left brake light was shorted out and where its not really illegal it does give the police a good reason to pull someone over at one AM in the morning so they can check and see if that someone has been drinking before getting behind the wheel of their little car. Doesn't that make you all warm and fuzzy bunny slippers? And unfortunately for me, I reeked of booze. And before you go all high moral road on me...I was not drinking. Matter of fact I hadn't had a drink in over a week at the time of this incident. Though if I were to be in this situation as I type this, I would be hammered. But the good news, I'm not driving a car right now. And even better news, I probably couldn't find my car right now. The pig...err...I mean police officer says, "Do you know why I stopped you?" "Not really." "Your left brake light is out." Then he leans in closer to my open window and says, "Have you been drinking?" "No." The bully in blue uniform goes, "License and registration please." This is the part of the story where I tell both of my readers (I know...I'm gaining readership) that as of this moment, I currently have an expired drivers license. Don't look at me like that, it's not that I did it on purpose. I'm no criminal. It's not like I get carded anymore, so I haven't looked at my license since I got the damn thing five years ago. So I have been driving illegally since my birthday back in January. I'm such a rebel. *insert devil horn hands* After taking a look at my expired driver's license, and the kick-ass picture, the donut eating machine says, "Can you step out of the car please?" We had a really busy day at work, so busy that I had to jump behind the bar, in a suit I might add, and help the bartender sling drinks for two hours. And do you know how hard it is to sling drinks wearing a suit and tie? Pretty f**king hard, matter of fact, so hard that I ended up spilling a few drinks all over myself. Cut back to the car at one AM, not only does this pig think I'm drinking and driving, he thinks I'm a dick with no respect for the law. There goes that warm and fuzzy bunny slippers feeling. I step out of the car, quite gingerly I might add. Work has been crazy busy and I'm not as young as I once was, my feet hurt, I think I tore a back muscle hefting around a keg of beer, so stepping out of the car isn't really true. I hauled myself out of the car, a bit unsteady on my feet. Sadly this didn't help me look stone cold sober either. "I swear, I haven't been drinking." Again the officer looked into my eyes and said, "I don't believe you. You smell like you've been drinking and you don't look that steady on your feet." I am a smart ass, but even I know when to keep my big fat mouth shut. So instead of saying, 'well you're eyes look glazed does that mean you've been eating donuts' I simply let the thought die inside my head. While I'm on the subject, why does every single police officer in the world have the same haircut? It's always shaved close on the side of the head and then on top they have this really bad crew cut. Seriously, next time you seen a cop, look at the haircut, they all match. So the patrolman sends me on a series of stupid tests designed to do nothing or tell nothing either than make your heart pump harder so any alcohol that's in your stomach reaches your bloodstream faster to give the cops a higher blood alcohol content reading. I had to walk a straight line, which is very difficult when your feet have swelled up the size of melons. I had stand on one leg and count to twenty with my head tilted back, touch my nose without looking, and my personal favorite, saying the alphabet back wards. Which ironically, I have absolutely no problem doing right now drunk as hell. After about twenty minutes of this useless shit, the dick head says he has reasonable doubt that I am indeed under the influence and demands that I take a Breathalyzer test. In the meantime, while the first cop was frowning at me for my blatant disregard of the law, two more police officers show up. I'm on the side of the road, about two blocks from my house, and three cops are gathered around, all who frown when cop number one says I am driving without a license and my brake light is broken. From the look on their collective faces, I am scum. Matter of fact I am wondering when one of those crazy S.O.B.'s is going to pop a cap in my ass. You have seen the footage about that BART cop last New Year's Eve who had that black guy on the ground, three of them holding him down, and the BART cop pulls his gun and shoots him in the back. That happened not that far away from where I live in the Bay Area. Check the footage on Tube if you haven't seen it yet. I can almost feel the pleasure oozing out of the cops, they think without a doubt that I am drunk, and I'm only a Breathalyzer test away from them making a shit ton of money and probably a bonus for busting a DUI. Did you know that? Police departments have a running contest each month, where the police officer with the most DUI's get a cash bonus. And you wonder why real crime is rampant in the world? The cops are all staking out bars trying to bust little Suzy who had one shot of Yagermister and two warm draft Coors Light instead of stopping violent crime like rapists and murders. You go Barney Fife. So they give me this little tube and I blow into it. And much like I knew it would, the results show I have zero blood alcohol content. The cop looks at the machine, and then back at me, and says, "There must be a malfunction." He takes me to another police cruiser and a different machine where I repeat my blowing. I wonder if I had been drinking, and failed the machine blowing thing, I wonder if they would allow me to go to another cruiser and blow again. Anyway, the results said again, ZERO. And now they aren't happy at all. It's now after two thirty AM, catching another drunk driver is all but impossible since all the bars are now closed and everyone is safely home. All the police gather around the machine and finally admit that not only have I not been drinking but I am completely sober. And do you know what, they don't apologize for wasting my time. The cop looks at me and says, "I could make it that you lose your license for a year, enough time has passed. How would you like that? Driving is not a right, it is a privilege for those Americans that follow the rules." I really didn't know what to say to that. This cop is so mad at me that I'm not drunk, something he should be happy that I don't drink and drive, but he's in my face, his face is red and his veins are sticking out. For a moment I think I'm in the twilight zone or something. Why is he so mad at me? I wanted to scream back at him, but I didn't, because I'm intelligent. So instead, I stand there, not saying anything unless he asks me a direct question, while he writes me up a ticket for an expired drivers license and another warning fix-it ticket for my brake light, and a warning that the next time he seems me on the road, I better have a current driver's license. So what did we learn... That cops get really mad if you smell like alcohol but haven't really been drinking and that I can't pass a sobriety test while completely sober. And apparently, I'm so gay that I can't change a brake light on my car without cutting my hand and ripping out the carpet lining in my truck. Thank god for my neighbor who had pity on me and changed the light for me. So I bought him a beer at the local bar and proceeded to get so drunk, and tell my story to anyone who wanted to listen. And while at the bar, after another telling of this story which started to get more and more blown out of context, this black guy comes over and give me a hug, and says, "For a white boy, you have mad flavor."

I guess I'm in love with my I-Phone. With all the applications you can get for it, I'm surprised it's not listed as one of the worlds greatest something or other. Though now that I think about it, the I-Phone should come with an ugly people spotting application for those of us that take a drink from time to time. It sure would've come in handy last night. I'm not saying he was a two but he was definitely a two. *shudders* I was accused of not making sense the other day...but when I'm this dead sexy I don't have to make sense. There is a server, let's call him Daniel, who is not that good of a server but the guests really like him. And after screwing up again the other night, I look over at the bartender and say, "He's lucky he's hot because his intelligence isn't going to take him anywhere." Why isn't Florida called God's Waiting Room? Ever since I got off the drugs, I'm finding it harder and harder to remain slim. I know, the drugs were killing me and my behavior was erratic at best. But at least I was thin. So what if I was bald, at least I was thin. Now, I'm still bald and at what my friends call a healthy weight...which is code for fat ass. And to make matters worse, the hair that I'm losing on top of my head is now showing up in the craziest places. Why would your ears need hair? For that matter why would your back, blissfully hair free for thirty-three years suddenly sprout what I can only call a bush? And before you all freak out, I do a bit of manscaping to keep the Sasquatch on my back under control. But it's all a bother really. And yet instead of going to the gym, I'm sitting here typing this drivel while drinking a beer after I just ate half a pizza. Maybe I deserve this person staring back at me in the mirror. I guess I really don't want to be perfect anymore. But damn-it all, I am quite happy. Maybe that's all I really need. Jason

Stuffing sodas in a friends purse...maybe I should start hanging out with more drag queens. The only way you would ever be called a creep is if you looked like me...bald is not the new black. I don't think you have any taste at all...though for a lack of taste...you have great taste. Since 2006 huh...in dogs years it's been sixteen years. Boy no wonder I'm so tired. J

I've been a member here for years. I'm pretty sure I could go and find out just how long it was but then I'm way to lazy for that. And just like my horrible grammer skills, I'd rather you'd do all the hard work and I'll stay floundering in ignorance. So what should I talk about in this first Blog Entry. It's not like I'm a stranger to Bloging. I have a Blog over at Awesome Dude that has been going on for days and some say it's entertaining. But then I don't trust people who say that...I've read that Blog and it sucked. If I wouldn't have written that shite, I never would have continued to read that drivel. And on a completely side note, what the hell is going on with LOST this season? Six days ago, I paid out almost forty dollars to watch Shutter Island. $10.75 for one ticket? Really? Six dollars for a large soda (I'm in the business, restaurant business that is, and I know just how much a cup of soda actaully costs, and let me tell you, it's about twenty-five cents per twenty ounce cup, on the outside chance that the cup they put it inside costs one dollar, I'm thinking that's way too much mark up.) not including the other tasty treats "he" had to have. Bing bam bong I'm out $39.75...and I didn't get any afterwards. But I'm not bitter. This old crack head came into my restaurant the other day and asked for matches. Now I live in California, a place that is unbearabley smoke free ( I love to smoke and I'm smoking right now) and no where can you find matches anymore...they aren't illegal but it wouldn't take much more than a squint to make them so. Crack-head says, "Yo man, give me some of that there matches." Server replies, "I'm sorry, we don't have any matches." Crack-head exclaims, "Then how do you light all these freaking candles?" Server says, "We light a stick on fire from the stove." And then the server walks away and goes about her business. Now I saw the server go over and talk to said Crack-head. I have no idea what the server said but once she walks away, I figure Crack-head would go back to whatever rock it lives under. But no, that is not what happens at all. I notice after a few minutes that Crack-head is still over in the corner, waiting for something to happen. So finally I walk over and say, "What's going on?" Crack-head says, "I'm waiting on my stick." I say, "No one is bringing you a stick. I think it's time for you to leave." There was this cute, younger guy making eyes at me on the B.A.R.T. train the other day. I was having one of those good days, I was comfortable with what I was wearing that day. My hair (should I say lack of hair)was okay. I felt good. And this cute guy was hot. So after a few stops, I finally go over and say, "Hi, my name is Jason." This cute guy takes a look at me, one of those looks that start at the head and goes down to the toes and then back up to the head, and says, "Creepy." When did I go from hot and sexy to creepy? Not that long ago, if this would've happened, I would've gotten into his pants. But not so much anymore. When the hell did I get old? Have I really turned into that old creepy guy that tries to pick up young hot men on the subway? Was there a vote? A mass email that went out and everyone got except me? Old age is no respecter of persons I guess. Lucky for me, when I was young and hot, I threw out enough pity f**ks to old creepy guys I should have a few coming my way. Oh well, maybe I need to retire the club days and accept the fact that in gay terms, I am so over the hill I might as well start paying for sex. So that's it, Blog number one at Gay Author's...it seems to be starting out much like the one over at Awesome Dude. At least I'm batting a thousand. Jason

Thank you all. Considering I'm a bit surprised to have made it to 33, not only am I taking full advantage of my age, I am quite proud. Jason R.

rknapp, I wouldn't date you. Not because of your sexuality but because of your age. I don't know what to call myself. I never had a girlfriend but I've always enjoyed the sex I've gotten from women. For a number of years, I had a regular F-Buddy with a female co-worker. The sex was good, mainly because it last over three years and we got to know each other's buttons. Plus she was willing to role reversal. Might I say, that's hot. And yet I've had numerous boyfriends, mostly gay guys but a few bi guys, one who was only bi-curious, and one was a complete straight guy. *shudders* That was a nightmare. If presented with a choice, I would always choose the guy over the girl. I like the male body better, and I damn sure like the attitude and logic that drives the male body as opposed to the emotional rollercoaster that drives the female body, which, with all respect to those ladies out there, confuse the hell out of me. Does this make me gay? Does this make me Bi-Sexual? Does it make me simply a man that takes sex when he can get it? I've gotten a lot of dirty looks and cold shoulders over the years because I'm vocal about my adventures with women. I find, in my experience, that gay people tend to view the world in black and white. Since they aren't interested in the female's body, then they can't understand finding a man that is more than accepting of it. But these are the same people that I wouldn't date anyway so I really don't care. Labels are for people what electric blankets are to humans. A good way to feel warm and cozy all over, but being warm doesn't make you better than anyone else. Jason R.

I didn't vote, mainly because I think I would have a different answer depending on the guy and what his reasons were for staying in the closet. I'm thirty-two and quite comfortable being out. It would be difficult for me to revert back to hiding my relationship from others. Though I think for the right circumstances I'd make an exception. Luckily for me, all the guys I normally date (read have meaningless sex with) are comfortable being gay and since it's usually one night stands, there isn't really a cause of closet dwelling or not. Though that might change very soon considering the events that are transpiring in my life at the moment. Maybe I should come back here in a few weeks and take the poll. Jason R.

I voted that it didn't really matter. And it doesn't. Basically because I don't believe that any human can stay monogamous forever. Even if it's only a "mental cheat", sooner or later it happens to everyone at one time or another. And when that happens, it's up to each individual to decide how to deal with it. Though more than likely, the other person never finds outs, especially if it's just a mental cheat. Jason R. Definition of Mental Cheat: Entering into a non-sexual relationship with another person for the reason of intimate intellectual stimulation. Though this behavior, if given the time to flourish, will become a sexual relationship.

Err, Kevin, your poll is nice and all but you left out a very important option. For the longest time, mostly through my teens and early twenties, I thought the only perk to being gay was that two boys could not get one another pregnant. Just the idea of having kids, gay or straight, makes me feel all nauseous inside. So much so, that I couldn't even take your poll. Years later, and now I know of two perks that goes along with being gay, no kids, and well...I'll keep it rated G. I did find the results of this poll interesting though. Thankfully, this is a question I'll never have to answer. Jason R.

Since this is the thread of song lyrics and no one stipulated whether or not the song lyrics had to be recorded lyrics and put on CD. I've been listening to a song that I wrote and Camy put to music. Though he won't let anyone else listen to it but me. *HINT HINT* H.R.S.A. By: Jason R. Written October 8th, 2006 Let me take you to this place inside my mind Broken feelings angry thoughts I

Thanks Graeme Jason R.

Just a bit off topic, But I was having the same problem with my avatar. How do clear the cache? What is the cache? Jason R. PS: Rknapp, your other avatar was nice, but I really like this new one better.

I know I don't really know that many people here at GA, but since I live so close to San Fran, I would love to go. And though I don't post that often, I do read what the rest of you are posting, and you sound like a bunch of cool peeps. A bit twisted perhaps, but aren't we all. Jason R.

If I may offer another point of view about the real reason, not the reason the Mayor cited in that article, but maybe the real reason they want to create a law. I've worked in bars and restaurants for most of my adult life. And in most of those establishments, they had a dress code. Guys couldn't wear tank-tops, no hats allowed, no thug attire, IE: saggy britches, back wards hats, bling bling, etc etc. This was done not because it offended patrons, but because they wanted to keep out a certain element of society that usually caused the problems. This was the ONLY reason certain liquors weren't sold in those clubs as well. And believe me, it works. Now I'm not saying that the bar or restaurant owners were right or wrong in making this decision, but I could tell you that it made less hassle for the staff as well as the other patrons. Granted, this wasn't a law but more of a choice. The mayor went out of his way to say this law would not be targeting blacks only, yet he had to say that. The media and the citizens of this country would throw him out of office so fast if he even showed a hint of questionable actions. Due a bit a research, and I bet you'll find that town has a high crime rate and maybe even a major problem with gang activity. It's just not about indecent exposure. But here, in America, you can't say certain things. He has a better shot at passing this law, citing indecent exposure then he would ever have citing gang attire. America has gotten so scared to offend people, that we go beyond political correctness. We have entered into stupidity. Before you get in an uproar, I'm not saying that everyone who sags their britches are gang members or even criminals. We all know better than that. I know several guys who sags their britches, and they are all law abiding citizens. And blacks are not the only class of people who are involved in gangs, white, Mexican, Asian gangs are problems, big problems in San Francisco. So much for the city of peace and gay love. Anway. Yet I also live in an area that are filled with gangs. And face it, they all have a dress code they wear, it's a uniform so rival gang members know who's turf they've wandered into. If the Mayor passes that law, the police can start enforcing it, and in the act of enforcing what would be a very stupid law, it would give them the excuse to approach certain individuals. And in the process of citing them for indecent exposure, they could run that person's fingerprints and check to see if any of the those individuals has warrants against them. It would give the police an excuse to stop individuals that they know are criminals, yet they are powerless to approach because America frowns upon racial profiling. For most of this post, I've been playing devils advocate. Do I think it's a stupid law? Yes. And in a perfect world, it would never happen. But unfortunately, America is not a perfect world. We can't, as American's, sit back and let the criminal get away with destroying our home from within. In the wake of Rodney King, the police has been bound by stupid restrictions, frivolous lawsuits, and fear of being called racist. Nowadays, most of the police departments spend more of their time searching for drunk drivers then they do trying to stop crime. Why? One, it brings in more money than busting criminals. And two, the public has tied their hands so tightly, that a hint of racism or racial profiling, and that officer is suspended indefinitely. I'm no fan of police, believe me, but I know personally of a officer that was approached by a drug dealer while he was off duty and in street clothes. When he pulled his badge from his pocket, the drug dealer attacked him and in the struggle, the officer broke the drug dealers arm. The drug dealer sued the police department, and the officer was fired. Why, because the officer had three beers with dinner and the lawyers claimed that he used unnecessary force because he was drunk. The drug dealer, a known criminal was released and the police not only paid his doctor bills but gave him a settlement as well. Okay, I think I went off topic and began ranting. I guess what I'm trying to say, before you automatically dismiss this law, maybe try and find out why they want it passed. And if you find out some old lady is being offended because the neighbor kids are showing off their boxers, then lets all fight this law. But it might be for the reason I cited above, though I'm just guessing, it could very well be election year. Jason R.

I found out about this site through Awesome Dude. I joined over a year ago but didn't start really delving into the site until a few weeks ago. For some reason, I thought only hosted authors could share their stories here. How I missed eFiction I'll never know, but I'm liking it. But what really caught my attention was the poetry forum. I'll admit it, I love writing poetry almost as much as writing stories. This site has it all. Very cool. Jason R.

Confessions are really tricky things. Sometimes the only way to keep a secret is to never talk about it. But....then we wouldn't have this really cool thread would we? So I'll go, I confess that I once had sex with my best friend, Jason, the night before his wedding. His wife still doesn't know about it two years later. And the very next day, at the reception, I had sex with the other groomsman in the kitchen pantry. His girlfriend/now wife doesn't know about that either. Jason R. Hmmm, maybe I shouldn't...ever...never...be included in weddings. Lots to consider.

Chameleon Boy By Blue October I change my color for you I shed my coat with caution I lack the beauty you display See here they are the bruises Some were self-inflincted Some showed up along the way So I nod my head I'm ready for the world to see The secret I kept here inside the man you thought I'd be I slip into coma calm The coma where I calm myself down Here come excuses Why I let you down Stand by for another break down Sound off the alarm Is this the chameleon boy I swore I wouldn't become Chameleon Boy So now we've come upon the hardest thing I've ever done It's telling you that I'm a mess What sort of mess I mean is self destructive gasoline The kind that strips you of your best While I play instead The way that most would end up dead You sleep alone at home and wish that I were in our bed With this I'm telling you my color changes back to blue How do I ask you this? Will you help me through? I try to think of all the people I looked up to While growing up who would I be? Now the twisted part...Where did all of my idols end up? They all past away