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Weekend Update
Written on 05.26.03, at 6:27 pm

dizboy's disturbing daily diet...

1 Grapefruit Juice

1 Grilled Ham and Swiss Sandwich

1 Bag Rold Gold Pretzels

1 Bottle Lime Gatorade

John Live*

My Mommy sent me this picture...she said I looked handsome.

*Not at all live...

It has got to be at least a million degrees outside right now.

And it's 9:30am.

The walk from my car to the office had me on the verge of dripping with sweat.

Not that I'm really complaining...

But I am.

It's Memorial Day, and while the sane part of the population are off staging grandiose cookouts, be it animal flesh on the grill, or human flesh on the beach, I am at work.

Though, I can't really grouse about it, as I picked up this shift on a request. Also, it's not like I have the toughest job in the world either...especially today. I'm away from my usual office, and in the park, filling in for the stage manager at the Beetlejuice show. I like it here very much, as it's nice and quiet, a small cast, and the show basically runs itself.

This gives me plenty of air-conditioned quiet time during which I may recover from the weekend.

Oh...the weekend...

The weekend was...is...a blur.

But a fun blur, nonetheless.

Saturday we did a party for Minolta at CityWalk.

They were an interesting, rowdy bunch.

More than once did my Marketing partner look at me and say, "Are you getting sprayed with cocktail sauce too, or am I just lucky?"

She wasn't just lucky.

They had a trough of shrimp.

No, that's not really an exaggeration, it was a trough.

About as long as I am tall (5'10''), and twice as wide as me.

I could have laid down in it.

Shrimp and all.

Mmm...sleeping with shrimp...

The event was, creatively, a mess.

The night progressed through performances by The Blues Brothers, then a generational cover band, a Sinatra impersonator, and finally, a Cher impersonator.

This stellar lineup happily would its way through the evening, entertaining guests with a blissful disregard to the fact that even the most skilled of chaos theory statisticians would not be able to find a common theme.

That, unfortunately, is what you get when you have a terrified sales team. After the big shake-up a few months back, the Park and Event sales team have been throwing together anything that will upsell, with no regard to production quality, or corporate branding.

All this while still making outrageous commitments for entertainment elements.

"Yes...yes...right, so...let me get this straight. What I'm hearing is that you'd like Spider-Man and Spongebob Squarepants to perform an interpretive pas de deux wearing traditional Native American attire while we have a 7-piece brass band on a 24-karat gold truss playing Arabic anthem music with their toes? Yes, of course we can do that. Elephants? Sure...twelve? Yes, easy. Fly? Of course they can fly, just a small cost incurrence. Now, let me ask you about your interest in upgrading to Unicorn meat..."

God I hate salespeople.

Though, that would be a pretty cool event.

So regardless, the Minolta party went off, and I must say that the Sinatra impersonator was possibly one of the best I've ever seen. He wasn't the one we usually use, as that one was unavailable, but he was ten times better in my, and everyone else's opinion. He was middle-aged Frank, the Frank that everyone remembers...just after the cheesy movie musicals, but before the white hair and weight issues. He sang live, and sounded just like him, down to the inflections.

One thing I thought was funny was the fact that he doesn't drink any alcohol, so when we went onstage with his tumbler of "scotch", it was really just apple juice. He'd take sips during the act, and make that "Woo!" face that stage actors and college students do when they'd like to make it known that they are, in fact, drinking alcohol.

As I've mentioned before, I love where I work...if for no other reason the fact that after eight years in the Theme Park entertainment industry, it's still surreal to me. Beetlejuice was just in the office with me discussing Buffy, and Dracula poked his head on to say he'd split his pants. I thought that the Buffy talk would make Drac uncomfortable, but he was surprisingly open minded about it.

And just the other day, as I was leaving my event, I jumped in the large service elevator that takes you to the lower levels of CityWalk, where the entertainment offices are. Just as the door closes, a bright purple umbrella swings in the path of the door, causing it to open again. A mime, dressed in silver and purple lamer steps in, smiles at me, and tips his purple top hat.

This is Yuri.

Yuri is Russian; a world-class mime who once performed with the Moscow Circus until he decided that Communism was so three decades ago, got in his invisible box, and floated to a land where someone like him could pull nonexistent objects with an unseen rope without fear of government oppression.

Yuri is a great mime.

Yet, a mime by any other name would still be as annoying.

And to be trapped in an elevator with one is...uncomfortable.

Yuri is one to stay in character until he is safely behind the door of his dressing room.

Yuri looks at me, and makes a little fanning and collapsing motion.

Yuri looks at me, and opens his umbrella, peeking out from under it to look towards the sky.

Yuri is pantomiming the weather to me.

I smile, and nod...I've grown used to him, but I really just wanted to say, in my loudest, most brash American voice, "YEAH, SURE IS HOT AS BALLS OUT THERE, NO RAIN HUH?!"

And while knowing that this would give me a small bit of personal joy, I also know that Yuri speaks little to no English.

This is possibly for the best...

People say some mean things to mimes.

Saturday evening brought about the Babylon Party at Club Firestone.

I was involved with this because it was, essentially, the local kickoff to both Gay Days, and Mark Baker's parties.

Basically what happened was Showtime rolled into town, transformed the club into "Babylon" from Queer as Folk, and much mirth was had.

The big draw that evening was DJ Tracy Young, who, apparently, is quite well known if you're into that sort of thing.

And I got to pick her up.

Studying up on her the night prior, I learned that she's a DJ.

Who, plays music.

Not to minimize the profession, as I'm sure that there really is a lot of skill and timing worked into it, but I've never really understood the noble art of the DJ.

Or, why some people go nuts over the whole persona, since the majority of them are veritable unknowns to anyone outside of the circuit party microcosm.  

Ok, ok...admittedly, people could say the same thing about me and certain Broadway stars.

Ruthie Henshall...Mmmm...

But, this is my diary, so I can be just as biased as I want to be.

People would react...

"You got to meet Tracy? Wow...God, lucky..."

"What's she like? Was she chill with you?"

I hate that word, where did it come from, and why is it used in that form these days?

She's...fine. She wore little headphones, slightly detached, had a large bag of records which I was far too proud to admit I couldn't carry, and an annoying Canadian manager.

Not that being Canadian and annoying is intrinsic, he just happened to be both.

I know many who are really quite interesting.  

The only thing that I miffed me, though just a little, was as I picked her up, and she turned to ACM*...

*Annoying Canadian Manager

...and said "I thought there was supposed to be a limo."

Yes, of course.

A limo.

To take a DJ six blocks.

And while I do apologize that my six month old Mitsubishi wasn't up to par, I don't quite compute the cost-effectiveness of that. Perhaps I'd hire a limo for, oh...Paul Oakenfold...

But that's a stretch.

HA! Get it?



Her concern was for complete privacy so that she could "focus", and prepare herself for the grueling night of playing one record, and then another, and then another...ad nauseam throughout the evening. Passive-aggressively, she was making reference to the fact that my presence was a distraction in this, her pre-show meditation.

Get used to it, I thought...I'm your stage manager again for Beach Ball.  

Soon we were back at the club, rocking and rolling and doing all the things that one does at Babylon.

They were even so clever as to create a "backroom", just like the real/fake Babylon.

Though, for disciples of the show, it wasn't nearly as...interesting as it's portrayed on Queer as Folk.

At the club, we had a kiosk set up, courtesy of MyGaydar.com, who are sponsoring many of the events this year...most of my evening was spent making sure they were operating well, and guarding my poor, brave straight boys who we'd hired to "man" the booth.

They were signing people up for mailing lists, giving away mints, condoms, beads...

Of course people wanted beads; especially these...Showtime provided multi-colored beads (a la the rainbow) with a plastic medallion on it which, on one side read "queer" like the show's logo, and on the other side it said "_ _ _ _ me".

No, I'm not being shy about typing a dirty word...it was just four blanks, leaving the bearer to fill in whichever four letter verb they felt was apropos.

The first few people were disappointed, as Showtime dropped the ball, and didn't provide Sharpies to write with, but I soon located some, and we became the hit of the night.

People came up with some very...interesting...terms, and some wanted to share with me.

One person even asked if he could fill mine in, as I was yet to decide on a proper action which I wanted done to me.

Being the good-natured person that I am, I said "Sure", and let this person pick my word.

He took my beads, pulling me close enough to smell the Jack and Coke wafting from his mouth, and scrawled drunkenly on the plastic.

Finishing, he proudly capped the marker, and stood back awaiting my response.


He...didn't quite understand the assignment.

Each member of the Mark Baker production team who stopped by to see me brought with them the same question...

"Can I get you something to drink?"

Heineken, please. 

Not to delve into the specifics, but let's just say that we've a lot of people on the team.

3am rolls around, and I'm lit like a fire diver on a Jerry Bruckheimer set.


Irresponsible me did not, within this flurry of free booze, pause to think that as I brought her there, that I'd obviously have to bring Tracy back to her hotel.


I thought that I was totally screwed, like Joan Collins at a mattress convention.

Stolen...from...The Simpsons...

Fortunately, the sheer terror of riding in a brand new mid-sized car had compelled Tracy and ACM to charter a large, white Suburban to take them that long mile down the road, and safely back to their hotel, so I dodged the bullet that time.

The club cleared, and we were tearing down booths, banners, plants, computers...

I can't say that they were all part of the décor, we just got caught up in it all.

Finally, I rolled into bed near 6:30am, as the sun was rising, 1 Queer as Folk shirt, some free condoms, and many Sharpie-laden beads richer.

Sunday morning, 9am.

That damned window...I need some curtains.

The full morning sun brings cognition, and the realization of German-brewed pain.

Water - Tylenol - Eucalyptus and Lavender eye pillow...

Back to sleep.

I wake up again around noon, to Nick (the roommate) moving flipping through the channels in the other room.

He is on the papisan, looking deathly, in nothing but polka-dotted boxer shorts.

My, polka-dotted boxer shorts.

Being ex-boyfriends...

Excuse me, Boyfriend Emeriti...

We're very comfortable about getting into each others things.

Food, clothes, beds...

No, not the latter. Though we used to have the occasional extracurricular, post-relationship romps, it was decided that it would be best that we cease and desist once we got an apartment.

Which is fine, because isn't half the fun of a friend with benefits coercing them into "stopping by" at 2am?

He had been at a wedding Saturday night, and from the looks of him, a good one.

I stood there, and we stared at each other, both looking like we'd been run down by a stray Amtrak.

"Dexter's?" I said.


An hour of showers and wardrobe later, we emerged, prepared to face our Sunday, which has become nicely ritualistic.

Upon waking, we gravitate towards the living room, where we swap stories about the previous night.

Nick's are usually better, as he's two boyfriends to my none, and tends to hit the scene a bit more often.

Following that, we dress, collect bathing suits and towels, and go to Dexter's of Thornton Park for brunch.

While Dexter's food is better than average, the true draw of this brunch is that they serve $1.95 Mimosas until 3pm.

These come in every flavor of the rainbow, served cold in large wine glasses, not the skinny champagne flutes.

Not to drag out a gay stereotype, but it's near a scaled down version of Sex and the City, where we discuss lives, relationships...sex.

My question of the week was this...

"If someone came up to you and said 'I want to ride you', would you take that as their wanting you as a bottom, or a top?"

I asked this because that very proposition was put forth to me at the club on Saturday night, and while I'd have turned him down either way, I wasn't really clear as to which carnal position he wanted me in.

Nick seems to think that to ride someone means to be the proverbial "catcher", but I'm still unclear...

A question for the ages, I suppose.

Following Dexter's, we make our way over to the Parliament House, Orlando's well-established breeding ground for every manner of gay stereotype you could ever hope to dream up.

We lay out by the pool, in our square cut bathing suits, drinking pina coladas, and watching people frolic gaily in the pool.

While benign, the Parliament House does have a reputation around Orlando, prompting many to inquire why I'm prone to be found there on a Sunday afternoon.

Well, the answer is quite obvious...to me at least.

We can go to the Parliament House and lay out, listen to music, have a drink, and be totally comfortable around people who, while varied, are like us in at least one regard...

They like dick.

Or, we can venture down to the overcrowded pool at our complex, where Hispanic children never cease their screaming, and teenagers cough the word "faggot", usually without even that much of an attempt at being subversive.

So the question I pose back is usually...

"Which would you choose?"

So while laying out, Nick had gone to get us another drink. I don't know what it looked like, but I must have had a sour face...I usually do, unintentionally, as a large man sitting with a group of friends by the pool looked at me and yelled, "Smile!".

Now, I'd usually humor someone like that, but at the same time, he stuck his tongue out at me, which for some reason just made me disgusted. Rolling my eyes, I turned around on my stomach to face the other way.

In hindsight, presenting ones backside to a group of people who are already leering at you isn't the best of ideas, but I had turned away to make a point, and by God, I was going to stick with it.

I burned slightly, a glow, really...and it's already changed to a lovely brown color.

Yes, I'm one of those people. I rarely burn, and when I do, it becomes a dark tan within a day or so.


Home - nap - Simpsons - dinner - Queer as Folk

Depending on our work schedules for Monday morning, we'll usually go out again after Queer as Folk, since, you know...it instills the pride that one should have about being queer in this day and age.

Then a week to rest, rinse, and repeat.

It's now 4:40pm, still just as hot, and just under an hour until I go home, after which I'll post this.

But for now, I must depart.

Wolfman needs to be groomed.

Be well...


Your Host and Emcee...dizboy.

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