M
32
W W W JUSTOUT C O M
JANUARY 7 2011
VOICES
Call It Improvised Confession
I’ve always loved New Year’s Eve. My contin
ued adoration isn’t a sign of my (well-docu
mented) love for hinge drinking, as this devotion
existed long before I emerged an ever imbibing,
sentient adult. In the Pentecostal cult I grew up
in, I anxiously awaited an annual church service
called Watch Night: a frenzied, late-night spec
tacle that rang in each new year with raised
hands, tongue-talking and sprinting up and
down the aisles. As a young child and, eventually,
a teenager, I’d sit attentively, transfixed, partici
pating, awaiting either Jesus’imminent return or
the apocalypse’s inception— I was never certain.
The dawn of the new year represented some
thing I couldn’t fathom then: hope. Hope for
'improvement, change, for bidding the past good
riddance. The older I got, I realized there was
plenty I needed to banish: impure thoughts (the
gay), questionable morals (the gay), indecision
(again, the gay). I capitalized on this opportunity
to bury recent history. I called it improvised
confession—inspired by distant, abandoned
Catholic roots hut utterly evangelical in nature.
#d pray, weep, break down in the arms of church
elders. Then, hope was more about biding time,
maintaining delusion, plotting escape.
Now, I still yearn for purging. And since
2010 was debacle-filled, a brief look back— and
subsequent lessons. (Not resolutions.)
First: Beach trips rarely end in happily-ever-
after, wedded bliss. If you find yourself caught
Lesson: It’s okay to hide your sexy secrets until
someone puts a ring on it. (Most don’t.)
Next: Time isn’t sacred. There arc no longer
moments, respites to escape our electronic obli
gations— the ones, whether life, death or not, we
feel compelled to fiilfill instantaneously. Imme
diate text responses. Social networking posts.
by D aniel B orgen
Barrages of cell phone calls, voice mails. Friends
declaring, “I know you’re there, you just posted
C ha in ed to e le c tro n ic
on FacebookTThe last time I sat through an en
constraints. I've fe lt— a t tim es— tire movie, show or dinner without checking my
flig h t/, unnerved and. at worst, phone? No idea— as if waiting an hour on that
usually urgent, witty retort will spell the min of
utterly unhinged. B attling
close friendships. Chained to electronic con
straints, I’ve felt— at times— flighty, unnerved
this irreversible trend is a
and, at worst, utterly unhinged. Battling this ir
futile effort. I know. Society
reversible trend is a futile effort, I know. Society
marches on, determined, with or without me.
m arches on. determ ined, with
Going forward: Be present.
or w ithout me. G oing forward:
Third: Even if you’re especially eager to get
your trick home, do not drink and drive. A close
Be present.
friend did last summer, wrecking his vehicle,
up in a moment, acting somewhat embarrass crashing into a gigantic construction dumpster.
ingly during said trips (say you write messages He somehow managed to pull away and get his
in recently emptied wine bottles and toss them (completely totaled) car home (he had a trick in
into the ocean), keep those sorts of shameful the car, after all). W hen the police came, knock
secrets secret, lest close friends spend the rest of ing on his apartment door— mere moments af
the year making jokes, crafting variations. ter— he answered Matthew McConaughey-style
“Maybe you can pass that handsome stranger (nude, inebriated: “Can I help you, sexy offi
sitting at the bar a message in a bottle.” “Need cers?”), they tossed the (also disrobed) trick out
some of my empty wine bottles for your date?” the door and arrested Matthew-lite. W hen I
LADY
ABOUT
TOWN
—
Bring Your Bottoms
In For Bottomless
Mlimosas
A re resolutions w orth the energy? Can't simple re
flection suffice? D aniel ^ ju stout , com .
r LYDE C O M M O N
5 0 3 . 2 2 8 . 3 3 3 3
1014 SW STARK STREET
Quality Food, Quality Service
Sc Lots of Champagne
Every Saturday & Sunday
from 1 Oam - 2pm
saw photos of the wrecked car, grief and what-ifs
overwhelmed me— a sad, way-too-late wake-up
call everyone needed. Each of my closest friends
has cabbed or walked since.
Another: Although Facebook seems to be
dying a slow death, it still serves vital purposes:
stalking, awkward public proclamations, inces
sant griping, droll mayhem. This beloved re
source holds some oft startling revelations— our
go-to for relationship gossip. This I learned vi
cariously through close friends: Be quite sure
you’re ready to alter that “relationship status.”
W hen your burgeoning love crashes and burns
weeks after it begins, you might regret all the
condolences that pour in— unless, o f course,
you’re into that sort of thing. Lesson: Facebook
isn’t life. Disconnect sometimes.
Finally, changes of scenery can be good, ca
thartic even. Even when said change is a move
to an old neighborhood (NW ) or rejoining an
old gym (24 Hour), where daily I’ve faced more
ghosts of old flames past than a year’s worth of
Blow Ponys. Unlike that confused Pentecostal
kid, I now understand why I embrace out-with-
the-old, in-with-the-new. I blithely embark
upon 2011, hopeful that, year by year, I’m less an
idiot than before— older, wiser, pleasantly
purged, like the Pentecostal. 1*1
W e ’ll see yo u b a c k in p rin t on
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Feb. 4.
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