Don’t Know When I’ll be Back Again

Don’t Know When I’ll Be Back Again…

~or~

“Wake-up, they are bombing the Pentagon!!”

On this, the eve of September 11th – the day more than two mere skyscrapers came crumbling down, I am reminded of how much fun I used to have. I even had a blast on September 11th, 2001. The early morning events of that day were so difficult for me to comprehend that I easily convinced myself and my best-friend that the world as we had known it would be soon coming to an end. If this truly was the case, as it so obviously seemed, why then not go out with a BANG? By early afternoon, Matthew Gregson and I had thrown all legal precautions to the wind and proceeded on a particularly irreverent rampage of drug and alcohol induced gay hooliganism the likes of which I regret to say may never be seen again.

I barely remember much of the afternoon and evening, but I am pretty sure we stole a car and kidnapped a 17 year old boy and his annoying kid sister. Actually it isn’t as bad as it sounds; Matthew and I were on simply too many substances to drive, you see, and thus we abandoned our car while waiting in the drive-thru lane at McDonald’s and forced ourselves into a nearby Volkswagen. The delicious blonde boy at the wheel had never seen anything as mesmerizing as Matthew and me, and I seem to recall his only protest when we ordered him to drive anywhere and fast was, “But what about my french-fries? I was waiting for them.”

I remember being annoyed the precociously sexy boy was only 17 and I also remember being really pissed we couldn’t dump the smart-mouthed kid sister off somewhere without her squealing. The poor children, I would soon come to find, were even more dumbfounded by the morning’s events than Matthew and me, and before long we had them certain the next day held unknown terrors. Within moments of realizing that the future might really suck, the older brother looked like he wanted to dump the kid too, and the brat sister started hitting Matthew up for drugs. Matthew and I had already broken multiple laws before lunch, and since the cops on that day had far better things to worry about than two queens feeding narcotics to children, I did not see the harm in adding a few more fun-loving felonies to the list. Sadly, like most great days of memory, the details are a bit hazy. That is my delicate way of saying… if I told you what really happened, your dentures might fall out. Fear not, I was the only party to get even slightly injured, and if the kids were smart and listened they have been the better since.

The next and last thing I remember clearly about September 11th, 2001, was tearing my groin. You see, I was simply trying to make sense of everything, and I could think of no better way to do it than through interpretive dance. It was Karaoke Night at the local gay bar, and as I hope you probably know by now, there ain’t no way to keep the gays from partying, especially if it seems like the world is coming to an end. So, as a friend, at what some felt was my questionable urging, sang John Denver’s Leaving on a Jet Plane, I leapt from the stage, simultaneously symbolizing the bird of peace and a jumbo jet, utterly convinced that for once in my life I could do the splits. I felt something in my crotch rip in midair just as I came crashing into the audience. I stumbled away laughing, thinking to myself, “What a fucking appropriate end for a day like no other” and I screamed, “I am going to be so sore if we are all here tomorrow!”

I woke up the next day. Relieved I suspect to be alive and not in jail. Yet I also woke up dreading what indeed has come. September 11th, 2001 was the day Neverland began to crumble, and it was the day I began to suspect we had all been fools to have ever believed in it.

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So, like it or not folks, most of us are all still here and we have a lot of cleaning up to do before we can ever party like there is no tomorrow again. I do not recall what happened to the car, but I think we gave the keys to the kids.

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