Dog Day Afternoon

There are points in my life, certain events that seem to be reenacted over and over again, which occur so often that the documenting of them here or the recounting the story to a friend becomes so easy. That it is a remake of an old movie - similar themes worked out again a couple years later - an American remake of a J-horror flick. But this director, me, was even able to get the original cast together again. And perhaps for you readers or you friends who already roll their eyes at just the mention of the star attraction's name, you may be thinking that the director is stuck in a rut, recycling the same old themes over and over again a la Woody Allen.

However, this is the first time in recent weeks that I have felt compelled to write, felt compelled to share, felt that giddiness that I had been lamenting the absence of last night to several patrons of the Metropolitan. And, of course, it would be the case that in ten short minutes, I am supposed to leave my house for work and so I cannot really tease out this subject as much as I would like to, probably much to the delight of some of you.

The story involves Matt and it really is not so much a story as me, again, throwing myself at him shamelessly. That's pretty much the whole of the story, but I really was going to tease it out and try to examine all the threads of it, asking questions about desire and life, and why it is that this one particular body, more so than perhaps any other, has the ability (has had it for years now) to make me a total mess and to ask where this desire stems from and why it emerges in this instance and not others - talking about the role of either chance or something more fatalistic - either way, examining this with the insistence that there is nothing rational about it, this attraction to this boy, or its broader category, that of desire.

After not so subtlety checking him out through the course of the night, at some point, he, by himself, was standing against the bar. I went and said hi to him. He gave a hug obviously very drunk that, I am certain, was slightly sexual in nature. It was longer and more gentle than a friendly hug. And in that instance, despite the fact that I had had no sexual desire to speak of all night, I suddenly felt this thrill throughout my body, its epicenters at the points of contact where our two bodies were touching, the thrill coming from the hope that those points would be connected, that more points would be plotted on the maps of these two bodies and that it would be one big point of contact. And so perhaps that is why I asked him to make out with me. Perhaps that is why I asked him to sleep with me. All these perhap's - perhaps this, perhaps that - all of which lost their indeterminate nature with the starkness of a couple of no's. And, really, I have to go to work, where I will surely crash in a couple of hours and feel hungover as shit, and will count down the hours until I can come home and take a nap.

But, yes, sometimes these incidents are so familiar and have been played out so many times that I wonder if it might not just be better to copy and past an entry from the past three years - that there are so many with the same plot - and yet, I never tire of this film.