July 26th, 1980

Going out last night was another exercise in futility. The same stale Capitol Hill crowd of middle-aged uglies. As has happened the last couple of times I’ve been to Equus, I stayed not even long enough to finish a beer. The bar is too dark perhaps, the music not loud enough, the conversation too muted– it lacks the contrived conviviality of a bar with blaring disco music. I left for the Snake Pit. A new policy of $3.00 cover, redeemable at the bar for drinks, at least keeps most people there long enough to have a couple of drinks. I am a reigning patron there–  the bartender Mike, the floor fairy Niel, the DJ, BeeBee, all seem glad to see me. The bar is full of the usual assortment of dour faced, serious bureaucrats. A guy next to me starts talking. We discover that we have the same birthday, born in the same year and both had two and a half year relationships with Aries men. He is ugly and has a toy voice. I invited him to come with me. We sit on the sofa as I play Bonnie Raitt on the stereo. We discuss the Mormon Church (he’s from Utah). Finally I say I’m tired, lets go to bed, but no sex– just someone to sleep with. He doesn’t mind– and doesn’t seem disappointed. In bed we hold each other. I must have passed out immediately. I woke up with a major headache and hangover at 9:00 this morning and he was gone. I have no idea how long he stayed. I went from room to room looking for him, or a note, or some evidence of his presence or departure.

Now I am having a beer to ease the pain of this hangover and am preparing to go to the Hecht to typeset the catalogue. This numbness prevails– I do not really care that I had a totally uninteresting night last night. I do not care that I brought home a troll who left in the middle of the night. I just don’t care about anything. I am emotionally dysfunctional.