My day was spent yesterday quietly wandering around Washington alone. I arrived at the Hecht Co. to deserted advertising department with office doors locked and no notes or information left for me. Just as well, I really didn’t feel like working. I wandered. I wandered back to the subway. I wandered back and forth in the subway– not sure whether to take the subway home on to DuPont Circle to see the new Brian De Palma film “Dressed to Kill.” I never really decided, but rather got on the DuPont Circle train because it was closer to where I was at the moment. It is a quiet, hot, lazy day. Not many people out. I am an hour and a half early for the film so I wander to Mr. P’s. It’s not open yet. I wander to Connecticut Avenue and have a chicken sandwich and french fries at Arthur Treacher’s– I get cruised by a blonde who I ignore– and a bearded bureaucrat type on a motorcycle stops to cruise me. I tell him I will be at Rascal’s later that evening. He says he will be there. I have no intention of being there. Because I have to pee. I go to DuPont Villa for a beer. My old hangout from the early days. The place is dark and littered with plastic grapes hanging from the ceiling and Muppet puppets over the bar. I drink a lukewarm beer and watch the hunky Spanish bartender and muse at sexual attraction. The guy on the motorcycle who stopped to talk to me might well be a sensitive, creative, kind loving man– but he looked like a bureaucratic nudge to me. This hunk behind the bar is probably a total moron straight man. Yet I find him extremely attractive.
July 27th, 1980
July 27th, 1980
July 27th, 1980
My day was spent yesterday quietly wandering around Washington alone. I arrived at the Hecht Co. to deserted advertising department with office doors locked and no notes or information left for me. Just as well, I really didn’t feel like working. I wandered. I wandered back to the subway. I wandered back and forth in the subway– not sure whether to take the subway home on to DuPont Circle to see the new Brian De Palma film “Dressed to Kill.” I never really decided, but rather got on the DuPont Circle train because it was closer to where I was at the moment. It is a quiet, hot, lazy day. Not many people out. I am an hour and a half early for the film so I wander to Mr. P’s. It’s not open yet. I wander to Connecticut Avenue and have a chicken sandwich and french fries at Arthur Treacher’s– I get cruised by a blonde who I ignore– and a bearded bureaucrat type on a motorcycle stops to cruise me. I tell him I will be at Rascal’s later that evening. He says he will be there. I have no intention of being there. Because I have to pee. I go to DuPont Villa for a beer. My old hangout from the early days. The place is dark and littered with plastic grapes hanging from the ceiling and Muppet puppets over the bar. I drink a lukewarm beer and watch the hunky Spanish bartender and muse at sexual attraction. The guy on the motorcycle who stopped to talk to me might well be a sensitive, creative, kind loving man– but he looked like a bureaucratic nudge to me. This hunk behind the bar is probably a total moron straight man. Yet I find him extremely attractive.