Saturday, June 21, 2003
Broken Myths
A perfectly lovely Saturday night at the Black Eagle for my esteemed colleague and me . There may have been fog that night, there has been so much fog lately. There was definitely a full moon casting a cool glow on the warm smile of a very big fella. We dubbed this big sexy man ‘220’ guessing he was something over 200 pounds.
Upstairs, outside on the portion of the patio not covered by a smelly canvas tent, while causally tracking ‘220‘ we were approached by an Eagle staffer with a clipboard in hand (a pretty good indication we were about to be enlisted in some special event or other).
“Its Crisco arm-wrestling tonight. Interested?” The Eagler asks.
I had to tell him. No choice in the matter.
I have a friend who, while arm-wrestling with work buddies, snapped his upper arm (humorous) pretty much in half. This was a serious injury requiring surgery, steel pins and months of recuperation and therapy. It seemed such a freakish accident. How could one not sense that his arm was about to snap?. Was he drunk at the time? No. Was there some kind of underlying bone condition? Nothing there either. Have you ever heard of an innocent arm wrestling contest resulting in broken bones? Me either. But it did happen.
So I told the guy with the clipboard the story of my friend. He may have thought I was telling tales. I even quipped that I hopped the bar had good insurance. I wish I had made a bigger fuss. I wish my friend’s story was believed.
My esteemed colleague and I didn’t bother watching the Crisco Arm Wrestling event. I couldn’t bare the anxiety: waiting to hear the loud ’crack’, yelling out something dramatic like “ Oh no! Not again, not AGAIN!” before any bones actually broke. I’m so glad we didn’t watch. I’m SO glad we didn’t watch.
Nonchalantly searching for ‘220’ brought the two of us downstairs to scene of the event.
There sprawled on some kind of chair was a large, young, well built lad with ice packs on his arm. I paused. My mouth, I’m sure, was agape. I was so angry and felt so awful for this brave lad who would soon being enduring pain and terrible discomfort. He had not heard the broken arm story . At that moment he appeared to be in shock. He barley moved except to painfully stretch a half smile across his washed out face. Clearly some bone in his arm had broken.
Some terd kept offering the guy a beer. After ensuring an ambulance was on the way my colleague and went back upstairs to the Eagle’s fabulous open window overlooking Gay Street where we had a too-good view of the ambulance when it arrived. As our brave victim was being carried to the wagon, cringing at every bump along the way, another onlooker commented on the freakishness of this sort of accident.
I had to tell him. No choice in the matter.
So I recounted my friend’s sad tale yet again. This time, however, the response was
“That’s just an urban myth.”
Terd # 2. Why do gay men always need to engage in pissing contests with each other? Didn’t the fact that some OTHER poor sod had just broken HIS arm make my friend’s story more credible? I realized as the ambulance drove away that all major events in our gay lives become first dramas, then myths. We convey our myths to one another as a form of entertainment, which makes each telling of each myth less and less credible.
I realize the risk in writing down this broken arm within a broken arm tale. I realize it may not be believed. I realize it may be entertaining or be catapulted even farther into the domain of myth. But I had to tell you. No choice in the matter.
A perfectly lovely Saturday night at the Black Eagle for my esteemed colleague and me . There may have been fog that night, there has been so much fog lately. There was definitely a full moon casting a cool glow on the warm smile of a very big fella. We dubbed this big sexy man ‘220’ guessing he was something over 200 pounds.
Upstairs, outside on the portion of the patio not covered by a smelly canvas tent, while causally tracking ‘220‘ we were approached by an Eagle staffer with a clipboard in hand (a pretty good indication we were about to be enlisted in some special event or other).
“Its Crisco arm-wrestling tonight. Interested?” The Eagler asks.
I had to tell him. No choice in the matter.
I have a friend who, while arm-wrestling with work buddies, snapped his upper arm (humorous) pretty much in half. This was a serious injury requiring surgery, steel pins and months of recuperation and therapy. It seemed such a freakish accident. How could one not sense that his arm was about to snap?. Was he drunk at the time? No. Was there some kind of underlying bone condition? Nothing there either. Have you ever heard of an innocent arm wrestling contest resulting in broken bones? Me either. But it did happen.
So I told the guy with the clipboard the story of my friend. He may have thought I was telling tales. I even quipped that I hopped the bar had good insurance. I wish I had made a bigger fuss. I wish my friend’s story was believed.
My esteemed colleague and I didn’t bother watching the Crisco Arm Wrestling event. I couldn’t bare the anxiety: waiting to hear the loud ’crack’, yelling out something dramatic like “ Oh no! Not again, not AGAIN!” before any bones actually broke. I’m so glad we didn’t watch. I’m SO glad we didn’t watch.
Nonchalantly searching for ‘220’ brought the two of us downstairs to scene of the event.
There sprawled on some kind of chair was a large, young, well built lad with ice packs on his arm. I paused. My mouth, I’m sure, was agape. I was so angry and felt so awful for this brave lad who would soon being enduring pain and terrible discomfort. He had not heard the broken arm story . At that moment he appeared to be in shock. He barley moved except to painfully stretch a half smile across his washed out face. Clearly some bone in his arm had broken.
Some terd kept offering the guy a beer. After ensuring an ambulance was on the way my colleague and went back upstairs to the Eagle’s fabulous open window overlooking Gay Street where we had a too-good view of the ambulance when it arrived. As our brave victim was being carried to the wagon, cringing at every bump along the way, another onlooker commented on the freakishness of this sort of accident.
I had to tell him. No choice in the matter.
So I recounted my friend’s sad tale yet again. This time, however, the response was
“That’s just an urban myth.”
Terd # 2. Why do gay men always need to engage in pissing contests with each other? Didn’t the fact that some OTHER poor sod had just broken HIS arm make my friend’s story more credible? I realized as the ambulance drove away that all major events in our gay lives become first dramas, then myths. We convey our myths to one another as a form of entertainment, which makes each telling of each myth less and less credible.
I realize the risk in writing down this broken arm within a broken arm tale. I realize it may not be believed. I realize it may be entertaining or be catapulted even farther into the domain of myth. But I had to tell you. No choice in the matter.
