my crack dealer

There's bad crack.



And then there's good crack. Michael is my crack dealer (where crack is just a code word for "fun").

Dupont wouldn't be Dupont without him. He's the king of the neighborhood's economic scene. He's a vocal supporter of the "beautify the fountain" foundation. He's the one who got me VIP tickets to the all-drag version of Henrick Ibsen's "A Doll's House."

He's Michael. My hyper-social water rugby advisor and wheel-thrown pottery consultant, Michael is a good guy to have on my side. And he's committed to making sure that I have an active cultural life, warmly embracing the bosom of the DC contemporary arts scene. (He's a perfect person to hang out with, since one of my New Year's resolutions was to attend at least one cultural event a month that concerned an area of the lively or visual arts about which I have no prior knowledge. It's a resolution that I've had no problem keeping. Michael is just like a dozen hypodermic syringes, all filled to the brim with a crack-like cocktail of gay urban culture. He gets me so high.)

We watched the 1930s horror classic, "The Bat Whispers" last week. You want camp? This film's got acres of it. This proto-classic of the horror film genre is stylish and high-tech. The visuals are stunning and gothic. Incredibly detailed miniature sets create a decadent and film-noire mood. After seeing this film, it didn't surprise me one bit that it was the inspiration for both the Batman comic book series, but for the recent film adaptations of the story.

Michael and I also went to the Jewish Community Center's screening of the One in Ten Gay arts organization's "Reel Affirmations" film series. There, we experienced the touching story of a Brazilian transvestite's story in Florence, Italy. This film made me want to weep out of the sheer joy that I don't have to cut off my penis to attain true happiness and self-actualization. (Not having to wear high heels and painfully tight tube tops makes me happy, as well!) I do, however, mourn the fact that I will never be as glamorous in the eurotrash category as the film's transy callgirl is. It was like Pretty Woman meets... meets... um... The Crying Game meets ... Roman Holiday meets Persilla, Queen of the Desert. But with a more nuanced performance than any of the above. (I love that word -- "nuanced." Note to self: Use the word "nuanced" at least once a day for a month, just to see if anyone notices.)

The film was called Princessa, by the way. It's worth a rent, if you see it at your local glbt video shop.

Oh -- I should mention also that afterwards, Michael treated me to a delightful meal at Cafe Luna, a popular hangout for the Circle's beautiful people. (And for us that night, too.)