Cruise Occupied Colorado This Year
1997 Arlen Lazaroff

 


 

THE ARTIST COUNT DRACULA DRAWS 
BLOOD FROM THE BLOODMOBILE
©1996 Arlen Lazaroff

Arlen Lazaroff

When the gay god put Adam in the garden of Barbaraeden, he didn't know Adam was going to discover auto-eroticism quite as quickly as happened, and so devised a way to create a playmate from the dust of the ground and a human rib bone (a clever chap, he, as the British used to say.) The physics and metaphysics of this act are beyond the author's immediate comprehension, but apparently these things really do happen, just as people really do win on MTV.

Adam was introduced to Bruce by God over cocktails at the Sons of Suburbia homophile social club one night and it was lust at first sight. Of course they didn't try anything sexual right then and there for fear of raising the eyebrows of the Political Correction Unit (also known as the We Do Our Laundry, Pay Our Bills, Work Our Jobs, Shop For Groceries, And Make Intimate Contact Only After Dark, Behind Locked Doors, With Our Partner For Life, Or Until The Going Gets Rough, division) so Adam invited Bruce to come up and see his nature etchings after the meeting, of which tonight's theme was Growing Old With One's Current Life Partner Without Life Insurance Because The State Won't Let Us Adopt Our Own Kids From Past Heterosexual Marriages, And Why The State Should Change The Laws. This was known in academia as Low Self Esteem 101 (prerequisite: a note from one's analyst or social worker, a failed heterosexual marriage with children, or a combination thereof).

Bruce was fascinated with Adam's garden, which grew a vast array of fruits and vegetables. He expressed pleasure with Adam's art projects also, which included sand paintings of male genitalia, nude studies of politicians, human statues with the heads knocked off and painted like bad acid trips, and an installation work of discount store shopping carts filled with Eva Gabor wigs and do-it-yourself home permanent hairdo kits.

The best thing about the garden was the relative safety and privacy it afforded the two residents. They could run around naked, or in posing straps they made from fig leaves and vine. There was no need for concern about the latest ultra-expensive clothing fashions endorsed by some Manhattan socialite with a faux-French name denying his Jewish upbringing in some isolated railroad siding hamlet in western North Dakota. Guests, when and if there were any, could check their gear at the door and feel unburdened.

There was an uninvited guest, a spy in the house of love as it were, however: a serpentine slither beast sporting a facial likeness to Anita Bryant, hanging around the Florida Sunshine Tree, lobbing oranges at animals passing by, and hissing in the wind. The beast was collecting material for a book claiming to expose the hidden agenda of peace and love nudists like Adam and Bruce, claiming how they supposedly infiltrated respectable organizations like the Sons of Suburbia and pretended to support issues like The Right To Do Laundry In "Mixed-Affection" Laundromats, gaining admission to national monuments and amusement parks, things like that, but all they REALLY want is to organize shock value demonstrations to be naked in public, eat organic vegetation instead of cocktail snackies like Pasteurized Processed Sausage Cheese Food Squares on toothpicks with colored cellophane on the ends, and (gasp!) the right to interhuman affection in public! Shaking hands, hugging, holding hands, pecks on the cheek, warm verbal greetings.. horrors! What would the advocates of the Civilized Sexually, Emotionally, and Morally Excused say? What did these outcasts really mean by all this?

Adam and Bruce learned of these accusations via their subscription to the Voice Male, a nicely sexy (but not terribly nude) biweekly magazine padded with occasional News of Community Interest between bar and phone sex ads, reviews of the latest technopop muzak by acts like the Crewcut Dykes With Bad Attitudes, and opportunities for Politically Corrected Aging Couples Who Can Afford It to ski in the Poconos once in a while.

Not knowing the source of the information other than the author's pseudonym (which didn't help at all: handles like Robbie Foxx belong to cementhead porno boys, not journalists) and the masthead address (some highrise suite in West Hollywood), Adam and Bruce reckoned the source pretty close to the junction of the Tigris and Euphrates, what with a perfect description of Adam's art studio, a bunch of prefabricated quotes based on real conversation, and even the recipe for Bruce's Fiesta Party Dip (which called for organic salsa and sour cream). An "interview" as such had never taken place, and the dip recipe was lifted verbatim from a recent issue of Wimmin's Day, which may have been left in the mailbox by mistake.

After much discussion with the garden landlord, a Spy Removal Service (a.k.a. Private Investigator  Exterminator agent) was called by God via a lightning bolt issued by His Almighty Hand which landed in the center of Homer Hawken's living room one Tuesday evening around 9 p.m. It had a note attached as to the address, and an I.O.U. for fifty gold talents, which would certainly buy a lot of beer and cable television service for Homer, whose viewing of "Marilyn and Dan: A Vice Presidential Love Story" was being interrupted by the inevitable, but an exterminator agent's gotta do what an exterminator agent's gotta do. Within ten minutes Homer had arrived at Paradise On Earth with a silver sword and golden staff to smite this particular enemy of Civil Liberties.

The center of the conflict (which Homer says he would like to see as a TV movie, but we don't have a workable script yet) was pretty noisy, the crux of it being a spy serpent being Oranged to death by a vengeful mob of animals, coached by Homer, much like the stoning of Saint Stephen, but more acidic.

When the gay god put Adam and Bruce together in the garden, he didn't know they were going to cause so much trouble in the outside world, but they told him, in effect, “get over it, girl" and that seems to have worked for now. You never know what will happen later, though; it could rain orange juice for forty days and nights and they'll have to gather up the animals in twos on a giant ark and take the lesbian couple next door to impregnate by the Turkey Baster Method and keep the whole weirdo human race off the endangered species list, as if that's even a reasonable thing to consider. God's not really sure yet.

 




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