High Faggotry or The Importance of Spades and Fried Chicken

Holy Hell Logo! Where have I been for the first season of Noah's Arc?

Living in a house in Tennessee with only basic cable, that's the hoppin' John where.

Rarely, if ever, do I get up and start to blog directly after a television program in the middle of the night, but I have just seen two episodes of Noah's Arc and I am really hooked. Not just that, it is the raw giddy side of black gay life that is really spectacular. The "chul'dren" are dropping the irony and double entendre like a well rehearsed vaudevillian encore.

"You better kick bitches!"

Sorry, the inner butch queen voguing femme was just released. Maybe I need to name that alter ego. Plus Jodi Watley's version of "Borderline" was playing at the end of the episode. Damn, I don't know fellas, her new album of remakes is bound to bring out the icing over the yellow cake.

I guess looking at the show I see a lot in it that pulls at my heart strings because I have been to the club attached to my friends like a bunch of lion cubs; on the three way trying to make things right; and, at the parking lot eyeing the candy outside the store. And in away I have been in all the character's shoes, sometimes simultaneously, but most of the time unbeknownst to my everyday world. Flashback Germany (except for the clubs). Flashback Publishing (too busy fooling with the chicks). And fast forward to the family reunion in 2007 (extend Black families just don't understand).

So, as soon as I get some money I am buying the first season on DVD. And as soon as I get a chance I am going to talk to the Harlem baker about this. He is Noah and I am the guy with corn rolls at this junction of our St. Nick strolls. I think. But he knows more than me. He seems to be in the world, I have been up to my neck in books for the past couple of years.

In my previous life (the mid to late 90's) I was part of an underground culture championing the rights of the homeless kids in Time Square or watching the booties shaking at Stella's or Cats on any given weeknight before waking up and going to a 9 to 5. Now, eight years later, I am part of a mainstream ambisexual event complete with television shows, political engagement and a boiling down of queerities that strangely aspire to be more inclusive, but can still drive a wedge between us under the guise of Down Lows and Metrosexuals. Can I just hook up with a hairy muscle bound mechanic? I saw one yesterday with two earrings in his ear? Do the rules still apply.

Regardless, I feel reborn, like I can't fuck old way anymore; the ball trophy I want is New Way. I am too young to be legendary, but I am old enough to remember all this coloured gay life before it was this glamorous. I remember it when it was dangerous to utter it, and that I am glad to see change. But, unfortunately, it is still dangerous to live it, and that may not change for a while.