The phD homosexuals at Queerty have an informative personal essay today about what makes smartypants, grown-up gaybar convo and what makes you a worthless, know-nothing twink. Hint: the difference hinges on a little movie called The English Patient. They are just so cultured over there that I can hardly stand it! Here’s a short excerpt:
Last night I met up with a long-time friend (OK, he’s an ex-boyfriend) at one of our regular gay bar haunts. I didn’t know he would be bringing anyone with him, because we had not seen each other for about a month, and had some catching up to do. But in he walks with this spritely looking fellow, who was probably 20 or 21… So there we are, standing at the bar, leaning but avoiding actually sitting on the wet bar stools that nobody has the good sense to wipe down, and there is a lull in the conversation, as my friend has now gone to the bathroom for the second time (but does not have a coke habit, swear it), and forcing me and Mr. Spritely to make or avoid eye contact. So, while avoiding it, I bring up up that recent report about Count Laszlo de Almásy, the WWII spy who inspired the main protagonist in The English Patient, and how he was actually gay, enjoyed romances with Egyptian princes, and was in love with a young soldier named Hans Entholt, and Mr. Spritely looks at me, locking eye contact, and in the same motion that his tongue finds the straw to the drink he’s holding in his left hand, asks me, “Who?”
When my friend returns from the bathroom, I cut off the beginning of some wandering statement he is about to make and mention that I have a birthday party to get to, and I’m already running late, and need to pick up a bottle of wine en route, so please excuse me. And I left.
My, my, my! That’s a lot of words and not many periods at all. But look at me go on! Who do I think I am, the Chicago Manual of Style? I’m a highly naive (not to mention sprightly!) 29-year-old who knows almost nothing about The English Patient and wouldn’t know The Battle of the Bulge from the bulge in my pants– so pay no attention to my opinion!
Although the author of the piece chalks his bar-mate’s ignorance of a somewhat obscure bit of trivia up to youthful naivete, it seems to me that one of the hallmarks of adulthood is caring way less about this kind of petty effluvia. While 22-year-old me was always all, what, you don’t know the entire Matador Records catalog by heart?, almost-30-year old me is more like let’s f*ck. That’s called growing up. (I think?)
In other words, maybe Queerty’s not the paragon of worldly maturity it seems to think it is. But don’t listen to little old me– decide for yourself!