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Recently, the producers of several incredibly boring and
annoying “reality-based” television shows decided to grace the world
with another show. This “singles cruise” is supposed to
feature…well… single people on a cruise. They are currently doing
auditions, and one of the places where they searched was Dewey Beach. The
producers, in search of local help, called the Henlopen Theater Project in
search of interns for the weekend.
And thus it came to be that my girlfriend Judy and I worked
for a television network for two whole days, producing several decades’
worth of emotional scarring.
I might have known what I was getting into when Judy and I
arrived and the casting directors were hung over. When we got to the local
bar where casting was taking place, the place was packed with drunken
people who thought they were destined for stardom.
It was 11 in the morning. Things just degenerated from there.
We ended up having 300 people apply and interview. Judy and I handed out
applications and herded people around. I ended up having to run to the DJ
booth several times, and I had quite a collection of drinks spilled on my
shirt.
I should mention that I’m not the most social of people. I
don’t drink, smoke, or do drugs. I take myself way too seriously. Judy
is nicknamed Quietgirl, and it is for a reason. Needless to say we
weren’t prepared to see the budget of a small country be spent on Corona
over the course of nine hours.
Seeing that Judy and I were not drunk out of our minds and
causing a racket, several of the bar’s patrons took it upon themselves
to fix the situation. Not only were we hit on by several dozen people,
quite a few of them offered us drinks. (Not to mention the drinks that
people put down on the table and promptly forgot about. Conclusive proof
that drinking affects memory.) I had the following conversation with
someone:
Drunk barfly: Hey, you don’t look like you’re having a
good time. Me: Oh, I’m good. Just kind of busy with these applications.
DB: Would you like me to get you a drink? Me: No thanks, I’m 18. DB: So
what? Do you want a drink? Me: No, I don’t drink. DB: Are you sure? If I
got a drink and just left it on the table, it wouldn’t be anyone’s
fault if you picked it up.
Me: NO, I REALLY DON’T WANT A DRINK! The application
featured hideously embarrassing questions. The one that proved the most
interesting reading: Describe your most embarrassing sexual experience. I
couldn’t believe that I had accidentally brushed against some of these
people. We amused ourselves by playing “guess what venereal disease that
person might have.” People who accuse homosexuals of being promiscuous
should really read some of the responses on the application. I personally
got a kick out of the guy who said that he asked his girlfriend to have a
threesome, only to end up being locked out of the house.
There was a boy who was wearing a shirt that said “Dewey
Beach: Great music, no homos.” Judy turned to me and whispered, “I
don’t care if we’re not here. We damn well had better be getting paid
for this.” “Homos overtaking Dewey” was our battle cry for the rest
of the day. Even though we weren’t there. I think that it goes without
saying that only utter jackasses wear things like that in public places. I
mean, really... bigotry and profanity on t-shirts? Jerks.
When the day was done, Judy and I went to Rehoboth for
dinner. It was like coming home after a war. I walked on to Baltimore
Avenue, flung open my arms, and said, “These are my people!” Judy and
I have never thanked God for gay men so much in our lives.
I am now forever jaded against drinking. I will have no
social life at Dartmouth.
Faithful readers, do you remember when I was agonizing over
how to tell my roommate that I’m a lesbian? I ended up asking every gay
teenager I knew—as well as several people at random—what the best way
to break it to a roommate was. I planned out a scenario in my head. I
prepared myself for the worst. I nearly had a heart attack when I got an
envelope from housing.
I’m in a single room. Irony gods must love me.
It’s settled. I’m heading North on the 5th of September.
However, I’ve decided to finish out the season writing my Letters from
CAMP Rehoboth columns, so look forward to hearing about the joys of being
the Lesbian of the Frozen Wasteland. Packing for college is much harder
than I anticipated—I think that I have too much stuff. It took three
hours to sort through what books I want to take. I never imagined choosing
between “Patience and Sarah” and “Annie on my Mind” would be so
difficult. (I ended up packing them both. I’m a sap.)
I’ve already received some feedback from my “how to pick
a gay friendly college” column. I would like to make clear that I
don’t think that the gay friendliness of a college should be a number
one factor for deciding to go there. It should, however, be on the list,
if only for the reason that moving away to school is hard enough without
dealing with homophobia.
Have a good Labor Day, everyone. When you’re off partying
at SUNDANCE, think of me, soon to be struggling in the cold New England
winters. My next column will be written from my cramped single at
Dartmouth. I’m a little nervous. At least I know to stay away from the
alcohol.
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