Most kids are obsessed with high schoolers. From 4th or 5th grade on, the teenagers who roam those hallowed halls are mythic and magical. They're your baby sitters, the beguilingly surly lifeguards at your local pool or beach, they disinterestedly shove ice cream cones into your hands while wearing stupid hats at the Baskin Robbins. They're so full of feelings and experiences that, as a child, one (or at least the people I knew) can't wait to be one of them. To drive cars! To go to proms! To experience all the giddy thrills of feeling angry and lonely and jittery in first love! And we are aided, all the way along, by young adult material that is always within our reaches. Whether it be the Wakefield twins' split-level ranch, the bright zigzags of the Max, or the leafy Eden of John Hughes' Chicagoland, some imaginary place, full of fascinating teenagers, is always close by, calling to us. And then, yeah, you get to the high school years and they're nothing like you dreamed. They manage to be both stultifyingly boring and absolutely terrifying, all at the same time. They're gross, they're awkward, they're unbelievably sad. Obviously things never wrap up on any last page or at any closing credits. They just sort of ramble on until, suddenly, you're 18 and high school is about the last place in the world you'd ever want to be again.

Or, you know, at least it was that way for me. And during that time, my interest in this other version of teendom, that one so immediate on the other side of the looking glass, never waned. It may have even gotten stronger. My sister and I scraped the bottom of the video store barrel trying to get our fix. (Ever seen the Will Friedel/Love Hewitt masterpiece Trojan War? I have. Twice.) And when I stumbled off to college, these movies and TV shows (and to an increasingly lesser extent, books—though I've read the Sloppy Firsts series and Prep and other things since) became even more enjoyable, even more hilarious. Because, finally, I could see, with complete clarity, what a total fiction they are. Though there's still something about that world — with all of its silly rules about right and wrong, its placid depictions of sex, its ideas about who boys are and who girls are — that comforts me. Of course there are different levels of quality at work here. My So-Called Life was just brilliant TV that happened to be set in high school. High School Musical is by all accounts bad and honestly a bit dull in parts. But I enjoy them both.

And, I don't know, maybe my reasons for enjoying them are a bit therapeutic, in a way. Struggling to come out in high school was terribly alienating. Yes I went to prom, but it never felt quite right. I furtively drank with friends in darkened parks and smoked joints in playgrounds like all the other kids, but something always felt off. And it did well into college (and maybe still does). Escaping back into this world of imagination, seeing what high school was really supposed to be like is silly and laughable and yet a little bittersweet, too. Call it masochism, but I enjoy that pang. I guess it's like getting pinched to see if one's dreaming. I watch High School Musical and chuckle into a sigh and say "Oh, wouldn't that have been fun." And then I feel it, that little curdle of dread, that whiff of years spent treading water, and it reminds me that I made it through. I made it through just fine. It's over (mostly) and now I can just look back and laugh. These fake people are stuck in high school forever, while we get to move on and do other, more exciting things. Isn't the real trick to surviving those years constantly reminding yourself that they'll soon be over? So I guess, really, I watch this shit — the Gossip Girls and the Camp Rocks and the Degrassis — as a benediction. Once I'm finally exorcised of all the high school trauma (that happens eventually, right?), I imagine I'll pack it in and turn my full attention toward Charlie Rose. For now, though, I'm still having fun. Awkward, delirious fun. See you at 8, Camp Rock.

Or, all of that is nonsense and I'm just an unbelievable dork. Your call.

Emo!

I had an epiphany last night that I realized only gawker could truly appreciate. I finally figured out why I find Dov Charney sort of inappropriately sexy: because I was watching the 1973 film of _Jesus Christ Superstar_ and realized that he bears a strong resemblance to evil Jewish high priest Caiaphas! And because, watching that movie as a small Catholic girl, I felt naughty feelings for the shirtless sweaty bearded evil Jewish high priests with weird hats and S&M-style chest-strap arrangements. Sexy evil Jews, both.
Wow, it feels good to confess that!
"One thing I'll say for him, Jesus is cool."
Katie

How can I excuse this trampling upon the ghost of former editor Jessica Coen, who so sternly enacted the ban? It was early; I was forwarding stalker sightings to the Stalkette interns who handle such things. That witch Emily was out that day! I only had Wheat Thins for breakfast! I have a million excuses. Whatever.

But really, I think I meant to do it. Some of you lady-folk and homos out there will relate. Chris Noth has a certain thing; it's the slightly craggy, slightly pickled, almost-entirely-but-not-quite un-menacing daddy thing. He's unpredictable! Maybe he's trouble. I bet his apartment (surely he has one?) is wacky! He's the kind of guy you totally would have slept with accidentally five years ago. (Despite the insane eyebags!) Okay, maybe five months ago. And then you wouldn't have told your friends for at least three weeks. Just like a Williamsburg bartender, or that "novelist" you totally did out of boredom and tequila. Okay, this is getting really Carrie Bradshaw and sad, and so I'll shut the hell up. Anyway, I'd hit that. And I bet you would too.

The real point is, maybe we shouldn't misunderstand the Noth That Walks Among Us So Frequently. Remember this? In October of 2005, Noth told the Times this about New York City:

''It has deteriorated into a very clean and shiny mall,'' he said, running his hand back and forth over his bristle of hair as he gets worked up. ''We have to go out of Manhattan to get a texture of the city. I'm not just talking about graffiti and that we want to bring the crime back. From the meatpacking district to the East Village to below Houston Street, all those delicious and interesting and complex neighborhoods are just basically gone. It has been death by fashion and trend.''

In late January, Mr. Top noted that the end might be near, as seven people knew of his identity. (The one person we've found so far who has met him has been unforthcoming with details.) In that same post, he also told a story about being scorned by a group of the gay at a bar (we're gonna go with The Phoenix), but that these fellas, when approached one-on-one, were totally into it and were pretty much ready to do him condom-free.

And that was the real point of Confessions of a Bareback Top, and why he was such a monster-piece. Just because he's only a step or two beyond being a rapist doesn't mean there aren't thousands, maybe tens of thousands, of guys like him in New York right now. Most of them are on Manhunt. (The rest are on Craigslist.) The Bareback Top was just the vocal, bloggy tip of the iceberg—he's actually just the only one who'd gotten honest and then articulated and printed what he was into. He was the unofficial spokesman for all the guys with "Safe Only!" all over their sex ads who are so quick to change their tune.

So maybe he wasn't the enemy, even if he was obnoxious and vain and obsessed and creepy. He's just the manifestation of a set of confused and untrustworthy homos out there. And he did a service—he was, after all, pretty much the only one keeping a record of these times. (Kinda sad, when Blogspot contains the historical literature of a time.) Anyway, when half his friends test positive over the next couple of years, at least he'll have this diary to remember his youth.

EARLIER: Crossing the Line: Confessions of a Bareback Top Speaks....

The Bad And The Ugly [College Call-Girl] [Barely SFW]
Q&A [One D At A Time] [Definitely NSFW]

There are black people out there doing very un-black things. TAN tells their stories.

As I transition from the Ghetto Pass retrospective, I've decided to use hipsters to cushion the initial jump should there be any turbulence. So let's amble back a few internet-years to last Monday when I commented on the NY Times piece profiling these so-called "Blipsters." Everyone enjoyed giving the author a good chiding, but I can't lie, I still wanted to hear more about these strange alien negroes who actually "like rock music." Now while the article had a lot of words, I wasn't totally convinced the premise was based on fact; after all the writer is based in Philly, and was previously seen pimping the City of Brotherly Love as the sixth borough of Manhattan. So I decided to find some Blipsters on my own.

Problem was, I had no idea where to look. Inevitably, I ended up coordinating some covert sting operations on these fro-hawk maintenance message boards you see all over the place. I pretended I was a hot young thing with a sexy fro-hawk that was getting out of control, and only a real Curtis Cobain type would know how to corral my haery maelstrom. Problem solved. I started collecting data on these Blipsters, but one in particular gave me a lot more than I bargained for. I visited him at his home, and discovered in his case the problem ran much deeper than being black and enjoying Nirvana. Sitting in his living room, I found out this guy also likes Bloc Party. YIKES! I immediately turned on the tv and flipped to BET to try and stabilize the environment. But THEN it got even worse when he told me another incredible race-defying confession:I Don't Like A Tribe Called Quest

He said it with confidence, the first letter of each word capitalized as it stormed from his mouth. The melanin in, on?, in my skin began to sear from the flames of his blaspheme. But with my quest for The Truth fortifying my resolve, I decided to remain in his proverbial "kitchen," risking suffocation from the heat of his self-hatred. I even took it a step further and asked him to repeat himself because, quite frankly, I couldn't believe it. He understood my skepticism and braced himself to recant the solemn phrase. His once robust confidence was sagging by the second, but he was going to do it. We both scanned the surrounding area full of fear and trepidation half-thinking The Roots might rush in at any moment and beat us with their instruments. But soon the tears began to well up in his eyes as he blubbered out, " I Don't Like A Tribe Called Quest DAMMIT!"

I couldn't take it anymore. I grabbed him by the fro-hawk, looked him directly in the eyes and said, "look man! It's ok to like the nirvana dude. I understand. I went to Choate dude. That shit gets me all *stoked* or whathaveyou also. But that doesn't mean you just go and throw your life away by saying something like 'you don't like Tribe.' Don't be stupid man. You have everything in front of you."

The Blipster could conceal his shame no more, I was almost knocked over by the tidal wave of emotion, "I KNOW MAN!! I KNOW!! IT'S FRIGGIN' TRIBE!!" I told him he could lose the caps and keep the exclamation points and be considerably less annoying about this. He continued, "Tribe ... they're like our Beatles man. I want to f'ing love them man. I really do. But I don't. I can't."

I looked around again, thinking I heard a snare drum or bass riff somewhere, I asked him how many Tribe albums he listened to. Perhaps he had only listened to their last couple of albums, everyone concedes those aren't as strong. He was silent then spoke very matter-of-fact, "yeah, yeah, everyone says Midnight Marauders and Low End Theory. Look, I'm not going to be ashamed of this anymore. I have my reasons you know. I think they're too soft for me. Quite frankly, I think they're too soft for this century. I mean that anti date-rape song? Come on dude. EVERYONE'S Date Raping in 2007, that's the shit! Even the Times is big-upping that. That's fucking Modern Love dude.

I couldn't protest as he continued,

"Look man, I gave it a good shot. But the sound is kind of flat. The music is a little repetitive. I've heard those Can I Kick It drums and samples too many times. GOD. And their lyrics are horrible. Q-Tip comes in and out of coherency and thinks he can write it off by calling himself 'The Abstract,' and Phife is just a fucking idiot. Have YOU listened to Electric Relaxation? What's up with these lyrics? 'You can be a shorty in my ill convoy.' 'You got the goods like Madeline Woods?' Who the fuck is Madeline Woods? I feel like black people must have been a little stupider in the 90s."

"I don't know man. I always liked one of Phife's solo songs Butter," I told him. "And what, you don't want David Dinkins to please be your mayor?"

Just then I got a beep from Gawker HQ. Some commenter had ventured too far uptown and needed help with their Ghetto Pass. So I took off. But later that night on the news I saw the Blipster was found dead. They're calling it a suicide, but I suspect foul play.

Who knows if there are anymore black people who don't enjoy Tribe left, but at least in my life I knew of one. He was a sweet Blipster. I'll remember him fondly.
[illustration courtesy of]

[Gross, barely-literate description of a club bathroom stall blowjob.] Fucking asshole. He smiled and left the stall as I was cleaning up. He didnt say anything and neither did I.
So I did a little research when I got home. I found out who he was. He is married to a very famous actress and they have a kid or kids. I will never tell who he is, so dont ask...but it just reaffirmed my belief that....you never know.