Thursday, June 6, 2019

The Beefcake Restaurant of Rock Island

Rock Island, October 1977.

My senior year at Rocky High. I haven't figured "it" out yet, and even if I had, I would never tell anyone.  The interrogation of "What girl do you like?" has continued.  Intensified, even, since during my senior year I'm expected to find "the girl of my dreams."  It's possible to find a romantic partner after you turn 18, of course, but the ideal is to fall in love in high school and stay together through all the twists and turns of life, then celebrate your 60th anniversary surrounded by children and grandchildren.

So the "What girl do you like?  What girl?  What girl?" is incessant and demanding, especially on Tuesday, the day you call girls for Saturday-night dates. "Who are you going to call?  Who?  Who?  Who"" from my friends all day, and "When are you going to call?  When?  When?  When?" from my parents all night.

Why is everyone so insistent that I hang out with a girl?  When I successfully arrange a date, I can't stand the exclamations of joy, the slaps on the back, and the "our little boy's growing up!" from my parents.  And the next-day interrogations from my friends: "Did you touch her boob?  Did you feel her down there?  Was she good or not good in bed?"

And my obligation to say:  "Oh, yeah, I felt her everywhere.  We did lots of sex stuff!"

I usually try to get out of the whole mess by calling a girl so far  out of my league, or suggesting an activity so lame, that she invents a prior obligation (if she's nice) or laughs and slams down the phone (if she's mean).  Then I can mope around, rejected by "the girl of my dreams," playing "One is the Loneliest Number" on my stereo Saturday night, and if I'm lucky, Dad will slip me $5 to "get over her." $5 buys 5 paperback novels or a whole sausage and pepperoni pizza at Happy Joe's. 


Tonight I try out Jan, a tall blond girl from my Spanish class who my friends claim is "as hot as Farrah Fawcett."  She's one of the stars of Charlie's Angels (1976-81), about three private detectives who solve crimes by going under cover as bikini models and aerobics instructors.

Completely out of my league!  She's sure to laugh in my face!


I stall until 8:30, just to be on the safe side: requests for dates start coming in after dinner, around 7:00 pm, so by 8:30 most girls are already booked for  Saturday night.  Leaving the family pretending to watch tv but actually watching me, I go into the kitchen, close the door, and dial.    

Jan answers immediately, and I use my standard lame opening line.  "Hi, this is Boomer from school."

"Hi."

"Hi.  Um...I was wondering if you're free Saturday night?"

To my shock, she says  "Yes."  

Yes? Gulp...but she's a Farrah Fawcett lookalike.  She can't say yes!  Doesn't she have to wash her hair?    

But the deal isn't closed yet.  I still have to suggest activity.  The worst, lamest, dorkiest activity possible...Jump quiz?  Church revival?  Dinner with my parents?

I blurt out "Would you like to go to dinner at the Bring'er Inn?"

The worst restaurant in town.

First, what 1970s women's libber wouldn't be outraged by the logo, a caveman dragging in his girl by the hair?

Seond, it's a "supper club."  The menu is strictly from the 1940s, steaks and "chops," whatever they are.  While you eat, lounge-lizards sing -- Rat Pack favorites only.  And you get up and dance -- I don't know what kind of dances, maybe the Charleston.

Teenagers wouldn't be caught dead there.  Not even our parents -- it's for Grandma and Grandpa to reminisce about the Good Old Days.

But to my shock and consternation, Jan says "Sure. I've never been there, but my grandparents love it. Pick me up at 6:00."

I plod into the living room.  My parents and brother and sister are watching expectantly.  "She said yes," I tell them, and there are so many hoots and howls and hugs, it's like I accomplished something phenomenal.

"Where are you going to go?" Mom asks.

Wait -- all is not lost. There's no way my parents will let me go to the Bring'er Inn:
1. It's in Milan, the small town across the Rock River.  I'm not allowed to drive outside of Rock Island.
2. There's alcohol and dancing, two of the worst sins in the Nazarene Manual.  God will sentence us to an eternity of hellfire for even setting foot inside the place.

But when I say "The Bring'er Inn," Mom is all smiles, and Dad offers me an extra $10 for expenses.

On Saturday night, I pick up my friend Joel (of course it was going to be a "double date," and we dutifully pick up thegirls.  We cross the river, sort-of-discussing who was seeing whom among our mutual friends, but I'm really wondering: Why am I here?  Why is it so darn essential to have girls along?  Why can't it just be me and Joel?

We arrive at  the restaurant just before our reservation time, 7:30.  A stunningly handsome, broad-shouldered guy in a tuxedo takes down our names and escorts us to our table.

Then another stunningly handsome, broad-shouldered guy in a tuxedo brings us water and sodas, and shows us the menu.

I barely notice my "chops" (lamb meat), or the flowsy man-woman duo singing "Let's Call the Whole Thing Off" on the stage.  I'm busy cruising.

There are at least five stunningly handsome, broad-shouldered guys in tuxedos working the kitchen, bringing out glasses of wine, chatting up the Geritol set.  Plus stunningly handsome teenage boys in black uniforms bussing the tables.

It's like a strip show before they take their clothes off.

Jan nudges me.  "Nice place, huh?"

"Um...yep.  Well, I could do without the dinosaur music, but the service is great."

"Be sure you give our waiter a nice tip."

And my phone number?  I think.

Later I discover that Lee Mohr started the restaurant in 1939, and staffed it with his stunningly handsome sons, sons-in-law, and grandsons.

Suddenly the Bring'er Inn is my favorite restaurant.  But only if I can bring a boy.














It burned down in 1980, but Lee Mohr's grandson Greg and his partner (business, not romantic) run several restaurants in Chicago, continuing the tradition of restaurant hotness.

Wednesday, June 5, 2019

How Blind Guys Handle Sausage Sightings

Dayton, March 2006

In gay communities, there is heavy competition for men who are disabled: blind, deaf, on crutches, in a wheelchair.    

Maybe being physically different makes you stand out in the crowd and seem more attractive.

Or guys fantasize about being your "knight in shining armor," protecting you from the bad things in the world.

Or they are hung up over their minor imperfection, such as belly fat or acne scars, and they believe that you will be more accepting. 

But however many guys clamor to go home with you, few are willing to stick around the next day, begin a romantic relationship, and participate in your daily struggles with accessibility and visibility.

So disabled guys tend to be a little leery of romantic overtures.  They may even try to scare you off by describing their daily maintenance routine on the first date.

That may have been a problem with my date with Tommy the Blind Guy.

I saw him at the Columbus Metropolitan Community Church one Sunday morning in March 2006:  In his 20s, shorter than me, pale, with short brown hair and a solid, muscular frame -- plus religious!  Three of the five traits I find attractive.  He walked arm-in-arm with a friend, so I assumed he was taken.  But during the coffee hour after church, the friend, Marcus, left him eating doughnuts by himself to cruise someone on the other side of the room.  Therefore, single!

How do you go about cruising someone who can't see you?  I went with a strong handshake and a deep voice, and it worked!

The next weekend, we saw The Libertine (yes, blind people go to movies), followed by dinner at a Mediterranean restaurant.

You would think that Tommy would be tired of being asked questions about "what it's like to be blind," but he told me in detail how he ate, how he shaved, how he found his way around a strange room.

It turned out to be less a date than a lecture from Blind 101 class.  The only interesting part was how he judged a guy's physical characteristics without having to reach out and touch them:

You had a strong handshake, so I knew you had nice biceps.
That doesn't really....

The angle of your voice when we're talking tells me your height and weight.
My height, maybe.  But my weight?
He guessed it within 10 pounds.

I can figure out how hung you are by listening to you in the bathroom.


Doesn't sound possible, but we went into the bathroom, and he did it!  Something to do with the force of the splash.

Other than the few magic tricks, I was a bit bored.

After dinner, we went back to the apartment he shared with Marcus.

Tommy was certainly passionate in the bedroom, but a romantic relationship requires more.  Did this guy have any interests, hobbies?

The gym?  There have been several blind bodybuilders, like Greg Rando  Not really.  I do a little jogging.

Pets?  Seeing eye dog?  No.  I get along fine with a cane.

Religion?  I go to MCC for the companionship, but I'm not really into it.  

Paranormal?  You believe in that nonsense?

Literature?  Dickens?  Stephen King?  I don't read a lot.

Um...politics?  Not really.

Music?

That got a rise out of him.  Oh, I love Cher, Madonna, Barbra Streisand...


Oh...I don't really listen to pop music.  It's so heterosexist, all about girl! girl! girl!

Rihanna, Gwen Stefani, Kelly Clarkson.

Any classical in that mix? A little Mozart here and there?

Jessica Simpson, Mariah Carey, Jennifer Lopez...

Opera? Jazz?  I'll even take show tunes...

Christina Aguilera, Carrie Underwood, Beyonce...

Ok, how about a male performer?  At least somebody for me to look at -- Justin Timberlake, maybe?

The Pussycat Dolls, Ciara, Fergie...

We didn't have a second date.

L

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