My name, as in indicated on my birth certificate, is Zachary David Rosen. I usually introduce myself as Zack. Some of my closest friends and family will use the long version of my name on occasion. I spent a brief stint in college as “Z-Roz” and occasionally “ZDR.” But I guess sometime after I moved to DC it got changed, because now I frequently get addressed as “she,” “her,” “Mary, ” “Girl” or a million other feminine monikers that I don’t really understand.

Last Thursday, for insurance purposes, my boyfriend and I became registered domestic partners in the District of Columbia. We met with some attorneys, signed some forms, woke up early and went down to the Department of Health and filed said forms. He went off to work and I went home. It was the least romantic thing I’ve ever done, and that includes having explosive diarrhea at Wrigley Field. We had always figured that an official declaration of our love was in the works, but (like Tina and Ike) love had nothing to do with it.

for the past month, I’ve been using a picture of my faceless torso for my profile. A friend took a particularly flattering one and I figured it would be a good way to test my eternal question about online dating/dick shopping: Are guys on the hunt for a person, or for an act? My previous opinion used to be that the person behind a profile didn’t matter. You could be nice, well read, handsome, intelligent, gym-toned, whatever, and it wouldn’t make a lick of difference. They’ve got a brand new pair of rollerskates, you’ve got a brand new key, and since you both happened to be on the same website at the same time you try’ em out. See?

A gay gym’s locker room, however, is not. It is a quotidian horror show of the oddest, most egregious, and downright bizarre behavior you will see in a gay man outside of a bar with a patio on gay pride. Locker rooms are all about blurring the public and the private – nudity and decorum, the ability to be dirty while getting clean – and some guys boundries of normal behavior falter when faced with such a dichotomy. Below is a list of 9 guys you might meet in your locker room. And as usual, this is meant to be a joke. If you’re going to call me an asshole or a homophobe or a crumbbum it’ll fall on deaf ears.

I made the depressing realization yesterday that I’ve been going to my gym for three years now, which means I’ve been in DC for over three years, which means my chances of ever living on the West Coast are growing slimmer and slimmer. However, it also means I have had that much time to apply my powers of observation/asshole-ishness to the denizens of that gym, and I’ve started to notice that there are a number of distinct types of people that float in and out of its exposed-brick walls. So below is my no-means-comprehensive, please-don’t-call-me-an-asshole-its-only-a-joke guide to them.

While “Will and Grace” and other shows have slowly opened the door to gay characters on prime time TV, they are most often neutered, obnoxious stereotypes or punchlines. The fact is, while live action TV still has lightyears to go in terms of gay inclusiveness, a handfull of underground cartoons have featured well-rounded, sympathetic, realistic portrayals of gay charactesr that put any of the major networks to shame. While mainstays like Waylon Smithers, Stewie Griffin and Mr. Garrison are most often cited, there are whole cadres of such ‘toons that aren’t lauded quite as often.

I’ll say this first: if you play anything all night long, you will want to kill yourself. But if you also spend three hours staring at a computer screen with nothing to write about you won’t be so happy either. So this morning when I was doing my usual a.m. procrastinations I listened to Owl City’s “Fireflies” on youtube, which lead me to listen to Chris Garneau’s track of the same name, and then Tortoise’s “Firefly” before I finally settled on the best track about glowing insects, Magnetic Fields’ “100,000 Fireflies.” A truly gorgous love song, and my number 2 best gay love song of all time, I thought it would be perfect for getting my ass in gear.

Last Saturday, I got really drunk and really stoned and went to Town, DC’s preeminent megadisco gay club. I took shots there, and made out with a bunch of people, and ended up going home with someone. I can no longer say my gay life is that different than anyone else’s. 

This is because cultural anthropologist who lives deep in my annals (stop giggling) took notice about half an hour in that I was frequenting A Straight Bar. Not just a bar that straight people go to (I would call that a bar, or a mixed bar) but a bar that seems to cultivate all the worst stereotypes of straight behavior in the same way as the non-existant gay bar from my first paragraph. Every guy wore carpenter pants, shapeless cable knit sweaters and the paunch of too much Killians. The girls wore makeup as if it were spackle, showed off their overly-tanned turkey skin cleavage and writhed in unison all 15 times that “Bad Romance” came on. Mind you, I was in this place for an hour.

My brother-in-law’s mother collects photography, and the walls of her Park Avenue apartment seemed to be decorated solely to underscore the event that is about take place. A dark-eyed six year old in a purple parka sits against a tree trunk, clutching her knees to her chest. A woman with David Bowie cheekbones (and a haircut to match) covers one eye in shock. A teenager with pale skin and freckles gapes on as if he has just witnessed the apocalypse.

My three year-old niece is the only one in the room with the metaphorical balls to give voice to the worry expressed in these snap shots, and I’m relieved that someone is pointing out just how bizarre the whole thing is.