One Must Have a Heart Of Stone to Read the Death of Little Gary without Laughing
Listen, I don’t mean to be mean …
No, wait. I do mean to be mean. Ah, there, that’s better. Now I’ve got some room to maneuver in.
Last February, or so a coroner’s inquest determined recently, Gary Frisch, “who made millions by creating the (UK-based) Gaydar dating website in 1999,” pitched himself over the eighth-floor balcony of his apartment in Battersea (London), out of his mind following a ketamine binge.
You can read the whole pathetic affair here:Gay Website Founder Yelled Waheey and Somersaulted off the Balcony.
The article posted on the Daily Mail site invites readers to leave comments, but they wouldn’t post mine (in which I reprised beloved Oscar’s line about Little Nell). I suppose they didn’t consider it dignified enough. On the other hand, I don’t think you can call a newspaper dignified if it puts the word “waheey” in a headline, but try explaining the Brits to me. Go ahead, just try.
Okay, so everybody loved them some Gary Frisch, or so it would appear.
According to The Independent, he was “one of Britain’s leading gay businessmen”; Peter Thatchell, who doesn’t like anybody, commented that “Gary will be long remembered by the hundreds of thousands of gay people who benefited from the Gaydar phenomenon”; and The Times noted that “[Gaydar] took gay men’s sex and social lives out of bars and clubs and created a new community online.”
Really? And here I thought that “community” and “online” were all, like, mutually exclusive. Sort of like “vegan” and “butcher.”
When The Advocate made a fortune for David Goodstein by printing sex ads for gay men, that seemed like a giant leap for queer-kind, too.
It’s just that I don’t notice anybody being any happier.
Perhaps it has something to do with the fact that, if you go to the Gaydar site, these guys are the first thing you see …
… along with the legend, “What you want, when you want it.”
In other words, it’s a very mature concept that has everything to do with improving the social and emotional lives of gay men.
As I can only assume is clear to you.
And nothing whatever to do with having found a way to make big money off the fact that queer men are horny and/or lonely and/or both and that the internet means you can get laid or buy deck shoes with roughly the identical degree of human involvement. (And at the same time, if you’re even remotely agile.)
Now before anyone goes and gets all Pat Califia on my ass, let me hasten to add: Hurray for gay sex, okay? Woo hoo, gay sex! Gay sex R Us!
That’s not my point. My point—and ‘scuse me if this is, like, too political and shit—is that helping gay men find ways to boink doesn’t exactly turn you into the Dalai Lama, especially not if you’re pulling down nearly $2 million a year in the process (source: The Independent). Blessed are the capitalists and everything, but can we just not pretend that Gary “No Fats No Femmes Endowed Only” Frisch devoted his spare time to clearing landmines out of Cambodia with his bare hands? Can we stop a little short of asking Elton John to haul out one more version of “Candle in The Wind”?
Thank you. I appreciate it. Now, let’s return to our show, already in progress.
On the morning of GF’s death, it emerges that there was a “friend” at home with him—Darren Morris—”who had been staying with Mr. Frisch.” (Murky. Very murky. Last night’s trick? Best gal-pal? Rehab-mate?)
Darren noted that: after they returned home from supper the night before, Frisch hadn’t gone to bed but had stayed up all night long. The next morning Frisch whiled away the idle hours “unpacking magazines” and intermittently hollering “Praise the Lord!” After muttering “incoherently” to himself for a while, Frisch put on music and started dancing around the apartment. And then he wandered out onto the balcony and took a swan dive.
I mean, I’m just curious. Hey, Darren, did it cross your mind that something might be wrong?
Or were you just so used to seeing your friends in the midst of post-bender psychotic episodes that you went right back to depilating your privates?
Listen, I’m just as désolé as I can freaking BE that clinging desperately to the life of an ultra-fab club-going horse-tranquilizer-sucking circuit boy at age 38 didn’t bring Gary Frisch a world of happiness like it does to practically everyone else…. On the other hand, and just for the sake of journalistic neutrality, a person might point out that the problem has been hinted at from time to time in the past.
Lessee … there was Boys in the Band, then there was Young Man from the Provinces, then there was Dirk Shafer’s 2001 film, Circuit (maybe Gary Frisch saw that; something tells me he didn’t get a lot of reading done) ….
I dunno, fight fans. Is it just me, or is anyone else sick and tired of drug-addicted middle-aged queens with too much money and too few emotional resources who can’t stop … no, that’s it in a nutshell: they just can’t stop.
Okay, so the coroner says it wasn’t suicide but “death by misadventure.” Boy howdy. In fact, there’s got to be some kind of a Darwin Award in this. I mean, you’re lauded as the queer Bill Gates, you’re considered a fine humanitarian because you fork over some of your dough to AIDS charities (exactly what you might be expected to do, but whatever), and you’re about to open your next fabulous business venture, a new club in Soho called Profile (three stunning floors, an exciting schedule of entertainment: “Pride adds considerably to the cache of the West End bar and club scene“ – that’s “cache,” as in the place where you dump things you need to hide, not “cachet,” as in a mark of distinction; club boys tend to have good cheekbones but low marks in English).
And it’s right then that you get ahold of a bad batch of Vitamin K, go all “waheeeeeeyyyyy” and decide you can fly.
I mean, where’s the justice? Really. Where’s the motherfucking justice? If I weren’t laughing so hard, I’d give it some serious thought.