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162 Disclosure TheStoryoftheRaconteurs OK, I’ll give you one last story, one in which things went very wrong. As is the case with every rock concert these days, you would get to see the Raconteurs at the Fillmore in Detroit only after waiting in gender-­ specific lines, at the end of which you were asked to show the contents of your pockets and agree to be patted down. I didn’t mind one bit. It hadn’t crossed my mind, however, that the small pillbox attached to my key ring could attract so much attention. Surely, there must be better places to hide drugs than a pillbox. The bouncer unscrewed the top of the small, metallic cylinder and dropped the contents into his hand. With his big, clumsy fingers , he unwrapped the small piece of tissue with which I got into the habit of cushioning the pill after I realized it would otherwise crumble. “What is this?” he asked. (FUCK!)“Medication.” “Yeah, but what is it?” he insisted. (FUCK! FUCK! FUCK!)“It’s called Atripla.” “I don’t know it. Let me call the medic.” (FUUUUUCK!!!) Some uniformed guy came by—­ the medic, clearly, although he looked like a cop—­ and he didn’t seem to know what the pill was either. “What is this?” he asked. “It’s called Atripla.” “Never heard of it. What is it for?” I had become really upset by then. I was caught off guard and felt a bit embarrassed as a result, unprepared to have to disclose my status in a place where I’d come to enjoy a kick-­ ass rock ’n’ roll band, and I felt utterly powerless . Out of spite and feeling the increased pressure (and embarrassment) that comes with blocking a line, I decided to make them feel uncomfortable with the whole situation.To this day, there’s something about rock concerts that always makes me feel like a teenager. “It’s for AIDS,” I said defiantly. (“HIV” just wouldn’t do for those fuckers.) “What’d you say?” Remember that we were in the lobby of the theater at the time. The opening act was already onstage and, between the loud music and the crowd, the place was filled with noise—­ in both senses of the term. “It’s for AIDS,” I repeated a bit louder, increasingly unsure that my Disclosure 163 defiance was such a bright idea after all, yet unable to back down without feeling defeated and even more humiliated than I already was. “It’s for WHAT?” I started yelling:“AIDS! AIDS! I HAVE AIDS!!!” The whole thing had turned absolutely ghastly. The medic must have decided it was better to trust me. (What kind of idiot would yell“AIDS!”in a crowded theater for no good reason? Presumably, the same kind of idiot, come to think of it, who would hide illegal drugs in a pillbox attached to his key ring, but never mind.) He gave me back my meds with an expression that seemed to say,“All right, all right . . . Jeez, dude, keep your skinny jeans on.” With my cheeks on fire and what felt from the inside like the look of a madman in my eyes,I immediately walked to the bar and ordered a cocktail. Like me, it was shaken, not stirred. Actually, it was an ordinary rum and coke in a plastic cup, but you get the idea. Long story short, to make matters worse, I never even got the bouncer to pat my butt. Hoping to match power with power, control with control, I recognized in hindsight that all parties involved in that ridiculous incident had somehow been forced to relinquish something. Deciding how to come out, where, when, and to whom, often gives the illusion of control, as if coming out, and being whatever it is that one is after that, could possibly be effected on our own terms only. That’s a grave mistake that consists in confusing tactics with strategy. According to French thinker of the everyday Michel de Certeau, only those in control of the terrain can strategize. But no one is ever in sole control of the contacts we establish with others. Furthermore, to believe that it is possible to master the afterlife of the messages we put out, or that of the gifts we give, is to rely on nonrelational notions of subject and object and on the assumption that language is the reality it seeks to convey—­ the illusion, in other words...

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