a late-night present for all of you.

honorable mention

look who's a star!

porn update

well, dear readers, your overwhelming response was "yes, be an extra. and then tell us what movie it is." so i've just emailed the man back telling him when i'd be available.

i just better have all my clothes on. the last thing i need is to be shirtless next to a PORN STAR.

robert's book club

every now and then i stumble across a book, a work of fiction usually, that changes the way i look at the world. while i'm reading it, after i'm done reading it, i realize that my slant on things has changed a little bit. it's as if i tilt my head just to the left and things are elongated. these books have little bits of truth about life, things that i'd never really thought about or been able to put into words before, right there on paper. one of these books is tuesdays with morrie.

totally. kidding.

it's michael cunningham's the hours. now, to those of you who have only seen the movie and will therefore tell me that

1. it wasn't about anything
2. it was boring
3. you didn't get why these women were so depressed all the time, or
   
4. you didn't see what all the fuss was about

i say read the book. if for no other reason, read the book for clarissa's scene in which, remembering her life's favorite moment, when a man she was in love with came up behind her on a back porch on a cold morning at the end of summer and put his arms around her, she says "i thought that was the beginning of happiness. what i didn't realize is that it was happiness."

do i have to spell out the lesson here? yeah. life-changing.

another must-read is the book i've just finished, one that i've talked about here before: middlesex. for some reason i saw this book laying around my apartment for a while and thought that it was some boring 19th-century romance novel. i couldn't know that so much of it would wake up my brain in so many different ways. that the author could fill it with bits of the human experience that we're often too embarrassed of to admit even to ourselves. that, less than a month after i'd been thinking to myself about the finality of life and the soul and the brain, the author would articulate the same thing: that the brain is just an organ like any other, the soul a manifestation of it, and when the brain fails...

but enough. in the hunt for my next great read, i picked up the heart is a lonely hunter. i'm afraid that, even though i'm trying to apply all of my high school AP english reading methods (ah, yes. symbolism. what do these overalls on this dusty road really mean?) i'm just not into it. i'm halfway through and at this point i don't really care if i finish it. noah had the same reaction. at least it's not just me.

i need your advice.

ok, readers. time for a vote. seriously, hit that comments section. i just got an email from the new casting director at lucas entertainment (that's michael, not george.):

"Hey Robert,

Are you interested in shooting with us in a non-sexual role?

We're planning a big-time fashion show scene for the period of
September 22-24 (Friday-Sunday), and you look like you could be a perfect
candidate for a runway model. If you're in town this week I'd love it
if you could come in to the office for an interview. Again, this role
is non-sexual."

obviously if they think i'm a perfect candidate for a runway model they have no idea that i'm actually four feet tall. i can't decide if it'd be a funny enough experience to make it worthwhile. what do you think?

run, forrest

a lot of my job consists of going into projects in the, um, less desirable parts of new york and taking environmental samples. how do i do this, you ask? well, i get into scrubs because i don't want to wear my own clothes. then i get on my hands and knees, attach a special adapter to an oreck vaccuum cleaner, and then vaccuum these peoples' hovels. another thing that goes along with all of this is interviewing them. i ask questions about their history, whether or not they smoke, or if they use a humidifier.

you know, the easy things.

i came across a woman today, however, that literally blew my mind. she was so slow that she told us the wrong address of her house. the house she's lived in since, presumably, birth. it's her mother's house. let me give you an example of the way this morning's interview went:

me: how many colds has the baby had since we last talked?
her: cold?
me: yes. colds. how many colds has the baby had?
her: i'm not cold; i've got this jacket on.
me: no. the baby. how many colds has the baby had?
her: the baby's right over there.

and then this gem:

me: do you use a central air conditioner at any time in the home? [i can see that she doesn't.]
her: when it gets hot i turn the knob.
me: so do you use a central air conditioner?
her: sometimes it's hot in here.
me: so when it's hot do you have a central air conditioner that you use? it would have a thermostat on the wall and cold air would blow through vents in the wall.
her: [pointing to the room air conditioner] i use it when it's hot.

there was a white castle across the street from the project. my two coworkers and i stopped in after the visit and then greedily ate the whole bag of fatty goodness as soon as we got back to the office. we'd earned it.

modelsearch

sheesh, it's totally a day for random, short blogs. oh well, get over it.

in news that i keep forgetting to report, terry won this chicago pride contest for "sexiest drunkard in his underwear on a float" or something like that. which means that he not only gets to have a photo shoot to be in (i assume) the promo material for next year's pride, he gets tickets for two anywhere he wants to fly. and let's be honest, people. he's going to be flying to nyc. and i'm absolutely certain that he's going to bring his new husband.

best of all? he's an ad banner:i might have a bi-weekly column, but dammit, i've never gotten to be an ad banner. i need to work on that.

oh, amy.

what happens when you mix a brilliant downtown improv comedian and a hip, gay interior designer?

this happens.

spam

sometimes, amid the dozens of spam messages i now get in my gmail account each day, all of them promising me a "b!gger C1ck" or pharmacy-direct viagra, i find a real gem. witness, dear readers, the paragraph that was at the bottom of a spam email i received this morning from a gentleman named stravros mazza:

Artifact or no I was just nine days away from my personal destiny. When I had first heard the thirty-day deadline on the poison I had not been too concerned. Thirty days is a lot of time. I thought.

is it spam or is it anne sexton? it's anybody's guess.

air quotes

well, dear readers, it's another early afternoon post today, mainly due to my being "busy" at "work." i've decided to use "air quotes" a la britney spears in her now-infamous cryfest interview. "you know, y'all, just cuz i have a 'baby' doesn't mean that 'paparazzi' should be following 'me' around." these quotes are indeed unnecessary because i have actually been busy at work, mainly sucking up dust samples from high-rise projects and looking for hints of cockroach infestation. you know, the fun things.

across the street from work, meanwhile, ellen degeneres' show is setting up camp. there are people lined up for five blocks to see the taping. the stage that had been set up when i came into work is now booming beyonce tunes, as she sound checks for her performance on ellen. when i walked to duane reade this morning i saw her in sweat pants, strutting around singing "deja vu." i'd recognize that hair anywhere.

this weekend was the big gay pool party at frankie's, most of which which i'm proud to say i remember. i thought i'd gone to bed around 3. apparently i went to bed around 4.30. what happened in that dark hour and a half? it's anyone's guess, i'm afraid. well, not anyone's guess. i'm sure that the boys have some sort of report for me; i'm just not sure i want to hear it. when you consider the fact that last year i was so drunk that i blacked out starting at, oh, 11:45pm, i really feel like a grownup.

so responsible, only losing an hour and a half of your night.

i think it's the hot tub that does it to me. it couldn't be the pitcher of orange juice-laced vodka that i was swilling while in the hot tub. definitely the hot tub's fault.

the next day, we ate breakfast at a diner in extremely suburban philly. it was so suburban, really, that i'd call it rural. there were eight of us, all homosexuals, all hungover, all rowdy. when shania twain's "man, i feel like a woman" came on the radio i saw the wait staff shoot each other worried glances; mothers covered their babies' ears.

i spent the rest of the weekend at robin's apartment in art museum, philly. much like my old place in baltimore, if you walk three blocks in the wrong direction you're in trouble. her block is adorable; there's a city block-sized garden across the street. then, when you walk two blocks over and one block down, there are vagrants and crack vials. for some reason i didn't worry as much about myself in downtown baltimore as i do her in downtown philly (which could be a total lie since my time in baltimore seems like a hundred years ago now). maybe that's what's called being a big brother, worrying about your little sister. my little sister who's now a first-year law student.

BGPP!

well, readers, it's already somehow 1:50 in the afternoon. i've finished an extremely (un)satisfying lunch that consisted of four lukewarm chicken fingers with kraft barbecue sauce (i'm constantly amazed by olfactory memory; as soon as i opened the packet of barbecue sauce i thought of my grandmother's pantry, where she always had [has?] a sam's club-sized jar of kraft barbecue sauce. i never liked it. still don't.) and a small salad slathered in bleu cheese dressing. that's right, BLEU cheese. the price for this lunch, and for not having to go outside since it's pouring rain? $9.50. thanks, mt. sinai. seriously. thanks.

speaking of the pouring rain, tonight is the 2nd annual big gay pool party at frank's house (manse) in philly. last year's festivities included highlights such as me prancing around in a black speedo, playing footsie with mattie in the hot tub (in front of my boyfriend), and being so drunk that i can't remember anything after, say, 11:30pm. apparently i smoked a whole lot of cigarettes; i came out of the bathroom, threw myself down onto my air mattress, and screamed "I CAN'T FIND THE BATHROOM!;" and then screamed "WHERE'S GEORGE!?" even though he was laying next to me. it would seem as though i go completely blind when intoxicated.

i also make faces like this, which i think this year i will try to avoid.

seriously, i'm going to remember this year's BGPP. mark my words. and if i don't mention a single word about it in my blog on monday, don't mark my words.

in addition to the BGPP, i'm going to see robin in philly tomorrow. she's just moved there to start her law degree at temple (that's right, my baby sister just became the smart one in the family. i was pretty proud of my master's in music until now.) and i'm going to visit her and judge her apartment i mean provide her with love and support.

since i sold my beloved honda, i once again have to travel by trains, planes, and automobiles to get there. ok, so just trains and automobiles. but still, i have to take new jersey transit. wish me luck.

the 'tross

i was reunited last night with my friend michael, whom i got to hang out with like four times before he up and left for summer stock. now, of course, he's leaving for another gig in florida in two weeks. i will never understand these traveling musicians, these troubadours who actually get paid to sing or play. members of equity. suddenly i'm the constant, the one who doesn't move. they all know where to find me: at my desk at the hospital, or at a project in the bronx, vaccuuming on my hands and knees.

michael and i met through cory, my first camp boyfriend ever. i've been a bad friend, nauseous because of my medication and tired from staying up too late and watching too much tv, so cory and i haven't hung out in a month and a half. but he paid me back last night by not coming to the albatross, or the 'tross, as i've lovingly started calling it, for its next-to-last open mic night. the open mic night at the 'tross, dear readers, is called "loose lips." this should tell you something.

loose lips is hosted by two local drag queens. what do drag queens look like when you get out of manhattan? well, they look pretty much the same as they do in the city, but their wigs are cheaper and they're a lot nicer. they're nicer to each other; they say hi to you when you come into the bar. they'll listen to a lesbian named liz who just finished crying her way through a 4-page poem about the "razor blades in her insides" and give her their phone numbers. hell, i think we all wanted to give her our phone numbers or maybe even put her on some kind of night-watch.

so it was a sadly short loose lips last night. only three acts signed up, including the drag queens. these were:

1. the two aforementioned drag queens, roommates, one of whom is a cute latino(a) from texas, performing a rap song they made up. it was a lil' kim-ish ditty about how the boys want to see their candy. the backing track they used was a karaoke recording of "99 luftballons." rapping drag queens in a nearly-empty dive gay bar in queens.
   
2. a man who's "performance" was--i think, though i never really got it--reading emails he received from a company with whom he was seeking employment. only he didn't read them, his aging blonde lawyer friend with a baseball hat did. he just stood on the sidelines, sipping his vodka tonic, twirling his thumb ring and grabbing at pages that were too private for even the 'tross. then the same lawyer friend read a bunch of quotable quotes from 'tross regulars, none of which i got.
3. liz, the teary lesbian, read her epic poem. it was a tale of "not wanting to be like those other girls, in their silky shoddy shirts/twisting twisted twister tales of razor blades/that cut cut cut me from the inside." some of the 10-person audience was uncomfortable when she started falling apart. i was kind of amazed.

a week from wednesday is the last 'tross "loose lips." and i plan on going. hell, i might even read an old column, since apparently you don't have to have any kind of "talent" or "gimmick" or "shame" to get up on stage. we'll see.

an AVALANCHE of music! har har.

in the last few weeks i've been the happy recipient of a deluge of new music of all kinds: folk, electronic, rock, and then some that doesn't fit into any of those categories. when i get a new cd i like to have at least two weeks to listen to it obsessively. if it's good, i mean. when i got the new dashboard cd, dusk and summer, a few weeks ago, i didn't really need to spend a couple weeks on it. i listened to it a few times, really forcing myself to try and like it because--let's just call a spade a spade--i want to have chris carraba's babies. after this cd, though, he's just going to have to keep quiet while we try to conceive.

anyway, i've gotten so many new cd's lately--should i keep calling them cd's even though i've stopped buying cd's? since i sold my car i have literally no use for hard copies of music; i've finally given in and just started using itunes music store--that i decided to log a few of them here to share with all of you, my legion(s) of dear, faithful reader(s). so, without any further ado, here's my extremely-short-and-not-at-all-official-as-i-reserve-the-right-to-change-any-of-these-opinions-at-any -given-time-or-upon-any-number-of-further-listenings review:

Patty Griffin: Flaming Red

i just got this record (that's right, bitches, i said record) last night (while i slept, no less), so i haven't really been able to listen to it yet. just listening to the first three tracks, though, has already blown my mind. if you're familiar with patty griffin's other cd's, you'll know that they're all really, um, acoustic guitar-y. the first three songs on this cd, however, are like patty griffin "plugged." but it's not annoying plugged like, say, when dashboard confessional decided to flesh out their (his) sound. it just seems like a natural progression. the songs are the same as her first album in structure and content, but the cd "rocks," as they say. and c'mon, you get lyrics like this:

Hey Tony, what's so good about dying
He said I think I might do a little dying today
He looked in the mirror and saw
A little faggot starin back at him
Pulled out a gun and blew himself away

whoa.

Sufjan Stevens: The Avalanche

as all the reviewers have already said, this album really could've just been called illinois 2. but that's kind of ok, because the original illinois touched me in places that i don't let many people touch me. but it's still a b-sides album, which means that it lacks the coherency and flow of the original cd. i guess that i wanted this cd to reprise some of my favorite moments from the original ("the predatory wasp of the palisades," for instance, which somehow transports me in time back to a fall in indiana every time i hear it), but it never really does. it uses the same wonderful palette to create songs that are nearly as good as the ones that beat them out for inclusion on the album. but they're still b-sides.

Ani DiFranco: Reprieve

ani's latest cd came out just a year after knuckle down, which surprised me since she just announced last year that she had been diagnosed with tendonitis and would be forced to stop playing the guitar for a while. now, this woman puts out a cd literally every year. she has since 1991. this prodigious output means that inevitably every cd's going to have a few duds. knuckle down was an exception to this rule, i thought, so i was expecting a lot out of this new work. i was a little disappointed, though, because i think that the intricate song and melodic structures she was fleshing out on knuckle down kind of disappear on this cd. it's almost like she's taken a step back, after her last cd was so perfectly, slickly produced, each song streamlined and poingant. of course there are some standouts, most notably "shroud:"

I had to leave the house of television
To start noticing the clouds
It's amazing the stuff you see when
You finally shed that shroud

that's right, i'm leaving the house of television. sorry, food network.

Christina Aguilera: Back to Basics

i can't really give a full review of this cd because i've only listened to ten tracks. the ten tracks, specifically, that scott decided should've comprised the album. somebody should go over to the met, pluck him from his cubicle, ahem, i mean corner office, and make him a music producer. or at least a christina aguilera advisor. because the ten tracks he picked are each pretty incredible pop gems, all of which follow her new "look at me i'm going to call myself baby jane and make everything sound big band-y!" plan, without sounding repetitious or cloying. the beats are fresh and make me shake my small, scrubs-clad booty on the subway. and let's just not beat around the bush anymore: a few of the songs feature a gospel choir. anything with a gospel choir is going to get my vote, be it christina aguilera or "i don't like the drugs." after a while i did want to scream "I GET IT, CHRISTINA. YOU LOVE YOUR HUSBAND!" but maybe that's just because i'm a jaded asshole. she won me back, though, with the lyrics "he's a one stop shop/make my panties drop" and "he's a one stop shop/with a real big *uh*" oh, christina. how dirrty.

so i've gotten more cd's but that's seriously all i can write today. and i'm sure none of you have even read this far. let's just see if that's true: the holocaust is nothing but a fiction made up by jew-owned hollywood! whattdya think of them apples?

mmm

has anyone else noticed the amount of attention they've been giving to what jonbenet ramsey's suspected murderer eats? what's this guy's name again? frank kameny? no, that's a 50's gay rights activist. hang on, i'm going to go look it up.

ah yes, john mark karr.

anyway, i know at least two full meals that this man has eaten. the first--champagne, beer, chocolate cake, and i presume some kind of entree--was consumed on his business class flight from thailand. then yesterday, in prison, he apparently ate a bologna sandwich. both of these fascinating tidbits of information were provided to me by the today show. oooh, a bologna sandwich! champagne! cake! these must be the mark of a child molest-y serial killer. what do they all mean, these foods, when taken together? was jonbenet partial to chocolate cake? champagne? she was, after all, a young beauty queen, which means she was accustomed to a life of glamour.

i don't know the whole story here, as i haven't bothered reading a single article about the man's case. i don't know why, for instance, he was in thailand to begin with. or why he gave himself up. or how he knew the little girl he murdered. if he used to, say, snack on his victims when he was done, and he was in thailand because they have ritualistic cannibalism over there (let's just say for argument's sake that they do, k?), i can see why it's important that now he's been downgraded to bologna sandwiches.

otherwise, get back to me if he's convicted.

a happy new york story

something happened yesterday that, before it happened, existed only in my nightmares. no, dear readers, i wasn't hate-crimed on the street; no one broke into my apartment or pulled a gun on me on the subway. what happened wasn't, i suppose, a direct threat to my well-being. that's not exactly true. my emotional well-being has taken a direct hit.

so i'm sitting in my living room yesterday finishing torch song trilogy (as a side-note: if you haven't seen this movie yet, go rent it. it's old, it's by harvey fierstein, and it's unbelievable.), getting all weepy and enjoying my cereal and coffee and having the house to myself on a sunday morning to get all weepy and enjoy my cereal and coffee. torch song ends, having hit a little too close to home when it comes to harvey's relationship with his overbearing mother, and i swirl my coffee around in its mug, then take a last gulp.

there's something in my mouth that feels like plastic; like a bit of candy bar wrapper. for a moment i think that i might as well just swallow it--when's the last time somebody died from eating a candy bar wrapper?--but i change my mind and spit the wrapper into my hand.

it is not a wrapper, however, dear readers.

it is a

COCKROACH.

A DEAD COCKROACH.

A DEAD COCKROACH THAT LOOKS LIKE THIS:
in my mouth. a dead cockroach in my mouth. i fling it onto the oriental rug and spring up off the sofa. i don't scream, i don't cry. i'm just dumbfounded. i shakily go to the bathroom and swish a full mouthful of mouthwash, way more than the bottle tells me i should be using. i go back to the coffee mug, go back to the dead roach on the rug. in my mug is another dead cockroach. they'd been having, i don't know, cockroach synchronized swimming or something. while i drank my coffee.

and no one is home. i'm alone in my house with my two dead cockroaches, one of whose texture i can still remember in my mouth. i call hilary, her phone is off. i call amanda, who's on the train. i call terry, who's in bed with his new boyfriend.

this is it, readers. we have done everything in our power to get rid of these roaches: we have diligently cleaned; rid the house of any paper laying around; gotten traps. the next step is the roach gel. oh, and calling my landlord to tell him that he needs to pay for an exterminator.

because i drank a roach yesterday morning.

how to know your man is hooked on crystal

by drag queen hedda lettuce, via queerty:

HOW YOU KNOW YOUR MAN IS HOOKED ON CRYSTAL

1) He can fuck for hours but alas never seems to achieve an erection.
2) When you head over to his apartment for a romantic evening his door is slightly ajar and upon entering he is naked on his bed with his ass in the air getting plowed by 5-7 gentleman callers.
3) When you are fucking him it feels like you are fucking an open window.
4) He is missing his two front teeth.
5) He has picked out all his eyelashes and eyebrows and has glued them to an ashtray and has given it to you for a birthday gift. Your birthday was 6 months ago.
6) He swears Madonna is communicating to him through a filling in his mouth.
7) He has redecorated his apartment by boarding up all his windows with duct tape and cardboard boxes.
8) His breath smells like gasoline.
9) He has overdosed and died.

A Different Place

“Do you still love Alan?” Matt asked me. It’s a question that had been swimming around in his head for a while, I think. It had been there, moving in circles, trying to kick its way out from behind his eyes. After all, this was our fourth date and we hadn’t so much as made out. This just isn’t done in New York City. You either hop in bed on the first date or you assume that it’s not going to happen. Something seems so Victorian about getting to know each other before you start a sexual relationship that everyone here just expects sex on the first date. Matt and I had been on several dates; we’d held hands, even, but we hadn’t kissed on the lips. I’d avoided the deep, penetrating eye contact he kept trying to make. He had the studied eyes of an actor, always trying to convey something to you without words, thinking that he could hold you with his gaze.

And he’d clearly had enough. Determined to get to the bottom of things once and for all, determined to divine the reason that I’d avoided physical contact over the course of our two-week relationship, he went for what he knew was the jugular: Alan, the man I used to live with. Two years after breaking up, we still talk on the phone twice a week. He’s more like my brother than any man I’ve ever known. And here was Matt, a man I barely knew, a man who didn’t know anything about my history or my friends or family, cornering me about a past relationship.

“I don’t know,” I told him. “I guess so.” As he stood up, obviously pissed off, I noticed for the first time how cold his room was, his little air conditioner working overtime against the heat wave we’d been having in New York. He looked back at me and said, on his way out of the room, “I think you need to figure that out before you try to start another relationship.” And like that, it was over. I either didn’t have what Matt needed or I wasn’t willing to give it. I left, thinking more about Alan than the man whose apartment I’d just been ushered out of.

What a question: Do I still love Alan? And the obvious answer, the one that pops out of my mouth before I can swallow it down, replace it with the one I’d like to say: Yes. I don’t think I ever stopped, in fact. Even after we said things to each other that we can ever take back, after he’d taken his bed and his cat and moved away, I still loved him. Do I wish, though, that we were still together, that he’d call me tomorrow and tell me that it was all a big mistake? Absolutely not.

The truth is that Alan and I seem to have done the impossible. We seem to have come through a breakup to find a relationship that’s stronger than lovers. We’ve found an ease with each other we never had when we were dating. This is the man, after all, that’s driven me to the hospital and seen me through deaths in the family. Like it or not, the two of us are wound into each others’ lives. So there’s my answer. Yes, I love Alan. I also love my mother, but I don’t want to date her, either.

Why, then, has the longest relationship I’ve had since him lasted a grand total of four months? Why, when I know that our being friends is the best thing for us, should he be the standard against which others are judged? Maybe it’s because I’m too impatiently awaiting the connection with another person that he and I share, maybe because I’m subconsciously seeking not just a new relationship, but his replacement.

The truth is, I suppose, that it’s a little bit of both. I won’t try to forget Alan or deny that still means so much to me. He’ll still be there, in my heart, and eventually someone else will join him. And I’ll move forward, carrying my love in a different place, but knowing that it’s there.

an ipod in booze

let me tell you something. there's money to be made in booze. and last night's after-work romp to the hudson hotel with a coworker for her birthday proved it. as if it needed proving.

my coworker decided that she wanted to go somewhere fancy for drinks. now, i go plenty of fancy places for drinks: the cock, for instance, or even therapy if i'm feeling extremely wealthy and preppy. this doesn't happen often, as you can imagine, so i do most of my drinking at the cock. why? because even though these places are more expensive than baltimore (more expensive, really, than anywhere else in the world except tokyo, london, paris, and boston), they're cheaper than any other bar in the city. well, any bar in manhattan. i wouldn't go to like some bar in staten island. hell, i wouldn't go to staten island.

so since i do my drinking in divey gay establishments, i don't often see how the other half live. you know, the other half who can do things like go to the hudson hotel bar (which, by the way, is fashioned after that scene toward the end of 2001: A Space Odyssey, where the floor is all lit up and there's all that clear furniture. i don't really know anything about this scene because i haven't seen that movie since 6th grade, when our crazy possibly-lesbian definitely-mean science teacher whose name i can't remember showed it to us.) and drink $15 martinis.

fifteen dollar.

martinis.

that's not even to mention the $400 bottles of champagne they list on the menu. yeah. so when the bill came--and it was my credit card on the chopping block--and the grand total (including gratuity, which i thought was very gauche for a bar that tries to pass itself off as fancy. like, if you think you're serving rich people don't you expect them to tip you more than 15%? yet i digress) was $319, i tried not to fall out of my chair. luckily i was with a bunch of adults, all of whom started throwing wads of money at the bill. and i'm going to go deposit all of that cash and immediately pay the tab off. but still.

$319. that's like...an ipod. in booze.

rip nancy

first of all, i'm still not over that cute little blonde girl getting kicked off PR last night. what's her name? it's not angela, because that's the crazy woman who hides her crow's feet behind those chunky black glasses and sticks rosettes and bubble skirts on everything she makes. hilary? no, that's my roommate. i can't remember her name and since she's now history i'm not going to bother to look it up on bravotv.com. so we'll call her nancy. nancy's a cute name, right? she looks like a nancy, with that slick bleached hair and lil' pug nose.

anyway, i was just sick to my stomach over the fact that the judges eliminated nancy last night instead of vincent. like, it has never been clearer to me that the producers are the ones making the last call here. they're only keeping that crazy sack of shit on the show because he's, well, a crazy sack of shit. at least last season's shit-starter (or the "puck" of the group, as i like to think of him) was santino, who had some real talent. and he was totally likeable by the end of the season, especially with that "what happened to andre?" bidness. but vincent? i don't care how they edit him, he's a gross, malicious man. lucky for us he lives in new york and we might have the opportunity to bump into him somewhere.

on the same hand, little nancy or whatever her name is lives in new york as well; and she's our age; and i'm sure she likes gay people because, c'mon, nancy's clearly down. you don't get that hairdo from a straight woman. so we're with you, nancy, wherever you are. we believed in your talent and your perkiness and totally didn't think that your ugly yellow paper dress made your "zaftig" (tim gunn) model look like she was "plus sized" (heidi). besides, as sam said, "plus size meaning what, exactly? that she's a size 2 instead of a size 0?"

yes, sam. that.

next week's challenge is, we think, that the designers have to design outfits for their mothers. "what happens if your mother is a huge lady?" sam asked. "they don't get a big enough budget for all that fabric."

"i'd love it if my mother was my model," i said. "she only eats chardonnay."

it's no atlantis.

and, adding to the growing list of crazy fucking shit i miss about baltimore...

that's some shit

after finishing the 40 year old virgin last night with amanda (i'm sorry, but i was not expecting this movie to be as amazingly funny as it was. seriously, go rent it.) and a triple-shot of nyquil, i went to bed at 11.30. and, almost miraculously, my sickness has vanished. ok, so not exactly vanished. i still have a stuffy nose and my voice sounds pretty bad, but i'm not knock knock knocking on heaven's door anymore. oh wait, homos don't go to heaven.

in other news, i've been contacted via myspace by the only other homo that i went to high school with. though i'm sure there were others (just by looking at his myspace page i see another dude that must've been to high school with us, two years younger, that i don't recognize whatsoever. and trust me, i would. because he's hot. and that's a rare thing at ponca city high school.), the only person in my class that i was pretty sure was a raging homo was this guy. whenever i tell people i came out in high school (in 1997, in fact, right after ellen came out on ellen.) they don't seem to get the gravity of the situation. inevitably they're east coasters who have been out since they were 13, or, like, "were never really 'in,'" but being a gay 17 year old in a town of 25,000 people on the plains in oklahoma...that's some shit.

so this other guy, the guy that myspaced me yesterday, always pops to my head when i tell people that i was the only out gay guy in high school. because i'm not exactly sure that's true. this guy definitely could've been out to his friends; i'd never have known. his friends were cheerleaders and the rich guys who lived down the street from me. they drove their big, expensive trucks or their tricked-out honda civics or their mustang convertibles to the country or to each others' houses, where they got fucked-up on beer. i, on the other hand, was friends with the music kids, the drama kids, the eccentrics. with very few exceptions, these two castes don't mix. so even if this kid was, in fact, out, he wasn't available to me.

so he says to me in a myspace message this morning, after totally skirting around the issue yesterday, "so, wait a minute... you said that ty is "cute"... does that mean you're... uhhh... maybe i better check out your profile." of course i had to pause for a second--this guy lives in ponca city, sees my parents all the time. i've gone so far away from life in that small town that i was hesitant to reopen a connection that wasn't one of the few i already had. but then, having been out of the closet nearly ten years, and seeing as he is obviously also a big homo, i just told him. not that i had to, since right there on my myspace page it says "GAY!!!!!!!!" in big pink flashing letters.

pictures!

finally, finally, finally posted pictures from last week. click here.

so, all of you baltimoreans (and dc-ans), click this link, then buy a ticket. then go see kel and be amazed. deal? great.

yeah.

my resolution upon coming back from avalon--you know, the one where i swore that i'd sleep at least eight hours a night, more if i could, because my main problem pre-vacation was that i was absolutely exhausted--is shaping up really well. i didn't stay up until midnight two nights ago watching the 40-year-old virgin. nor did i meet up with an acquaintance from college last night at therapy for a drink, which of course spiralled into a drink plus two vodka martinis. oh wait, yes i did. my resolution to rest, to not let new york city run me into the ground, has gone by the wayside. and so, once again, i'm sitting at work an exhausted wreck. oh, and what i've been insisting to myself is "allergies" seems to have traveled downstream into my lungs. it couldn't be those vodka martinis. no way.

tonight, though, i'm going to bed at 11. no, seriously. 11pm. i'm going to be a good boy, and set my coffee out the night before and brush my teeth and ten-thirty and not drink or smoke or swear.

in other news, i successfully traded for the on-call cell phone (that's right, on-call cell phone. which i forgot to turn off last night and rang at 5:30am, a whopping four hours after i'd gone to sleep.) so that i could attend frankie's big gay pool party, aka bgpp, in philadelphia next weekend. oh, and, you know, see my sister since she just moved there. god, what an exciting post...yeah.

resurrection

hellllllloooooooooooooo, dearest readers! (i hope that when you read that sentence you read it in the voice of dame edna, because that's how i thought it in my head when i was writing it. you did? oh, good.) if you ever want to feel loved, let me tell you something, you should try disappearing for a week. by wednesday, i had eight people call me to make sure that i was alright. you know, that i hadn't stepped in front of a subway car or finally jumped off the tallest building here at work. or, i guess, that i wasn't in the hospital with another crohn's flare.

i was somewhere much, much better than dead or in the hospital: i was in avalon, new jersey, at tom's family's summer house. first, let me describe the location: avalon is on the jersey shore, just north of stone harbor. it sits on a strip of land separated from the mainland by a bay, which tom's house overlooks. the back deck faces westward, which means that i got to see seven sunsets over the bay. yes, i am lucky.

i spent the last week:

1. riding around on tom's boat or being dragged behind tom's boat on either an innertube or (unsuccessfully) water skis
2. laying on the beach, next to the ocean
3. laying on the beach, next to the bay
4. laying on the deck, next to the bay
5. swimming (in my speedo, obviously)
6. reading middlesex, which is currently changing my life and made me cry twice on the train back to new york because of the following passage: Though he'd never been religious, he realized now that he'd always believed in the soul, in a force of personality that survived death. But as his mind continued to waver, to short-circuit, he finally arrived at the cold-eyed conclusion, so at odds with his youthful cheerfulness, that the brain was just an organ like any other and that when it failed he would be no more.
7. drinking whiskey sours, our "drink of the week," as tom called them.
8. sleeping ten hours a night, to the point that my fellow houseguests made fun of me and said that i had mono

and, after all of those eight things, i am four shades darker. i am rested. and, i suppose, i'm ready to be back at work. happy monday!

Making Noise

We had just finished making out in the park. Not actually making out, I guess, but something that closely enough resembled making out that it made people notice when they walked by. One man in particular had cast us a lingering glance that wasn’t a smirk, but an earnest smile. It was a smile that said, Oh, you kids.

We didn’t have anywhere else to go, really, so we’d escaped to the park even though it was a sticky summer day. We had a few precious moments before the rain started—steady, soaking rain, the kind that makes an umbrella useless—and we were using them well. I held Andy’s head to my chest as we sat there, feeling his coarse hair, thinking how funny it was that I, of all people, was being so intimate in public, and how funny it was that I was enjoying it. I’m the person who doesn’t hold hands at the shopping mall, the person who’s too self-conscious to kiss goodbye at the train station. When Andy looked up at me, though, his look said Aren’t we being bad? Don’t you just love it? And I forgot all of that other stuff.

“Come on,” he said, his head still in my lap, “let’s go.” We’d started walking toward the edge of the park when I heard a teenager shout, “Stop being such a fucking faggot!” He said it with laughter in his voice, making fun of his friend. I can’t write the other things he said; use your imagination.

As we continued walking up the hill, toward the edge of the park, I couldn’t help being conscious of the boys behind me. They were still loudly taunting each other. I like to think that I could hold my own in a fight. I have, after all, spent a sick amount of time at the gym. But no amount of working out changes the fact that I’ve never actually been in a fight, much less had to defend myself against teenage anti-gay hate crime-ing juvenile delinquents.

For this reason, I am extremely aware of my surroundings. And when two teenagers, both of whom outweigh me by probably 50 pounds, are throwing anti-gay slurs back and forth at each other, I take notice.

Just go ahead and walk around us, I kept thinking, forcing Andy to match my pace as I slowed down. The boys passed us without a word, but I thought to myself how lucky we were that they hadn’t walked by us five minutes earlier.

“Is it wrong,” I asked, speaking for the first time since I’d heard the boys behind us, “that when I hear people talking like that I still get freaked the hell out?”

“Nah,” he said, “but I guess I’m used to it.”

With Andy, though, it isn’t really an issue of being used to it; it’s an issue of never having to worry about it. He could pass for straight if he had to. I’m sure he does most of the time. I, on the other hand, with my fitted shirts and wild ties and tight jeans, don’t.

And so I wonder, will I ever get over this jumpiness? I do, after all, live in New York City. Gay people—in Manhattan, at least—are attacked so infrequently that people take to the streets in protest when one is. So why do I still find myself looking over my shoulder all the time? Why is it that my heart beats a little faster if I’m alone on the train with a group of teenage boys?

I could lay out plenty of reasons: that I grew up in rural Oklahoma, a place where gay people really do have to watch their backs; that I’m a pessimist, always expecting the worst from people. But I think that the reason I’m wary is very simple: gay people still get assaulted all the time. And, contrary to what the attackers’ defense lawyers might say, it’s not always because we were hitting on the wrong people. It’s often just because we were in the wrong place at the wrong time, holding hands with our boyfriends, wearing our rainbow shirts, whatever.

Our nation’s current political climate, I think, fosters this violence. We live in a country where our leaders perpetuate institutionalized bigotry (think the Defense of Marriage Act, for instance), which sends people the message that it’s OK to discriminate against us. And it’s not a great leap from discrimination to violence; once you’ve dehumanized someone it’s a lot easier to hurt them.

I’m not a political writer; I’m not the most informed or politically savvy person. But I do know what it feels like to fear for my personal safety, even in a place like New York City. And until I can do what every straight couple takes for granted—whether that means getting married or making out in Central Park without the fear of getting beaten up—I’m going to make as much noise as I can.

how i spent my morning

i often avoid doing certain things. i don't know why, because they'll be neither uncomfortable or really that big a pain in the ass. for one, i avoided going to buy an air conditioner for literally two months. i chose to sweat in my sweatbox heattrap of a room, literally drinking myself to sleep, instead of figuring out how to get to a store and buy the a/c and then put it in. in the end, it was my coworker john who had to say "ROBERT, we're going to buy you an air conditioner." of course, he's a wonderful homosexual from from long island, so it sounds a little different when he says it. with his prodding, i found a PC richard just down the street from my house, asked amanda to go with me, and voila--i had an air conditioner to sit there in my hallway until i could lure a straight man (stadler) over to install it for me.

much like the a/c purchase, i avoided making an appointment in radiology for about a month and a half. one of the joys of crohn's disease is that you get to have all kinds of yummy tests done every now and then. for some reason, though, i carried the order around with me for six weeks. every day i'd think, "today is the day i'm going to make this appointment." and then i'd get busy at work and leave the hospital, having not made it. once again, when john got wind of the fact that i hadn't made the appointment yet, he called me every 15 minutes until i could tell him the date and time of my "small bowel."

yep, small bowel. the second i've had to do in my life. it's where you have to drink what feels like two gallons of barium (essentially school chalk that's been pulverized and made into a paste) and then flop around on an x-ray table. the highlight of this test (i mean, if i could choose just one, since it's obviously a party) was the radiologist who performed it: an old jewish woman with densely-rouged cheeks and a lavender jersey old-lady dress which perfectly complemented her white orthopedic sneakers. and i don't mean old jewish woman like 60. oh no. 60 is the new 40, or something like that. i'm talking like at least late 80's.

so picture this: me in a nightgown (that i accidentally put on backwards, until old jewish doctor lady says "why is your gown on backwards? turn it around, we don't care about your bottom.") on an x-ray table, laying down, being fed barium through a straw by an 85 year old woman. this is how i spent my morning.

weather.com

ever since weather.com told us that the day of the pier dance there would be "steady, soaking rain" (how editorial does weather.com really need to be, i ask. i did, however, work this inside joke into my latest column.) scott and i have been throwing around jokes about ridiculous headlines involving the weather. specifically about how they've been covering our latest heat wave. in an email yesterday, scott said:

I wonder what the weather writers came up with
today considering I looked at accuweather this morning
and there was a graphic of a thermometer bursting...it
said 99 degrees but "realfeel" is 112. Maybe
"death-inducing, molten-lava-like, heat"?

the answer is on the cover of today's am new york:

"SCORCHING: Temps soar and it's only going to get worse today"

and, from Page 3:

"Crazy heat won't retreat!"

whereas weather.com just says:

"GET THE FUCK INDOORS YOU CRAZY FUCKING ASSHOLES. WHAT, DO YOU WANNA DIE OR SOMETHING?"

fleetwood mac reunion tour

well, friends, the day has come. today's the last day that i'll see sleater-kinney perform live, unless their "indefinite hiatus" is actually just a hiatus and not a breakup. of course, if their "indefinite hiatus" ends in fifteen years i'll be 41 and long past my years of going to rock shows. so this truly could be the last time i see this three perform live.

and that's a damn shame. it's not that they're the best band i've ever seen live--unlike some bands who you really don't understand until you see them play, i think that s-k really does shine in the studio. now before you get all up in arms here, let me explain myself (to those one of you who actually care about this band): when they play live they're not quite as tight. their sound often feels like it's going to come unhinged at any moment--like the three of them could just careen off a cliff, spinning in three separate directions. when you combine this precariousness with the fact that they've lately had a pension for psychadelic 10-minute jam sessions--possibly my least favorite of all music genres, i find jam sessions absolutely unbearable--i just think that their cd's are a little more enjoyable.

this isn't to say that they don't put on a pretty fucking incredible show. corin tucker fucking wails, carrie brownstein jumps around while playing her badass guitar, and janet weiss, um, hits the drums super hard. i plan on dancing my pants (actually shorts, since it's another 100-degree day here in new york) off. amanda's going with me tonight; i don't think that she's ever seen s-k before.

i remember when i went to see them the second time in baltimore and i dragged terry along with me. i do mean dragged, because he thinks that corin's voice sounds like a cat being passed through a meat grinder. (i'm like, uh, duh, terry, that's why i LOVE it!) we stood toward the front of the stage, surrounded by 17-year-old wannabe riot grrls (hello you're a teenager in baltimore, maryland, not a riot grrl). terry had been nervous about what to wear since up to that point he'd been more the "fleetwood mac reunion tour" attendee and not so much a punk rocker.

ah, memories.

it might be worth it

well, readers, it's another week of literally trying not to drop dead here in new york. if i thought that the last motherchristing heat wave was bad, this one promises to be worse. just like everywhere else in the country, temperatures are soaring up to, oh, i don't know, 103 degrees. with a heat index of 115. ONE HUNDRED AND FIFTEEN DEGREES. when you're walking down the strip in las vegas and you feel heat like that--and it's true, by the way, that it's a dry heat and that it doesn't feel as hot as a, um, wet heat (ew, wet heat. how porno sounding)--it's almost exciting. like, "oooh, i can feel this sun totally crisping the skin on the back of my neck like bacon!" but it's only cute because you know you're only going to be out in it for five minutes, or however long it takes you to walk across that bridge from the MGM grand to new york, new york. you walk from one casino/shopping mall to another and they're so air conditioned that you don't really mind the 115 degrees.

when you're stuck swimming through the new york summer air, though, it's a very different proposition. you're not walking to and from a casino/drinking establishment/swimming pool. you're walking from the revolting, sweaty, smelly train station to work, through a sea of revolting, sweaty, smelly people. and you know that you're one of them. (it doesn't help, i suppose, that i was distracted this morning and completely forgot to put on my certain-dri. OOPS!) it was nearly comical, though, how the train station felt this morning. the whole thing was absurdly hot. like, hotter than outside and outside it's 100 degrees. and the spot where i stood--where i stand every morning since i moved two train cars down to avoid the crazy latin woman--felt like there was a heater blowing onto it. there's actual hot air actually blowing on me. actually.

and so i just had to kind of laugh, as i stood there with sweat dripping down my face. dripping down my spine. much like when you're in new york and caught out in a monsoon-like rainstorm, there's just nothing you can do. you get soaked and chalk it up to the list of thigs that suck about living here. but then you think about that open-bar out magazine party last thursday and decide that it might just be worth it.