I Do?

            It’s a rare thing for me to to be so excited for a party. This particular event is the dream wedding of one of my besties! Normally you are friends with just one of the bridal parties. You always fall into one of two categories...his or hers. But in this case I am also good friends with the handsome groom. When people commit to each other for a lifetime it still isn’t that much time when you think about it. A long human life is really short in the grand scheme of things. With the exception of childhood sweethearts and red necks, people seem to find their life partner after the dust starts to settle from their chaotic twenties. At least that’s what I’m telling myself!

          I had to slip out for a few minutes from the raging reception. The music blares out and over the garden wall into the hot summer night. The huge white Japanese tent pierces the black sky in the middle of a gorgeous state park in Virginia. My face hurts from smiling all day. Weddings are the grandest gesture of legal love in our society and are a lot for a single gay guy to take in. I feel stuck in limbo sometimes with the whole concept of marriage. I’ve been to my share of weddings but there’s something really special about this one.  It's more than these two just merging their worlds on paper. It is officially a very happy day indeed.
             As I stand on the outside of Christina and Jason’s life together and look in I notice how nothing has really changed in their behavior towards one another after the I do’s were said. Their individuality hasn’t changed either. This governmental stamp has only cleaned up some of their paperwork. Their commitment was solid from the day they met in Japan. It was on. He had her at "Hajimemashite!"  "I had a feeling.....that tonight’s gonna be a good good night" in the words of the Black Eyed Peas blaring.  The music is blasting over the wall of the nature preserve and people are throwing back almond champeign like the world is ending tomorrow.....when in fact.....it's just beginning!  

           I don’t want to focus on all the things lacking in my life and what I don’t have (like a man or Broadway) because that’s exactly what I’ll continue to manifest. Every year around May 18th my little brother calls me and reminds me how precious life is and how every year is a gift from the universe. It’s hard to really believe that sometimes. You really start to realize that if you’ve ever out lived a close friend that’s around your age. When my friend died unexpectedly at twenty eight years old I began to see how lucky I was to be alive at all.

         I think a good grasp of mortality is just what the doctor ordered when it comes to surviving the thirty year quarterly year hump. Once I leapt that nauseating hurdle thirty-one was no big deal. I sailed through my last birthday free and clear of the usual panic attacks that come in seasonal waves of professional regret. I totally flipped out in Tokyo on my thirtieth birthday while I was on tour with Xanadu. I wasn’t prepared at all to step one foot into my blurry adult future holding onto nothing more than a dance belt and some debt. New York hasn’t turned out to be what I had imagined when I moved here at nineteen. Did I really think I was going to be starring in Rent a few days after I landed at La Guardia for the first time?  But I’ve proudly threaded together twelve years of shows that make up one D-list career.

         I’m out side taking a moment to hide from the pressure of joining a fifty person conga line that was winding around the patio when I left.  Also I have a fear of getting pushed into one of those horrific public dance circles that you can only escape by doing some awkward nightmarish hip-hop solo, coffee grinder, or the worm!  My face still hurts. I love love and I don’t want to miss my prince charming because I’m looking in the mirror. Did "the one" walk right by me while I was dabbing cover-up on a tiny scar that only I can see?  Cultivating personal happiness isn’t easy and is a full time job. You have to work on it like you would a good tan. Is he out there? Am I ready if he is?
         Also, I don’t want to be anybody’s first anything...first kiss...first love...first time! I feel like you have to make some mistakes to know how to avoid some of the pot holes in the road. First relationships rarely work out. But I also don’t want to find myself as rebound road-kill either for some dude who is looking for me to perfectly match his puzzle piece. I want a guy to be self-completed already. I don't need another project and I certainly don't want to be one! Venus rules everything around me and I hope that one day she’ll lead me straight into the arms of some salt n’ pepper daddy that is in his forties and in no way involved in show business. I can’t date a twink wearing angel wings and glitter that uses phrases like “I’m feeling totes grumps today!”
        I’m just trying to become the man I’d eventually like to meet one day. Give me a guy that isn’t scared of the fine print that comes in a contract with me. I come with all kinds of special clauses and endless loop holes with extra footnotes explaining my unusual take on what a relationship is going to be like with me. When the door to the bird cage is left open then I don't want to break free.  Sometimes I get stuck obsessing over what’s just on the other side of the fence. An internal alarm goes off inside me if something is about to sour or go stale.  I’ve never been faced with jealousy because I’ve never been in an open relationship before. I know that they are out there and that they exist.  But finding that perfect balance of trust and experimentation might be a life long casting search for me for a show that never opens. Who knows, I might hate it once I tried it! How can you share your boyfriend if you hate sharing tapas at a restaurant? The inner fat girl in me hates the idea of sharing food! Where Oh where is my exclusivity gene? Straight couples very rarely have open sexual arrangements like that of their gay counterparts. I find love in freedom but that puts me in a risky, lonely category. I mean didn’t everyone’s mother teach them to share anyway? If monogamy feels forced then something’s wrong. If you look into the eyes of your man and know....then you know! Christina knows and isn’t plagued by the what ifs in the world like I am. I want to know too. Not that marriage is even legal here in progressive ol' New York City, but I truly love the idea of it. Maybe one day that will be in the cards for me? There’s a line from one of my favorite country songs that says “I’m scared of love but scared of life alone.”

Held at Cunt Point

          There are some friends that we can’t hang onto forever. And there are times in a relationship when no matter how far you go back, you may or may not realize that you’ve totally out grown one another and that’s ok. Just because you’ve known each other for 17 years doesn’t necessarily mean that you should know each other for the next 17! Sometimes it devolves slowly one degree at a time. You can find yourselves heading in completely different directions without even realizing it.  One day you turn to your childhood buddy and you don’t even recognize her anymore and more so yourself! It’s a gradual, undetected change that slips under the radar and comes as a shock to the emotional system after years of blindly not paying attention and seeing the signs. Sometimes that slow divide of change unknowingly creeps along so steadily until one day......Oops.....your Pangaea no longer exists! There can also come a time when you may stop growing as friends and that’s a slippery slope to an eminent breakup. You can never stop trying to impress your lovers and friends just because you’re so comfortable with them that you have fallen into some kind of stale routine. The shelf life of any relationship is only as good as the effort you both put into it. There’s no falling asleep at the wheel people...no healthy cruse control. Things may seem normal, but what do you have really if you only play it safe, never muddying-up the waters occasionally for the betterment of both parties?

         I’m not married, nor could I be legally in the state of New York, but I’ll be damned if I don’t try my best to apply this concept to my future boyfriend, man friend, or gusband (gay-husband). You don’t want the connection to harden and become an after thought after you’ve made an investment even beyond a couple of weeks....much less years! I feel like I’ve “arrived” with a guy once we can ride in a car for hours and hours and find a comfortable silence. Not talking is so sexy when you find that juicy balance of quiet and conversation. It just flows if it’s right. Filling an uncomfortable silence is exhausting for two people on a nine hour car ride (or 45 minutes for that matter). Time has been known to stand still on extremely awkward dates. I’m afraid to look across the dinner table at my man years down the road and not know what to say to him. Spontaneity is vital to a couple trying to remain good friends. Every now and than you have to shake things up and try your best to keep things fresh and unexpected. I truly believe that even though I’m the only common denominator in all my failed relationships!

          We all know at least one couple that not only doesn’t compliment each other, but it seems as though they don’t even like each other anymore. There is no animosity but my parents seem to fall into the category of folks existing day in and day out under the same roof running parallel train tracks to one another, yet leading completely separate lives......apart. When I found out that my mom and dad no longer sleep in the same bed or room my heart sank in my chest in horrifying disappointment. And snoring wasn’t the issue to be clear.  I don’t want the intimacy and romance to sour with time like it seems to do. I want it to be the reverse! I’m not looking for someone to necessarily complete me. I just want to move forward with a guy without becoming stagnant and too comfortably numb. 

          I’m in a situation now where I’m forced to outgrow and let go of a toxic friendship with a girl that’s lasted literally more than half of my life. It wasn’t always bad of course, but the looming potential oil spill was there. It quietly hid beneath the surface of the sincerely scary party invites at gun point (with no option to say no), and the brittle facade of what was once one of my closest, best friendships. It saddens me to no end that our butterfly died before breaking free of its adolescent high school cocoon.  We had such potential and were quite the gay duo too. We were going to be two fabulous, late twenty-somethings marching hesitantly into our thirties and growing old together while embracing our adult city selves here in New York.  But all that’s changed with age. Instead of there being more understanding, it seems her fuse has actually grown shorter with time. There used to be some leniency for a cancellation or possible late arrival. Could a single train delay capsize what we’ve built for 17 years.....really? The answer to this trick question is unfortunately yes! Now an “I’m running late!” text reaps a hateful, venomous, attack of the highest, most bipolar order. Her response negates any effort I might make to care. Everything with this girl is taken personally. If anything spoils her concrete plans she flips out and unleashes a hidden demon that is nothing short of Sigourney Weaver in the Ghost Busters movie! I can’t be bothered by a full on flip out from a thirty year old woman, not in twenty-ten. Jesus Christ! I mean who’s got the time....Seriously? “Sorry I’m late” I text with fearful shaking thumbs.  I press the Send button with all the seriousness and anxiety of a president pushing the infamous nuclear bomb red button. The wrath of this dyke’s inner and outer serial killer takes my breath away at times. She will turn on you with the blink of an eye.  If I go missing or turn up dead in Riverside Park my closest friends, when questioned, could lead the cops directly to the primary suspect. “I would check the Cubbyhole in the West village officer...or maybe Crazy Nannies!”

(Look closely my friends at the "flower")

         I always thought knowing someone half of your life counted for something, like the occasional get out of jail free card once and a while. But it seems our dynamic is quite different. I can’t take one step further in this friendship when this interrupted bitch is still mad at me for taking a sip of her Snapple three years ago! Am I the only one who knows people that keep a score card of checks and balances within the friendship? I think you can really love someone while not even liking them at all. If one of your VIPs completely stops bringing anything positive to the table and is nothing but a drama queen, filled to the brim with cunty guilt trips and below the belt insults, it’s time to face the music and try to desperately gnaw yourself free from that sinking, damaged ship before she pulls you down with her.  And she Will! I mean when do you stop the madness and start protecting yourself? When do you slam down the judges gavel finalizing that there will be no more abuse? I’ve never really understood the battered wife syndrome myself but I’m definitely guilty of hanging on waaaaaaay too long to boyfriends and friend-friends with the hope of fixing the problem and saving it. Going back again and again makes it my fault at some point doesn't it?  There is no mystery as to what's hiding behind door number three.  How long should you wait before you abort mission? There’s no realistic future together when you’re having constant petty fights and name calling. These are the gals that bring up all the things said in strictest confidence and use them against you the second it suits them.  And by the time it bites you in the ass it’s way too late. You’re already vulnerable and wide open to the deepest of inside personal attacks. It’s hard to run from someone that you’ve know for the better part of your life, someone who knows your inner secrets and weaknesses, using them against you when the time is right. I need to start nurturing positive relationships with people that will eventually give something back other than a bipolar attitude.

          Living uptown I see exactly how much or how little effort people are willing to put into hanging out. Being the guy living in scary Harlem I’m always the one who spends the better part of an hour sitting on the 1 train traveling “down state” to have some semblance of a social life. God knows it won’t come to me! If I want to see my friends, ninety-nine percent of the time I'm the only one doing all the commuting. Not only are most of my peeps borough snobs, but wild horses couldn’t get these guys above 116th street if their lives depended on it! It doesn’t matter that my particular neighborhood is beautiful and quiet and right on the Hudson River. Nope, nothing could convince the jury to head north for the unbeatable views and square footage that isn’t exactly cheap. You’re telling me that my 3,500 sq. ft.; five bedroom; three bath with a pool room, and two huge floors of blissful space isn’t enough to convince you that my house is better for a party than any dorm room sized studio on 15th and Broadway? People would honestly rather squeeze into a glorified closet on Mercer street before they would sit on a train for twenty minutes up to my Hamilton Heights mansion for a dinner party. I mean doesn’t that sound nice...a river side view, space to bring a dog (or ten) with room to freely move around and socialize not wondering if there’s going to be enough seating or air conditioning? Why are people such uptown snobs I wonder? Don’t they know why I decided to move up here in the first place? It’s obviously worth it. Trust me, if I could have what I have downtown that would be truly ideal. I’d love to walk out my front door and be in the middle of it all. I’d kill for a Duane Read or CVS instead of relying exclusively on the Spanish Pharmacia. It’s a give and take. No one can have all the space they really need without sacrificing location unless you’re loaded and money isn’t a deterrent. I don’t actually know anyone whose rent isn’t their number one New York overhead.

(Elizabeth Stanley as Kira/VIP!)

       There seems to be a disconnect in my social life having been out on tour for a year roller skating in the brilliantly deep musical Xanadu! I love the city because I get to leave it now and then. That’s my only sanity, that and my dog Harley. It’s funny to me how New York not only doesn’t throw a parade for you upon arriving at La Guardia after an extended leave, but it didn’t even seem to notice that you left in the first place! Sure you can step out for a huge breath of fresh, uncomplicated, country air but you still return to all the same city bullshit no different from the day you left it.

         My add on Craig’s list would read “Will travel for worthy friendships!” It’s definitely time to reboot my emotional computer and air out the bitchy cobwebs of certain drama filled, clingy women and needy gay boys. Thirty was a time of deep reflection (and extreme panic) as I capped off my twenties. And now thirty one must be a time of action. It’s a sexy hot summer and I’m opening the window and beating out the emotional rug that’s been walked all over. I guess straight guys have to put up with menstruating female neediness all the time in the name of sex and getting laid.......but not this faggot! I’m done with this demanding fag hag (emphasis on the Hag), and ball breaking-lipstick- L Word-watching lesbian that takes and takes, never giving back anything other than angry, unmedicated gay grief. Maybe you should actually consider taking a few of the pills in the doctor-prescribed bottle of Ativan instead of flushing them down the toilet along with our friendship? Don’t sweat me bitches because I just don’t care anymore. All the energy I’ve been putting into fruitless old- horse friendships is now being refocused on trying to get to know people that have something other than bullshit to bring to the table. It takes a lot of effort for me to step out of my comfort zone even knowing it’s for the best. I know it’s going to be worth it in the long run. Stepping into uncertainty is always scary but an ongoing investment in something that is toxic and bad for you (even though it may be familiar) is a huge waste of life-time. It’s time to close the chapter on aggressively passive girls and rollerblade off into the hazy polluted sunset with one bitch that is always super low maintenance........my truest female soul mate of all...........my dog!

Hit or Miss

           Today I’m browsing through H and M on a singular mission. I have exactly one afternoon to find something to wear for my girlfriend’s country/Japanese themed garden wedding in Virginia. I would’ve named this honey comb of a store Homos and Metrosexuals myself. Guys were tearing clothes off the racks like frenzied girls clawing each other’s eyes out over a Balenciaga scarf at a juicy insider sample sale! It wasn’t pretty. In fact it was borderline Animal Planet. It was truly an urban free for all, the stuff reality shows are made of in fact. You would’ve thought these dudes were poor third world refugees fighting for food and provisions dropped from one of those rescue planes into the heart of a hungry village.


           I’m minding my own business in the suit department when this woman urgently says to me “You can’t buy That!” just as I was trying on a beautiful overpriced navy blazer. Her statement was desperate and had the intensity of what I imagine a tsunami warning to sound like from someone fleeing the beach. She startled me a little. “Sorry?” I say. “That doesn’t fit you at all...it's way too short...put it back.....NOW!” It took me what felt like a hundred years to even decide on a color scheme. And Poof, just like that, within one breath she had flooded me with instant doubt. I sadly took the coat off and hung it back in its place, resigned to starting over from scratch. Actually, I didn’t recall asking her opinion on the matter either. She proceeded to follow me around the men’s section like a puppy in the kitchen, seemingly underfoot at all times, but not approving of anything. She talked me out of almost everything I touched. “Too short...wrong color....those blacks don’t match!” Every edit got me one step closer to a looming panic attack. She was like my own little mousey personal shopping terrorist! She chased me around the isles saying “Daaaavid...where aaaaarre you?” Now imagine one of the busiest stores in New York, a true 5th Avenue nightmare, with theme- park lines leading to a single fitting room. There were piles and piles of picked through clothes casually discarded. It was torture. At first she was like the mosquito you can’t quite successfully swat but after a few minutes I realized how sweet this little lady actually was. She explained to me that her husband’s name was also David and that he had been a high end British custom suit tailor his entire life. She certainly talked the talk that’s for sure and after hearing her professional opinion I chose to open myself up to her valuable input...not like I had a choice! But as much as I appreciated her helping me in my time of need, I eventually grew tired of putting away all the clothes she was pulling off the hangers and throwing at me. A few times I even ducked under a rack of pants pretending to drop something, hoping she wouldn’t see me and eventually give up this unwanted hijacked makeover. Then she’d come flying around the corner with fifty more things for me to put back. I had just been secretly wishing I had one of my girls or gay boys with me in times of crippling indecision like this. Careful what you wish for because the universe gave me a fucked up version of that. Instead of sending one of my sassy fashion savvy buddies, it sent me some homeschool, marm-like creature obsessed with keeping me from blowing 129 bucks on the wrong blazer!

          After fifteen minutes of assisted shopping my eyes were open to how other people see me and how my first choices desperately needed a second opinion. Every look I put together ended up being some kind of poor man’s jitney, nautical, Ralf Lauren situation. “Is this wedding on a boat?"  "No maam."  "I didn’t think so” she said. This awkward intervention actually ended up guiding me to a better, cheaper, and more polished looking suit than I would’ve picked out for myself without her help. This four foot hilariously helpful woman was a gift from above on a mission to save me from my arm full of Hamptons bound ship wreck attire. She was a life preserver of common sense confidently rejecting my every instinct. Lord knows I need to pull in the reins of my fashion focus. My style is really an absence of style. A tank top and straight-boy cargo shorts generally complete my homeless gay Chelsea look....carelessly crunchy noncouture! I needed to open myself up to the unsolicited fashion advice from a stranger. She was nothing but sincere and all her help came from the goodness of her terribly sweet heart. In New York if someone speaks to me I instantly assume they want something from me and it’s usually money. My second thought is that they are possibly insane or fresh out of Bellevue. And if the desperate voice is neither of those things, it’s probably some bright eyed Big Apple tourist asking how they can get to Radio City. I’m never really approached by people that don’t want something. It caught me off guard.

            I’m reminded of those ear piercing, chipper, high-voiced volunteers standing outside Penn station raising money and awareness for any number of causes. They block your path and insist on making you stop and talk and guilt you into donating money and giving them your email address at emotional gun point! These college(ish) kids thrive on making you late for the 16 bars of shame you’re about to experience at the Ripley Grier audition studios. You can’t really be late for an appointment that generally lasts less than one minute! “Sorry, I don’t have the time today!” If you don’t make eye contact and keep on walking past them then you obviously don’t want to save the starving children and openly don’t care about the Cathy Lee Gifford-like sweat shops around the world, or fresh drinking water for the poor. And everybody on 34th st. knows it! These clip board holding, visor wearing, good deed doing Samaritans give us all a bad name in the human contribution department. God I wish I cared.

            Back to the frenzied game of human Tetris that is Hit or Miss (or H&M). It’s a bustling store of nightmarish crowds packed to the brim with sassy sardine spenders. I didn’t want to close myself off to a valuable set of eyes willing to take a moment and help me look my best for my “strife’s” wedding. Strife is a term me and my engaged girlfriend came up with years ago when we were dance partners in a regional production of Beauty and the Beast. You may have heard of my Tony worthy performance as the gold painted knife? No? I was featured as a dancing, singing piece of cutlery in Beverly Massachusetts....really big stuff. And Christina was a beautiful blond, all American Radio City Rockette dressed as a pink and gold napkin doing a can can atop a huge revolving punch bowl! She was a homo’s dream. The term “fag hag” doesn’t apply to girls like Christina. It was love at first cooter slam! She’s my straight wife, my strife, and I’m her gay husband or Gusband....Gus for short. This is my girl and this is her big day. It’s mandatory to go to the few weddings within your inner circle that matter this much. Even in this day and age with all the options a couple has to break free of a legally binding commitment like marriage I know this will be her only one. I just feel it and I wouldn’t miss it for the world. Wild horses couldn’t stop me from going to this picturesque Vogue wedding except my inability to commit to a single outfit. With a VIP of this level the pressure is on to look as cute as possible while operating on a serious unemployed budget.

        “Go with something purple....I loooove purple!” This little female Tim Gun tailed me closely, chasing me around the maze of racks, throwing billowing linen pirate shirts that look like blouses with draw strings and pin striped suits into my arms. Her personal taste reminded me of an International Male magazine full of everything in the world I’d never ever pick out for myself. The only reason I know the truth about this particular magazine is because I used to flip through the underwear section every week as a horny, young, closeted teenager!

         A beautiful young Spanish girl who was working there was watching us while she folded over priced cashmere cardigans into neat little piles. She was obviously enjoying the colorful game of musical blazers I was playing with this stranger. She asked if she was my mom and remarked how cute it was that we were shopping together as mother and son! Her jaw dropped in disbelief when I told her we had just met right then and there, picking up right where we never began.

         Human kindness is a mirage in this urban desert. You never seem to arrive. It’s hard to make out normalcy in a city that feels like a shaken up snow globe. I’m surprised every time I interact with somebody who has truly good motives and the best of intentions. I’ve become numb to kind acts in the city I’m sad to say. I yelled at an old lady today because she was screaming some toothless babble at me while I was trying to eat my lunch.  I couldn’t decipher her loud, unintelligible, gummy words despite my best effort. It would’ve taken this woman five months to chew through a soft pretzel. After about a minute of her pestering me forcefully about who knows what, I screamed “What do you WANT!?” I mean who yells at an old woman? My fuse is alarmingly short these days. Between my room mate Danny getting horribly and tragically hate crimed in some gang initiation attack right outside our front door and the 77 year old woman that was robbed, raped, and badly beaten in her elevator in the building across the street from us, I’m left disenchanted by this New York hate story.

         Every day vulnerable New Yorkers dangle from overused elevator bands high above Manhattan’s floor, yoyos of hope and shady trust. Will anything snap....them? The elevator? Kind minds melt at a glacial pace as this city becomes an illusion to me. A chorus boy’s crows' feet are completely revealed under the shaking subway bright fluorescents.  And my youth seems to rumble out of sight down the dirty, dark tunnels underneath New York City. My last decade or so here has felt like a skip stop during track construction. There never seemed to be a good time to accidentally fall into a Broadway contract is all I'm saying. This city is the Bermuda triangle of me first. I still, after 12 years, rarely meet people that want to help out of genuine goodness. They always want something. Blatant desperation catches me off guard every time.

(a gentleman taking a dump in my train station/please note the news paper)

       I appreciate kind women like this when I think about the infamous laundry wench that lives in my depths of my building uptown. I caught this bitch moving my wet clothes out of the dryer before they were even done! “You’re taaam s'up alls amm sayin'” she rudely hissed. My time is up when my clothes are dry Woman! Cunts like this make me want to pack my bags and make a quick French retreat to the suburbs. Alpha-urban personalities make me crazy in confrontational situations like this. The claustrophobia has set in officially. I think it may be time to check out of more than just this retail store. But where would I go? New York traps you. The longer you live here the harder it is to leave.

Unemplrrrrrrrrrment

          Where would we be without words? And where would I be without this beautiful lake before me? Access to a kayak is a religious thing indeed. The Boh-remuses have been very good to me in the lake house department. I love New York when I can leave it now and then. I’m not exactly one of those jet-setting homos with no financial limits. Maybe a little stint out at Fire Island in a cute swimsuit and a couple of days at my buddy’s cabin will get me through this hot, unemployed summer? When your hobby is going to brunch professionally it’s a dangerous thing to be in Manhattan twiddling one’s thumbs….every moment risking another potential dollar spent.


          I need a break. I think we all do. And by break, I mean a break from all the breaks! When I’m in between shows it can feel as though time is standing still and I’m moving through quick sand. I must have seen all twenty seasons of Law and Order at this point. It’s a very slippery slope from a casual cruise through the DVR list to having a nurse stop by to flip you over so that you don't get reality TV bed sores! Saturday feels like Tuesday and Friday night is just as boring as anybody’s Monday. Not spending money is an art form I'm struggling to learn....like cooking at home.  I cringe.  I prayed for a hobby this summer, something that would not just be another dance class or voice lesson. I was looking for something totally on the other side of the brain (something that would captivate the other 22 ½ hours in the day). Through my questioning and meditation on the subject I started to write, not on my computer or my sweet smelling leather journal (which I never seem to have any comment), but my IPhone. Every word you read on this blog was originally typed with shaky thumbs as I rumbled down the subway tracks, brainstorming and soaking up the images of the city and trying my best to find the words to truly capture such a rich environment of colorful urban inspiration. I’ve spent countless subway rides buried in this Notebook application puking up anything that comes bubbling up and shooting out my fingertips. Thank god for T9 English!!!!

         I make a valiant effort to not judge myself too severely but I don’t always achieve that goal. When you write something down, spell check it, hope that all the comas are in the right place (which mine never are) and post it for the entire world to read it can be a very scary thing! One click of the mouse leaves the field wide open for people’s opinions both good and bad. It’s an epic waste of time to get stuck in the fear that comes with putting your words out on the world wide computerized web. I don’t exactly have a career to ruin so I figured it was obvious that I should proceed onward with my ramblings. Sometimes I have no comment. And others, I spend trying to actually have a life rather than observing it under a microscope to the point that I’m not even living it. Blogging is great and it gives me the space I need to run verbally wild like a chicken that’s just lost its head. But it’s ironic isn’t it if you’re trapped at your desk inside your apartment trying to write about experiences that you’re missing right then and there? They, in fact, might inspire the blinking cursor that is starring you down wild-west style (insert whistling sound and tumble weed here.) The blank screen before you is only a useful tool if you’ve got something already lived to write about.

         So what is the point of an empty journal entry I want to know? I don’t want to read some stranger’s melancholy blog entry about how their day was at work or how difficult it was at the gym that particular day and how sore their calf muscles are.   Who fucking cares?! Most existing blogs could put you to sleep in a matter of minutes.  They can be verbal Ambien.  So, why would anyone care to scroll through my pot induced posts? I can’t answer that, nor will I now take the opportunity to sell myself to you. I’m sure, at times, I’m not totally PC but nonetheless it is still my unique perspective as a boy in a Manhattan bubble. I figured the world should know what I’m laughing about under my breath deep in the guts of the train tunnels. My life feels like an Albee “wangled teb.” There’s a piece of mind that comes with making a committed mistake. At least you know that you really went for it!  It’s like an ice skater that hesitates for a split second just before a jump goes horribly, horribly wrong. Any doubt, whatsoever, can sabotage a moment. Decisions require an attack of sorts. I know the truth about second guessing myself and it's not a pretty picture my friends.  For me second thoughts resulted in a break in three places!

                                       

Jitney Trash

          So it begins…..with a beautiful little girl sleeping on her mother’s shoulder in the sunlight while sucking her thumb. She’s dreaming away as her mom walks her down Riverside dr. draped over her shoulder. Ahhh….to have a safety net in this crazy world takes the edge off. I mean it would if I had one.  The sun is warm but it’s perfectly counterbalanced with a cool breeze. This sweltering, sticky New York summer heat makes me want to run to the Hamptons! Wait, I’m broke and unemployed and the only reason I would be going out to the Hamptons would be to work as a Jitney slave at the South Hampton polo club. I don’t have words for how unbelievably ridiculous these people are. Just kidding of course I do.  If there's on thing I have......it's words. It is truly something to behold when the bleach blond, tanned to a dangerous crisp, Gucci mamas come walking in like the real housewives from hell, they’re almost caricatures, cartoonish even. Botox and boobs are the painful reality here. I would get bussed out of Manhattan with the catering company I worked for at 5:30 in the morning with a bunch of broke cater waiters (struggling actors) and we would bust our asses all day in the hard sun setting up for the match later that afternoon. Moving 36 bags of ice may not sound like a big deal but trust, in the middle of July, this boy needs an industrial sized air conditioner, a cold pack, and a Popsicle! Fuck the heat. I was ice skating at five thirty in the morning everyday for years and years in the coldest possible scenario you can imagine. The freak show that was about to take place is borderline vomit enducing. The pure attitude of a private club like this makes me totally insane. These are the ultimate cunts that sip Piper Champagne through a little straw and mismatch their cloths on purpose. Trust me; nobody is watching the game, well except Howard Stern and his gorgeous wife. They were actually engaged in some way oblivious to all the socializing and ass kissing that was going on around them. I love him. And I love that he refused to get married until the gays could! I really respect him for that.  It was quite a scene let me tell you. No one could’ve been bothered with the beautiful horses galloping by in a totally fantastic visual. These million dollar steeds were quite a sight indeed. I could hardly set up my bar when the horses came trotting around the grand circle that surrounded the field. I grew up next to a horse farm in East Tennessee and I used to own a horse named Big Red. This polo match was really a time for networking and being seen while wearing some Julie Taymour inspired homeless-Balenciaga-Hampton-couture? BLAHH!!! It was a mismatched circus of rich people flaunting their bank receipts and the new work they had just had done. I did this every Saturday and Sunday for the entire summer. Hold me. I left my dignity in Harlem for this gig. I know my place and where my broke ass belongs! Who are these bitchy architects and sleazy agents? And why are the Absolute vodka girls wearing teeny tiny mini skirts and all look like models from New York City, wearing Swarovski crystal necklaces and bracelets? Freaks……all of them! I could count on one hand how many people looked like they had any business being at a sporting event at all. Polo matches remind me of the old fashionable big hats and Ascot snobbery. I did My Fair Lady for ten months….I know the truth. These people are wealthy clowns layered in white on white. And their perfect blond kids matched their parents wearing more white on white on white! I get it. These little Von Trapps are loaded and this handfull of children will never have to work a day in their lives! They even sounded rich; like little girls named Dyrk and Revelation and the boys named Preston, Cohen, Rocco, and Rex.  These bitches sit around having Lavender gold-leaf tea and rubbing their gums with cocaine all afternoon. I know you don’t allllllll have allergies. I’m on to all of them and what they are concealing in their Fendi clutches! It’s a huge, unnecessary show of peacock feathers and attitude. In a crowd like this a sincere soul shines out like a solo flashlight in a pitch black canyon. No matter where you are you can see that singular light from anywhere. By the time I finished my twelve hour shift as a bartender in the VIP lounge, I swore that I never wanted to see another pair of plaid pants as long as I live and breathe. No goal made during the entire game was more exciting to this crowd than when Rihanna came riding in on the hood of some shiny blue Lamborghini trying to keep her skirt from flying up while she giggled and waved. She, and her people, were there to announce the fact that she was about to be really fucking famous and that her first hit album was about to drop that following week. BAM! I think she was 19 years old at the time I and officially on the map.

       These cunts are going to hell in a Pucci handbag made of excessive leather fringe. What brought these divas to the point where they thought they could basically get away with diamond-studded murder? Look at Lindsey Lohan’s exhausting two weeks in jail. I’m sure she learned her lesson! I just feel that she has changed for the better……..no? Rich little kids ran around jumping on the gorgeous luxury floor pillows that were dispersed throughout the Abu Dhabi inspired silk tents. Little trust fund 11 year olds were sneaking behind daddie's back and steeling sips of his mojito while he was screaming at his assistant on the phone. My heart goes out to his secretary.

        For every drink I served I drank two. I would get instantly wasted and would love my job for the next couple of hours. I’m a horrible bartender because I pour them like I like to drink them…..strong as hell! My drinks get sent back all the time because just a splash wasn’t cutting it with these refined "ladies."  Vivica Fox certainly couldn’t have been bothered with my cocktail (whoever the fuck she is?) In fact, the reason I was picked to be in the VIP bar certainly wasn’t for my bar tending skills that’s for sure. I ended up stationed there because I was well spoken and had no criminal record, two huge pluses in the catering world!  Let’s just say that there’s a wide variety of people working for this particular company. I’m sure I’ve seen some of them on Jerry Springer.

         I could've killed this guy that I thought was hitting on me. He gave me his card at the bar and told me that he could do wonders for me. I glanced down at his card and saw that he was a plastic surgeon specializing in eye lifts and Botox! This nip/tuck disaster was claiming to be the keeper of time and youth even though he himself looked totes cra cra. I swallowed hard and tried not to stab him with the little knife at the end of my wine cork, He was one suggestion away from a new nose job himself. This dude looked like he’d been stung by a swarm of bees. He resembled the “Cat woman” that runs around New York City under a big hat and veil because of her million facial surgeries that rendered her unpresentable to the general public. He could go fuck himself! I don’t use lotion every day but damn…..facial intervention so soon? “Preventative measures will save you bundles in the long run” he said. And as if schlepping all over the polo grounds just to find a few ice cubes for Star Jones’ Yorkie wasn’t humiliating enough, all the taxes that came out of my little check that day were enough to send me face first into the Hudson river!

         I don’t even think I can afford to die right now. I have outstanding loans and a little dog. I found out that when my buddy Wilson died unexpectedly that you can’t be buried here in the city unless your entire family has roots here going back generations. If you have no history beyond your adult love affair with New York they will ship you back to wherever the hell you came from. I couldn’t be buried in the Riverside Cemetery right by my apartment because there is literally no room in the inn. Every single square inch of land is accounted for here in the 212. When I die I want to be cremated and have my ashes sprinkled at Chelsea, Pearl, Ripley Grier, Telsey, and in little pinches up and down Broadway in the theatre district. I recently saw an add for a new natural burial. It sounds so incredible to me and is so much more my style that a stupid casket. You can now be wrapped in a bio degradable, earth-friendly egg (sans coffin). You are placed in an upright sitting position, hugging your knees in a fetal pose. You are essentially in a cocoon with tree seeds clutched in your hands that grow and feed and spring out of your decaying body. You feed the tree with your body and essentially become it. You can pick any tree of your choice. I’d much rather go sit under the huge branches of a tree that came from the life cycle of my friend or family member. How much more beautiful is it than starring at some weird final quote etched in stone? This green final ceremony has more meaning to me because it’s actually alive and the energy continues. I want this when I go. But, if I did have a gravestone quote it would say “Just Kidding!”

         The Piper Champaign people pulled me aside and told me that they were planning a paparazzi attack on JZ and that I was going to be an integral part of their super-star sting. They made a big ta-doo about making sure that I timed it perfectly so that they could get a beaming, smiling shot of me handing this mega star their product and him taking it. We were in a holding pattern until I got the secret head nod from a Champaign rep. wearing a microphone head piece. It was the secret service of expensive bubbles. She nodded and we were at places! The velvet ropes were clicked open and our busted looking multi-millionaire walked in and I made my move. I wiggled my way through the A-list crowd on a mission; to get my face in a sweet shot with McJizzle! The photographers were queued in a line like Rockettes and I smiled like a cracked out Crest commercial as I extended the silver tray with a singular little red flute of Piper. And just as the cameras started popping and flashing like gunshots his hand went up to take it….5…..4….3….2….and with one look at me and my cheesy demeanor he waved me off like the servant that I was. The final shot was of Beyonce’s man totally rejecting my drink and me standing there looking like a dufus with a expression of happy surprise plastered across my face. Please, like he (J fuckin’ Z) drinks anything other than Dom or Crystal! Please Piper? No billboard will be born out of this photo disaster I suppose. His look of disgust was too good to be true and I’m sure the camera film has been destroyed or gone mysteriously missing.

       I was instructed to say “Enjoy your perfect Piper!” every time I popped open a little flute.   I handed seven bottles to each of the Unreal Housewives of the Hamptons. The problem was that these cunts would stand in line for thirty minutes and then order as many drinks as they could possibly carry.  Fuck needing another eye lift, these folks desperately need liver transplants and therapists. After twelve hours in South Hampton working as an indentured servant, I needed a line or twenty myself! Hook a brother up Paris. I know you’re holdin' some law breaking substance in that Chihuahua’s diamond studded locket dangling from its leash. You’re not fooling me sister. Nobody searches a dog do they? If I was a drug dealer I would hide the goods in little doggie sweaters……Harley full of Grace! I should make that bitch start paying me back that 1,600 dollars she cost me by being my little incognito drug mule, pushing dime bags out of her puppy rain coat pockets and selling loosies for .75 cents. The whole thing would look like a good petting and nothing more. Leave the cash in her pocket and be on your way. Maybe I’d wear a tie and no one would be the wiser! Nobody would ever suspect this little furry pocket puppy of pushing Ecstasy and Xanax on a street corner, no way.  Pretty soon Harley would be selling herself in a dark alley letting strange dogs lick her yellow-stained cone for tuppins! The green Herringbone turtleneck would mean its weed day. The blue stripped hoodie would mean it was crystal meth Thursday. And if she happened to be sporting a shiny silver winter coat with a cross n’ bones stitched clearly on the flipped collar…..well…....just keep on walking buddy! I wonder what dog house she would go to if we got busted? What do they do with the animals that are in the unfortunate care of someone that gets arrested? I’d get ten to fifteen at Attica for drug possession while she would get shipped to the ASPCA and put up for adoption. Would I ever see my little girl again if I got thrown behind bars?  I wouldn’t do well in prison with the whole complete loss of freedom thing.  But don’t you threaten me with a sexy black man and the jungle fever that rushes over me when I'm watching Christopher Maloney in an episode of OZ. The sex aspect of incarceration would be like winning a lottery for me. Dropping the soap would probably be my full time job if it came to that.

        When my mom wanted to send me to an all boys school in hopes of butching me up so that I wouldn’t end up gay, I said fine. Bring on the secluded male dorm rooms and the prison yards full of sexy ass brothers rocking their one singular hour outside...shirtless and pent up….literally. My parents were pushing brochures on me regularly from a Christian college that didn’t allow guys and girls to walk on the same sidewalk! If I’ve ever heard of something “gay” that was it! To me, that particular school sounded like a Jesus concentration camp where the girls are made to wear floor length dresses and couldn’t even consider sporting an open-toe sandal….das ist Verboten! Legitimate religious debates make me want to wither up and hide under a rock. In fact, I took all of my god fearing, Christian-freak family members off my Facebook account because I didn’t want to start writing and filtering my words through what my mother would think if she ever read this blog. I don’t want my sweet mother to necessarily know all the inner ramblings of her son’s brain. Sometimes ignorance is bliss in cases like this. I have actual preachers in my friend list and their  brainwashed, judgmental offspring. My cousin invited me to her wedding in one breath while, at the same time, making it very clear how she would feel about coming to my gay wedding! She firmly believed that the very institution of marriage would seriously be corrupted by the inclusion of gay people and their possibility of true and equal rights. Ol’ Sharla wouldn’t come to my Sodomy ceremony but sure as hell would love a homo doing some of the registry shopping and her hair and makeup on the big day!  The distance my family puts me at sometimes makes me feel sad occasionally.  But nonetheles, I'm happy to run off and join the circus of intelligent people living in the appropriate century.

        For me to delete a blood relative off of a social network like Facebook is a deeply seeded knee-jerk reaction that I automatically have to any of my coo coo ridiculous relatives and their prehistoric views. I have a major intolerance for intolerance. I can’t deal with trying to truly be myself while being worried about what these people would say or how they would respond. I don’t want some huffy creationist judging me and reading my words and giving me their ten million cents! There would be endless raging, epic prayer chains clogging up the phone lines all throughout East Tennessee, Minnesota, and Mississippi. I’ve been there. I’ve done that. When I asked my cuzz how she could feel the way she does about gay marriage, knowing the pain that inequality brings to the heart of her very own cousin, the answer Laura Ingalls Wilder gave me was unacceptable and too archaic to justify. And just like that the judge’s gavel slammed down and Poof……with one click I unfriended the weak Christian links with no hesitation or questioning. Of course, I feel bad deleting my mother but it's for her own protection!

          I’ve spent my entire life trying to build up enough courage to hold a guys hand in public and to this day I shudder when a man reaches for my hand anywhere other that Cherry Grove or the Pines! People are quick to reach a little too soon in my opinion. I have to be absolutely in love with you to hold your hand. Slow down boys and let me do the reaching. Don’t you dare grab my hand unless I give the ok. I’ve been totally out of the closet for more than half of my life but I think my Southern upbringing has my brain fooled like some kind of toxic muscle memory. For some reason I don’t like to draw attention to myself? I guess I’m in the wrong business for being someone who grew up so painfully shy. Religion just bores me to tears. But, believe it or not, even the Jesus tribe is looking good compared to the completely souless crowd of plastic surgeons and tanned cougars desperately maintaining the Stepford façade. These people could use some sort of divine inspiration or meaning in their lives, other than the sole purpose of impressing one another with their yachts and golf ball sized diamond rings they can barely lift to brag. I’ll kill them all! Stop trying so hard people. I just want to slip away from my bar, scramble up the polo announcer’s platform, grab the megaphone out of his hand, and scream at the top of my lungs in some insane cater-waiter snap, “ ENOUGH…..DROP THE ACT….FREAKS!!” I’ve just realized that being out there during the weekends getting my hands dirty is ok. I'm empowered in some way by it. How is one empowered, you may ask, by passing out hors d'oeuvres to people who consider you……..well not at all?  I feel that, at least, I have a humbly human energy to bring to the table. It’s like the sexy feeling you get right after watching an episode of Hoarders or Jerry Springer. It’s just so good to not be certain people sometimes.

                                                                              

A Light in the Tunnel

            There’s a woman that works in a tiny MTA booth on the downtown side of the 157th st. red line up in Harlem. I don’t even know her name and I’ve been walking past her for many years now. All this time I’ve been running past her, whizzing through the steel turn stalls to catch a train that’s more than not going to slam its door in my face. No one has more power than the dude that controls the opening and closing of the New York City subway car doors. He’ll be looking directly at you, as you struggle to get your bags through the gate, and not even consider holding the doors open two more seconds. Even if you are rushing like Hell you always have enough time to glance back and flash her a quick smile and a wink. It’s part of my daily routine as much as taking the train itself or brushing my teeth. She’s a part of my week and has no idea. She’s on friendly automatic with hundreds of people coming and going in blurry herds. I’d never be able to find the words to describe this woman as she bops and bounces to whatever is playing on the radio. Every song seems to be this lady’s absolute favorite and I love her for it. The energy she brings to that hot, sticky subway tunnel is priceless for those jaded New Yorkers like myself. She sings her heart out with wild abandon and is giving you hip hop from the waist up! She doesn’t care nor should she. She swivels around in that chair like she’s a guest on Solid Gold. Every day she sings her guts out as though she was headlining the Apollo. You can’t really hear what she’s listening to behind the three inch “glass” but the visual is so great. It’s her own private party in there and nobody’s going to pop her bubble. She has created a swirly cubicle of love and light that touches every person that makes eye contact with her. Who is she on her own time, off the clock? No one is denied a huge sincere smile and no one can resist reflecting back the same. It’s like rubbing the belly of Buddha every day, but MTA style. She should win an award for being a rock star in a bullet proof box. If I was her I’d have a loaded pistol cocked and ready at any moment to eat lead should one too many people give me shit! Of coarse I’d only turn the gun on myself after blowing the head off the asshole that inspired the breakdown.

              This woman’s attitude baffles me. How can you work in a transparent cubicle underground and maintain such a graceful approach to life? I’m enchanted by her survivor’s perspective. Nothing’s going to get this diva down at any cost. If someone looks at me the wrong way I could crumble. She’s a fortress of wonderful that never seems to crack of fade no matter what shift she’s working. To me it seems she’s unshakable from behind that glass. It’s like a homosapien exhibit at the zoo...except I’m the endangered species held captive on the other side of happiness.