I work with the hottest, sweetest ginger in the known universe and he has single handily redefined the Hellsea way of thinking and looking at the dating scene here in the millenia of social networks and same sex-honing IPhone Apps. He tortures guys like me with cuddling dates and getting to know each other on a deeper level. It's a fascinating concept for Manhattan gay life in 2012 and I respect it to the core. Even though I view the approach to traditional values and a slow dating process like I would a rare and endangered species behind protective glass. The valiant red topped prince of coctailing and courting couldn't be more refreshing to me and I'm thrilled that our paths crossed at all. I could use more friends with different kinds of benefits. Now everything seems to have been reduced to Grinder profile pics, Scruff hook ups, and OK Cupid disasters and it all leaves me kind of mystified as to how one is supposed to cast a net intended on catching mr. right without also reeling in all the phony baloney posers and cyber freaks that come along with contemporary counter culture. Facebook is a poke. Scruff is a woof. Jesus Christ what about a simple hello? Not that I need a prince to come riding up on a shiny silver subway car with roses, and open heart, and a black Visa platinum card, but I'm certainly available for some butterflies now and then. "What's your favorite color?", "How big is your dick?", and "Are you a top or a bottom?" don't make for a good conversation in my book. In fact these forced one on ones at Starbucks or Blockheads seem to stop time itself and a dinner or quick coffee can feel like a bloody eternity if there's no chemistry. Usually gay men's dates happen in reverse. A sensible date in the dance belt usually starts with lube and poppers for the appetizer. Then you move on to the main course which consists of the carnal, non-spoken, getting to know you bump and grind part that Christians wait for till marriage. And if there's some spark beyond the big bang (and you don't want to grab your pants and cell phone and run for the hills before he asks you when you're free again) you then go to dinner and grab some frozen cosmos at Barrage and try and muster up some post-post-coidle conversation while desperately trying not to yawn in his face and worry about if your dog needs to go out for a Harlem tinkle. You finish the meal with some subtle glances at your watch and secretly try to formulate an escape excuse that would sound convincing enough not to offend. Not that I'm speaking from personal experience or anything. No thank you Cupid boy. As my buddy Aaron says, "It's better to wait for fillet mignon" than to settle for the drama of high maintenance faggots that eventually slip through the gold sifter anyway as you strain your eyes and patience to pick out the real gems. I'm tired of guys being cheap and not pitching in for the cab uptown or much less...offering to go Dutch on dinner. I'm also pissed at the twenty something twinks that consider you too old by 26! I'll hold those little age-aphobic faglets under water with my 32 year old cracked hands until the bubbles stop!
It's easy to feel somewhat derailed in your life then pop stars like Lady Gaga come along and give you a song that rebels against all the bullshit and acts as a bump of inspirational cocaine to ease the angst. I'm not looking for a love of pure convenience but free dinners now and then pale in comparison to a guy that will occasionally make the effort to take the train uptown to NoHa to sleep in my beautifully comfortable bed of dreams. I can't exclusively do all the East side schlepping can I? I guess that makes me a call boy without the big pay off. Tummy butterflies are an endangered species in the matrix that is gay Manhattan.
Most of my closest friends haven't read a single word of this blog since I started. I know this to be fact and it stings but you have to be prepared for that to happen when you start stringing words together in free form and hitting NEW POST. Laying my thoughts down on virtual paper is a personal therapy for me but I don't want this site to become some poor me verbal vomit.com. Writing about your life's situations and having a sassy take on things doesn't compare at all to the screeching halt you come to when reading a masturbatory blog entry about how that person's particular work out was extra tough that day or how good their cardio spinning class was at David Barton. What a snooze fest! Who fucking cares about someones private journal entry that weighs heavily with that slit-your-wrists inspirational tone that's no different from any adolescent, preteen paragraph of doom and lunchroom melancholy. Once you write something and hit post it's out there for the world to love, judge, skim, not skim, and totally ignore. I thought that this personal forum would've made me a reality TV star by now or perhaps have been transformed into a scratchy Sundance film with monotone voice overs of a boy reading a heavy script....ala Submarine...the movie. I'm pretty sure my New York friends will never take me and my hobby seriously, at least until I nail down a short column in some fabulous weekly NY magazine or paper like Dan Savage in the Village Voice! So I continue to type with abandon with the understanding that whatever I say probably won't come full circle to bite me in the ass until much much later. That is of course until my sweet little country Tennessee mother discovers that her oldest son can't stop expressing himself through a public venue, bringing all his dark truths to light. If she only knew the shady tales of tails I've chased over the last thirteen years. I can and will continue to weave a personal history through this notebook application with a vengeance as though I'm going to the electric chair tomorrow. I eat my feelings the same way. Should she ever stumble upon Chorus Boy Interrupted a scandal of epic proportions would lay before me of the likes I have never seen before. My mother's disapproving silence would be like the scary calm that comes right before a huge twister yanks your Kansas house up and into a splintery oblivion. I don't wanna hurt my mom but wild horses couldn't hold back the flood of sarcasm in my soul that's dryer than any scorching desert. I must continue if not for my own personal sanity. I think we've got to laugh and bitch and praise and break down the ugly details of our Manhattan daily life just to fully appreciate surviving the more than bumpy road we choose to keep traveling year after year. It's a journey that requires a little more than an Excedrin packet and a prayer. Mine is that of a blurry urban circumstance and my compus is indefinitely and most certainly broken.
And as promised, and index of every stupid and horrible New York nickname I could find:
WeVar - west of Varick
FiDi - financial district
NoHa - north Harlem where I live
UHH (pronounced Ughhh...this is my own creation!) upper Hamilton Heights
NoLita - north little Italy
LoHo - lower Houston
NoMad - north of Madison Square Park
EHA - east Harlem
SoHell - south of Hell's Ketchen
DuGo - down under the Gowanis bridge
CeHa - central Harlem
SpaHa - spanish Harlem
NoMas - north of Madison Square Garden
SoHo - south Houston
Gramerray - Gramercy park and Murray Hill
RAMBO! right after the Manhattan bridge overpass
BoHo - Bowery below Houston
WeHa - west Harlem
SoHa - south Harlem
TriBeCa - triangle below Canal st.
SoBro - south Bronx
NoHo - north Harlem
DUMBO - down under the Manhattan bridge overpass
And last but certainly not least ladies and gentlemen, the three most unacceptable nicknames in the history of the world itself..........drum roll please....................................................
BoCoCa! - the Boerum Hill, Cobble Hill, Carol Gardens grey area in Brooklyn
ProCro - the Prospect Park/Crown Heights overlap
and finally.....GoCaGa.......for Gowanus and Carroll Garden. You're welcome.
