Too Loose Too Tall

         To dance.  When it's your life and career it's a swirling vortex of mixed emotions, rejection, and continuously brewing fall back plans.  I run around New York City like a headless chicken spinning in circles of unemployment wondering what's to come of this performer's incarnation this time around.  I'm sure of only one thing....how absolutely unsure I am.  Private agent calls are starting to look no different form those huge open calls I try so desperately to avoid!  Swarms of homos lay around stretching and bragging about their last gig and how much money they made.  Everybody seems to know each other in a sickening kind of way.  I'm home now after a soul feast that consisted of a seven week regional production of Evita.  It was awesome!  After almost two months of deafening quiet in the ghost town that was Little Rock Arkansas bring on the noise I say.  Car alarms, cabbie honking, people screaming at each other, loud screechy subway conductors, turnstiles clicking and snapping in circles, subway cars blasting down the train tracks at what feels like a hundred miles an hour.  I've missed New York.  Light flashes blind me as I speed down the dark tunnels underneath the sweaty city.  It's gross.  Bring on the fucked up energy of a city that, for the most part, never sleeps.  I've been back for less that 48 hours and I've already been cut from two auditions!  If there was ever a time for an exclamation point!!  Rejection is a thing I do.  How can I take two flights to an audition, two cabs,  get all the way there and reach into my folder and realize I have no resume?!  Exclamation point!  Only me.

         I'm meeting a really good girlfriend of mine for drinks tonight that I did cabaret with %*@# years ago in Germany.  Reunions make you think about how much you may or may not have changed since you last saw that particular VIP.  In some ways I'm miles.....no.....years apart from the mess I was in my tumultuous twenties.  And in some ways I'm exactly the same confused, hesitant, doubtful gay disaster-boy I was when I came here when I was 19.  I'm still at the same dance calls with a lot of the same guys.  I still hope for a lot of the same things.  I don't necessarily need to be deeply artistically fulfilled at this point in my life and career....daddy just needs money!  My dog is dreamy but an expensive little thing.  I now have two little doe eyes watching me and waiting for me to tell her we're going to Broadway!  "You got cut?" she seems to say with her guilty huge brown eyes and cocked head....."but.....but....I need a knee surgery and a lifetime supply of Pill Pockets!" $$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$

           Drinks turned into desert at cafe Lalo on the upper west side.  It was a perfectly cool night.  Nichole and I sat under the sprinkled yellow lights that were draped and wrapped around every single tree.  We talked and talked and were enjoying all the remembering.  She is a fantastic dancer/singer/ actress living the same dream/nightmare I am but over in Germany.  She lives in Hamburg presently and our lives are surprisingly similar to what they were all those years ago when we were bus and trucking it around Duetschland.  Of course the details are different now.  For instance she is engaged to a guy I not only have never heard her mention before but it's very possible that I could potentially never meet him!  That's how friendships abroad seem to unfold.  She's done tons of shows since I last said goodbye to her in Hamburg on closing night of Cabaret all those years ago.  I found myself looking into the eyes of an old friend and seeing myself in a way.  Sometimes I forget that I myself am aging and only realize it when I see a celebrity on television like Madonna.  I've watched this woman grow old in the spotlight all the while doing the same!  "God she looks old and crazy!"  I say laughing and judging her unfairly as my own crow's feet harden around the corners of my eyes.  She's at least got boat loads of cash to disappear and hide away when her shit falls!  

              Nichole inspires me to travel the globe with the same fire I had ten years ago.  This girl is a German rock star in the musical theatre department.  She's known to me as "Loose and Tall" because of a humbling and humiliating audition story she told me.  Why do some directors and choreographers think it's ok to break people down in a creative environment?  She's a hard worker that I want to emulate as she redefines discipline.  Situations like this make me realize that I'm on the right track for me.....for now.... even though it feels like something inside me derailed somewhere along the way during my fucked up and blurry twenties.  Her future is as exciting as her past and I love that approach.  I want to reclaim that momentum and drive for my city.  The New York seven (12) year itch feels a lot like poison ivy mixed with mosquito bites covering my entire body!  No expensive lotion or doctor can cure this wild breakout of possible regret and undetermined doubt and the idea that the grass is greener somewhere.....anywhere else!  It's a dancer's life..........cut!

Airport Fly

         Where your mind floats when you’re stuck in an airport is a wonder; the flight attendants' matching red bows; the little round asian lady running madly to get to gate G4 only to miss her flight anyway; the gay man staring at me; the straight man staring at me. What a disastrous explosive mine field lays just beneath the surface of every potentially stranded traveler. There are so many possibilities for delays and missed connections, lost luggage, and screaming, out of control kids! Anything could go wrong at any moment.There’s a father desperately trying to make alternate plans for his two kids and needy wife after their flight was canceled to Vegas. That’s a lot of pressure for a man to improvise an escape on the spot in what seems an impossible situation. I admire his patience. I would’ve already lost it.......or my kid. I almost get run down by one of those caravans of old people wheeling around in those special beeping carts and coughing up death to a tune of “Yesterday.” Such a disturbing train of old makes me nervous and happy to be young enough to walk to my gate easliy with two strong legs. I think there should be children-only flights that families with kids under a certain age should be required to take. My dog has never ever been as much of a nuisance as any of the four screaming fucking babies on my 14 hr. flight from Tokyo to New York! I'm terrified to fly.   And you know it’s bad when you want your plane to crash as soon as possible! I hate kids and I hated being one. I would be mortified to raise a child. I don’t know how people put aside their own needs for the better part of twenty years. I just don’t get it.
       There’s a California blond bombshell tanned to a dangerous crisp, living the braless dream, and feeling the need to be free from such modern constraints. Even grosser are the three business men that are staring directly at her ass like it’s a rare piece of filet mignon. These guys are salivating like perverted refugees licking their chops at a buffet of boobs. Yuck! I can see all this chaos and commotion from my little spot on the floor.  The constant shuffle of bodies and nervousness makes me have a mild anxiety attack. No one wants to be here anymore than I do. No one has arrived yet. When people are in transition they are unsettled and crazy. I feel invisible and wonder if these folks see me either? These fluorescent lights are unforgiving and I need to bust out my brunch glasses to increase the denial of me getting on a plane without a Xanax! I don’t care for these metal sky-busses that pierce the clouds with all our lives in the hands of some electric switch board that could just stop working at any moment. God save us all if we encounter a flock of geese!!!  There will be no water "landing" for this fainty queen!  "Excuse me, could I get thirty bloody marys in 26B please?"  I've always wondered why our one carry-on wasn't a parachute?  Wouldn't that be a most sensible thing to consider?  I love the convenience but hate the reality of a flight. What good are floating seat cushions when you slam into a snow-capped mountain?!  Where would I be without Tylenol PM I say?! I hate more than anything that on the way to either New York airport you're forced to pass a huge billboard of that fucking American Airlines plane that "landed" in the Hudson! I'm so happy that all those people survived but it's nothing more than reverse psychology spun into some kind of comforting success story by a team of asshole publicity people!  I'm not fooled. It's a greusome shot of a crowd of people standing in black silouettes on the wings of a sinking metal airplane.  That image is enough for me to have an anxiety attack of the most epic proportion and completely loose my lunch!
        Ear plugs are blissful when you’re sitting next to a talkative teenager that’s never been to New York before.  These are classic little suburban girls that can't wait to get something stuck in their braces at TGIFridays in Times Square and then go see Mary Poppins. This crew has nothing original planned for their big weekend other than buying an extra large M and M sweatshirt, hitting the All American Girl store, a quick stop at Applebees, and to walk as slowly as possible through midtown acting as a Chinese divider to wherever I'm rushing to get to.  I swear if that fat guy is sitting next to me I'll just die.  There is no excuse for being so huge that you can't even get the arm rest down!  We've all been there.  These folks should be sitting here with a two ticket minimum requirement.  But don't mind me.  I’m just a fucked up airport fly with a terrible headache and a handfull of Excedrine. Allllllll aboard freaks. (insert carnaval musice here)

Romancing a Garbage Can

       Watching Harley try and catch a tiny tennis ball with her paws would be like me trying to catch one with my elbows.   She's like an overly excited miniature Kristin Wiig in a Saturday Night Live skit clapping little retarded hands together all by herself.  It's a circus of hilarious attempts at dominating a squeaky Kong toy world cup style.  We tossed it around and got rowdy in the rain today.  She may or may not be covered with the black drippy rain water that gets stuck and stagnant in little pools in our front courtyard.  But ill be damned if she isn't smiling from ear to sloppy-soaked ear.  She looks slightly "touched" and a little cross eyed on this particular afternoon.  When Harls is wet she looks like a drowned rat that just crawled out of a garbage disposal.  She could easily be mistaken for a cast member in Les Miserable' dying in the dirty streets of Paris singing "On My Bone."  She may look like a homeless piece of garbage but boy she couldn't be happier than a pig in shit or me on Broadway!  If I'm going to be busy that day I try and shake things up for her for about 15 or 20 minutes before I head out to conquer New York.  This dreamy little bitch is a juicy reminder of how simple things are supposed to be.  Every day is fresh with the possibility of something new and exciting happening.  Dogs are never jaded companions unless they are really old, abused, or neglected. But then 
again.....aren't we all?  

          It's so strange how loud the silence can be when my dog is away.  Not that she ever makes any noise or barks, but the stillness is epic and leaves me one of those people that misses the warmth that a sweet pooch brings.  She's like a little hot water bottle ever 
present as she presses into my side on the couch or while I'm sleeping. She burrows her way forcefully under my comforter like a little groundhog where she'll stay for the rest of the night.  She never wakes me to go out and, in fact, sleeps longer than I do.  How did I get so lucky?
        

         When Harley is on a lesbian play date with her friend Mable for the day I'm reminded how unknowingly empty my life was before I stumbled into that cunty Pocket Puppy store in Chicago where our love affair first began.  It's so second nature for me to have her under 
foot that I forget that she's always right there....accessible and instant love.  But when she's not I miss the sound of little Peggy Sawyer's nails on the hard wood floor, not even letting me leave the room to walk to the bathroom or go downstairs for a minute unescorted.  Her absence, upon 
returning from her yellow stained cone-sniffing play date, makes me notice for the first time that I'm never alone.  When you have a faithful companion tag along side you everywhere you go (every day) it becomes the norm to not even realize how much you need that furry 
friendship.  It reminds me of what life was like before cell phones or the world wide web!  I don't know how I ever got along without Google search engines or spell check.  In the late nineties I was breaking dollars bills in the corner bodega to use dirty homeless pay phones in new York and unsuccessfully flipping through  outdated encyclopedias to get answers. I see why folks immediately replace an animal when they pass on bc the silence is deafening and in your face and leaves a gaping hole in the grey areas of your day. Now, having had one, I know that I'll probably always have a dog in my life.  My heart is too full to ever go back to quiet.

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!