The City By The Gay

Just for the record, when I first moved to New York City, I was hired at a company that worked on the redevelopment strategy turning The Nashville Network into Spike TV. And in between, it was our beautiful missing link The National Network (aka The New TNN). And there, I toiled away writing hilarious puns about Pamela Anderson on Baywatch (“Double Vision”) and Star Trek: The Next Generation (“Set Your Phasers On Fun”) that populated the website. So I would like to take credit for the current passion for puns in everything from The Daily Show to Morning Joe, even though a pun is truly the lowest form of comedy. So don’t think for a minute that my pun headlines are a riff on current popular culture. I am just reusing bits I did eleven years ago. And they were no fresher then than they are now, my friend.

On the subject of the good old days, my ex-boyfriend Curtis is in town. Years and years and years ago, I spied him across Revolver and bravely gave him my number as he was leaving and then he didn’t call. For three years. But eventually he was moving a desk and found my number which had fallen behind it and finally picked up the phone. As it happens, the number I gave him was for my friend Paul's apartment where I had been staying temporarily at that time and purely by happenstance was back there, sitting waiting for Paul to get out of the shower, the night Curtis deigned to call me back and I happened to answer the phone. Please note: if I am close friends with someone, I will wash their dishes if bored, answer their phone when they are in the shower, or sort through their mail even if they are standing right there, so if you value your privacy or personal space, it is probably not a good idea to be my close friend.

The End

This has been coming for a while and I suppose it isn’t a surprise now that the day has arrived. I’ve been writing about my adventures out on the town for a few years now, so long in fact that I started with links to the Friendster.com profiles of total strangers. In the process, I have annoyed good friends and created near-enemies out of casual acquaintances. That isn’t to say that some people haven't enjoyed what I have written, it’s just that at a certain point the vehicle in any adventure simply runs out of steam.

I went to an amazing party in an apartment in the sky back in June. My friend Bobby who invited me has been impatiently waiting for me to write it up for months. And there was so much grist too. I flirted with an extremely drunk guy who no doubt has no recollection of either said flirting, nor my Herculean efforts buttoning his tiny cutoff shorts back up for him. There were friends in from out of town (Clay Lee!), adorable Matty K and party doll Will Wikle. It even had Lance Bass and party-crashing paparazzi, and Lance’s boyfriend mistaking me for a bartender and trying to order drinks from me. This is an important detail since the bartenders at the party were as hot as the panoramic city views and if anything, the way I am dressed, I am usually mistaken for a bike messenger.

But it has been two months and pertinent names have already faded into the distance. For the longest time, I couldn’t figure out why I hadn't written it all up. At first I told myself that I didn’t want to annoy the billionaire apartment owner upon whose largess I would hope to impose further in the future. Then, I told myself in between repeated viewings of Mad Men that I was just too busy. In reality I am just tired. Tired of facing down the inevitable ire of people I genuinely care about and fighting with doormen to hold onto a nightlife that has been on life support for some time. And for what? So I have something to write on the internet? Enough.

So this will be my final posting in this form, at least for a while. Maybe if the spirit really moves me, I will post another epic long story. In the meantime, my blog will take a different tack, closer to daily and in a pop culture form, and the reluctant personal life I am so reluctant to reveal will slip once again behind the veil.

Fitting then that there was an ending of another sort tonight as Jonathan held his goodbye party at Vintage in Hell’s Kitchen. He is moving to Los Angeles for his own exciting adventures out west. Maybe he will write a blog about it and you can follow that for a while. I was the first to arrive and we sat for a few moments in the back of the bar on paired red velvet sofas like talk show guests forced to interview each other. While he told me about his recent work off in Nevada, I tried to remember the last time I was at Vintage. I think it was with Terry, who showed up a few minutes later with his boyfriend Doug. The place looked so familiar even though I think then it was wintertime and I feel like John Tartaglia was there but I don’t remember how many years ago it was (2004?) or why I was there.

Normally I wear a blue polo when heading out to a gay bar, letting my icy eyes blend like camouflage into the color creating a matching accessory. But Jonathan also has blue eyes and since we can often be found dressing alike, among other alike things, I figured I would play it safe and wear a yellow Otter polo, a color I never wear and I suspect he wouldn’t wear either. After all, it is his party. No need to pull focus.

The other guests started to trickle in and I settled down on the couch with Terry, who has been my friend for 14 years. Like always, he overestimated the years, this time to a whopping seventeen. He always does that! I guess he just goes by how long it feels. “The years stretch as you get older,” Margo Channing warned us in All About Eve and she wasn’t kidding. Since both Terry and I lived in LA once (we met there), we both took turns torturing Jonathan with stories of West Hollywood life. Naturally, all of them revolved around sex.

Being in your mid-twenties and gay in West Hollywood is a bit like locking a kid in a candy store, only the store doesn’t open again until you are thirty-something, bloated and filled with regret. Jonathan had considered moving into an apartment on Palm Avenue, which coincidentally was the first street I lived on in West Hollywood. This set us off on a war of remembrances of tricks past, most residing in the notorious Mediterranean apartment complex at the foot of that hill.

“It’s a labyrinth,” I warned Jonathan. “You won’t even know you are in it until you are already inside. You are guaranteed to sleep with at least one person who lives there.” Terry nodded vigorously behind me.

After Jonathan went off to attend to the other guests and escape our dusty war stories, Terry turned to me with sudden seriousness. “That was a whole lifetime ago.” I am going through my old writing preparing a book to go out this fall that chronicles my life then so I know exactly what he means. Reading again what I wrote then and it feels like it all happened to someone else. A long time ago, in a sunny sex galaxy far, far away… filled with cheap food at Baja Buds, smoothies at Jamba Juice and late night noshing first at Canter’s and then when we had more money, the Jerry’s Famous across from Cedars.

Terry and his boyfriend Doug left and I tried talking to some new people. And they were nice enough. But my heart wasn’t in it. I hate saying good bye to Jonathan but I know that LA is the right place at the right time for him. And what’s next for me is right here in New York. His other friends didn’t see the finality in his jump to the left coast but I do. I know what it is like to be 27 and in West Hollywood with the whole wide world in front of you. Why would you want to carry groceries eight blocks in the snow or wait endlessly on a sweltering subway platform when there’s paradise in a beat up convertible sailing up the Pacific Coast Highway at sunset?

So off to LA for Jonathan. And for me here, something new. Maybe I will write about people I don’t know for a change. Matty has a boyfriend and I don’t see him so much anymore. Kugie is off in Chicago visiting and while he is a good sport about the blog, we can’t just hang out for the sake of entertainment. We gave at the office. And even though I am not going anywhere, I am ready for a change too. This blog has been like an infection in Manhattan: raised temperatures, broke out in a rash, and then ran its course. And now that the center of gravity is shifting to Brooklyn, with all its expanding waistlines and hipster edginess, I feel as arcane as Carrie Bradshaw. Even I don't live in Manhattan anymore. The time has come everybody. Hang up the Manolos already.

On my way to the train, and the inevitable final blog written on the Hudson line north heading off to my Don and Betsy Draper dream world, I dropped by the terrible Starbucks near my office. The guy behind the counter kind of flirted a bit and charged me an iced coffee instead of my iced venti soy chai. I left the two dollar difference in the tip jar, smiled and waited for my drink. That attention felt good, in a color I don’t like to wear and under such harsh lighting. But maybe he was just being nice, one New Yorker to another. It’s like that when you live here. Maybe that is something Jonathan will miss. No one who has ever lived here likes feeling like an outsider when they come back. Or worse, a tourist. NYC gets in your blood and it never leaves. For a while I had switched to vanilla lattes and even dropped soy altogether from my diet, but now I am firmly back in the old routine. I guess it’s true what they say: the more things change, the more they stay the same.

So even though I am saying goodbye, maybe you should stay tuned. Life has a funny way of surprising you. You never know what might be waiting next.

So Strange, Yet Familiar

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The Conor Role

Though merely a bright Cheshire cat smile of a crescent, the moon was huge tonight, looming over me as I drove up the big hill to my house. It was Cosmo's moon from Moonstruck and suddenly I was reminded that love doesn't make things perfect. It ruins everything. It breaks your heart. I have been trying not to think about love much these days (largely to no avail), but it was contaminating everything tonight at Manhattan's yearly high school gay mono makeout party known locally as Revel.

Revel is an annual charity event to raise money to help gay youth, which is attended by all the hottest and sexiest twenty and thirty-somethings in town. It is all a very worthy cause and a noble idea, just covered in two scoops of vanilla ice cream, a gooey layer of chocolate fudge, a sprinkling of crushed walnuts and topped with whipped cream. Though it is one sundae of a party for which the cherry is a distant memory for those in attendance.

This is one of the few gay musts that I do, and a rare chance for me to hobnob with the homos that I otherwise shun (before they have the chance to shun me, natch). Aside from dropping by Bowery Bar's notorious outdoor patio on the first warm Spring Tuesday of the year and the last balmy Autumn one before winter's chill forces everyone who is anyone to landlock above 14th street until the thaw, Revel is about it when it comes to gay caucus meetings where my vote is annually cast.

I had wanted Hottie Zach and Ronnie to attend, to aid in their quest to get connected in the gay social scene for which Revel is practically a wall socket, but they weren't there tonight. My neighbor Clayton did join me, however, and it was nice to have someone to pal around with. I had fully expected to see Matty, but I suppose I can deduce from his Facebook Mobile uploads that he was watching Survivor tonight with Charlie and couldn't make it. It is likely for the best since my favorite of his exes was there: Conor McGill

Much has been written in my blog about Conor already and you can expect plenty more where that came from. He looked adorable in a tiny bowtie with skulls and crossbones on it (solidarity for Somali pirates?). Conor assured me that it took him hours to get the tie right, after learning to do it on YouTube, and I think it was time well spent. I love Conor and I know between Ben Harvey and Matty, I am woefully in the minority on this one. But once again, I was charmed by his puppy dog eyes, magnetic silver sneakers and a drink in each hand. What can I say? I know what I like and I know everything will stay perfect between us as long as I only see him every few months and things never go further than a polite kiss on the cheek.

Conor was there with his friend Michael, a securities lawyer who didn't like that I wasn't saying much nor that I only work about four hours every day since he works almost twenty. "Just think of it this way," I told him, in a classic flirtation on my part that shows why no one ever wants to date me, "anytime you aren't working, I am!" In between kissing other guys, he drunkenly cajoled me into asking him out on a date. He must be a very good lawyer since it was all over before I even knew what was happening, and he billed me for the whole hour even though it only took about five minutes.

Bobby was there with some co-workers and his insanely hot friend Chris from San Francisco. Chris' adorable argyle print shirt was so tight on his taut frame it looked like it had been ironed onto his perfect torso by angels. Chris was drunk and grabby, which is always hot, but then he was drunk and grabby with everyone (including separately Clayton), which makes it less personally satisfying. But he is insanely hot, so naturally I am willing to let untold amounts of untoward behavior slide.

Ryan Newman was there with his friend Mike, whom I have met a dozen times and am always greeted by with the same granite expression of persistent annoyance. Ryan looked cute with his new short hair cut, according to him a much needed return to form. I think he looks good either way, but he didn't stay long enough to talk about more than his hair. Ryan and Mike were encircled by a cadre of all the people I saw at that Halloween party and election night and countless other times, but who all stare right through me uncomfortably as if I am a peasant child begging with Chiclets in hand in the midst of their otherwise fabulous Mexican vacation.

It was all for the best. At a certain point, the Madonna mashups and the makeouts and the mos were starting to get to me. There is only so much "A" gay someone from the suburbs can take before dinner moves up into their esophagus. When the others headed to the official after party at Mr. Black's or each other's apartments for awkward groping and dark fumblings, Clayton and I grabbed our coats and headed out into the night, on our way back to the middle of obscurity.

The forecast is for snow tomorrow. I really hope it doesn't. But as I looked down at the temperature reading in the car on my way home, it said 26 degrees. Smells like snow. I looked back up at the moon and saw the old Cheshire cat smiling back down at me. Beaming really. Winter is here, he smiled. And you can get as big as you want by telling people "eat me" but you are still in Wonderland no matter how much you try to leave it.

Keeping Things Fresh!

I have a terrible problem with alcohol. If I drink a lot and pass out, I wake up four hours later feeling completely refreshed and ready to go again. This is how casual drinkers turn into raging alcoholics. It is also fun and easy to do when you are 22 and working full-time in a drug clinic, but a decade and a half later, your body and mind may bounce back quickly, but your face tells the story of the long night before. It isn't pretty and neither are you.

Sunday morning, after not sleeping for two days because of the travel to San Francisco, I woke up bright and early at 7:30am. And could not get back to sleep. I watched some TV (thank you Chris Matthews), looked online for an obscure song from a movie and answered some emails, but mostly I just lolled around in the massive bed in my suite at the W Hotel. The night before, I had hosted the GayVN awards along with Romaine and Lady Bunny. Romaine was already on a plane back home to her baby and Bunny I suspected was nothing but a pile of shredded pantyhose and smeared mascara at that hour. I wandered out to the local Starbucks for my usual iced venti chai and a little wedge of banana nut bread to fill my stomach. During my early morning meditation, I pulled together brunch with my ex-boyfriend Curtis and my former intern Bobby (aka Bobby Intern I), both of whom I knew in other cities but who live in SF now.

I tried to nap a little bit before our 12:30pm brunch, but failing at that, I soaked in the tub for a while, and then pulled myself together as best I could. I ran into Bunny in the lobby on my way out. She had some time to kill before her flight and planned to check out some weird museum show that was going on. I only half understood what she was saying because my mind kept wandering to my own childhood visits to the museums of San Francisco, including the legendary exploratorium, during the brief time (known as the 1970s) when you could experience it's tactile dome naked if you so chose. Yes, Virginia, even San Francisco has gotten more conservative over the years.

Initially we were going to meet at Lime On Market for brunch but there was a 150 person waiting list and the blank stare from the hostest when Curtis tried (at my urging) to pull a "don't you know who he thinks he is" told us we should look somewhere else if we wanted to eat that day. I was relieved. The place was a big gay scene, the likes of which I thought San Francisco railed again, and even though I am deaf as a post thanks to a childhood obsession with the SONY Walkman and years working in radio, the place was just too loud for me. The three of us ended up settling at 2223, which was delightful. The bloody mary was the size of Mt. Everest (though much easier to climb) and the cinammon bun we all shared made me sorry Romaine had left so early.

Brunch with Curtis and Bobby was so pleasant. By way of introduction, they both told each other stories about me, which anyone who knows me knows could keep me entertained all afternoon long. In between they talked about gay life in San Francisco, other places to see and be seen, and other topics of no interest to me whatsoever. I did tell Bobby that I had been invited by John Rutherford to join him later that night at a party honoring our friend Jack Mackenroth of Project Runway. Bobby really wanted to meet John and coincidentally he had already planned to be at Fresh, the club where the party was taking place. We endeavored to meet up at the party later.

I walked back to the hotel, stuffed to the gills and hoping the walk would both relieve the bloated feeling and wear me out enough to take a short nap before the party that night. I looked plenty haggard at brunch, which was fine, but going to a nightclub was a whole other matter. I needed to look at least halfway human. Along the way, I bought a giant family-size bottle of Gatorade and some Mega Millions lottery tickets (Hey! You never know!) since water and the $220 million jackpot could go a long way toward looking halfway human. I sent a text message to Erik Rhodes to see if he was alive and wanted to be my plus one at the event later. The night before he had told me he wasn't leaving until Monday either and didn't really have anything to do. So I promised him I would make contact and if he wasn't dead to the world (or just plain dead) maybe we would meet up. He was still feeling the night before quite hard but I told him I would check in with him later to see if he was more ready to face the world. That was the last I heard of him.

Back at the W, I threw myself on the mercy of the bed and passed out for a delightful and restful three hour nap. Just before six pm, I got a text message from John Rutherford asking if I could be ready to go in fifteen minutes. I agreed to Name That Tune, hopped in the shower and pulled myself together. Well, the nap must have done the trick because I woke up looking more like a human being than I had earlier in the day. What a relief.

John and I found Doris Day parking just down the street from Fresh only to discover that I was not on the guest list and he didn't have a plus one. Despite having a national radio show and having been one of the earliest employees at PlanetOut, the parent company of the folks throwing the party that night, door queen had no interest in letting me in. Finally I squeezed in as Jack Mackenroth's plus one. Apparently, I wasn't the only one who got shade at the door. When Jack arrived, door queen asked him to spell his last name to see if he was on the list and he said, "Honey, it's the one on the invitation." Things picked up almost immediately for me when the bouncer asked to see my I.D. "You are just the sweetest man alive." I said as I pulled my card out of my wallet. "Ah" he said as he handed me my I.D. back, "I can see now why you said that. Have a good night." That must have been some kind of a nap I took.

Inside, the party was just getting started. I ran into Cassandra, the Gay.com publicist for the event and it turns out I had met her many times before when she was helping promote adorable Eric Himan. John Rutherford and I hung out in the VIP area (you can see his alternate take on the evening in his blog) until Jack finally arrived and then we wandered off with him to the autograph table set up for him. Jack was wedged quite unhappily by the men's room and spent most of his time there blocked by the long time of shirtless hunks waiting to do coke in the stalls. John commented on the bad placement and I reminded him of my famous adage that fame is nothing more than a series of humiliations and how famous you become depends entirely on your willingness to be humiliated at every turn. Jack didn't seem to mind as long as the money and the booze was flowing his direction.

While there John Rutherford noticed an adorable guy checking me out while waiting in line for the bathroom. I didn't believe him at first but then after considerable staring, I did notice him staring and smiling back. I waited for him to come out of the bathroom, but by the time he did Cassandra from PlanetOut was all up in my grill and he was beseiged by fag hags and then disappeared into the crowd. Once that happened, I knew it would be virtually impossible to find him again. In the meantime, another hot guy showed up in line wearing a terrible white tank top with semaphores on it. The outfit was awful but his pouty lips were Angelina Jolie worthy. I tried to get John to "discover" him for Buckshot but he didn't even have a business card on him. I offered to give him mine, but when I reached in my wallet, I realized the last of those were gone too. A couple of terrible businessmen we are!

Soon enough, John had grown weary of the party atmosphere, and I offered to walk him out since I fully intended to go to the Jack In The Box across the street when he left. He agreed that nothing sounded better than that so we both headed in that direction. Once on the sidewalk we ran into Bobby Intern arriving. Since he was starving too, the three of us decamped from the glamorous shirtless hunk party and sat down in as sketchy a fast food joint as I have ever seen for a witty conversation and a greasy stack of fries. For me, this was the perfect evening. My favorite local fast food, a bit of an alcohol buzz on and good friends. After we dispatched our meal, Bobby and I said good bye to John and then headed back to the club for more drunken adventures.

Once inside, we connected with Jack back in the VIP room and Bobby and I continued the evening that John and I had started together. While hanging out in there, suddenly the cute boy who had been checking me out earlier wandered into the VIP room. He was now sweaty from dancing and his shirt was firmly in his back pocket, but he was all smiles for me. He had spotted me from the dance floor and thought I might be able to help him get backstage so he could dance in the special area with the professional dancers. I unfortunately didn't have that power, but he settled for a kiss instead. The next thing I knew, I had him up against the wall and we were making out and grinding up on each other like it was the end of civilization. I would have been embarrassed for myself but I was just having too much fun.

Knowing that was the high water mark of the evening, and seeing how well Bobby and Jack were getting along, I figured I could head back to the hotel at a reasonable hour and try to get at least a couple of hours of sleep before my 5am trip to the airport and another 7am flight. I left Bobby and Jack and some of Jack's friends as they headed off to the next party, while I turned and walked down the hill back toward the hotel. Overall, it was a perfect night. I got carded at the door. I got to make out with a cute guy. I even danced a little with Bobby. It is true that at a certain age, some pleasures don't have the same easy delight to them that they used to have. But every once in a while, if you can pull yourself together, for a few hours in a dimly lit nightclub you can feel a little Fresh once again.