This Sunday marks the finale of another season of my beloved Amazing Race. Even now as I blog from a taxi speeding across a deserted Manhattan in the predawn hours on my way to JFK, I can imagine that I am on the race. As it was, my night out on the town was in its own way a series of challenges, each task completed with the same level of happy satisfaction one would imagine I would employ on CBS primetime. The final challenge being a simple choice: Blogged or Tagged. In this Detour, contestants choose between blogging their adventure out on the town or taking a series of photos to be uploaded and tagged on Facebook. As expected, I chose blogging while Matty’s team went for tagging.
It all started innocently enough at Vlada with Original Jonathan. Initially we were going to have a drink and a snack at Vynl, but that hot slab of a bartender Aaron wasn’t working so we switched to old reliable Vlada around the corner. Jonathan is at something of a crossroads in his life and career in Manhattan and we were long overdue for some one-on-one time to discuss it. In the meantime, some guy named Mark recognized me from who can even say how many years ago. I am sure he knew me because he said, “I thought it was you but then wasn’t sure because you weren’t in shorts.” I was correctly identified but Jonathan was not so lucky, planting a cheek kiss on a guy named Chance, who as it turns out, was not his former co-worker Spencer.
Our drink and discussion at an end, we headed for the coat check, to retrieve our jackets and our next clue. It was there that I ran into Joe, who was just on his way in, but upon seeing me, realized it was already time to leave… with me! Jonathan went back to his apartment and Joe and I hopped into a cab to head down to the Village for a small party at Chris’ apartment, the scene of my notorious Halloween blog entry. Matty would be waiting there for us with his charming Austrian boyfriend Hanno. This time instead of hot shirtless men, the party was jammed with cleavage-heaving young women… and adorable Ryan Newman.
Ryan was there with his new boyfriend who, like me, is from Westchester. Although I own. They must be very happy together because the moment I arrived, Ryan flew into his arms like a long separated lover and was never more than a fingertip away the rest of the evening. Matty, ever the publicist, bragged on Ryan’s Britney Spears dance moves and prodded me to encourage an encore. However, the new boyfriend, in full Footloose-era John Lithgow fashion had banned the dancing. This only encouraged my worst instincts and I relentlessly goaded Ryan to dance, in or out of his underwear, at the soonest possible moment.
Despite my warm small talk about the cookies he had made, the new boyfriend was unbowed in his banned stance. However, before we made our hasty retreat to the Maritime Hotel for our next challenge, I am quite certain that I spied Ryan busting a move or two in the corner. Perhaps he was ginned up by the excessively controlled Vanity Fair cover photo posing that I deftly avoided by ducking under a plate of half eaten chocolate cupcakes, though Matty happily flung himself in despite his less-desirable placement on the third fold next to the perfume ad.
I had thought we would end up at Corey Craig’s CD release party further across town at the Chelsea Hotel, but instead we landed at the new hot gay party in the winterized cabanas off the upper patio of the lovely Maritime Hotel. A birthday party was being thrown for a woman named Zoe, who by all accounts is the woman of the moment in the gay community. The party was a weird mix of young gays in purposefully hetero gear (a self-ripped sleeveless t-shirt… really?), even younger gays in collar and tie and 90s leftovers who don’t realize they are in their 30s now and wearing ANF days after the company posted a steep double digit decline in sales on Black Friday (the final nail in their pop culture coffin) while still clinging to an ecstasy fueled Palladium fantasy that even for them is but a dim memory. For everyone else at the party, that look evokes an era near the end of the last century best described as “middle school.”
Also there seemed to be a lot of vests out tonight. I know I am not exactly the cutting edge of fashion. Earlier while comparing Polo shirts at Chris’ party, a co-worker of Matty’s gave my Ralph Lauren shirt a quizzical look and then smiled a smooth knowing smile. “Ah. Factory. No wonder I didn’t recognize it.” That being said, these boys in their vests just looked like out of work valets. I had to resist the urge to hand them my car keys. I guess it is all part of this ADD generation. Everything is so sped up, they don’t even have time for sleeves! Even the DJ got into the act and spun 28 seconds of all my favorite songs. It was like walking through a low rent carnival game row that didn’t want to pay music royalties. It made me long for the days of exhaustive ten to fifteen minute dance mixes that seemed all too short while dancing under the watchful spin of Junior. I am sure the thirty-something in the Abercrombie tee sipping on a cosmo thought the exact same thing.
Conor was there in a gently worn hoodie that undoubtedly had been tirelessly and expensively distressed to appear so casually at ends on a chilly winter night. He and Matty spotted each other and sparred at a distance though it didn’t have any of the venom I expected. Whatever intense animus there once was between them has apparently since been replaced by the kind of playful sniping that usually ended with Krystal and Alexis plunging into a fountain during sweeps. The ever winning smile of Brian Babst was on hand as well, ready the second he spotted me with lines from last night’s 30 Rock, all perfectly memorized. “I watch each episode twice,” he confided. “Once the night of when I am drunk and again in the morning when I am sober.” It was a tactic that clearly was paying off.
The evening ended as suddenly as it began. Joe was fondling his coat check ticket while lamenting all the photos Matty was taking, and when I returned from the bathroom, he was gone. In a flash, Zoe, the birthday lady in red, was gone from her own party too and it was like the air was let out of the balloon. In the end, some friend of Matty tried to coax us to join them at 3am at Brandon Voss' apartment, but we just stood in stunned horror as they (Conor included) swirled out of the nightclub into the street like the dancers from Fame, screeching and mobbing taxis in a mad clamour to reach the next destination. Matty, Hanno and I slipped away quietly uptown toward Chelsea, where I left them happily on the corner on their way home. For them the adventure was coming to an end, but for me it was just beginning. An hour later, bag in hand, I was in that cab on my way to the airport. For me, the race continues.
Showing posts with label Corey Craig. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Corey Craig. Show all posts
Saturday, December 6, 2008
Tuesday, April 29, 2008
Release Me
"How are you going to blog this one?"
I don't have a good answer. Peter Stickles is standing next to me, looking up blankly at the stage. I am transfixed by a bedazzled dragon on his neck. I should have taken a picture of that instead of the bowls of dime store candy on the table next to me. It is ten minutes before Madonna's new album Hard Candy is due to be released and Peter is waiting next to me in the basement of the Virgin Megastore in Times Square. His neck is the most interesting thing I have seen in the last two hours.
Originally, Jonathan had wanted me to join him at the midnight release so that we could pick up the new album and he could try to win tickets to see her free concert at Roseland on Wednesday night. But then he had to go out of town at the last minute and asked me to still go so I could pick him up a poster or something other cool giveaway stuff. So after the show tonight, I bundled myself off to Virgin and waiting for the excitement to happen. The excitement that never came.
When I arrived just after ten, drag queen and part time Tyra Banks enthusiast Shequida was presiding over the "talent" show that was supposed to constitute entry to win tickets. Everyone had 30 seconds to wow the panel of judges, none of whom I recognized immediately. The talent most often displayed was a gushing insistence of urgent homosexuality followed by the certainty of impending doom if somehow begging alone wasn't enough to get into the show. Ten minutes of this and I was certain that my idea of stringing together 30 seconds worth of Madonna lyrics from two dozen hits into a plea for tickets would have been a guaranteed winner.
I tried to take video and pictures of the event with my phone and send them immediately to Jonathan in Florida but my phone was not cooperating. So I went back to my office and picked up my camera and backpack and headed in for round two. Immediately upon arriving, I ran into DJ Corey Craig, one of the judges. I asked him how it was going and he just rolled his eyes in disgust. Apparently the talent had not improved during my thirty minute break. I stationed myself behind him at the judging table where I snapped some quick photos of him texting his friends, the other judges looking at anything but the contestants, and the sad bowls of candy.
Moments later, I noticed Peter standing nearby. He looked as cute as always. His skin is like that was a baby. I know he is older than sixteen but he doesn't look it. Tonight was Michael Carbonaro's birthday and I asked why Peter wasn't there helping celebrate. "I slipped out for this." His expression remained blank but I couldn't imagine he wasn't regretting the decision.
Shequida called the finalists to the stage. Only four minutes left to save us from this world of misery. It is hot and I want to go home. There is nothing here to get for Jonathan. What a waste of two hours of my life. The tickets are given out. One of the guys seems to have won solely on his looks. Good for him. The appointed hour arrives and everyone rushes upstairs to line up for CDs. I head for the door.
Well, I figure as I head outside into the cool night air, I will email Jonathan the photos and video so he will know that he didn't miss anything. I had considered standing in line to get a CD but the line was insanely long and after yesterday's fourteen hour flight home, all I want to do is go home and go to bed. I can get the CD tomorrow when it won't be an hour long wait in line. I feel bad that I am leaving empty-handed but at least I know for certain that Jonathan didn't miss anything by not being there. My text messages to him all evening have made the point clear, but the photographic evidence will seal the deal later, CSI style.
On the train home, I upload the photos and video and start my blog. Peter was right. What could I possibly say that would be interesting? Then I get a simple and final text from Jonathan "ps Peter got me a poster." Suddenly I am incensed! Where? WHERE???? There were no posters. There was NOTHING. My mind scans through mental images of the crowd at Virgin, coming up empty again and again. They must have been selling them with the CDs at the end of the endless line I refused to stand in. So now it's the worst possible outcome for the evening. Not only did I waste two hours of my life, but I didn't even get the one thing I was sent there to get. And someone else did. Now I am a douche. I could have had the same outcome just going home on time. I guess it is true that no good deed goes unpunished.
But at least now, Peter, I have something to blog about.
I don't have a good answer. Peter Stickles is standing next to me, looking up blankly at the stage. I am transfixed by a bedazzled dragon on his neck. I should have taken a picture of that instead of the bowls of dime store candy on the table next to me. It is ten minutes before Madonna's new album Hard Candy is due to be released and Peter is waiting next to me in the basement of the Virgin Megastore in Times Square. His neck is the most interesting thing I have seen in the last two hours.
Originally, Jonathan had wanted me to join him at the midnight release so that we could pick up the new album and he could try to win tickets to see her free concert at Roseland on Wednesday night. But then he had to go out of town at the last minute and asked me to still go so I could pick him up a poster or something other cool giveaway stuff. So after the show tonight, I bundled myself off to Virgin and waiting for the excitement to happen. The excitement that never came.
When I arrived just after ten, drag queen and part time Tyra Banks enthusiast Shequida was presiding over the "talent" show that was supposed to constitute entry to win tickets. Everyone had 30 seconds to wow the panel of judges, none of whom I recognized immediately. The talent most often displayed was a gushing insistence of urgent homosexuality followed by the certainty of impending doom if somehow begging alone wasn't enough to get into the show. Ten minutes of this and I was certain that my idea of stringing together 30 seconds worth of Madonna lyrics from two dozen hits into a plea for tickets would have been a guaranteed winner.
I tried to take video and pictures of the event with my phone and send them immediately to Jonathan in Florida but my phone was not cooperating. So I went back to my office and picked up my camera and backpack and headed in for round two. Immediately upon arriving, I ran into DJ Corey Craig, one of the judges. I asked him how it was going and he just rolled his eyes in disgust. Apparently the talent had not improved during my thirty minute break. I stationed myself behind him at the judging table where I snapped some quick photos of him texting his friends, the other judges looking at anything but the contestants, and the sad bowls of candy.
Moments later, I noticed Peter standing nearby. He looked as cute as always. His skin is like that was a baby. I know he is older than sixteen but he doesn't look it. Tonight was Michael Carbonaro's birthday and I asked why Peter wasn't there helping celebrate. "I slipped out for this." His expression remained blank but I couldn't imagine he wasn't regretting the decision.
Shequida called the finalists to the stage. Only four minutes left to save us from this world of misery. It is hot and I want to go home. There is nothing here to get for Jonathan. What a waste of two hours of my life. The tickets are given out. One of the guys seems to have won solely on his looks. Good for him. The appointed hour arrives and everyone rushes upstairs to line up for CDs. I head for the door.
Well, I figure as I head outside into the cool night air, I will email Jonathan the photos and video so he will know that he didn't miss anything. I had considered standing in line to get a CD but the line was insanely long and after yesterday's fourteen hour flight home, all I want to do is go home and go to bed. I can get the CD tomorrow when it won't be an hour long wait in line. I feel bad that I am leaving empty-handed but at least I know for certain that Jonathan didn't miss anything by not being there. My text messages to him all evening have made the point clear, but the photographic evidence will seal the deal later, CSI style.
On the train home, I upload the photos and video and start my blog. Peter was right. What could I possibly say that would be interesting? Then I get a simple and final text from Jonathan "ps Peter got me a poster." Suddenly I am incensed! Where? WHERE???? There were no posters. There was NOTHING. My mind scans through mental images of the crowd at Virgin, coming up empty again and again. They must have been selling them with the CDs at the end of the endless line I refused to stand in. So now it's the worst possible outcome for the evening. Not only did I waste two hours of my life, but I didn't even get the one thing I was sent there to get. And someone else did. Now I am a douche. I could have had the same outcome just going home on time. I guess it is true that no good deed goes unpunished.
But at least now, Peter, I have something to blog about.
Sunday, April 6, 2008
Claymation
As I write this, it is Clay’s birthday. It was at my suggestion that he came to New York this weekend. I hope he is enjoying himself. At least I know he is making money. I am an extremely lucky person, and the people who are around me tend to have even better luck when they keep me close. What can I say? I make things happen just by being. Some people get scared by this kind of personal magic, but men like Clay relish in it. Every time Clay flies off to see me, he makes money. Unlike Broadway, where I am the kiss of death, elsewhere I am just what it takes to close the deal. So even though Clay’s flight was horribly delayed coming in last night, he did have the satisfaction of knowing that once again, a visit with Derek means a property sold.
I guess there are worse ways to spend your birthday than making money. I spent today covering my dining room and kitchen with primer, in day one of a three day painting process that will soon spin shimmery gold into Sandstone and Windsor Gaze. The bulk of the day was spent putting masking tape in places that hadn’t even been cleaned in the seventeen years preceding when I bought the place. When I say we found a 1968 Swedish quarter under the fridge when we moved it, you should express the same lack of surprise Roommate and I did when it appeared in the dustpan.
I gave myself a Silkwood shower before I left the house but my hands were still doused in white flecks as if I had been soaking it in at the cruel behest of Madge the manicurist. I hate painting for this reason. It is virtually impossible for me to get paint off my hands and it always makes me look unclean in public. I may not wear more than twenty bucks worth of clothing at a time, but I do like to be clean, at the very least. This is especially true when heading off to gay places because our community can be very mean spirited. It is bad enough that I don’t live on the island of Manhattan. One or two other “problems” and one might be banned permanently!
I dropped my hideous free Gay.com backpack at the office and headed off to meet the original Jonathan at Vlada. I had thought about not even bringing a backpack to the city since it is usually such a drag to drag around, but my train ride home is always the best time to blog the night’s adventures. Without my laptop, a perfectly sensational evening could be lost forever. So in compromise, I just ditched the bag at my office. At Vlada, the doorman asked for my ID which caused me to laugh a fake hearty laugh, but secretly I was desperately flattered, especially as I saw him later wave other, younger people in without checking.
Initially, I was alone at the bar which I can’t stand. I feel so self-conscious standing in a lounge like Vlada without anyone with me. As I always do in these situations, I immediately panicked and started running through the bar like Liza Minnelli finishing a box of Girl Scout cookies, desperately picking through the crowd hoping to find a familiar face. Of course my friend Corey Craig was there DJing, as he had been last night at the Chelsea Hotel. We had a nice conversation and then I left him to see if Jonathan or perhaps Clay had arrived yet.
Jonathan finally arrived with his very drunk but still cute friend Will. Will was as buttoned-down and Type A as the last time I saw him at Therapy. In our previous encounter he dodged me because he thought I might be looking for representation, but this time he was too drunk to run. His focus was much dedicated to a cute guy in a red polo shirt standing in the eye of a cluster of equally preppy friends. Will thought he looked familiar but it might have been the five dollar Stoli cocktails that were jogging his memory.
As usual, I was far more courageous in the service of a stranger than I ever am in myself. I walked over to the stranger and told him that my friend Will and I thought he looked familiar but couldn’t quite place him. As soon as I went over to talk to the handsome stranger, Will turned his back and struck up as intense a discussion with Jonathan as anyone has ever seen.
It turns out the stranger was named Kevin, he works at the United Nations and even though it isn’t a requirement of his job, he speaks French. And, since he mentioned it six times, he also lives in New Jersey. Apparently he is quite sensitive about the cruel rejection he gets from picky Manhattan gays. “Well I am sorry I don’t remember you from before,” he told me, “but tell your friend my name is Kevin and I say hi.” A very clear good bye to me and hello to Will, which I promptly delivered to him. Even after that opening he was reluctant to talk to him, but after I had abandoned my cocktail to make small talk with this guy I told Will I was going to kick him in the leg that instant if he didn’t walk over and talk to him. They talked.
Clay had arrived by this point and was having a good time at Vlada. Still hoping to resurrect the planned triumvirate from the previous night that had gone bust, I sent a txt message to Matt to get him to join us at Vlada. He was at G for a split second with Brian, but then headed over to Andy Towle’s apartment, when he was currently trying to get us to go. This intrigued me. I think Andy is awesome and I read his blog every single weekday without fail. He is my primary gay news source. Plus, I saw him the night before in line at the Chelsea Hotel. If I managed to see him twice in one weekend, it would be double the number of times I saw him in 2007. And I was still anxious to at least make out with Brian after being thwarted the night before.
I dragged Clay out of the promising and vibrant scene of Vlada and piled him into a cab to Andy’s apartment. Once we arrived there, it became clear that Matt had created an impromptu party. There I discovered a pair of tall, built, generically attractive gays headed out as we walked in. They had the gentle, easy gaze and gait of giraffes. I only heard one name, promptly forgotten, and off they went like something delicately animalistic from a National Geographic Special, undoubtedly headed two by two to gay Noah’s ark or some happy gay hunting grounds in the Serengeti. Clay also didn’t stay long, wanting to return quickly to Vlada in hopes of recapturing the earlier magic of the evening.
Matt was all kinds of sweet and apologetic which I assumed was based on what he had read in my blog from the previous night. When I presented him with the news that he (and Brian, and Andy for that matter) were already committed to the internet, he exploded into a manic panic. “We’ve already been blogged!” he yelled, tugging on Brian’s sleeve. An ocean of calm, Andy offered me a drink and we settled into a polite conversation in the living room, while Matt and Brian searched the web.
Andy asked me about my blog, which he hadn’t read before, and we talked about moderating comments and what happens to gay men when they turn forty. It was a lovely chat and I wanted to tell Andy that I had recommended him to go on Bill O’Reilly when FOX called our office looking for a guest to discuss Jay Leno and Ryan Phillippe’s gayest look. But that conversation was not to be as Brian settled down next to me, iPhone in hand, to read aloud from my previous blog entry.
I can honestly say that no one is more bored by my writing than I am, and having it read aloud is a special kind of hell. About ten minutes in, Andy pulled out his own iPhone to skip down to the part he was mentioned in. “It’s an epic!” he declared but not in the happy way that a film reviewer might gush about an Oscar contender. Matt was tickled by the whole recounting of events, though Brian was quick to agree with Matt that “no one who doesn’t know us will care about any of this.” Oh contraire!
Everyone seemed to approve of how they were represented in the blog, which didn’t surprise me, though Matt was anxious for a more favorable mention tonight. I like to think that I fairly accurately depict people and events, especially since I usually write it within minutes of it actually happening. Brian was mildly irritated by the word “promise” being associated with him, but I really meant the promise of something between us, forever interrupted by late trains home to the suburbs, not some kind of sunny upbeat demeanor I have yet to see him display. He asked me if I really thought he looked like he might eat someone. Yes! Funny, he didn’t question my description of his former paramour Dallas as “statistically handsome.” I guess that didn’t bother him as much as the prospect of being perceived as a cannibal. Don’t worry, Brian, no one reads this anyway.
I wanted to stick around all night at Andy’s place. I loved the low key vibe and as an ardent fan of his blog, nothing would thrill me more than talking about his work. I wish he would come on my show. I ask him all the time, but there is no reason for him to come. His blog is immensely popular and he hardly needs the publicity. Still, when I like something, I do like to shamelessly promote it on my show. After all, what is the point of having a radio show if you can’t boost your friends a little? I guess I will just have to settle for a semi-annual visit in person instead.
On my way out, the topic turned to my long train ride home. Andy was familiar with the trip, having made it many times, much further up than where I live. He did not have fond memories but I enjoy the ride along the river, especially since it gives me a chance to collect my thoughts from the evening and commit them to the permanent record of my epic (sorry! I am a terrible editor!) blog.
After the door closed to Andy’s apartment, I heard Brian’s booming voice chanting the names of some of my stops along the way. But it didn’t bother me as I raced down the stairs and out into the street in search of a cab. After all, I love my little life in the suburbs. Kevin may be sensitive about living in New Jersey but I adored my day today eating slices of pizza in the Adirondack chairs and watching deer grazing in my backyard. I don’t live my life for anyone else. Even though peer pressure may work on some people with no self-esteem who like to iron things, it doesn’t work on me. And as always, I get the last word. So while Brian may do his best to define me in the moment inside Andy’s apartment, I get to define him for all time right here.
I wonder what it will be like when he finally does eat me. It might be pretty good. You know how people around me tend to get lucky.
I guess there are worse ways to spend your birthday than making money. I spent today covering my dining room and kitchen with primer, in day one of a three day painting process that will soon spin shimmery gold into Sandstone and Windsor Gaze. The bulk of the day was spent putting masking tape in places that hadn’t even been cleaned in the seventeen years preceding when I bought the place. When I say we found a 1968 Swedish quarter under the fridge when we moved it, you should express the same lack of surprise Roommate and I did when it appeared in the dustpan.
I gave myself a Silkwood shower before I left the house but my hands were still doused in white flecks as if I had been soaking it in at the cruel behest of Madge the manicurist. I hate painting for this reason. It is virtually impossible for me to get paint off my hands and it always makes me look unclean in public. I may not wear more than twenty bucks worth of clothing at a time, but I do like to be clean, at the very least. This is especially true when heading off to gay places because our community can be very mean spirited. It is bad enough that I don’t live on the island of Manhattan. One or two other “problems” and one might be banned permanently!
I dropped my hideous free Gay.com backpack at the office and headed off to meet the original Jonathan at Vlada. I had thought about not even bringing a backpack to the city since it is usually such a drag to drag around, but my train ride home is always the best time to blog the night’s adventures. Without my laptop, a perfectly sensational evening could be lost forever. So in compromise, I just ditched the bag at my office. At Vlada, the doorman asked for my ID which caused me to laugh a fake hearty laugh, but secretly I was desperately flattered, especially as I saw him later wave other, younger people in without checking.
Initially, I was alone at the bar which I can’t stand. I feel so self-conscious standing in a lounge like Vlada without anyone with me. As I always do in these situations, I immediately panicked and started running through the bar like Liza Minnelli finishing a box of Girl Scout cookies, desperately picking through the crowd hoping to find a familiar face. Of course my friend Corey Craig was there DJing, as he had been last night at the Chelsea Hotel. We had a nice conversation and then I left him to see if Jonathan or perhaps Clay had arrived yet.
Jonathan finally arrived with his very drunk but still cute friend Will. Will was as buttoned-down and Type A as the last time I saw him at Therapy. In our previous encounter he dodged me because he thought I might be looking for representation, but this time he was too drunk to run. His focus was much dedicated to a cute guy in a red polo shirt standing in the eye of a cluster of equally preppy friends. Will thought he looked familiar but it might have been the five dollar Stoli cocktails that were jogging his memory.
As usual, I was far more courageous in the service of a stranger than I ever am in myself. I walked over to the stranger and told him that my friend Will and I thought he looked familiar but couldn’t quite place him. As soon as I went over to talk to the handsome stranger, Will turned his back and struck up as intense a discussion with Jonathan as anyone has ever seen.
It turns out the stranger was named Kevin, he works at the United Nations and even though it isn’t a requirement of his job, he speaks French. And, since he mentioned it six times, he also lives in New Jersey. Apparently he is quite sensitive about the cruel rejection he gets from picky Manhattan gays. “Well I am sorry I don’t remember you from before,” he told me, “but tell your friend my name is Kevin and I say hi.” A very clear good bye to me and hello to Will, which I promptly delivered to him. Even after that opening he was reluctant to talk to him, but after I had abandoned my cocktail to make small talk with this guy I told Will I was going to kick him in the leg that instant if he didn’t walk over and talk to him. They talked.
Clay had arrived by this point and was having a good time at Vlada. Still hoping to resurrect the planned triumvirate from the previous night that had gone bust, I sent a txt message to Matt to get him to join us at Vlada. He was at G for a split second with Brian, but then headed over to Andy Towle’s apartment, when he was currently trying to get us to go. This intrigued me. I think Andy is awesome and I read his blog every single weekday without fail. He is my primary gay news source. Plus, I saw him the night before in line at the Chelsea Hotel. If I managed to see him twice in one weekend, it would be double the number of times I saw him in 2007. And I was still anxious to at least make out with Brian after being thwarted the night before.
I dragged Clay out of the promising and vibrant scene of Vlada and piled him into a cab to Andy’s apartment. Once we arrived there, it became clear that Matt had created an impromptu party. There I discovered a pair of tall, built, generically attractive gays headed out as we walked in. They had the gentle, easy gaze and gait of giraffes. I only heard one name, promptly forgotten, and off they went like something delicately animalistic from a National Geographic Special, undoubtedly headed two by two to gay Noah’s ark or some happy gay hunting grounds in the Serengeti. Clay also didn’t stay long, wanting to return quickly to Vlada in hopes of recapturing the earlier magic of the evening.
Matt was all kinds of sweet and apologetic which I assumed was based on what he had read in my blog from the previous night. When I presented him with the news that he (and Brian, and Andy for that matter) were already committed to the internet, he exploded into a manic panic. “We’ve already been blogged!” he yelled, tugging on Brian’s sleeve. An ocean of calm, Andy offered me a drink and we settled into a polite conversation in the living room, while Matt and Brian searched the web.
Andy asked me about my blog, which he hadn’t read before, and we talked about moderating comments and what happens to gay men when they turn forty. It was a lovely chat and I wanted to tell Andy that I had recommended him to go on Bill O’Reilly when FOX called our office looking for a guest to discuss Jay Leno and Ryan Phillippe’s gayest look. But that conversation was not to be as Brian settled down next to me, iPhone in hand, to read aloud from my previous blog entry.
I can honestly say that no one is more bored by my writing than I am, and having it read aloud is a special kind of hell. About ten minutes in, Andy pulled out his own iPhone to skip down to the part he was mentioned in. “It’s an epic!” he declared but not in the happy way that a film reviewer might gush about an Oscar contender. Matt was tickled by the whole recounting of events, though Brian was quick to agree with Matt that “no one who doesn’t know us will care about any of this.” Oh contraire!
Everyone seemed to approve of how they were represented in the blog, which didn’t surprise me, though Matt was anxious for a more favorable mention tonight. I like to think that I fairly accurately depict people and events, especially since I usually write it within minutes of it actually happening. Brian was mildly irritated by the word “promise” being associated with him, but I really meant the promise of something between us, forever interrupted by late trains home to the suburbs, not some kind of sunny upbeat demeanor I have yet to see him display. He asked me if I really thought he looked like he might eat someone. Yes! Funny, he didn’t question my description of his former paramour Dallas as “statistically handsome.” I guess that didn’t bother him as much as the prospect of being perceived as a cannibal. Don’t worry, Brian, no one reads this anyway.
I wanted to stick around all night at Andy’s place. I loved the low key vibe and as an ardent fan of his blog, nothing would thrill me more than talking about his work. I wish he would come on my show. I ask him all the time, but there is no reason for him to come. His blog is immensely popular and he hardly needs the publicity. Still, when I like something, I do like to shamelessly promote it on my show. After all, what is the point of having a radio show if you can’t boost your friends a little? I guess I will just have to settle for a semi-annual visit in person instead.
On my way out, the topic turned to my long train ride home. Andy was familiar with the trip, having made it many times, much further up than where I live. He did not have fond memories but I enjoy the ride along the river, especially since it gives me a chance to collect my thoughts from the evening and commit them to the permanent record of my epic (sorry! I am a terrible editor!) blog.
After the door closed to Andy’s apartment, I heard Brian’s booming voice chanting the names of some of my stops along the way. But it didn’t bother me as I raced down the stairs and out into the street in search of a cab. After all, I love my little life in the suburbs. Kevin may be sensitive about living in New Jersey but I adored my day today eating slices of pizza in the Adirondack chairs and watching deer grazing in my backyard. I don’t live my life for anyone else. Even though peer pressure may work on some people with no self-esteem who like to iron things, it doesn’t work on me. And as always, I get the last word. So while Brian may do his best to define me in the moment inside Andy’s apartment, I get to define him for all time right here.
I wonder what it will be like when he finally does eat me. It might be pretty good. You know how people around me tend to get lucky.
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