“There seem to be more of them than usual.”
Many years before OverheardInNewYork, I overheard in New York a woman talking to her husband about all the gay men on the subway train. She was right of course. It was June 1994 and my boyfriend of the time and I were there for the 25th anniversary of Stonewall. The Gay Games were also happening and we were on the subway going to Yankee Stadium for the closing ceremonies. A year earlier we had flown to DC for the March On Washington where we thrilled to the sight of RuPaul in a red white and blue outfit spinning her heart out, our very own Barbie come to life and dressed as Wonder Woman. It was a great time to be gay.
We didn’t know at the time that the AIDS crisis was at its zenith, but there was feeling in the air that everything was changing. The Act Up protesters at the March On Washington slowed down the parade with their chalk outline demonstration in front of the White House, so the massive California contingent, annoyed and relegated to the back of the line, ditched the parade route altogether and beat everyone to the mall to get good seats at the show. There we all were. A sea of white Don’t Panic t-shirts and denim shorts as far as the eye could see. A year later in New York, not much had changed. We felt a real momentum going, like the first twenty five years were good but the next twenty five would alter the whole world.
I live in New York now. Thanks to the AIDS cocktails, the crisis as we once knew it, on the streets and in films like the devastating “Silverlake Life: The View From Here” is a distant memory. At the parade today, a massive section near Rockefeller Center was set out for the protesters, but only four people showed up, including one very cross old lady holding a very expressive cross. I joked with Jack Mackenroth that next year we should come as protesters so we can get a good seat and really spread out with some lawn chairs and maybe an ice chest.
Jack and I were invited by Clay to the parade viewing party thrown by In The Life, the long running PBS documentary series. How fitting that my mind should wander to the early heady days of the Clinton administration, when gays felt a real visibility and force and In The Life was born. Their offices overlook Fifth Avenue, just across from the stoic yet lovably quirky Flatiron Building, a perfect place to view the parade. Personally I think the parade is too long. At this point, as the gay community reaches middle age, it is time to step it up people. Inclusion is a nice buzzword but it makes for one exceedingly long and boring parade. When the name of your organization is too long to fit on a single line on the side of a float, you are just overreaching. And maybe it is time to rethink your mission statement. And those shoes.
At this point, I think the gay pride parade in New York should be like the Rose Parade in Pasadena. Narrow the number of entries down to less than fifty and make people submit their float concepts or audition, and only the best get in. Our parade should be a show piece. The Lion King performed with anti-gravity! Grand, spectacular, and televised nationally to awe Middle America with the wonders and ingenuity of the gay community. Instead it is just like any other boring parade but with what seems like endless supplies of both welcome and unnecessary nudity (some people are so hot they should be barred from ever wearing clothes while some women of a certain age and size just should NOT be in only tassels).
Steven and Marty were also there, although I learned that most people call him Martin and somehow I accidentally nicknamed him all on my own. That has not deterred me. This is Marty’s first summer in New York and Steven is visiting from Kansas City, so the parade was new to them, although it would seem they shared my lack of enthusiasm. Later Jack’s friend Chris joined us too and for the longest time I couldn’t figure out where I knew him from. After an hour of conversation, Jack mentioned that his sister found him on my blog in an entry about fisting, and suddenly all of the pieces fell into place. “I am the cute blond guy who never fucked Michael Lucas,” Chris declared, his initial irritation at having his Connexion page linked to having long since subsided.
It was a charming gathering but after three days of partying and what seems like non-stop blogging, I was just worn out. The weather had been alternating humid heat and torrential downpour, so I used a brief break in the bad weather to make my exit when everyone else decided to abandon the party and head out among the people. For most of them, the Pier Dance awaits, but for me, I am on gay overload. Time to pack up my gayness, condense it into blog form and head home. And along the way, my mind drifted back to the whole reason we gathered together today in the first place.
Like me and a few others I know, Jack is a 1969 baby. We were born the same year as the Stonewall riots that launched the modern gay movement. And in a way, it is approaching middle age in the same way we are. It was a happy go lucky childhood filled with promise, and then just before puberty, AIDS struck, leaving those of us in the Stonewall Generation with the prospect that as soon as we lost our virginity, certain death awaited us. It was an awkward adolescence, raised suddenly by the lesbians who took charge of everything when the gay men died, and we had to find our own identities as men after the generation before us was decimated. But once we got into our twenties, things really smoothed out. We came out and became accepted and went on with our lives.
Next year, we and Stonewall will be forty. Maybe the gay community is waiting for fifty to make another big splash but let’s face it. In the gay world, forty is the new fifty. The gay community is facing an identity crisis. Our institutions we relied on as our backbone (GLAAD, HRC, etc) have lost their élan and we have questioned their current purpose. And maybe it is our midlife crisis that has us abandoning the Clintons (our first loves) in droves for that fresh young thing Obama. It’s all botox and biceps now in our struggle to remain relevant, and we seem as generationally disconnected from the gay teens coming up now as we were from our own parents so many years ago.
So let’s ditch the overly long parade, the vodka cranberry and the worn out circuit party. It’s time for something new. As the gay community marches into middle age, it is time for an extreme makeover: homo edition. Let’s bring together our best and brightest reality show contestants to whip up something really amazing for 2009. It’s time to show the world that we can still be cool, still be bold. After all, being seen in something you shouldn't be wearing is not cutting edge anymore, it's how the rest of America goes to the mall. But let’s just make it one reasonably short day and have plenty of comfortable seats in the shade. Because let’s face it, we aren’t as young as we used to be.
Showing posts with label Jack Mackenroth. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Jack Mackenroth. Show all posts
Monday, June 30, 2008
Tuesday, May 20, 2008
New Now Next!
Ah limbo! Yes, the Catholic Church abolished it years ago but that doesn’t mean it no longer exists in the world of celebrity. If anything, it is thriving there. Tonight we did a live broadcast from backstage at the New Now Next awards, which will air on LOGO on June 7th. It was a perfect limbo opportunity for us, not really press per se nor celebrity, we got to exist in the nether regions of the media room shuttled off in a dark corner of the MTV studios. We weren’t the only ones in limbo. As I pointed out with my previous GLAAD adventure, there are tiers of celebrity, and once again, we were on the bottom rung.
This is not uncommon for us and it is a fair trade off for the life we get to lead. On the one hand, we are reasonably well known in the rest of America (I was just named Grand Marshall of Indy Pride 2008!), but in New York City, we aren’t even a blip. The upside of this is that we can walk the streets of Manhattan unmolested by fans. The downside of course is that all of the glamorous trappings that would normally come with celebrity (namely invites to fun parties filled with free liquor and other celebrities) constantly elude us. However, in this case, we were able to be reasonably unknown and hang out with celebrities and drink free booze.
The awards themselves I will leave largely shrouded in mystery, lest I give away any winners accidentally. Suffice it to say, it was eerily reminiscent of past MTV events, such as the MTV Movie Awards, which should add a level of familiarity and comfort to viewers even if many of the presenters and winners are as yet unknown to them. This I think is the idea though. It is called New Now Next, with the emphasis on introducing new talent as opposed to rehashing past stars and straight allies, a cornerstone of the high end GLAAD awards for years. I applaud the effort even as I worry the outcome.
Many of my favorite people were there, including the lovely Andy Towle, whose blog I am hopelessly devoted to. We even got him to spend a few minutes on our show, which is a little bit like get later years Howard Hughes to trim his fingernails. Jack Mackenroth was there, along with Kevin Christiana and Christian Siriano from Project Runway. Jack is a ray of bitchy sunshine and pound for muscular pound the best cocktail chatter partner money can buy. I only wish any sliver of our conversation could be repeated in print, but rest assured if Disney’s Lady and the Tramp ever comes to Broadway we could play the Siamese cats, only drunk and real cunty.
Things really moved into high gear once we hit the after party. This is where the other bank of celebrities existed, the bank we would have been with if we hadn’t been live on the radio. LOGO invited two sets of guests: those who would be on the TV show and do that press line and those who would watch from the after party room and do a different press line. Here we found lovely friends like Josh Zuckerman and Keo Nozari, patiently waiting out the evening for everyone else to join them. They spent three hours with the who’s that of New York gay society swilling cocktails and eating pigs in a blanket and mini grilled cheese sandwiches (the hot Hollywood hors d‘oeuvre du jour ten years ago). Later after the on-air celebrities appeared, sushi was thrown into the mix to remind everyone that better people had arrived. There were even two sets of gift bags. Segregation may have been outlawed in the public sphere fifty years ago but it is beloved in entertainment circles.
As the other stars drifted upstairs I finally got some alone time with the fabulous God-des and She, who looked great and were sad that they missed my cinco de mayo party. Michael Carbonaro was there, auditioning for a comic relief role on Mad Men while Peter Stickles stood by, serene and beautiful. His skin was so perfect I wanted to scrape off a sample and send it to a lab to be cloned and then grafted onto my own face. Caroline Rhea who earlier had done the show, still couldn’t get over how much I looked like her gay high school boyfriend. She kept touching me wistfully and then running away.
I thought that would be the weirdest part of the evening until Junior Vasquez’s mega Madonna mix sent a set of avant-garde performers into a frenzy of spontaneous nudity on the stage. At this point, I was standing with Jensen Atwood, who did the show while I was out in Los Angeles two years ago when our mutual friend Ben Patrick Johnson was co-hosting with me. “This is too arty for me.” I said, conscious of my eyes rolling back in my head. “I guess it’s what the kids like.” In my mind, I was already at coat check picking up my bag and backpack.
Security seemed to have the same idea as they sauntered up onto the stage to encourage them to put their clothes back on. But by then it was one a.m., the lights were coming up anyway and the bar was closed. The minute the clothes had come off, the party was definitely over. This may have been LOGO’s hot new edgy award show, a big gay coming out party filled with the gritty vim and verve of downtown Manhattan (aka Amanda Lepore’s fully functioning vagina), but the powers that be didn’t want us to forget for a moment that mama MTV is actively chaperoning this gay adolescent who still has a little more growing up to do.
This is not uncommon for us and it is a fair trade off for the life we get to lead. On the one hand, we are reasonably well known in the rest of America (I was just named Grand Marshall of Indy Pride 2008!), but in New York City, we aren’t even a blip. The upside of this is that we can walk the streets of Manhattan unmolested by fans. The downside of course is that all of the glamorous trappings that would normally come with celebrity (namely invites to fun parties filled with free liquor and other celebrities) constantly elude us. However, in this case, we were able to be reasonably unknown and hang out with celebrities and drink free booze.
The awards themselves I will leave largely shrouded in mystery, lest I give away any winners accidentally. Suffice it to say, it was eerily reminiscent of past MTV events, such as the MTV Movie Awards, which should add a level of familiarity and comfort to viewers even if many of the presenters and winners are as yet unknown to them. This I think is the idea though. It is called New Now Next, with the emphasis on introducing new talent as opposed to rehashing past stars and straight allies, a cornerstone of the high end GLAAD awards for years. I applaud the effort even as I worry the outcome.
Many of my favorite people were there, including the lovely Andy Towle, whose blog I am hopelessly devoted to. We even got him to spend a few minutes on our show, which is a little bit like get later years Howard Hughes to trim his fingernails. Jack Mackenroth was there, along with Kevin Christiana and Christian Siriano from Project Runway. Jack is a ray of bitchy sunshine and pound for muscular pound the best cocktail chatter partner money can buy. I only wish any sliver of our conversation could be repeated in print, but rest assured if Disney’s Lady and the Tramp ever comes to Broadway we could play the Siamese cats, only drunk and real cunty.
Things really moved into high gear once we hit the after party. This is where the other bank of celebrities existed, the bank we would have been with if we hadn’t been live on the radio. LOGO invited two sets of guests: those who would be on the TV show and do that press line and those who would watch from the after party room and do a different press line. Here we found lovely friends like Josh Zuckerman and Keo Nozari, patiently waiting out the evening for everyone else to join them. They spent three hours with the who’s that of New York gay society swilling cocktails and eating pigs in a blanket and mini grilled cheese sandwiches (the hot Hollywood hors d‘oeuvre du jour ten years ago). Later after the on-air celebrities appeared, sushi was thrown into the mix to remind everyone that better people had arrived. There were even two sets of gift bags. Segregation may have been outlawed in the public sphere fifty years ago but it is beloved in entertainment circles.
As the other stars drifted upstairs I finally got some alone time with the fabulous God-des and She, who looked great and were sad that they missed my cinco de mayo party. Michael Carbonaro was there, auditioning for a comic relief role on Mad Men while Peter Stickles stood by, serene and beautiful. His skin was so perfect I wanted to scrape off a sample and send it to a lab to be cloned and then grafted onto my own face. Caroline Rhea who earlier had done the show, still couldn’t get over how much I looked like her gay high school boyfriend. She kept touching me wistfully and then running away.
I thought that would be the weirdest part of the evening until Junior Vasquez’s mega Madonna mix sent a set of avant-garde performers into a frenzy of spontaneous nudity on the stage. At this point, I was standing with Jensen Atwood, who did the show while I was out in Los Angeles two years ago when our mutual friend Ben Patrick Johnson was co-hosting with me. “This is too arty for me.” I said, conscious of my eyes rolling back in my head. “I guess it’s what the kids like.” In my mind, I was already at coat check picking up my bag and backpack.
Security seemed to have the same idea as they sauntered up onto the stage to encourage them to put their clothes back on. But by then it was one a.m., the lights were coming up anyway and the bar was closed. The minute the clothes had come off, the party was definitely over. This may have been LOGO’s hot new edgy award show, a big gay coming out party filled with the gritty vim and verve of downtown Manhattan (aka Amanda Lepore’s fully functioning vagina), but the powers that be didn’t want us to forget for a moment that mama MTV is actively chaperoning this gay adolescent who still has a little more growing up to do.
Tuesday, February 19, 2008
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.
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.
Thursday, November 15, 2007
Down The Rabbit Hole
It seems like I am always running late. I don’t know why time consistently slips away from me, but the older I get, the more it seems to evaporate before my very eyes. Over the years, I have had jobs that have barely required me to show up at an office, let alone at a specific time. I used to joke during my years at America Online that I worked dry cleaning hours: In by ten, out by four! Even that was an improvement in structure after working from home for two years. Since coming to SIRIUS, I am required to physically remain in one place during very specific hours. This has been the hardest challenge for me. I just don’t know that it is in my nature to be on time.
I was watching a documentary a while ago about Marilyn Monroe, a woman notorious for being horrendously late. She apparently arrived at her last photo shoot before her death only two hours late, which was early for Marilyn. When she sang for President Kennedy, Peter Lawford introduced her as “the late Marilyn Monroe” an irony brought home weeks later when she died. During the shooting of “Some Like It Hot” a few years earlier, she was eight hours late to the set. Director Billy Wilder was exasperated but not surprised. “I got lost on the way to the studio,” she declared of the studio lot she had worked on for more than a decade. I figure as long as I am never that bad, I am money ahead.
Last night after the show, I had agreed to attend a Project Runway premiere party, hosted by my new friend Jack Mackenroth. The TV show started promptly at 10pm of course, which also happens to be the exact moment my radio show ends. So it was physically impossible for me to travel from my studio in midtown Manhattan to Greenwich Village is the blink of an eye. I warned in advance that I would be late, but even still. It just seems so like a diva to stroll in late for a live show. Especially when claiming your own celebrity as the excuse for such bad behavior. But it is the nature of the beast. It also happened to be the last day of work for our show producer Dan. I entreated everyone to not have the going away festivities on that night because I knew I wouldn’t be able to stick around, so that is exactly when they scheduled them. So then I got to look like a complete douche running out on everyone. But when you live a story, I guess people around you want you to live it too. Consistency, however annoying, is more important than perfection.
The party was in a converted carriage house and I must say it was a delightful living space. NYC is the best place to go for unusual homes and I was most impressed by how simultaneously modern and antiquated the place was. When I arrived the door to the street was wide open and a hundred attractive men were squeezed into the upstairs watching a flat panel 70 inch screen on the wall. I made amazing time, arriving just 20 minutes into the show, but still, I was too late to mix, mingle, or talk to Jackenroth. I watched the show there (and again when I got home), and I am definitely looking forward to this season. However, I hated most of the clothes. Just blah. And Jack’s model walked like a lumberjack carrying an axe uphill. Jack’s dress was cute, a perfect Barbie ensemble, that I half expect closed in the back with a large metal snap at the neck. But then, Lumberjack Barbie started trudging down the runway and I thought he should have swapped out her sexy purse from Bluefly.com with a nice redwood log.
While the show was going on, a cute guy named Ben started up a conversation with me. He was adorable with a rocking body and we seemed to be hitting it off. Then, Michael Lucas met my eye and started over toward me. “Do you know Michael?” I asked. Ben let out a declarative bleat and beat it on the lam. Michael was in rare form, air kisses and broken English filled the air like perfume. He lifted his shirt several times to show his amazing abs, which were quite impressive. It must be hard in the winter time to have a sensational body and have to hide it under so many layers. His abs popping out made me sad that I love ice cream more than physical perfection, but then I remembered that I get to eat ice cream and no one has to see me naked in order to have a career. It turns out that Michael and Ben had shared an awkward moment earlier in the evening when Michael introduced himself and Ben reminded him that Michael had fucked him three months ago. “I did not remember him, “Michael purred as he gazed at Ben’s perfectly formed back from across the room, “but then I saw his ass and it all came back to me.” I have to admit that Ben did have, in jeans, one of the most perfect asses I have ever seen. “He also has a huge cock” Michael assured me, his head nodding carefully in approval.
Moments later, lurid creep Baby Chic entered the party which caused Michael Lucas to bristle like he had just wandered into a smoldering dump. You may recall that Baby Chic tried to molest me and Ben Harvey at Vlada some months ago, while Ben was trying to make nice with Jonathan of the famous Biscuits and Bath Jonathans. I remembered Baby Chic’s clammy hands all too well and did everything in my power to escape his clutches. Michael and I parted company and I think he was more successful at getting away than I was since seconds later Baby Chic was grabbing my chest as I pushed my way through the kitchen. I was trying to meet Jack but his adoring fans had him completely surrounded and pinned up again the stove. He didn’t seem to mind at all.
Jack is so pretty, and as one of the contestants pointed out on Project Runway, he looks like a superhero. He seemed to be in his element last night, a gorgeous tipsy doll swirling through a glamorous party of attractive men and waif thin girl models. We chatted in the kitchen and he introduced me to the other contestants from the show. It was fun to meet all these people just at the beginning of fame, not after they had already been cast aside by the cruel fate of reality television. Jack also pointed out a beautiful blond model named Megan who had been on America’s Next Top Model, although during that reality stint, she was Meg, the rocker chick with the brown hair and bold-faced attitude. She was giving us full tilt Grace Kelly though as she slipped away from the crowd and down the stairs.
Unfortunately, my own time at the party was drawing short. Even though I am late all the time, the train home to the suburbs doesn’t wait for middling radio personalities, no matter what their reputations. So I made my good bye to Michael Lucas and to sexy Jack Mackenroth. I tried to say good night to Ben but I think my obvious friendship with Michael Lucas had tainted me for him. He was in the midst of a conversation about fisting with a sexy blond named Chris, who like me, had not had sex with Michael Lucas. Ben related a tale of fisting a guy once, pushing down, down, down, finally getting in up to his mid-forearm. “There is an artery right there and it sort of squeezes around your hand tight and you can feel their body. It’s so intense.” That was my cue to leave. I love intensity in life as much as the next person. But if I want to feel blood racing through an artery it’s because I am in a panicked dash through Grand Central Station trying to catch my train home to Normal Town, USA.
I was watching a documentary a while ago about Marilyn Monroe, a woman notorious for being horrendously late. She apparently arrived at her last photo shoot before her death only two hours late, which was early for Marilyn. When she sang for President Kennedy, Peter Lawford introduced her as “the late Marilyn Monroe” an irony brought home weeks later when she died. During the shooting of “Some Like It Hot” a few years earlier, she was eight hours late to the set. Director Billy Wilder was exasperated but not surprised. “I got lost on the way to the studio,” she declared of the studio lot she had worked on for more than a decade. I figure as long as I am never that bad, I am money ahead.
Last night after the show, I had agreed to attend a Project Runway premiere party, hosted by my new friend Jack Mackenroth. The TV show started promptly at 10pm of course, which also happens to be the exact moment my radio show ends. So it was physically impossible for me to travel from my studio in midtown Manhattan to Greenwich Village is the blink of an eye. I warned in advance that I would be late, but even still. It just seems so like a diva to stroll in late for a live show. Especially when claiming your own celebrity as the excuse for such bad behavior. But it is the nature of the beast. It also happened to be the last day of work for our show producer Dan. I entreated everyone to not have the going away festivities on that night because I knew I wouldn’t be able to stick around, so that is exactly when they scheduled them. So then I got to look like a complete douche running out on everyone. But when you live a story, I guess people around you want you to live it too. Consistency, however annoying, is more important than perfection.
The party was in a converted carriage house and I must say it was a delightful living space. NYC is the best place to go for unusual homes and I was most impressed by how simultaneously modern and antiquated the place was. When I arrived the door to the street was wide open and a hundred attractive men were squeezed into the upstairs watching a flat panel 70 inch screen on the wall. I made amazing time, arriving just 20 minutes into the show, but still, I was too late to mix, mingle, or talk to Jackenroth. I watched the show there (and again when I got home), and I am definitely looking forward to this season. However, I hated most of the clothes. Just blah. And Jack’s model walked like a lumberjack carrying an axe uphill. Jack’s dress was cute, a perfect Barbie ensemble, that I half expect closed in the back with a large metal snap at the neck. But then, Lumberjack Barbie started trudging down the runway and I thought he should have swapped out her sexy purse from Bluefly.com with a nice redwood log.
While the show was going on, a cute guy named Ben started up a conversation with me. He was adorable with a rocking body and we seemed to be hitting it off. Then, Michael Lucas met my eye and started over toward me. “Do you know Michael?” I asked. Ben let out a declarative bleat and beat it on the lam. Michael was in rare form, air kisses and broken English filled the air like perfume. He lifted his shirt several times to show his amazing abs, which were quite impressive. It must be hard in the winter time to have a sensational body and have to hide it under so many layers. His abs popping out made me sad that I love ice cream more than physical perfection, but then I remembered that I get to eat ice cream and no one has to see me naked in order to have a career. It turns out that Michael and Ben had shared an awkward moment earlier in the evening when Michael introduced himself and Ben reminded him that Michael had fucked him three months ago. “I did not remember him, “Michael purred as he gazed at Ben’s perfectly formed back from across the room, “but then I saw his ass and it all came back to me.” I have to admit that Ben did have, in jeans, one of the most perfect asses I have ever seen. “He also has a huge cock” Michael assured me, his head nodding carefully in approval.
Moments later, lurid creep Baby Chic entered the party which caused Michael Lucas to bristle like he had just wandered into a smoldering dump. You may recall that Baby Chic tried to molest me and Ben Harvey at Vlada some months ago, while Ben was trying to make nice with Jonathan of the famous Biscuits and Bath Jonathans. I remembered Baby Chic’s clammy hands all too well and did everything in my power to escape his clutches. Michael and I parted company and I think he was more successful at getting away than I was since seconds later Baby Chic was grabbing my chest as I pushed my way through the kitchen. I was trying to meet Jack but his adoring fans had him completely surrounded and pinned up again the stove. He didn’t seem to mind at all.
Jack is so pretty, and as one of the contestants pointed out on Project Runway, he looks like a superhero. He seemed to be in his element last night, a gorgeous tipsy doll swirling through a glamorous party of attractive men and waif thin girl models. We chatted in the kitchen and he introduced me to the other contestants from the show. It was fun to meet all these people just at the beginning of fame, not after they had already been cast aside by the cruel fate of reality television. Jack also pointed out a beautiful blond model named Megan who had been on America’s Next Top Model, although during that reality stint, she was Meg, the rocker chick with the brown hair and bold-faced attitude. She was giving us full tilt Grace Kelly though as she slipped away from the crowd and down the stairs.
Unfortunately, my own time at the party was drawing short. Even though I am late all the time, the train home to the suburbs doesn’t wait for middling radio personalities, no matter what their reputations. So I made my good bye to Michael Lucas and to sexy Jack Mackenroth. I tried to say good night to Ben but I think my obvious friendship with Michael Lucas had tainted me for him. He was in the midst of a conversation about fisting with a sexy blond named Chris, who like me, had not had sex with Michael Lucas. Ben related a tale of fisting a guy once, pushing down, down, down, finally getting in up to his mid-forearm. “There is an artery right there and it sort of squeezes around your hand tight and you can feel their body. It’s so intense.” That was my cue to leave. I love intensity in life as much as the next person. But if I want to feel blood racing through an artery it’s because I am in a panicked dash through Grand Central Station trying to catch my train home to Normal Town, USA.
Monday, October 29, 2007
Alive For Now
Well, I passed another birthday and nothing horrible happened. A few years ago, while doing a News Google search on myself around this time, I discovered I was dead. A man with my name in England (there are apparently many) was murdered, but nothing makes you more confident growing older than seeing yourself dead. This year, another Derek Hartley in England didn't die, but he was missing! I have been anxious for weeks hoping I would be found safe and alive, not dead in a ravine somewhere. Then, on Monday, he was found alive, starving, and somewhat mentally ill. Thin and crazy? Sure beats dead!
Originally, I had planned to join some of the gang from work at Six Flags today. And as much as I love a rollercoaster (and using my season pass), it just didn't feel like how I wanted to spend my birthday. Roommate works Sundays now and I shoved off any real birthday celebration plans to next Saturday when I wouldn't have to compete with Halloween. Being born three days before the notorious holiday, my mom has often joked that if I had been born three days later she would have named me Jack O'Lantern. Except I don't think she was kidding.
Last night, Roommate and I hauled our old selves down to Manhattan to see The Kingdom, which wasn't nearly as bad as the miserable box office and tepid reviews would have you believe. It was directed by actor turned director Peter Berg, whom I have had something of a slow burn crush on since Linda Fiorentino grudge fucked him in The Last Seduction. He was also quite frequently naked (especially for a ski movie) in his big break movie Aspen Extreme. If he could spend twenty minutes of that movie stark naked in the snow, I think the CW can find a few minutes for those Supernatural boys to shower off.
After the movie, we decided to take the late drunk train and have a quick drink before we left town. We wandered down to Barracuda, which was packed to the rafters with gays. It wasn't so crowded that Terry Goldman didn't find me. He kissed me and his lips tasted like strawberries, like he was wearing lip gloss made for a nine year old girl. But he tasted good, so who am I to complain? But we immediately decamped from the madness of Barracuda and made our way to the relative quiet of XES, somewhat around the corner.
During the summer, I forced Erik Rhodes and his fabulous boyfriend Danny to meet me there for a quick post-show drink. They live not far away and they thought I was joking at first that there was even a bar at that location since apparently their dog has crapped outside it a thousand times without them noticing it. Once inside, Danny still thought I was joking, but the upscale dankness and casual neighborhood vibe I think won him over. Then again, it was the last time we went to a bar together, so maybe he thinks my taste is permanently suspect.
While at XES, I had my usual Sex And The Beach after first checking my look in the mirror. I spent a few minutes staring at myself in the bathroom mirror, reviewing the merchandise and giving a buyer's assessment of the bill of sale. Not bad I thought, for something that has been in the bargain bin for so long. Mike and I parked on stools, transfixed by the horribleness of a shitty horror movie playing on the flat panel TV over the bar. We decided it was probably The Hills Have Eyes since it was terrible, just terrible, and neither of us had seen it before. The sound was muted so we had the distinct pleasure of reading the dialogue as it scrolled across the various dismembered performers. The screenwriter clearly loved movies, as the internal movie references were seemingly endless, and I wondered why, if he loved movies so much, that he had inflicted this particular piece of garbage on the world.
While wrapping up our drinks, a listener, who had recognized me, came over to wish me a happy birthday. This is extremely rare in NYC and, as has been the case in the past, he was originally from Miami but had recently moved to the area. He was very nice and I will be honest that it did make me feel good, almost like a real celebrity, on my birthday. But the drunk train was calling and we beat a hasty retreat.
Once home, I couldn't fall asleep. It was already several hours into my birthday and I considered just not sleeping at all for the entire 24 hours. I spent a fair amount of time wading through the seemingly endless birthday wishes emailed and posted to MySpace, corresponding with the adorable, argyle-loving Jackenroth, stars on his elbows and in his eyes as he awaits the upcoming season of Project Runway and texting at 4am with an ex-boyfriend actively sorting out his emotions after a break-up earlier in the evening. Then, I decided to watch Mrs. Miniver, which I had DVRed from TCM.
I haven't seen Miniver in 20 years but I had remembered it fondly. I was struck however by what a horrible performance Greer Garson gave in the movie. Her bizarre expression rarely changed and she seemed to be Acting with not just a capital A, but also with lights around it and a brass band. But you have to love MGM at the height of its power. There wasn't a close-up where she didn't look like a million bucks waiting for change. Teresa Wright was terrific and it seems crazy to me now that she could have been in three of the biggest classic movies of all time right in a row (Miniver, Shadow of a Doubt, Pride of the Yankees) and then had very little else to show for her career from then on out. The movie itself was a good story to watch on a birthday and in the midst of a war. An important reminder that life is short and at all turns unexpected, but there is still time in between bombing raids for a flower show or a little romance.
It was well after dawn that I finally threw in the towel and went to sleep. Promptly at 11am, my cell phone started to ring with calls and buzz with text messages. Wisely my mother waiting until 7pm to call. "I didn't wake you, did I?" I barely had the heart to tell her I was just up from a nap. Whatever. It's my birthday.
So what if I puttered around the house, hammering on the keys of the piano trying to learn "I'm Old Fashioned", trying to meet the neighbors by hand-delivering some misdirected mail (they weren't home), and grilling up dinner outside in a parka for likely the last time of the season? No one said you have to celebrate a birthday in only one way. I like being alone. And having the house to myself on a beautiful fall day to wander around in my underwear and eat ice cream was just what the doctor ordered.
Originally, I had planned to join some of the gang from work at Six Flags today. And as much as I love a rollercoaster (and using my season pass), it just didn't feel like how I wanted to spend my birthday. Roommate works Sundays now and I shoved off any real birthday celebration plans to next Saturday when I wouldn't have to compete with Halloween. Being born three days before the notorious holiday, my mom has often joked that if I had been born three days later she would have named me Jack O'Lantern. Except I don't think she was kidding.
Last night, Roommate and I hauled our old selves down to Manhattan to see The Kingdom, which wasn't nearly as bad as the miserable box office and tepid reviews would have you believe. It was directed by actor turned director Peter Berg, whom I have had something of a slow burn crush on since Linda Fiorentino grudge fucked him in The Last Seduction. He was also quite frequently naked (especially for a ski movie) in his big break movie Aspen Extreme. If he could spend twenty minutes of that movie stark naked in the snow, I think the CW can find a few minutes for those Supernatural boys to shower off.
After the movie, we decided to take the late drunk train and have a quick drink before we left town. We wandered down to Barracuda, which was packed to the rafters with gays. It wasn't so crowded that Terry Goldman didn't find me. He kissed me and his lips tasted like strawberries, like he was wearing lip gloss made for a nine year old girl. But he tasted good, so who am I to complain? But we immediately decamped from the madness of Barracuda and made our way to the relative quiet of XES, somewhat around the corner.
During the summer, I forced Erik Rhodes and his fabulous boyfriend Danny to meet me there for a quick post-show drink. They live not far away and they thought I was joking at first that there was even a bar at that location since apparently their dog has crapped outside it a thousand times without them noticing it. Once inside, Danny still thought I was joking, but the upscale dankness and casual neighborhood vibe I think won him over. Then again, it was the last time we went to a bar together, so maybe he thinks my taste is permanently suspect.
While at XES, I had my usual Sex And The Beach after first checking my look in the mirror. I spent a few minutes staring at myself in the bathroom mirror, reviewing the merchandise and giving a buyer's assessment of the bill of sale. Not bad I thought, for something that has been in the bargain bin for so long. Mike and I parked on stools, transfixed by the horribleness of a shitty horror movie playing on the flat panel TV over the bar. We decided it was probably The Hills Have Eyes since it was terrible, just terrible, and neither of us had seen it before. The sound was muted so we had the distinct pleasure of reading the dialogue as it scrolled across the various dismembered performers. The screenwriter clearly loved movies, as the internal movie references were seemingly endless, and I wondered why, if he loved movies so much, that he had inflicted this particular piece of garbage on the world.
While wrapping up our drinks, a listener, who had recognized me, came over to wish me a happy birthday. This is extremely rare in NYC and, as has been the case in the past, he was originally from Miami but had recently moved to the area. He was very nice and I will be honest that it did make me feel good, almost like a real celebrity, on my birthday. But the drunk train was calling and we beat a hasty retreat.
Once home, I couldn't fall asleep. It was already several hours into my birthday and I considered just not sleeping at all for the entire 24 hours. I spent a fair amount of time wading through the seemingly endless birthday wishes emailed and posted to MySpace, corresponding with the adorable, argyle-loving Jackenroth, stars on his elbows and in his eyes as he awaits the upcoming season of Project Runway and texting at 4am with an ex-boyfriend actively sorting out his emotions after a break-up earlier in the evening. Then, I decided to watch Mrs. Miniver, which I had DVRed from TCM.
I haven't seen Miniver in 20 years but I had remembered it fondly. I was struck however by what a horrible performance Greer Garson gave in the movie. Her bizarre expression rarely changed and she seemed to be Acting with not just a capital A, but also with lights around it and a brass band. But you have to love MGM at the height of its power. There wasn't a close-up where she didn't look like a million bucks waiting for change. Teresa Wright was terrific and it seems crazy to me now that she could have been in three of the biggest classic movies of all time right in a row (Miniver, Shadow of a Doubt, Pride of the Yankees) and then had very little else to show for her career from then on out. The movie itself was a good story to watch on a birthday and in the midst of a war. An important reminder that life is short and at all turns unexpected, but there is still time in between bombing raids for a flower show or a little romance.
It was well after dawn that I finally threw in the towel and went to sleep. Promptly at 11am, my cell phone started to ring with calls and buzz with text messages. Wisely my mother waiting until 7pm to call. "I didn't wake you, did I?" I barely had the heart to tell her I was just up from a nap. Whatever. It's my birthday.
So what if I puttered around the house, hammering on the keys of the piano trying to learn "I'm Old Fashioned", trying to meet the neighbors by hand-delivering some misdirected mail (they weren't home), and grilling up dinner outside in a parka for likely the last time of the season? No one said you have to celebrate a birthday in only one way. I like being alone. And having the house to myself on a beautiful fall day to wander around in my underwear and eat ice cream was just what the doctor ordered.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)