All The News That's Fit To Prince

“It’s 1999 all over again!”

Bradford was gleeful when I discovered him holding court in the 2-4-1 room downstairs at The Park with Matty and Andrew. There were other men there at the table and standing around: unassuming gay white men in unassuming gay white v-neck t-shirts. It is all furniture to me now: hot, handsome, muscled furniture. Bradford in his signature tight red was a Fabulis splash of color in more ways than one. The room was hot, stifling. No air but for half price drinks, gay men will put up with almost anything, even each other.

There was a cute young thing standing near us, alone and lonely, in a button down shirt tucked into belted shorts. I know this is what people are wearing these days but to me he looks like the nerds that got teased in the 80s. Bradford is younger than I am so when he parties like it is 1999, he actually means 1999, not 1984, like me. But with the clothes as they are nowadays, it is easy for someone like me to get confused.

Blogged And Tagged

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.

Blood Orange Crush

My body has been in full revolt for a week, since that ill-advised sandwich in Dallas that gave me food poisoning last Friday. Since then I have gone from queasy to sniffly with barely a moment's feeling of real wellness in between. I told myself that if I didn't feel better by today, I would skip doing the show and have a restful three-day weekend. But then I was feeling a bit better and Romaine beat me to the punch with her own sickness, leaving me alone to do the show tonight (with quick pinch hitter Cyd Zeigler from OutSports.com).

Of course I had to come in anyway no matter what since Shaun McCarron was flying up from Florida to do the show and I couldn't cancel on him. Ironically enough, bad weather kept him from the show with a delayed flight and I didn't see him until hours later when he joined me at Eric Kuhn's party downtown. With Shaun coming up to Manhattan, I had sent Matty a text earlier in the day to alert him, and he suggested we join him at his friend Eric's place. Generally I hate going to the homes of strangers because it increases the likelihood that I will feel alienated and alone in a room of unknowns but for some mad reason I am still trying to do new things.

Original Jonathan joined me for the trip downtown after the show. It's been a while since our last adventure and I thought the fresh air of the subway would do him good. On the train, a homeless guy with two bass guitar cases did a bit of performance art/impromptu retail sales in front of us, though the slow dragging around of large black cases on the subway by a deranged, mumbling loner just brought out the Fringe paranoia in me and I became transfixed at the notion of the freaky, unexplained Hi-Def death that awaited us inside.

Emerging at the Broadway-Lafayette station, I could have sworn I saw J.'s friend James walking up the stairs in front of us. Impossible, I thought, since he lives in Baltimore and J moved to Brooklyn. I thought about calling out his name but fear that I was right made me turn in the opposite direction and dash to Eric's party. If it was James, J. was certain to be close at hand and I knew I wasn't ready to see him again now.

Eric is a gorgeous man with a truly beautiful apartment. The moment I saw his outrageous and stylish building, I knew this was not the party for me. His living room with its soaring ceilings and full length suicide windows had the sweeping cleanliness of Page 28 of a West Elm catalog. The whole railroad-style floor plan looked like the set of a hot new sitcom about New Yorkers who live in an apartment that might at first glance be mistaken for the lobby of a W Hotel. Not funny, per se, but I found his lack of a nightstand (his clock radio rested unceremoniously on the otherwise uncluttered floor) oddly charming. Also I couldn't place it at the time, but now in retrospect I realize that he looks a lot like D-A-N.

Matty was as adorable as ever, sweeping us into the kitchen and plying us with a truly staggering array of vodka choices. The mixers were all pale, down to the white cranberry juice, a fancy touch I greatly admired for its attempt at a stain-free party. Matty is an indefatigable publicist on my behalf which is always appreciated. "Derek is famous!" he would cry to any big-armed stranger there who would listen, never minding that insisting someone is famous is always guaranteed proof that they aren't. Though I can't fault him for trying.

Soon Matty's friend Brian joined in the fun and I was delighted to see him. Of all the people he knows, Brian is my favorite to flirt with. I have such a little boy crush on him, almost pre-sexual in it's middle school way. I just want to hold hands with him and make out a little and then be home by ten. Brian always seems very confused about how to handle me. We are similar in a way that we both insist that other people don't know what we are really like on the inside, but then we quickly squirt ink in the water and swim away if they make any attempt to get genuinely close. Maybe we are both afraid of getting hurt. And then my reason to be afraid walked in to the party.

J. arrived with James, who was in fact on the subway with us earlier, and two other friends that I vaguely met when they were quite drunk at J.'s birthday party some months ago but who really remember me only through the Facebook photos we inadvertently ended up together in. My stomach that was finally calm after a week of turmoil was churning again. We hadn't spoken in weeks or seen each other in even longer, though in the last couple of days J. has been inexplicably in the forefront of my mind. Maybe it was the impending Presidential debate or the new season of our shared love The Amazing Race. But whatever the reason, there he was.

I tried to do the fake small talk thing a bit, but he knew it was fake and rightly steered clear. What is there to say? Every minute without him in my life is like a living hell, and I will love him every day until the day I die. It is what I should have said the last time we talked but instead I just turned sullen and defeated about the whole thing and insisted I was fine when it was obvious I wasn't and that was that. And what difference does it make now? He saw my new super short haircut which I knew he would like but there was no smug satisfaction there for me. Only loneliness.

I wish I had his powers of compartmentalization. When it comes to emotions, he is like Martha Stewart organizing a junk drawer, all neat rows and P-touch labels, and I am the fool who pulls the drawer too quickly out of the wall causing everything to come crashing down on the floor. This is why flirting with Brian is so much better, and easier. I know each of our own insecurities and issues will keep us politely at bay, like a nice Oscar Wilde play, filled with witty banter and, that great 19th century expression: intrigues!

But what I feel for J. is just too real and dangerous, our fourth wall permanently shattered. He hugged me good bye and I held my breath. I didn't want the moment to linger for fear that I would hold on to it too much in my heart and I never wanted it to end. Didn't want to breathe in and risk the wonderful musk of Axe body spray he occasionally wears that always makes me think of him and hoped for a moment that he was wearing it so I could smell it all one last time. My gaze found the sidewalk as we said good night. All evening I couldn't look directly at him, like a solar eclipse, for fear of catching his eye, and then, all too quickly, he was across the street and gone.

Earlier Brian told me of a drink he had concocted with crushed ice, vodka and a splash of champagne. "I call it 'Blood Orange Crush'" he told me, named for the signature citrus added to the mix. The cocktail sounded light and summery and delicious, like my meaningless crush on him, even if the name of it had a ring of darkness about it. The darkness for me is the real crush of my love for J., an inescapable weight on us both, coursing through my veins, and forever on the rocks.

Best Face Forward

I have had a lot of facials lately but you can get your mind out of the gutter. Enrique, the handsome and charming owner of the Face To Face Spa offered me the once over after his first appearance on the show and it ended up sandwiched between two other “corporately-mandated facials” that Romaine and I got as part of the launch of a new advertiser on the show. Three facials in three weeks and the ensuing overly intense scrubbing since then on my skin at home has left me noticeably younger in at least one regard: I have broken out like a teenager. Even worse, it is in a conspicuous arc under and around my eyes giving me the look of a bandit who is deeply allergic to his mask.

Despite the baleful condition of my skin and my impending pool party tomorrow at Clayton’s house, I agreed to join Hottie Zach out for a short drink at Therapy after the show. I orchestrated original Jonathan’s appearance there as well, which wasn’t difficult since he lives around the corner and is always as game for a cocktail as a scuba diver is for more air. Walking into Therapy the first person I saw was adorable Ronnie Kroell. He and Zach both share a feckless cream cheese complexion that even under my best circumstances I envy with the bloodlust of Snow White’s wicked queen. But his warm giddiness at seeing me melted my self-doubt and I threw myself wholeheartedly into the experience.

Ronnie is actively trying to make his way in the big city, a modern gay version of Mary Tyler Moore, but substituting a modeling contract for the beret. Perhaps I am the gruff and wise Lou Grant type here to guide him along, coaxing him relentlessly but unsuccessfully into my web of cynicism. Ronnie was there with Hottie Zach and original Jonathan and a fashion designer named Sergio (“Serge!” he implored me in a beautiful yet booze tainted accent while insisting on joining in on the round of hugs that accompanied my arrival).

Moments later, upstairs with drinks in hand, Serge explained that he was a fashion designer for whom Ronnie’s body was the perfect hanger. Earlier in the day, they had gone to Bergdorf’s so Ronnie could try on a selection of his Italy-made designer duds, the tale of which invoked instant flashes of Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman. The way Ronnie described his fantasy of walking through Central Park in Serge’s jeans and gorgeous cashmere sweater, latte in hand, made me realize that despite having a masters degree in political science, his dream of being a paper doll has been a long time coming.

“Ronnie has told me wonderful things about you!” Serge purred in my ear. I demurred. “Lies,” I smiled, both deflecting the flattery and knowing full well that I had no chance of living up to Ronnie’s earnestly Midwest rendition of me. “I will get you a pair of my jeans. What size are you?” Petite is always my stock answer but the language barrier made my joke even more incomprehensible than usual. “I have a 32 inch waist.” I told him. Serge nodded, “I am going to get you a 33. My sizes…” his voice trailed off into a sea of fashion jargon I will never comprehend as I fixated on his insistence at sizing me up against my will.

As I headed off to the train, original Jonathan offered to take the jeans off my hands. When it comes to pants we can practically wear the same size, but when it comes to style, he leaves me in the dust. This is for the best. When I wear something fashionable, instead of looking sexy, I end up looking like Edina from Absolutely Fabulous. I can carry off a suit or a tuxedo, just like every gay man can, as evidenced by the preponderance of three year old brother of the bride photos that spread through gay dating sites like Syphilis. But high fashion is lost of me. Head to toe, I am a lost cause. I am sure Ronnie’s complexion can handle a hundred face scrubbings a week and still look flawless, and original Jonathan can fill out a pair of designer jeans like an application, but my lack of style is a style all its own. And even such as it is, unfashionable and unkempt, I should probably stick with what I know. As the saying goes, better to be thought a fashion victim than try something new and remove all doubt.

Garden State

I think that my Dad thinks the Olive Garden is a fancy New York restaurant. Whenever he comes to town, it is where we go to dinner because I love it there. But I don’t think they have them in Utah so I assume it’s a uniquely Manhattan experience to him. That is fine by me. Personally, I see the Olive Garden as a special kind of Americana kitsch. True it has all the homey warmth of a lit can of Sterno, but the bottomless salad is like crack and who doesn’t love an overly salty warm breadstick.

As I travel through life, professing my deep and abiding love for The Olive Garden, I have discovered other unlikely devotees along the way. Michelle Collins was really the first and she is my core Garden demographic. I know that she is always ready at a moment’s notice to split a salad over a couple of strawberry frescos. And the last time we went, she didn’t miss a beat when I walked out with a breadstick in my mouth.

Over July 4th weekend on Kevin and Christopher’s island, we picked up more of them. It was as if we ran a giant alfredo-scented lint roller over the island and chain restaurant loving gays adhered themselves to it en masse. So we planned an island reunion of sorts to commence as soon as possible at our favorite tacky Italian restaurant. Michelle is moments away from a month long adventure in Israel so the clock was ticking. After an abortive effort last week, our new Garden party descended on Times Square tonight in full force.

Joining me and Michelle were original Jonathan who bonded with Michelle on the bus ride over to the island, as well as Kevin and Adam Jay. Kevin joined me at the studio beforehand for a quick tour and then we walked the long two blocks to join the others upstairs. When we arrived, Adam mentioned some other island veterans might drop by but really it was just the five of us for dinner. They seated us in a big round corner table in back which at first seemed like heaven. But moments after sitting down, Michelle realized that the nuclear glow of the M&Ms sign in her eye line was certain to spark the kind of seizure usually reserved for viewers of Anime and the dulcet tones of Entertainment Tonight’s resident siren Mary Hart. She switched seats and then we were all off to the comedy races.

The witting banter flew at a lightning pace, frequently outdone by the kinds of offensive statements you don’t want easily overheard by traumatized tourists one table over. The surprise island veteran was none other than blonde venus Hannah Waddington, looking svelte and gorgeous. I tried to entice her with a free breadstick but they were off to join others for dinner at a real restaurant instead. Hannah is statuesque and while I would love any excuse to hang out with her again, I have to assume that the allure of The Olive Garden doesn’t easily translate across the pond.

After our fantastic dinner, we tried to find a local watering hole for a final night cap before I ran off for my late train. We finally settled in a very chic lounge on the second floor of a Times Square boutique hotel. If the place hadn’t been so deserted we might have felt horribly underdressed and out of place. Plus it was intensely jarring to leave the processed cheese product slickness of The Olive Garden for the modern chic of a midtown Manhattan hotel, but Michelle with her Century 21 shopping bag and Garden take out container charged up to the bar and ordered our drinks anyway. After all, we may have looked and (after almost two hours inside the Olive Garden) smelled like tourists, on the inside we know we are New Yorkers. And as such, we know, we belong anywhere we want to go. Because when you are Manhattan, you’re family.

The 4th Dimension

Things are rarely better the second time around, but Tamarack Island is the exception to the rule. I was last there over Memorial Day, invited by Kevin and Christopher, even though Kevin was busy lifting swings over his head. This is a Broadway-related happenstance apparently, the kind of occupational hazard that comes with touring in Spamalot. A few weeks ago, all the swings were on stage for a single performance leading to a concern that soon they would need to draft ushers and concession attendants or worse, me, to join the cast. But all those problems were left behind on the shore and a short row boat ride later, we all succumbed to the quiet paradise of Tamarack.

Roommate and I made the long journey out to New Jersey on July 4th with a firm set of goals, to be completed even before we reached the party. We hadn't even left town before we failed at the first one. Mike wanted some coffee but as fate would have it, our local coffee house closed early for the holiday, quite literally in his face. We would get coffee along the way, I promised, along with gas for the car (usually as much as fifty cents cheaper than it is at home) and much to my delight, the new Girl Scout Thin Mint Blizzard at Dairy Queen! I saw an ad for it flash across the screen during the show one night last week as the silent TV in the background was tuned to CNN. After I jumped out of my chair, seizing my chest and throwing myself against the glass wall of the studio, for a moment Romaine thought the world had blown up.

We finally happened upon a Dunkin Donuts in New Jersey, much to the chagrin of the evil calorie counting GPS system that implored us to turn around immediately. I ignored his bland tones and had a Bavarian Cream Fill and a nice French Cruller. Then, as we were leaving, casually drove the long way out so we could get a better look at the hot guy helping his mother with her groceries on the other side of the parking lot. Such a nice boy! Moments later, covered in powdered sugar, I pulled into the Dairy Queen parking lot like I was driving an ambulance to the scene of a horrible accident. Inside they offered up all the old tyme ice cream favorites and even a few new delights I was dying to try, but I stuck to my guns and got what I came for. Fat.

Within minutes, most of my Blizzard was gone along with all of my dignity as we pulled up to the dock. I was a little nervous because along with Mike, I had invited some other friends along to the party. Kevin and Christopher insisted it would be fine, but I brought another bottle of vodka just in case. The friends I had invited joined other friends of the hosts in a bus they chartered to take them from the city. Mark, a handsome massage therapist and regular David Coleman party veteran, spoke with a few people on the bus but mostly read his book. I asked the original Jonathan who was also coming to be on the lookout for Michelle Collins since she said she might be five minutes late so he waited near the front for her arrival. Apparently, it was love at first sight and the two landed at Tamarack an hour later as inseparable best friends forever, like kids on their way to summer camp.

Christopher dispatched Logan to come row us over from the mainland. Logan, the fifteen year old heart breaker from the last party was mercifully less desirable in a polo shirt and sans sunglasses. Although, as his youthful vigor powered us across the lake as effortlessly as one might pull a Kleenex from the box, I had to keep muttering the words "fifteen... fifteen" over and over in my head. Once on the island, I reunited with Kevin and Christopher and all my invited guests and settled in for a good time. The previous party had been centered at the main house but this one was in full swing as we arrived at the guest house. The booze was flowing like everyone already had their next liver lined up. The earlier rain had dissipated and even though it wasn't sunny per se, it was still a perfect day.

The usual Broadway crowd was there, many of them holdovers from Memorial Day. Some of them were so comfortably drunk when we arrived that I wondered if they had ever left. I kept assuring Michelle throughout the party that at any moment it was certain to burst into song. She couldn't wait. I insisted that if she walked into the house, turned off the stereo and hit the middle C on the piano, the crowd would take care of the rest. It never came to that. Rachel, who had been so helpful in naming "Hole-y Board" "glory hole" last time, kept us all in stitches with her rendition of a tone deaf Broadway hopeful nervously auditioning and breaking down in mid-song. Many cocktails later, Christopher dueted with Michelle and for a moment I thought she might just collapse into a hopeless puddle in the middle of the living room.

Mark wanted to take a swim and I decided to join him. I had been dreading being seen in a bathing suit at a gay party all month (Hell, my whole life) but it was such a nice welcoming crowd I figured they wouldn't notice and if they did they would probably be too drunk to remember. It didn't help that insanely adorable little Joel with his perfect 90 pounds of zero body fat toned yumminess was already down there splashing around with the kids. Mark and I changed into our suits and headed down to the water. The lake was wonderful, just the right temperature. And I remembered as I came up for air after my first dive and looked over at the kids playing on the platform in the middle of the lake that I hadn't been swimming in a lake in 20 years. Not since Nanny and Poppy took me out to the lake they used to summer on when my mother was a kid. Suddenly I was eighteen, feeling the warm silt squish between my toes like it was the first time all over again.

Meanwhile on shore, Mike and Jonathan and Michelle got into a heated game of Holey Board (renamed this time as "cock rings and glory holes") with Logan, for whom Michelle more appropriately shared our inappropriate desire. And to be fair, at the party he was the perfect man: simultaneously handsome and feverishly anxious to make sure you never ran out of drinks. Turns out Jonathan is as sore a winner as I am, and things got a little heated but soon hot dogs from the grill and more cocktails from Logan made it all better again.

As the sun went down, a rumor of fireworks on the lake circulated through the party. The hours of food, merriment and mostly drink had started to take its toll. Mark, now drunk and swirling away in the hammock, decided that he wanted to watch the fireworks from on the lake. So, we borrowed the orange paddle boat and the two of us paddled out to the middle of the lake. It was so still and lovely on the lake, truly a perfect night. And there, mere feet away from us, the rockets fired off and exploded over our heads. It was magical. It was amazing. It was perfect. Behind us, the drunken party goers cheered and inside the boat the warmth of the night, the delight of the show, enveloped us.

And isn't that just the problem with life. It seems like just at the moment that you get used to how perfect something can be, the moment is over and it is time for the next thing. Minutes after we returned to the island from our paddling adventure, the daunting task of pouring the drunks out of the party into little row boats and then into the bus back to the city began in earnest. Christopher herded Mark, Michelle, Jonathan and the others out with the kind of ambition that wins elections, no doubt born of the past experience of waking up to find a heretofore unknown party guest passed out in the bushes and in need of a way back to civilization.

After most of the guests were safely on their way back to that other, less interesting island Manhattan, we settled into a more subdued but no less delightful party coda with Kevin and Christopher. Their work done, the teens decided it was time to swim, so off they went. Moments later, they returned dripping wet and nearly naked. I suppose I should applaud the kind of progress we have made that allows hot straight teen boys to feel comfortable enough in a room full of gay men to parade around in a wet bathing suit so low slung that it leaves nothing to the imagination, but at the risk of once again betraying my gay brethren, I wish they hadn't. Especially that scruffy blond one with the hot, sweet girlfriend. Him especially. All I could hear in my head when he walked back in from the lake was "There's sweet tea on the counter. I just have to put this laundry in the washer and I'll be right out."

Soon enough it was way past time for us to leave. Logan was off somewhere being half naked and handsome so Kevin offered to row us back to shore. It was probably for the best. I think if Logan had taken us back shirtless he would have only asked why I was crying the whole time and I just don't feel emotionally centered enough to tell him why. The ride home was an eventful adventure through every imaginable weather hazard including blinding rain and fog, sometimes at the same time. That seemed particularly fitting. Visiting the island is magical but it is a distinct place and time, far removed from the real world and I suppose not unlike Fantasy Island, with a lesson or two to be learned along the way. It isn't just tropical drinks and welcomes by the dock. It is also an opportunity for a little personal growth and adventure, and yes, even errands. Today Mike noticed how clean the car was after the torrential downpour on the way home from New Jersey. "Now we don't need to get the car washed." Another problem solved, another desire fulfilled, all in a day at Tamarack.

Icon Nicht Anders

I really like Erik Rhodes. I think he is a decidedly misunderstood figure in the world of gay porn. To me, he has the most clear-eyed view of any performer I know. His blog is like Martin Luther posting his grievances on the door of the Catholic Church. Some people think it is all an act, which leaves me incredulous. It’s like the fag-haters who think people choose to be gay because they like being alienated from their families and fired for no reason.

He guest hosted on the show tonight while Romaine is in Denver, visiting her family and emceeing PrideFest. As usual he was filled with truly amazing stories from deep inside the porn world, starting with rimming a straight guy in Las Vegas on camera who thought cleaning his ass meant spritzing it with Polo Sport to closing out the show with a shocking revelation about accidentally shitting himself inside his apartment. His candor is at once alive and heartbreaking and altogether real. A refreshing change from the familiar false notes the gays are always trying to hit in their quest to be accepted and adored.

After the show, we went to Vinyl for dinner. I have been there a few times and mostly I like it because I am addicted to thai iced tea and it is virtually impossible to find. If they sold a mix at the supermarket, I would drink it by the gallon. Erik was starving, downing four energy drinks during the course of the show, and ready for a juicy steak. Like most gay places, the food is fine but the atmosphere and crowd is what you really come for. There was something weird stuck to my knife and I think our waiter was understudying in Avenue Q around the corner in between popping by our table, but you can pee to Viva Las Vegas in the Elvis-themed bathroom and frankly that always gets my juices flowing.

At dinner, I got a text message from the original Jonathan wondering what I was up to. As it turns out, he was in the restaurant, heard a laugh that sounded like mine (it was mine) and then started to wonder what I was doing tonight. He was dining with some skinny friend of his whose name I forgot the moment I heard it. No matter, he was struggling to the point of exhaustion to act nonchalant at the sight of Erik Rhodes. I almost offered him a chair and a cold compress. They ran off after I promised to call them later to join for a drink.

As anyone who reads his blog knows, Erik has had some relationship trouble of late. This has made me very sad because I knew and really liked his now ex-boyfriend. I thought those crazy kids made a fun couple, but then again, I didn’t have to live with them, so I have no idea what life at home was really like. Great couples are always a mystery to outsiders but lousy couples are easy to dissect. I don’t envy Erik out on the dating scene. His massive Godlike frame is intimidating, made even more hulking in the presence of the lithe gays who swirl their way through the Manhattan cocktail scene. Being a world famous porn star doesn't help either. And even though he hates going to gay bars and being with the gays even more than I do, I managed to coax him into joining me and Jonathan for one drink at Vlada.

The Bolsheviks were revolting in my favorite vodka haunt. For some reason, Erik insisted on walking in behind me, leaving me to shove and fight my way through the crowd. When you are out with Erik, honestly he should be the one bulldozing through the crowd. The gays are far more likely to move out of the way and cower in fear when he plows through. Instead, sharp elbows akimbo, I jabbed my way through the downstairs and then made my way up to the second floor. The stairs were a brief respite before we returned to the crowded fray by the upstairs bar.

Jonathan’s favorite bartender (aka the one who gives him free drinks) was working, much to his delight. He didn’t have the ingredients to make the drink I wanted but he made Jonathan happy so that is all that matters. Jonathan was feeling sensitive all night after he asked me at Vinyl if I liked the new thing he was doing with his hair and before I could stop myself and pretend for a moment I was a human being, I tossed out a terse no. He tugged at his hair self-consciously for the rest of the night and laboriously explained that it was in an awkward in between stage before it could finally become the tussled surfer mess he was going for. After my initial rudeness, I attentively engaged him in a much too lengthy conversation about his hair, hoping he would relax for five seconds and stop thinking about the top of his skull.

As promised, we finished our one drink and headed out of the bar. It was a nice cool summer night and Erik and I walked to Grand Central Station, where I boarded my usual drunk train home and he hailed a taxi back to his apartment. As I always do when I see him, I asked him what his post porn plans are. After all, he is the one who told me that no one should stay in porn too long because “once they have seen your pussy, what else do you have?” His post porn plans seem as limited as his dating prospects. He is so iconic in his porn life it is almost impossible to imagine him in any other context. I looked up at the Chrysler Building from 42nd Street and wondered what it must be like to be an icon. In some ways it must be great to be such a gorgeous shining individual, towering majestically over everyone, though it probably gets pretty lonely up there, shimmering in the night sky.

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.

Posh Slice

I hadn’t seen Steven DeLuca since my birthday party back in November. He is one of my oldest friends here in the city and as always our encounters are infrequent. I love Steven. He is one of my favorite people. He invited me recently to the opening of a new play that he and his boyfriend are producing and I reacted in horror. “Why would you invite me? Do you want it to close?” Suddenly, Steven was reminded that I am, in fact, the famous Kiss of Death for all live theatrical productions.

When he was a theater manager and he grew tired of the show that was running, he could send me an email assuring me that there would be two tickets on the aisle for me and sure enough within hours of my attendance, the show would close. He played the card one too many times and even the theater closed. I even invested in an off-Broadway show. It was great. It had a terrific theatre in a great location. The New York Times gave it an unqualified rave. I lost every penny I put into it. Steven met me out tonight at Posh alone. He had invited his boyfriend Carl, who decided to stay in. But Carl did have a message for me. “Don’t come to our show.”

I had planned for us to spend a quiet evening together, catching up just the two of us. But before we could get deeply into the weeds of our daily lives, I got a text message from the original Jonathan. He was, naturally, in the neighborhood and anxious to get together. I blew him off this weekend, preferring to stay cloistered in my Desperate Housewives practical, and had promised him that I would go out with him this week. I just didn’t plan on it being tonight.

Jonathan was there at Posh with his friend Mark, who didn’t stay long. Mark was dressed in a crisp white button down shirt that said he cared about how he looked. He was all wrong for me. Anyway, he is just out of a long term relationship so I don’t think he was looking for anything longer than an episode of Criminal Minds but just about as sordid. He left quickly to walk his dog which is sweet in a way, but it just reminded me that having a dog in Manhattan is cruel for the dog and frankly having a baby at home is less of a chore.

Jonathan was a bundle of enthusiasm, although not about his recent appearance in my blog. “You said I am a whore.” I am certain I didn’t use that term. Then he insisted I implied it by saying that he was out at the bar looking for sex. Except that he was out at the bar looking to get laid and that was simple reporting. Whore is judgment, and I am not one to judge like that. Anyone who knows me knows that if I think you are a whore, I will just say it to your face. So I guess Jonathan now joins the long list of people who for one reason (giving “massages” under another name) or another (in the closet) have reacted badly to their portrayal in my blog. Tough.

The three of us quickly grew weary of the Posh life. There was a somewhat large black man, twirling around like a drag queen though the empress had no clothes. He tried to entreat me to dance with him at the urging of his friend who was giving me the eye from across the bar. But I insisted to him that I have a wooden leg and was afraid it would fall off. He didn’t take Heather Mills for an answer easily and before he came back around on another ecstasy-fueled pass, we closed out our check and headed for Vlada.

Earlier on my way into Posh, I had run into Josh Rosenzweig on the corner. When I told him I was going in to meet a friend, he told me to drag my friend over to Vlada instead. They had had a screening thing earlier he proffered evasively, and then everyone had decamped to my favorite vodka bar. Later at Posh, I suggested the party at Vlada to Steven and Jonathan, but both of them already knew about it, having been invited much earlier than I had. So much for being a HERE subscriber and a national radio show host! I hadn’t been back to Vlada since that last disastrous night with roommate, the other Jonathan, Ben Harvey, Dave Rubin, and the ever notorious Clay Lee, which was just too fucked up and personal a night for me to blog about the next day. But here I was back again, and so was Ben Harvey and Dave Rubin, who didn’t even tell me they were going to be there. I gave Ben Harvey a steaming heap of shit about emailing with me all day and not even mentioning it. I was joking and he knew I was joking, but still he had a bemused look of panic on his face. It might have been the free alcohol.

Chris van Cleef was there too, as cute as always, and hammered. Like take me home and violate me hammered. Fortunately he was on his way out to eat which was a good thing because he was a jagger shot away from an anonymous gang bang in the bathroom. One of the downsides of working in a gay office, like I do, and the HERE folks, you get to know so much more about your co-workers than would ever be legally permissible in a straight environment. And at a certain point, you just kind of get used to behavior that otherwise would raise eyebrows.

I couldn’t stay long at Vlada. I had a train to catch, as always. And not drinking the signature infused vodka, there is no charm to that place. Besides, my primary reason for going out (catching up with Steven) was lost in the shuffle. I left him at the base of the staircase with Josh and JC, whom he has known even longer than he has known me. Even original Jonathan knew JC from an ill-fated date that started at the gym and then never went anywhere. So I am sure the four of them had plenty to talk about.

But on my way out, I made a pair of promises. And if there is one thing I like to think I am, it is someone who keeps promises. I am not perfect mostly because I am self-centered and have a terrible memory, but I really do try to keep my promises. First, I promised to call Steven and hang out with him again within the next two weeks. That will be easy. Then, in saying good bye to a very drunk and clingy Ben Harvey, I promised not to say anything really bad about him in my blog, of which he is the most frequently mentioned player. But then he reversed his position. He wanted me to say things about him because he wanted to be the “bad boy” of my blog. So be it. Who am I to stand in the way of a dream?

MYOB: Mind Your Own Botox

I really didn’t want to go out tonight. I got five hours of sleep last night, staying up late to catch the emotional and ultimately satisfying conclusion to this season of Project Runway. Unfortunately, I had to get up at the (for me) ungodly hour of 8am to try to get a parking ticket dismissed. I was unsuccessful, although the fine was essentially cut in half and I did get some good fodder for the show. But the fine wasn’t the only thing essentially cut in half when I got far less than my usual nine to ten hours of sleep.

My new sister Laura called me today and we both waxed poetic on our shared love of sleep. It is to what I attribute what little youthfulness I have left. Yes, I have turned my body over to science and I am always open to whatever crazy surgical options are out there, but my primary defense against aging is enormous amounts of sleep. It is why, when the original Jonathan started texting me during the show, I initially begged off his demands to hang out tonight.

I like going out with him, and he is right. We have finally gotten into a groove. So who am I to kill the momentum? But he does like to go out a LOT more than I do, mostly in his perpetually endless quest to get laid. I suppose what he really wants is a boyfriend, but Jonathan is in the prime of his life with a hot set of abs. He practically has a duty to the gay community to make himself frequently available in tight t-shirts for casual perusal and the occasional proposal. So I reluctantly agreed to give him five minutes at Therapy, which in my head was thirty minutes, and in his head was two hours with at least one round of shots included.

After the show, I tossed off my Digg.com hoodie and threw on my coat and raced out the door. Therapy is not far from my office and I know now to the minute how long it takes to walk from one to the other across the northern reaches of Times Square, even when Wicked or Mamma Mia is letting out along the way. Naturally, I was the first to arrive, and as always I was greeted with the up and down stares by the up and down stairs that are part and parcel with being the latest chunk of fresh meat to pass the threshold. The looks didn’t last long and I was able to mercifully return to anonymity while waiting for Jonathan to arrive with his posse.

He spotted me through the door and broke into a half-hearted trot like he was hurrying the whole time. Jonathan was hanging out for the evening with his friend Will, and had run into Mark and Rob along the way. That’s the nice thing about Hell’s Kitchen now. You can collect gays like lint on a roller as you walk around the corner from The Ritz or Vlada to Therapy. I barely spoke to Mark and Rob, but then again, I was only there for thirty minutes so it is disingenuous to say I really got to know anyone.

Jonathan spent most of my precious time there updating me on his current life situation. This is my kind of friend. After talking for four hours straight, it is so nice to hang out with someone who wants to talk about themselves for a few minutes. I wish I could say the same about Will, who was very tight-lipped about himself. He generously bought me a drink but was less forthcoming about the details of his career, preferring to leave it at “entertainment.” Handsome as he was, I assumed lawyer or agent, because “entertainment” is usually what someone says when they work in the industry but they don’t fall into one of the customary artistic disciplines. Plus he was wearing a suit at ten pm. He will likely be a very successful agent because he has a trait unique to the profession: Will is able to look you square in the eye with complete intensity while looking over your shoulder at the same time.

For the first time in a long time Jonathan caught part of our show this past week and of course it was the most tired part of it: Romaine for the 1000th time accusing me of having had botox. It is such a lame and dull bit and it amazes me sometimes how willing she is to fall into again. As we were discussing it a man walked through our group and then circled back, “Did I hear you say Botox?” When I affirmed the topic he insisted I was far too young to have it yet. “Are you even thirty yet?” he asked, which is more plausible as a flirtation than a reality, even in the moody lighting of Therapy.

And as much as I would have liked to get complimented a little more, I really had to leave. I had committed to myself that I was taking the 11:10 train and that meant leaving even in the middle of my favorite topic of conversation: myself. It is true that I could have stayed for hours more, and even had a cocktail or three. But sadly, the world is not as dimly lit as Therapy and I am not getting any younger. Yes, botox is definitely in my future and it won’t be the only thing on the menu I order. But in the meantime, a full night’s sleep is just what the doctor ordered.

Friday Night Owls

Even though I went out last night and proclaimed myself too old for this shit, I turned around and went out again tonight. I had originally planned to go out on Saturday night, but with piles of snow planned and no other reason to go into the city, I decided to just do two nights in a row and take the rest of the weekend off. SIRIUS has been working on installing a home studio for me and I had hoped it would be up and running today so I could just do the show from home. Unfortunately, it still isn’t working. So since I was going to be in the city for work anyway, it wasn’t that much trouble to splash some cold water on my face, run a comb through my eyebrows and head down to Chelsea for a cocktail or two.

Ben Harvey, absent of late from my life and as an active participant in my blog was my primary motivation for hitting the town. He had sublet his apartment but since it was unoccupied this weekend, he decided to crash there and make a weekend of it. Since it was his plan, I let him be the ringleader and choose our first bar of the evening: the ever stalwart Barracuda. Nestled in the shaved armpit of Chelsea, Barracuda was the bar I spent the quiet evening on 9/10/01 in, canoodling on the couch with that year’s Jonathan before the morning came and changed everything. I really like Barracuda when it doesn’t smell like raw sewage or becomes so crowded you can’t breathe.

As usual, I arrived late. Jim from SF, visiting his friend Derek for the weekend, was already impatiently there after a ghetto meal around the corner at the Dallas BBQ. The original Jonathan was also there with his friend Chris, who was visiting from Atlanta. I don’t know why people choose this time of year to come to New York. It is the worst time to be here. Perhaps their friends invite them to dissuade them from ever living here. Ben Harvey finally arrived with his “cousin” Christian in tow. Christian probably was at Barracuda the last time I was there with Ben Harvey (although he must have been the additional person I failed to mention). Christian is tall and cute but I didn’t really have much interaction with him last time because there was just too much stuff going on. Ben Harvey was busy playing host to a veritable sea of homos and I was just trying to remember as many names as possible to blog later.

What I need with Ben Harvey is an intimate dinner for two so we can just sit and talk. We invariably end up on these group dates where we have to steal away to a corner just to have a private moment. Plus we are both half deaf from working in radio so meeting in noisy gay bars is like bats meeting in sunlight. Romaine and I are going to do his show with Dave Rubin at HERE TV next Tuesday and he has promised lunch afterward. I just hope there is a way we can both ditch our spouses and have each other all to ourselves.

Also making a cameo at Barracuda tonight was Daniel from last night at Pop Rocks. He arrived rocking three headbands at once (blue, silver and teal) and a classic Jennifer Beals shoulder shrugging sweatshirt. His outfit said “Let’s Get Physical” in a very 1982 kind of way, which remembering 1982 as vividly as I do is always welcome. He read my blog posting from last night and was surprised to see the link to his Facebook profile (it’s just something I do in my blog. Only in New York, kids. Only in New York). But really he took me to task over calling his friend’s shoes “chunky clogs.” Apparently they were really cool (I honestly don’t remember a single detail about them, including what he told me about them tonight), and he insisted when he got back from the bathroom he was going to read me to filth about them. I never saw him again. For someone as painfully unfashionable as I am, it was probably for the best that I didn’t hear a dissertation on the shoes. He might as well try to explain the insignificance of quantum mechanics to me using a flashlight and a toy car. But I try to be as honest as possible in my blog so I apologize for missing so crucial a detail.

One by one, the gays started to peel away from the evening. I thought I would be the runaway, forced to leave at the height of fun to grab the drunk train home. But it was Jonathan, with his early a.m. gymnastics meet who was the first to call it quits. He did a single lutz, knocking a beer out of some homos hand and then headed for the door. Barracuda was somewhat lifeless, so Christian wanted to move on to another bar. On our way out, we said adieu to Jim who had a reasonably early flight home the next afternoon. That left just the three of us left, which is the ideal gay male bar group. Two people might imply couple on the hunt for a three way. Four looks like two couples wrapping up dinner with a post meal cocktail. Five or more is unwieldy. And we all know that one is the loneliest number in any gay setting. But three is the magic number so off we three went to Gym.

I have written extensively about Gym the sports bar. Normally it is the kind of place where men drink white wine in a glass but the wet weather gave the place a muskier smell than usual. “It really does smell like a gym in here!” Christian exclaimed with the enthusiasm of Kim Cattrall in Porky’s (although my enthusiasm was always saved for co-star Boyd Gaines). I thought I might need to put a sweat sock in his mouth later, but apparently nursing on an Amstel Light was enough for him. The crowd at Gym was lackluster and soon the high def footage of girl’s gymnastics on the flat screens was luring our eyes away from the men. It was time to move on to the next bar.

We wandered out into the elements again and around the corner to G, the site just two shorts weeks ago where I was most gratefully carded at the door. The bar was packed and finally it seemed that we had found where all the men were tonight. We weren’t the only ones who thought the same thing, casually bumping into easily a half dozen other veterans of Barracuda and Gym that night. I only had time for one quick drink and a really scandalous punch line from Christian that made me want to hump his bones in the bus station before it was time to make the mad dash to Grand Central Station for the last train of the night. Sadly my last ten minutes in the bar were spent cornered in the most boring conversation of the week with a guy who mistook me for someone who gave a shit about anything, while Christian and Ben bantered out of reach of my flailing arms. Finally I announced as loudly and rudely as I am certain anyone ever has that I had to leave RIGHT NOW. I made a feeble gesture of pulling out my phone to check the time but it was clear to all that what I was really saying was “get the fuck away from me you boring homo.” I don’t know why people don’t like me.

Christian, no stranger to the drunk train into Westchester County, was a disbeliever and assured me that I would be back in the bar in fifteen minutes and sharing the couch with him later in Ben’s apartment. As tantalizing as seeing Ben’s apartment and Christian on the couch are, I knew I would make it to the train with time to spare. I am an old hand at this now, as Regis told Laura Linney on the Oscar red carpet this year seconds before I thought she was going to beat the living shit out of him. True to form, I am only on time to things that will leave without me (movies, trains, airplanes, etc.) and landed in my seat on the drunk train between horny straight guys and skanky straight girls with plenty of time to rub it in Christian’s face in a thoughtful text message to Ben Harvey to wrap up the night.

And now I sit on the drunk train, as usual, lap top on lap, blogging about my evening, searching for a thread of a theme to wrap things up with. I do so love a neat ending. But really all I can think is what a fun time I had tonight and in the words of the immortal bard: When will we three meet again?