Post Natal Trip

Yesterday was my birthday and with my roommate's encouragement, I hastily arranged some happy hour fun at Therapy Bar in midtown. I had a nice turnout, a good cross-section of people I know and mostly never get to see. As any gay party invariably does, it divided quickly into two groups: those asking who my hot friend was and the hot friend in question. Granted, there is always a fair amount of overlap in those situations (hot people asking about other hot people), which is commonly known as a hook-up. Although I don’t think there were any successful hook-ups at my birthday this year. You know me, always keeping the sexual temperature somewhere near a faint simmer.

Me and Adam Sank. Turning up the sexual heat!

Birthday parties are the worst kinds of parties because most of the time you go but the only person you know is the object of the party. And the same is true for everyone else there. So mostly you all spend the evening standing around not talking to the one person you came to talk to and milling around among a cluster of other people with the same mixture of irritation and disappointment on their faces.  Not fun.

#FallowFridays

Elmore Leonard is dead. 

That is the kind of spare opener he would have enjoyed. Obviously, I have a very different writing style. But when famous writers die these days, the internet briefly fills with anecdotes and life lessons in a really lovely sort of communal wake. And so it has been the case with Elmore Leonard this week and through that I have picked up a few writing tips that I both never follow and will savagely paraphrase here. My apologies to him on both counts.

Elmore Leonard said never open with the weather, but I don't think he ever had a Friday night like the one we experienced tonight in Manhattan. The air was crisp and clear, with only the barest hint of diaper.  As the immortal bard Taylor Swift once opined, "It feels like a perfect night." And it does.  Normally, in blazing winter and bitter summer, I am a reluctant adventurer. But when the temperature and humidity are just right, like dry bath water, I am not just encouraged to go out but I become the encourager. 

The Two Night Show

Well if you were wondering if it is summer in New York yet. It’s fucking summer. After struggling last weekend to resist the urge to turn the heat back on after the nighttime temperature plunged back down into the 40s, this week has been a parallel struggle to not install the air conditioners. It has been 90 degrees every day for the last three days and now we are supposed to be grateful that this horrible storm from the Midwest (that dropped enough twisters to get Dorothy a dozen round trips between Kansas and OZ) will be the thing that breaks the hot and humid spell that has fallen over the city.

But I can’t complain about the heat (even though that is exactly what this sounds like) because our winter was so arduously long this year that anything, even 90 degree highs, are an improvement. I was commiserating tonight with another New Yorker at a party about the temperature swing but more importantly, the long winter that made everyone I know question our decision to live in this urine soaked wonderland.

Card Again

The doorman waved me into Vlada with a smooth gesture, “Go right in. I know your face.” He was as unknown to me as Jupiter. I know your old face he meant as he didn't bother to ask for my ID. I remember being offended when I would get carded at the door even though a baby could have been born since then who is old enough now to not be carded himself. Things just aren't as they used to be.

This was at Vlada but it was the second time in the evening that I wasn't carded. The first time was at Therapy where I went to meet Brent, who is visiting from San Francisco. Brent has been a long time listener of the show and I first met him when he was a nineteen year old college student seeing New York City. But that was eight years ago and Brent is all grown up now with a real job and boyfriend and everything.

Brent suggested Therapy (the only bar in the city he could remember) and the last time I was there, it was something of a ghost town since Hell’s Kitchen fell under the spell of Industry across the way. But tonight the bar was packed, to the rafters, with many young people and a few bewildered old people like myself who wondered what happened to their quiet old haunt. It turned out not to be a place to have a catch-up conversation but it was a place to run into Philip.

My Tart Will Go On

This is my fourth night in a row out on the town, but only the second adventure I have written about. Thursday night I went to Matty and Andrew’s apartment for a quiet birthday celebration for Matty to which I was (as usual) the last to arrive. I was insistent that I wouldn’t write about the evening because it was private, even though Matty didn’t seem to mind either way. But since the two highlights of the evening for me were Matty reading my last post about him out loud to the mortified left standing and the dozen cookies I ate, there really wasn’t much left to say. I love them. That is all.

Friday night I went to Therapy after the show with ADDJeff, our producer Katie and Jim the Sound Guy. Jim and I spent most of the evening talking about work while Jeff and Katie frowned at us for being so insular (with good reason on their part). Because we are practically neighbors now, Jim took my same train home so I didn’t have my usual time to write up the adventure. Even still, I talked to no one else and nothing else happened so consider the evening dutifully reported.

But today, Mike went into the city to attend a party with his boyfriend and that left me free to join Ryan White and all his friends at The Ritz. First however, I needed to satisfy my Titanic fever by catching the 6:15pm showing at Kips Bay in IMAX 3D. Even though their screen is what Mike has not so lovely described as “FauxMax” because it is just a regular theater modified slightly that charges the same elevated price, I had a good time anyway. ADD Jeff joined me at the last minute for this trip back in time and it was worth it.

Fable For Two

Once Upon A Time… I woke up two days ago to find Reichen had sent me a text message while I was sleeping. For some reason, when my phone is next to the bed, I sleep through everything, but when it is across the room, even on vibrate, any activity wakes me. In this case, the phone was on the nightstand and I pleasantly slumbered through his message. He wanted to invite me to another viewing party of his VH-1 show “Couples Therapy” at a bar I had never heard of before called Fairy Tale Lounge. Even though I instantly assumed it was on the other side of the world (read: Brooklyn), I knew I had to go after the sign off moniker he used was “The Irish Setter.”

You see, the last time I went to a viewing party Reichen invited me to, I described him here as being like “an Irish Setter whose only interest is in setting.” This gave me great pause. It is rare that I hesitate before I hit the old PUBLISH button, as evidenced by the invariable typos and spelling errors I spend the next two days correcting. But as accurate a description of his personality as that may be, I was still comparing one of the more handsome members of our community to a dog. So I wasn’t sure how he would accept that. Naturally, he took it with his usual equanimity and it turns out I am not the first person to see a personality resemblance between him and this particular breed.

Tsuris Season

Tonight, I saw a baby in a stroller being pushed out of a restaurant by Santa Claus, but I didn’t have time to stop. Manhattan is a busy place and if you stopped for every crazy thing you saw, you’d never get anywhere. The other day, I was rushing to the train and I passed a homeless man noisily humping the pole of some scaffolding while shouting aggressively at his reflection in the building. I suppose I could have stopped to find out what that was all about but, like Santa and his baby stroller, it is almost better when you don’t get the whole story.

It is Friday and (as usual) the show was a freight train barreling out of control. We had so many calls in the first hour, our producer Amber didn’t even want to answer the phone anymore. Whenever the lights on the phone would flash, she recoiled in horror. It was pretty much like that all night. ADD Jeff was there and the first thing he did when he walked in was whip out a bottle of Stoli Vanilla. I was already worried about all the visitors we would have dropping by and when I saw Jeff plunk the bottle down on the counter, I knew it would be trouble.

Candy Everybody Flaunts

Fittingly enough, It’s A Small World began as a ride at the New York World’s Fair. Because when you are in New York, you notice how truly small the world is. In a small town, the world feels small, because you can reach out your arms and turn in a slow circle and touch it all. But it looks like there is more world out there, beyond the moon, behind the rain. But when you finally get to the big city and do a slow turn, you realize it isn’t as big as it once seemed.

“Was this really worth getting off at 9:40pm?” Ryan White asked, half-joking, his sly smile betraying the half-serious side of the question. He didn’t mean my hanging out with him. That is always worth escaping the studio a few minutes early for. We have only known each other a few weeks since our first fateful meeting in the back of a taxi, but Ryan is a delightful fast friend. He is good company and he knows it.

Tonight we met out at Therapy, which I used to love but the bloom is off the rose since the place became infested with lackluster stage shows on that tiny elevation in front of the fireplace on the second floor. What had once been a charming getaway to meet friends after work or contract mono from a stranger over communal nachos, has lately become that casual meeting with friends spontaneously interrupted by someone loud and wholly unwelcome collapsing on your table.

I thought at first that we had escaped unscathed. Ryan and I spent our first half hour or so engaged in polite conversation, our ears unmolested by shrieking comedians or bad amateur singing contests. But then while I was at the bar picking up a fresh vodka soda for Ryan, I realized suddenly that I was not on line at Zabar’s and the tiny woman in the bad wig waiting for her mocktail was, in fact, the night’s entertainment.

We had already been talking about the psychological power of drag and the grip over which it holds the gay community. And then this woman appeared, dressed literally in drag, to host a stripper contest. Well, at least I think that is what it was supposed to be. It started with her singing a couple of songs very badly and then encouraging some audience members to also get up and sing badly. This I thought (beyond the obvious) was a bad idea. Are you trying to get strippers or singers? Or singers who strip? People are drunk, lady. If you aren’t clear in your instructions, you are in for a very messy ride.

The area near the fireplace started to take on the kind of frenzied chaos less reminiscent of Broadway's Miss Saigon than Saigon's actual fall. This woman "performer" stripped layers off and warbled and berated the audience for understandably ignoring her. Honey, if you are on stage, and you aren’t more compelling than whatever pops up on someone’s cell phone during your show, that’s on you.

Right on cue, Jeffrey strolled in with his handsome friend Christopher. Christopher, it turns out, works across the street from me and his cousin I think works with Julie James in my office. How small world is that? Pretty damned small. I am pretty sure we have met before but I can't for the life of me remember where or when. Doesn't matter. We've met now.

Jeffrey asked me if I had any Twizzlers on me, recalling fondly our first meeting downtown where I did have candy in my pocket and I was happy to see him. Of course, since Halloween, I have Twizzlers all over my house and office like a hoarder, and could have kicked myself for not having them with me at Therapy (but I don’t have that kind of flexibility). In my own defense, I didn’t know he was coming.

As the karaoke go-go strip show rapidly cascaded downhill nearby, I spotted my Ukrainian pal Vitaliy, on a NYC layover between Utah and London, in the audience. He is all muscle-packed like Jeffrey but shorter. And I noticed he liked hovering near the equally ripped wait staff, including the shot boy who was either wearing a horrible duck-tailed wig or hasn’t been out of a cowboy hat since Brokeback Mountain. I guess since Vitaliy is visiting from out of town, it isn’t a problem for him to (as Ryan so vividly put it tonight) shit where he eats. I entreated Vitaliy to jump on the stage, remove his shirt and win the $100 prize but he giggled shyly and backed away. I don’t understand working out like crazy and then not dropping your clothes at a moment’s notice. It’s like getting a face lift and then always wearing a veil. If you want to wander aimlessly through life in a bulky sweater, just go ahead and get fat like everyone else. You can start by eating a pack of Twizzlers. They're 240 carb-loading calories in the blink of an eye.

In the future, I will always walk around with a pack of Twizzlers in my pocket. I do owe Jeffrey some after all and it is well known that I don’t care what people think of me. Obviously no one on the stage cared what anyone thought of them either, especially the loud screeching host lady with the terrible Rona Barrett wig. Maybe if she had Twizzlers in her pocket, the audience would have cared what she had to say. Besides, as accessories go, Twizzlers, like strippers and drag queens, are candy everybody wants, just not always at the same time.

Tune Town

Caught a Bass tonight. Well, technically, I didn’t catch one, I saw one. And it wasn’t a fish, it was a celebrity. So maybe I should start over. Saw Lance Bass tonight at Therapy. We all did. As expected, when he hovered around the lip of the miniature stage there, just at the edge of the lights, not at all to his surprise, two by two we turned and drank in his blond visage. There are no accidents.

It seemed appropriate to see a real live celebrity at the bar mere moments after Brian introduced me as one to his collection of bright young things. To be fair, he said there were two celebrities at the table: me and Michael Ausiello. I didn’t place Michael right away because I couldn’t hear his name over the loud music and after going around the table I wouldn't have remembered it anyway after all the other names were tossed out rapid fire like a pop quiz. I think one of the girls was named Colleen, but names and faces whirled by so fast, I can’t be sure of anything.

The More Things

O. Henry once famously said of New York “It’ll be a great place, if they ever finish it.” More than 100 years later, the place still isn’t done changing. I suppose that is both the best and the worst part about the city. On the one hand there is always something new and exciting going on. On the other hand, there is the constant inconvenience of scaffolding or being awakened to the sound of jackhammers.

For me the hardest change is when good friends leave the city. As hilarious as The Onion article about everyone deciding to the abandon the city simultaneously was (and it really, really was), the truth is that once you live in New York, it is really hard to imagine living anywhere else. It's the city of more. Everything happens here. When Miranda Priestly in The Devil Wears Prada dresses down her frumpy assistant, chronicling the genesis of her sweater from a kernel of an idea in Manhattan to a dusty sale bin in a discount store, she isn’t just talking about fashion, she is talking about the whole world. Everyone comes here because this is where things start. The people here make the decisions that alter the course of humanity and that is no small thing. Even with the shackles of winter, the noise, the near constant smell of urine, the inconvenience, expense and a million other vicious slices that make the death of a thousand cuts look like child’s play, the decision to walk away from it all is not an easy one.

Night Light

David Young emailed me today after he read my last blog with some measure of concern. “You sound depressed. You should talk to your doctor about getting on Lexipro.” Let me be clear about something: I am not depressed. I am in love with someone who doesn’t want to be with me and my entire world has collapsed in around me like a mine explosion. But I am not depressed! My social life on the other hand is coding and unresponsive. So even if I can’t have the man of my darkest fever dreams, I can at least get back to having fun. After all, this is Manhattan. If you don’t party, you will notice what a hell hole it is and want to head out of town on the first thing smoking.

So after resorting last week to blogging about quite literally nothing just to fill the Internet with my babble in an effort to dispel the rumor that I had died, I sent Matt Kugelman an urgent text message last night demanding that we hang out tonight. Eminently likeable, I met Matt two years ago while waiting in line at Bowery Bar and it has been friend kismet ever since. What I like about Matt is that I can have a serious deep friend conversation with him or I can have a mindless spin on the town, or both at the same time. After all, why choose?

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.

Layer Cake

Some places have so many memories in them; it practically chokes you to be near them. Manhattan is getting like this for me. I’ve been in the city for seven and a half years now and the island is awash in memories and flashes from the past. Tonight I headed downtown after the show to Comix to see Michelle Collins on her birthday, and the journey ended up being more like a trip back through time.

I first met Michelle after she blew the doors off PS122, a performance space downtown where Michelle did stand up in something called the WYSIWYG Talent Show, where bloggers get up and read from their blogs. I ended up doing the Talent Show twice myself, once doing a set of truly libelous celebrity stories in front of three people that killed and then later true tales of extreme drunkenness which ended up as the “live” season finale of my video podcast “The So Real Life” as well as the unofficial end of the WYSIWYG Talent Show. But Michelle endures, adding hilarity to our radio show, trips to the Olive Garden and most recently July 4th on Kevin and Christopher’s island.

I love Michelle so it was a given that I would abandon my usual early train home for a not-so quiet drink with her in Chelsea. I took the subway down and now that I live upstate and no longer take the subway, the experience was a revelation for me. I had forgotten the evil efficiency of the subway platform to retain all the cold of winter and all the heat of summer. The train deposited me on 13th Street at 7th Avenue and I walked across 13th toward the comedy club. Along the way I passed the Gay Center, where I ran into Cory out front when I was there to cheer Chip Arndt on when the AIDS Ride returned last fall. Cory, so full of Iowa goodness, who unwittingly helped me through my darkest hour two summers ago with a simple greeting at Therapy. Then it was on past the triangle shaped park that Dan and I walked around endlessly one sunny afternoon while very politely breaking up during the Pride Garden Party, June 2001.

Happily, I had never been to Comix so the ghosts of hot gay men past could not follow me in. True, Hell’s heavy gate was just around the corner, but not close enough to get me this time. Michelle looked beautiful, made up for the stage and wound up like a top. A whirling dervish, she spun fluidly from social friends to college friends to work friends, stopping only long enough to get a genuinely tasty margarita at the bar. As one of her friends pointed out, “The best five dollar drink in town.” I hate margaritas generally but on this one I am forced to agree.

While Michelle bounced back and forth, introducing me with unrealistically lavish praise, from friend “Red Eye” to comic “hilarious” to spouse “MoveOn.org,” my eye kept wandering over to the devastated pile of cake sitting in the middle of the center table. It looked like one of those houses that recently floated down the Mississippi out of Iowa and got stuck up against a metal train bridge. Every time Michelle left me alone for a split second, my fingers dove into the cake for another tiny wedge. “That was my last piece” I kept telling myself while simultaneously reaching in for just one more. I think I might be an addict. But the cake was very good. As usual, the frosting was just too sweet and much for me, but the cake was the real deal.

I couldn’t stay long. I wanted to take the midnight train home and I knew there would be a pile of other memories waiting for me along the way. The pizza place on 14th street where I tried to get a slice for Chi Chi La Rue and failed. Up near Times Square, my old Starbucks near my office at 1440 Broadway, where Tim and I finally made our peace, such as it is. The Mr. Softee truck by Bryant Park where I had to stop for a cone, like I always do. And finally the steps of the New York Public Library, where Dan and I first met, that warm spring day. I was just new to New York and in those glorious months before 9/11 the city was filled with all of the promise of a Sex And The City episode. And there under the watchful eye of the Chrysler Building, leaned up against the stone lion, my first Manhattan crush.

My cone finished, and my journey nearly ended, I wandered into Grand Central Station, as I have a 1000 times before. I used to walk through Grand Central on my way to work, thrilling to the sounds of that woman with the haunting voice who used to sing “Summertime” echoing through the hall. I still get a chill thinking about it. But there is also sadness for me there too. I can’t go down the West corridor without thinking of the horrible dark night Jonathan broke his cell phone. So many memories, rushing around me there, like the magical moment of dancing in The Fisher King.

And then the train home. I wish it was an escape, a way to wash clean those old memories in the calm waters of the Hudson River and start anew in the morning. But the memories, while triggered by places, don’t reside there. Good and bad, you can’t escape them, because they live inside you. And every day in the city is filled with the promise of new memories just waiting to be made. The memories layer, like Michelle’s collapsing birthday cake, mushing into each other, flavors you like on top of ones you don’t. Together a complete taste and experience, and sometimes, just a little too much.

Hawaii: Go West (Not So) Young Man

Even though I plan to blog about my Hawaiian adventure this week, the first entry will be devoted to just the trip there. After all, with our three hour layover in Denver, it was fourteen hours of the first day of my vacation. Factor in travel time to and from the airport and of course a full night of sleep and the next thing you know, it is the entire day.

For this trip, I cashed in 150,000 miles on United so Mike and I could fly First Class. I had been saving my miles for a return to Japan or perhaps even a trip to Australia. But the realities of hosting a radio show made me realize that I won't be taking any long trips half way around the world anytime soon. We could have gone to Europe, which I really wanted to do, but with the exchange rate such as it is, we could get there but then we would be homeless and begging in the streets. True, my years in Manhattan observing any number of panhandlers at close range, has given me some solid strategies for raising money, but this really isn't how I want to spend a vacation.

My Dad rented a condo for two months in Kona and said it would be empty, so it was decided that we would go to Hawaii. Mike was stationed here when he was in the army, and by the end of his tour was pretty sick of it. But that was seven years ago. Plenty of time for the old animosities to fade away and only happy memories bubble to the surface. And after six grueling months of winter, we both thought a few days in tropical splendor would be just the thing.

Kona is less-densely packed and cosmopolitan than Honolulu so we knew going in that our contact with the gay community would be at a minimum. So we planned to fly in and out of Honolulu and spend Saturday night there on our way in and Friday night there on our way out. That way, we could get a couple of nights in at the gay bars and perhaps run into some actual gay people. Then, in between, we could relax by the pool, take in the sights, and hope for at least some nice reasonably naked surfer eye candy.

The night before our 6am flight, we decided to just stay in the city all evening and sleep somewhat on the plane. We went to dinner at Arriba, Arriba first, which was a great way to start things off. Our server was the same server we have seen there for seven years and Mike observed that it might be time for him to change his status from Aspiring Actor to Career Waiter. Though his acting skills have come in handy since he still manages to be friendly and solicitous without actually flirting. Be that as it may, the food and accompanying margarita were delicious.

Unfortunately, a heavy meal of Mexican food and tequila might not have been the best plan for two people who wanted to stay awake after a long work week. We headed to Therapy where the already thin crowd headed for the doors as soon as we walked in. "What is it about us that always clears a bar?" Mike wondered. Our energy was flagging. We walked down to The Ritz, where there was a massive line (aka everyone who had escaped Therapy), and immediately turned tail and headed to Vlada. Vlada had some kind of a crowd, but the enchiladas suizas and the late hour were weighing heavily on me. We went back to our respective offices to pick up our bags and head to the airport. So far our exciting adventure was off to a sleepy and dull start.

We met up outside Mike's office and hopped in a cab to La Guardia. At 4am on a Saturday, the trip took maybe ten minutes. I think we stopped for one red light. At the airport, we got our tickets and then headed for airport security, which wasn't even open yet. We were woefully early. I went to the bathroom and there was a toilet malfunctioning, gushing torrents of water. Being so close to Earth Day, I went to the man slowly dusting the elevator door outside the bathroom and told him. He informed me I had to tell the guy who cleans the bathroom. "I just need a maintenance person to come." He shook his head. "I don't work in the bathroom." There was a helpful hotline number on the bathroom to call if there are problems. So I went to the pay phone and dialed *37 and got a recording that someone would be in the office to help at 7am on Monday. By then, a lake could be drained with the water flushing away, but I gave up caring. I did what I could and all I got in the end was a need to wash my hands a second time after touching that pay phone. No good deed goes unpunished.

On the plane, we settled into our First Class seats and I have to say, though not in a Naomi Campbell cell phone/spitting rage sort of way, that I was disappointed. Air travel has fallen into such disrepair that now First or Business is just passable travel accommodation. It is a reasonably roomy seat with some leg room and a decent recline, plus a meal and a strong chance (not a guarantee) for a pillow and blanket. And that is it. Frankly, this is what air travel should already be. That shouldn't be the definition of luxury. Luxury is a sleeping compartment, manicures, gourmet meals, an in-flight entertainment system with movies and music on demand. In irritation and sheer exhaustion, I just went to sleep.

The second leg from Denver to Honolulu was an improvement in service (tons of food and attentive care by the middle aged straight male cabin crew) and there were even power outlets at the seats for our laptops. But still, First wasn't what I remembered it to be. And it just served to remind me of how miserable air travel is today. I wonder if another industry went so far out of its way to make its customers this unhappy if they would be able to stay in business too. For me it is like your own tree house being taken over by the school bully. Where are we supposed to go now?

Finally, we landed in Honolulu. We grabbed our bags, dashed onto the shuttle and away we went to our hotel in Waikiki. The hotel was a typical tourist mill, but my room was on the ocean edge and had the best view of the ocean available. But in the end, it didn't matter. What was important was that we were in Hawaii. And the great thing about Hawaii is that it looks just like Hawaii here! After months of never really feeling warm, it was just great to feel the sun on my skin and even at night, not notice a chill in the air. Maybe this vacation thing won't be so bad after all.

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.

Rebirth

I had a dream last weekend that it was 70 degrees outside. After a week of temperatures in the 50s, I started to think that winter was in its last throes. New grass was growing in the backyard and there were green buds on the trees. The wishful thinking side of my brain was in full gear, gazing hopefully at an imaginary thermometer. Today, winter returned in full force, perhaps one last offensive before a final surrender. Who can say? It was a delicate powdered sugar dream at my house as I walked down the hill to the train station today, but in Manhattan, it was an ugly mix of snow and wind-swept rain covering the sidewalks in a brown sugar slush. Yes, it is definitely still winter.

Today is my roommate Mike’s birthday. The number is unimportant when compared to the timing: two days before Valentine’s Day. In retrospect, I guess I am fortunate that my birthday is three days before Halloween. As much eye-rolling as my mother’s insistence that if I had been born seventy-two hours later, she would have named me Jack O’Lantern Hartley has caused (“I would have just said your middle initial was O. No one would have known!”), it still beats a birth near Valentine’s Day or Christmas. My mother’s birthday always falls near the floating weekend of Mother’s Day, which meant no matter what happened, we never had a good reason to miss either one.

Of course we went to a bar tonight to celebrate. It was somewhat impromptu. Mike hates going out and being social, and at a certain point in a gay man’s life, a birthday stops being something worth celebrating. But I just couldn’t bear us not doing SOMETHING, given what couch potatoes we already are. And snowy winter days only brings out your worse hermit instincts. I haven’t been blogging recently about my bar adventures, but not because I haven’t been having them. Friday night at Vlada was a drunken brouhaha for example, but by the time I had time to actually blog about it, it was days later and the spirit of the spirits was gone. I try to be as timely as possible, and lately I just haven’t been able to get to Blogger fast enough to commit my boozy adventures to memory. In a way, they are like dreams. So vivid in the moment, but they dissipate just as rapidly as they come upon you.

Lately I have been spending more free time with the original Jonathan (and hottie Zach for that matter). After years of having no regular circle of friends to hang out with, I have suddenly started to develop it with those two. It is probably because they are both recent transplants to the city. They don’t have set routines yet, so it is much easier to fall into one with them. My friends who have lived here for the better part of a decade I see less often than my family on the west coast. Manhattan is a town of regiment and routine. It is so complex, it has to run with the efficiency of an assembly line, right down to the friends you hang out with. Add a step to the process, like a new friend, and it throws the whole machine out of alignment. It is better most times to stick with things just as they are.

Jonathan joined in tonight, but Zach bowed out of the last minute journey to Therapy. Mike’s regular friends were there: George, Duke, JP, and the other Mike. That is the core. I got so used to seeing them every Friday night in our apartment for Sci Fi Fridays that when it moved to Sundays and we moved out of town, it was like the end of an era. Now when I see them it almost feels like a college reunion. The drinks flowed aplenty but when they announced the stage show was about to begin, we bolted from Therapy like it was on fire. Moments later, most of us were stationed against the icy bar at Vlada, sucking down the infused vodka cocktails that had been our downfall last Friday. In an email today on his way to Los Angeles, Ben Harvey swore them off forever after they caused a forty-eight hour hangover on Friday that no VH-1 marathon could assuage. Knowing that I would have to drive Mike home later, I just stuck with a series of cokes, which only made me long for a nice spicy bloody mary all the more.

The crowd at both bars was the same as always. It is amazing to me how alike the gays are, falling so neatly into archetypes. I caught hell on the air for comparing homosexuality to Down’s Syndrome, but I am sorry, there are just too many similarities. Besides, you can’t argue for a genetic cause for your gayness and then complain when it is compared favorably to another genetic issue. When Sean and I went to Zurich in 2003, we went to his first gay bar. “How does this compare to gay bars in America?” he asked.

Paraphrasing Tolstoy badly I deadpanned that “every gay bar is unhappy in the same way.” The bar in Zurich was indistinguishable from any old bar in America. There was the one guy dancing alone on the dance floor, too drunk or high too early. There was a knot of twinks in the corner, giggling and cruising, although with a drinking age of sixteen, the twinks were even more twinky than usual. The regulars sat around the bar nursing their drinks and personal insecurities while the older patrons lingered in the darker fringes of the room. Aside from my difficulty in ordering a Malibu and pineapple with my rusty high school German, it was as perfect a copy as any country in Epcot’s world pavilion.

Back at Vlada surrounded by the smell of vodka, my thoughts turned to Ninotchka, which I had watched earlier in the day on the train to work, while Jonathan cruised a Brokeback Mountaineer in a plaid shirt. The country boy was clearly on a date, but Jonathan was still intrigued. He was cute, but also standard issue clean cut Midwestern gay straight out of central casting. Meanwhile, a crazy drunk guy was running around taking digital photos of guys he thought were hot, I suppose so he could masturbate to their visage later. That was a bit of a twist on the usual, I thought, but not enough to make the night really noteworthy.

I was reluctant to leave the vodka bar and head out into the wintery night. It was like the worst stories of Siberia out there, but then again, inside wasn’t actually springtime in Paris, Comrade! I wish all the time that life could be as simple as an old movie, and I guess in some ways it really is. When you spend an evening in a gay bar, it is just as formulaic as any studio era classic. Well, certainly less polished than a grand MGM flick, more knockdown like a Warner Brothers film really. But the story always feels the same. It is as predictable as the weather, which I suppose is the silver lining in all of this. True, it may be winter now, but soon enough it will be spring. The bar tonight didn’t hold any promise for you, but that doesn’t mean promise isn’t right around the corner. And one day, seventy degree weather won’t be wishful thinking in a dream; it will be a pleasant reality worth celebrating with a little orchestral fanfare as the words THE END flash onto the screen. It, like everything, just takes a little time.

In Need Of Therapy

It was the end of a long week. It seems silly to complain about this amazing job of mine. Tonight we asked people to call in and tell us about disgusting things they saw at work, and for a solid hour we just sat there while strangers grossed us out. I couldn't believe sitting in our beautiful glass cage that we get paid to do a that as a job. But as entertaining as it was, it is still a job at the end of the day. And at the end of the week, we are just as tired and ready to pack it in as the next person.

Chip Arndt was on the show tonight. He is just as strapping and tall and wonderful as ever. I just love his chiseled marble Connecticut Yankee persona mixed with Yale rugby team exuberance. He came to talk about the Gay American Heroes Foundation. They are doing a benefit tomorrow at Therapy which Romaine and I are attending, and on his way out he suggested I join him and his friends at Therapy tonight for a drink after the show. I skipped going to Pop Rocks last night with Jonathan because I was really sick to my stomach and not in the mood to be the oldest person in a bar, which I certainly would have been there. But I was feeling much improved tonight and even though it's going to be a rock party weekend of seemingly non-stop activities, I figured "why not kick it off a night early?"

I sent text messages to a slew of people. Roommate. Jonathan. The original Jonathan (why must all the gays have the same three names?). Hottie Zach. Cyd and Dan. And of course the ever elusive Ben Harvey, who went to visit his family in December and never seemed to come back. Come back to the five and dime, Ben Harvey, Ben Harvey! Last minute bar appeals are always hit and miss and last night proved to be no exception. Mike was stuck at work, Jonathan at a comedy show. Cyd and Dan who had been out, packed it in early. Missed communications led to missing Ben Harvey yet again. But the original Jonathan and hottie Zach both agreed to meet me out at Therapy with Chip and his friends. Unfortunately, moments after they both confirmed, Chip claimed old age and an early morning and skipped Therapy himself, thus ending the only reason I was going in the first place.

As it turns out, it was a good opportunity to spend some quality time with the original Jonathan. He moved to New York City two and a half years ago from Atlanta and I have only seen him sporadically since. My work schedule and hermit-like behavior coupled with his dating life have conspired to keep us apart. But after missing my housewarming BBQ and Thanksgiving, his holiday card was nothing less than a demand for an audience.

Likewise, Zach moved to the city this fall and while we have hung out a couple of times since then, it hasn't moved into what I would call a regular rhythm. The holidays really toss everyone into the air like ingredients in a Cobb Salad. People start out so orderly and geometrically aligned, but the one-two wintertime punch of Christmas and New Years leaves them swirled around and obscured by heavy dressing.

Despite both of them insisting that the gym is a distant memory, they both looked incredible as always. We chatted about work, and life and love. While I was in the bathroom, talk turned briefly to the world of professional ice skating, reminding me once again that I was in a gay bar after all. I had forgotten that the original Jonathan was an ice skater so now I know our next adventure will have to be a lunchtime skate in the new rink at Bryant Park on my new skates! We drank. We laughed. We cruised. It was a perfectly acceptable evening.

To kick off the night, I had a vodka with grapefruit juice. Earlier on the show during our gross out segment, a former bus cleaner told a story of finding a hooker stabbed to death in a tiny dirty bathroom on a Greyhound bus, just like the opening crawl of an episode of Law & Order. Reflecting back on the grisly scene on my way to the bar reminded me of my former favorite drink the greyhound and I endeavored to order one as soon as I arrived. But I only had one since after boarding the drunk train at 1:00am, I still needed to drive the rest of the way home.

However, being more sober at gay bars has caused me to be more keenly aware of the mating rituals of gay men. New Yorkers get a bum rap for not being friendly, which when you compare the chattiness to other gay bars in other parts of the country is reasonably true. However, once you start talking to a New Yorker, you will find that in general, they are very engaging and fun people. But breaking through that initial barrier is not easy at all. In NYC, I have started to notice that gay men do a lot of what I call proximity introduction. They want to talk to someone, but they don't want to make the first move, so they choose a position of close proximity, preferably in the eye line of the target and wait.

Sometimes, the guys just stand nearby very casual but expectantly, like they are waiting for an imaginary bus to arrive. Other times, they get very close in and wordlessly involve themselves in whatever is going on in the group near them. They smile at the jokes, nod their heads vigorously in agreement, and of course, make desperately welcoming eye contact. One guy last night during my breakdown of the differences between an Obama and a Hillary presidency, seemed as anxious to jump into the conversation as Eleanor Clift on the McLaughlin Group. He would have been more effective if like the table of guys we sat next to two years ago at Therapy, he had suggested some kind of impromptu contest to see who was the best kisser, leading to a memorable roundelay of mono and other fond memories.

Coincidentally or not, we did manage to position ourselves quite near to someone that Jonathan knew, who as it turns out was with someone from the Gay American Heroes Foundation. They were both hot, hunky guys, the one from Florida wearing an unseasonable tank top with a word search puzzle on it. I have to say that is one of the best shirts I have ever seen for simultaneously attracting as well as evaluating the intelligence of other men. Maybe I should start wearing Jeopardy answers or the New York Times crossword on my person and see what happens.

Then Mike sent me a text message to join him on the 1:00am train and I wrapped up our short but enjoyable evening. Jonathan ran off to get a slice of pizza he will no doubt regret in the morning. Zach who lives closer to Grand Central than to Therapy decided to walk and talk with me. As we went along however, the military man in him began to worry about me missing my train. Nothing makes you feel better about yourself at one in the morning than trying to keep up with a 29 year old Air Force academy graduate in perfect shape while you are lugging another decade and a full backpack.

As we neared the station, the burden inside the backpack gave away before I did and one of the straps on my beloved, tired old PlanetOut backpack snapped. Instantly, it was the end of an era for me. I made my train with plenty of time to spare while Zach stood by sweating it out in his clingy wool sweater. But maybe the bag was a good warning for me. Running with a younger crowd has a lot of perks, but the risks of breaking are so high, it may not be worth it in the end.

Mark Your Calendar

It was a perfect day in New York City.

I love this time of year. The temperature is a cool 70 degrees, day and night. The trees have started to turn but there is still a flourish of green on the branches. It is so lovely now, but it will quickly come to an end. Soon the holiday crush will overwhelm the city. My office building on Sixth Avenue will join the festivities with their usual display of outlandishly oversized Christmas ornaments, a corporate staple of the Avenue of the Americas near Rockefeller Center, spurred on by the larger than life toy soldiers that adorn Radio City Music Hall across the street. With fifteen foot candy canes strewn about casually and three foot red glass balls stacked four high in pyramids, the street has the look of a late December living room floor in mid construction. Just half a block away, the massive Rockefeller Center Christmas tree awaits its missing ornaments.

But now the streets are just littered with people. During the day, the homeless are largely invisible, driven into the subways and their entrances to panhandle. On the street, business people scurry past the numerous tourists in a frenzied pace, like the squirrels at my house who madly dash about this time of year for nuts to store for the winter. The intense walking in the city is something that those of us who live there take for granted, but it is often too much for those who are just visiting. The tourists collapse along the sidewalks, unable to keep up with the breadth and width of our great city. Standpipes are for sitting, lamp posts are for leaning. True New Yorkers roll their eyes and brush brusquely past them on their way to Starbucks or other important meeting place.

After the show tonight, I too dodged tourists on the outskirts of Times Square as I dashed over to Therapy where Chris French and company were engulfed in Avalanche, the first mixer of the year for Ski Bums, the local gay ski club. We interviewed Chris on the show four years ago and he is still talking about it. I have been dying to do some ski activities with them, but my work schedule makes weekend trips to Whistler and elsewhere virtually impossible. Even the cocktail events from 7-10pm are largely out of the question. But I figured the alcohol and the boys would still be flowing when I dashed over there tonight and with winter coming, I am making a concerted effort to join in their fun this year.

The first person I ran into is my delightfully handsome friend Mark from Los Angeles. Back in the fall of 1995, I went to work at Sony Pictures in Culver City. The studio was on the old MGM backlot and also included David O. Selznick’s old studio, fronted by the famous “Mansion” so recognizable from the opening of all of his pictures, just down the road. I worked in the non-descript Tri-Star Building, on the far side of the lot that had once been home to Lorimar, the producers of Dallas and other television programs. Mark worked on the other side of the lot, first in the prestigious Thalberg Building, and then later in the old MGM school house where Judy Garland and Elizabeth Taylor once attended classes between scenes.

Mark was the only person who was ever really genuinely nice to me at that studio. Granted we became friends because I worked in Special Events, so I was the go-to guy from tickets to movie premieres and occasionally good swag, but even after I left the studio, he remained just as nice as always. Once I was having lunch with some other publicity people just outside the commissary. They asked me, if I could work anywhere at the studio, where would I want to work.

“At the Mansion!” I exclaimed, forever in awe of the tremendous Hollywood history under our own feet.

The other motion picture publicists were horrified. “You don’t want to work there. They do television there.”

The sin of the Hollywood hierarchy. No matter what you do in Motion Picture, it is infinitely better than anything in Television. It is almost as if the more profitable an industry in Hollywood, the more it is looked down upon. Movie people look down on TV people who look down on Music who look down on Home Video and so on. I never felt that same disdain from Mark, and later when he left motion picture for television and then online, it was only confirmed for me. Whatever. When I heard that Sony paved over what was left of the yellow brick road when they bought the studio, I knew it wasn’t the place for me anymore.

But now Mark is living in New York City and it is my chance to return the favor of kindness he showed me so many years ago on the Sony lot. I can introduce him to some of my friends that I think he will like, and probably a potential boyfriend or two. So it was a fortuitous jaunt I took to Therapy, spurred on by last night’s fleeting good weather. Today it is raining, and soon the candy canes will come out of hiding and the snow will fall, delicately covering the stained sidewalks in an all-too-brief splendor. And like the squirrels, I will be burrowed away somewhere for the winter, uninspired to leave my warm nook until the first signs of spring. But for one day, it was a perfect day in New York City.