Carry On

New York City is a place of adventure. When you live here, it is easy to forget that. You get caught up in the routine of it all, or distracted by a smelly homeless guy pushing a shopping cart, and the magic spell can fade. And then, just as suddenly as it began, you rediscover your love of the city, and it is alive with adventure and the wonderment is fresh again. This is what happened to me.

Tonight started as a fairly run-of-the-mill trip out to Gym Bar. Hottie Zach has been out of town for weeks on various errands and I have been adrift in a sea of pride events across the country. I have been pressing him to reconnect and finally tonight we managed to get together. He asked if Roommate was coming along too, so I sent him a text message to join us and after my second one, he agreed to be there after the show.

I was the first to arrive at the bar, which happens sometimes. I have a reputation for being tardy, so when I actually show up on time somewhere I am invariably alone. As it happens, I lucked out with the One Train and arrived five minutes early. The sports bar was packed with the usual crowd of scruffy thirty-something men just beginning to blossom into bear-hood. I made my way through the place, casually looking around for the friends I knew wouldn’t be there yet while actually searching for an open corner to hide in until they arrived. Unfortunately, busy gay bars rarely have unoccupied nooks and I had to make do with a slot sandwiched in between three guys and an empty bar chair.

While waiting, the tallest of the three men introduced himself. He was Lucas, recently relocated to New York City by way of Chicago and before that Houston. Lucas asked lots of questions about the bar, how often I was there, and if Wednesday was my usual night. It turns out that he and his two roommates were all flight attendants for Continental. “International!” he insisted, which I guess is more high end. I fly all the time so the ability to open a Coke can 50,000 feet over open water doesn’t have the kind of magical allure to me that it must have for others Lucas has engaged over the years. Or perhaps it has never worked and he has yet to realize that the swinging 60s are over and his Boeing Boeing existence is not filled with the jet set glamour and intrigue it once held. An alternate theory might be built around the fact that despite being a SIRIUS subscriber, he had never heard of my show, didn’t know SIRIUS had a gay channel, and only ever listened to The Beat.

Our conversation quickly fell to long patches of silence and his friends made very little effort to engage us either. Lucas must have been after me and not roping for his shy friend in the t-shirt with the kitty surrounded by writing on it that more than implied that his pussy belonged to Daddy. That is probably for the best, since for someone to realistically be his Daddy, he would need to be on the sunny side of sixty. As soon as Zach arrived moments later, Lucas and company took one look at his velvety soft brown eyes, cream cheese smooth skin and muscle-packed torso in his simultaneously loose and tight fitting t-shirt, folded their weak hands and walked away from the table. I barely had time to introduce him before they zeroed in on other prey by the dart board. Roommate arrived seconds after Zach, a beer firmly in his hands (“You know I always keep one in my backpack just in case,” he joked), but already the flight attendants were a dim memory.

Zach was as pretty as ever, if a little forlorn. The magic spirit of Manhattan has left him and he hasn’t even gotten to the miseries of August yet. I think his expectations for the city might have been too high when he moved here last fall. In any event, he needs something dramatic to shake things up and make this the city of his dreams. He asked me who I thought might be the secret surprise guest at the Pier Dance on Sunday. I decided on the spot that it must be Madonna. She was just photographed at a baseball game here in the city and her tours usually coincide with gay pride, except this year. I find it hard to believe, with a new album and tour to promote, that she would miss out on the free publicity boost such a surprise appearance would make. Also, I heard that the surprise performance disappointed last year and the organizers are probably anxious to make an extra big splash this year, and nothing would top Madonna. Nothing.

We mused on the weekend pride plans since they both are joining me at the parade viewing party on Sunday. They consumed several beers. I peed in the men’s room even though it smelled like a dead homeless guy. Zach confided that he lost seven pounds on a low carb diet while I wondered what pounds he could possibly have had to lose. The hands spun around the clock over our heads and before long it was time to catch a cab to get the 12:12 train home. The only problem: no cabs! Suddenly, it was a taxi shortage. There were groups of people waiting on every corner, and Eighth Avenue, usually the sight of dozens of free cabs, looked like a scene from I Am Legend, except without tall weeds growing up through the pavement. Leaving Zach and facing the realities of an almost certainly missed train, Roommate and I ducked into XES for one more drink before walking to the station to catch the 1:00am train.

XES is a cozy nook of a neighborhood bar that was the site of a horrible nightcap with Roommate and Jonathan after the Dolly Parton concert in May. That night an excruciating drag queen attempted suicide with a microphone and a series of shot glasses, almost dragging the rest of the patrons down with her. Tonight it was karaoke, but as Roommate pointed out, it was still better than that drag queen. I ordered him a Blue Moon and we discussed at length how perfect the bartender was for Roommate. Meanwhile, bartender sat in the corner wolfing down a salad from Hale & Hearty like he hadn’t eaten in a month, which his tight, toned body seemed to confirm.

After XES, we walked up Sixth Avenue to Grand Central. By now the weird taxi shortage had ended and the streets were an embarrassment of yellow, lighted riches. The city was filled with the sounds of New York (aka a woman yelling “Fuck you bitch!”) and I was starting to feel the magic of adventure again. At Bryant Park, I spied a Mr. Softee truck and decided to indulge my permanent craving for a vanilla soft serve cone. “I’ll have a large please.” I told Mr. Softee, a reasonably hot, twenty-something Chris Noth clone with a shaved head and relaxed demeanor. Without words he held up a giant waffle cone. “This?” I was horrified. I already had to pee again so bad I considered jumping into the bushes in the park. There was no way even I with my legendary love of ice cream could finish all that in four blocks. “A small then.” He smiled, having been down this road before.

As I walked down 42nd Street with my cone, I was happy. Mr. Softee was filled with the snarky kindness that is a hallmark of Manhattan life. It is almost as if our borough motto is: I don’t care if you live or die, but I am going to tell you something for your own good anyway. I guess you need that kind of world weary wisdom to dish ice cream out of the back of a truck at one in the morning to drunk people. And to live in this city. Some people see it as rude, or brusque, but I see it as basic equipment. This is a practical town. When there isn’t a car, you walk. When you want something, get just enough. We all have the ability to fly away, but sometimes it makes more sense to take what you are given and just make it work for you.

Alive For Now

Well, I passed another birthday and nothing horrible happened. A few years ago, while doing a News Google search on myself around this time, I discovered I was dead. A man with my name in England (there are apparently many) was murdered, but nothing makes you more confident growing older than seeing yourself dead. This year, another Derek Hartley in England didn't die, but he was missing! I have been anxious for weeks hoping I would be found safe and alive, not dead in a ravine somewhere. Then, on Monday, he was found alive, starving, and somewhat mentally ill. Thin and crazy? Sure beats dead!

Originally, I had planned to join some of the gang from work at Six Flags today. And as much as I love a rollercoaster (and using my season pass), it just didn't feel like how I wanted to spend my birthday. Roommate works Sundays now and I shoved off any real birthday celebration plans to next Saturday when I wouldn't have to compete with Halloween. Being born three days before the notorious holiday, my mom has often joked that if I had been born three days later she would have named me Jack O'Lantern. Except I don't think she was kidding.

Last night, Roommate and I hauled our old selves down to Manhattan to see The Kingdom, which wasn't nearly as bad as the miserable box office and tepid reviews would have you believe. It was directed by actor turned director Peter Berg, whom I have had something of a slow burn crush on since Linda Fiorentino grudge fucked him in The Last Seduction. He was also quite frequently naked (especially for a ski movie) in his big break movie Aspen Extreme. If he could spend twenty minutes of that movie stark naked in the snow, I think the CW can find a few minutes for those Supernatural boys to shower off.

After the movie, we decided to take the late drunk train and have a quick drink before we left town. We wandered down to Barracuda, which was packed to the rafters with gays. It wasn't so crowded that Terry Goldman didn't find me. He kissed me and his lips tasted like strawberries, like he was wearing lip gloss made for a nine year old girl. But he tasted good, so who am I to complain? But we immediately decamped from the madness of Barracuda and made our way to the relative quiet of XES, somewhat around the corner.

During the summer, I forced Erik Rhodes and his fabulous boyfriend Danny to meet me there for a quick post-show drink. They live not far away and they thought I was joking at first that there was even a bar at that location since apparently their dog has crapped outside it a thousand times without them noticing it. Once inside, Danny still thought I was joking, but the upscale dankness and casual neighborhood vibe I think won him over. Then again, it was the last time we went to a bar together, so maybe he thinks my taste is permanently suspect.

While at XES, I had my usual Sex And The Beach after first checking my look in the mirror. I spent a few minutes staring at myself in the bathroom mirror, reviewing the merchandise and giving a buyer's assessment of the bill of sale. Not bad I thought, for something that has been in the bargain bin for so long. Mike and I parked on stools, transfixed by the horribleness of a shitty horror movie playing on the flat panel TV over the bar. We decided it was probably The Hills Have Eyes since it was terrible, just terrible, and neither of us had seen it before. The sound was muted so we had the distinct pleasure of reading the dialogue as it scrolled across the various dismembered performers. The screenwriter clearly loved movies, as the internal movie references were seemingly endless, and I wondered why, if he loved movies so much, that he had inflicted this particular piece of garbage on the world.

While wrapping up our drinks, a listener, who had recognized me, came over to wish me a happy birthday. This is extremely rare in NYC and, as has been the case in the past, he was originally from Miami but had recently moved to the area. He was very nice and I will be honest that it did make me feel good, almost like a real celebrity, on my birthday. But the drunk train was calling and we beat a hasty retreat.

Once home, I couldn't fall asleep. It was already several hours into my birthday and I considered just not sleeping at all for the entire 24 hours. I spent a fair amount of time wading through the seemingly endless birthday wishes emailed and posted to MySpace, corresponding with the adorable, argyle-loving Jackenroth, stars on his elbows and in his eyes as he awaits the upcoming season of Project Runway and texting at 4am with an ex-boyfriend actively sorting out his emotions after a break-up earlier in the evening. Then, I decided to watch Mrs. Miniver, which I had DVRed from TCM.

I haven't seen Miniver in 20 years but I had remembered it fondly. I was struck however by what a horrible performance Greer Garson gave in the movie. Her bizarre expression rarely changed and she seemed to be Acting with not just a capital A, but also with lights around it and a brass band. But you have to love MGM at the height of its power. There wasn't a close-up where she didn't look like a million bucks waiting for change. Teresa Wright was terrific and it seems crazy to me now that she could have been in three of the biggest classic movies of all time right in a row (Miniver, Shadow of a Doubt, Pride of the Yankees) and then had very little else to show for her career from then on out. The movie itself was a good story to watch on a birthday and in the midst of a war. An important reminder that life is short and at all turns unexpected, but there is still time in between bombing raids for a flower show or a little romance.

It was well after dawn that I finally threw in the towel and went to sleep. Promptly at 11am, my cell phone started to ring with calls and buzz with text messages. Wisely my mother waiting until 7pm to call. "I didn't wake you, did I?" I barely had the heart to tell her I was just up from a nap. Whatever. It's my birthday.

So what if I puttered around the house, hammering on the keys of the piano trying to learn "I'm Old Fashioned", trying to meet the neighbors by hand-delivering some misdirected mail (they weren't home), and grilling up dinner outside in a parka for likely the last time of the season? No one said you have to celebrate a birthday in only one way. I like being alone. And having the house to myself on a beautiful fall day to wander around in my underwear and eat ice cream was just what the doctor ordered.