“This is not utopia!” I thought to myself, but it was. While standing shivering past midnight outside Utopia on 52nd street waiting for people to meet me, it couldn’t have been more of a misnomer. But this is how my life is. I can sit in a room for four hours with thousands of people across North America hanging on my every terrible joke, and then just a few hours later, I am in the well of obscurity on a midtown cross street, dirty snow swirled under my shoes like creamed brown sugar on its way to the Tollhouse.
Cavin Knight, a tight hunky newcomer to the porn world, was on the show tonight. A long time listener now in town filming a scene with Tristan Jaxx for Michael Lucas, he really wanted to drop by. All the insanely hot photos of him on the web made me want to have him on the show too, in particular on my lap. And while he is very hot, I have lately (today) become somewhat obsessed with his screen partner in Fit For Service (one Paul Wagner) who for some reason has long escaped my casual gaze but suddenly has all of my attention. I am certain there is nothing more flattering in this world than to be a porn star, finally meet a radio show host you have followed for five years and then be peppered by questions about someone else. At least, I hope so.
Showing posts with label danny dias. Show all posts
Showing posts with label danny dias. Show all posts
Saturday, January 15, 2011
Friday, June 5, 2009
Key To The Shitty
Life in Manhattan is just a series of overlapping circles, looping around and around, giving the illusion of movement and change. But in the end, you always end up back at the same place you started. Every once in a while a new circle begins and everyone rushes to twirl in its path in the hope that it will finally take them somewhere new. Well, more to the point, they hope it will take them to someone new. Because at a certain point, if you are a man of any age with arms of any notoriety, you quickly discover that there is no one new left to meet. And then you are forced to choose between a repeat visit or moving to Los Angeles.
There is a new party in town called Key Klub. Brandon Voss is one of the promoters. You know, the other Brandon Voss who isn’t the former editor of HX and doesn’t have wild party boys crashing his apartment in the middle of the night. Or maybe he does, but that doesn’t mean he invited them. In any event, he has already launched the successful, if instantly familiar Rockit on Fridays and is now branching out. New Night! New Faces! The second claim can not be backed up as readily as the first, though in retrospect how new is Thursday?
Derek is the doorman and though we share a name and I have met him hundreds of times he doesn’t know me. All he knows is what he sees, which is new each time, and based on my appearance he knows I am neither famous, nor important, nor hot, and therefore, I can wait in line and not get comped at the door. It always bothers my roommate that I don’t assert a “don’t you know who I think I am!” in these situations, but I prefer the honest realism of his assessment. If he floated me in past everyone else like a star, I might for a second think my arms are big enough or my soul worthy. And we can’t have that can we? After all, feeling self-conscious and unworthy is the cornerstone of any successful nightclub, alcohol problem, or mid-week sexual hook up. And fair is fair. If he wasn’t working the door, he would be standing in line too. Don’t kid yourself. The bullied becomes the bully.
Matt Kugelman was there, my faithful bar standby. I honestly don’t know what I or my blog would do without him at this point. When did I come to depend on him so utterly for nights out on the town? We were both there to meet Danny’s new boyfriend also named Matt. (For the love of Christ, can we please have an end to all gays named after apostles? I’m over it.) New Matt is tall and thin and on his way to being a doctor. He should be comped at the door, instead of that 23 year old steroid monkey, the over processed bottle blond, with two-tone tan and last year’s faux hawk. You know who you are, so there is no point in searching for your Facebook profile. Everyone knows who you are. But this is the world we live in. And as much as I bitch about the steroid monkey, he was kind of adorable in a use and lose kind of way. If only there was a gay recycling center where all of the boys you fucked could go to be sorted, washed and reused. Oh wait there is. Fire Island.
I told Danny that the troubled looks on most of the faces were just them thinking about which tank tops to pack for this weekend. After all, it is Thursday night. And after the well vodka settles and the lube is washed off, they will all be carefully folding their tiniest outfits into their cutest satchel , and hoping they don’t forget to shave their feet and asshole before departing their PR job and boarding the Long Island Railroad at the crack of noon. And magically a short two hours later, there they will be. Surrounded by all the same men in all the same tank tops who were just wandering past them at the Key Klub while they dreamt of waves crashing at the Pines and the promise of true love in the Meat Rack.
Ben Andrews was there, tall and angular in a hoodie. Kugie’s roommate was there, almost unrecognizable under new hair, which I suppose is a good way to keep things fresh (though I did think he looked much hotter with his old wavy hair). The hot real estate agent who used to be Tag Ericsson the porn star was also wandering around. That was almost new. Haven’t seen him in a year or so. As I was waiting to leave, the guy who didn’t sleep with Michael Lucas walked in and the circle was complete. I hadn’t seen him since the In The Life pride party last year. Well, enough is enough. Time to head home.
I piled into a cab only to have it stalled in traffic a block later, stymied by the filming of a crappy new Nicholas Cage thriller “The Sorcerer’s Apprentice.” They were filming it all of last month right next to my office, which was annoying enough. But now, I had a train to catch and the entirety of Sixth Avenue was blocked. Finally it cleared and we slowly made our way down 21st Street toward Eighth Avenue. And just ahead of us, the camera car with a station wagon mounted on it, two dim figures (male and female) in the front seats. Probably Nicholas Cage, I shrugged, annoyed yet devoid of any real feeling at the same time. The camera car was circling around the block to film again, and I was circling up and around to get back to my office and the train. And back at the Key Klub, the circling continued, around and around, massive arms and tiny shirts, go-go boys and drag queens, porn stars and nobodies, and always the same sameness swirling around in the bowl waiting to be flushed away. See you next week!
There is a new party in town called Key Klub. Brandon Voss is one of the promoters. You know, the other Brandon Voss who isn’t the former editor of HX and doesn’t have wild party boys crashing his apartment in the middle of the night. Or maybe he does, but that doesn’t mean he invited them. In any event, he has already launched the successful, if instantly familiar Rockit on Fridays and is now branching out. New Night! New Faces! The second claim can not be backed up as readily as the first, though in retrospect how new is Thursday?
Derek is the doorman and though we share a name and I have met him hundreds of times he doesn’t know me. All he knows is what he sees, which is new each time, and based on my appearance he knows I am neither famous, nor important, nor hot, and therefore, I can wait in line and not get comped at the door. It always bothers my roommate that I don’t assert a “don’t you know who I think I am!” in these situations, but I prefer the honest realism of his assessment. If he floated me in past everyone else like a star, I might for a second think my arms are big enough or my soul worthy. And we can’t have that can we? After all, feeling self-conscious and unworthy is the cornerstone of any successful nightclub, alcohol problem, or mid-week sexual hook up. And fair is fair. If he wasn’t working the door, he would be standing in line too. Don’t kid yourself. The bullied becomes the bully.
Matt Kugelman was there, my faithful bar standby. I honestly don’t know what I or my blog would do without him at this point. When did I come to depend on him so utterly for nights out on the town? We were both there to meet Danny’s new boyfriend also named Matt. (For the love of Christ, can we please have an end to all gays named after apostles? I’m over it.) New Matt is tall and thin and on his way to being a doctor. He should be comped at the door, instead of that 23 year old steroid monkey, the over processed bottle blond, with two-tone tan and last year’s faux hawk. You know who you are, so there is no point in searching for your Facebook profile. Everyone knows who you are. But this is the world we live in. And as much as I bitch about the steroid monkey, he was kind of adorable in a use and lose kind of way. If only there was a gay recycling center where all of the boys you fucked could go to be sorted, washed and reused. Oh wait there is. Fire Island.
I told Danny that the troubled looks on most of the faces were just them thinking about which tank tops to pack for this weekend. After all, it is Thursday night. And after the well vodka settles and the lube is washed off, they will all be carefully folding their tiniest outfits into their cutest satchel , and hoping they don’t forget to shave their feet and asshole before departing their PR job and boarding the Long Island Railroad at the crack of noon. And magically a short two hours later, there they will be. Surrounded by all the same men in all the same tank tops who were just wandering past them at the Key Klub while they dreamt of waves crashing at the Pines and the promise of true love in the Meat Rack.
Ben Andrews was there, tall and angular in a hoodie. Kugie’s roommate was there, almost unrecognizable under new hair, which I suppose is a good way to keep things fresh (though I did think he looked much hotter with his old wavy hair). The hot real estate agent who used to be Tag Ericsson the porn star was also wandering around. That was almost new. Haven’t seen him in a year or so. As I was waiting to leave, the guy who didn’t sleep with Michael Lucas walked in and the circle was complete. I hadn’t seen him since the In The Life pride party last year. Well, enough is enough. Time to head home.
I piled into a cab only to have it stalled in traffic a block later, stymied by the filming of a crappy new Nicholas Cage thriller “The Sorcerer’s Apprentice.” They were filming it all of last month right next to my office, which was annoying enough. But now, I had a train to catch and the entirety of Sixth Avenue was blocked. Finally it cleared and we slowly made our way down 21st Street toward Eighth Avenue. And just ahead of us, the camera car with a station wagon mounted on it, two dim figures (male and female) in the front seats. Probably Nicholas Cage, I shrugged, annoyed yet devoid of any real feeling at the same time. The camera car was circling around the block to film again, and I was circling up and around to get back to my office and the train. And back at the Key Klub, the circling continued, around and around, massive arms and tiny shirts, go-go boys and drag queens, porn stars and nobodies, and always the same sameness swirling around in the bowl waiting to be flushed away. See you next week!
Friday, April 24, 2009
The Furricane
This is going to make me sound old, but in my day, you went to a nightclub week after week and it always stayed in one place. Some lasted longer than others, and the ones which burned the hottest usually flamed out the fastest. And maybe that is just an LA thing. I used to love Club Louie, enticed by the rumor that Madonna was part owner, but it vanished so fast I don’t even remember what neighborhood it was in. The Men’s Room was a great Thursday night party until it got a glowing review in the Los Angeles Times. Street cred obliterated, I don’t think they even bothered to open the next day. I loved this place on Sunset until the doorman shot two people. Then they turned it into Project Angel Food. Well, it was a more innocent time then, as we like to say.
I went once to The Skinny when it was located just up the street from my office. My friend Danny of the solid packed body and skimpy underwear was one of the bartenders. Matt Kugelman is a mutual friend so he was there too. Then, last night was Thursday again and since Matty’s party at The Park is on haitus, I checked in with Kugie to see if he was going. And then I noticed that it wasn’t in midtown anymore, it was now in the grey area north of Chelsea near Madison Square Garden. So Matt and I met up at Brother Jimmy’s BBQ on 31st and 8th Avenue for dinner and then headed around the corner to 28th for the new Skinny. And just as an aside here, I was not feeling too skinny myself after I downed that chicken fried steak. The doorman recognized me and even knew my full name, which shocked the crap out of me, especially after that woman Kris from Long Island recognized me earlier in the day at the Starbucks downstairs from our office. Where did my precious anonymity go? It’s the beginning of the end everybody.
Once inside, I ran off to find the bathroom and it was a crazy quilt of stairs and passageways and printed signs that took me upstairs, around the corner, through a brightly lit photo shoot, past Sweetie looking not so sweet behind the bar, down into a dance floor open only to the lunatic fringe and then finally, hidden behind the DJ booth and near a fire exit: the bathroom. I felt like Ashley Judd in that Morgan Freeman movie where she was trapped underground by my boyfriend Cary Elwes: “There were doors…There were walls.” Yes, yes Ashley, very descriptive. Very helpful. “Okay,” I thought as I sighed with some relief at the urinal, “it’s going to be one of those nights.“ Downstairs, I met up with Matt again. He was talking to a guy who was running his hand along his forearm. “Furry,” he purred, “Are you furry everywhere? Is your butt a furry hurricane and the hole is the eye?” Yes, ladies and gentlemen, that’s a furricane.
During dinner, talk had turned to Matt’s screenwriting class, and later at The Skinny, in a cinematic fervor, I engaged Danny in a conversation across the bar and through the legs of an aggressively gyrating stripper. I figured the stipper at some point would step over us, but until the conversation ended, he bumped and ground over our heads, my hands resting gently on the bar between his ankles. After we got another round of drinks from Danny, we headed upstairs to look for Matt’s friends who were apparently there somewhere. In point of fact, they were everywhere. It was a complete reversal of last week at The Park, now with Matt the one with the popularity and the proximity.
The weirdness continued upstairs with a cute bartender in tiny underwear with what looked like an exceedingly painful wedgie. “No no,” he assured me. “It doesn’t hurt. And it just happens when I keep doing this.” He then proceeded to turn around and shake his ass like a blender blade until nearly all of the underwear had been sucked up into the smooth eye of his not-so-furricane. Some idiot tipped him $300 and then was mystified when he didn’t continue to get the same loving attention he was lavishing elsewere. Everyone knows you give them the $300 at the end of the evening. If that’s your opener, there is no reason to stick around. Three big bills buy a lot of brown rice and cocaine when you are twenty years old and live six deep in a studio apartment waiting for Fire Island to roll around again. Idiot.
Downstairs the real show was about to begin. One of the strippers on the bar recognized Matt from a previous party a few weeks ago and started a long distance flirt with him from his station on top of the bar. The stripper was furry himself, though he had an appropriate Chelsea trim to him. Wearing a jock strap under his underwear, his back to us, he playfully ran his fingers along his lips while making eye contact with Matt. Then he ran his hands down his back, gently pushing his underwear down and slipping his middle finger into the eye of his furricane. Then he pulled his finger out, drew it up to his face, ran it playfully along his chin until, when he had our complete and undivided attention, he stuck his finger in his own mouth and sucked on it.
This was a revelation. Not since the topless drag show in spanish at The Plaza on La Brea in Los Angeles have I seen such a display of unabashed and playful raunchiness. And there the tranny dancer had popped out from behind a screen in just a bikini bottom, spun around a bit, took a cigarette from a man in the front row, puffed on it, jammed it into the cheeks of her ass, did a cartwheel, pulled it out of her ass, puffed again and then handed it back to the patron, who let the cigarette burn itself out in the ashtray in front of him untouched. For my money, this ran a close second.
As our gasps of horror at The Skinny subsided to cheers of delight, the stripper jumped down from on top of the bar and engaged us in conversation. He even shook my hand, which in retrospect was probably not the brightest thing I ever did, but life is an adventure right? Apparently at a club last week, he had done a similar trick with a blow pop that did not go over well. “After that, I looked around and realized that I should probably just go home because no one here is gonna want to make out with me now.” I am pretty sure if someone did, that would be true love. But what do I know about true love or blow pops?
We were so entranced by the strip show we barely noticed that the place had cleared out like it was on fire. It wasn’t until we saw a guy do a cartwheel down the middle of the bar, followed by some impromptu drag balling that we noticed how dead the place was. And the only action was a straight couple making out in the corner. It might actually have been a fire because as we were saying good night to Danny all of us could quite distinctly smell smoke, and not in a good way. Our evening was at an end and we hardly needed smoke signals to see it.
I guess all good times have to come to an end eventually. The twenty year old bartender’s good time will end five summers from now when his bloated corpse is found floating in a Fire Island pool some post Labor Day afternoon. The days of The Skinny may already be numbered. Five club promoters and they could barely fill the place for a couple of hours. No wonder Sweetie looked so sour. I drove home up the Henry Hudson Parkway along the river, the top up on my convertible on the final chilly night of the year until fall. The cold has come to an end too this weekend, which just goes to show you that the end of one chapter and the beginning of another isn’t always so bad after all.
I went once to The Skinny when it was located just up the street from my office. My friend Danny of the solid packed body and skimpy underwear was one of the bartenders. Matt Kugelman is a mutual friend so he was there too. Then, last night was Thursday again and since Matty’s party at The Park is on haitus, I checked in with Kugie to see if he was going. And then I noticed that it wasn’t in midtown anymore, it was now in the grey area north of Chelsea near Madison Square Garden. So Matt and I met up at Brother Jimmy’s BBQ on 31st and 8th Avenue for dinner and then headed around the corner to 28th for the new Skinny. And just as an aside here, I was not feeling too skinny myself after I downed that chicken fried steak. The doorman recognized me and even knew my full name, which shocked the crap out of me, especially after that woman Kris from Long Island recognized me earlier in the day at the Starbucks downstairs from our office. Where did my precious anonymity go? It’s the beginning of the end everybody.
Once inside, I ran off to find the bathroom and it was a crazy quilt of stairs and passageways and printed signs that took me upstairs, around the corner, through a brightly lit photo shoot, past Sweetie looking not so sweet behind the bar, down into a dance floor open only to the lunatic fringe and then finally, hidden behind the DJ booth and near a fire exit: the bathroom. I felt like Ashley Judd in that Morgan Freeman movie where she was trapped underground by my boyfriend Cary Elwes: “There were doors…There were walls.” Yes, yes Ashley, very descriptive. Very helpful. “Okay,” I thought as I sighed with some relief at the urinal, “it’s going to be one of those nights.“ Downstairs, I met up with Matt again. He was talking to a guy who was running his hand along his forearm. “Furry,” he purred, “Are you furry everywhere? Is your butt a furry hurricane and the hole is the eye?” Yes, ladies and gentlemen, that’s a furricane.
During dinner, talk had turned to Matt’s screenwriting class, and later at The Skinny, in a cinematic fervor, I engaged Danny in a conversation across the bar and through the legs of an aggressively gyrating stripper. I figured the stipper at some point would step over us, but until the conversation ended, he bumped and ground over our heads, my hands resting gently on the bar between his ankles. After we got another round of drinks from Danny, we headed upstairs to look for Matt’s friends who were apparently there somewhere. In point of fact, they were everywhere. It was a complete reversal of last week at The Park, now with Matt the one with the popularity and the proximity.
The weirdness continued upstairs with a cute bartender in tiny underwear with what looked like an exceedingly painful wedgie. “No no,” he assured me. “It doesn’t hurt. And it just happens when I keep doing this.” He then proceeded to turn around and shake his ass like a blender blade until nearly all of the underwear had been sucked up into the smooth eye of his not-so-furricane. Some idiot tipped him $300 and then was mystified when he didn’t continue to get the same loving attention he was lavishing elsewere. Everyone knows you give them the $300 at the end of the evening. If that’s your opener, there is no reason to stick around. Three big bills buy a lot of brown rice and cocaine when you are twenty years old and live six deep in a studio apartment waiting for Fire Island to roll around again. Idiot.
Downstairs the real show was about to begin. One of the strippers on the bar recognized Matt from a previous party a few weeks ago and started a long distance flirt with him from his station on top of the bar. The stripper was furry himself, though he had an appropriate Chelsea trim to him. Wearing a jock strap under his underwear, his back to us, he playfully ran his fingers along his lips while making eye contact with Matt. Then he ran his hands down his back, gently pushing his underwear down and slipping his middle finger into the eye of his furricane. Then he pulled his finger out, drew it up to his face, ran it playfully along his chin until, when he had our complete and undivided attention, he stuck his finger in his own mouth and sucked on it.
This was a revelation. Not since the topless drag show in spanish at The Plaza on La Brea in Los Angeles have I seen such a display of unabashed and playful raunchiness. And there the tranny dancer had popped out from behind a screen in just a bikini bottom, spun around a bit, took a cigarette from a man in the front row, puffed on it, jammed it into the cheeks of her ass, did a cartwheel, pulled it out of her ass, puffed again and then handed it back to the patron, who let the cigarette burn itself out in the ashtray in front of him untouched. For my money, this ran a close second.
As our gasps of horror at The Skinny subsided to cheers of delight, the stripper jumped down from on top of the bar and engaged us in conversation. He even shook my hand, which in retrospect was probably not the brightest thing I ever did, but life is an adventure right? Apparently at a club last week, he had done a similar trick with a blow pop that did not go over well. “After that, I looked around and realized that I should probably just go home because no one here is gonna want to make out with me now.” I am pretty sure if someone did, that would be true love. But what do I know about true love or blow pops?
We were so entranced by the strip show we barely noticed that the place had cleared out like it was on fire. It wasn’t until we saw a guy do a cartwheel down the middle of the bar, followed by some impromptu drag balling that we noticed how dead the place was. And the only action was a straight couple making out in the corner. It might actually have been a fire because as we were saying good night to Danny all of us could quite distinctly smell smoke, and not in a good way. Our evening was at an end and we hardly needed smoke signals to see it.
I guess all good times have to come to an end eventually. The twenty year old bartender’s good time will end five summers from now when his bloated corpse is found floating in a Fire Island pool some post Labor Day afternoon. The days of The Skinny may already be numbered. Five club promoters and they could barely fill the place for a couple of hours. No wonder Sweetie looked so sour. I drove home up the Henry Hudson Parkway along the river, the top up on my convertible on the final chilly night of the year until fall. The cold has come to an end too this weekend, which just goes to show you that the end of one chapter and the beginning of another isn’t always so bad after all.
Friday, March 13, 2009
Skinny And Sweet
My friend Danny Dias sent me a message last week saying he was bartending now at a new club night called "The Skinny." I assume the name is a reference to the old colloquial expression more than the weight of the intended patrons, but when I finally dropped by tonight, "The Skimpy" might be a more apt title. Having already experienced seeing some friends naked in porn (always surprising, no matter how many times THAT happens), you would think I would take seeing one of them in their underwear in stride. But there was Danny in all his adorable buffness, stripped down to a tiny pair of black briefs, a scene I was not expecting.
I had only planned to stay for a half hour max. Yesterday I was on death's door with a nasty cold, but this afternoon when I woke up, I was already feeling one thousand times better. Still, you shouldn't rush these things. So in the spirit of taking things easy and not causing the kind of relapse that might ruin my weekend, I endeavored to turn the evening into a quick post-work "hello" before driving back upstate to my nice warm flannel sheets. Besides, Matt Kugelman had said he would be bringing his skinny self to "The Skinny" too, so I could see both of them in short order and still watch Survivor and maybe even 30 Rock before bed.
Matt decided to hit Barrage first before storming "The Skinny" so I thought I might miss him altogether. The bar was somewhat deserted when I arrived, so I did my level best to keep Danny company while trying not to keep him so distracted that he missed what few tips might come his way. When you are friends with a bartender, it is always best to know when to slip quietly away from the bar for a bit so they can work and actually make some money. At the same time, I was anxious to catch up since we haven't seen each other in months and we have had a lot to talk about since then.
The bar started to fill a bit and then just as I was about to walk out, Matt Kugelman stumbled in. Suddenly, it was like playing Mystery Date and opening the door and finding the hunky beach date waiting for you. As Meryn Cadell so aptly sang in The Sweater, "You're looking for the boy of your dreams, who is the same boy in the dreams of all of your friends." That is Matt Kugelman. I can't wait to have him make an appearance at my Cinco de Mayo party just so I can watch all my single gay friends fight and fume and scowl over him all night.
I will admit that I didn't know Matt all that well before tonight. He is someone I run into a lot about town and he is always a lot of fun, not to mention easy on the eyes. And he laughs at my jokes and appreciates my obnoxious posts on his Facebook page and assorted photos. He has such a relaxed demeanor, though I admit some of that might have been brought on by the enormous amount of alcohol he had consumed. In retrospect, I don't know that I have ever seen him sober. He confided that he used to play dumb in high school so that he could get tutor time after school as a means to escape swim practice. And apparently his paint wasn't mixed properly but you will have to get him drunk on your own to see that part for yourself.
He was surrounded by a bunch of his friends, some I had met before (Chip) and others I had not. A few of them had recently joined the swelling ranks of the unemployed so he was taking them out for drinks. One of them, a confident blond 21 year old proudly drank a glass of straight vodka in front of us like water. "He'll be dead in a year," I offered. Two hours later, he was sitting nearby in a pale stupor, an untouched vodka cranberry resting in his crotch. On my way out for the evening, I fixed the collar of his shirt, which had become askew. He didn't seem to notice or care. "Maybe six months." I thought.
For a fleeting moment, I saw Ryan Raz, who had apparently been there for more than an hour, but I caught him as he was running out. We just had dinner on Tuesday night after the show at our usual hangout Vynl, but it is always nice to see him again. Having already gotten the skinny on Danny and on Matt, I realized too that it was time to head home. Danny was busy at the bar dealing with a variety of drunken characters. Matt was consoling his friends and trying to convince Danny to toss cherries into his mouth. My work here was done. I swung through McDonald's on my way to the parking garage for a nice ten piece McNugget meal to go. Granted, a meal like that won't get me to skinny personally, but I had already had my fill of skinny for one night.
I had only planned to stay for a half hour max. Yesterday I was on death's door with a nasty cold, but this afternoon when I woke up, I was already feeling one thousand times better. Still, you shouldn't rush these things. So in the spirit of taking things easy and not causing the kind of relapse that might ruin my weekend, I endeavored to turn the evening into a quick post-work "hello" before driving back upstate to my nice warm flannel sheets. Besides, Matt Kugelman had said he would be bringing his skinny self to "The Skinny" too, so I could see both of them in short order and still watch Survivor and maybe even 30 Rock before bed.
Matt decided to hit Barrage first before storming "The Skinny" so I thought I might miss him altogether. The bar was somewhat deserted when I arrived, so I did my level best to keep Danny company while trying not to keep him so distracted that he missed what few tips might come his way. When you are friends with a bartender, it is always best to know when to slip quietly away from the bar for a bit so they can work and actually make some money. At the same time, I was anxious to catch up since we haven't seen each other in months and we have had a lot to talk about since then.
The bar started to fill a bit and then just as I was about to walk out, Matt Kugelman stumbled in. Suddenly, it was like playing Mystery Date and opening the door and finding the hunky beach date waiting for you. As Meryn Cadell so aptly sang in The Sweater, "You're looking for the boy of your dreams, who is the same boy in the dreams of all of your friends." That is Matt Kugelman. I can't wait to have him make an appearance at my Cinco de Mayo party just so I can watch all my single gay friends fight and fume and scowl over him all night.
I will admit that I didn't know Matt all that well before tonight. He is someone I run into a lot about town and he is always a lot of fun, not to mention easy on the eyes. And he laughs at my jokes and appreciates my obnoxious posts on his Facebook page and assorted photos. He has such a relaxed demeanor, though I admit some of that might have been brought on by the enormous amount of alcohol he had consumed. In retrospect, I don't know that I have ever seen him sober. He confided that he used to play dumb in high school so that he could get tutor time after school as a means to escape swim practice. And apparently his paint wasn't mixed properly but you will have to get him drunk on your own to see that part for yourself.
He was surrounded by a bunch of his friends, some I had met before (Chip) and others I had not. A few of them had recently joined the swelling ranks of the unemployed so he was taking them out for drinks. One of them, a confident blond 21 year old proudly drank a glass of straight vodka in front of us like water. "He'll be dead in a year," I offered. Two hours later, he was sitting nearby in a pale stupor, an untouched vodka cranberry resting in his crotch. On my way out for the evening, I fixed the collar of his shirt, which had become askew. He didn't seem to notice or care. "Maybe six months." I thought.
For a fleeting moment, I saw Ryan Raz, who had apparently been there for more than an hour, but I caught him as he was running out. We just had dinner on Tuesday night after the show at our usual hangout Vynl, but it is always nice to see him again. Having already gotten the skinny on Danny and on Matt, I realized too that it was time to head home. Danny was busy at the bar dealing with a variety of drunken characters. Matt was consoling his friends and trying to convince Danny to toss cherries into his mouth. My work here was done. I swung through McDonald's on my way to the parking garage for a nice ten piece McNugget meal to go. Granted, a meal like that won't get me to skinny personally, but I had already had my fill of skinny for one night.
Sunday, July 13, 2008
Last Night On Earth
I live in two worlds. In one of them, I am an erstwhile homeowner, less handy than I think I am, toiling away at an ever growing stack of chores nestled in a quiet picture postcard version of suburbia. In the other world, I swirl in the heights of Manhattan gay social circles, hobnobbing with the sexiest and most famous members of the modern homo set. It would be an exaggeration to say that I have any real comfort in either one, but they both shares dueling sides of my personality. One assumes the quiet side will win out in the end, but in the meantime, the rowdy crowd is putting up a game fight.
I spent Saturday lifting sixty pound bags of gravel and sand, Ethel Merman blaring the opening lines of “Hostess with the Mostest” permanently looping through my head. I am building a patio in my backyard after watching a two minute video on About.com that made it look surprisingly easy. It isn’t hard, per se, but laying 108 tiles evenly and accurately is a duty I don’t have the constitutional aptitude for. I had hoped that roommate would help me out, but he threw his shoulder out and that is only half of his excuse. I think he is tired of my endless folly of half-finished home projects and it amuses him to see me struggle in a perpetual episode of I Love Lucy during the season they lived in Connecticut. If only Tallulah Bankhead was my neighbor! She wouldn’t be any help either, but at least she would be hilarious.
In the late afternoon, I ditched the soil and toil and hopped on a train down to Manhattan. I agreed to arrange a meeting between Ronnie, late of Make Me A Supermodel, and my friend Matthew Kelleher, arguably the most connected gay man in New York City, which frankly means the most connected gay man in the world. For some reason, Matty was in a sensitive mood on Saturday and when I would say compliments like that, he took it to mean I was implying he was a slut. It’s not OurChart.com, Matt! Matty was waiting for me outside the David Barton Gym where Ronnie was working out before our dinner. Matt and I debated the pros and cons of exercising at the most notorious gym in a most notorious neighborhood; while a parade of just stunning men stumbled in and out of the building.
While waiting, Erik Rhodes and former boyfriend Danny Dias walked down the street toward us. I had earlier sent Erik a text message inviting him to dinner, but he was already eating when he got it. They had just been working out themselves beforehand and joined our discussion about the perils of David Barton. They waited around wanting to meet Ronnie, but he was taking his sweet time and they ended up moving on to whatever else they were doing before Danny headed down to the Village to bartend. Finally Ronnie emerged and the three of us took off down the street looking for a dinner place. While we walked, Matt explained this day was the only day each year where the sunset could be seen directly down Manhattan cross streets and it was a perfect sunset for it too, casting a magical mood over the city as the light of the day dimmed across 23rd Street.
After walking down 8th Avenue through a sea of Matty devotees and Ronnie watchers, we settled into a cozy dinner at a French place that opened onto the street. Dinner was charming and Ronnie and Matty got along great. Ronnie actually seemed to enjoy us telling all the dusty old stories about how we know each other and the outrageous antics we got into in the intervening years. After dinner and looking for a place to cocktail, we eventually ended up on the patio of the Maritime Hotel. It was a warm night and the patio, upbeat with happy straight patrons and dotted with Chinese lanterns, ended up being the perfect nightcap to our low-key evening.
Ben Harvey joined us, along with the ever elusive Ryan, and then later, Hottie Zach dropped by. I tried to get Roommate to come since he was in the city too, but he begged off and headed home. It was too bad because it was finally an evening he would have enjoyed. Our tiny café table with six chairs jammed around it was a beehive of cheerful gay laughter and witty banter. It was just heaven for me. Shiny, happy people. Matty was wrecked about not having an iPhone, having accidentally dropped his into the sink at his gym the day before the new ones went on sale and crushing lines wound around the block day and night. Saturday was day two of the melee and day three without a phone with no hope of getting one in the foreseeable future. He was jonesing like Courtney Love and Amy Winehouse going cold turkey together on a dare. But otherwise he was having a good time.
The Maritime was magic but nothing is forever. We headed out with Ben Harvey and Ryan opting to head to the East Village to the bar that Danny Dias was working. “Tell Danny you know us!” we urged them with the hope of scoring a free drink by proxy. Ronnie pulled me, Matty and Zach off to someone’s apartment. The apartment was in the heart of Chelsea, across from ELMO, and no doubt an outrageous fortune despite its postage stamp qualities. The party quickly moved to the roof, which was spectacular. The four of us threw ourselves on the mercy of a giant outdoor canopy bed, like Stevie Nicks in an old Fleetwood Mac video. More drunken laughter ensued until once again, I made my hasty departure back to my other world.
I love fabulous rooftop parties in Manhattan, and pretty reality show contestants, and cocktails on hotel patios, but for me, it is like going to an amusement park. The rides and food are fun, but I couldn’t do it every day. I need quiet and simplicity. I need to feel the earth in my hands and the sun on my face, and the sense of accomplishment that can only come from building something solid. Connecting Matty to Ronnie and Ronnie to Zach is easy for me. It’s a great skill I have, and there is satisfaction there. But it is as satisfying as a funnel cake and a rollercoaster. A thrill, but if I did it every day, it would lose its appeal, the wonderment of it. So back I go to laying tiles. To gravel and sand. To reality, my other home.
I spent Saturday lifting sixty pound bags of gravel and sand, Ethel Merman blaring the opening lines of “Hostess with the Mostest” permanently looping through my head. I am building a patio in my backyard after watching a two minute video on About.com that made it look surprisingly easy. It isn’t hard, per se, but laying 108 tiles evenly and accurately is a duty I don’t have the constitutional aptitude for. I had hoped that roommate would help me out, but he threw his shoulder out and that is only half of his excuse. I think he is tired of my endless folly of half-finished home projects and it amuses him to see me struggle in a perpetual episode of I Love Lucy during the season they lived in Connecticut. If only Tallulah Bankhead was my neighbor! She wouldn’t be any help either, but at least she would be hilarious.
In the late afternoon, I ditched the soil and toil and hopped on a train down to Manhattan. I agreed to arrange a meeting between Ronnie, late of Make Me A Supermodel, and my friend Matthew Kelleher, arguably the most connected gay man in New York City, which frankly means the most connected gay man in the world. For some reason, Matty was in a sensitive mood on Saturday and when I would say compliments like that, he took it to mean I was implying he was a slut. It’s not OurChart.com, Matt! Matty was waiting for me outside the David Barton Gym where Ronnie was working out before our dinner. Matt and I debated the pros and cons of exercising at the most notorious gym in a most notorious neighborhood; while a parade of just stunning men stumbled in and out of the building.
While waiting, Erik Rhodes and former boyfriend Danny Dias walked down the street toward us. I had earlier sent Erik a text message inviting him to dinner, but he was already eating when he got it. They had just been working out themselves beforehand and joined our discussion about the perils of David Barton. They waited around wanting to meet Ronnie, but he was taking his sweet time and they ended up moving on to whatever else they were doing before Danny headed down to the Village to bartend. Finally Ronnie emerged and the three of us took off down the street looking for a dinner place. While we walked, Matt explained this day was the only day each year where the sunset could be seen directly down Manhattan cross streets and it was a perfect sunset for it too, casting a magical mood over the city as the light of the day dimmed across 23rd Street.
After walking down 8th Avenue through a sea of Matty devotees and Ronnie watchers, we settled into a cozy dinner at a French place that opened onto the street. Dinner was charming and Ronnie and Matty got along great. Ronnie actually seemed to enjoy us telling all the dusty old stories about how we know each other and the outrageous antics we got into in the intervening years. After dinner and looking for a place to cocktail, we eventually ended up on the patio of the Maritime Hotel. It was a warm night and the patio, upbeat with happy straight patrons and dotted with Chinese lanterns, ended up being the perfect nightcap to our low-key evening.
Ben Harvey joined us, along with the ever elusive Ryan, and then later, Hottie Zach dropped by. I tried to get Roommate to come since he was in the city too, but he begged off and headed home. It was too bad because it was finally an evening he would have enjoyed. Our tiny café table with six chairs jammed around it was a beehive of cheerful gay laughter and witty banter. It was just heaven for me. Shiny, happy people. Matty was wrecked about not having an iPhone, having accidentally dropped his into the sink at his gym the day before the new ones went on sale and crushing lines wound around the block day and night. Saturday was day two of the melee and day three without a phone with no hope of getting one in the foreseeable future. He was jonesing like Courtney Love and Amy Winehouse going cold turkey together on a dare. But otherwise he was having a good time.
The Maritime was magic but nothing is forever. We headed out with Ben Harvey and Ryan opting to head to the East Village to the bar that Danny Dias was working. “Tell Danny you know us!” we urged them with the hope of scoring a free drink by proxy. Ronnie pulled me, Matty and Zach off to someone’s apartment. The apartment was in the heart of Chelsea, across from ELMO, and no doubt an outrageous fortune despite its postage stamp qualities. The party quickly moved to the roof, which was spectacular. The four of us threw ourselves on the mercy of a giant outdoor canopy bed, like Stevie Nicks in an old Fleetwood Mac video. More drunken laughter ensued until once again, I made my hasty departure back to my other world.
I love fabulous rooftop parties in Manhattan, and pretty reality show contestants, and cocktails on hotel patios, but for me, it is like going to an amusement park. The rides and food are fun, but I couldn’t do it every day. I need quiet and simplicity. I need to feel the earth in my hands and the sun on my face, and the sense of accomplishment that can only come from building something solid. Connecting Matty to Ronnie and Ronnie to Zach is easy for me. It’s a great skill I have, and there is satisfaction there. But it is as satisfying as a funnel cake and a rollercoaster. A thrill, but if I did it every day, it would lose its appeal, the wonderment of it. So back I go to laying tiles. To gravel and sand. To reality, my other home.
Monday, October 29, 2007
Alive For Now
Well, I passed another birthday and nothing horrible happened. A few years ago, while doing a News Google search on myself around this time, I discovered I was dead. A man with my name in England (there are apparently many) was murdered, but nothing makes you more confident growing older than seeing yourself dead. This year, another Derek Hartley in England didn't die, but he was missing! I have been anxious for weeks hoping I would be found safe and alive, not dead in a ravine somewhere. Then, on Monday, he was found alive, starving, and somewhat mentally ill. Thin and crazy? Sure beats dead!
Originally, I had planned to join some of the gang from work at Six Flags today. And as much as I love a rollercoaster (and using my season pass), it just didn't feel like how I wanted to spend my birthday. Roommate works Sundays now and I shoved off any real birthday celebration plans to next Saturday when I wouldn't have to compete with Halloween. Being born three days before the notorious holiday, my mom has often joked that if I had been born three days later she would have named me Jack O'Lantern. Except I don't think she was kidding.
Last night, Roommate and I hauled our old selves down to Manhattan to see The Kingdom, which wasn't nearly as bad as the miserable box office and tepid reviews would have you believe. It was directed by actor turned director Peter Berg, whom I have had something of a slow burn crush on since Linda Fiorentino grudge fucked him in The Last Seduction. He was also quite frequently naked (especially for a ski movie) in his big break movie Aspen Extreme. If he could spend twenty minutes of that movie stark naked in the snow, I think the CW can find a few minutes for those Supernatural boys to shower off.
After the movie, we decided to take the late drunk train and have a quick drink before we left town. We wandered down to Barracuda, which was packed to the rafters with gays. It wasn't so crowded that Terry Goldman didn't find me. He kissed me and his lips tasted like strawberries, like he was wearing lip gloss made for a nine year old girl. But he tasted good, so who am I to complain? But we immediately decamped from the madness of Barracuda and made our way to the relative quiet of XES, somewhat around the corner.
During the summer, I forced Erik Rhodes and his fabulous boyfriend Danny to meet me there for a quick post-show drink. They live not far away and they thought I was joking at first that there was even a bar at that location since apparently their dog has crapped outside it a thousand times without them noticing it. Once inside, Danny still thought I was joking, but the upscale dankness and casual neighborhood vibe I think won him over. Then again, it was the last time we went to a bar together, so maybe he thinks my taste is permanently suspect.
While at XES, I had my usual Sex And The Beach after first checking my look in the mirror. I spent a few minutes staring at myself in the bathroom mirror, reviewing the merchandise and giving a buyer's assessment of the bill of sale. Not bad I thought, for something that has been in the bargain bin for so long. Mike and I parked on stools, transfixed by the horribleness of a shitty horror movie playing on the flat panel TV over the bar. We decided it was probably The Hills Have Eyes since it was terrible, just terrible, and neither of us had seen it before. The sound was muted so we had the distinct pleasure of reading the dialogue as it scrolled across the various dismembered performers. The screenwriter clearly loved movies, as the internal movie references were seemingly endless, and I wondered why, if he loved movies so much, that he had inflicted this particular piece of garbage on the world.
While wrapping up our drinks, a listener, who had recognized me, came over to wish me a happy birthday. This is extremely rare in NYC and, as has been the case in the past, he was originally from Miami but had recently moved to the area. He was very nice and I will be honest that it did make me feel good, almost like a real celebrity, on my birthday. But the drunk train was calling and we beat a hasty retreat.
Once home, I couldn't fall asleep. It was already several hours into my birthday and I considered just not sleeping at all for the entire 24 hours. I spent a fair amount of time wading through the seemingly endless birthday wishes emailed and posted to MySpace, corresponding with the adorable, argyle-loving Jackenroth, stars on his elbows and in his eyes as he awaits the upcoming season of Project Runway and texting at 4am with an ex-boyfriend actively sorting out his emotions after a break-up earlier in the evening. Then, I decided to watch Mrs. Miniver, which I had DVRed from TCM.
I haven't seen Miniver in 20 years but I had remembered it fondly. I was struck however by what a horrible performance Greer Garson gave in the movie. Her bizarre expression rarely changed and she seemed to be Acting with not just a capital A, but also with lights around it and a brass band. But you have to love MGM at the height of its power. There wasn't a close-up where she didn't look like a million bucks waiting for change. Teresa Wright was terrific and it seems crazy to me now that she could have been in three of the biggest classic movies of all time right in a row (Miniver, Shadow of a Doubt, Pride of the Yankees) and then had very little else to show for her career from then on out. The movie itself was a good story to watch on a birthday and in the midst of a war. An important reminder that life is short and at all turns unexpected, but there is still time in between bombing raids for a flower show or a little romance.
It was well after dawn that I finally threw in the towel and went to sleep. Promptly at 11am, my cell phone started to ring with calls and buzz with text messages. Wisely my mother waiting until 7pm to call. "I didn't wake you, did I?" I barely had the heart to tell her I was just up from a nap. Whatever. It's my birthday.
So what if I puttered around the house, hammering on the keys of the piano trying to learn "I'm Old Fashioned", trying to meet the neighbors by hand-delivering some misdirected mail (they weren't home), and grilling up dinner outside in a parka for likely the last time of the season? No one said you have to celebrate a birthday in only one way. I like being alone. And having the house to myself on a beautiful fall day to wander around in my underwear and eat ice cream was just what the doctor ordered.
Originally, I had planned to join some of the gang from work at Six Flags today. And as much as I love a rollercoaster (and using my season pass), it just didn't feel like how I wanted to spend my birthday. Roommate works Sundays now and I shoved off any real birthday celebration plans to next Saturday when I wouldn't have to compete with Halloween. Being born three days before the notorious holiday, my mom has often joked that if I had been born three days later she would have named me Jack O'Lantern. Except I don't think she was kidding.
Last night, Roommate and I hauled our old selves down to Manhattan to see The Kingdom, which wasn't nearly as bad as the miserable box office and tepid reviews would have you believe. It was directed by actor turned director Peter Berg, whom I have had something of a slow burn crush on since Linda Fiorentino grudge fucked him in The Last Seduction. He was also quite frequently naked (especially for a ski movie) in his big break movie Aspen Extreme. If he could spend twenty minutes of that movie stark naked in the snow, I think the CW can find a few minutes for those Supernatural boys to shower off.
After the movie, we decided to take the late drunk train and have a quick drink before we left town. We wandered down to Barracuda, which was packed to the rafters with gays. It wasn't so crowded that Terry Goldman didn't find me. He kissed me and his lips tasted like strawberries, like he was wearing lip gloss made for a nine year old girl. But he tasted good, so who am I to complain? But we immediately decamped from the madness of Barracuda and made our way to the relative quiet of XES, somewhat around the corner.
During the summer, I forced Erik Rhodes and his fabulous boyfriend Danny to meet me there for a quick post-show drink. They live not far away and they thought I was joking at first that there was even a bar at that location since apparently their dog has crapped outside it a thousand times without them noticing it. Once inside, Danny still thought I was joking, but the upscale dankness and casual neighborhood vibe I think won him over. Then again, it was the last time we went to a bar together, so maybe he thinks my taste is permanently suspect.
While at XES, I had my usual Sex And The Beach after first checking my look in the mirror. I spent a few minutes staring at myself in the bathroom mirror, reviewing the merchandise and giving a buyer's assessment of the bill of sale. Not bad I thought, for something that has been in the bargain bin for so long. Mike and I parked on stools, transfixed by the horribleness of a shitty horror movie playing on the flat panel TV over the bar. We decided it was probably The Hills Have Eyes since it was terrible, just terrible, and neither of us had seen it before. The sound was muted so we had the distinct pleasure of reading the dialogue as it scrolled across the various dismembered performers. The screenwriter clearly loved movies, as the internal movie references were seemingly endless, and I wondered why, if he loved movies so much, that he had inflicted this particular piece of garbage on the world.
While wrapping up our drinks, a listener, who had recognized me, came over to wish me a happy birthday. This is extremely rare in NYC and, as has been the case in the past, he was originally from Miami but had recently moved to the area. He was very nice and I will be honest that it did make me feel good, almost like a real celebrity, on my birthday. But the drunk train was calling and we beat a hasty retreat.
Once home, I couldn't fall asleep. It was already several hours into my birthday and I considered just not sleeping at all for the entire 24 hours. I spent a fair amount of time wading through the seemingly endless birthday wishes emailed and posted to MySpace, corresponding with the adorable, argyle-loving Jackenroth, stars on his elbows and in his eyes as he awaits the upcoming season of Project Runway and texting at 4am with an ex-boyfriend actively sorting out his emotions after a break-up earlier in the evening. Then, I decided to watch Mrs. Miniver, which I had DVRed from TCM.
I haven't seen Miniver in 20 years but I had remembered it fondly. I was struck however by what a horrible performance Greer Garson gave in the movie. Her bizarre expression rarely changed and she seemed to be Acting with not just a capital A, but also with lights around it and a brass band. But you have to love MGM at the height of its power. There wasn't a close-up where she didn't look like a million bucks waiting for change. Teresa Wright was terrific and it seems crazy to me now that she could have been in three of the biggest classic movies of all time right in a row (Miniver, Shadow of a Doubt, Pride of the Yankees) and then had very little else to show for her career from then on out. The movie itself was a good story to watch on a birthday and in the midst of a war. An important reminder that life is short and at all turns unexpected, but there is still time in between bombing raids for a flower show or a little romance.
It was well after dawn that I finally threw in the towel and went to sleep. Promptly at 11am, my cell phone started to ring with calls and buzz with text messages. Wisely my mother waiting until 7pm to call. "I didn't wake you, did I?" I barely had the heart to tell her I was just up from a nap. Whatever. It's my birthday.
So what if I puttered around the house, hammering on the keys of the piano trying to learn "I'm Old Fashioned", trying to meet the neighbors by hand-delivering some misdirected mail (they weren't home), and grilling up dinner outside in a parka for likely the last time of the season? No one said you have to celebrate a birthday in only one way. I like being alone. And having the house to myself on a beautiful fall day to wander around in my underwear and eat ice cream was just what the doctor ordered.
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