When I was young, I wanted to do everything my sister did. This included, but was not limited to, playing with her My Little Ponies, going to Girl Scout Meetings with her and attending The JG Dance Studio. I must admit, the more I contemplate my youth, the less surprising it is that my mother had me pegged as a 80's music-loving, man-worshipping theatre queer from Planet Fabulous at the age of two. Incidentally, I played with some of my brother's toys as well...but my adolescent fantasies about the torrid love affair between his Hawk and Duke G.I. Joe action figures is the story for another blog. And, it's worth noting, enough to make me extremely excited for the live action film starring Dennis Quaid and Channing Tatum in the roles of my original Don't Ask, Don't Tell star-crossed lovers.
Another of my sister's activities that I picked up was an avid reading of the classic Baby-sitters Club book series by Ann M. Martin. These were not books that I read idly so I would have something to talk to Krista about. These were novels that I loved, was constantly fascinated by and could probably still talk about with some measure of authority (OMG, Logan and Mary Anne are meant to be! And Stacey's from New York...she so sophisticated!). However, despite my fascination with these American classics, I can't ever claim to have actually cared for a single child. This is perhaps largely because I have absolutely no interest in children that I am not related to by blood. Disgusting little creatures that should be seen and not heard as far as I'm concerned; and seen only because who knows what havoc they would wreak if allowed to be invisible. Nothing at all like my angel of a nephew, who was my first ever baby-sitting charge.
Krista took three months maternity leave when Joseph was born, and returned to work this past week. I had agreed to take care of the little guy one day a week, and while not exactly nervous, I approached the day with a certain degree of trepidation...after all, I was in no way truly qualified to care for a child. I sometimes feel like I just barely get myself through a day without causing bodily harm. However, my mother assured me that should I go into a panic, she would drive down and relieve me. Armed with this back-up plan, I set out on my mission with a hopeful heart. The day started out in calm enough fashion; the parents left, and I managed not to break the baby for about 15 minutes, an accomplishment I proudly recorded in the daily diary Krista asks Joseph's caretakers to notate naps, feedings and bowel movements in. After that, Joseph decided he was hungry, and I successfully fed him. I then put him down for his early morning nap, a nap that I had been told was coming, a nap that my sister had informed me would probably be lengthy.
Joseph's nap lasted an hour and forty-five minutes, approximately 30 of which I was able to enjoy. After that my over-active imagination proceeded to teach me exactly who was boss. In the course of the remaining hour and fifteen minutes, I managed to convince myself on separate occasions that Joseph had a) managed to crawl out of his crib (never mind that he can't move himself), b) passed on (he couldn't possibly STILL be asleep) and c) been kidnapped (a nightmare brought on by suspicious noises over the baby monitor that could only have been caused by my sister's nutso religious neighbors opening the window and sneaking in to steal Joseph...or possibly, perhaps by the aquarium in the baby's room). It's quite humbling to realize that, even when you pride yourself on being a calm, level-headed person (which I think I am as long as certain topics are avoided...), being in charge of an infant can cause you to act with all the assurance of a 16-year old taking his driving test drunk.
As it turns out, and as I'm sure anyone who has cared for an infant knows, when babies bless you with a few hours of sleep, you should be extremely careful to make certain that you use that time wisely. Lay back, perhaps watch some TV, have a bite to eat...if there was a way to dose oneself with exactly an hour's worth of Valium, this would be the time. Because when they awake, they are merciless dictators, little Napolean Bonapartes armed with diapers and an excuse for their behavior. It's not that Joseph is a bad baby; in fact, the proud smile he puts on every time he takes a titanic crap is enough to charm the pants off of Ebeneezer Scrooge himself. It's just that Joseph knows what he wants, and he wants it immediately.
After his nap, his highness was hungry. Now, while he is incredibly advanced, his command of the English language leaves something to be desired, so I don't feel that I can be blamed for not knowing exactly what his desires were in the moment. I was given approximately 45 seconds to ferret out what his grunts signified...and then Joseph lost his temper. Luckily, my mother and sister had prepared me for this moment, and had both told me that he wants one of three things: sleep, food or entertainment. As he had just awoken, and my bobbing him up and and down was not accomplishing anything, I am happy to say that I quickly realized that it was feeding time. However, the realization of what he wanted did not, unfortunately, cause a bottle to magically appear in my hands. Which necessitated the first Angry Baby Strap Down of the day. Babies are not easy to manuever in any case...however, when they are being denied what they want, they are downright contrary. They squirm, kick, scream and generally fight as dirtily as possible in attempt to stop you from getting them safely secured so you can go heat up some lunch. And then they start crying. I don't mean they cry out...I mean they produce actual tears, which roll down their cherubic little cheeks and make you feel as if you are not only a terrible baby-sitter, you are quite possibly evil incarnate.
By the time I had Joseph into his vibrating chair (which, shockingly, isn't sexual at all), I was so flustered I was running around the kitchen like a chicken with it's head cut off, desperate to somehow heat up the water, so that I might heat up the milk, so that I might experience an end to the tears. Then, in the middle of my frantic labors, a rather mundane and obvious thought occurred to me: there is no way that anyone could do this any faster than I was. Granted, Krista has the natural advantage of being able to whip out a boob in about 15 seconds, but since I hope to never lactate, the joy of breast-feeding someone is going to have to remain a mystery. As I was not actually bodily producing his lunch, he was going to have to wait until the water was warm enough to heat his milk, so his majesty would not have to suffer through a tepid feeding. The realization of this was akin to the first shafts of sunlight breaking through an overcast day, lifting my spirits and making me realize that I wasn't a miserable, useless excuse for a human being, despite what my dictator-like nephew was trying to make me think.
Armed with the knowledge of my own general competence, and the confidence of having officially navigated my first baby-induced panic attack, the rest of the day passed in a much more enjoyable manner. As I said to Joseph, "Scream all you want kid, this homo rushes for no man. Or baby." I couldn't help but notice, however, that the child really was supporting from his diaphragm; he was able to scream as much as he wanted with no noticable decline in pitch or volume. I look forward to my next day with him...though I can assure you, his long morning nap will not be something that I allow to stress me out.
That's what the boot-flask is for.
Monday, July 27, 2009
Monday, June 15, 2009
Birthday Boy
This month, I turned 29. Now, as a general rule, I have a large celebration to mark my having successfully avoided making it onto the Darwin Awards for another year. After all, I feel that it's my solemn duty to not only give myself the good time that I deserve, but I want to spread it around as much as humanly possible. However, for whatever reason, this year's impending birthday didn't inspire much excitement in me. In fact, I would go so far as to almost claim a general malaise about the whole event, and surprisingly not from any fear of getting older. I've never had much fear about that a) because I'm a firm believer that, generally speaking, one's 30s tend to be a more fulfilling decade than one's 20s and b) because despite turning 29 I still don't look a day over 21. How do I know this? Well, for one, I still get carded at bars, but even more telling was a brief encounter I had with my ex, Danny, a few weeks ago. It went like this:
Me: Danny! Hi, how are you?
Danny: Oh my God, Paul how are you?
Me: I'm doing okay, how are you?
Danny: I'm good...you look...exactly the same...
Blood of puppies. It works.
Not only does my actual age not reflect itself in my face, I also received a little boost from an old friend right around this time. Tommy is someone I used to wait tables with down in TriBeCa...he was a good time, had a fantastically checkered past and was an unabashed slut. I signed into my e-mail account one day to see that I had gotten a message from him, entitled "Are you in South Carolina?" Now, anyone who knows me knows that I wouldn't be caught dead in South Carolina. The one time I was unfortunate enough to be forced into the state was when I was on tour in my early 20's, and was informed upon check-in to the hotel we were staying at the we were in time for afternoon mass. Caught between gagging and spontaneously bursting into flames, I was lucky that someone behind me was able to pick up the dialogue where I left off and get us registered. But I digress.
Tommy was inquiring as to my whereabouts because, as he proudly stated, he had been looking for casual sex on the internet (him not feeling the need to dissemble about this at all should tell you all you need to know about Tommy) and someone had responded to his ad...using my headshot and claiming it was them. Now I understand that this should probably cause a feeling of uneasiness. After all, a stranger is using my photo on the internet. However, the truth of the matter is that my headshot is out in the world; it's probably frightenly easy for many people to get their hot little hands on it. This is why we don't print home addresses on them. So, despite the fact that I'm sure my mother is going to be completely disturbed by this story, I have to admit that upon receipt of this e-mail my first reaction was nothing other than...pride. After all, there is someone out there who is PRETENDING to look like me. Even the most humble among us couldn't help but be flattered. And let's be honest, we all know that I'm far from the most humble among us...upon hearing the news, I preened like a peacock, even while the more grounded part of my brain screamed "This is WEIRD! BE OFFENDED!!" This two paragraph tangent can be filed under "Story That Is Too Good To Not Blog About, and So Must Be Shoehorned Into Whatever Paul Is Writing About This Month."
Anyway, I'm not entirely certain why I wasn't excited about planning a birthday bash, though I suspect it may have had something to do with spending the week directly prior gallivanting around Italy and drinking myself stupid. Unfortunately, I've found that there's a downside to regularly having a yearly celebration, and then one year not feeling like putting out the effort: people notice. It happened when I was unable to host the Oscar Party a few years ago. I foolishly assumed, that with no invitation e-mail going out in the month prior, people would simply realize it wasn't happening that year; however, it turns out that people tend to have two reactions when they don't receive an invite they are expecting. Some people assume that it's still going on, and plan on arriving at your door anyway. Most of my friends fall into this category. Other people assume that it's still going on...and for some reason that they cannot comprehend, they have been dropped from the guest list, causing a level of panic not unlike the one inspired in me when one suggests that I go camping. I find this level of insecurity to be a toxic cocktail of pathetic and insipid. There were a few of these as well...and for the most part, they no longer count themselves among people I invite anywhere.
Hoping to avoid another invitation debacle like Oscargate 2006, I complained to two of my best friends, Victoria and Lisa, that I didn't feel like planning anything, hinting ever so delicately that maybe they would like to step up to the plate and do the heavy lifting. Luckily, my friends are always quick to pick up on my intimations (I believe Victoria calls them anvils), and the two took it upon themselves to plan the entire celebration. They chose the restaurant, the bar, the schedule...all I had to do was forward them a guest list, and show up to look pretty. It gave me a taste of how addictive it must be to start having personal assistants. Don't feel like dealing with all the petty minutia that make up everyday life? Not to worry...let the assistants handle it, then you show up and take credit. Brilliant!
With the planning of my birthday successfully delegated, I happily continued on with my life, which in the days between Rome and June 4th consisted mostly of me attempting to ring out my liver to the point where I would again be able to imbibe alcohol. The day of the bacchanal dawned and my first order of business was to visit my nephew. I'm happy to report that he remains perfect, and while the reports of his activities may seem banal to the casual reader ("You wouldn't believe how he can throw his head around!" or "He belches like a man!" or "Oh my God, you put a hat on him and he looks like a little old man!") I assure you that they continue to send shockwaves throughout the entire clan. Joseph was very happy to entertain his uncle, presenting me with a big grin while he bathed, a nice large drool spot on my shirt when he passed out, and more than a few instances of diaper-shaking flatulence, causing both his mother and I to dissolve into uncontrollable giggles.
My birthday continued to unfold in a fairly predictable manner: dinner, drinks, tequila shots, gay bar and so forth. At least until the time came for the drag show to begin, at which point I have to say I ceded the role of star of the evening to my friend Erika. Now, you might now be thinking that Erika is a drag queen, and it's my solemn duty to inform you that this is not the case. The drag hostess of the evening was one Bianca del Rio, and if there is a nastier, bitchier queen out there today, I have yet to meet her. Naturally, I find her hi-freaking-larious. Erika, on the other hand is my Cuban spitfire friend, who you might remember from a few posts back as having brought me to Georgia for a wedding. She also, besides being hysterically funny, seems to naturally give off some kind homing beacon for drag queens, which causes them to hone in on her, call her onstage and proceed to become completely smitten with her in about 3 minutes. Seriously, bringing her to a drag show is like chumming the waters by the Great Barrier Reef.
So, naturally, Erika was called up onstage, alongside a young woman who appeared to be of Arabic descent about whom Ms. del Rio promptly made an off-color joke regarding her less than feminine amount of body hair. I would have felt bad for the poor girl, but she was wearing leggings as pants. Leggings. Are. Not. Pants. Accept it. The two young women were forced to compete in a game of naming TV theme songs from the 80's, a game that it turns out I am terrible at. Anyway, within a few moments, just as so many drag queens before her, Bianca del Rio fell completely under the sway of Erika, and mercilessly verbally shredded her opponent for criminal stupidity, much to the delight of my entire birthday contingent. After another few minutes of this, Leggings was banished off-stage, and it was here that I was unfortunately called up, as the birthday celebrant, to compete with Erika in a second round.
Needless to say, Erika destroyed me at this; not only was I about 100% drunker than she, my mother never allowed us to watch television when we were younger. I didn't (and still don't) know the 90210 theme song, which to most of my generation is the aural equivalent of comfort food. After that beating, we were then informed that we would compete in a dance-off to decide the final winner of the evening. Now, I may have been blitzed, but I was under no illusions that I had snowball's chance in hell of winning this. Erika at this point not only had Bianca eating out of the palm of her hand, but every gay man in that bar desperately wanted to be her best friend. Besides this, at this point I had had enough to drink that I was operating with the basic grace of someone with two left feet that were both fractured. However, I must admit I was not expecting the kind of A-Game that Erika demonstrated in that moment.
Bianca excitedly announced that Erika would be dancing to Black Velvet by Alanna Myles. When asked later what was going through her head at that moment, Erika said that she realized she had two choices: she could bitch out, or she could nut up. Well, I can tell you with assurance that when Ms. Villalba chooses to nut up, she straps on a pair of balls that are pure steel. She did not dance to Black Velvet...she performed to it, owned it and made it her bitch. In a whirl of inspiration that can only be described as an homage to the burlesque strip tease, she used her time to a) delight her audience, drag queen and lush alike, and b) remind me that my friends are AWESOME. So, even though my 29th birthday party started out as something I couldn't muster up the energy to care about, by the end of it I couldn't have asked for a better celebration.
And Erika gave me the $50 gift certificate she won at the bar. Drinks anyone?
Me: Danny! Hi, how are you?
Danny: Oh my God, Paul how are you?
Me: I'm doing okay, how are you?
Danny: I'm good...you look...exactly the same...
Blood of puppies. It works.
Not only does my actual age not reflect itself in my face, I also received a little boost from an old friend right around this time. Tommy is someone I used to wait tables with down in TriBeCa...he was a good time, had a fantastically checkered past and was an unabashed slut. I signed into my e-mail account one day to see that I had gotten a message from him, entitled "Are you in South Carolina?" Now, anyone who knows me knows that I wouldn't be caught dead in South Carolina. The one time I was unfortunate enough to be forced into the state was when I was on tour in my early 20's, and was informed upon check-in to the hotel we were staying at the we were in time for afternoon mass. Caught between gagging and spontaneously bursting into flames, I was lucky that someone behind me was able to pick up the dialogue where I left off and get us registered. But I digress.
Tommy was inquiring as to my whereabouts because, as he proudly stated, he had been looking for casual sex on the internet (him not feeling the need to dissemble about this at all should tell you all you need to know about Tommy) and someone had responded to his ad...using my headshot and claiming it was them. Now I understand that this should probably cause a feeling of uneasiness. After all, a stranger is using my photo on the internet. However, the truth of the matter is that my headshot is out in the world; it's probably frightenly easy for many people to get their hot little hands on it. This is why we don't print home addresses on them. So, despite the fact that I'm sure my mother is going to be completely disturbed by this story, I have to admit that upon receipt of this e-mail my first reaction was nothing other than...pride. After all, there is someone out there who is PRETENDING to look like me. Even the most humble among us couldn't help but be flattered. And let's be honest, we all know that I'm far from the most humble among us...upon hearing the news, I preened like a peacock, even while the more grounded part of my brain screamed "This is WEIRD! BE OFFENDED!!" This two paragraph tangent can be filed under "Story That Is Too Good To Not Blog About, and So Must Be Shoehorned Into Whatever Paul Is Writing About This Month."
Anyway, I'm not entirely certain why I wasn't excited about planning a birthday bash, though I suspect it may have had something to do with spending the week directly prior gallivanting around Italy and drinking myself stupid. Unfortunately, I've found that there's a downside to regularly having a yearly celebration, and then one year not feeling like putting out the effort: people notice. It happened when I was unable to host the Oscar Party a few years ago. I foolishly assumed, that with no invitation e-mail going out in the month prior, people would simply realize it wasn't happening that year; however, it turns out that people tend to have two reactions when they don't receive an invite they are expecting. Some people assume that it's still going on, and plan on arriving at your door anyway. Most of my friends fall into this category. Other people assume that it's still going on...and for some reason that they cannot comprehend, they have been dropped from the guest list, causing a level of panic not unlike the one inspired in me when one suggests that I go camping. I find this level of insecurity to be a toxic cocktail of pathetic and insipid. There were a few of these as well...and for the most part, they no longer count themselves among people I invite anywhere.
Hoping to avoid another invitation debacle like Oscargate 2006, I complained to two of my best friends, Victoria and Lisa, that I didn't feel like planning anything, hinting ever so delicately that maybe they would like to step up to the plate and do the heavy lifting. Luckily, my friends are always quick to pick up on my intimations (I believe Victoria calls them anvils), and the two took it upon themselves to plan the entire celebration. They chose the restaurant, the bar, the schedule...all I had to do was forward them a guest list, and show up to look pretty. It gave me a taste of how addictive it must be to start having personal assistants. Don't feel like dealing with all the petty minutia that make up everyday life? Not to worry...let the assistants handle it, then you show up and take credit. Brilliant!
With the planning of my birthday successfully delegated, I happily continued on with my life, which in the days between Rome and June 4th consisted mostly of me attempting to ring out my liver to the point where I would again be able to imbibe alcohol. The day of the bacchanal dawned and my first order of business was to visit my nephew. I'm happy to report that he remains perfect, and while the reports of his activities may seem banal to the casual reader ("You wouldn't believe how he can throw his head around!" or "He belches like a man!" or "Oh my God, you put a hat on him and he looks like a little old man!") I assure you that they continue to send shockwaves throughout the entire clan. Joseph was very happy to entertain his uncle, presenting me with a big grin while he bathed, a nice large drool spot on my shirt when he passed out, and more than a few instances of diaper-shaking flatulence, causing both his mother and I to dissolve into uncontrollable giggles.
My birthday continued to unfold in a fairly predictable manner: dinner, drinks, tequila shots, gay bar and so forth. At least until the time came for the drag show to begin, at which point I have to say I ceded the role of star of the evening to my friend Erika. Now, you might now be thinking that Erika is a drag queen, and it's my solemn duty to inform you that this is not the case. The drag hostess of the evening was one Bianca del Rio, and if there is a nastier, bitchier queen out there today, I have yet to meet her. Naturally, I find her hi-freaking-larious. Erika, on the other hand is my Cuban spitfire friend, who you might remember from a few posts back as having brought me to Georgia for a wedding. She also, besides being hysterically funny, seems to naturally give off some kind homing beacon for drag queens, which causes them to hone in on her, call her onstage and proceed to become completely smitten with her in about 3 minutes. Seriously, bringing her to a drag show is like chumming the waters by the Great Barrier Reef.
So, naturally, Erika was called up onstage, alongside a young woman who appeared to be of Arabic descent about whom Ms. del Rio promptly made an off-color joke regarding her less than feminine amount of body hair. I would have felt bad for the poor girl, but she was wearing leggings as pants. Leggings. Are. Not. Pants. Accept it. The two young women were forced to compete in a game of naming TV theme songs from the 80's, a game that it turns out I am terrible at. Anyway, within a few moments, just as so many drag queens before her, Bianca del Rio fell completely under the sway of Erika, and mercilessly verbally shredded her opponent for criminal stupidity, much to the delight of my entire birthday contingent. After another few minutes of this, Leggings was banished off-stage, and it was here that I was unfortunately called up, as the birthday celebrant, to compete with Erika in a second round.
Needless to say, Erika destroyed me at this; not only was I about 100% drunker than she, my mother never allowed us to watch television when we were younger. I didn't (and still don't) know the 90210 theme song, which to most of my generation is the aural equivalent of comfort food. After that beating, we were then informed that we would compete in a dance-off to decide the final winner of the evening. Now, I may have been blitzed, but I was under no illusions that I had snowball's chance in hell of winning this. Erika at this point not only had Bianca eating out of the palm of her hand, but every gay man in that bar desperately wanted to be her best friend. Besides this, at this point I had had enough to drink that I was operating with the basic grace of someone with two left feet that were both fractured. However, I must admit I was not expecting the kind of A-Game that Erika demonstrated in that moment.
Bianca excitedly announced that Erika would be dancing to Black Velvet by Alanna Myles. When asked later what was going through her head at that moment, Erika said that she realized she had two choices: she could bitch out, or she could nut up. Well, I can tell you with assurance that when Ms. Villalba chooses to nut up, she straps on a pair of balls that are pure steel. She did not dance to Black Velvet...she performed to it, owned it and made it her bitch. In a whirl of inspiration that can only be described as an homage to the burlesque strip tease, she used her time to a) delight her audience, drag queen and lush alike, and b) remind me that my friends are AWESOME. So, even though my 29th birthday party started out as something I couldn't muster up the energy to care about, by the end of it I couldn't have asked for a better celebration.
And Erika gave me the $50 gift certificate she won at the bar. Drinks anyone?
Wednesday, May 27, 2009
Gays of Wine & Romans
If I may just say right off, I had a hell of a time titling this blog post. And I am so proud of what I finally came up with. Now back to your regularly scheduled blogging...
I am not a well-traveled person. I didn't get a passport until I was 27, and my first trip out of the country was to Mexico, which many people hurried to inform me didn't count. I must admit to not quite seeing their point; as far as I was concerned, English was a second language, I had a stamp in my passport and I really didn't see what else might have been required. However, this May, I left the country for Italy: the land of 50% of my ancestors, the land that no one could claim did not count as an international trip, the land where Jarred, one of my very best friends (and who, at 6'6", is officially the tallest person in the country), worked for Wine Enthusiast Magazine. And as I sit here on a Saturday night, stuck at work, frantically trying to figure out a way to sharpen a plastic knife and put myself out my misery, I realize that there is no more putting admitting that I am back in New York, and no longer in Rome. Hence, I find myself able to write about it.
There are many wonderful things about Rome. The gelato, for one thing. Never again will I scoff at the people who say that gelato in New York simply doesn't compare with the stuff in Europe. The gelato in Italy is perhaps the most delicious thing I've ever had, clearly having been made with equal parts butter, cream and rainbows. I had it for lunch at least 75% of the time, and miraculously never felt sick from it...it's as if Italy is magically giving the gift of gelato to those minorly lactose intolerant. If you are there, may I suggest a chocolate, coconut and pistachio mix...it'll make a grown man cry.
Furthermore, the entire city of Rome shuts down at approximately noon, and stays indoors until 4 pm, in an attempt to escape the oppressive heat. I've heard of a siesta before but I didn't realize a) that it was popular anywhere but Spain, and b) the complete, unflinching, city-wide commitment to the practice. Perhaps it's a product of most buildings in the metropolis having a metal drop down gate, but at twelve o'clock sharp every day, every Roman retreats inside to have a tremendous lunch, a glass of wine and escape the heat. Which leaves outside...the idiot tourists who don't realize that there are no more Italian people to tell them how to get around. It literally becomes an overly hot ghost town; I wouldn't have been surprised to see a tumbleweed roll through.
Meanwhile, if you do happen to walking around while there are actual natives around, God forbid you walk at a pace faster than a leisurely stroll. Jarred and I spent a good portion of the trip trying to perfect what we termed the Roman Swagger. It involves bringing your weight slightly back, a kind of hip roll that I needed another few days to really nail down and a real macho arrogance. If one can really conquer it, all signs point to the fact that it will put an end to perspiration. I was in Italy for 7 days and never once saw an Italian break a sweat. And that's not the only benefit, because the walk is quite sexy, much like the Italian language itself. Everything you say in Italian sounds like an invitation to something...lusty. So while I don't think anyone said anything actually dirty to me while I was there, I was completely titallated when someone requested the time.
The Swagger, of course, also bleeds into one of the more difficult parts of Italian culture to adjust to...their inability to do anything in a timely manner. Rome is the Eternal City mainly because the Romans can't be bothered to change anything about it. Case in point, upon arrival, one of the bathrooms in Jarred's apartment had been gutted because of a leak. It was supposed to be done early in my stay...perhaps it's needless to point out that upon my departure, the bathroom was still not functioning. The most amazing part was that no native Italians seemed to think this was odd...the plumber and his team were there sometimes, and sometimes they weren't. I imagine a call to an Italian plumber would go something like this:
You: "Hi, I need help, my shower isn't working."
Plumber: "Oh, no! It's shooting acid, instead of water?"
You: "No..."
Plumber: "Fire?"
You: "No, of course not-"
Plumber: "Oh, I see...it's actually spitting lightning bolts?"
You: "No! But there's a leak."
Plumber (pause): "I see. Low priority then."
Overall the trip to Italy was huge success, with a few standout experiences. On one day, Jarred invited me to come to his work with him...at Wine Enthusiast Magazine. Being a rabid wine enthusiast myself, I jumped at the chance to spend time in a place where people drank for a living, hoping that somehow, the practice would rub off on me, and I could convince people in the US to take it up. Upon entering the offices of Wine Enthuisiast Magazine Italy, I realized that the small buzzing in my ear I had been experiencing since deplaning in Leonardo DaVinci Airport was the insistent beckoning of the mothership calling me home. Picture walking into a room full of wine. I don't mean there's a wine rack full of bottles. I mean a room FULL OF WINE. Wine on the wine rack, wine on the table, wine on the floor, wine on the stairs, wine on the desks...oh, what's that in the bathroom? That's right, it's wine! Bottles upon bottles of fermented grape juice, available for the taking, and, more importantly, drinking. It was then that I realized that the only thing that could make the day better was if Jarred and I were able to dress up like Lucy and Ethel and frolick around in a vat full of grapes; I figured two bottles and we would both be up for a re-enactment that would be the talk of youtube in about 12 hours. And that's when I found out what we had to do.
It seems that when the magazine wants to put out an article, they solicit wines that relate to the topic, in this case the wines of Sicily. Makes sense. It also seems that in soliciting Sicilian wines for review in the article, Jarred and his editor managed to acquire something close to 80 free cases of wine, all full of the Sicilian wineries finest vintages that they hoped would make the pages of Wine Enthusiast. Exciting! Finally, it seems that all vineyards send two bottles of each grape, one for review, and one for back-up in case the first should be corked or in some way have gone bad. So for those of you doing the math, that means that almost 100% of the time, Jarred and his boss are left with a bottle of wine that they have no use for other than their own private enjoyment. Which means that Jarred lives life in Italy with, for all intents and purposes, his own private wine store, in which everything is free.
Meanwhile, while I was discovering this, Jarred was regaling me with the story of how, the week prior to my arrival, he had spent 5 days in Tuscany, at a "Prosecco Event," hosted in an ancient castle by the Princess Isabella of Belgium. No, I am not making that up, and no, I don't know how I resisted slaughtering him on the spot. He informed me that the princess was completely enamored of his charms, demanded that he sit next to her during the dinner, and extended an open invitation to him to come visit her vineyard in Belgium. Luckily, I look good in green, because I was so envious I probably could have gone on for Elphaba in Wicked without a make-up job. At the end of the day we tottered out of Jarred's office, each with a case of wine under our arms, and a spring in our step as we looked forward to reviewing them.
However, my main priority in going to Rome was to have a gay old time. I have been on a few vacations now, and somehow I always wind up not going to any gay bars, and/or being surrounded by nature. This time, I was going to an urban center, and while I know Italy isn't exactly on the forefront of the gay liberation movement, I was determined to unearth the seedy gay underbelly I knew was seething just beneath the surface. Jarred, always a willing partner in crime, was more than happy to guide me on my explorations. On our first expedition, we went to an establishment that he had actually never patronized before, but was walking distance from his apartment. I was secretly appalled that he had a gay bar within walking distance in Rome, and I didn't have one in Brooklyn, but I swallowed my pride and we walked over to Frequency.
As we walked up to the bar, we knew we were in the right place from the tell-tale bass thumping through the large metal door. As we walked in (mind you, we had naturally already had a bottle of wine at this point), the gentleman at the desk and Jarred exchanged a few words in Italian, and then the doorman said, and I quote:
"Oh, you're American? Do you know it's naked night?"
After a short pause, I said "You mean, like, NAKED naked, or underwear naked?" and a helpful British couple leaned forward and leered "NAKED naked". Jarred and I allowed the eager Brits to cut us in line while we regrouped, and as the couple passed through the curtain, let's just say that we were met with incontrovertible proof that naked meant completely in the nude, plus a pair of sneakers...we must protect our feet, of course! Overcome with a fit of the giggles, we stumbled back out onto the street, and I couldn't help but point out that 1) it really wouldn't be hygenic to sit down anywhere in that bar, and 2) I was not nearly drunk enough to take off my clothes in front of a group of strangers and not be getting paid for it. Jarred got us into a cab and off we went to Hangar, another bar in city.
Hangar was slightly less seedy than Frequency, at least insofar as we were allowed to enter fully clothed. Once inside, the bar mostly resembled a normal New York gay establishment, with a few notable exceptions. For one, the lone go-go boy was ensconced on a platform high above the audience...and had a rampant case of varicose veins. Now, I'm not one to judge...oh, wait, yes I am. Hey, if you sit at a desk all day and wear pants, and you have a little vein bulge going on, it's none of my business. However, if you are presenting yourself as an object of desire, then I believe it is your duty to take care of yourself, and get a little minor surgery. What's next, porn stars with back hair? Furthermore, Hangar also gives you a card on which the bartenders mark what drinks you have ordered, and then you hand the card to the doorman on the way out and pay. Is anyone reading this aware of how easy it is to spend money when no one is taking it? They basically hand you a credit card that you are only able to charge alcohol on. Two vodka/lemons in, and I probably would have tried to use that card to pay my cable bill.
However, the main difference between Hangar and the bars that I am used to was the presence of a dark room. Allow me to inform you right now that a dark room in an Italian gay bar has absolutely nothing to do with photography. It seems that many bars in Italy have them; the reason for this being, as Jarred explained it, is that most unmarried young people in Italy continue to live with their parents. Since they can't bring their evening entertainment home, they need another venue, which Hangar is only too happy to supply. A small, pitch black room in which two young lovers can romantically do their business and then happily walk out into the evening just as heterosexual as their parents would want. It's a bit sad...unless you're drunk with your best friend, and then it's almost unbearably hilarious. We closed Hangar that night, and wound up back home at 4 AM, made ourselves pasta and collapsed into bed at 5 in the morning. And, thanks to the influx of carbohydrates and water, managed to wake up without hangovers. Magical.
There were many other adventures while I was overseas. I found out at Il Circolo Degli Artisti that I am just as good a wingman in Italian as I am in English. Granted my methods are bit cruder, and basically amount to shoving Jarred into a hot guy, but hey, I got the job done. Jarred and I met a lovely signora at Cafe Fantini who served us hot, chocolate-filled croissants on the mornings that we actually saw AM hours. I learned that Italian men, while for the most part quite attractive, a) almost always smoke and b) cannot dance for beans. It's a horror. I discovered that Italians mostly view public transportation as a pay-what-you-can proposition. I saw the Trevi Fountain, and spitefully refused to set foot in Vatican City. I even heard an Italian man coin a phrase in English...when asked if he was dating a guy he responded "I am...frequenting him," like the guy was a corner store for orgasms. But most of all, I had a blast for a week with my friend Jarred, so all I really have to say is...viva Italia e ti amo, Jarred!
I am not a well-traveled person. I didn't get a passport until I was 27, and my first trip out of the country was to Mexico, which many people hurried to inform me didn't count. I must admit to not quite seeing their point; as far as I was concerned, English was a second language, I had a stamp in my passport and I really didn't see what else might have been required. However, this May, I left the country for Italy: the land of 50% of my ancestors, the land that no one could claim did not count as an international trip, the land where Jarred, one of my very best friends (and who, at 6'6", is officially the tallest person in the country), worked for Wine Enthusiast Magazine. And as I sit here on a Saturday night, stuck at work, frantically trying to figure out a way to sharpen a plastic knife and put myself out my misery, I realize that there is no more putting admitting that I am back in New York, and no longer in Rome. Hence, I find myself able to write about it.
There are many wonderful things about Rome. The gelato, for one thing. Never again will I scoff at the people who say that gelato in New York simply doesn't compare with the stuff in Europe. The gelato in Italy is perhaps the most delicious thing I've ever had, clearly having been made with equal parts butter, cream and rainbows. I had it for lunch at least 75% of the time, and miraculously never felt sick from it...it's as if Italy is magically giving the gift of gelato to those minorly lactose intolerant. If you are there, may I suggest a chocolate, coconut and pistachio mix...it'll make a grown man cry.
Furthermore, the entire city of Rome shuts down at approximately noon, and stays indoors until 4 pm, in an attempt to escape the oppressive heat. I've heard of a siesta before but I didn't realize a) that it was popular anywhere but Spain, and b) the complete, unflinching, city-wide commitment to the practice. Perhaps it's a product of most buildings in the metropolis having a metal drop down gate, but at twelve o'clock sharp every day, every Roman retreats inside to have a tremendous lunch, a glass of wine and escape the heat. Which leaves outside...the idiot tourists who don't realize that there are no more Italian people to tell them how to get around. It literally becomes an overly hot ghost town; I wouldn't have been surprised to see a tumbleweed roll through.
Meanwhile, if you do happen to walking around while there are actual natives around, God forbid you walk at a pace faster than a leisurely stroll. Jarred and I spent a good portion of the trip trying to perfect what we termed the Roman Swagger. It involves bringing your weight slightly back, a kind of hip roll that I needed another few days to really nail down and a real macho arrogance. If one can really conquer it, all signs point to the fact that it will put an end to perspiration. I was in Italy for 7 days and never once saw an Italian break a sweat. And that's not the only benefit, because the walk is quite sexy, much like the Italian language itself. Everything you say in Italian sounds like an invitation to something...lusty. So while I don't think anyone said anything actually dirty to me while I was there, I was completely titallated when someone requested the time.
The Swagger, of course, also bleeds into one of the more difficult parts of Italian culture to adjust to...their inability to do anything in a timely manner. Rome is the Eternal City mainly because the Romans can't be bothered to change anything about it. Case in point, upon arrival, one of the bathrooms in Jarred's apartment had been gutted because of a leak. It was supposed to be done early in my stay...perhaps it's needless to point out that upon my departure, the bathroom was still not functioning. The most amazing part was that no native Italians seemed to think this was odd...the plumber and his team were there sometimes, and sometimes they weren't. I imagine a call to an Italian plumber would go something like this:
You: "Hi, I need help, my shower isn't working."
Plumber: "Oh, no! It's shooting acid, instead of water?"
You: "No..."
Plumber: "Fire?"
You: "No, of course not-"
Plumber: "Oh, I see...it's actually spitting lightning bolts?"
You: "No! But there's a leak."
Plumber (pause): "I see. Low priority then."
Overall the trip to Italy was huge success, with a few standout experiences. On one day, Jarred invited me to come to his work with him...at Wine Enthusiast Magazine. Being a rabid wine enthusiast myself, I jumped at the chance to spend time in a place where people drank for a living, hoping that somehow, the practice would rub off on me, and I could convince people in the US to take it up. Upon entering the offices of Wine Enthuisiast Magazine Italy, I realized that the small buzzing in my ear I had been experiencing since deplaning in Leonardo DaVinci Airport was the insistent beckoning of the mothership calling me home. Picture walking into a room full of wine. I don't mean there's a wine rack full of bottles. I mean a room FULL OF WINE. Wine on the wine rack, wine on the table, wine on the floor, wine on the stairs, wine on the desks...oh, what's that in the bathroom? That's right, it's wine! Bottles upon bottles of fermented grape juice, available for the taking, and, more importantly, drinking. It was then that I realized that the only thing that could make the day better was if Jarred and I were able to dress up like Lucy and Ethel and frolick around in a vat full of grapes; I figured two bottles and we would both be up for a re-enactment that would be the talk of youtube in about 12 hours. And that's when I found out what we had to do.
It seems that when the magazine wants to put out an article, they solicit wines that relate to the topic, in this case the wines of Sicily. Makes sense. It also seems that in soliciting Sicilian wines for review in the article, Jarred and his editor managed to acquire something close to 80 free cases of wine, all full of the Sicilian wineries finest vintages that they hoped would make the pages of Wine Enthusiast. Exciting! Finally, it seems that all vineyards send two bottles of each grape, one for review, and one for back-up in case the first should be corked or in some way have gone bad. So for those of you doing the math, that means that almost 100% of the time, Jarred and his boss are left with a bottle of wine that they have no use for other than their own private enjoyment. Which means that Jarred lives life in Italy with, for all intents and purposes, his own private wine store, in which everything is free.
Meanwhile, while I was discovering this, Jarred was regaling me with the story of how, the week prior to my arrival, he had spent 5 days in Tuscany, at a "Prosecco Event," hosted in an ancient castle by the Princess Isabella of Belgium. No, I am not making that up, and no, I don't know how I resisted slaughtering him on the spot. He informed me that the princess was completely enamored of his charms, demanded that he sit next to her during the dinner, and extended an open invitation to him to come visit her vineyard in Belgium. Luckily, I look good in green, because I was so envious I probably could have gone on for Elphaba in Wicked without a make-up job. At the end of the day we tottered out of Jarred's office, each with a case of wine under our arms, and a spring in our step as we looked forward to reviewing them.
However, my main priority in going to Rome was to have a gay old time. I have been on a few vacations now, and somehow I always wind up not going to any gay bars, and/or being surrounded by nature. This time, I was going to an urban center, and while I know Italy isn't exactly on the forefront of the gay liberation movement, I was determined to unearth the seedy gay underbelly I knew was seething just beneath the surface. Jarred, always a willing partner in crime, was more than happy to guide me on my explorations. On our first expedition, we went to an establishment that he had actually never patronized before, but was walking distance from his apartment. I was secretly appalled that he had a gay bar within walking distance in Rome, and I didn't have one in Brooklyn, but I swallowed my pride and we walked over to Frequency.
As we walked up to the bar, we knew we were in the right place from the tell-tale bass thumping through the large metal door. As we walked in (mind you, we had naturally already had a bottle of wine at this point), the gentleman at the desk and Jarred exchanged a few words in Italian, and then the doorman said, and I quote:
"Oh, you're American? Do you know it's naked night?"
After a short pause, I said "You mean, like, NAKED naked, or underwear naked?" and a helpful British couple leaned forward and leered "NAKED naked". Jarred and I allowed the eager Brits to cut us in line while we regrouped, and as the couple passed through the curtain, let's just say that we were met with incontrovertible proof that naked meant completely in the nude, plus a pair of sneakers...we must protect our feet, of course! Overcome with a fit of the giggles, we stumbled back out onto the street, and I couldn't help but point out that 1) it really wouldn't be hygenic to sit down anywhere in that bar, and 2) I was not nearly drunk enough to take off my clothes in front of a group of strangers and not be getting paid for it. Jarred got us into a cab and off we went to Hangar, another bar in city.
Hangar was slightly less seedy than Frequency, at least insofar as we were allowed to enter fully clothed. Once inside, the bar mostly resembled a normal New York gay establishment, with a few notable exceptions. For one, the lone go-go boy was ensconced on a platform high above the audience...and had a rampant case of varicose veins. Now, I'm not one to judge...oh, wait, yes I am. Hey, if you sit at a desk all day and wear pants, and you have a little vein bulge going on, it's none of my business. However, if you are presenting yourself as an object of desire, then I believe it is your duty to take care of yourself, and get a little minor surgery. What's next, porn stars with back hair? Furthermore, Hangar also gives you a card on which the bartenders mark what drinks you have ordered, and then you hand the card to the doorman on the way out and pay. Is anyone reading this aware of how easy it is to spend money when no one is taking it? They basically hand you a credit card that you are only able to charge alcohol on. Two vodka/lemons in, and I probably would have tried to use that card to pay my cable bill.
However, the main difference between Hangar and the bars that I am used to was the presence of a dark room. Allow me to inform you right now that a dark room in an Italian gay bar has absolutely nothing to do with photography. It seems that many bars in Italy have them; the reason for this being, as Jarred explained it, is that most unmarried young people in Italy continue to live with their parents. Since they can't bring their evening entertainment home, they need another venue, which Hangar is only too happy to supply. A small, pitch black room in which two young lovers can romantically do their business and then happily walk out into the evening just as heterosexual as their parents would want. It's a bit sad...unless you're drunk with your best friend, and then it's almost unbearably hilarious. We closed Hangar that night, and wound up back home at 4 AM, made ourselves pasta and collapsed into bed at 5 in the morning. And, thanks to the influx of carbohydrates and water, managed to wake up without hangovers. Magical.
There were many other adventures while I was overseas. I found out at Il Circolo Degli Artisti that I am just as good a wingman in Italian as I am in English. Granted my methods are bit cruder, and basically amount to shoving Jarred into a hot guy, but hey, I got the job done. Jarred and I met a lovely signora at Cafe Fantini who served us hot, chocolate-filled croissants on the mornings that we actually saw AM hours. I learned that Italian men, while for the most part quite attractive, a) almost always smoke and b) cannot dance for beans. It's a horror. I discovered that Italians mostly view public transportation as a pay-what-you-can proposition. I saw the Trevi Fountain, and spitefully refused to set foot in Vatican City. I even heard an Italian man coin a phrase in English...when asked if he was dating a guy he responded "I am...frequenting him," like the guy was a corner store for orgasms. But most of all, I had a blast for a week with my friend Jarred, so all I really have to say is...viva Italia e ti amo, Jarred!
Monday, April 27, 2009
Say Uncle
There is a t-shirt that many people wear. It's one that everyone has seen...it features a scowling Calvin from the classic comic strip Calvin & Hobbes, and reads "Every day, I'm forced to add another name to the list of people who piss me off." The shirt itself is a self-fulfilling prophecy, because every person I see with it immediately takes their place on the list of people that I consider Slinkies.
Why Slinkies you ask? Because, like Slinkies, they are completely useless, but sure are a lot of fun when you push them down a flight of stairs. Sidenote: I truly wish I could take credit for that joke. Unfortunately, in the interest of honesty, I have to admit that I definitely heard it somewhere else, though I couldn't tell you where. Whatever. They thought of it. I'm popularizing it. There are many people who are on my Slinky List; white people with dreadlocks spring to mind, as do people who wear leggings as pants, and whoever it was at ABC that canceled Pushing Daisies. However, most people on the list are those who work against my beloved gay community, and with gay marriage becoming legal in two new states in the past month, and looking like it's coming to Maine, the list has gotten much longer.
Let's start with Maggie Gallagher, the president of the National Organization for Marriage, who produced The Gathering Storm, or as I like to think of it, the ad that launched a thousand parodies. I'm not going to get into it...I would imagine most have watched it already. I will, however, say that I loved the part where they referred to themselves as "a rainbow coalition." It was like they were trying to simultaneously scream "Look, we're not racist! We like black people and someone in our ad has an accent!" and "Let's take back the rainbow from those dirty homos!" But back to the woman at hand. First off let me say that she at least has the courage of her convictions; if you do a quick Google image search on her, you'll find staring back at you a woman who has obviously not let a gay man touch her hair or clothes her entire natural existence.
After Frank Rich skewered her ad in a piece entitled "The Bigots' Last Hurrah," she responded with a letter to the New York Times claiming that she has warned that her opposition to gay marriage would lead to her being called a bigot, but that she's not the only one against it. Um, yeah, Maggie, we know, remember Prop 8 passing? We know you're not the only bigot on the block. But if your only defense is that there's safety in numbers, that's really pretty junior varsity. Isn't there something else you can muster up about why, exactly, you aren't a bigot, because I'm pretty sure that claiming the view of the majority isn't a Get Out of Being a Bigot Free Card. It just makes you a bigot and a bully.
Meanwhile, as I travel through life, I continue to be assaulted with images, quotes and stories about Jim McGreevey. Can I just come out and say that I think this man is an idiot? Honestly, I would really appreciate it if he could do his best to disappear off the face of the planet. Seriously, Jim. Haven't you given enough fodder to the freaking right wing crazies who already hate us by cheating on your wife with a man, stealing tax payer's money to finance your boy toy, and just generally being a tool? The man is two steps above Perez Hilton and Chris Crocker on the "This Is Why People Hate Us Scale."
Now he actually attends the premiere of Outrage, the documentary about outed politicians at the TriBeCa film festival...in which his own scandal is discussed in detail by his ex-wife. Not so bad...until you find out that he dropped out of the panel to discuss the movie later, because he was unhappy with the final cut. It turns out he didn't know his ex-wife was being interviewed, and thought it was just going to be his side of the story, and he would continue his facade as a gay hero, finally able to live his "truth." Gross. I mean, I get to a certain extent that we have to attack the homophobia that creates these people not the people themselves. I also get that McGreevey is apparently a shameless fame whore that only sees his own victimization, and doesn't seem to really want to take any responsibility for his own actions. Hey, Maggie Gallagher...how do you think that the McGreeveys' daughter is doing right now thanks to the marriage between a man and a woman?
Anyone who reads this blog knows that people piss me off fairly regularly. I think what particularly upsets me about these two is that they either defend their arguments by hiding behind children, or are so wrapped up in their own lives that they might not be paying attention to what their confessions of torrid threeways might be doing to their own offspring. My sister Krista had a baby, Joseph, on April 15th. Naturally, Joseph is perfect. But I wanted to make certain that in this world with so many people who just further their own agendas, Joseph knew that I would be putting his well-being before my own. So, when I held my nephew for the first time, I leaned down and whispered to him the following:
"I'll totally buy you porn. The boobie kind, cause honestly that's probably what you're gonna be into. And I wouldn't buy boobie porn for anyone but you. And I'm gonna get you condoms too. Glove the love, kid."
Wisdom and porn. My nephew can count on that.
Why Slinkies you ask? Because, like Slinkies, they are completely useless, but sure are a lot of fun when you push them down a flight of stairs. Sidenote: I truly wish I could take credit for that joke. Unfortunately, in the interest of honesty, I have to admit that I definitely heard it somewhere else, though I couldn't tell you where. Whatever. They thought of it. I'm popularizing it. There are many people who are on my Slinky List; white people with dreadlocks spring to mind, as do people who wear leggings as pants, and whoever it was at ABC that canceled Pushing Daisies. However, most people on the list are those who work against my beloved gay community, and with gay marriage becoming legal in two new states in the past month, and looking like it's coming to Maine, the list has gotten much longer.
Let's start with Maggie Gallagher, the president of the National Organization for Marriage, who produced The Gathering Storm, or as I like to think of it, the ad that launched a thousand parodies. I'm not going to get into it...I would imagine most have watched it already. I will, however, say that I loved the part where they referred to themselves as "a rainbow coalition." It was like they were trying to simultaneously scream "Look, we're not racist! We like black people and someone in our ad has an accent!" and "Let's take back the rainbow from those dirty homos!" But back to the woman at hand. First off let me say that she at least has the courage of her convictions; if you do a quick Google image search on her, you'll find staring back at you a woman who has obviously not let a gay man touch her hair or clothes her entire natural existence.
After Frank Rich skewered her ad in a piece entitled "The Bigots' Last Hurrah," she responded with a letter to the New York Times claiming that she has warned that her opposition to gay marriage would lead to her being called a bigot, but that she's not the only one against it. Um, yeah, Maggie, we know, remember Prop 8 passing? We know you're not the only bigot on the block. But if your only defense is that there's safety in numbers, that's really pretty junior varsity. Isn't there something else you can muster up about why, exactly, you aren't a bigot, because I'm pretty sure that claiming the view of the majority isn't a Get Out of Being a Bigot Free Card. It just makes you a bigot and a bully.
Meanwhile, as I travel through life, I continue to be assaulted with images, quotes and stories about Jim McGreevey. Can I just come out and say that I think this man is an idiot? Honestly, I would really appreciate it if he could do his best to disappear off the face of the planet. Seriously, Jim. Haven't you given enough fodder to the freaking right wing crazies who already hate us by cheating on your wife with a man, stealing tax payer's money to finance your boy toy, and just generally being a tool? The man is two steps above Perez Hilton and Chris Crocker on the "This Is Why People Hate Us Scale."
Now he actually attends the premiere of Outrage, the documentary about outed politicians at the TriBeCa film festival...in which his own scandal is discussed in detail by his ex-wife. Not so bad...until you find out that he dropped out of the panel to discuss the movie later, because he was unhappy with the final cut. It turns out he didn't know his ex-wife was being interviewed, and thought it was just going to be his side of the story, and he would continue his facade as a gay hero, finally able to live his "truth." Gross. I mean, I get to a certain extent that we have to attack the homophobia that creates these people not the people themselves. I also get that McGreevey is apparently a shameless fame whore that only sees his own victimization, and doesn't seem to really want to take any responsibility for his own actions. Hey, Maggie Gallagher...how do you think that the McGreeveys' daughter is doing right now thanks to the marriage between a man and a woman?
Anyone who reads this blog knows that people piss me off fairly regularly. I think what particularly upsets me about these two is that they either defend their arguments by hiding behind children, or are so wrapped up in their own lives that they might not be paying attention to what their confessions of torrid threeways might be doing to their own offspring. My sister Krista had a baby, Joseph, on April 15th. Naturally, Joseph is perfect. But I wanted to make certain that in this world with so many people who just further their own agendas, Joseph knew that I would be putting his well-being before my own. So, when I held my nephew for the first time, I leaned down and whispered to him the following:
"I'll totally buy you porn. The boobie kind, cause honestly that's probably what you're gonna be into. And I wouldn't buy boobie porn for anyone but you. And I'm gonna get you condoms too. Glove the love, kid."
Wisdom and porn. My nephew can count on that.
Wednesday, March 25, 2009
The Ides of March
One of the many perks to working as a teaching assistant at NYU is the continued ability to enjoy a school year schedule. Despite having graduated from college almost 7 years ago (wow, does anyone else feel the need for a strong drink?), I still get to revel in things like having Columbus Day off, and get to look forward to the summer as a time where my workload significantly shrinks. Unfortunately, being an employee rather than a student means that with this decrease in workload comes a decrease in paychecks, but I find if one does their best to pickle themselves in tequila as soon as May hits, one doesn't really seem to notice the decreased income quite so much.
One of the times that I look forward to every year is spring break. Ironically, this was not something I remember looking forward to that much while actually in university. Sure, I would be excited for the hiatus from papers and lecture halls, but I never anticipated it with the same fervor as I have found myself caught up in over the last few years. Situated in mid to late March, spring break always seems to come at the exact moment in time where I think to myself, "My God, if one of these children cries just one more time, that's it. I'm calling in the SWAT team and having them all hosed down so I can have just a moment's respite from their...incessant...prattling!" This year was no different, as I gratefully left my final class, looking forward to a long week of no one needing to be coddled, burped, comforted or spanked. Although if it was a really good week, with a lot of alcohol, spanking might not be completely ruled out.
It coincided, coincidentally, with a renewed commitment to myself to seek a boyfriend. I tend to go through waves of action and repose when it comes to seeking out dates; loneliness catapults me into something like speed dating, a quasi-successful relationship crumbles around me, I decide that I will no longer allow people the privilege of dating me if they can't comport themselves like adults, and I remain single until the inevitable loneliness creeps up again and I sign up for a new dating website. As I stepped out into the dawn of my spring break this year, I was definitely on the upswing of one of these cycles, with my complete lack of faith in strangers being defeated by the boredom of always lying in bed by myself, and the impending beginning of my 29th year. So, I decided to use my free week to really try to put myself out there.
It started with Saturday evening with a birthday party. I was a peripheral invitee to the soiree, taking place at The Hudson Hotel by Lincoln Center, and hence thought that I might have a shot at meeting some other gay men who I didn't yet know. Upon hearing of the location, I steeled myself to be annoyed with the crowd, the employees and the pricing, put on a button-down and attended. As I walked in, I looked around at the crowd and was overcome with the thought "Wow, you really CAN'T polish a turd," and then and there decided that this would be the one and only heterosexual bar I would be attending for my week of vacation. Surrounded by coked-up, arrogant bankers and the two-bit trash that loves them, I walked up to the bar, and ordered a Corona, which I was promptly informed would be $9.
I. Gagged.
Allow me to say right now that I enjoy Corona. I like the lime, I like that it's light, and I find it very refreshing on a hot, summer day while I'm watching David Wright look pretty as he bends over and...fields ground balls. This does not mean that I am unaware that Corona is basically carbonated Mexican piss with a citrus twist. $9 for piss is something that's an add-on to your escort's bill at the end of a kinky night, not a game-opener in a lousy hotel straight bar. I swallowed my bile, paid up and vowed to depart the premises as quickly as possible. My friend Brian arrived, whom I immediately gripped by the shoulders and hissed in a whisper that probably could have been heard two states away "Coronas are NINE DOLLARS!" Being a man of decisive action and limited bank account, he quickly proposed a change of venue to a local homosexual watering hole, Vlada, where rumor had it Lynda Carter would be performing. I quickly agreed, though part of me wished that Lynda Carter would arrive my current location in full Wonder Woman regalia with her Lasso of Truth, round up a few people getting to know each other, and see what pearls fell out of their mouths, like "I'm only after you for your money," or "I'd totally fuck you...after a boob job," or "I have a RAGING case of crabs."
Excusing ourselves, Brian and I traveled over to Vlada, accompanied by two more refugees, a gay couple who were also interested in not having to sell a kidney in order to tie one on. When we arrived, we found out that we had missed Lynda Carter (BOOO!), but that beers were only $3 (YAAY!). Actually, we had another half an hour before that special started, but Brian unbuttoned the top of his shirt while ordering, and the the bartender was more than happy to help us out. A few hours in, after numerous drinks and extensive conversation, I decided to announce that not only was I drunk, but I was drunk enough to take just about anyone who would present themselves. And like I had purposefully conjured the exact opposite of anyone I would want to sleep with, next to me appeared a fey, elfin little man by the name of Dom.
While I had not noticed Dom earlier, my compatriots had, and Brian informed me that he had been circling us for almost the whole night like a vulture waiting for the sickly zebra to finally give up the ghost. Well, my announcement was apparently the equivalent of shuffling off this mortal coil, because Dom's face lit up like a kid at Christmas, and before I could turn around, I was caught up in a conversation with him. Once I had gathered my thoughts, I moved to make my escape...and was foiled by Dom's friend Alicia, who immediately launched into how much fun Dom was. Caught without my wits about me, I did what any normal person would do...I pretended that Brian had called me, and walked away without a word of explanation.
I woke the next morning, feeling slightly disappointed, but not defeated. After all, spring break was young and I had not yet begun to fight. So, naturally, I called my mother, and whined to her about how I didn't have a boyfriend. My mother is incredibly generous in this regard...she allows me to regress completely and throw what verges on a temper tantrum, all the while managing to continue to love me. I'm half convinced the woman's body naturally produces Xanax. As I wailed about the desolate state of my love life, my mother patiently told me that all I had to do was "keep living life, keep meeting people" and everything would work out fine. To which my response was "Really, Mom? That's what we've come to as far as advice on this topic? Don't die?" Amazingly, she managed not to hang up on me, calmly informed me that I knew exactly what she meant, and smoothly reiterated her stance on the matter.
So I decided to sign up for an internet dating website. Now, while I have the sneaking suspicion that I've already plumbed the depths of that extremely shallow pool, I really felt like this was the easiest way to meet people. And as I had no plans on dying, I would be fulfilling my mother's prescription for future happiness, and I have never gone wrong following her advice in the past. So I looked for some dating websites. One had a $29.95 start-up fee (we're in a recession). One was only available to citizens of Great Britain (cute accent, hell of a commute). One greeted me with a picture of a frightenly large erection on the home page (I don't need a website to meet a penis). And then I remembered that eHarmony, the mothership of all dating websites had been required to launch a gay site.
First of all, let me say that I didn't really want to give any money to Dr. Neil Clark Warren or any of his websites. He long refused to accept gay couples on eHarmony, and only finally launched an affiliate after being threatened with a discrimination lawsuit. To use his website seemed to be the equivalent calling someone who had repeatedly spit in your face your best friend. However, then I thought how gloriously spiteful it would be to find a husband on his website and send him regular updates on how fantastically our love was blossoming, and how he made it all possible with his website, and how the world is just a little gayer because of him. Needless to say, with visions of fairies (both sugarplum and otherwise) dancing in my head I gleefully went to eHarmony and prepared to sign up. Unfortunately, as it turns out, rather than simply including us in their website, eHarmony set up a new destination.
CompatiblePartners.net.
First of all, is there any more ghetto sign off to a website than ".net?" I mean, seriously. You have ".com" which is the default, and, it's worth noting, is the end of the URL for the eHarmony mothership. Then ".edu" has the advantage of automatically being associated with an institution of higher learning, and ".org" is a not-for-profit, which immediately seems noble. And while no one is particularly happy with the current state of the economy, ".gov" retains a certain level of respect. I realize that this is a completely silly complaint, but I'm just saying "CompatiblePartners.com" was available...I checked.
However, let's really get to the crux of the matter here. This website is the obvious equivalent of civil unions; something that places gay relationships in a separate category from straight ones. There is not one single good reason that eHarmony itself could not have simply started matching gay relationships. But no, we had to go and start up an entirely separate site for those dirty homosexuals. Suck it. Separate is not equal, you ass-hats.
Furthermore, the name makes my teeth itch. Straight people get eHarmony, and we get Compatible Partners? Anyone who has ever spoken to me knows how grating I find it when people, gay or otherwise, refer to their "partner." I realize that this is, for many people, the accepted vernacular, and that the people who created the website meant no harm in using it. But I really don't care, it makes me violent. A male spouse is a husband, and a female spouse is a wife, now everyone get the fuck over it. Besides this, we're looking for "compatible?" Really? It couldn't be LovingPartners, or LifePartners, or even HarmoniousPartners? I'm giving them the word "partner" on this one, and let me tell you it is chapping...my...ass. How many people think "Gee, when I get married, I REALLY hope we're compatible?" Compatibility is something I worry about if I'm buying new software for my computer, not the first thing that comes to mind when I think about the love of my life.
And after all that, they weren't even launching until April 1st, so I couldn't sign up anyway.
I admit to feeling a bit defeated at that point. Sure, there was more drinking to be done, but would I really have any more luck than I had in my first outing? I'm sure there were more websites to explore, but surely they too would only serve to piss me off. I sat there in front of my computer, torn between annoyance, defeat and boredom. And I did something that I always ALWAYS warn people against: I googled myself.
Now, we've all done this. It usually leads to results ranging from horrifying to boring, but almost never yields anything that can truly be categorized as a good thing. I clicked through the expected old theater reviews, and the hits for a gentleman by my name that is apparently a lawyer, and stumbled upon something I had never seen before: a blog written by an old college classmate of mine, someone who I remembered vaguely. In it, he confessed to having had a "palpable crush" on me (Clueless, party of one? That's me!), said that I looked like Edward Norton, and admired my "puppy dog eyes." His point was that he missed having crushes on people...now all that was left was dating, which was infinitely less fulfilling.
I can't claim to have had a crush on him in return. I was about 18 or 19 at the time, so I was probably too screwed up with all the hormones running through my system to know what I liked. But do I ever owe him a thank you for writing that short paragraph about me. It not only proved to me that there are people out there who do want to date me, it reminded me that sometimes the journey is better than the destination. Maybe I didn't meet anyone special on spring break, but I had a great night out with friends, a good temper tantrum about injustice, and discovered that there is someone in the world who would describe my eyes as "puppy dog." Having crushes is fun, and they usually lead to something silly happening...so that's my new goal for April. I'm not looking for a boyfriend anymore. I just want to meet a boy who gives me butterflies.
One of the times that I look forward to every year is spring break. Ironically, this was not something I remember looking forward to that much while actually in university. Sure, I would be excited for the hiatus from papers and lecture halls, but I never anticipated it with the same fervor as I have found myself caught up in over the last few years. Situated in mid to late March, spring break always seems to come at the exact moment in time where I think to myself, "My God, if one of these children cries just one more time, that's it. I'm calling in the SWAT team and having them all hosed down so I can have just a moment's respite from their...incessant...prattling!" This year was no different, as I gratefully left my final class, looking forward to a long week of no one needing to be coddled, burped, comforted or spanked. Although if it was a really good week, with a lot of alcohol, spanking might not be completely ruled out.
It coincided, coincidentally, with a renewed commitment to myself to seek a boyfriend. I tend to go through waves of action and repose when it comes to seeking out dates; loneliness catapults me into something like speed dating, a quasi-successful relationship crumbles around me, I decide that I will no longer allow people the privilege of dating me if they can't comport themselves like adults, and I remain single until the inevitable loneliness creeps up again and I sign up for a new dating website. As I stepped out into the dawn of my spring break this year, I was definitely on the upswing of one of these cycles, with my complete lack of faith in strangers being defeated by the boredom of always lying in bed by myself, and the impending beginning of my 29th year. So, I decided to use my free week to really try to put myself out there.
It started with Saturday evening with a birthday party. I was a peripheral invitee to the soiree, taking place at The Hudson Hotel by Lincoln Center, and hence thought that I might have a shot at meeting some other gay men who I didn't yet know. Upon hearing of the location, I steeled myself to be annoyed with the crowd, the employees and the pricing, put on a button-down and attended. As I walked in, I looked around at the crowd and was overcome with the thought "Wow, you really CAN'T polish a turd," and then and there decided that this would be the one and only heterosexual bar I would be attending for my week of vacation. Surrounded by coked-up, arrogant bankers and the two-bit trash that loves them, I walked up to the bar, and ordered a Corona, which I was promptly informed would be $9.
I. Gagged.
Allow me to say right now that I enjoy Corona. I like the lime, I like that it's light, and I find it very refreshing on a hot, summer day while I'm watching David Wright look pretty as he bends over and...fields ground balls. This does not mean that I am unaware that Corona is basically carbonated Mexican piss with a citrus twist. $9 for piss is something that's an add-on to your escort's bill at the end of a kinky night, not a game-opener in a lousy hotel straight bar. I swallowed my bile, paid up and vowed to depart the premises as quickly as possible. My friend Brian arrived, whom I immediately gripped by the shoulders and hissed in a whisper that probably could have been heard two states away "Coronas are NINE DOLLARS!" Being a man of decisive action and limited bank account, he quickly proposed a change of venue to a local homosexual watering hole, Vlada, where rumor had it Lynda Carter would be performing. I quickly agreed, though part of me wished that Lynda Carter would arrive my current location in full Wonder Woman regalia with her Lasso of Truth, round up a few people getting to know each other, and see what pearls fell out of their mouths, like "I'm only after you for your money," or "I'd totally fuck you...after a boob job," or "I have a RAGING case of crabs."
Excusing ourselves, Brian and I traveled over to Vlada, accompanied by two more refugees, a gay couple who were also interested in not having to sell a kidney in order to tie one on. When we arrived, we found out that we had missed Lynda Carter (BOOO!), but that beers were only $3 (YAAY!). Actually, we had another half an hour before that special started, but Brian unbuttoned the top of his shirt while ordering, and the the bartender was more than happy to help us out. A few hours in, after numerous drinks and extensive conversation, I decided to announce that not only was I drunk, but I was drunk enough to take just about anyone who would present themselves. And like I had purposefully conjured the exact opposite of anyone I would want to sleep with, next to me appeared a fey, elfin little man by the name of Dom.
While I had not noticed Dom earlier, my compatriots had, and Brian informed me that he had been circling us for almost the whole night like a vulture waiting for the sickly zebra to finally give up the ghost. Well, my announcement was apparently the equivalent of shuffling off this mortal coil, because Dom's face lit up like a kid at Christmas, and before I could turn around, I was caught up in a conversation with him. Once I had gathered my thoughts, I moved to make my escape...and was foiled by Dom's friend Alicia, who immediately launched into how much fun Dom was. Caught without my wits about me, I did what any normal person would do...I pretended that Brian had called me, and walked away without a word of explanation.
I woke the next morning, feeling slightly disappointed, but not defeated. After all, spring break was young and I had not yet begun to fight. So, naturally, I called my mother, and whined to her about how I didn't have a boyfriend. My mother is incredibly generous in this regard...she allows me to regress completely and throw what verges on a temper tantrum, all the while managing to continue to love me. I'm half convinced the woman's body naturally produces Xanax. As I wailed about the desolate state of my love life, my mother patiently told me that all I had to do was "keep living life, keep meeting people" and everything would work out fine. To which my response was "Really, Mom? That's what we've come to as far as advice on this topic? Don't die?" Amazingly, she managed not to hang up on me, calmly informed me that I knew exactly what she meant, and smoothly reiterated her stance on the matter.
So I decided to sign up for an internet dating website. Now, while I have the sneaking suspicion that I've already plumbed the depths of that extremely shallow pool, I really felt like this was the easiest way to meet people. And as I had no plans on dying, I would be fulfilling my mother's prescription for future happiness, and I have never gone wrong following her advice in the past. So I looked for some dating websites. One had a $29.95 start-up fee (we're in a recession). One was only available to citizens of Great Britain (cute accent, hell of a commute). One greeted me with a picture of a frightenly large erection on the home page (I don't need a website to meet a penis). And then I remembered that eHarmony, the mothership of all dating websites had been required to launch a gay site.
First of all, let me say that I didn't really want to give any money to Dr. Neil Clark Warren or any of his websites. He long refused to accept gay couples on eHarmony, and only finally launched an affiliate after being threatened with a discrimination lawsuit. To use his website seemed to be the equivalent calling someone who had repeatedly spit in your face your best friend. However, then I thought how gloriously spiteful it would be to find a husband on his website and send him regular updates on how fantastically our love was blossoming, and how he made it all possible with his website, and how the world is just a little gayer because of him. Needless to say, with visions of fairies (both sugarplum and otherwise) dancing in my head I gleefully went to eHarmony and prepared to sign up. Unfortunately, as it turns out, rather than simply including us in their website, eHarmony set up a new destination.
CompatiblePartners.net.
First of all, is there any more ghetto sign off to a website than ".net?" I mean, seriously. You have ".com" which is the default, and, it's worth noting, is the end of the URL for the eHarmony mothership. Then ".edu" has the advantage of automatically being associated with an institution of higher learning, and ".org" is a not-for-profit, which immediately seems noble. And while no one is particularly happy with the current state of the economy, ".gov" retains a certain level of respect. I realize that this is a completely silly complaint, but I'm just saying "CompatiblePartners.com" was available...I checked.
However, let's really get to the crux of the matter here. This website is the obvious equivalent of civil unions; something that places gay relationships in a separate category from straight ones. There is not one single good reason that eHarmony itself could not have simply started matching gay relationships. But no, we had to go and start up an entirely separate site for those dirty homosexuals. Suck it. Separate is not equal, you ass-hats.
Furthermore, the name makes my teeth itch. Straight people get eHarmony, and we get Compatible Partners? Anyone who has ever spoken to me knows how grating I find it when people, gay or otherwise, refer to their "partner." I realize that this is, for many people, the accepted vernacular, and that the people who created the website meant no harm in using it. But I really don't care, it makes me violent. A male spouse is a husband, and a female spouse is a wife, now everyone get the fuck over it. Besides this, we're looking for "compatible?" Really? It couldn't be LovingPartners, or LifePartners, or even HarmoniousPartners? I'm giving them the word "partner" on this one, and let me tell you it is chapping...my...ass. How many people think "Gee, when I get married, I REALLY hope we're compatible?" Compatibility is something I worry about if I'm buying new software for my computer, not the first thing that comes to mind when I think about the love of my life.
And after all that, they weren't even launching until April 1st, so I couldn't sign up anyway.
I admit to feeling a bit defeated at that point. Sure, there was more drinking to be done, but would I really have any more luck than I had in my first outing? I'm sure there were more websites to explore, but surely they too would only serve to piss me off. I sat there in front of my computer, torn between annoyance, defeat and boredom. And I did something that I always ALWAYS warn people against: I googled myself.
Now, we've all done this. It usually leads to results ranging from horrifying to boring, but almost never yields anything that can truly be categorized as a good thing. I clicked through the expected old theater reviews, and the hits for a gentleman by my name that is apparently a lawyer, and stumbled upon something I had never seen before: a blog written by an old college classmate of mine, someone who I remembered vaguely. In it, he confessed to having had a "palpable crush" on me (Clueless, party of one? That's me!), said that I looked like Edward Norton, and admired my "puppy dog eyes." His point was that he missed having crushes on people...now all that was left was dating, which was infinitely less fulfilling.
I can't claim to have had a crush on him in return. I was about 18 or 19 at the time, so I was probably too screwed up with all the hormones running through my system to know what I liked. But do I ever owe him a thank you for writing that short paragraph about me. It not only proved to me that there are people out there who do want to date me, it reminded me that sometimes the journey is better than the destination. Maybe I didn't meet anyone special on spring break, but I had a great night out with friends, a good temper tantrum about injustice, and discovered that there is someone in the world who would describe my eyes as "puppy dog." Having crushes is fun, and they usually lead to something silly happening...so that's my new goal for April. I'm not looking for a boyfriend anymore. I just want to meet a boy who gives me butterflies.
Wednesday, February 11, 2009
The Bitch Is Back
Many times when something upsets us we are advised to write a letter to the powers that be and express our displeasure. Somewhere around my tenth birthday, I realized that this was completely futile, and that everyone who told me that "you wouldn't believe what a single letter can do" was either a) a kindergarten teacher, b) mentally challenged or c) Sesame Street. Mostly what an angry letter does is provide us with an easy way of deluding ourselves into believing that someone in power actually gives a crap what we think. We rant and rave, and proudly show our friends and family our written diatribe, all the while walking around with a great deal of pride in how proactive we are being in making the world a better place. I'm not trying to look down on the therapuetic value of a good rage...my mother always says that no one can seethe like I can. However, I think we all realize that nine times out of ten, these letters are promptly tossed into the garbage by the addressees, and that all of our righteous anger goes out with the trash.
After my last posting had an unusually high-level of heartfelt emotion in comparison to judgmental snarkiness, I received several explicit requests for something a little more pointed. Funny. Bitchy. It seems some readers come here to live vicariously through some of my more vicious observations. This is for you. Think of something that makes you angry, like horizontally striped spandex, vegan cookies or The Pink Panther 2. Hopefully it really chaps your ass, with just a dash of superiority, which should put you right in line with where this is going. For all of you readers who feel oppressed by the stupidity of the majority...these are for you.
Dear Women Who "Work-Out":
You might be wondering why you aren't losing weight. You go to the gym every day, and really exert yourself walking on that treadmill at a break-neck speed. You make certain that you're going as fast as you can without causing any perspiration that might cause the make-up you spent half an hour putting on before you arrived to run in any way. Furthermore, you have to make certain that you aren't moving so fast that you can't flip the pages of your Us Weekly...after all, when else will you be able to catch up on Jennifer's heart-breaking meeting with Brad and Angelina at the Oscars? Also, if you put that machine up to a pace too intense, you would actually need to buy sneakers. The wedge sandals, high-heeled boots and just plain socks would never be able to stand up to any pace over 3 miles an hour. Finally, if you go too fast, you'll never be able to continue the oh-so-interesting conversation that you're having with your friend who's walking on the treadmill right next to you. A conversation, I might add, that you're having so loudly I can hear every single word even though I have my Ipod turned up to the highest volume in an attempt to get Tina Turner to drown out your incessant prattling.
News flash, ladies (and while I am sure there are male offenders, in my experience this group is almost entirely composed of women): you aren't losing weight because you aren't working out. Simply physically being on a treadmill does not count as burning calories, and just moving your arms a lot so you look like you're speed-walking doesn't mean that you get to have a pint of Ben & Jerry's when you get home. Taking your lazy ass to the gym isn't going to do anything if you don't actually exert yourself when you're there. Here's an idea: take the time you use to make sure that you "look good" before you leave the house, and add it onto your time on the exercise machine of your choice. Then stop reading magazines, stop talking to your friends, and for God's sake, stop working out in your street clothes. Go to the gym, and work out until you vomit. You'll lose weight one way or another that way.
Dear Restaurant Canoodlers:
We, the public, believe that you are very much in love. This is our official position. Now will you please end the completely unnecessary habit that you have of sitting next to each other rather than across from each other at the table? First of all, it makes everyone in the restaurant, from the staff to your fellow diners, want to yell out "Hands where I can see them!" every time they walk past you. Secondly, no one wants to watch you nuzzle, cuddle, huddle, giggle, tickle, Eskimo kiss, really kiss, gaze into each other's eyes or feed each other while they themselves are trying to eat. It's repulsive, particularly when you are a person over the age of 25. At least the young ones out there can blame their raging hormones. After that, you just become the picture of a desperate person trying to prove to a group of strangers that you found someone who's willing to accept the fact that your ugly mug is going to be the first thing they see when they wake up in the morning.
How's this: if you really can't eat a single meal without being in physical contact with each other, order in. That way you can dry hump on your couch while shoveling take-out into your mouths, and we aren't treated to your delightful public displays of affection between courses. Everybody wins, especially the people trying to eat around you who will no longer have to fight crippling nausea as they attempt to eat their meals.
Dear American Apparel:
Stop it. Just stop it. Go away.
Dear Loud Subway Talkers:
Why must you sit across the aisle from each other and have a conversation? Why can you not sit next to each other like normal people and speak in a measured and quiet tone of voice? You are the exact opposite of our earlier offenders, The Restaurant Canoodlers, and yet manage to be just an infuriating. While most of these offenders are male (I can't sit next to my friend! We both have to spread our legs as wide as we can, cause our penises are SO BIG! And if we sit next to each other, our thighs will touch, and that's totally GAY! I HAVE A BIG PENIS!), this letter is being specifically addressed to the group of three women who surrounded me yesterday, and spoke of Jesus and alcoholism. The woman sitting next to me loudly proclaimed, "I used to drink. I mean, I didn't have a problem but I drank. And then one day, I was in a bar, and I woke up with my face on the toilet seat, and I just said "Jesus, I give it to you." That's what I said" seemingly unaware that the people around could hear her admit that her FACE touched a TOILET in a BAR.
Now you listen to me. If you were drunk enough to allow your face to touch the toilet seat of a bar, you have a problem. You have lost control, and you need to stop drinking. And deciding to "give it to Jesus," really presupposes the fact that Jesus is not as completely grossed out as the rest of us at the content of your story and the location of your face. Jesus has bigger issues to deal with, not the least of which being the fact that a large part of his followers are complete nutbags, so stop bothering him with your ridiculous whining. But the real issue here is that I don't need to know this about you...all you need to do is sit next to your girlfriends and keep your voice down. This will not only help me, but will stop half of a subway car looking at you like you're a toxic waste dump. And these are people sitting on a New York City train...our standards of cleanliness are definitely on the lower end.
Dear Agents, Managers, etc:
Suck it. I have tried to be polite to you. I've tried to not be a pest. I've tried to just sit back and let nature take it's course, tried to believe that eventually things will happen just because I got trained and I work my ass off. Well, no more. I'm performing in a show where, quite frankly, I'm fucking fantastic. Now get your asses to Loaded, or this ship is sailing out to fucking sea, and never again will you have the opportunity to hitch a ride. If you liked it, then you shoulda put a ring on it. Peace out bitches.
Regards,
Paul
After my last posting had an unusually high-level of heartfelt emotion in comparison to judgmental snarkiness, I received several explicit requests for something a little more pointed. Funny. Bitchy. It seems some readers come here to live vicariously through some of my more vicious observations. This is for you. Think of something that makes you angry, like horizontally striped spandex, vegan cookies or The Pink Panther 2. Hopefully it really chaps your ass, with just a dash of superiority, which should put you right in line with where this is going. For all of you readers who feel oppressed by the stupidity of the majority...these are for you.
Dear Women Who "Work-Out":
You might be wondering why you aren't losing weight. You go to the gym every day, and really exert yourself walking on that treadmill at a break-neck speed. You make certain that you're going as fast as you can without causing any perspiration that might cause the make-up you spent half an hour putting on before you arrived to run in any way. Furthermore, you have to make certain that you aren't moving so fast that you can't flip the pages of your Us Weekly...after all, when else will you be able to catch up on Jennifer's heart-breaking meeting with Brad and Angelina at the Oscars? Also, if you put that machine up to a pace too intense, you would actually need to buy sneakers. The wedge sandals, high-heeled boots and just plain socks would never be able to stand up to any pace over 3 miles an hour. Finally, if you go too fast, you'll never be able to continue the oh-so-interesting conversation that you're having with your friend who's walking on the treadmill right next to you. A conversation, I might add, that you're having so loudly I can hear every single word even though I have my Ipod turned up to the highest volume in an attempt to get Tina Turner to drown out your incessant prattling.
News flash, ladies (and while I am sure there are male offenders, in my experience this group is almost entirely composed of women): you aren't losing weight because you aren't working out. Simply physically being on a treadmill does not count as burning calories, and just moving your arms a lot so you look like you're speed-walking doesn't mean that you get to have a pint of Ben & Jerry's when you get home. Taking your lazy ass to the gym isn't going to do anything if you don't actually exert yourself when you're there. Here's an idea: take the time you use to make sure that you "look good" before you leave the house, and add it onto your time on the exercise machine of your choice. Then stop reading magazines, stop talking to your friends, and for God's sake, stop working out in your street clothes. Go to the gym, and work out until you vomit. You'll lose weight one way or another that way.
Dear Restaurant Canoodlers:
We, the public, believe that you are very much in love. This is our official position. Now will you please end the completely unnecessary habit that you have of sitting next to each other rather than across from each other at the table? First of all, it makes everyone in the restaurant, from the staff to your fellow diners, want to yell out "Hands where I can see them!" every time they walk past you. Secondly, no one wants to watch you nuzzle, cuddle, huddle, giggle, tickle, Eskimo kiss, really kiss, gaze into each other's eyes or feed each other while they themselves are trying to eat. It's repulsive, particularly when you are a person over the age of 25. At least the young ones out there can blame their raging hormones. After that, you just become the picture of a desperate person trying to prove to a group of strangers that you found someone who's willing to accept the fact that your ugly mug is going to be the first thing they see when they wake up in the morning.
How's this: if you really can't eat a single meal without being in physical contact with each other, order in. That way you can dry hump on your couch while shoveling take-out into your mouths, and we aren't treated to your delightful public displays of affection between courses. Everybody wins, especially the people trying to eat around you who will no longer have to fight crippling nausea as they attempt to eat their meals.
Dear American Apparel:
Stop it. Just stop it. Go away.
Dear Loud Subway Talkers:
Why must you sit across the aisle from each other and have a conversation? Why can you not sit next to each other like normal people and speak in a measured and quiet tone of voice? You are the exact opposite of our earlier offenders, The Restaurant Canoodlers, and yet manage to be just an infuriating. While most of these offenders are male (I can't sit next to my friend! We both have to spread our legs as wide as we can, cause our penises are SO BIG! And if we sit next to each other, our thighs will touch, and that's totally GAY! I HAVE A BIG PENIS!), this letter is being specifically addressed to the group of three women who surrounded me yesterday, and spoke of Jesus and alcoholism. The woman sitting next to me loudly proclaimed, "I used to drink. I mean, I didn't have a problem but I drank. And then one day, I was in a bar, and I woke up with my face on the toilet seat, and I just said "Jesus, I give it to you." That's what I said" seemingly unaware that the people around could hear her admit that her FACE touched a TOILET in a BAR.
Now you listen to me. If you were drunk enough to allow your face to touch the toilet seat of a bar, you have a problem. You have lost control, and you need to stop drinking. And deciding to "give it to Jesus," really presupposes the fact that Jesus is not as completely grossed out as the rest of us at the content of your story and the location of your face. Jesus has bigger issues to deal with, not the least of which being the fact that a large part of his followers are complete nutbags, so stop bothering him with your ridiculous whining. But the real issue here is that I don't need to know this about you...all you need to do is sit next to your girlfriends and keep your voice down. This will not only help me, but will stop half of a subway car looking at you like you're a toxic waste dump. And these are people sitting on a New York City train...our standards of cleanliness are definitely on the lower end.
Dear Agents, Managers, etc:
Suck it. I have tried to be polite to you. I've tried to not be a pest. I've tried to just sit back and let nature take it's course, tried to believe that eventually things will happen just because I got trained and I work my ass off. Well, no more. I'm performing in a show where, quite frankly, I'm fucking fantastic. Now get your asses to Loaded, or this ship is sailing out to fucking sea, and never again will you have the opportunity to hitch a ride. If you liked it, then you shoulda put a ring on it. Peace out bitches.
Regards,
Paul
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
Hey, Jude
Last weekend, my naked show, Loaded, closed. I'll pause while those among you who weren't graced with the full-frontal can get a tissue and wipe your eyes, to rid them of the tears that are no doubt currently pixelating your screen. And not to worry, the play had an extremely successful run, and is getting extended in March, which means your chance to see the full monty has not passed you by. Hell, even if the play wasn't extended, all you would really need was a couple of margaritas and a twenty and your chance hasn't passed you by. And I really just put that bit in about needing a twenty as incentive to take off my pants in an attempt to sound classy. Upon re-reading...swing and a miss.
Anyway, as another play winds down and I return to the more low-key life of survival jobs and boyfriend-hunting, I find myself sinking into the somewhat expected post-show malaise. For those of you out there who may not have ever been bitten by the theatre bug, perhaps this seems odd. The schedule of running a show (particularly one that is not paying the bills independently of other jobs) is back-breaking, and I have never been involved in a theatrical production that did not come with some sort of soap opera-style shenanigans. One would think there must be some sort of release that comes along with the simple re-emergence of what passes for normalcy in one's life, and one would be right, there is. However, once the initial rush of a normal amount of sleep passes, I have never been able to escape a lingering sadness at the end of a run, and I find this hiatus (despite that fact that it is just a hiatus) to be the most palpable I have ever experienced.
I always grow very attached to characters that I play, something that I would imagine many actors experience. Maybe it's a result of my college acting professors beating into my head that the actor cannot judge the character (not judging, very difficult for me), and that the actor must love the character for who he is. The role in Loaded, Jude, was no different. Jude was a lost soul, a young man who had contracted HIV at a young age, who engaged in extremely dangerous sexual practices, and generally made extremely unintelligent decisions when it came to relationships. He was a puddle of need and want, a young man who wanted to love and be loved more than anything else, and yet had no idea how to go about actually finding it. As my director would say, "Jude goes to the hardware store looking to buy oranges." And despite his repeated defeats in going to that hardware store, Jude somehow continued to believe in love.
I'm not much for method acting. Whenever I hear about some Hollywood actor staying in character when not shooting scenes, I roll my eyes and wonder how the crew can stay focused and get the shots they need with someone walking around virtually masturbating and begging everyone to look. I do, however, spend a lot of time daydreaming about a character that I'm playing, and listening to music that reminds me of him. Now, as I put Jude to rest for a few weeks, I find myself missing him terribly.
Anyway, as another play winds down and I return to the more low-key life of survival jobs and boyfriend-hunting, I find myself sinking into the somewhat expected post-show malaise. For those of you out there who may not have ever been bitten by the theatre bug, perhaps this seems odd. The schedule of running a show (particularly one that is not paying the bills independently of other jobs) is back-breaking, and I have never been involved in a theatrical production that did not come with some sort of soap opera-style shenanigans. One would think there must be some sort of release that comes along with the simple re-emergence of what passes for normalcy in one's life, and one would be right, there is. However, once the initial rush of a normal amount of sleep passes, I have never been able to escape a lingering sadness at the end of a run, and I find this hiatus (despite that fact that it is just a hiatus) to be the most palpable I have ever experienced.
I always grow very attached to characters that I play, something that I would imagine many actors experience. Maybe it's a result of my college acting professors beating into my head that the actor cannot judge the character (not judging, very difficult for me), and that the actor must love the character for who he is. The role in Loaded, Jude, was no different. Jude was a lost soul, a young man who had contracted HIV at a young age, who engaged in extremely dangerous sexual practices, and generally made extremely unintelligent decisions when it came to relationships. He was a puddle of need and want, a young man who wanted to love and be loved more than anything else, and yet had no idea how to go about actually finding it. As my director would say, "Jude goes to the hardware store looking to buy oranges." And despite his repeated defeats in going to that hardware store, Jude somehow continued to believe in love.
I'm not much for method acting. Whenever I hear about some Hollywood actor staying in character when not shooting scenes, I roll my eyes and wonder how the crew can stay focused and get the shots they need with someone walking around virtually masturbating and begging everyone to look. I do, however, spend a lot of time daydreaming about a character that I'm playing, and listening to music that reminds me of him. Now, as I put Jude to rest for a few weeks, I find myself missing him terribly.
Ultimately, I guess the purpose of this post is just to admit that for some reason I miss someone who never existed except in my head. Which is, of course, slightly insane, and sounds unfortunately close to something that would be given a 5-episode arc on Grey's Anatomy, complete with a stirring indie rock ballad upon culmination so the audience would know that this was the moment that the characters were learning something, and they're supposed to cry. I've tried to pinpoint exactly the reason that I continue listening to the "Judah" playlist on my Ipod, and, in fact, keep adding songs to it, and I think I've finally figured it out.
I miss Jude because Jude is the side of me that I don't allow most people to see. I play the jaded cynic in life, but just the other night I made a comment to my friend Adam about wanting to get married and he said to me "You see? You see? For all of your judgments and sarcasm, you still believe in love." With some of the things happening in this world right now involving gay rights, starting with (but in no way limited to) the passing of Prop 8 in California, it is very easy to be angry, and cutting, and bitter. It is very difficult to be optimistic. It is very difficult to pick yourself up, dust yourself off and not only fight for what you want and deserve, but actually believe that you'll win. Jude, despite all of his defeats in life, still believes in love, and believes that one day love will win out. And getting to say that onstage every night, getting to express that belief in front of an audience was not only liberating, it felt like I was flying.
This is not to say that I in any way plan on wearing rose colored glasses, preaching free love and hugging strangers. I'm just saying, I miss someone who doesn't exist. And I'm not going to judge that.
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