Thursday, July 27, 2006

Crossing Lances (with Reichen)


One of the members of N Sync , Lance Bass, has come out. This "sensational news" is spraying all over Blogland, but I say, "good on ya, mate."

With all the pressure of being in the closet, no wonder he wanted to take that space flight -- just to get away.

He's quoted in People as being in a "very stable" relationship with model-actor-Amazing Race winner Reichen Lehmkuhl. A guy with that many dashes in his name could be an Amazing Race. Why is it that celebrities date other celebs? And if Lance had to go that way, I'd rather Ricky Martin was his beau.

Ah well, one closet at a time.


THERE'S MORE ...

Coming soon, to a bathhouse near you...


So, I'm watching "Oprah" a couple days ago. I see a guy who looks familiar (never a good sign on a talk show) and he was confessing - passionately - about being a former drug addict and sex worker.

When they shot some "on location" footage for this episode, I saw a place that looked familiar. He was telling O about this bathhouse he went to (and described in great, salacious detail -- complete with footage!) to have anonymous sex with men for money. All well and good; I've heard this on Springer. But I notice something familiar in the footage: it's half a block from my apartment.

Hel-lo!

Then I hear him say he lives in Philadelphia now, and, well, there ya go. Bob's yer uncle.

It warmed my heart to see a shot of my building rising up above this filthy den of sin. I should have called Mom, to tell her to turn on the TV.


THERE'S MORE ...

Monday, July 24, 2006

Up in Smoke

Lincoln Apartments fire --

June 30th, 2006

Five floors --

Camac Street, between Locust and Spruce.

In pic, left of bldg in foreground (where "the lincoln" sign is)--- they' left original name, faded -- now whole place going -- in pic, first 2 top windows still intact, but where 3rd window is, now gone -

Whole middle of bldg sunk in on itself -- damage mainly to inside walls -- whole floors exposed, one dirty grey wall exploded out like false paper wall people break through in shows - long white pipes bent and jutting out like broken pipe cleaners --

thick vines of black wire pulled from top floor all the way to ground

Crane cable lifts up aluminum lifeboat, full of wreckage; charred, green blanket -- dirty, yellow foam rubber, a book, with pages flipping by rainy wind --

fourth floor windows all blown out -- 9/11 --

-- inside walls exposed -- robin's egg-blue painted over brick on third floor, top floor looks like origin of fire -- more badly burned -- beams are black and precarious -- crane (w/diff attachments on end like pulleys on gym equipment) pulls up more debris -- looks like metal arm that lifts prizes in machine on boardwalk -

now up comes door, attached to piece of wooden beam-

inside blue wall looks like it had been there a long time; those are parts that fascinate me: original traces --

soon there will be none -- not even bldg.

Maybe that's why I'm writing -- to record the demolition of more history right outside my window?

condos?

Christ.


THERE'S MORE ...

Freddie Krueger


Just woke up from one of those nightmares that stays with you even after you get out of bed. Shortness of breath, headache, disorientation. And no, that is not my usual state. Ha ha.

In it, I was driving around all night with no directions, it was dark, raining. Even stranger: I don't drive. I mean I can, it's just that I haven't in years and don't have a car. I lived in Manhattan for 13 years and then moved to another place where I can walk, 24/7.

I kept asking people for directions and they weren't any help ( Hello? "Wiz of Oz"?), no, I think it was more like "Nightmare on Elm Street," because I felt an ominous sense of doom and wanted to wake up.

When I finally came around and put my feet on the floor, I realized that rent is due in a week and I am tapped out. Now, that's enough anxiety to call up anyone's inner Freddie...


THERE'S MORE ...

Thursday, July 20, 2006

Second Thoughts


Got started on the last blog entry and realized, after a few days, that it would be too indiscreet to go on. Yes, I DO have discretion. From time to time. And it is the better part of valour, right? Or is it VELOUR?

More on something else, later...


THERE'S MORE ...

Wednesday, July 19, 2006

Him


I got an answer to my letter within the week. His producers were putting up his new show and I wanted in. If I couldn't sing in it, this was at least a chance to get a foot in the door. A day or two, he would see how talented I was and everything would fall into place. Very Eve Harrington.

"I'd really love to work for you," I wrote.

"I never use assistants," he responded, "but if you'd like to meet for a drink sometime, we could do that."

The note was typed, which I found unusual and sweetly old-fashioned. How nice, how personal, that someone as busy and famous as he, would take the time to -- wait a minute. Did he? I soon found out that his secretary typed his correspondence, which dropped me into a literary three-way with someone I didn't want to know my business. Our business. Well, this toady would have to get off the Royal and give his Master a chance to type his own letters, at least to me.

There was his address and phone number, typed (alas) beneath his signature. At least he had signed it. I hoped. His name sat elegantly at the top, printed in capital letters. Very sophisticated, I thought, and made a mental note to order myself the same kind.

I read the letter five more times, hunting for any clues I might have missed, and then burst into my roommate's room and started jumping on his mattress.

"What the fuck --?" he mumbled, having been kicked in the neck. I dropped the note on his face. He read it and then started jumping up and down with me.

"Holy shit," he said, holding it in his hand.

"Well, don't rip it! Don't bend it. Give it to me."

We both sat down on the edge of the mattress and caught our breath. I held the note up gently with both hands and we stared at it as if it were the Holy Grail. For me, it was. How could this have happened to me? He had somehow seen into my soul, via the U.S. Post. I felt lucky, excited, slowly sucked into the vortex of everything I ever wanted. Let him view this as just a casual meeting, a perfunctory drink. I saw all my dreams were possible; this was a way to get to that little island called fame.

If I knew what the letter would unleash, would I have taken the #66 bus from Montclair to Manhattan that night? Of course I would.

We made a date for Friday and this was Wednesday. Shit, what to wear? I was thirty but looked younger. Coupled with my naivete and unabashed excitement, I'm sure I came off as someone still in school. Possibly. I could fit into size 28 jeans; a day which will never come again. I wore a mesh shirt, (canary yellow) and tight black jeans that cupped my ass like nobody's business. You could see my trim torso through the tiny holes in the shirt. It was a look I thought would be both sexy and memorable. I'm sure it was memorable. And it was the 'Eighties, so, what the hell?

It was a look which said, "Look, but don't touch." Or, "Touch, but not too much until you give me a part." We'd see. If nothing else, I looked like a sexy bumblebee, and that would do, too.

I grabbed my bus money and went to wait out on the corner.

Here it comes.


THERE'S MORE ...

Everything Must Change


I have an extra-large Hefty bag of trash in one hand and a library book tucked under my other arm. Cell phone rings. On the display, one of the few people I’d like to catch up with. We’ll call him J.

“What is all this construction in your neighborhood?” he asked.

“We had a fire. An old building was ablaze two weeks ago. They blocked off that whole block.”

“Well, that makes it very inconvenient for me.”

“And ‘hello’ to you, too.”

“Hello, sweetness. So, what the hell’s up with you?”

I rested the garbage by the door, put the book down, and walked to the window.

“Where are you?”

“Oh, I’ve left the area. I’m about ten blocks away, heading south.”

I looked for him anyway, and my eyes came to rest on the gaping hole that the fire left in the building.

“What burned?”

It was an old hotel, the framework of which had been there for at least a hundred years. The middle third of the building had collapsed and the twisted pipes and girders had melted down to the ground.

“It was the Lincoln Apartments.”

“I don’t know it.”

“It’s been around forever. My new hobby is exploring all the old architecture of the city.”

“So you’re inspecting yourself?”

“Ha, ha. I was online, finding pictures of all the old hotels and theatres, and I came across it. And I found this picture of the place, looking at it from the same angle I have up here.”

“Well, in your internet searching, and I know you’re the guru of all that stuff, try and find me a boyfriend, will ya? I’m at the end of my rope.”

“Honey, if I knew where they were, I would gladly tell you. I'd be there now, waving. But there’s not a "watering hole"; they don’t all just gather and feed.”

I knew that wasn’t true; one of the most popular bars in town is right next to my building. There's a whole lot of gathering and feeding going on all the time.

“I just can’t bring myself to go there. Last night -- Friday night, okay -- I thought, ‘You should try it again. Get off the computer. Get out of the house.’ But, after I finished my Stouffer’s turkey dinner and swigged the last of my diet coke, I thought better of it. Besides, there was a fight on, and I figured it was a better way to spend my time.”

He laughed.

"Plus, it was a good fight.”

“You are the only gay man I know who gets excited over boxing.”

“Well, you obviously have a very narrow viewpoint. Very stereotypical.”

I sat on my window ledge and looked at the Lincoln. I love buildings where you can still see traces of what they once were. The word, “Lincoln,” can be seen very faintly, painted on the side of the brick building. There are a couple cranes hovering over it, like vultures. I wondered if they were going to wreck the whole place.

“I also like ‘Nanny 911’, so, I run the gamut.”

He laughed again, but perfunctorily.

“Seriously, where am I going to find a man?”

Obviously, J was not going to let the conversation flow far from his frustration. He is a handsome guy, in good shape, smart, funny. He has a touch of American Indian in him, which only enhances his good looks. I got up from the ledge and paced around the room. If he couldn’t find a guy, maybe I shouldn’t feel so bad.

“Try one of those online dating things. I was talking to R, and he’s hell-bent on finding a husband. He swears by Match.com, or whatever he’s using.”

“Uch, I hate those ---”

“---so do I, but try it, if you’re feeling so bad. Have coffee. What can you lose?”

“You have to pay for that, right?”

“Yes, hon; it’s a business. They make money off of desperate men like you and me. I’ve had bad luck with all that stuff before, but I might go back and try it again.”

“How much is it?”

“Like, thirty bucks a month or something.”

“Geez, I could drink that much in a night.”

“I know.”

“So, what are you up to?”

A chance to change the subject. Grab it.

“Things are good. Class is going well.”

“I came this close to taking it.”

“Take it in September, then.” He didn’t answer. “Great bunch of singers. A guy with a guitar, some big opera guy, and the rest are all the usual suspects.”

“Good size?”

“Huge. I have thirteen people, which is about two more than I should have, but Daddy needs a new pair of shoes. It’s a very good vibe, very positive.”

“I can’t figure out what’s changed with men. With the level of quality.”

Oy. I opened the door and picked up the trash bag. A milk carton and a wet Time magazine fell out.

“I mean, when we grew up, there were – well, you -- you’re a funny, witty, intelligent kind of guy -- ”

I closed the door quietly and walked down the hall toward the elevator, carrying the garbage and the library book, trying to keep the cell phone in the crook of my neck. “ – so, where are all the guys like that today?” I pressed the down button.

"You’re just getting old. They don't want you.”

A quiet chuckle.

“But I’ll always be older,” I added, taking any sting out of my remark.

“Hey, I had an affair this month. Well, it was only one date and he turned out to be a sex addict, but what the hell. I got a little action.”

“Good for you! That’s good to hear.”

“Of course, he’s twenty-one.”

“Twenty-one?”

“I know, but how many times does twenty-one go into forty-five?”

“Twice, with a little left over.”

“Exactly.”

The elevator doors opened and I dragged the trash inside. The carton fell out again. Shit; time to wrap things up. I felt the phone slipping. “So. I’m glad you called.”

“Me, too. And I’m glad you had some sex.”

“Me, too. So let’s get together, okay?”

“Yes. Things should free up a little in a couple weeks. Maybe we can go out looking for guys.”

Why did I know there’d be one more stab at this?

“Uh huh. Or maybe a movie.” I said, and the elevator doors opened.


THERE'S MORE ...

Tuesday, July 18, 2006

Oh, Danny Boy


Ghandi, F.D.R., Martin Luther King, Jr. -- these are some of the heroes of the 20th Century, providing inspiration, and serving as role models for many young men. But not for Danny Bonaduce.

Seems the carrot-top cutie from -- "The Partridge Family" had his eye on someone else. After all, you can't spell "heroin" without having a "h-e-r-o." inside.

"Come on, get happy!"


THERE'S MORE ...

Monday, July 17, 2006

I Knew There Was a Reason...


...that God created Barry Manilow.

Seems The Mandy Man is Kryptonite to juvenile delinquents in a suburb of Sydney, Australia.

If it proves successful, we're broadcasting it to Iraq. The troops will be home before Labor Day.


THERE'S MORE ...

Sunday, July 16, 2006

Gypsy Rose Lee is Rolling in her Grave


Oh, God -- it's come to this.

What fresh hell awaits us in --- the land of recycled, ridiculous, reality shows?

"Big Farter" All-Stars?

Survivor: "Escape from Good Taste"?

The Real World: Bayonne, NJ?

Nose-picker 911?

Where's LASSIE when we need her? In "The Last Bitch Standing..."


THERE'S MORE ...

Thursday, July 13, 2006

Like a bad penny


"Isn't it rich? Isn't it...(well, we know it's queer)"

That sex-addict boy I dated - okay, slept with -- whom I met on a catering gig last month, is signed up for the next gig. (See June 25th) And so am I.

"People like that often come back into your life," my best friend said. "Don't be surprised."

Just like a bad penny, some things just keep turning up.

Hmmm, what to do?


THERE'S MORE ...

Tuesday, July 11, 2006

Shiver Me Timbers


"Ahoy."

I mean, "Oy."

Saw the new Johnny Depp "Pirates" movie - whoo, stunk like a wet dog. I went with a friend who hadn't seen the first one and I kept hoping this would give him a taste of how much fun that was.

This one? Just awful. And long. Long and awful. Great special effects, but you need more than some soggy, slimy spooks to keep a flick afloat.

We popped into the theater after a day with friends of his in "the country." (I love that any place that's out of the city and has some lawn is "the country.") Anyway, we show up and there's just three other people; two waitresses who know my friend from their restaurant job, and the boyfriend of one of them. Both women were hammered and smoking like they were going to burn down "the country." With all their faux-sophistication and acid proclamations, I felt like I'd stumbled into a Dorothy Parker Convention.

And they talked. Endlessly. The cigarettes flew around their heads like mosquitos. The boyfriend sat there chewing his fingernails, shooting glances at his mate from beneath heavy eyelids. "Good luck to you, having to live with her," I thought.

After the initial Sally Bowles-ing, they came back to planet Earth and we had a fun afternoon. Of course, they only talked about their job, but that's restaurant folk. And while I got every chapter of their daily lives, down to their last tip, no one even asked what I did. I started thinking I should just stop talking and bite MY fingernails.

Our hostess was house-sitting an enormous mansion, whose occupants go to Maine for the summer. What a spread. The house was huge and had great potential to be a real Merchant-Ivory dream, but the decor looked like stuff you'd find at a swap meet. And tacky? I kept waiting for Dame Edna to descend the staircase.

There was a dumbwaiter and a panic room (yes) and a walk-in bar, which covered a multitude of sins. Mlle. House-sitter told us that there had been a mass-murderer roaming the woods last year, and one night she was coming home from a daytrip and saw cops and roadblocks and red lights flashing. They were zeroing in on the psycho and had him cornered. She told them she just wanted to get back to the house and get to bed, and was surprised when they didn't let her.

"Hello, paging Miss Nutso, party of one."

It was a real nice clambake, we're mighty glad we came, but ultimately it was a relief to shove off to the Caribbean. Little did we know...


THERE'S MORE ...

Sunday, July 09, 2006

Tracks, Fences

Seeming to be in a perpetual state of single desolation blessedness, I am reminded that the grass is not always greener for my friends who are coupled. They say, "enjoy your freedom." I say, "I'd like to come home and have somebody there." Everybody moans about something because that seems to be in our nature. "The other side of the tracks", "the road not taken", "just around the bend" ... it's funny how many of those clichés jump into my head.

Friends who have --- houses and kids and more stable careers: I find out there are also endless, expensive renovations, children who turn out to be a lot more work than expected, and careers that sputter and stall.

Worst of all, you wake up one day and discover that whatever bond or attraction you once felt is gone. And now the property, the kids -- you have to find a way to make that work.

My nightmare is to have someone say, "I love you," and not be able to say it in return. Not sincerely. But the truth always comes out in some way, either then or twenty years down the road. Or it stays locked inside and affects the whole quality of your life.

There was a guy I dated who had a great job as a high-level exec at MTV, with all the trimmings: fabulous apartment, enough money for five people to live very comfortably on. We had a blind date and met at the Paramount Hotel in NYC.

"Well, I'm not disappointed," he whispered over a cold martini.

What are you supposed to say? I probably mumbled, "Me, either," but it was way too soon for me to say it. He was saying he was attracted, but, while I found him nice-looking, I wouldn't have led with that statement.

He took me to the best places: restaurants, Broadway shows, up to that fabulous apartment looking overlooking Manhattan. He kept herding me into the bedroom every time I came over. He looked so crestfallen when I didn't want to go further, I finally gave in.

We rolled around for a while and I tried -- swear to God -- to ignite whatever attraction there might be. Nothing. He was soft; not just his body but his presence and intellect. Nothing extraordinary, and I needed extraordinary. At least back then.

I talked my way out of a clinch and suggested places for dinner. When we walked, he was always just an inch away. When we watched skaters at Rockefeller Center, he practically took me from behind, he was pressed so close behind me. I could barely breathe. And when I was positive this was never going to work for me, I broke it off.

I've always wondered if I moved too soon; that even his neediness might have been tempered if I gave it more than a couple months. But here was my nightmare: he was always saying, "I love you," and I couldn't look him in the eye. Not fair to him. I told him I was letting him go so he could find the person who was right for him, who would love him. Maybe he did.

Funny, that scenario popped up two or three times in my life, and it always played out the same. Too much attention, too fast a pace, and I was gone.

If I'd stayed a bit longer, would I have the house, the kids, the subsidized career opportunities? Makes me wonder.


THERE'S MORE ...

Saturday, July 08, 2006

Hiss if you must


It warms the cockles of my heart to see that, with all the money that could be used to make a real difference in the world, someone has paid a fortune to produce a piece of dreck like this. I was watching... the Tube last night and when the trailer came on, I was sure it was a parody. But no.

Okay, Hollywood - I might be silly enough to spend ten bucks to see a Christopher Reeve clone flying around in a blue suit (the suit may well be the best part...), but I draw the line at flying rattlesnakes.

Speaking of Reeves's -- the new "Hollywoodland," looks at the death of TV's Superman, George Reeves. Ben Affleck takes off his own toupee, switches to another, and it looks like he may actually be in a good movie about a Superhero. What was that other thing was in -- playing that blind cartoon character? The Shadow? The Hornet? Hold on...oh yeah, Daredevil. Oy.

But Samuel L. Jackson, what were you thinking? Hissssssssssssssssssssss.


THERE'S MORE ...

Friday, July 07, 2006

Who's Your Daddy?


Not me.

Somewhere along the line, I slowly transformed from the happy-go-lucky college boy into some guy who's technically middle-aged. I shudder a little as I type this. And it's not palsy. Katharine Hepburn always said -- her tremors were hereditary and that a little alcohol always helped them stop. I just think she wanted a reason to drink.

But I digress.

I was in the elevator yesterday, checking out this cute guy. Subtly, of course, because we live in the same building and it would be awkward if I made an ass of myself and then had to see him someday, over the fabric softener. The doors opened and he leaned over toward me. Yes! Then I realized he was holding them open for me.

"Have a good day, sir," he said.

Sir. He actually called me "sir." Christ.

"I'm not a 'sir,' I wanted to shout, "don't you know I'm only twenty-five? Inside! Deep, deep, deep inside..."

I remember going to the bars after college and surmising that there were three distinct age groups.

1. Young

2. Forty-ish.

3. What are you even doing up this late, Grandpa?

Number three was out of the question, of course, but I also would never even consider going out with someone forty. Blechhh.

Well, ain't karma a bitch?

Picture this: I'm sitting on a barstool, holding a cigarette (which I never light, because I don't really smoke). "I don't like to suck on it, I just like to hold it," was always my droll reply. Holding an unlit cigarette is a great way to start a conversation, actually, because guys will come up to give you a light. But then, when you tell them you don't smoke, they recoil, shaking their heads. (I told you it was a great way to start a conversation; I never told you it would progress from there.)

So, this young guy comes up and starts to chat.

"Good night, tonight," he says, looking around.

"Yeah...sure is." I quickly drop the cigarette on the floor. We chatted for about fifteen minutes and I thought things were going well. What I particularly liked were his thoughts on monogamy, making a home with another guy, holding hands in public - all that romantic stuff. Over the thumping of some deafening rap song, he leaned into my ear. Yes.

"Could you slide over a little? My boyfriend can't get in."

I backed my chair out and in popped the S.O.B. ("Significant Other Bastard) who, not surprisingly, looked exactly like the guy I'd been chatting up. As I see so often in young couples, these guys looked like mirror images. Brothers. Twins. Hot as that may be at the right moment - this was not it.

"This is Kenny, my partner," my barmate said.

"Wow. Huh. You boys look too young to have -- 'partners.' When did you meet, kindergarten?"

"Oh God, we've been together for five years," Kenny said. "Right, Charlie? It's our anniversary next week."

"Yeah, if I don't kill her first," Charlie chimed in.

"Oh stop it! We're actually very happy," Kenny said, and they both giggled.

"We just tease -- and then we please! You know how it is."

"Uh huh."

"Well, come on, 'lovah,' we have to get home and walk Geronimo. We just got a little house in Society Hill. You know, the mortgage payments are less than my rent was! And then, when you have two people splitting it - God!"

"Nice talking with you," Charlie said, and then, true to his word, he walked off, hand-in-hand, with his monogamous boyfriend, to their happy home. And to Geronimo, who I hoped had taken a big dump on their new, white carpet.


THERE'S MORE ...

Tuesday, July 04, 2006

Emil, part two


Edgemont Park, Montclair. In the dark, he pushes me back and forth on a swing set, on a surprisingly cool June night. Fireflies. Only a streetlight. His fingers lower on my back than -- they had to be. Keeping an eye out. Cautious, but not stopping. Push. Creak. Push. Creak. Push.

We had walked the railroad track earlier that day, one foot in front of the other along the smooth, rounded rail. A balancing act; him in front of me, me tracing his footsteps.

After the swing that night, back to my house. I switch the lamps off. He turns them back on. He can see my glare in the moonlight; he turns one back on. Then, the all too-familiar ritual: trying to come together, trying to hug, fingers trying to open shirts. His hands hold my hips, thumbs in the belt loops.

"What's the difference if we do something?" I asked.

"Yes, what is the difference? So why do it?"

"You know you want to." I put my face against his neck.

"Stop," he whispered.

"What do you want do, play Monopoly?" I pushed him down on the bed and he didn't get up. He didn't do anything. He wanted me to want him, I think. I think that was the game.

When I moved to New York two months later, he stopped calling. He didn't come into town. Too far away to see someone's devotion, he moved on.

Yes, go back to your half-"girlfriend". Go back to your half-"rock band". Go back to your full-time delusions. Fuck. If only I could only have learned my lesson then.


THERE'S MORE ...

Sunday, July 02, 2006

Emil, part one


All right, another of the Rogue's Gallery: Emil. Sounds like a Nazi name, doesn't it? Like Adolf or Hans or ... Wolfie.

He had pale skin, brown hair, piercing blue eyes, and these little "non-lips." You know the kind; those little slits some people -- have for a mouth. That was Emil.

While I still lived in New Jersey, we were in a community play, and after a rehearsal one of the cast had us all over to watch the TONY's.

"See that? That'll be you, one day," he whispered, snuggling beside me into a sofa which was already overcrowded.

"Shhhh, no talking during the show!!" somebody said.

"And I'll be able to say I knew you when..."

"Shut up, you guys!"

All of this was very confusing. Even at thirty, I was still naive enough to open up to a "straight" guy handing me a line like that. Hey, when you're starving, you'll eat Alpo. I just made myself sick. Let me get some Coke.

Okay, better. Where was I? Oh yes, Emil the dog. He was a songwriter and played in a band. This band had been playing on and off for years, just like his relationship with his (yes, here it comes...) GIRLFRIEND. Do I know how to pick 'em? What am I, some sticky wicket that trips up these losers on their way to the altar? Some depreciator of their Kinsey Six scores? Some merit badge (Task 7: screw Doug's head up) before they graduate from Cub Scout to Eagle Scout. Or Webelow? (I always loved that word; it's naughty any way you pronounce it).

The day after the party, I got calls from castmembers who were gobsmacked about the whole thing. Scandal!

"Hey, I have no idea."

"He has a girlfriend somewhere. New York?"

"I have no idea."

"Are you going to do something?"

"I have no idea." I just went for it. And by "went for it," I mean I launched into another one of those ill-fated affairs which are better left in Barbara Cartland novels. If she were gay.


THERE'S MORE ...

Saturday, July 01, 2006

Snap, Crackle, Fizzle


Okay, I can tell all you peeps have deserted me for the long weekend. Damn you.

I have just two good friends here in town; one's a guy and one's a gal. My pal L, not her full name, is never available on weekends - so, of course she's away this holiday weekend. And my friend K, not his full name, has just gotten a new boyfriend. They're off, too. Lah-de-da. Lah-de-da. Yeh yeh. I told him to - have a simply FABULOUS weekend with Ramon. Or Sergio. He had one date with this guy a month ago and this Latin Lotharo bit his lip. That was the highlight of their evening. They had nothing much to talk about, especially with split lips. And now they're off to have some fireworks of their own.

I told myself this holiday means nothing. What carries weight -- besides my stomach, since I've been bingeing after Psycho Boy -- is the fact that I always seem to be alone.

Blahblahblah. I took two Xanax to stem the quicksand of pity rising around me and I was just zoning out when the phone rang. Who was ths going to be? I got rid of caller ID, which has only added to my daily stress. What the hell; even a call from my Mother, who would at least get me out of my own head.

"Hello...", I muttered. It was an acquaintance.

"I just called to see what you were up to tonight?"

"Absolutely nothing."

"Well, do you want to go --"

"Absolutely!"

"But I didn't even tell what I thought would be---"

"I don't care. Take me to one of your filthy little strip clubs that skeave me out. Take me to the piano bar where I can plug my ears while twenty-somethings belt out 'New York, New York'. Just get me outta here!" I said.

"Okay, okay -- I'll be there in an hour."

I didn't know how strong the pills were until I started to write this post and I misspelled every goddamn word. Should be an interesting night.

I will pick up on this later, but, "I will not pick up any boys in their twenties. I will pick up no boys in their twenties."


THERE'S MORE ...

Blanche's Boston Bulletin


Recently received this from Blanche, pointing out that mannequins are still -- in the news.

She was shocked to see that two of her pals from the GLBT-M (gay, lesbian, bisexual, transgender, MANNEQUIN) Society were dragged out of Macy's window in Boston. It seems the clothes they wore caused quite a stir. As if they had dressed themselves.

"I know these guys," Blanche said. "You can bet some queen at Macy's had a couple Cosmos and went wild with that Rainbow schmatte. Why, just last week, these dummies were dressed in chinos and Polo shirts! Don't cart off my proud wooden brothers !"

You go, girl!


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