Happy New Year!

Happy New Year and welcome to TransGriot!

I finally decided at the urging of a few friends to try my hand at the wonderful world of blogging.(They really didn't need to push me too hard, I'd been thinking about it for a few months anyway).

One of the things I've noticed is that while there are tons of blogs out there, I'm willing to bet that there probably aren't many on The Web that feature the musings of African-American transpeople. (If there is one, please bring it to my attention)

One reason I've started TransGriot the Blog is that when I write my monthly column for a local GLBT alternative newspaper, there are subjects that pop up in which I'd love to go in depth on, but I'm constricted by time or my word limit. This blog will allow me to do that and comment on breaking news and issues that crop up in real-time.

One thing I can promise you dear reader is that you won't be disappointed. There will be times I'll make you laugh. Other times I'll touch your heart. Then there will be the occasional time or two when I piss you off. But my goal is to make you think and expose you to some of the drama that African-American transpeeps (and transpeople in general) deal with.

78 Degrees And Mostly Queer

It should be snowing any minute up in New York City, so I'd like to present the following photos in the spirit of "Neener, neener, neener!" All of these pictures should enlarge nicely, should you need to warm yourselves by your screen.
Below: This little gabled structure covers the entrance to the tunnel that used to run under the street from the beach to the entrance of the basement disco of the fabulously gay, infamously seedy, Marlin Beach Hotel, where many a "straight" spring-breaking frat boy would slip away from his Greek brothers, for some literal greeking, swimming the warm waters of sins of the flesh, rather than the still-icy waters of the Atlantic. The Marlin Beach's swimming pool had windows in the bottom, so that dancers could look up at all the pretty mer-boys. The Cortez Street entrance and the block of sand across from the Marlin Beach Hotel was the gay beach of South Florida for decades, popular even after the Marlin closed.Below: A monstrosity called Beach Place now occupies the hallowed ground where the Marlin Beach staged its notorious daily t-dances in the poolside "Poop Deck" disco. Adding insult to travesty, there is a Hooters on the third floor. Below: Christmas cheer, Lauderdale beach style.
Below: Shortly after the opening of Beach Place, with its attached Marriott Hotel, the gay beach was overrun with tour groups of pale, overweight Europeans. Appalled, our boys snatched up their Ralph Lauren beach towels in disgust and relocated the gay beach to the Sebastian Street entrance, one block away, mostly because there's a parking lot across the street. But the parking lot is not large, you need a combination of patience and ruthlessness to score an afternoon spot. Below: These two fellows gave me 'tude for taking this picture, probably thinking I was some old pervert collecting beefcake to post on the internet. Really, I only wanted a simple manscape of the gay beach, but rather than disappoint them....
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A Flare From Fort Lauderdale

Well, I haven't forgotten how to drive. My annual visit to South Florida is usually preceeded by a bit of irrational fear that somehow my driving skills have atrophied, like a language you never practice, and that I have lost the ability to navigate the sea of rental cars barreling down I-95 , each vehicle starring in a one car show called Hey, That Was Our Exit! This year, I wonder if all those onboard direction computers are only heightening the drama, "The map lady said you were supposed to take that exit. You never listen. Why she even bothers, I don't know."

And let's hope that je me souviens not to venture onto the roads between 3-5pm. That's when the snowbirds, those tens of thousands of Quebecois who winter in Broward County, turn the streets into a daily running of Early Bird Dinner Special Deathrace 2000, a Francophone demolition derby of seemingly driverless Crown Victorias and Lincoln Town Cars, automotive Flying Dutchmen slaloming down Hollywood Boulevard in a breakneck race to reach the restaurant parking lot first, and win that most coveted of culinary prizes, the Good Spot.

The largest French-speaking community in the United States is in Hollywood, the sleepy oceanside burg sandwiched between Fort Lauderdale and the Miami-Dade County border. Hollywood hardly seems to have earned its co-starring billing at the Fort Lauderdale-Hollywood International Airport, yet it's the place to go if you want to see a cocktail lounge Elvis impersonator deliver an accordion-laced version of Blue Suede Shoes, en francais, which you do. During the four month snowbird season, every business in Hollywood shoves a Je Parle Francais! sign into their window, if they know what's good for them. Right now, Denny's marquee is letting everybody know that the Grand Slam Breakfast is available tout le temps, in case you were wondering.

The lingering effects of Hurricane Wilma can be seen everywhere. From where I sit writing this, I can see bright blue plastic tarps on the roofs of several homes on this street. The local construction and utilities industries were caught out of position with Wilma. So much manpower had been directed to the Katrina effort that it took many days just to get basic services restored. This visit, I've been feeling my way around town. Some store signs and other landmarks remain gone or knocked down and with so many street signs missing, I've had to actually count off the blocks as I drive past, so that I can find the streets where my friends live.

It's striking how the palm trees survived largely unscathed, other than a general frond denuding. The ficus trees are another story. Ficus trees, long prized by homeowners for their fast growth and ample shade, have proven deadly to many structures because of their very shallow root systems. On every street you can find a massive ficus lying on its side, its roots hanging as high as the branches once did. I have a feeling that the expression "ficus-free lot" will become a common tagline for South Florida realtors.

From what I can tell, the tourists appear to be thumbing their noses at the mountainous roadside piles of hurricane debris and are continuing to stream in as always. The bars and restaurants are jammed and the highways are in their usual state of winter gridlock. Yesterday, I joined the crawling line of cars creeping along the beachfront drive. Sunburned tourists jaywalked between our cars, shuttling frozen drinks in to-go containers out to their blankets, which I think is a no-no, but I'm gonna guess that the alcohol police have been told to look the other way this year.

Last night I dropped in at The Ramrod, which I once decided would be the winner of Best Leather Bar That Used To Be A Convenience Store, should such an award exist. I've made up other awards for Fort Lauderdale bars. I used to say that The Stud (now defunct) would win Best Gay Disco That Used To Be A Red Lobster and that The Eagle (also defunct) would win Best Leather Bar Where The Patrons Have Sex After Hours In The McDonald's Playground Next Door. Briefly, there was a Best Gay Bar That Used To Be A Titty Bar award, but the category got too crowded to pick a clear winner.

I left Fort Lauderdale ten years ago, but last night at the Ramrod I didn't run into anybody from my past, which hasn't happened before. Not that I didn't know at least half of the crowd, by name or by face, but New Yorkers don't count.

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Via Grand Central

My view of Grand Central, taken from the express bus stop on Thursday as I was whisked away to LGA on my way to Florida.
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The Dance Of The Sugar Plum Lesbians

(Reposted from Christmas Eve 2004)

Grand Central Terminal functions as the mechanical heart of midtown New York City, pumping out several thousand workers and tourists on one beat, then sucking in several thousand more on the next.

The rhythms of the terminal are fascinating.

Beat. Four thousand, inbound from New Haven.

Beat. Three thousand, outbound to Westchester.

Worlds collide on the main floor.

The tourists gawk up at the gloriously ornate ceiling and uselessly flash their digital cameras at objects hundreds of feet away.

The commuters rush up to the track displays to determine their track number, then dart across the terminal floor, dodging the milling tourists like a running back heading for the end zone with two seconds left on the clock.

It's mesmerizing. It's majestic.

And sometimes, like tonight, it's magical.

I'm walking through the massive main room just as the holiday laser show begins on the ceiling. To the tune of "Take The 'A' Train" the laser depicts two trains arriving from different directions. The trains stop opposite each other, and a reindeer leaps out of each one and crosses over to the opposite train.

The laser traces the outline of one of the zodiac constellations painted on the ceiling, and the Cancer crab leaps to life and becomes the Crab Conductor, waddling down the center aisle of the car, punching the reindeers' ticket stubs with his claws.

I move over to the edge of the room, near the entrance for Track 25, so I can watch the reaction to the show. As usual, I'm more entertained by watching the audience than by watching the actual show.

At the ticket windows, standing in front of signs that say "Harlem Line" or "Hudson Line", commuters tilt their heads painfully back to view the show directly overhead. The tourists cluster in delighted circles, holding each others' elbows for balance as they nearly bend over backwards.

Some people move to the edges of the great hall, as I have, to remove themselves from the traffic flow while they watch. Among those that come to join me on the perimeter of the room is a lesbian couple. They stand quite close to me, the taller woman behind the shorter one, with her arms wrapped around her, supporting her a bit, as they both lean back on the marble wall.

The shorter woman is stout, with a large firm chest. Her hair is short and brushed back into what might have once been called a ducktail. She has an ornate tattoo on her left forearm, and she has a leather wallet protruding from the rear pocket of her jeans, attached to her leather belt by a short silver chain. She has more than a passing resemblence to Tony Danza, her big boobs nothwithstanding, so naturally (in my head) I name her Toni.

Toni's girlfriend is blond, her short ponytail dangles just above her collar. She is wearing long Christmas tree earrings, which nearly brush her shoulders. Her lanky, sinewy limbs are bound in a tight running outfit, over which she is wearing a school athletic jacket. I imagine that she might be a coach at Yale or Harvard, perhaps a girls lacrosse coach, or maybe track and field.

Coach is squeezing Toni tightly, and they bounce together to the music a bit. Coach looks over at me and catches me smiling. She nudges Toni, who looks over at me too, and we all grin goofily at each other for a moment.

Overhead, a new show begins. The familiar opening notes of Tchaikovsky's "Dance Of The Sugar Plum Fairies" ring out as the Empire State Building and the Chrysler Building sprout arms, bow to each other, and begin waltzing across the ceiling.

I look around the room and it's as if time was frozen for just a second, every person stopped in mid-stride, eyes cast upward, mouths open in silent joy.

Toni pushes away from Coach, turns around and delivers her a bow as deep and as elegant as the one just depicted overheard.

"Madame, may I please have this dance?," she asks Coach.

Coach looks around a bit awkwardly, "You are TOO much!" And she giggles.

"Madame, I must insist!," says Toni, as she takes Coach's hands into hers.

Coach relents and she and Toni begin a beautful, slow waltz, moving in half-time to the music. As you might have guessed already, Toni leads.

As they dance, their eyes remain locked on each other. Toni is giving Coach an intense look, her lips tightly curled into a satisfied smile. Coach is grinning from ear to ear, and again she giggles.

All around Coach and Toni, the tourists, the businessmen, the students, the conductors, even the guy with a broom, they're all watching. Some are expressionless, but more are smiling, and some of them...some of them are frantically fussing with their cameras, eager to capture this magical New York Moment.

Serendipity prevails, the tune ends, and Toni dips Coach backwards with a dramatic upsweep of her free arm as a firestorm of camera flashes erupt around them. Toni pulls Coach up and close to her, and they hug. There's another camera flash, and the crowd begins to move along.

Then.

"Hey, look!"

The laser show is being concluded with giant sprigs of mistletoe appearing over our heads. This time, it's Coach who bends down and plants a long tender kiss on Toni's non-lipsticked mouth. There's another flash of cameras from the delighted audience.

Toni takes Coach's hand, and they begin to move off towards the exit.

"Oh, don't stop yet!," says a disappointed woman, still rumaging for her camera.

Toni looks back over her shoulder and says, "I never will."

The mechanical heart of New York City, Grand Central Terminal, beats again, but this time I hear a different rhythm. This time I hear a double beat.


HAPPY HOLIDAYS EVERYBODY!

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The Mommy Box, Part 5

The Mommy Box, Part 4

My heart was pounding so loudly in my ears, I almost couldn't hear Tim's mother dialing the phone that hung on the wall in his kitchen.

I heard her say, "It's me. I just walked all the way down to the corner to wait for that bus. It doesn't come until 10:15am. How could you not know that? You've lived up here for 20 fucking years. How can you not know the goddamn bus schedule? I'll go back down there when it's time for the bus. You'll see me when you see me. Good-bye."

Dizzy, I raced through a mental list of options. I could call out to Tim's mother, say that I was in the apartment, that Tim had asked me to....asked me....ARGH! I couldn't think of what he could have asked me to do. OK, what else? I could call out to her and say that there was a leak in my apartment and that I came down to see if there was damage. Only my apartment was TWO floors above, not one. And anyway, she'd come into the bedroom and see me with the Mommy Box up on the handtruck. In either case, she was bound to scream, come at me with a knife, mace me, shoot me, who could tell with that old bitch? At that point, I would have settled for her calling 911, but I didn't dare risk the other options.

So I stayed paralyzed. I looked at my watch, it was 9:40am. I had about 30 minutes before she'd leave again to head to the bus stop. I still had the Mommy Box tilted back on the handtruck, my right hand still on the handle. I was afraid to lower the box to the ground, lest the contents shift position and make noise. My hand was aching, my heart was pounding. And I had to piss. Possibly as much from fear as real need.

The bedroom door wasn't open all the way, so I stepped to the right, turning the box slightly on the handtruck wheels, so that I could hide behind the door. Twenty seconds later, Tim's mother walked past the bedroom into the bathroom. The next couple of minutes are still a bit foggy for me because Tim's mother was topless. As in not wearing a shirt. As in saggy, leathery, 75 year old boobies. I wanted to cry out, "My eyes! My beautiful eyes! My cursedly operable beautiful eyes!" But I didn't.

Then she walked past the bedroom door again, this time wearing a sweatshirt, thank Jeebus. I stayed cowering behind the door. The pain in my hand was unbearable. The need to piss was causing me to jiggle my leg. The longest half hour in recorded history later, I heard keys jangling again and Tim's mother left the apartment. I waited sixty seconds, then raced to the door, dragging the Mommy Box out behind me. Another minute later I had the Mommy Box upstairs and safely inside my apartment, whereupon I collapsed on the floor and twitched for a few minutes.

*****

Allen left me a message about a week later. "Joe, I just wanted to let you know that Tim died in his sleep two nights ago. It was very peaceful and the nurse on duty said he wasn't in discomfort, which...you know....is a blessing. I guess it was the infection, towards the end they were thinking he had sepsis. I know you guys weren't really friends or anything, but I wanted to tell you because you'd done that nice thing for him with his box of porn."

Surprisingly...I wasn't surprised. I suppose I had grown numb to these sort of phone calls. I played Allen's message a couple of times and went to the Twin Peaks Safeway, where I ran into Allen himself. We hugged in the aisle, an oddly long hug from someone with whom I really had only a passing acquaintance.

I stepped back from our hug and said, "So how's Tim's mom taking this?"

Allen shrugged, "Who can tell? That old biddy was always so mean to Tim when I was around. She came by the hospital after he died, to claim the body and all that stuff. She didn't even speak to me."

"What are they doing as far as a funeral?"

"He's already been cremated. They did it the next day. There isn't going to be a service, or at least, I haven't heard about one, not that his mother would bother to tell me."

"What about his friends? Are you guys doing anything?"

"Well, there's really just me and Eduardo. As far I know, all of Tim's other friends have died. I don't even know anybody else who knew him. There isn't anybody to notify."

That blew me away. Outside of his family, Tim only had two friends that would note his passing. Allen followed me home from the supermarket and I gave him the contents of the Mommy Box, which he put into two Hefty garbage bags.

"What are you gonna do with it all?" I asked

"I dunno, keep it....I guess. I didn't know Tim back during his porn days, but somebody should keep this stuff, you know? Keep a record that Tim was here."

I nodded. Allen left with the bags and I never ran into him again.

*****

About a month after Tim died, my friend Ray stopped by on his way home from the gym. We stood chatting in the kitchen and Ray noticed the Mommy Box, still lying behind my sofa. I had already told Ray about Tim.

Ray asked, "So what are you gonna do with the box?"

"Throw it out, I guess."

"Maybe the family wants it. Isn't that them down there moving his stuff out?"

I went to my bedroom window where I could see a Ryder truck parked across from our front door. A couple of big guys were loading the truck with Tim's furniture. His mother was standing at the back of the truck, smoking. She was wearing that ridiculous black wig and sweatpants.

I had Ray take an end of the now empty Mommy Box and together we carried it downstairs and put it on the sidewalk next the front door. I walked across the street to Tim's mother and said, "Hi, I'm Joe. We met in the hall once?"

She narrowed her eyes. "So?"

"Oh, well...I had a piece of Tim's furniture up in my place. I guess he didn't have any room for it. It's over there by the door. My friend and I can put it in-"

"Just leave it there. I'll see if I want it," she said. Then she turned away, dismissing me.

I shrugged at Ray, who waved and headed down the sidewalk to his car. Back upstairs, I looked out my bedroom window to see that, apparently unbidden, the furniture movers had carried the Mommy Box over to the rear of the truck, leaving it on the ground while they moved larger pieces inside.

Tim's mother was standing over the Mommy Box. I watched her flick her cigarette to the ground. Then slowly, she dropped to her knees. I watched her hands...her knotted, bony, liver-spotted, nicotine-stained hands as they spread out reverently over the faded words on the lid, just as I'd seen her son do.

Good Boys Always Put Their Toys Away. Love, Mommy.

Then Tim's mother leaned forward and hugged the box.

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Officer, Is This The Line To Get A Taxi?

For those that have written to ask me why New Yorkers don't all just take cabs until this mess is over: There are 11,787 taxis on the streets of the five boroughs of New York City, a number which is controlled by city law and has not been increased since the 1950's. That's 11,787 taxis and 8 million people.

Fucking Crisis

Yes, yes...solidarity with the workers.

Yes, yes...fight the power.

Yes, yes...a decent living wage.

But also, this: I had BETTER fucking not miss my fucking plane to Fort fucking Lauderdale, where I expect to spend the better fucking part of the next two fucking weeks fucking. Cuz that will make for one fucking unhappy fucking blogger.

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Thinking Of You, This Holiday Season

Disclaimer: Art is not meant for climbing on. Especially enormous abstract modern metal sculptures placed outside office buildings as a testament that the CEO has really good taste and a lot of money, or at least, the money. Modern art is supposed to be mysterious and should never be ridden.

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A Better Way To Shop

A brisk walk across Central Park with Eddie and we arrived at the Farmboyz' Upper West Side pied-a-terre shortly after noon. Farmboy C served several rounds of his famously spicy and potent Bloody Marys and then we headed out to tour midtown's mad crush of holiday destinations in the condition in which they are best experienced.

Hammered.

First, a stroll through the plaza at Lincoln Center, where we all expressed dismay and wonderment at its continual decay and generally decrepit condition. Farmboy C impressed me by volunteering the names of the architects responsible for each of the three Lincoln Center buildings. Father Tony remarked that prior to Lincoln Center's arrival, the site had been the location of the filming of West Side Story. These guys know their city.

Next stop, Starbucks, so that all could purchase a warm place to keep their whiskey. 'Cept me, a'course. I loathe coffee, therefore I was rocking a to-go container of Farmboy C's Bloody Mary potion, smartly concealed in a Jamba Juice bottle that we'd rescued from his kitchen trashcan.

At the Bryant Park rink, we watched the skaters hold hands as they spun around the ice. At the corner of 6th Avenue, we watched a crying handsome man hold hands with his icy girlfriend. Then we were standing before the Rockefeller Center Christmas tree, which we all agreed was as flaccid and disappointing as Shopgirl.

Over to 5th Avenue for some window shopping and people watching. We spotted a leather queen striding up the sidewalk and carrying a bag from J.R. Cigars. He was smoking the longest, most ridiculous looking cigar I'd ever seen. A few minutes later we found Lady Cigar standing transfixed before one of the Bergdorf windows, his eyes glazing over at the over-the-top art deco display of mirror balls and feathers. I love my people.

The Farmboyz insisted on showing us the new Abercrombie & Fitch flagship store, despite our universal loathing of the brand, because they'd been blown away by the murals over the store's interior staircases. It was the right call, the store was impressive, a towering thundering chundering pean to Peter Pan syndrome, with pretty boys this close to manhood working the counters, and gay men this close to creaming, working the aisles. The sound system was as sophisticated as any nightclub, only MUCH MUCH LOUDER. So loud, that when a customer asked this guy why the store was selling the opportunity to have a photo taken with him at the low price of $1.00, I couldn't hear his answer.

Back outside Abercrombie, I drew our attention to a foursome of shoppers that I'd just spotted. All of them in ankle-length minks. All of them with Virginia Slims perched between flawlessly manicured nails on hands laden with massive diamond rings. Thousand-dollar frost jobs and thousand-dollar Botoxes. They stood facing each other, toe-to-Manolo'd toe, emitting an occasional shriek of laughter with a tossed back head. They were mesmerizing. Father Tony took me by the elbow and murmured, "I know what you're thinking, Joe. There's four of them, there's four of us....."

With the darkness, Dugout, where we ran into Mark, the former president of the SF bear club, touring NYC with his husband. We kidnapped Mark, sans husband, to the Eagle, where I was blown away by their hot new poster from even hotter photographer Joe Oppedisano. The new Eagle poster features current employees in a...group pose. Go browse through the work on Joe's site, you will not be bored.

Some quality conversation with a few local blogger hotties, and we were back home, a mere 11 hours after we left the house "to go shopping". Now, that was the kind of shopping I can deal with.


UPDATE: Photographer Joe Oppedisano was kind enough to contact me this morning and email me the photo used in the 2006 Eagle poster. With his permission, I am posting it here. Thanks, Joe! Enjoy, people!




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URBS Update

NOW, we got us a horse race!
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Train Tribulations

Gentle readers, I am Mister Politeness on the subway. I never block the door, I always move to the center of the car. I'm careful with my backpack and my umbrella and my newspaper, and if I ever actually got a seat, I would definitely give it up to a pregnant lady.

But this morning I punched a 78 year old man.

I was trying to squeeze onto the 6 train and had just made it across the threshold, when I felt two fists pushing hard on my kidneys. Without turning around, I swung my right hand behind me and slugged the person behind me. I've never done anything like that, but it was an instinctual reaction both to being startled and to the pain.

My assailant was a short, dapper man in a floor length cashmere coat. He was wearing a fedora and had oversized black glasses. He reminded me of a male Carrie Donovan, whom you may best remember from her Old Navy commericals. The doors shut behind us, leaving me now scrunched up against the person I just had clobbered.

He screeched at me, "Vat's da matta? You tink you are untouchable?"

I said, "No, I think pushing like that is rude and unnecessary." I turned away from him as much as I could.

From a few feet away I heard a man with a Russian accent tell the old man, "Hey mister, it's too early to be acting like that."

The old man said, "I'm 78 years old. What do I know from early?"

The Russian man said, "Well if you wanna see 79, you need to chill. You're lucky he's a peaceful man over there."

The old man made one of those dismissive old man noises. "Feh!" or "Meh!" You know what I'm talking about. And then he got out at 59th Street. All that to ride one stop.

*****

The other day I got a letter from my Congresswoman. It's kinda neat that I live in a neighborhood, that has its own Congressperson. In the letter, she tries to rally support for the construction of the 2nd Avenue subway line, desperately needed due to the overcrowding on the Lexington line, which every day carries more passengers than the combined ridership of the entire San Francisco, Boston and Chicago transit systems.

The East Side used to have two elevated lines, on 2nd Avenue and on 3rd, but those were dismantled in the 40's after the neighborhood became so posh that residents had the clout to have the noisy trains removed. I was thinking how cool it would be too have a subway line right on my corner, until I read that construction will be going until 2017. I seriously doubt that I'll be living on the East Side when the residents get to enjoy their new subway line.

******

Tonight at 12:01am, the MTA Transit Workers Union is set to go on strike, crippling the city at the height of the holiday shopping and travel season. The mayor is encouraging people to sleep in their offices. No personal cars will be allowed in Manhattan below 95th Street. Cabs will be allowed to pick up multiple fares, DC-style.

The last strike was in 1980, in warm weather. Tonight we are expecting a snowstorm.

This will be interesting.

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Fakeback Mountain

Unlike many others, I'm not dying to see two fake gays playing "straight guys who fall in love", especially after enduring unending soundbites of these fake gays reassuring worried America that they do indeed enjoy poontang in real life.

I resent that what may turn out the be the best critically received gay love movie ever, has no gay actors in it. I resent that if two gay actors had been cast, this movie would have zero visibility, regardless of its merit. I resent that America will only come to watch fake gays making fake love and I resent that casting the fake gays was the right business decision to make.

And I resent that this is how it probably always will be.

UPDATE: Reaction to this post, pro and con, but mostly con, can be found here, here, here, here, here, and here.

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Yenta Update

Remember the two guys who hooked up over my Frappr map last week?

"Hey Joe! Just wanted to drop you a quick line and let you know that I had a blast visiting Xxxx down in Xxxx last weekend. He showed me around town some but mostly we fucked like "dirty gay Frapprs". LOL! Anyway, we're gonna get together again, probably after the holidays. Just thought you'd like to know. - Xxxx"

At least somebody is getting laid from this blog.

Village Neon

SuperDaddy At The Dugout

Another Sunday, another hazy evening at the Dugout.

I arrive to find SuperDaddy at his usual position, guarding the jukebox. I check my watch, 6pm, good. I have an odd habit of setting unnecessary appointments for myself and it strangely pleases me when I arrive somewhere at my self-appointed time. Same thing for returning home.

I join SuperDaddy at the jukebox, now my comfortable station. I like the way that even in very crowded bars, groups of friends always stake out the same territory, week after week. The 10 square feet around the Dugout's jukebox are Camp SuperDaddy, and we mere satellites orbiting around his jovian person, using his height and brawn as a return beacon, when navigating trips to the bar and the can. New arrivals stop and pay homage to SuperDaddy before getting their first drink, this obeisance as much a part of their bar ritual as any other.

"Gawdamn it, Joe! You haven't blogged my Nipsey Russell story! I told it to you right after he died. You said it was hilarious!" That's Brooklyn Tad, the tall alt-rock/art fag with the septum ring. The last time I saw Tad he was in drag at Wigstock.

"Tell me the story again, so I get it right," I tell him.

Tad answers, "OK, this is how it went. I was at a dinner party a few years ago, on the Upper East Side, and after dinner the hostess was passing around some weed, when someone started pounding on the door. She went to answer it and we could hear a long, loud argument coming from the hallway. And I heard some man say, 'I know you got some good shit in there!'. Finally she came back into the living room and said, 'That's my neighbor, Nipsey Russell. He could smell our weed and wanted some. Nipsey like to puff, but he don't like to pay!'"

I laughed, "Right, that's a great line. And now let me tell you my favorite Nipsey Russell poem."

The opposite of pro is con
That fact is clearly seen
If progress means move forward
Then what does Congress mean?

What, you don't have a favorite Nipsey Russell poem?

Speaking of poems, on my last visit to the Dugout, I was drunkenly composing dirty limericks. I had just sullenly announced that nothing rhymed with bukkake. SuperDaddy happened to be passing and he leaned down to whisper, "Air hockey!", then kept going. That man is sharp, I tells ya.

Tonight, back at the jukebox, SuperDaddy is glaring over the shoulder of a guy who is feeding dollars into the machine. Clearly, this interloper doesn't know that SuperDaddy arrives early enough, and with enough singles, to commandeer at least 3 hours of jukebox time. That is, unless the interloper pays the extra money that this fancy new digital jukebox requires for his song to jump the queue and play next, which he does.

SuperDaddy watches the interloper make his selection and snickers to me, "Gypsies, Tramps and Thieves! Tim won't let that play for 10 seconds." And sure enough, before Cher can even open her mouth, the bartender hits some button that cuts the song. SuperDaddy explains that two songs, "Gypsies, Tramps and Thieves" and "Half Breed" are strictly forbidden at the Dugout, for reasons known only to him and Tim.

As an aside, I'll mention that to my mind, digital jukeboxes are a step backward in saloon entertainment. A carefully curated jukebox is often the best sales tool for a bar. Skillfully chosen selections not only set the entire tone of a joint, they can actually define the sort of customer the owners are looking for. What do we go to The Phoenix for, if not for the superbly managed jukebox inventory? When a jukebox offers unlimited options, music for all tastes, how does a bar establish its specific crowd? I suppose this problem is moot in the case of the Dugout, or any place with a long-established category of clientele. But I'd certainly never open a new bar with a digital jukebox.

At the bar, I fall into a conversation with a friend of SuperDaddy's, after I hear him mention his passion for PeeWee Herman's Christmas Special, which is my own favorite holiday tradition. We trade our favorite moments from the show for a few minutes, and when the guy wanders away, I ask SuperDaddy about the guy's t-shirt, which has a fire hydrant on it. SuperDaddy confirms that it means exactly what I suspect it does.

It's 8:30 now, so I bid SuperDaddy good-night, leaving him and his constellation of admirers at the jukebox. I grab a cab on Christopher Street and ten minutes later I'm at the Eagle, which is packed. I haven't really been feeling the Eagle lately, not sure why, but within an hour, I'm ready to go.

In front of the Eagle, the usual line of cabs is not to be found and I have to wait an unreasonable ten minutes before one finally rolls up and disgorges a fabulously stacked Latina with glitter in her hair. She's obviously arriving for her shift at Scores, the titty bar next door to the Eagle. As she gets out of the cab, we share a smile, a nightlife insiders smile. She knows my story and knows that I know hers. "Haf a gud night, papi," she murmurs as I hold the cab door for her. "You too," I reply.

My cabbie takes the now-familiar route home, up 10th Avenue, a right past Lincoln Center, then through Central Park, passing under Tavern On The Green, which seems to be having a major event tonight. Once on the East Side, I detour the cab past Wok-N-Roll and with my pork lo mein in hand, walk into my apartment at precisely 10pm, which is right on time.

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It Is What It Is

5AM: For the 71st day in a row, I'm awakened by the sound of pigeons in the airshaft outside my bathroom windows. I've been in this apartment for 71 days and without exception, their cooing and the clattering of their feathers has had me wide-awake before the sun rises. And for the 71st day in a row, I lie there wondering where I can buy bird poison.

730AM: The woman next door must be having a hard time figuring out what to wear to church. I heard her alarm go off at 6AM, like I always do. And I heard her slam her dresser drawers shut, two or three times, like I always do. But this morning, she returns to her dresser several more times before I finally hear her front door open and her keys jangling in the hallway.

10AM: The young couple upstairs has begun their day. First, the girl turns on their television for her usual exercise program, which must be called Clogging For Fitness. After an hour or so of energetic stomping, she will surrender the entertainment center to her boyfriend. He is a Surround Sound Specialist at the 86th Street Circuit City and apparently only likes to watch The Explosion Channel.

1145AM: The handsome young oboeist across the alley begins practicing. He's very talented, but as usual, he only practices the same short 3 minute piece over and over and over. The people he shares a terrace with try to drown him out with some music from their home country, which seems to be somewhere in the Grating region of central Shriekistan.

But I've never complained, not to any of them. And I never will. I knew what I was getting into when I moved to New York City. You don't move next to the airport and then complain about planes.

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Linky Love Leads Long Lists

Whew! First Gawker throws me a bone yesterday, and now I'm getting lots of linky love from other kind Gothamites. Thanks, much, to all of y'all. Keep sending the menz my way, I do appreciate it.

It looks like we've got well over 500 quotes submitted so far in the Gay Men's 100 All Time Favorite Movie Quotes list that I'm compiling. Who knew The Lion In Winter was such a treasure trove of campy cuntiness? I've never even seen it! I'm going to have to print out your suggestions and figure out a way to configure the results. Alphabetically, perhaps? Suggestions?

EDIT: BIG THANKS to Jockohomo for making my nifty URBS banner! That man can do anything!

How We Got The News

"Oh, good grief! Why do you insist on having a Slurpee after going out drinking? It's gross."

"I'll be right back," my roommate said and slammed the door of my car.

I kept the engine running and fiddled with the radio, trying to find the new Donna Summer single we'd heard just heard at the Parliament House. I looked through the windows of the 7-11 to see my roommate looking around the store in puzzlement. He looked out at me and waved at me to come inside the store. I turned off the car and walked inside.

"What's the problem?"

My roommate indicated the unmanned counter, "Look, there's no clerk! Nobody is here. Do you think they've been robbed?"

My pulse quickened. A few weeks earlier, there'd been a slaying of an Orlando convenience store clerk. The clerk's body had been found by the next customers to arrive in the store. That thought in mind, I peered into the back room of the store.

"Hello? Anybody here?"

We heard a small sound, like a kitten mewing. But the sound wasn't coming from the back room, it was coming from behind the front register. Fearfully, we leaned across the wide laminated counter, pushing aside the hot dog condiments and Slim Jim display. The clerk, a young woman, was lying there on the floor, sobbing, her mouth open but only an occasional faint cry escaping.

"Are you OK? Do you need help? Do you want us to call the police?"

The woman pulled herself to a sitting position, shaking her head. I noticed that she had a small transitor radio in her hand. She ran her hand down her face, as if trying to wake herself up from a bad dream, and said, "He's dead! He's dead! I can't fucking believe it!"

"Who's dead? Not the president!" my roommate gasped.

"No. It's Lennon. John Lennon. They shot him and he's dead," she sobbed, falling back over on her side.

We left her there on the floor and drove home in silence. Before I fell asleep that night, I heard my roommmate playing "Double Fantasy" in his room, and I think I heard him crying too.

That was 25 years ago, today.

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Prometheus, with snow yarmulke

Rockefeller Center, New York City

EDIT: Welcome, Gawkerites! Whatever you do, don't read the filthy gay trash sex stories on my "Goodness" list. Thanks, Joe.

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Line, Please...

A couple of weeks ago, I watched the American Film Institute's 100 Years, 100 Movie Quotes show on Bravo, in which they counted down their Top 100 favorites movie lines of all time. The quote at the top of their list was from Gone With The Wind, "Frankly my dear, I don't give a damn."

OK, not one of my personal favorites, and I can see how it topped their list, but it's just not something that I ever heard any of my friends say, and like all gay men, my friends love to quote from movies.

And that started me thinking.

I went back to the AFI list and scanned it for famous movie quotes that I've actually heard gay men repeat in my presence.

No. 7: "Mr. DeMille, I'm ready for my close-up." Check

No. 72: "No wire hangers." Oh, yes.

No. 99: "I'll get you, my pretty, and your little dog, too!" More times than I could count.

But still, overall, only around ten of the AFI's "all time most famous movie quotes" are lines that I can ever recall have heard spun out by the queens. Gay men don't ever EVER say "Say hello to my little friend." (Scarface) We say things like, "Get away from her, you BITCH!" (Aliens). We prefer our movie lines to be clever, catty, and importantly, cunty. And above all, spoken by a female. (Or at least, a man dressed like a female.)

So what would a list called Gay Men's 100 All Time Favorite Movie Quotes look like?

Let's make one.

I'll start with my personal Top Ten, and you good folks drop in with your own favorites. This is just for the gay boys, remember....unless your fag hag status is truly bona fide. After a week or so, I'll compile the responses from the comments and post the list. Don't worry about repeating a quote that someone has already mentioned, be true to your favorites.

1. "Did IQ's drop suddenly while I was away?" - Sigourney Weaver, Aliens

2. "It looks like a penis, only smaller." Bernadette Peters, Pink Cadillac

3. "What more can they do to me?" Madeline Kahn, What's Up, Doc?

4. "Don't you act for me!" Diana Scarwig, Mommie Dearest

5. "You most certainly ARE retarded, Taffy. - Divine, Pink Flamingos

6. "5000 dollars? It's not even leather!" - Joan Cusack, Working Girl

7. "All gay men are named Mark, Rick, or Steve." - Olympia Dukakis, Steel Magnolias

8. "Cavier should be round and hard and it should explode in your mouth at precisely the right moment." - Goldie Hawn, Overboard

9. "I kill with my cunt." Anne Carlise, Liquid Sky

10. "I love him so mu-uh-uch!" - Holly Hunter, Raising Arizona

Now, you.

100+ comments below

And the nominees are....

Me. Just me. Certainly not me AND five other worthy gay bloggers. Ignore them. By the way, did anybody see that story on CNN where it was announced that December was International Vote For Joe.My.God. Month? No? Really? Maybe I saw that on Fox.

Yes, gentle readers, I made the cut. I'd like to thank my coworkers, my friends and the manufacturers of Mountain Dew, all of whose support I need to keep writing my freaky little stories.

Voting for the Gawker Media 2005 Urban Blog Awards has commenced. You may vote for me here. And here. Aaaaaaaaaaand HERE. You may vote once a day, until you figure out how to hack around that, I think. Meanwhile, I've got to catch a plane to Bangalore, as I'm outsourcing my teams of hired voters. Sure, their pay is only 14 cents an hour, but it's not like they have to click their mouse more than once a day.

Lastly, I give my humblest thanks to you, gentle readers. If it wasn't for you all, I'd be putting my face into the blender most mornings, instead of two bananas and a lithium.

(P.S. - Vote HERE.)

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My First O.M.E.

The embargo is...lifted.

Saturday night, after 4 years and 8 months of living in New York City, I had my first Out of Manhattan Experience. Yes, gentle readers, I finally went outer borough. Recently, I let slip to you here that I had not yet explored more than the lower half of Manhattan. This revelation, delivered without pretension or embarrassment, resulted in my suffering much incredulity and ridicule from my readers who live here, who used to live here, and who wished they lived here.

Hence, one might presume that I was shamed into making a half-hearted foray into Brooklyn, grudgingly clambering onto the heretofore mysterious "L" train with its logic-defying cross-Manhattan route. But you'd be wrong.

I went to Brooklyn to see Bob Mould in concert.

I was accompanied by Farmboy C, who would act as my trusted guide and wary protector for the trip under the East River to the place called Williamsburg, rumored to be where the concept of wearing trucker hats jauntily askew was first seized upon, an epochal event without which we surely would have no Ashton Kutcher. That eureka moment aside, Williamsburg was utterly unknown to me and I worried that I would endure discomfit from the residents, whose odd manner of dress, curious language and generally queer ways are the stuff of barroom chatter throughout Manhattan.

But Farmboy put me at ease and suggested that if I were to encounter a curious local, I should respond with, "Sup?", a word with the utility and flexibility that "Aloha" has for Hawaiians, only in Williamsburg "Sup?" means "Hello", "Good-bye", "Let's fuck" and "I'd like a hit of that, please."

Our evening got off to an uncertain start as we tried to coordinate our meeting point in Grand Central Station.

"So do you wanna meet me at the top of the bottom escalators or at the bottom of the top escalators?"

"Um...what?"

Despite that muddy issue, I sailed down the East Side, Farmboy down the West, and we joined up on the downtown 6 with no problem. Minutes later we connected to the Brooklyn-bound L train. Farmboy and I sprawled on the bench of the sparsely populated car and I began to brief him on the Bob Mould catalog, as Farmboy had only a passing awareness of Husker Du and Sugar and only knew of Bob himself from Bob's relatively recent incarnation as Famous Out Rocker / Godfather Of Punk & Grunge.

Then, from the end of the car, this: "You motherfucking faggot! You think I'm some motherfucking homosexual? I'mo pop a cap in yo' faggot ass! I don't play that motherfucking way, you damn punk ass bitch! You ain't gotta sit down all next to me with yo' faggot Chinese ass! You got this whole motherfuckin' train. Why you gotta sit yo' punk ass down right on top of me? Motherfucking faggot!"

Eyes left. Our speaker, playing the well-trod role of Angry Black Subway Man, was standing menacingly over a slender Pacific Islander-looking man, whose less than entirely masculine, legs crossed at the knee, sitting style caused my Gayger-counter needle to leap into the red zone, passing even the Cats, Original Cast Recording reading that I had gotten earlier in the day when I passed by the young man wearing a Carhart jacket and reading Martha Stewart's Baking Handbook. This beleagured queen, shrinking before his menacer, registered well into the Barbara Streisand, Back To Broadway portion of the dial.

Glances, uncomfortable and yet supportive, were shared between the other riders. The glances said, "Why is this psycho freaking out?" and "Should we go help the other guy?" and "Aren't you glad we sat down at THIS end?"

Farmboy and I got off the train at the Bedford stop. As we walked past the last door of our car, Angry Black Subway Man was giving his only-moments-ago victim a dumbfoundingly genial seeing off, waving to him and saying, "OK, you pretty cool for a Chinese guy an' all dat. We should hang sometime. You have a good night, a'ight?"

Somebody outta sell tickets. I know I'd buy one.

Five quick blocks through a neighborhood that looks suspiciously like central Jersey City, and we were at the venue, a nightclub called Northsix. Coatcheck, a Brooklyn Lager for Farmboy and a Budweiser for me, and Bob Mould was at our side, lingering with us at the back of the audience for the duration of the opening act.

Bob took the stage to a genuinely warm reception, in contrast to the more traditional rock star "wooo!"ing and screaming that I'd seen when he and his band (including Rich Morel) took their places at Irving Plaza two months ago. The Northsix audience greeted Bob like an old friend, with broad smiles and outstretched clapping.

Immediately, a disappointment. Bob announced that his 12-string was "fucked" and that the show would be all electric. I had been looking forward to hearing Accoustic Bob, but it seemed I was the only one dismayed. And Bob was in great voice, his signature howl/yowl/growl sounding much bigger in this cozy room. Farmboy began recognizing songs he hadn't realized were Bob's, and pulled me close to say, "I hope Eddie Veder is sending this guy checks EVERY MONTH!"

The audience was attentive, almost Children Of The Corn attentive. There wasn't nearly as much of the usual bar traffic and customer chatter that I've come to dread at smaller venues. Bob was gregarious and chatty with the audience, even giving me a cloaked shout-out when he mentioned that he'd served turducken for Christmas dinner last year, "which someone here tonight can actually attest to." I almost let out a whoop so everyone would know that he was talking about me.

After the show, Bob sat on the stage to sign autographs and chat with fans. A tall, bald, handsome, muscular man (Farmboy and I had "noticed" him earlier) was whirled around by a fan who said, "Hey, Rich! I love your stuff, man!" The big guy just smiled broadly and said, "I know I look a lot like him, but I'm not Rich Morel." Exit fan, mortified.

Farmboy and I enjoyed a death-threat free trip back to Manhattan, where he suggested a nightcap at Siberia. Silly not to, and all that. We arrived at 2AM to find the first floor deserted, but a fairly packed and happy crowd in the basement disco. I got us a beer and Farmboy disappeared for a few minutes. When he returned, he handed me a fresh beer and said, "I got you another beer in case I don't see you again, in which case thanks for a great night!" I looked around the small room and wondered what he meant, but only for a moment, until I saw him slip around the black curtain behind the stairs, where shirtless gay men were doubtlessly discussing welfare reform and this pesky outsourcing problem.

A few minutes later and I was up on the street. When my cab rolled up, the first snowflakes of the year had just hit my face. I rode home slumped over on the backseat, thinking about the Rich Morel lookalike back in Brooklyn.

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The 2005 URBS

Gridskipper, part of the Gawker Media blog empire, is running their 2005 Urban Blogging Awards contest right now. I've been nominated (blush) in the "World's Best Urban Gay Blog" category. It looks like they will be culling the field of nominees down to just a few, at the end of Friday, December 2 and then the finalists will be voted on begining Monday, December 5th.

If you're feeling the love for Joe.My.God., you can add to my nominations here, which requires petitioning Gridskipper to become one of their sanctioned commenters, from what I can tell.

Or you can simply fire off an email to tips@gridskipper.com explaining how the sun doesn't rise until you've read Joe.My.God. Tell them how you've laughed, you've cried, how I became a part of you. That kind of stuff. You know. Make something up.

And if I win, you totally don't have to get me anything for Xmas.

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Color Me Yenta

Inevitable? Perhaps, but I just got an email letting me know that two of my readers have hooked up (or will hook up this weekend, more precisely) after "noticing" each others' pics on my Frappr map.

Gentle readers, I am the soul of discretion. I shall not reveal who will be frapping like dirty gay frapprs this weekend. But I will say that they do not live in the same state, which rather impresses me. Because these days I can't be bothered to go more than three subways stops.

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The Last Word

Cafe Luka, Upper East Side, Sunday 10AM

I'm eating alone, trying to balance the massive Sunday Times on my little two-top . My table abuts the rear of the last booth where an elderly man and woman have just been seated.

Old Lady: Are you getting the corned beef hash again? I don't know why you won't try new things. You are such a stick in the mud.

Old Man: .....

Old Lady: Just don't put so much salt on it this time. You know how your blood pressure is. You never listen to the doctor. You're gonna drop dead from the salt. Then you'll be sorry.

Old Man: .....

Old Lady: There goes Doris and her Jacob. Such a nice young man. You know, it wouldn't kill you to call your son, should you forgot you had one.

Old Man: ......

Old Lady: Oh, don't forget we have that thing tonight. At Mona's. I'll pick out something for you to wear. Don't worry you won't have to lift a finger, not that I expect you to.

(waiter arrives)

Old Lady: He'll have the corned beef hash. And dry toast. He can't have dairy. I'll have the blintz. Two coffees. Make sure it's decaf and make sure it's fresh this time. Would it kill you to brew a new pot?

(waiter departs)

Old Lady: I wanna make sure that we get there early tonight so don't be going anywhere. I don't wanna sit around all dressed up and waiting for you.

Old Man: .....

(food arrives, they eat in silence)

Old Lady: I'm going to the ladies room. I hope it's clean in there this time. Don't leave until I get back, I'm leaving my purse. Remember when you left my purse sitting on the table that time? Pay attention to me, are you paying attention? OK, I'll be right back. Don't leave.

(Old Lady goes into the restroom)

Old Man: (shouting) I'M GONNA GIVE YOU SUCH A SMACK!

(Old Lady returns)

Old Lady: OK, I'm ready. Let's go get something to bring to Mona's. I'll pick it out, you never get the right thing.

Old Man: ......

(they leave)

From my table, I watch them toddle down the sidewalk.

They are holding hands.

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Word Search

Ten days after my post regarding monogamy, an interesting but perhaps predictable phenomenon is observable, at least vis-a-vis the 80+ commenters.

First off, a scant few commented on the relative value of monogamy, and mostly only to reference possible health aspects. I remain unconvinced that enforced monogamy strengthens relationships, or gives them more intensity or value or meaning. In fact, I strongly believe the reverse. For me, people. (But keep the hate mail coming!)

And I'm especially over the prissy disdainful sniffing sissies snidely implying that those who chose non-monogamy are clearly inferior humans who are incapable of even aspiring to a (mythical) higher plane of existence and that those sort of people have never known and will never know real love. Bite me, people. (But keep the hate mail coming!)

To me, the most interesting thing observable from the comments is how obvious the age break is among those that condemn non-monogamy and those that support it, at least as far I as can tell with from what information is gleaned from the commenters themselves, or their blogs.

It seems that somewhere in the mid-30's (again, just my guesstimate), vehement defense of monogamous relationships pretty much evaporates. What shall we call this phenomenon? Relationship fatigue? Futility? Exhaustion? Or do the deepening lines on ones face correspond to a deeper understanding of the male beast? The old saw about age=wisdom springs to mind, but I'm looking for something clever to call it.

C'mon people, come up with something!

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Pray Lady Day

The 6 Train, Tuesday, 8:45AM

I'm running late. I'm usually at my desk by 8:30, and here I am trying to squeeze onto one of the last-minute-if-you-have-to-be-there-by-9AM downtown trains. Part of the loveliness of being one of the first to arrive in my office is that I rarely have to ride on the super crowded trains.

A jam-packed train arrives and when the doors open, nobody gets off. The dozen or so people that are standing in front of each of the dozen or so sets of open doors stare at the dozen or so unmoving sardines that are crammed into each of the doorways. The train departs without exchanging a single passenger. Sixty seconds later, another train arrives to the same result.

I'm considering just walking to work, but my train ride is usually under 10 minutes and it takes me about 40 minutes to walk. I'm already running a bit late, so I decide to take a chance on one more train.

Train #3 arrives and I squeeze, squeeze, careful, excuse me, sorry, squeeze more....and I'm on. I make the "Oy, vey!" face at the woman I've shoved up against and she smiles. At least I've only got 2 stops before Grand Central.

59th Street. This is where all the Bloomingdales employees get off. This is the stop where I sometimes end up with a little make-up on my shirt, as the heavily painted counter girls (and boys!) push by me.

51st Street. This is where the billionaires get off. The Citibank tower is at this stop. This is the stop where I once saw Mayor Bloomberg get off. This is the stop where I waited next to a guy who shouted into his Blackberry, "No! Leave the 3 mil in the draft account. I might need that in Osaka."

Twenty seconds after we pull out of the 51st Street station, the train jolts to an abrupt stop. If the train weren't so crowded, somebody might have fallen. Instead, we all just crush heavily into our neighbors. The woman next to me makes the "Oooh!" face and I smile back.

From the loudspeaker: "Ladies and gentleman, we apologize for the delay. There's a signal problem on the track ahead of us. Repairs are being made and we should be under way again shortly. We thank you for your patience."

Immediately, from somewhere in the middle of my car, a woman starts speaking loudly. She's praying, actually. Loudly. I turn my head with the rest of the passengers to see who it is, but I can't see her. From the way everyone is looking, it seems that the praying lady must be seated.

Her voice rises and falls in a cadence surely copied from a TV minister, "Please Jesus! Protect this train and your servants that are riding it. But if it's your plan take us into your bosom today, sweet Jesus, know that we are ready. Jesus, we all know you have a plan and we're just trying to get to work today and we thank you for giving us this day and for giving us each other and ...."

(Insert image of my eyes crossing: *here*)

Pray Lady goes on. She stops when the loudspeaker comes alive, but it's the same announcement, and she picks right up where she'd stopped, in mid-sentence. "- and thank you Jesus, for giving us these wonderful transit workers..." This is where she loses even her fellow Jesus freaks, I am betting. Everyone is shaking their heads and wishing she would stop, to judge by their furrowed eyebrows and tightly held lips. But Pray Lady just keeps praying.

The air in the car is getting a little stuffy. I'm already overdressed for this entirely-not-caused-by-global-warming-70 degree-almost-December morning, but I don't even have the room the pull my arms out of my jacket and hold it. I can feel sweat running down my sides, in little sticky Pray Lady-hating rivulets. Of all days to be iPod free, it has to be today. On Pray Lady Day.

Twenty minutes pass. Seriously. Pray Lady is still going. Seriously.

"We are ready, sweet Jesus. Ready to walk into your welcoming bright light..."

The "Ooh" woman mutters, "I'm ready to walk into the welcoming black tunnel, if she doesn't stop." That gets a few snickers. Pray Lady continues, "By the blood of the cross, we submit to you, sweet Jesus. We humble ourselves to your infinite wisdom and mercy and-"

From the far end of the car comes a shout, a man's voice, deep and raspy and with a pitch-perfect Archie Bunker Queens accent, "Dear Jesus, will you please shut this bitch the fuck up? Thank you, JESUS!"

And as if on cue, the train comes to life with a squeal and a lurch.

Perfect.

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Dapper Frappr App

In the cause of maintaining my track record of being just slightly behind the cyber curve, and continuing my streak of being a complete Google ho, here's the link to my very own Frappr Map. Feel free to drop a pin on where you is.

EDIT: This Frappr thing is so cool, but I think it might be a little too U.S.-centric, no? I have the map setting on "World", but I'm hearing that some readers outside North America cannot place their pins properly. Advice, my gentle geeks?

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Manhunt Marketing Tips

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Thanksgiving Recap

"Uncle Joe-Joe, my room is the biggest. Uncle Joe-Joe, see how high I can reach? Uncle Joe-Joe, watch me. Are you watching me? You're not watching me. Look what I can do. Now look what I can do. Uncle Joe-Joe, can you come in the backyard? Will you push me in the swing? Will you play hide-n-seek? Will you play dollhouse with me? Uncle Joe-Joe will you put me on your shoulders? Can we play Marble Hospital? See these are my marbles and these ones are sick and they have to go to the hospital and you have to make the siren noise, Uncle Joe. Not that kind of siren, the sick kind. Uncle Joe-Joe, can we go to the playground? Uncle Joe-Joe, ride in Mama's car with ME!"

Uncle Joe-Joe needs to lie down.

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Joe.My.Sybil.

As a silly break to all the seriousness below, here's a 15-face collage a friend of mine made from photos taken in 2003. A few of them, I used on this blog last year. Note the center photo. Apparently, without facial hair I look 14 years old, yuck. Click on the pic for a terrifyingly ginormous version.
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The Fucking

Sixth and last in a series dedicated to proving I am undatable.

To the best of my recollection, I was 12 years old when I had my first orgasm.

At that moment, I was fucking the 15 year old boy that lived up the street. He was lying face-down on the green shag carpet in his bedroom and he turned his head back at me to say, "What's the matter?" I said, "I don't know. But I want to stop. And I need to go home now."

That's a pattern I've been repeating for the past 30 years.

Seriously, I am Mister Hit It & Quit It. One per customer. Always accepting applications, but new applicants only, please. My lifelong interest in "strange" has been a problem, for the people I am dating, not surprisingly. In fact, I broke up with my last boyfriend, ten years ago, at a sex club, mostly because he wouldn't stop following me around, and it was ruining my prowl. (That night will definitely be in a future post.)

I've never really been in a monogamous relationship, even when I thought I was. Because even when I wasn't cheating, the other guy was. Sometimes, after things had fallen apart, I'd find out that my former boyfriend had just been having a wild ole' time on the side, while I had been chastely denying myself the same. My favorite example of this was how a Fort Lauderdale boyfriend used to accompany me to The Copa, with our friends, for a night of dancing. And somehow we'd always lose him at some point. And we'd split up and search the entire fucking Copa and never find him. Twenty years later, when I ran into him at a bar, he finally confessed to me that he'd been taking cabs to the nearby row of dirty bookstores, then returning to the Copa after a couple of hours to swear that he'd always been right there, in the corner, and that we'd walked past him a dozen times. It took ME nearly two decades to finally, FINALLY, realize that monogamy was an utterly false concept, imposed unnaturally by pietists as part of the entire grand religious "sin" extravaganza.

I don't think I know anybody today who has a completely physically monogamous relationship. My coupled friends range the gamut from "we only do threeways" to "only when he's out of town" to "anybody, anytime, anywhere". I think I've been in all three of those types of relationships.

I know what a lot of you are saying right now. You're saying "Oh, but Joe! MY relationship with MY boyfriend is COMPLETELY monogamous! We're deliriously happy with only fucking each other for the rest of our lives. Neither of us would dream of cheating!"

Which is, of course, bullshit. The overwhelming odds are that either one or the both of you has cheated, is cheating, or will cheat. And if you are part of that very small minority that is truly monogamous, I'd bet that one or the both of you wishes you weren't. As a commenter said in one of my earlier posts, "Would you rather have a cheating husband or an honest boyfriend?"

"Emotional monogamy" is what my friends now claim is what's most important to them. Well known as the As Long As He Comes Home At Night philosophy. Perhaps if I'd come to that conclusion many years ago, I wouldn't have been such a complete prick to some really great guys. Because I used to demand complete monogamy from the moment of the first date, seriously. If you dated somebody else between our first and second date, well then clearly you weren't all that into me, so move along.

But even when the penny finally dropped, I didn't handle it well. I once somberly told a new boyfriend, "I will never break a promise to you, because I will never make a promise to you." That was well received. Not.

As far as the hunt for strange, in one aspect at least, I know I have lots of company. Most of my friends have nodded in surprised self-recognition when I tell them that in a lot of instances, just having the other guy want me, is good enough for me. Often, I don't even want to go through with the actual fucking, once I'm sure that He Wants Me. The chase being more fun than the capture, and all that. Can I get an amen on that, my brothers?

And from the Department Of Supreme Irony comes the knowledge that now that I have finally sussed out that monogamy doesn't work, and that I'm going to be completely honest about my fucking when in a relationship, well ...now I'm just not all that interested in fucking OR relationships anymore, certainly not to the incessant degree the pursuit of both had previously consumed me. I think it was about five years ago that I was standing in a bar and had been struck with the realization that I hadn't bothered to make my bed or tidy my bedroom before I went out on the town, and that I really had just "gone out for a few drinks". My libido has crash landed on my karma.

To recap, fucking me means that I'm probably fucking other people too. On the upside, my middle-age libido crash means that it won't happen very often (dammit!), but when it does, you'll know it, I'll be truthful. However, honesty about fucking is SO not what most gay guys are ready for. They'd rather have a pretend-monogomous relationship. See why I'm alone?

(Previously: The Doing)

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Allah Knows

Burger King, 86th Street & 3rd Avenue, Manhattan

Thug #1: Bitch, you don't speak no Arabic.

Thug #2: I know I don't, why you trippin?

Thug #1: Cuz you be all "Allah" this and "Allah" that. Allah just be God, why you can't say God? Thaz fucked up.

Thug #2: Allah knows I'mo fuck YOU up.

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Imbalancing Act

How many times a day do we trust strangers with our lives?

We step out into a crowded avenue and trust that all six lanes of oncoming strangers will be sober and alert and physically able to stop their vehicles before slamming into us.

We sit down in a restaurant and trust that the dozen or more strangers that have handled our food have packaged it securely, transported it at the proper temperature, prepared it without cross-contamination, and served it before it spoils.

We lie down in our apartment towers and trust that our neighbors aren't falling asleep with cigarettes in their hands or with pots boiling on their stove, and that they haven't left the front door hanging open and allowed bad guys into the building.

We get on planes and trains and buses and trust that the vehicles have been properly serviced, and that the crew can handle problems and that other traffic in the skies and on the ground will stay out of our way.

Every day we surrender our physical safety into the hands of uncountable strangers, and we don't think twice about it.

But whom do we trust with our hearts? Often, not even the people that know us better than anybody in the world.

There's an imbalance there, don't you think?

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Friends In High Places

Last night I saw Harry Potter And The Goblet Of Fire in a screening room in the south tower of the Time-Warner Center, thanks to my buddy Captain Steve, whose husband is a some kind of major player in the entertainment biz.

As longtime readers may know, I'm not a big fan of movies about magic and mythical creatures, so the main reason I tagged along with Captain Steve, aside from his charming handsome company, was to see the screening room itself. But surprising myself, I really enjoyed the movie, far more than the previous three installments.

I should mention that the PG-13 rating is very well earned. There were a few kids under 10 years old at the screening, and I bet those kids don't sleep until March, after seeing gory transformations, lots of blood, and freakish attacking creatures. There's a bunch of new characters in this episode, but I was most amused by the David Beckham-esque TriWizard champion, Viktor Krum.

And I still can't believe they killed Hermione.

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We Three Kings

Walgreen's, 2nd Avenue, 7:45am

I'm in Walgreens and I need batteries. I didn't have time to rip yesterday's music purchase onto my iPod, so I've grabbed my dusty Discman off the shelf for the short train ride to work. I haven't touched the Discman in months, so naturally the batteries are dead.

The old ladies of the Upper East Side must be shoplifting batteries these days, because the Duracell display is out of reach, behind an unattended counter. I glance around for the Walgreen's police, then zip behind the registers and grab what I want. I get in line at the one open register. The first five customers are women, then two men, then me.

Lady #1 is buying a Snapple Iced Tea and chewing gum. She pays with her ATM card but doesn't bother to take her earphones out to hear the clerk asking "Credit or debit?" There's some pantomiming before the customer finally presses the right button and her non-cash purchase of $2.61 is completed.

Lady #2 is buying a raft of travel size items and they spill from her arms towards the clerk, who grumpily catches them. After all eleven items are scanned, only then does Lady #2 heave her purse onto the counter and begin looking for her wallet. She pays by Amex and is as equally baffled by the card swipe as the preceeding customer.

Lady #3 has been talking on her cell phone since I arrived in the line, and she continues to ream out her assistant as she gestures towards the clerk that she doesn't need a bag for her large bottle of Evian. She tells her assistant that for the last time, she doesn't want to change planes in Atlanta, and why can't she get that through her thick skull? Lady #3 also pays with an Amex, and when she signs the $1.69 receipt, I can hear her acrylic nails clicking on the counter. Before she leaves, she opens an elaborate folder and tucks her receipt into an already bulging pocket.

Lady #4 is holding Walgreen's Sunday Times supplement and wants to know why they haven't restocked the Neutrogena Instant Nail Enhancer and who does she need to blow to get a rain check around here? (OK, but she sounded like that's what she meant.) After a manager is summoned, she moves out of line to wait for her rain check, managing to conspicuously check her watch a mere 7 million times before he returns.

Lady #5 buys the New York Post. It's 25 cents and she pays cash. Then timidly, in a small voice, she asks the clerk if she wouldn't mind recommending a nice place for breakfast. Someplace nearby, and not too expensive. But nice, you know...and clean. It has to be clean. The clerk purses her lips as she considers her choices, then offers three different places, complete with directions.

Over the last ten minutes, the two men in front of me have exchanged significant looks several times. The looks say "Good grief!" and "Women!" and "Can you fucking believe this?" Both men are holding one item in their left hand and a $5-dollar bill in their right. I smile to myself because I am doing the exact same thing. The two men notice my smile and we all share an unspoken bond.

Five minutes later, the three of us, We Three Kings of efficient commerce, ride together under the city towards our offices, where I imagine that like me, their bosses are women.

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The Doing

Fifth in a series dedicated to proving I am undatable.

I am the Worst. New Yorker. Ever.

In March I will have been here for five years, and folks I'm totally serious when I tell you that I have never been outside of Manhattan. Never been to Brooklyn. Never been to The Bronx. I've certainly never been to Staten Island and never to Queens either, unless you count taxi rides to JFK and LaGuardia. I am Outer Borough Free.

I've never been to Coney Island or the Bronx Zoo. No Yankee Stadium, no Mermaid Parade. I have taken the Staten Island Ferry, but only to ride past the Statue of Liberty and I never got off in Staten Island.

I wasn't always like this. I used to do stuff. "Joe, what do you wanna do today?" "I dunno, let's just get in the car and see what looks fun!" - Seriously, I used to be like that. But now....now an afternoon spent on the couch, surfing 200 channels, seems a lot more appealing than the huge chore of putting on pants and shoes and leaving the house. Maybe it's the whole no-car-having thing and that I'm always weighing going someplace against how far that place is from the subway.

I know what you're all saying. You're all sitting there in your cubicles in Duluth and Des Moines and Diebougou and you're crying out, "Hello? Joe? You live in New York Fuckin' City! The most exciting place on Earth! Get outta the damn house!" And you are right, you are completely right.

Did I mention that I live in Manhattan and I've never seen the George Washington Bridge? Cuz, it's like TEN MILES AWAY and I don't know anybody who lives in Washington Heights, so I've never been up there. In truth, I haven't seen much of Upper Manhattan, despite living on the Upper East Side. Aside from a couple of trips to Harlem, I haven't really gone above 90th Street.

Part of the problem with doing stuff is that I don't like to do what a lot of what people like to do.

I'm not a big fan of museums. I live about a dozen blocks from one of the most famous and ginormous museums in the world, the Metropolitan Museum Of Art. Never been. I have been to the MOMA a couple of times, to placate visiting friends, but I spent most of those visits sitting on benches, waiting while my friends cooed and woo-hoo'd over paintings of soup cans. I think my personal museum record has to be my 22 minute visit to the National Portrait Gallery in London, I mean, how many thousands of paintings called Madonna And Child can a person withstand?

I should mention that I live three blocks away from Central Park and I've been in there twice in the last year, both times to see Christo's The Gates, because friends wanted to see the display. Naturally, I thought it was kinda dumb.

I'm also not a big fan of Broadway. Oh, I've seen the odd show here and there, when friends have had extra tickets and I was unable to creatively weasel out of attending. But as is typical with me, by halftime I'd be checking my watch and tapping my foot and spending more time looking around at the audience and admiring the theatre than watching the stage.

It's an embarrassment to me, considering how much I love my people, but I am completely tortured by musicals. Searing white hot pain unto my soul, do I endure when confronted by Sondheim or Webber. Remember how Beethoven's 9th affected Malcolm McDowell in A Clockwork Orange? Such is my reaction to Into The Woods. I try hard to mask this when around my theatre friends. I smile and nod my head while they excitedly recount the triumphs of the Sunset Boulevard or Phantom Of The Opera, while I try to think of puppies and rainbows.

To recap, doing stuff with me means no shopping (we've covered that), no Broadway, and no museums, and probably nothing outside of Manhattan, unless you have a car. In my defense I should mention that I am adventurous, really. If you find something unusual or nutty, I'm down for it. Still, see why I'm alone?

(previously: The Watching)
(next: The Fucking)

EDIT: Before y'all begin to doubt my homosexuousity, I should reveal that I just got back from buying this.
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Today's Hit Parade

Here's some fun stuff from today's blogroll:

Madonna's new album is "entrancingly transiently transcendentally meltingly beltingly everything-just-SO, sometimes-life-is-just-like-the-movies, move-over-losers-Miss-THING-has-come-to-town ", according to Troubled Diva, my Encyclopedia Blogtannica for all things UK-gay.

"I'm the bloggers' blogger. I'm like the "Arrested Development" of blogs - critically acclaimed and forever low-rated, " says West Coast hottie blogger Johnny Is A Man, who calls himself the Emo Phillips of blogging. And check out his MP3 blog, Lost In The 80's.

And finally, somebody who "keeps track of Condoleezza's hairdo so you don't have to". Supremely evil cuntiness + fun with Photoshop= Princess Sparkle Pony.

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The Absolutely Last Nice Sunday

Sunday 2pm, Union Square, Manhattan

It's an unreasonably beautiful fall day.

Despite it being mid-November, Union Square is littered with young people in shorts. In the air, a palpable sense of malaise is forcing people to sit, to lounge, to bask in the Absolutely Last Nice Sunday of the year. There are a dozen skate punks performing tricks for a largely uninterested audience. The usual break dance troupe is trying to gather a crowd, their painfully overamplified music crackling and bouncing off the surrounding storefronts.

On the west side of the square, I wander amongst the vendors, artists mostly. There's the guy who sells his "pinhole-camera" prints. There's the guy who makes tiny sculptures out of wire hangers. There's the guy who sells small framed prints of his watercolor Manhattan landscapes, most of which conspicuously feature the World Trade Center.

The trees still have a surprising amount of leaf cover, and in the shaded areas there are dozens of couples lying on blankets, or sprawled on the shallow steps. The Mister Softee truck parked next to Virgin Megastore is doing brisk business and again, I'm struck by the incongruity of the scene and the season, considering that there are Xmas decorations on the ice cream truck.

Along the 14th Street side of the square, I encounter the activists. Always there, always shilling for some mostly unpopular cause or another. There's a card table staffed by the nutjobs that claim 9/11 was staged by the government. There's the guy wearing a sandwich-board advertising his book about his alien abduction. There's the short round man offering "free yoga lessons".

Near the subway entrance, I encounter a looming man, almost 7 feet tall, advertising his book about longevity. He has a few handmade posters about his breakthrough life extension techniques and taped on the posters are photos of him in various meditation poses. As I pass, the man gives me a direct, strange stare, and I'm quite startled by his pale blue eyes and his unlined face. His poster claims that he is 84 years old. I move away from him quickly, uncomfortable with his staring.

Over at the dog run, I lean over the chain-link fence and happily watch the two dozen or so dogs racing around on the loose gravel. A young dyke brings her Labrador up to the entrance and when the animal realizes where he is, he emits a hilarious yelp of joy and strains at his leash. His mistress drops the leash with a smile and the dog gives her a quick grateful look before bounding directly over to a cocker spaniel and mounting it. Horrified, the young dyke chases the two dogs, her own charge remaining on his hind legs, hips thrusting, as they elude her. Everybody finds this quite amusing, except the young dyke.

I head back to the subway entrance where there's now a small group representing the Socialist Workers Party. They have a card table set up and a grim grey-haired woman is hawking copies of a newspaper called The Militant. I stand back and watch them for a minute, but my eyes are repeatedly drawn to their poster advocating for Puerto Rican independence. "End the occupation! Free the political prisoners!"

The grim woman sees my attention and proffers a copy of her newspaper. I shake my head, but remain standing there and she gives me a questioning look. Another moment passes and I can't stand it anymore and I point to her sign, "You spelled 'independence' wrong." She turns her back to me, and I head down the subway steps.

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Big! Room! Blowoff!

Bob Mould and Rich Morel have just released the schedule for the Blowoff parties through June of 2006, and I am out of my head mit da crazy to see that there are SIX big room parties planned for the 9:30 Club . While I definitely have a blast at the smaller, more intimate Blowoff parties held in that club's basement lounge, the big room party I attended this year was just over the top fun with a sold-out crowd of hot hairy hotties who were hot. Mix-Master Daddies Bob and Rich not only spin, they hit the stage to play their own stuff! I'm making this my first Must-Do of 2006.

EDIT: Bob just pointed out that the January Blowoff coincides with MAL weekend. Oh. My.

Last Night

So you did guys notice that during last night's Survivor:Guatemala there was a ......

Heh.

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The Watching

Fourth in a series dedicated to proving I am undatable.

Television. The thing that couples share more than any other waking activity. More than sex, more than eating, more than anything else, you spend the most time watching television with the person you are dating. And that's fine with me, as long as the other person is completely willing to surrender to my inflexible watching habits.

Do you like Desperate Housewives? Lost? Survivor? Well, kiss 'em good-bye, because I don't watch those shows. Likewise for The Apprentice, America's Next Top Model, CSI, and Extreme Makeover. I've never seen a single episode of those shows. Don't plan on seeing one, either.

In fact, let's just rule out three entire television genres entirely, shall we?

You and I, my potential lover, will never watch a single reality program. Never, ever. No Being Bobby Brown, no Newlyweds , no Growing Up Gotti. Not one single dumbass show about the boring everydayness of celebrity lives will ever flicker across my screen. You'll have to find someone else with whom to enjoy those reruns of Richard Simmons' Dream Maker.

Likewise, we will never watch any contest shows. No Amazing Race, no American Idol, no So You Think You Can Dance. In fact, let's include game shows in this category. Absolutely no Celebrity Poker or Fear Factor. Bob Barker perfected the game show with The Price Is Right, anything beside that, you're watching at your own house, alone.

The third category of television shows that we will never share, my nonexistent lover, is makeover shows. There will be no Swan, no Supernanny, no Biggest Loser. I don't want to see someone undergo gruesome facial surgery, or watch screaming children misbehave, or endure a bunch of washed up C-List celebrities stage fights with each other. I can see all of that in real life, at my office.

So. What does that leave us, my unseen schmoopie?

First of all, hand me that remote. I'm the only one allowed to operate it. In fact, I'd prefer it if you just tried not to touch it too much. I like my settings the way I have them. Don't mess with my Favorites, don't reconfigure my Preferences.

Tonight we'll be watching reruns of Law & Order on TNT. If it's a good night, they start at 7PM and run until 11PM, although I'll be asleep by the time the 10PM episode starts, but DON'T YOU DARE change the channel or turn the tv off! On sucky nights, TNT has basketball or some crap, in which case we'll spend the evening flipping between Discovery, History and the 30 movie channels I pay for. And YES, I am perfectly capable of following the plots of ten different shows on ten different channels simultaneously. Why, aren't YOU?

Oh, and another thing, my darling. You can trash the VCR. You can sell the Tivo. I only watch what is on RIGHT NOW. I haven't recorded a television show in my entire life, not even the episode of 20/20 that I WAS ON. I don't own any DVD box sets of vintage tv shows, I don't even own a single movie. I've got over 200 channels and they are all on RIGHT NOW, and that's what I'm interested in.

Fuck, I almost forgot the real deal-breaker. I have never watched a single episode of Buffy.

To recap, watching television with me means this: the television will be always be on and you'll be surrendering every whit of your personal viewing habits to fit mine, which will include relentless channel changing and an unreasonable number of Law & Order reruns. See why I'm alone?

(Previously: The Shopping)
(Next: The Doing)

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