Manhattan Offender

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Just in time for Halloween, it's ScaryNY

Just in time for Gay Christmas Halloween, ScaryNY has come to my attention (via Cityfeeds). From the site's own description:

ScaryNY covers the frightening, and often illegal, events that are a daily part of life in New York City. More than just discussing crimes like murders and robberies, we look at unusual occurrences, too: the would-be bridge jumpers, the wild animal keepers and liberators, the steady stream of terrorist alerts, and the uncategorizable oddball happenings that surprise even residents who thought they had seen it all.

So you read the crime blotter in the Observer? Maybe "News of the WiredWeird" in the Post? Perhaps prepping party conversation for that masquerade ball this weekend? Hopefully you'll just be reading ScaryNY and not be featured therein.

7-Eleven: Apres les hipsters

A young mother pulls her four year-old son away from the hot dogs and other items rolling slowly under the plexiglass chastising, “Not for breakfast!”  A middle-aged man in a uniform for the building in which he works ponders donuts in a case signed to look similar to Krispy Kreme.  A school-girl reaches into her purse as she pulls together change to buy a bottle of juice.  The Slurpee machine, less popular now that the temperature outside approaches that of the icy beverage, churns slowly, a sign hanging from the Crystal Light nozzle, “Not in service”.  It is 7-Eleven, and the hipsters have left the building.

Upon first opening, 7-Eleven appealed to the ironic set; it's mere presence in the city incurring a curiosity.  As the summer months grew hotter and hotter, the lure of the Slurpee kept a steady stream of the young and fashionable coming by for cheap chill.  But as time passed another location opened uptown, and more promised to open soon.  The revelation that the prices were as high as, if not higher than, the newstand just outside for such staples as Diet Coke and American Spirits lessened the appeal to enter.  The food options, once a perverse thrill, were now just a reminder of why we New Yorkers are so much more fit than our red-state relatives with their processed-food diet staples.

7-Eleven has passed through the initial oeuvre of its opening and now as it sets out to dot our landscape with the frequency of a Subway or an OTB, it slips slowly into banality.  Perhaps we'll slip in next summer for a Slurpee, to encounter fixtures, once shiny and new, with the inevitable entrenched grime of city-life.  Only time will tell.

Madonna and me, vicariously

As much as it was talked about here, one might have expected that I was either at Misshapes or at Roxy to be a part of the whirlwind frenzy that was Madonna Saturday night. But at some point it became apparent that this encounter with Madonna would have to be done vicariously, knowing full well that there would be plenty of reportage on which to rely the next day.

Instead a paying tribute to her Madgesty, we attended, as planned, the masquerade/housewarming of one of our favorite couples. Mister Offender chose a surprisingly complicated look, a combination of full red facial paint, Morticia's wax, and pastie glue applied to horns resulting in one hot devil. Realizing how involved his look would be, I started with a theme of "subtlety" as I scanned the aisles of first a costume shop and then Rite-Aid pulling together Wet-n-Wild MegaPump Glitter Gel, Sally Hansen Blackest Black Maximum Growth Mascara and Black Professional Kohl Powder Liner, and a great pink glitter lipstick (which was lost and remains nameless). Adding a classic Darryl K white button-down, a McQueen jacket, old Diesel jeans and Clone boots resulted in the costume title: "myself as I saw myself ten years ago, imagining myself ten years in the future". (The title would actually prove to be a great litmus test for conversation with new people for the night.)

[For the story of the rest of the night, others will only be referred to in their noms de costumes.]

Arriving around midnight we were reunited with Pamela Anderson and Winona Judd (old friends) in the lobby. On the 29th floor we were greeted by our hosts Michael Alig and Kiki (sans Herb). (The identities were chosen as both were former tenants of the building.) Several reunions occurred with Helen and Stanley Roper, Popeye and Olive Oyl, 50's TV Mom and Dad among others. Libations were necessary as the population soared to 90. (Wonder Woman was particularly problematic as she was constantly in need of moving from one side of the room to the other with little regard for those in her way.) With everything still going at full speed, Olive Oyl announced, "I just received a text message. Madonna just left the Roxy." I shrugged, realizing that I'd missed Madge, but was glad to be reunited with old friends and having met many new ones.

Two hours later, the crowd had thinned a bit and the Devil and I were on a balcony pointed toward Times Square, an accomplishment for me, being terrified of heights, but feeling temporarily (chemically?) fearless. The Devil looked me in the eye and told me "You can feel all of the energy just flowing out of Times Square." With Madonna's "I Want to Tell You a Secret" still on my mind from earlier in the day (via Tivo), I replied singing the refrain from the song where tree tops glimmered in sunlight as Madonna waxed on about energy and light.

Around 5:30 a.m., surfaces had been cleared, recyclables sorted and trash disposed as we bid our wonderful hosts good night. A cab ride, a dog walk, a visit to the deli ("No, no. Too late buy beer. Go sleep."), and a Tivo of a horrid SNL later, the sun began to trickle past morning clouds. There had been no Madonna, no throng, no queues, but that didn't matter. It was 7 a.m. and all was still good in the world. It was time to sleep.

Weekend will: Some broad from Detroit at the Roxy

After seeing last night's Letterman, the thought was that Madonna could be missed.  But then the first review of the new album appeared in the Sun [via Queerty] and the plan is back in action.  The review had me atwitter with mentions of the samples (ranging from the Jacksons' Can You Feel It? to the Donna Summer/Georgio Moroder classic I Feel Love), the references to her own past (Papa Don't Preach and Into the Groove), and a smattering of lyrics.  In particular the lyrics to I Love New York: 

"Los Angeles is for those who sleep, Paris and London baby you can keep, No other city will make me dance like New York"

So, Madonna, we'll see you at the Roxy tomorrow night.  We'll be your pawns in this game of cat and mouse.  And, as the party we are attending beforehand is a masquerade (too early for that in my opinion, but oh well) we will turn it out.  Come Saturday night, we suggest you do the same.

(Photo from here.)

UPDATE:  ROXY NOT THE ONLY OPTION FOR OGLING:  POSTED JUST MOMENTS AGO ON QUEERTY

Weekend Will: Get dirty

One of the dirtiest boys known, Chuck McKinney(whom many of you know as a bartender at the Cock), is one of over 50 artists featured in The Dirty Little Art Show, opening this weekend at the Leslie/Loman Gallery. The artists produced a total of more than 2000 'erotic' works, all sized at 5.5 inches square and priced at $50. Running three weeks, each week has an opening night featuring new art with each week promising to delve deeper into dirtiness. (The week for which I posed is a secret.)

"Dirty" Opening is tonight, 6-9
"Dirtier" Opening is Friday October 28, 6-9
"Dirtiest" Opening is Friday November 4, 6-9

The gallery is also open Saturday 1-7 and Sunday through Tuesday 1-6

Leslie/Loman Gallery is located in SoHo, 127-B Prince ST.

Tabla feeds my manic mood, but what is it serving?

Blame Bret Easton Ellis.  Reading Lunar Park is making me a manic mess.  The narration of the book has attached itself to my personality - which isn't too bad a thing and is much less worrisome than how Demi Moore's character in Charlie's Angels II - Full Throttle attached itself in much the same way. 

Madison Square Park becomes an obstacle course as my mind is too open and too accepting of new information from close over-observation of the dirty-haired guy picking up a discarded, half-smoked cigarette and of the ponderance of the burrowed holes in the ground throughout the park (do squirrels live in those?) and of the woman being scorned by running-late-to-work commuters as she offers full cups of hot coffee to promote the breakfast menu at Shake Shack.  Exiting the park onto 25th Street, the shadowed (not sunny) side of the street is chosen as the sunglasses are still on the kitchen table at home.  More information is involuntarily captured:  the occupants of the passing taxis, the "peace officers" in front of the school where there were two stabbings while I was on vacation, and a delivery cart coming into the kitchen entrance of Tabla.

I devour the contents of the cart.  Tomatoes.  Lettuce.  Potatoes.  Perched atop the cartons of produce is something bright and colorful, purple bag with gold lettering "Pro Edge".  Being out of place with the other contents of the cart, it demands further examination:  "Lamb and Rice Formula"  Eventually the question forms in my mind that will trouble me the rest of the day:  "Why is Tabla receiving a shipment of dog food?"

I've been to Taradise, but I've never been to me

Hey ladies, you ladies
cursing at your lives.
You're insatiable bottoms
and you work, nine to fives

Oh, I've been to Fire Island and Puerto Vallarta
and anywhere there were lots of drugs
Took the hand of any hot man
Some were rich and some were thugs

Maybe I'll run out of places
and friendly faces
Because I have to be free
I've been to Taradise, it's on Wednesdays, ten-thirty ...

I've been undressed by queens
and I've seen some things
that a gay boy ain't s'pose to see
I've been to Taradise, I record it, commercial-free...

I've been to Taradise
It's a lie on channel E! ...
I've been to Taradise ...
It's about Tara Reid and me...

Food. For breakfast. Instead of a cigarette.

Eater reports that Shake Shack has started a breakfast menu. Although the menu is still in a state of flux, anything offered there is bound to beat the lack of variety currently found in the area: either fast-food preservative-laden mega-fatty choices or stale pastry items from the variety of delis. As someone just getting back into the solid-food game (Vallarta did a real number on me with a total weight loss of over ten pounds), I'm wont to give it a try.

For too long a cigarette has been the breakfast of this champion, but rumor has it that it's important to eat throughout the day. The other plus is that the line at Shake Shack is simply too daunting during the Madison Park lunch crush, but the quality is heavenly. Maybe a nice morning treat is just the start needed to get through the days of increasing darkness this fall.

To all the girls I've crushed before

Wonderful rodonline recently drew my attention to a new media buzzword, the man-crush.  This "non-sexual feeling of "giddiness" around another men" is something that I often felt before coming out, and I know that it was shared with me by men way less gay than myself.

As a gay man though, the odd thing from my perspective is the woman-crush, when a woman suddenly floats my boat. It's always a surprise when this happens with a woman, as if my wiring has suddenly gone off-kilter. In the past summer, it only happened once, at a Fischerspooner concert back in June. Maybe it was the Johnny Black, but I suddenly found myself dirty dancing with a twenty-something lovely in the middle of the dance floor. Knowing that nothing would ever come of it and not being the "keep-in-touch" type, the end result was my directing her to a boy that met my approval. Cellphone numbers and names were exchanged, but no call was ever made.

In fact, the contact list of my cell phone reveals a litany of women's names, often met late at night or early in the morning. Most of the names garner little recollection, but all provoked little crushes. A quick scroll down reveals a bevy of beauties who touched me in one way or another:

• Alexandra, who offered to wear a strap on and 'do' both Mister Offender and me outside of the Monster.
• Alice, a butch, but sweet, bartender at a lounge.
• Amy, an over-the-top actress.
• Brett, the real estate heiress who turned out to be a friend-of-a-friend.
• Girl5J, one of the most random entries on my phone and a number I dare not call.
• Jenny, ...wait, this wasn't a crush on my behalf. In fact she entered her name and (973-Jersey)number. Note to self - delete.
• Megan, with a 516 number? Must have met her on Fire Island.
• Roxy, a wonderful Romanian blonde, smoking a cigarette outside of Therapy while her husband was carousing inside.

They were all quick spontaneous crushes. Quick romance shared. Numbers exchanged. Calls never made.