Manhattan Offender

Tyra Banks - the face that launched a network

The CW network launch was last night with the new cycle of America's Next Top Model. The move to the new network seems to have invoked some evolution of the show, with more genuinely "model-capable" women than the past two seasons combined.  There also seemed to be more of a push toward performance and ability and hopefully a bit less dependence on girls in just for their 'storyline'.  Random pointless points:

• Something that is edgy or controversial is made less so when a six foot platino platina announces, "This is our most edgy and controversial shoot ever, y'all."  All of these photos could have been ratcheted up 1000 per cent.  Case in point is the "drunk/drug addict".  Personally I'd have had her either rising with confidence from a puddle of her own puke or in the bathroom with a come-hither look and big lines of white powder on a black toilet seat.
• Melrose looks my age, and in case you didn't know, I'm ancient, at least in modeling years.  Remember "they only want you when you're seventeen, when you're twenty-one, you're no fun".  And Melrose is twenty-three, meaning that she was likely named after Melrose the street, and definitely not named after Melrose Place, aka the best show ever to feature a crazy wig-grap ever.  Melrose seems to be a girl that wanted to be an actress and is now "giving modeling a chance".
• Where is my fierce woman of color? 
• It was nice that ANTM gave props to the old UPN by incorporating a set that looks like it came out of an old Star Trek episode. 

A final note regarding the CWhat segments with correspondent Perez Hilton.  The expectation is to see notes of praise and derision throughout the day.  After a moment of consideration, my only reaction: "Girlfriend got paid".

Non devo aspettare per portare un vestito, II

A few birthdays back there was a gathering at Starlight with around forty people, using my aging as an excuse to drink.  A late arrival was my friend Tia, with an oversized box.  The first thought in my head was how to carry this large box around with me the rest of the night.  The second thought was wonderment as to the contents.

Tia knew how to create a scene.  While most presents were opened with little fanfare, she made sure the assembled crowd, even those not in our party were witness to the opening.  A simple purple ribbon over a white box opened to reveal a profuse amount of purple tissue.  Conceding in my mind that this was a gag gift of tissue in a box, I peeled away the layers. 

Inside was a black pinstriped Dolce and Gabbana suit.  A quick inspection revealed that it was "real" and not D&G, not a knockoff.  Now, mind you, Tia was a great friend.  She had been there during my awkward "coming out" phase of my mid-twenties, getting me into every club and bar for free with ample drink tickets.  She had also always been shrewd in giving me a "thumbs-up" or "thumbs-down" regarding any prey that was in my sights. 

The suit, however, was a bit of a high price point even between such good friends.  Granted, Tia made good money.  In fact she made huge amounts of money, in cash.  That money, gained by being one of the most exclusive transsexual prostitutes in Manhattan, was always geared toward medical procedures and not exuberant expenditures.

With this in mind, I had to find out what was up with the suit.  With her French-Canadian accent she filled me in:

"Remember that client 'Cokie Wigster'?  The one that pays $500 per hour while sitting in front of a mirror wearing a wig, jerking off, and doing lines while I brush the wig and tell him how pretty he is?  Well, he added a new "element" to his fantasy the other day.

He reached into his closet and had me put on his suit while I was doing the gig.  At the end of the session, he told me to keep the suit and wear it the next time.  What he didn't know is that I didn't want to go there anymore.  The doorman has been giving me "the look" and you know how much Wigsy freaks me out. 

Now obviously the suit is way to big for me, but you are exactly his size.  Voilá et Bonne Fete!"

One of the most expensive items in my wardrobe.  Fits like perfectly and never required one alteration.  Formerly owned by a guy in his Forties who lives in the Fifties and loves his wigs and cocaine.

It was the best present ever.

Non devo aspettare per portare un vestito

Phone-cam quickies: Billboards bareback

After a recent media and governmental spotlight on the proliferation of billboards on scaffolding the area around Madison Square Park suddenly went advertising-free.  For about a week.  Over the weekend, the ads returned.  For the Flatiron building it is actually the same ad that was up before the hubbub started.

And yes, this has nothing to do with bareback, but "Billboards are back" looked very similar and use of the word bareback tends to increase site traffic, which in turn raises revenues, which in turn raises content amount.  So, you see, my small lie actually benefits you.

Manic expressive

The day that mania and obsessive compulsion first expressed itself is unknown, but apparently it's not much of a secret anymore.  On a casual Saturday night, arriving at a friend of a friend's before heading out to birthday thing, mania was in high gear.  Maybe it was getting lost on the way there.  Maybe it was that, although known friends were there, these friends were unknown.  Maybe it was the fact that my pre-planning of the evening had been disrupted by the changes in plans of others.  Or maybe there's a prescription in my future.

The night was to consist of two birthday parties.  One was to be sort of artsy high-brow with "people-that-name-droppers-like-to-mention" attendees like John Cameron Mitchell and Nick Denton.  The other was artsy low-brow with lots of hotties.  Whereas the friends of the host wouldn't be arriving to the high-brow party until one, a choice had to be made.  Letting the neural centers below the belt make the choice, the party with hotties was chosen.

On the way there, a call is place to a friend that is being met.  He proceeds to give concise directions which I interrupt with a "I know where I'm going".  Little do I know that the destination has changed and the route I take out of the Classon Avenue G starts me on a path to an area that is, to say the least, sketchy or to say the truth, scary.  Self-preservation outwaying self-confidence, I call for directions.  Three different times.  The problem is that I'm looking for a residence that is not my true destination and looking for visual clues that are not there.

Eventually I arrive and look at unfamiliar names on the buzzer.  Buzzed in, the mania creeps up as I climb the stairs.  "Where am I?  Who are these people?  What if I'm in the wrong building and was buzzed in by people expecting a delivery of Thai food?"  The door opens and familiar faces greet me and the mania mellows, but just slightly.

Over the next hour the following thoughts pop in and out of my head:

• "It's hot in here.  Everyone is wearing shoes.  I want to take off my shoes.  I want no attention that I'm removing my shoes.  That feels better, but what if my feet smell.  Will anyone notice if I lift my foot to my nose?  Good, no one saw.  Wait.  Why is no one looking at me?"
• "I can't hold this empty beer forever.  This is Brooklyn, and they are recycle-nazis in Brooklyn.  Why wouldn't the recyclables be next to the trash bin?  If I'm going to get a fresh beer, I'm going to have to ask."
• "Would it be weird if I started cleaning up?  We're not ready to go yet, but this mess is distracting.  Oh, wait, I see the same look in his eye.  Maybe if I mention cleaning up, he'll join me."
• "Is there a reason for Beyond the Valley of the Dolls to just be laying on the floor?  I don't see any other DVDs.  Surely it has a home.  I'll just prop it up against the wall."
• "That lampshade seam is pointing right out at the room.  Just a quarter turn and it would be unnoticeable.  No one will see me if I just quickly go over there and turn it.  There that's better.  Oh.  Everybody totally saw me do that."

Indeed, everyone had.  The cute one that helped me clean saw, but seemed to have a look of understanding.  Obviously, he ended up being the person with whom I spoke for the majority of the night.  Leaving the apartment and heading out to Alligator Lounge the manic thoughts continued.

• "The doorman is checking i.d.s, but mine has not been replaced since the wallet was lost.  Just last week I was turned away from the Rawhide (of all places) due to lack of credentials.  He's letting me in without identification.  I look that old?"
• "This is a good turnout.  There are hot guys here.  Especially that one and that one.  Huh?  Why is this one talking to me.  I'll excuse myself to the bathroom."
• "This bathroom stall door does not lock.  This is not good.  I have plans for this stall and lack the coordination to hold the door shut while within.  Oh.  Gilly was buying me a Jack and Ginger.  And I'm in a bathroom stall.  Gilly is going to be mad.  I'm ruining everything."
• "Look at this great turnout.  My birthday is in two weeks.  Will I have a great turnout?  Should I just invite all of these people?  Who is friends with whom here?  I don't even have a location planned.  This is going to be the worst birthday ever."
• "It smells like ass in here.  Or is that parmesan.  Why does parmesan smell so much like ass?  Or is it vice versa?  Or is that visa versa?  Why can't I ever remember these type things?"
• "Which conversation should I join?  They look serious.  Them too.  Okay, they're laughing, but it looks like one of those stories where everyone was there and I don't think I was.  Oh no, this one again.  He wants to sleep with me, but I resent him for cockblocking that time at Metropolitan.  How can I get out of this?"

At which point, thirty minutes into the gathering, I ... left.  Up and left.  Made an excuse that I was reacting poorly to the parmesan odor and left.  As it was only two, my direction was, at first, the high-brow party, but upon further consideration, I went home.  Where I made the bed.  And swiffered.  And organized the t-shirt drawers (by frequency of wearing).  And swiffered.  And swiffered some more. 

And eventually went to sleep.

At 7:30 a.m.

A letter to the Class of '86

Dear Class of '86:

First of all, let's set the tone right with some great 1986 music, namely Apollonia Six's "Sex Shooter".  There's really no better way to set the tone of this letter than this, our prom theme.  (Okay, sure, it was really Bryan Adams' "Heaven", but if you all remember we wanted "Giving All My Love To You" which was refused by the PTA wenches (or the school board or whatever) Whitney Houston's ditty was "too sexual" in nature.)

So this is the weekend of the twenty-year class reunion.  The ten-year seemed too soon and the fifteen-year was inconvenient.  Despite my promises to Lisa, Lee Ann, Kristin, Steve and some others, yet again I won't be attending.  Not that there is any reason not to do so, but the flight home for a weekend is, well, sort of long.  Too be honest, what I sort of am avoiding by not going is, well, my biggest weakness.

And my big weakness is small talk.  Really, I'm the worst at it.  Talk to me on some retarded / metaphysical level and I'm the bomb.  But hearing about the whats and whens and wheres of a person's life isn't really my strength.  Granted, yes, there is this site which does include such crucial minutia as the art hanging on my walls, but even here, there is an avoidance of things like where I work and my upbringing and my friends.  No this is the place where I have my dream conversations about critical things like how the word "freak" when used in pop songs is code for anal sex.

In lieu of my attendance, please accept the following as general answers to the questions that I would anticipate answering repeatedly: 

• Yeah, I've been in the city since '92. 
• Yes, 9/11 pretty much sucked.   
• No, I'm divorced. 
• What?  Oh, no, divorced from another dude. 
• Yes, I am. 
• Yes, everyone seems to have known except me. 
• Well sure, I was checking out guys, but I didn't really know it was an available option. 
• No, I don't think you were one of them. 
• So, anyway, where's that wife of yours?
• About ten pounds more than when I graduated.
• This little secret I call "eat less and exercise more".
• Oh, I don't know, maybe five or six scotches.
• Yes, as a matter of fact I do realize what a total ass I'm making of myself.

Best wishes for a warm and happy reunion!  And be sure to send me all the dirt, gossip and scandals.

Rod

Banking on Jesus

Grabbing my laptop, a desperate, and futile, search for a Jesus Piggy Bank started last night as soon as Project Runway's Kayne announced that he was "banking on Jesus".  Shock and dismay filled me as none was to be found.

Aside from feeling pretty certain that Kayne would be exiting that night, even with the surprise return and non-surprise re-dismissal of Angela and Vincent, the episode was probably one of the season's best to date.  (Laura Bennett was  genuinely touching although there is usually little forgiveness here for the "I'm rich, I'm white, I'm so sad" crowd.)

Where does it go from here?  Uli, warned of making something too similar to her previous efforts, comes out with something that is remarkably similar to her previous efforts.  Leaving a final three of Laura, Michael Knight, and Jeffrey Sebelia.  The evil black bag of buttons creates a dramatic twist forcing Jeffrey to work with Angela Keslar.  In disgust, Jeffrey creates a rock and roll fleurchon look.  Michael is teamed with (still my favorite) Allison Kelly, but romance blossoms and none of their looks are completed.  Finally, Laura is teamed with Robert Best and the resulting cornucopia of cocktail dresses wins the top slot.

But back to that Jesus Piggy Bank.  A ceramic Jesus with a coin slot in the back of his head would be so awesome.  Maybe in white porcelain.  My birthday is October 2 (aka Midlife Melee, invites out soon), and if I don't have one a birthday tantrum will be thrown.  And don't even try with a Precious Moments pig with "Jesus Loves Me" applique.  My need is specific.

Phone-cam quickie: Timewarp

Why shop in your local family-owned pharmacy instead of the large national chains?  Because the family pharmacist has your back and actually cares?  Because the family pharmacy isn't staffed with an "acceptable line wait" in the staffing plan?  Because large national chains are destoying capitalism by semi-monopolistic
pricing and distribution schemes? 

Well, yes, all of the above, but foremost because there are time warps in national chains that could rip you assunder in the temporal stream.  The evidence is at the local Eckerd, where summer skincare, Halloween candy, and Christmas decor all converge on aisle five.

Welcome to world of the divorced, Whitney Houston

Whitney Houston is divorcing Bobby Brown.  As a recent divorcee myself  the following advice is offered:

1. Redecorate your home(s).  It's amazingly refreshing to throw all the furniture out and go shopping for new.
2. Reconsider your drug choices.  Maybe you can keep going with crack, but you'd probably be better off with cocaine and weed.
3. Get a makeunder until the financials are done.  Wearing old clothes will give the appearance of having less money than he might think you have.  Be seen shopping for rice and beans, the broke person's best friend.
4. Any gifts that you received as a couple can go to him.  It's a strike for independence.
5. The rule is one month for every year together before you can start dating seriously again.  Which equates to fourteen months of wild sex before you  even think about settling down.
6. And for those sexual adventures go out with whatever the opposite of your ex was.  In your case, might I advise the Dalai Lama?

Above all, have fun Whitney.  The whole wide (gay) world is rooting for you!

Wonder (who she is) Woman

Someone has been announced as having landed the role of Wonder Woman.  Rachel Bilson from "The O.C." is the someone announced, although there have been others speculated in the past.  The film has been "in the works" for a lifetime, with Buffy the Vampire Slayer main man Joss Whedon now at the helm.  Whedon had expressed an interest in finding an unknown to play the part a la Brandon Routh.  No doubt he's succeeded as Rachel Bilson is pretty much that.

A further wonder is whether the announcement is the real dea with a questionable press release announcing:

The brunette actress - best known for playing ditzy Summer Roberts in the hit teen series - will don the famous starred hot pants and wield her gold whip in the film.

Whereas the release cites a "gold whip" and not a "magic lasso" it's veracity is up for grabs.

(Via The Beat)