Manhattan Offender

Status report III

Age:  40

Weight:  I almost went to the gym today.  But it's so cold. 

Sex:  Masturbation without a laptop is challenging, but that's a good thing.  Isn't it?  So I went about it unaided thinking about R, and P, and A, and some of the "stars" of my sexual past.  And then picked up a recent issue of Straight to Hell.  Which proved more productive, time-wise. 

Laptop:  Back tomorrow from Tek-Serve.  My Gawker column is unwritten without it.  It actually requires more research than most would think.  And my job is too grueling to accomplish it there.

Cat:  Sometimes she sleeps on the bathroom floor.  That's weird to me.  I've slept on many floors, but not in a bathroom. 

Advice:  Recently told to me by a film producer:  "What I never tell anyone is that I don't like people.  More than just in general.  There are few people in the world that I can stand.  But you I like.  You're amazingly straightforward."  My reply:  "If you stop wasting your time trying to like those you don't, you'll be a happier person overall."

Plans:  Something, I don't know, "cultural".

Diet:  Dinner last night a chicken pot pie.  So delicious.  But not on that "diet" thing.  I'm not going to flagellate myself.  Unless paid to do so. 

Executive summary:  I'm an aging pudgy sexless cat-owner.  All seems to be going on schedule.

The toilets of Methadone Alley

My mind just isn't wrapping around the concept of new public toilets being built in the city.  The pessimist in me screams out, "Bad Idea!"  And while it seems to be right for areas such as Times Square or Herald Square, whether this works for Madison Square Park is still questionable.

The area, which I've pegged as Methadone Alley, is generally growing ever more upscale with new residences being forged from the Toy Center and the Met-Life Building as well as every other building with a window facing the park.  Persistent though are the head-bobbing heroin-fiends who tend to line the park's benches on Madison and 23rd Street.  A favorite is apparently a former body builder with longish 90's hair that walks around shirtless, flexing his pecs when he's not passed out. 

Here they are though, the new public toilets.  Made of (shatterable) glass.  In an out-of-the-way corner of Madison Square Park (behind Shake Shack, on Madison).  Serving all the megacolons.  Awesome.

Status report II

Age:  40

Weight:  See "plans" below.

Sex:  Something I never do is order in.  There's just this general mistrust in the gays.  Or maybe it's just that I see profile pictures and generally make an opinion based on that picture.  Leading to surprises of height, weight, sexual interests.  Also there is the matter of hiding valuables before the arrival of the mystery date.  Dad's Rolex, iPhone, other small pocket-ables need to be put away based on past experience.  (Don't assume just because someone is a star of Dark Alley Media that he won't steal from you.  I'm looking at you [redacted].)  Anyway, it was hot and all.  Up until I was tired of the company and ready for him to go.  I didn't mean for it to seem as if he was being kicked out.  But it was time.  Y'know?

Laptop:  Did you know that the "700" channels are Hi-Def?  I do, since the laptop is in the shop.  Maybe next I'll read something.

Cat:  Walking in the door yesterday, she seemed preoccupied.  I followed her to the kitchen where she sat, watching the counter space under the sink.  After my ex moved out, I had done a thorough cleaning of the apartment and have not seen a mouse or any other varmint since, but I knew what was up.  Having had a mouse before, I went to the cupboard and sprinkled cayenne pepper and cinnamon in the spots of common transit.  (This technique was taught to me by one of Janet Jackson's lyricists - the people you meet, eh?)  Hopefully Sybil isn't too freaked out.  And doesn't breathe in the cayenne.

Advice:  Recently told to me by a film producer:  "What I never tell anyone is that I don't like people.  More than just in general.  There are few people in the world that I can stand.  But you I like.  You're amazingly straightforward."  My reply:  "If you stop wasting your time trying to like those you don't, you'll be a happier person overall."

Plans:  Lose 15 pounds by January 1.  Resolutions are for pussies.  This is pretty easily done.  The once-per-week fast food trip is abolished.  Carbs are easily cut.  A return to the gym is imminent. Thus the next section.

Diet:  Dinner last night was a steak and broccoli.  Lunch today was a piece of meatloaf.  I must start eating breakfast again.

Executive summary:  I'm an aging pudgy sexless cat-owner.  All seems to be going on schedule.

Status report

Age:  40

Weight:  190 (pudge)

Sex:  Less often than, well, maybe ever.  On a night out in the East Village last week, it was on my mind.  Yet everyone in which I had an interest was already in the "been there" pile.  And being pointed at by two people (neither of whom that really knows me well despite one living one block away). at Phoenix while they were yelling "whore" did not help.  Like I knew their friend had a boyfriend.  (Well, I did.)  Like they know what happened, if anything.  (It was above average, generally.)  Regardless, maybe I should travel more.  Or lower change my standards.

Laptop:  At Tekserve until Thursday.  New motherboard.  Leopard installed.  Vaginal rejuvination.  It's weird living "unwired" although the phone compensates.

Cat:  Smallish.  Agitated by remote control helicopter.  Accepting of outfits and wigs (as pictured).  Not accepting of harness.  Harness is part of plan to take her to Fire Island next summer.  Which I haven't told my housemates.  But the house dog is blind, so the cat should be a fun game for him.  Still, walking down the boardwalk with the cat on a leash is a dream. 

Advice:  I've been told to go to Splash.  As in the tourist place.  Why?  Tourist tail.  But if a tourist is so uneducated as to go to Splash, could they possibly be worth my time?  My last was met at Snaxx, back when Snaxx was cool.  His room was at the Tribeca Grand.  He was a VP for Disney.  I'm thinking there is no equivalent at Splash.

Plans:  Maybe Provincetown for New Year's.  Maybe Berlin in February.  Porgie next summer.

Executive Summary:  I'm an aging pudgy sexless cat-owner.  All seems to be going on schedule.

The Kitchen: Episode 1, Scene 2

What if television didn't minstrelize gay men?  What if we weren't protrayed as  florists fighting over Judy/Madonna/Britney trivia?  What if our apartments were just moderately clean and just sort of okay in the decor department? 

Too smart for FOX.  Too gay for CBS.  Too good for Logo.  This is The Kitchen.


Previously on The Kitchen

INT.  A "Details" store on Ninth Avenue.

W:  “What about a French press coffee thing?”
T:  “Do they even drink coffee?  I don’t think I’ve ever seen them …”
W:  “It doesn’t matter if they drink it or not.  They’re moving into a large space, so they should be entertaining more, and thus a coffeemaker.”
T:  “Or a vat of BoyButter.”
W:  “They’re not like that.  … Are they?”
T:  “Well, I don’t think Harry is, but wouldn’t Dick?”
W:  “Are you kidding?  He’s totally vanilla., otherwise I’d probably still be with him.”
T:  “And I’d still be with Harry.  Is that time right?  Shit.  I’m supposed to be helping them pack.  Let me call them.”
W:  “I’ll be over by the rice cookers.  Mine is fucked.”
T:  “Oh, hey, Dick.  Even sharing phones now.  So sweet.  Anyway you’re probably wondering where I’m at. … Let’s just say I had a little adventure. … Yeah and I’[m still just ending it sort of. …  Um, I’ll tell you more when I’m there but to whet your appetite?  Prince Albert.  …  Food was involved. ….  You don’t even know, but I should be there within the hour.  … Promise!  Around 3 or so. … And don’t tell Harry my hints.  … Okay, love you both … Bye. [Hangs up phone and walks around corner.]  There you are.  Thought I lost you.”
W:  “I told you where I’d be.  Check this out.  It makes 12 cups of rice in 20 minutes.”
T:  “For this entertaining couple that we aren’t really convinced are going to start entertaining.”
W:  “I was thinking more for me.”
T:  “Whatever, Wang.”
W:  “It’s not just a stereotype.  I eat a lot of rice.  So, are you running over to their place to help or what?”
T:  “I started telling them how I met this guy last night. … with a Prince Albert and I think I mentioned food being involved.?
W:  “And they believed that.”
T:  “Of course.  Why would I lie?”
W:  “It’ll all be easier when they know we’re dating.”
T:  “It’ll all be weird when they know.  Exes of exes dating exes.”
W:  “In excess.”
T:  “Ugh.”
W:  “We should tell them soon.  It’s ridiculous not to at this point.  What’s it been, like three months?”
T:  “More like two and a half.”
W:  “Whatever.  If you don’t at least start laying some hints ...”
T:  “Speaking of getting laid.  Let’s go home before I have to go help them.”
W:  “Heh.  Okay.  But while you’re there packing, see if they have a French press.”

The return of LOLgay

Sort of. 

I found a cache of LOLgay pictures that I'd never posted and considered putting them up at that site, but chose instead to put a permanent "This site is dead" note up and refer here.  (I considered selling the URL, but I'd only be depressed if the future owners were wildly successful.)

As a mid-point solution, I've decided to post the occasional LOLgay picture here.  As this site needs more retardation.  Well, visual retardation.

A New England weekend

Occasionally it is just good to get away.  And getting away to see be with friends unseen for too long is a bonus.  When you announce your travel to Providence/Newport the expectation is that you'll be antiquing and sight-seeing, but (as often for me) its the unseen parts of Rhode Island that interest me the most.

As per usual, the Amtrak train was almost one hour delayed going up Friday afternoon.  No worse than usual.  And to be delayed leaving is always better than to be stuck somewhere on the way there.  Once the train arrived to Penn Station, my travel companion D and I were lucky to find the front of the queue, but we stood to the side a bit to allow train personnel and disembarking passengers to move along.  Behind me a group of Japanese-hair-straightened-yet-still-rather-masculine-looking ladies announced their existence as the line started to reform:  "Hey, no cutting fellas.  We been here two hours."  Exhibiting my obvious need for time away, my reply of "Yeah, and I've been smelling you here the whole time," was an obviously sub-par reply.  The ride up was relaxing, aided without doubt by the bottle of Jack Daniels that I was careful to pack.

Our hostess, A, dispatched her boyfriend, R, to pick us up at the train station so she could focus on the amazing okra and tomato stew that she was preparing.  After a great meal, we relaxed, caught up, and with the obvious tell of massaging my scalp after being asked if I was ready for sleep, I soon was.

As is typical, I was the first to wake the next morning.  There is sort of an unspoken covenant of house-guesting for me.  I'm a mediocre cook (with the exception of baking), and I sort of like to spend time by myself in the morning (being an only child does leave an impression).  Too make up for these traits I employ one of my good ones, cleaning the home, kitchen included, and taking the cat for a walk (which apparently common in the suburbs or maybe it is just something this cat, Balthazar, enjoys).

Then comes the socio-cultural exploration of searching out the local stores.  The quantity of goods is always a surprise to me and I phone-mail a friend back in the city (E) a 'Jell-O wall'.  His reply, "Too many choices".  We go to the big cheap emporium, Marshalls, stocking up on placemats, napkins, and other non-essentials, spending a good ten minutes in awe/shock regarding the "Ladies with Elegance Collection" glass ornaments.  The most exciting find is Levi's cords for a mere $15.98.

On the second day of this long weekend, I'm concerned that I'm in the bathroom, shitting normally, but a lot.  Then it hits me:  we've been eating three meals a day.  And even snacking.  Amazing.

The next day we're in the car to take a trip into Connecticut.  In a store/coffee shop the largest array of Spanx products takes up an entire row of the store along with Strivectin-enhanced cosmetics (I try the eye cream), perfumes, candles, and stationery.  From this, the general clientele is obvious to me with their Volvos and nannies and troublesome times worrying about which upholstery is right for the rework of the game room.  The shop is cute though, despite its unimpressive hot chocolate.

 

Our next stop is  a genuine cider mill, with tasty home-y products, all in jars of quantities too large for the single gay. And although my companions have an appreciation for pickled watermelon rind, it's lost on me.  What does impress me is the hard cider, which is immediately effective.  Our "Sampling Hostess" Tina ignores the three sample per customer rule and let's us try one of each of the seven varieties, netting her a sale of about $200 between the four or us.

A quick visit to R's mother's home to check on a misbehaving furnace reveals an amazingly well-decorated home that reminds me of the older homes of Cherry Grove.  It was built in the same time period and is simple and quaint with amazing little details.  The Oscar Wilde pillow seriously has me doubting though if the home is occupied by someone's mother or their doting gay uncle.  After the sun went down, we head to Ocean Mist where I'm in heaven.  Located on the water, it is a dive/surf bar.  After a few beers, games of pool, Buck Hunter, and "If you hadda, who wouldya" we return to cook more, this time with a couple in tow.  This time I'm allowed into kitchen to finish making a pumpkin cheesecake (from New York magazine - the recipe is a bit bland, so add a bit more of all the spices).  Other than finishing the baking of the cheesecake, I'm relegated to setting the table, something I enjoy anyway.  (I know my station.)

All of which brings me to a Monday morning, drinking proper French-press coffee, eating cheesecake and writing before D, A, or R is stirring.  And Balthazar stares at me, ready for a walk on this last morning of my long weekend.

Please take this quick little survey.  Thanks.

The Kitchen: Episode 1, Scene 1

What if television didn't minstrelize gay men?  What if we weren't protrayed as  florists fighting over Judy/Madonna/Britney trivia?  What if our apartments were just moderately clean and just sort of okay in the decor department? 

Too smart for FOX.  Too gay for CBS.  Too good for Logo.  This is The Kitchen.


INT.  A kitchen in a studio apartment.  West 45th Street.  Manhattan.

D:  “Oh, wait.  Put some more bubble around that or it’ll break.”
H:  “Maybe it was subconscious.”
D:  “What do you mean?”
H:  “We don’t drink sake.  And we have this ugly sake server that’s going to follow us for life.”
D:  “But Peter gave us that.  You know he’ll look for it in the new place.”
H:  “I could have just dropped it and been, like, ‘Oops.’  But c’mon, you don’t like it either, right?”
D:  “Oh, God, no.  It’s too minimalist-yoga-buddha-bullshit.”
H:  “And things get broken during moves, right?”
D:  “I know where you’re going with this.”
H:  “Go there with me?”
D:  “Harry, you know I won’t.  It would be bad karma to deliberately destroy a gift from a friend.”
H:  “Compromise.  We don’t know for sure that it will break.  Let karma and fate decide this.  I’ll pack it and if it survives the trip, then it stays with us.  Possibly forever.”
D:  “You’re going to do it no matter what I say, so go ahead.”
H:  “I know that’s just your way of agreeing with  … Oh.  That’s my phone.  Hello?  … Hi, hi. … Yeah we’re almost done with the kitchen stuff.  … We should be done tomorrow, so it’s all set.  … Yes, we’re using it all the time.  … No, no.  He’s right here.  His phone is probably buried under something.  …  It’s your mom, Dick.”
D:  “Tell her I’ll call her back in five minutes.  I just want to finish this up.”
H:  “You’re being OCD again, just take the call.”
D:  “Mom?  … Yeah, hi.  … Yeah. … Yeah.  …  No, I am; it’s just that I’m … Okay, fine, call it OCD, I just know how I am.  If I’m in the mood to do something it’s best I do it because I might not feel like it later. …  No, I just own the fact that I’m a combination of lazy and crazy.  It’s not a big deal to me.  … No, not at all.  If I promise to call you back in an hour, can I let you go? … I love you too.  I’ll call you in an hour.  … Yes, I promise.”
H:  “What is this?”
D:  “I think it was here when I moved in.  I don’t know what it is, but I sort of like it.  Pack it.”
H:  “Oh totally.  We should hang it on the wall, on that column in the breakfast nook.”
D:  “Oh.  Yeah, sure.  Actually, yeah!   Have you spoken to Tom?  Is he still coming?  There’s your phone again …  Ha!  Tom! … Mind if I answer it?  … Tomato!  What’s up, buddy? … Uh huh … Heh. … How was it?  … No.  … No.  That’s disgusting!  … Don’t worry about it.  … See you then.  ….   No, I won’t.   … Okay, bye.”
H:  “Where is he?” 
D:  “Home.  He had an adventure last night.  He’ll be here around 2 or 3.”
H:  “Let me guess.  He made you promise to let him tell it?”
D:  “I couldn’t do it justice anyway.”

<to be continued>

The Week in Cock: November 11, 2007

Can you ever hear enough about the penis?
Are you up-to-date on your noodle news?
Looking for inappropriate dinner conversation for the weekend?
The Week in Cock has got you covered.
(All links are safe for work, by the way.)

• How to tell if you have a male yeast infection.
• If you are in search of "A Shat at Love with Tia Tequila", be prepared to chomp on bull penis.
• With continuing gay sex scandals, don't be surprised if membership in the Republican Party some day requires penile plethysmography.
• Norman Mailer, who called his penis "Avenger", is dead.
• Ever wonder why the head of the penis is generally wider than the shaft?  It's because the penis is a "suction piston" designed to extract any other juices from an orifice in order to replace it with its own.