Manhattan Offender

Benefitting from swine flu

Last night I attended a benefit in the place of a friend that has swine flu, er, H1N1.  Not the jokey, "I've got swine flu," but the real deal, diagnosed by a doctor version.  Bored this morning (he's not the type to spend so much time at home) he inquired on how things went.  Following is my report back:

First of all, thank you for the opportunity to attend in your stead.  Here’s what I remember:

1. I decided that Long Island Iced Teas were a good idea.  I had five or six of them. In your name.
2. [Redacted-1] capped the evening with a round of Jaeger shots for us all.
3. There were some cute guys there, but all had flaws.  The cutest one had this lovely full beard, but had this inch of space where his sideburns would be.  There was also a tall handsome one that just could not look my way.  He was obviously retarded.
4. The food?  Pretzels and goldfish.
5. There was a gigantess there with huge tits that just were barely held in by a skimpy outfit.  She was amazing and I love her.
6. We just HAD to meet [redacted-2] because of her amazing name.  She sheparded us into the upstairs VIP area.
7. The VIP food?  Six-foot long sandwich!  It was very delicious! 
8. It was the first time I think I’ve ever gone upstairs at Stonewall.  I think it might be a good birthday venue.  Speakeasy feel.
9. The bathroom did not lock.  Even if you closed the door, people would walk in on you.  [Redacted-1] took a dump anyway.
10. Afterwards we met [redacted-4] and [redacted-5] (both of whom I now like very much) at Automatic Slims.
11. [Redacted-6] joined us, but did not eat.  DOES [REDACTED-3] EAT?????
12. I had the Catfish Fingers.  I did not know Catfish had HANDS!?!?!?!?  Anyway, in drunkenness, I dumped the entire plate in my lap.  I was befuddled by the tartar sauce stain on my pants this morning.
13. I bought a comic book on the way home and took the subway.  I do not remember buying or reading the comic book, but it was in my bed with me when I woke up this morning.
14. For some reason I am not hungover.
15. Again, thank you.

Local gay bar (with low ceilings) creates shrine for deceased gay icon (Bea Arthur) that did not die of bird flu, despite what you've heard.

Location:  Nowhere Bar, East Village
Photo via:  Dan

Offensive - Limelight is now a sample sale space!

Mitigating factor is my new pair of Gucci shades. Essentially it's the remaining inventory of former SoHo store, Lounge.

The MO Interview - Desi, the artist

Number thirty-four in a series.

1. What's your secret to staying so beautiful?
   Covering it up with hair. 
2. Is it true what the tabloids are saying about your relationship?
   Yes.  I make him eat it.
3. This new project of yours is certainly taking everyone by surprise. Tell us about it.
   Escandalo is my haunted house disco project with partner in crime Viva. We just launched our track and music video is up on YouTube.
4. Who are you wearing?
   I'm wearing Desi Monster designed by my mommy monster.
5. Would you ever do a role that required nudity?
   Again?

Check out Escandalo's video and listen to remixes for La Bruja.  You can see Desi in the Monster-y flesh at (admittedly my favorite club night) Vandam, Sundays at Greenhouse.

Photo:  Nicolas Wagner

Past, Over: Fleet Enema

This week's Past, Over was born of anger.  Yeah, somebody, or actually some somebodies pissed me off.  More specifically it was some Navy boys in town for Fleet Week.

Last Friday, friends were met up with at the Eagle's after-work happy hour up on the roof.  It was a perfect way to end the week, and, needing to be up early to go out to the Pines, it made sense.  (In fact, that's where you'll find me after work tomorrow as well.)

After a quick stop by Snaxx, where Paul the Particular unfailingly could not remember my name, we were off to Nowhere's weekly misery party, Cruising.  Just not really my scene, although Aaron the Awesome was there.  From there new acquaintance Mark the Mouthwatering was left and just Ash the Astonishing and I remained and our next destination was the Cock.

Walking down Fourteenth Street we were holding hands.  Not because we're anything other than affectionate.  (People, especially the gays, don't touch enough.  Why?)  Around the corner or perhaps coming out of KFC, come three sailors in their while poly-cotton costumes uniforms.  The three fixated on our hand-holding and got mouthy.  Although not confrontational, what was said was unnecessary.  And I, being taller and more fit than them (and maybe a bit tipsy), responded, "You're talking about us in your tight-ass white seaman outfits?  Fuck you ... and get out of my city, faggots."

And then I forgot about the whole thing, until this week's column came due.  It's dedicated to those boys on the street and really captures, in its own way, my opinion of them.

Past, Over: Firsts

This week on that thing at Gawker I talk about my first time. 
No, not that one.  A different one.  Clues?  Okay. 
Avenue B.  Models.  Euro-trash.  Seven in the morning, or maybe ten.  Sand. 
A link will go up when available.

My Black Party

There is some sort of assumption that I've been here before, but then a self-correction that I have not.  And even having attended, there is a jealousy that my mileage probably varied from that of others.  Why that is will be explained later.

So what to actually write about?

Logistics.  The alarm was set for five in the morning, but somehow my body didn't make it there until seven or so.  And within two minutes someone had their hand on my ass, but just to say hello.  Knowing that my visit was going to be different than most I chose to go it alone.  Seeing friends there was good enough for me.  Not having been to Roseland since that time I fainted at Broadway Bares (a story that should be told sometime) the first order of business was to figure out the layout.  Dance floor, balcony, chill area, um, dark area.  Got it.

State of mind.  That recent illness has caused all sorts of new cleanliness obsessions and hyperhypochondria.  So there in a long sleeve black thermal, dancing was I.  For fifteen minutes, then that was off and through the belt loops.  But there could be no release or relaxation because something was going to happen at ten.  More on that later.

Music.  Yes, there was music, by the very competent Tony Moran during my tenure.  Granted my personal taste would have seen some Ratatat or some Hot Chip up in there, but as the "gay dance genre" goes, Moran is pretty awesome.  And the legs and the hips and shoulders were able to get into Moran's motion.   And soon enough my form was amongst the (2000?) others on the floor.

Decor.  Gigantic lighting system.  And it turns out that the "Holywar" theme was a play off of the Nascar theme, something I had not figured out until arriving.  The purpose of the protective carpeting eludes me as it bunches up and is trippy in the wrong way.

Dudes.  Small dudes, big dudes, lady-dudes, dudely dudes, pretty dudes, ugly dudes, dancing and diddling and dilating dudes.  While I arrived alone, by nine there was one in particular that could dance and move in the same manner, and was a recent arrival like myself (thus, in my mind, clean), and was of the same mental state and was the obvs choice of fulfilling the cliche of making out on the dance floor for half an hour or so with full knowledge that at 9:50 I would just become a new phone number.

Overall.  Great fun, for my limited time there.

So what's this 10:00 'thing' to which you are ungracefully alluding?  That's the time that a (really awesome) videographer met me to interview people as they were leaving the party.  We were able to find boys, girls, men, women, trannies, bears, twinks and people of every ethnicity to share their experience with us and tell awesome stories.  It's a great little celebration of the awesome diversity of crowds.  The results of this will be revealed when they are up later today (on other sites) on Gawker and Fleshbot (same video, different editorial).

Roxy is closing! Could you just die?!?

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Photo from oldnyc.com.

There are no gay clubs

As this screen grab from HX confirms, there are no gay clubs left in New York.

YouTube Tuesday: Buck in Black

 

Maybe this is the year that I'll go to the Black Party (March 24, tickets on sale this Friday).  The 'movie' for the party, starring Buck Angel, is above.  For whatever reason, I always miss it.  The whole "let's all dress in black" thing is so, dunno, joiner. 

Info via Joe.