Manhattan Offender

New York magazine uses its "Best of" weapon to try to destroy The Hose.

"Hey, the New York Magazine Best of New York issue is out."
"Is it March already?"
"Yeah, and look, The Hose totally made it."
"Made what?"
"Yes, look!  'Best Gay Bar.' Isn't it great?"
"Uh, no."
"What are you talking about?  You love The Hose!  Didn't you go-go dance for them on the opening night?"
"Yes."
"And aren't you thrilled for Paul Short, one of the sweetest party promoters in town?"
"Yes."
"So what's the ..."
"I totally saw New York's 'gay' reporter at The Hose one night, doing his research.  Granted, I was in 'force of nature' mode by that point, so I don't remember it well, but I could kick myself for not having spilled a drink on him or sent a troll his way to way to ruin his evening."
"Tim Murphy, right?  Why would you want to ruin his evening?"
"Because I'm shy."
"What? You're not ..."
"Fine, I'm exclusive."
"You're losing me."
"I don't like places that 'everyone' goes to.  And it's not some 'cool' thing as I'm decidedly uncool."
"It's a 'cool' thing."
"No, it's just I like to be around people of a like mind.  And I hate crowds."
"It's a 'cool' thing."
"Fuck you."
"Not even with your dick.  So you totally aren't happy for Paul and Kiger and Dustin and Juan and Ashton and Ryan and everybody else involved with The Hose?  And you're never going to go there again?  Right."
"Oh, I'll go.  Well, maybe."
"Maybe?  Weren't you talking about go-going there again sometime soon?"
"Yeah, and I totally will, but they'll ... There's one thing they'll have to do."
"Drink tickets?"
"Oh, that'd be nice."
"But what's this 'one thing'?"
"Um.  Two words:  Restrictive Door."

So by presenting lots of the gays on Project Runway, Bravo helps the gays to hate themselves and love women in leather. Or? The night I met Suede in cotton and Stella in leathuh.

Every week there's been an invitation for a Project Runway viewing party.  As it typically takes place in Hell's Kitchen (a neighborhood unvisited in over a year), it always stays in the "maybe" status in Facebook.  (You would think it would be easier to just say no.)  What's different about this viewing is that the viewing is with one of the contestants, Suede.  This week, with friends (V and R and A) prodding me (and promising protection from "Hell's Kitchen gays"), I finally went.

Getting out of the cab, the conversion of Hell's Kitchen into Chelsea circa 1999 is obviously complete.  Skinny gays, old gays, eye-brow threaded gays and more travel in their gay gaggles from Thai-fusion place to Thai-fusion place.  Arriving at Posh, a quick look around reveals pink and yellow and lime green drinks in hands accompanying faces that must shave right after work because there is no facial hair, not even a trace of stubble. 

Soon after arriving, the guest of honor shows.  And he has a guest of his own.  Instantly, gaylebrities Suede and Stella are surrounded.  The first thing in mind is how they stack up in real life, compared to "reality" life.  Suede?  Not so technicolor and sort of solid looking.  Stella?  Head to toe leather leathuh and much prettier when her makeup is for life and not the camera.

After they make their way back to the viewing area, we're introduced by mutual friends.  Stella and I compare notes about Astoria (although she's a Chelsea girl now).  Suede gives good handshakes and better hugs.  From the brief introduction, it strikes me:  Where are the people to whom the Bravo teevee had introduced me?  She's gracious and he's not a flaming queen.

Finally the big moment arrives and the big screen television is now showing Project Runway.  Suede appears on the screen and the crowd claps and cheers.  Next Stella is on screen.  And the crowd roars.  As the opening continues a trend is evident.

As each of the gay characters contestants appears on screen, the gays go into cat mode.  They hiss about Blaine.  Daniel receives a group "ugh".  Even hunky Keith sets the nabobs to nattering.  All of Suedes' lines receive laughs and applause, but there is a more obvious favorite contestant named Stella. 

The crowd tizzies for Stella almost as much as they do for the drag queens, including many from the local talent stable.  Local royalty, some of whom I've sort of known for years are a welcome surprise.  Miss Understood has me most worried as I know she sources out her fabrics in Thailand and designs and makes her own clothing.  Sweetie hams it up and has the crowd woot-wooting.   And Hedda Lettuce has everyone nervous for Suede as she, well, is known to not spare her words.  Of all the queens (in drag, not the Bravo creations), Varla Jean is this crowd's favorite.

The show goes on and as Suede and Stella are deemed safe, the crowd explodes, but it sounds like auditions for Streetcar as the crowd cheers out "Stelllllaaaaah". 

After the show, I touch base with Suede again.  No bitchy.  No catty.  Granted, had I been with him for the full hour, there probably would have been the occasional comment that I could edit and make him out to be so.  After all, Bravo does it.  Also?  Not once did he refer to himself in third person.  All "I", no "Suede".

Having seen the show and enjoyed my Jack and Gingers (which is as "gay drink" as I go), I head out with my friends and a thought sticks with me.  The editing of Project Runway (as is expected of a reality show) creates characters of the contestants, but seems to harsh on the gays a bit more.  Is the payoff for representation self-loathing?

A great new career path for women is emerging, but where can you get a business card that reads, "Surrogate Mother to Successful Gay Man"?

Strangely, I've dated someone that, being financially independent and successful in his career, also went the surrogate mother route.  The relationship with the woman was amicable, but primarily financial.  Over time, we've lost touch, but now the thought of him is back.  Damn you Ricky Martin!

Link: Ricky Martin a Dad Times Two - E! Online.

Sort-of-Live-blogging pride: Straight guys understand pride better than you think

Link: White Leather Palace - twirling to thiness.

Confession?  I've been to the gym eight times in the past week. 

Sort-of-Live-blogging pride: All the gays are at home, cruising for the sex on the internets

Current status of gay pride weekend:
- Temperature:  90
- Humidity:  45%
- Number of Gays on ManHunt (aggregate New York City):  1,499
- Number of Gays on Adam4Adam (aggregate New York City):  3,806

Sort-of-Live-blogging pride: Banner sales for porn shops

Running to TekServe from my office, I noticed a huge amount of traffic going in and out of the porn shop between 23rd Street and 24th Street on Sixth Avenue.  My salacious eye always takes a look at the place from across the avenue when a TekServe run is made.  Hope abounds to see someone known (celebrity, politician, monogamous/self-righteous boyfriend) passing through the door.

Today's assortment was of all ages, races, sizes and shapes.  Only one was carrying a bag (filled with?  videos?  poppers?  lubes?  furry handcuffs?), so one could assume the majority of the transactions involved slipping a token dollar into a multi-channel video display. 

So, to all the peep proprietors out there, happy pride!

Sort-of-Live-blogging pride: Aw, a gay domestic partnership administrative procedural

This morning two friends, A and E, brought their money order to The Marriage Bureau and tied the knot.  Accompanied by J and A, we enjoyed the fun and diversity that the bureau has to offer.  The happy Polish couple with the cranky mother.  The toddler thrilled by his mother's dress.  The goth girl wearing a wrist corsage. 

Afterwards we surprised the couple with Perrier Jouet Fleur on the Brooklyn Bridge.  The couple was last seen headed to Balthazar for brunch.

Sometimes love happens!  Happy Pride!
 

Sort-of-Live-blogging pride: West Village Bag thefts are ruining gay pride

From hipstrosity of the DEVO concert at McCarren Pool to the hoochietoot of the West Village presented a bit of a culture shock.  The party at Julius' had sort of been ruined in my mind by it's coverage in the Village Voice.  Suddenly a "destination," it was packed a little on the heavy side with the party regulars, to new explorers, and a plethora of the local Julius' color out to get their Pride started. DP, S, G, W and I made the circle seeing who was there and were quickly dispersed.  Daniel Nardicio cornered me, as he does, and introduced me to the marketing director for Fleshjack who offered to send me his product, which seemed to be an interesting career, helping people masturbate.

Craving a burger, despite having a burger just hours before at (that place on the corner that isn't Enid's) before the concert, eventually I gave in to insistent text messages that I attend the Lambda Legal party at Stonewall.  Remembering being asked to never return the last time I was there, but wanting to meet hot lawyers I walked the block, finding friends outside.  DH, a food writer/paralegal, and Senorita, an internet person/ladyfriend quickly shared bad news.  Senorita's bag had been stolen from inside Stonewall, including her laptop.  Her biggest concern?  Losing 'internal memos', twatever that means.  Regardless, H was arriving soon so we had one more drink in the crowd of dance-y lesbians.  (Where were the hot lawyers?  What is Lamba Legal, anyway?)

Eventually H arrived and the (extremely) weak Stonewall drinks were downed and we traveled to Julis which DP, S, G, and W had already abandoned.  Senorita left quickly, leaving DH, H and I saddled up to the bar.  One of the DJ's with whom I'm a little crushy passed.  I pointed out that the song playing were against the party rules (vinyl, before 1980, no disco).  With a head-cock and draggy eyecock he quickly retorted, "Not my record sweetie."  Next a scrumptious Machine Dazzle came by and told me of all his latest projects which set my mind ablaze with the self-askance of "why don't you have more projects?"

With all the helloing, attention to the bags sitting below us was not on high.  When H went to grab a cigarette, it became obvious.  His bag was gone.  The floor was quickly illuminated in the bluish-white haze of iPhones as suddenly the game of "Find the Hot Kuwaiti's Bag" was in full play.  The search was fruitless though, it was gone without a trace.

Two bag thefts in one night! In two venues within jizzing distance of one another!  Silly West Village with your gays and thieves.  Happy Pride!

Would someone please stick Michael Musto's peepee in their booboo, and soon?

Following is a comment I wrote on Michael Musto's blog.  Click through to find read what provoked me.

Homo, please. 

There are plenty of one-night stands to be had out there.  I question your choice of venues.  The eyebrow-threaded, popped-and-ironed-collar, dihydroxyacetone-dyed cosmo drinkers at [insert name of Hell's Kitchen venue here] are bad lays anyway, Michael dearest.

The problem is more that there is now a variety of gay venues from up-market to down-market.  You're making choices to go to chi-chi cha-cha bullshitterias when you could be at the bumpy-bump bam-bam cocketerias.

(The real problem is that everybody now carries a fucking camera in their phone.  (Myself included.)  Any illicit activity is photographed, broadcast, and cataloged.  For this reason, the feeling of intimacy/privacy/safety in public spaces has forever been abandoned in the public gay venues.  Thus the retreat to one's own home in order to let the cock free.  (Hell, I am hesitant to even to go to a trick's place, fearing a hidden cocksucker's camera catch me and throw me out to x-tube.))

Link: village voice > blogs > La Daily Musto > Sad Gay Reality: You Can't Get Picked Up in a Bar Anymore

Via Gawker

Queens Queens Pah-ride Parade

Do you like cha-cha queens in vivid colors?
Do you like gays on the ethnic tip with an immigrant twist?
Do you like things on the underproduced side?
Sunday, June 1 is for you!

Link: Queens Pride.

Previous year's parades:
2007
2006
2005 - No parade, but June 1 is the third birthday of the blogging!  Which means the blogging needs presents.  Damned blogging.