Manhattan Offender

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!

The Fire Island Listening Project: The Lowest Tea

Last summer saw me eavesdropping on and reporting back from Fire Island Pines.  Gawker isn't running "And the Brand Played On" again this summer, but with "the season" rapidly coming up, it's time to re-visit the concept.  The following originally appeared June 20, 2007.  All dialogue 100% verbatim.

EXT. THE BOARDWALK OUTSIDE THE BLUE WHALE, FIRE ISLAND PINES
The boardwalk along the harbor is a throng of gay men. The entrance into the afternoon event known as "Low Tea" is not dissimilar to a fallopian tube: Freshly washed and coiffed gays travel up the narrow stairwell like thoughtless sperm. The crowd-flow directs us to the stiff angular movements of FLAGHAG. A bubblegum pink shirtdress and an organized mop of caustic blonde hair move in opposition to her tiny, sunburned frame. She is surrounded by men more than a half-foot taller. In her hands are napkins.

FLAGHAG
Look guys. Semaphores. (She laughs at own joke and then sings with background music.) You can stand under my umbrella . Ella-ella-eh-eh-eh. (Looking back toward the men standing over her, she raises her napkins above her head.) Wanna' stand under my umbrella, Brian? Brian. Umbrella. Ella-ella-eh-eh-eh. Brian!

BRIAN (Looking down to FLAGHAG.)
You want another Pink Panties? (Arches right eyebrow.)

FLAGHAG
Omigod. I love the Pink Panties. Ella-ella-eh-eh-eh.

The flow moves us in a new direction, at first following an unspeaking, pouty BRIAN and a singing FLAGHAG toward the front bar, but then shifting us through sliding glass doors to the interior dance floor. JAGHAG dances to Loleatta Holloway's Relight My Fire with a male friend. They both make jazz hands that occasionally touch the other's waist.

JAGHAG (Yelling over music.)
I've never even been with a girl, Brian.

ANOTHER BRIAN
You should. You've got the short hair. The butch attitude. Girls would love you.

JAGHAG
I don't care. I love penises. Love. Love. Love.

ANOTHER BRIAN
There was a picture of you and a lesbian at your apartment. Who was she?

JAGHAG (Punches ANOTHER BRIAN.)
Shut. Up! What are you talking about?

ANOTHER BRIAN
In that front hallway. You and a lesbian.

JAGHAG (Pauses, mouth agape.)
That's not a lesbian! That's my brother!

As the music changes, the crowd pushes back toward the middle entrance of a full back hallway, which leads at one end toward bathrooms and at the other toward the service bar. The area around the back bar is less crowded and FASHIONHAG stands near the bar smoking a cigarette. An Hermes scarf holds back shiny-healthy shoulder length hair. Perfectly applied blush and lipstick adorn her Asian-American features and her white strapless jumper minidress. FASHIONHAG approaches the bar and puts the cigarette out. ALEX runs toward her.

ALEX
That's not an ashtray! (Holds up the metal bartending implement that has been mistaken for an ashtray. The cigarette remains on the bar.) See, no bottom.

FASHIONHAG
Omigod. It looks like an ashtray. A simple perfect ashtray. I... Omigod. I was wondering why they had such nice ashtrays. It's so Philippe Starck. I... Laughs.)

ALEX (Laughs too.)
Omigod. I love you. I'm Alex.

FASHIONHAG
Jennifer.

ALEX
I'm so drunk. I need a bump. Do you have a bump?

FASHIONHAG
Of cocaine? I can't do cocaine. I'm on Oxycontin.

ALEX
Can I have one?

FASHIONHAG
All mine, sahhhh-ree.

ALEX (Points at a SOUTHEAST ASIAN TWINK.)
Do you know Sanjaya?

FASHIONHAG
Who? (She looks.) Oh, you're bad. But that's not Sanjaya. That's Sanjaya. (She points at a TALL PUERTO RICAN that looks even less like Sanjaya than SOUTHEAST ASIAN TWINK, and who wears a skin-tight plaid shirt and calf-length pants.) Omigod. Sanjaya's feeling the music. I don't want to go to rehab. I said no, no, no.

RANDOM PASSING GAY (Loudly, over the music and crowd.)
I don't wanna go to Meatrack. I said no, no, no.

JENNIFER
Omigod. Sanjaya is trying for Thom Brown but just giving clam-digger. (Seeing a camera, holds metallic purse to face, yells.) Gerard! I'm giving you the Meisel!

The crowd is now flowing toward the front entrance again. As the entrance is approached, napkins can be seen fluttering wildly from the hands of FLAGHAG.

FLAGHAG
Yes I been black, but when I come back. You wont know, know, know. (She looks up, yells.) Brian!

Make Valentine's Day unforgettable

It's Valentine's Day.  When, if you are in a relationship, that you sort of look at the other half a little bit differently.  Over the past year perhaps you two have traveled.  Or confronted personal development issues together.  Maybe you're thinking of taking things to the next logical step.  Is it time to go to City Hall?  Is it time ... to terminate your domestic partnership?

Dissolution of a domestic partnership is surprisingly easy.  Since it is sort of a governmental joke that is made to keep the mo's quiet, there is none of the complication that one would have ending a real marriage.

From the office of the New York City Marriage Bureau:

A domestic partnership can be terminated by either party to the registered domestic partnership by filling a termination statement in person with our offices. The person filing the termination statement must declare that the domestic partnership is terminated and, if the termination statement has not been signed by both parties, that the other party has been notified of such termination by registered mail, return receipt requested. The fee for domestic partnership termination is $27.00 payable solely by certified check, postal or money order and a valid form of identification as described above must be presented at the time the termination statement is filed. Termination can also be automatic: whenever one of the parties to a domestic partnership marries the domestic partnership automatically terminates.

From the above the most awesome bit is that not only is dissolution of of your partnership easy, you don't even need to tell the other half that you are doing it.  It is more difficult for an Indonesian Muslim polygamist to discard of one his wives than it is for you to end your silly little relationship.  (He would at least have to face the soon-to-be-ex and say, "I divorce you" three times.)

The final fun fact is that you can always end your trivial little partnership by actually marrying someone of the opposite sex, because that gay thing was just a phase anyway.

So this Valentine's Day, end your relationship.  Or at least the government's recognition thereof.  Sorry, their sort-of recognition.  And then go to the conveniently located Century 21 for your new divorcee wardrobe.  (It's winter clearance and men's bottoms are half off!)

There will always be a bleach blonde lesbian

Gay men are notorious for their fickleness towards fashion.  Those 
white True Religion jeans that are so hot this summer will be a 
laughing stock next year.  Lesbians have it so much easier.

The exact year probably cannot be traced, but there certainly must be 
an exact point in time where the hands on the clock that is lesbian 
fashion froze forever.  The mullets scream of early eighties, the 
denim and scissored off sleeves hint of the seventies and 
little bursts of grunge and parachute material beckon the nineties.   
The mere amalgam of all the previous decades is purely new millenium.

One thing is sure though.  Among any gaggle of lesbians, one will 
always have bleach-blonde hair.