The Traveling Spotlight (test page)

The tales of a 30 something gay stand-up comic living in NYC who is searching for his soul mate or soul...which ever comes first.

Tuesday, January 20, 2009

Watching My Weight.

During a lot of my catering events, I've had a running joke. Most of the events I've worked are high end, often with ticket prices of $1,000 or more. It's ridiculous, and I've jokingly stated that somewhere out there is my rich gay husband. The security guards have pointed out the rich gay men, and the captains have often put the rich cute guys at my table. It's a funny fantasy.

So when it's a reality, it's not as funny. The boyfriend will always be at a higher income than I am. It's fair...he went to school for a very long time to get where he is...and I know I couldn't do what he does for a living. I can accept that, but suddenly I'm in a position where he's spoiling me a bit...and I'm feeling a bit overwhelmed.

I have been a fiercely independent person for most of my life. My philosophy has been if you can't afford don't get to have it. And that meant a ski trip that is on my birthday. It's not really a smart choice when I'm not employed full time and I haven't been able to even score an informational interview. I need to conserve money...perhaps take in a roommate...sell my body to science...not take a Vermont trip.

The boyfriend felt differently, and has generously paid my way for the trip. And I'm shell shocked. Rarely am I at a loss for words...but this moment is one of them. It's one thing if he had bought the trip and I could have paid for it on my own...but in this case, I'm not able to.

Yes...we will always be unequal in incomes, but taking a gift like this is a very difficult thing for me. I just don't want to be that guy. The one that says "I need new me them. I need a better me it. I want this...I want that." I don't want to look in the mirror and see that perceived kept man. I have this need and drive to pull my own weight...and this is an uncomfortable place for me.

Patrick - 9:26 PM -

Monday, December 29, 2008

Giving and Receiving

To start: Supposedly 500,000 people lost their jobs in November. I'm number 499,993. It sucks, there isn't anything I can do about it, and I can only look forward from here. I'll survive. But it does mean that I can't really afford Christmas. The boyfriend (there...I said it), who is still working could spoil me a bit. It's sweet and I'm flattered, but leaves me feeling awkward. I know that he can afford more, but I like to keep things a bit equal. I joke about wanting to be kept...but in reality I'm more inclined to be an equal.

Thus this Christmas he gave me 2nd row seats to Wicked while all I could afford to purchase was a $5 spoon rest, and I was scrambling for ideas until Christmas Eve. At the last minute, I thought of something I could give as a gift.


My Christmas Morning Conversation:

Him: Oh...My...God...
Me: Well I couldn't afford to buy you a I thought that was a good idea.
Him: That was your idea of a present?!?
Me: Um...well it is illegal in all 50 states.
Him: Thank god I'm not a cop.

Some gifts are better left to the imagination.

Patrick - 1:26 PM -

Thursday, November 20, 2008


Warning...there is a rant in here...but I rarely do this.

Last night, I worked as a waiter at a major insurance and retirement company. My table consisted of the Chairman and CEO of the company, as well as 6 additional board members for this company. For the most part, I treat these people like anyone else, but since I had the CEO, I was supposed to follow him around the entire evening, refreshing his drink at all times, or getting anything he needs even before he notices that he needs it. Basically...everything but wipe his ass for him...and even then...I'm sure the company would prefer I do it rather than he risk dirtying his hands.

It's an awful gig...but I'm very good at kissing ass. Thus, half way through the meal, he decided to pay me a compliment. It was a simple one.

"You're a great career waiter. I want you serving me all the time."

I stared out the 35th floor window and luckily noticed that they wouldn't open, or I would have launched myself off the building. I fully understand that in the professional world of my day job I am a nobody and my thoughts and opinions matter about as much as monkey poop. Belive's pointed out to me often. But I did not go to college for as many years as I did to be considered a career waiter. I understand that you were trying to compliment me, but it's a fairly backhanded compliment. Like telling a prostitute that they give great head for being a hooker!

I work as a waiter to survive, because CEO's like you have fucked up this god damned economy so badly that I will likely never be able to pay off my fucking 150k in student loan debt. I work as a waiter, throwing away nearly 6oz of that 10oz filet mignon because I know that if I'm lucky, the chefs will save me a few vegetables that I can shovel in my mouth for dinner and save on grocery bills.

I don't work as a waiter because I enjoy standing 3 feet from your sorry ass for a 5 hour party, without breaks, on hard sole shoes! Who do you think actually likes doing that?

You're the CEO of a major corporation, and I'd expect that you were intelligent enough to not assume that everyone doesn't have higher aspirations and dreams. Not all waiters are actors and not all waiters do this because they love it. Ask me about my purchasing skills, or my negotiation skills...or about how I can still quote federal regulations in educational financing? Better yet, give your director of purchasing a week off and see if I can't do their job better than they can?

Until about a nice cup of "Shut the fuck up!"

Oh...and yes...I'll be here in two weeks to wait on you for your board meeting.


Patrick - 2:17 PM -

Monday, November 17, 2008

3 Things

During my routine dental cleaning and exam, my dentist gave me some harsh news. I'm drinking too much coffee. Personally, I don't think 15 cups a day is too much, but my dentist disagrees. He's issued the following initiative:

No more than 2 cups of coffee a week.

There are three things I can not live without in this world. Alcohol, sex, and coffee.

If my dentist tells me no more alchol or sex...I'm jumping off the Queensboro bridge.

Patrick - 1:44 PM -

Wednesday, November 12, 2008


When I was a little boy, My neighbor Lisa convinced me to play a game with her that she created. The games rules were fairly simple. We'd walk into the small space between her house and the house next door and then would each show a normally clothed area of our body to the other person. It's an innocent game that lots of kids likely play, and after about 8 weeks of this, I still have images burned in my head (could this be why I'm gay?).

However I had a Roman Catholic grandmother that I faced, and with that...I had guilt. Big guilt. When it came to the display of her snatch...I snitched. And my grandmother made feel incredibly ashamed about the whole situation, forcing me to promise that I would have to tell the priest of my transgressions on my first confession, which I'd be attending 3 years later.

For the next 1095 days, I dreaded that first confession. During the catholic school training where we had "practice" confessions leading up to our real one, I used to imagine what would happen if I had to tell the nun that I had seen and touched a girl "down there". I imagined her dragging me out into the hallways, so that everyone could see the little devil monster I was...doomed to fire and brimstone.

We had gone through the basic sacrament training (which I have no real memory of now) and had been explained that our first confession would be in the "booth". The booth at Sacred Heart Church was the standard priest in the middle with two side booths that had lights over the top. If the red light was on...somebody was in there confessing their sins.

My last name is Doyle, which is fairly close to the front of the alphabet, and because of that, I was told I'd be in the first group. We were brought to the church for a final dress rehersal the day before the big event (and the day before the priest would drag me before the class screaming what a dirty boy I was), when the nun in charge told us of the exciting news.

The Roman Catholic Pope in all his wisdom had approved "FACE-to-FACE" confessions and that my group would be the group facing Father Unger when it came time to tell our sins. I nearly fainted. The last thing I wanted to do was tell Father Unger (the stern one) that I touched Lisa's pussy (although I didn't understand why my dad called it that). Instead, sweating, I went home and stressed about it quite a bit.

Enough to call my mom and tell her my issue. Her suggestion was to just not tell that sin and then she asked to speak to my grandmother to likely bitch her out for scaring the hell out of me. Relieved at her advice, I was able to relax enough and try to eat a little dinner before getting ready for bed.

I should have known it was too good to be true. My grandmother, upon tucking me in for the night, informed me that I should tell the priest EVERY SINGLE SIN or I would not have absolution and would burn in hell. She pointed out that my mother was not religious and would likely suffer on her death.

Catholicism...good times.

The day of our first confession, I dressed in my Catholic school uniform, considered faking sick and seeing the school nurse. I would have done nearly anything to not have to face that man in black. Walking into the back area, I got on my knees and started with the Pre-prayer. (on a side note...I recently heard that one of the priests had molested some kids in that back area...but I'm not completely sure if that's true).

And then I launched into the big sins. I lied, I cheated, I stole, I disobeyed my family, I jay walked, I swam without waiting a half hour after eating...I tried to think of anything else that I could tell that would put off the inevitable. And then...staring at the monhogany paneling on the wall, told him that I had seen Lisa's Poonany.

25 "Hail Mary"'s and 50 "Our Father"'s and I was forgiven. That was the scariest thing I had ever done and would be that way for a very long time.

Giving the boyfriend this blog address and saying he could read the entire thing was scarier.

Patrick - 2:20 PM -

Monday, November 10, 2008


Recently I received the following invitation.

VIP Botox Party!

Spa Night Special - Friday, November 14th, 3-8 pm

Fall into beauty this season and join Dr Javier Zelaya and his staff for a Botox cosmetic VIP party on Friday, November 14th from 3-8pm!

You and a friend are invited to receive Botox at a special discounted rate!

Enjoy a savings on Botox Cosmetic at these rates:
$300 per zone (regularly $500)
$900 full face ( regularly $1500)

Space is limited to the first 40 clients.

Is it just me, or does anyone else find this to be completely unethical?

Society defines beauty as young and athletic, and let's face it. You can't fight time. My friend is currently celebrating his 29th birthday for the 14th time, and he's so sensitive about his age. He searches the mirror for wrinkles and grey hair, and is starting to take HGH hormones so he can prolong what is inevetible. He's signed up to go to this event and it's crap like this that really pisses me off. What's next? A liposuction party?

Patrick - 3:16 PM -

Friday, November 07, 2008

Clothes That Make the Man

Today, I am wearing a poor fitting, non breathing, and partially food stained polyester tuxedo that I have worn for the third day in the row. I'm convered in a fowl material that I wear strictly for my catering gigs.

I am dressed like a frumpy mess (at least that's how I see it) and it does bother me at times. Clothes supposedly make the man, and if the outside appearance says "I'm too broke to buy an iron and ironing board and only wear perma-press", I can only wonder what else people think of me.

Normally, I don't care, but there are times I wish I could dress better (like when the man suggests a restaurant that requires a sportcoat I don't own)...but in reality, having a somewhat small savings account in this economy seems a smarter decision for me. Thus until then, I'll continue to wear my uniform, no matter how demoralizing it is.

Uniforms are supposed to instill the viewer with a particular thought or mindset. The priest is supposed to look modest, the SWAT team member menacing, the military man as honerable. Yet I couldn't help but wonder (how's that Tuna?)...what happens when they don't live up the uniform?

While working an event the other night, I was bartending for a group of military officers. Young guys, some who have not yet turned 21, yet their commanding officer insisted since he was having the party, it was alright for them to consume alcohol. I refused to serve them, and took quite a bit of harassment from the military men.

During the singing of the National Anthem, the military men refused to move or speak (as they are supposed to do), but were angry with me for not continuing to make their drink while the song was sung.

I have respect for the military, and honestly, this event left me with such a bad taste in my mouth, if I hadn't met military men before this event, I would have likely lost all respect for them.

Uniforms, like looks, only go so far. It's what is on the inside that really counts.

Patrick - 1:48 PM -

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