The Former Traveling Spotlight

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

Friday, March 30, 2007

Pros and Cons

The past 48 hours, I have had such a rollercoaster ride of things going on, and to be honest, I don't see a end to it anytime soon.

Pro: The restaurant I worked at closed its doors for good yesterday. Rest in peace, Aquaterra. This was the view of the bar for the past 8 weeks...not a customer in site. It was also the first job I got in New York.
Con: I'm no longer going to be receiving that $15 weekly paycheck (seriously).
Pro: I've got three first dates next week. This from the person who doesn't date much.
Con: These were part of the speed dating...and two of them I really don't want to go on.
Con: After discussions with my doctor, it's been reccommended that I go back into the hospital for surgery...yet again. Post surgery, I will not be able to eat solid food for about 6 to 12 weeks. Nor will I be able to run for about a month.
Pro: The last surgery had me lose 15 pounds over three weeks. At this rate, I'll be rail thin by swimsuit season. You can never be too young, rich, or thin.

So today, the post I had started in my head is completely out of my mind now. I'm in the process of attempting to schedule dates, surgery and look for a new bartending night job.

Fuckity fuck fuck fuck.

Patrick - 11:09 AM -

Wednesday, March 28, 2007

A Fine Line

There is a fine line between being flirtatious and being really easy.

Aparently that line is 3 Cosmos and nothing to eat all day.

~nuff said.

Patrick - 10:06 AM -

Tuesday, March 27, 2007

Revisiting Vietnam

Over this past weekend, I declared the Vietnam war active once again and I'm now on the hunt for Charlie. Now before you start organizing a protest, let me make my case as to why it's time to go to war.

A young Vietnamese "friend" of mine contacted me on Thursday evening and asked if I would attend an event with him at the gay community center. He wanted to go to the Speed Dating event for men in their 20's and 30's, but preferred a friend go with him.

Now I'm the first to admit...I'm not really a speed dating kind of guy. I like to get to know a person for while before I start making out with them. Three minutes isn't nearly a long enough time (Silence Tunagirl...you know too much). However, I know what it's like to not have a wing man with you, so I decided to do something selfless and join him.

The day before the "dates", my friends from Provincetown came to the city and we spent most of the night out partying and cavorting, so I was exhausted by Saturday afternoon. In fact, I looked downright haggard, and would have stayed home that evening, but since I had agreed to meet my friend...I showed up with bags under my eyes. Bags larger than most carry on luggage. I looked awful. But this was about my friend...not me.

At 7:30 pm, I arrived at the community center, and saw that my friend was also waiting. The speed dating was not starting until 8pm, so we discussed the logistics of how it works. All the men are paired up and get 3 minutes to speak. The lights are flashed to let you know that the 3 minutes are finished, then the men move onto the next person. This goes on for over an hour. Once this is completed, each man turns in his list of men he'd like to meet again. If you and someone else list each other as someone they would like to see again, a mutual match occurs and you are both given each other's contact info. It seemed fairly straight forward, and all we had to do was enter the room.

But my friend was getting cold feet. I tried to convince him to go in the room, and two other men also joined me. My friend finally got the courage and said yes...so I walked in, paid my $20 and sat down. When I looked back...

MY...VIETNAMESE...FRIEND...HAD...LEFT...ME!!!

I was stuck there, and as the kickoff bell rang, I was introduced to my first "date". My evening highlights?

A 20 year old stock boy who still lives with his mom.
A 47 year old musician (they did say 20's and 30's event didn't they?).
A psychotherapist who looks 12 years old.
A screen writer who took a call during the three minute date.
A man I tricked with who couldn't quite remember where he had met me before.
The postage stamp collector.
A mortician.
The Spanish teacher.
A figure skater (I thought those guys were straight).

The night just wouldn't end, and it wasn't until I neared the end of the dates that I realized I needed to put down a few numbers of people I might want to see again. The thing was...I wasn't that into any of them that much...but who wants to leave a speed dating event without any matches.

Tattoo me with the "L" for loser and get it over with. So I quickly put some numbers down. I ended up getting 4 matches...and now I have to date them. I think my Vietnamese friend needs to pay for these dates! Yes...Charlie may be able to hide in the urban jungle...but not forever. And when I find him...I'm going to Napalm his ass.

Patrick - 10:08 AM -

Friday, March 23, 2007

Numbers

I've come to realize that since I'm not really the dating sort of person, I've decided I need to embrace some of the stereotypical traits of my fellow gay brethren. It's a way of shaking off the societal norms that are forced on me. But I'm not sure which stereotypes to embrace.

One look at my furnitureless, cramped, and cluttered apartment would tell you that my hopes of embracing the interior decorator stereotype is completely beyond my abilities.

I wouldn't trust myself with a pair of scissors, so forget being a hair stylist.

According to a former trick who commented on my physical traits, I'm not qualified to be a porn star.

I'm not Catholic, nor do I like little boys...so the priest hood is out.

I think that leaves me with promiscuity as my only option.

My question...exactly how many partners is "many"?

Patrick - 12:09 PM -

Thursday, March 22, 2007

Respect

Something I've never really liked about myself is that I'm a fader. I make an impression on people's lives, but as time goes on, and our lives take different paths, I found that I've lost contact. No big fights, just fade to black.

In my youth, it was because I moved so much. By the time I was in college, it became a habit, and I've only maintained contact with two people from my undergraduate degree. None from business school. It's been weird, but it's the turns in life.

So imagine my surprise that the person I mentioned in my last post (Jackie...the kissing bandit) would just so happen to Google search my name and find my kissing post. Yes, the girl I kissed when I was 14 happened to read my post and asked me the most important question that every straight girl that has an ex boyfriend who's gay wants to ask.

"Were you really gay back then?"

***blank stare***

No Jackie. I only looked at the fitness magazines as inspiration to work out...even though I didn't belong to a gym. I also purchased that Playgirl magazine "on a dare", and hung around the swim team because I liked watching swim meets. I never tried to sleep with you because I just respected you so much.

Patrick - 2:02 PM -

Monday, March 19, 2007

With This Kiss

Looking at this photo makes me just a little warm inside. And seriously...who doesn't think puppies are cute. Even if you aren't a dog person, you still can't help but smile a little. And really...who doesn't like puppy kisses? That is...as long as the puppy hasn't been eating something nasty!

Kissing is a powerful display of affection. From the day we are kids, our relatives kissed us to show their affection (and sometimes traumatized us if they were my Great Aunt Eleanor and her "wet kisses of death"). Kisses were used to heal minor injuries and they were the finale of how we said good night. A day without a kiss...well it's unheard of. And children unashamed, will kiss without prejudice, without pretense, and without anything more than the love they carry.

But then kids hit puberty.

Suddenly, kissing is something reserved for someone you're attracted to. Who doesn't remember their first kiss? (Jackie...no...it's not your fault I'm gay now.) Hearts pounding, sweaty palms, and the awkwardness of learning to convey passion, affection, and interest, without slobbering all over the recipient's face. Oh...and watch out for the braces, they can get locked together. It's a rite of passage, and we've all gone through it.

***Side note...if you haven't yet gone through this rite of passage, you are likely too young to be reading this site and should perhaps surf Google for something more age appropriate.***

In the straight world, it hopefully all leads to one thing.

A strong prenuptial agreement. Or at least a good alimony settlement in the event of a divorce.

For those of us in the gay world...well things become more subvert. A lot of us don't even get a first kiss until much later (I luckily was not one of those men).

***

Yesterday I had a first date. Now I'm breaking my cardinal rule by discussing it here, but you'll see why shortly. We had the usual chit-chat that all first dates are about. Where did you grow up? What do you do for a living? Brothers and sisters? Coming out...etc.

Post date, we walked along the Upper West Side of New York (dodging baby strollers) as we made our way to the bus stop on 86th and CPW. At that bus stop, with a line of 15 people, we had the awkward "how do we end this date moment". You know the moment. Do you kiss, do you shake hands, do you give a hug. My date took charge and made his intentions known by going in for the kiss.

I can respect that, and we were enjoying the moment. A kiss longer than the healing kiss of a boo-boo but by no means any longer than a wedding kiss. The kind of kiss that would say that yes...these two guys aren't European. And that, my friends was when it happened. The woman waiting for the bus said "Not in public guys".

Now in all the pictures I previously posted here, all of them were taken in public. Yet my kiss is the one that should be judged?

Back in my protesting, not caring if I was arrested days, I used to own a t-shirt that stated, "Every kiss is a revolution." In the late 80's, it was true. Gays kissing in public could cause a bashing. But over 20 years, especially in NYC, things have changed. Gay couples hold hands in public, and kiss hello and goodbye. At least I thought so. In Ohio, things may be a bit more conservative, but even there, I would have not given a fuck about what someone else said.

Yesterday I was in my neighborhood and some woman who's taking a bus to the Upper East Side is offended by my minor display of affection? It's mother fucking 2007! You see worse on Cinemax on Saturday late nights, Janet Jackson's tit on the Superbowl, and more bed activity during a soap opera, and my kiss is the one over the top? Fuck you bitch!

So while holding his face with my left hand, I lowered all my fingers, except for the middle one, while I went for tongue. Yes...I tongue kissed the guy on the first date (which is really mild compared to some of the other things I've done on first dates), but still made my point.

Yes, I may not be on the battle grounds as much as I was in my 20's, but I'm still willing to fight for my rights. And if that means I want to kiss a man good bye, I'll do so, and if you or anyone else doesn't like it...you can just kiss my gay ass.

Viva la resistance!

Patrick - 11:25 AM -

Thursday, March 15, 2007

Survival of the Fit

In the dating jungle of New York City, we the single people are the animals. Starving animals. It's Darwinism at its best, and those of us who don't search for food will starve, and some of us can get pretty hungry.

The hunters are the kings of the kingdom. These carnivores hunt with a preciseness and the best of them, know how to become prey to attract that really good dish. They walk into a bar and within minutes find exactly what they want and move in for the kill. Now of course, their are varying degrees on the food chain, but it all irons out.

Then there are the monkeys and primates. These are the goofy ones, looking to have fun and sometimes on chance, finding a little time to mate. They travel with their monkey friends and take care of each other. These are the people who are generally happy, but if you piss them off, expect to see the shit fly.

The grazers are the people who go about the single world finding what ever food they can, and unfortunately eat solo, but the minute they sense a hunter in the area...they head for the hills, running as fast as they can. Sadly they haven't realized that sometimes...it's fun to get eaten.

And lastly...we've got the parasitic vultures. The animals that feed off the carcases of the single people suffering from a breakup. They swoop in and will pick at the remaining meat, only to siphon the life force from the meal. If you see vultures...it's time to go into hibernation.

For the most part, the animals stick to their own kind (Hunters to hunters, primates to primates, etc.). Now we've all heard that opposites do attract, but is it possible to sustain a relationship between a hunter and a grazer? Can say...a really shy guy and an extrovert with completely different values and upbringings work it out in this dating jungle, or is it doomed to be a feast...followed by a famine? Is a relationship like this going to be a meal, or just a snack? Is their any possibility of cross breeding between the species?

Patrick - 9:13 AM -

Wednesday, March 14, 2007

Vindication

Recently, two elderly women were mugged in queens. The assailant, a male beat both of them after taking their purses and any cash they were carrying. The first woman was injured fairly badly, and the second woman was beat while a security camera taped the whole incident. The assailant has still not been caught, but if he is, the assault carries a potential sentence of up to one year in jail.

A year in jail for beating up an 80 year old woman outside her apartment door? It doesn't seem fair. This woman is not going to be able to sleep alone for a very long time because of the fear she is living with. Of course, community outrage will push legislators to change the laws and increase the sentences, but I still wonder what is the appropriate penalty.

These two women are the ones in prison now. Afraid to leave their apartments, these women are the ones suffering. So maybe sentencing laws need to change. How about letting the victim of a crime decide the sentence length of the guilty party? Shouldn't the victim have a right to feel real closure.

Patrick - 1:48 PM -

Tuesday, March 13, 2007

Equal Rights for Fights

There are many things I want to talk about in regards to last weekends trip, but this thing came to mind first.

I should probably admit something here. I like to challenge society's rules. Which brings me to last weekend and the ski trip.

65 gay men and 5 lesbian women entered one of the only bars in the town of Stratton, Vermont on Saturday evening after having dinner in a restaurant. This bar was the only bar in town that was using the service of a DJ for the night, so we all decided to go. My table was the last to head over. As we walked into the entrance of the bar, a woman was walking out and said to her friends, "They shouldn't be allowed to just take over the bar like that! Why can't they go to one of their own bars."

She was upset that the gays took over the bar. In fact, most of the straight people left the bar within 10 minutes of all of us arriving. At first I was offended, and considered saying something to her. I have to spend a lifetime seeing straight people kiss, watching actors portray straight sex in mainstream movies and television shows, live through the weddings of my straight friends and family, and dodge the baby strollers of the Upper West Side. Yet this woman is upset that we ruined her chances of fucking a straight man that night? Fuck you lady...your chances were ruined the moment you put on that green halter top. Instead though...I kept my mouth shut.

The next evening, after a day on the slopes, our group slowly filtered out to the pool and hot tubs. When the first of us arrived, the pool area and hot tubs were full of kids and parents. By the time 8 of were out there, the parents had taken all their children inside. A few additional families came out to the pool area, but upon seeing 30+ gay men sitting in the hot tubs, they never even entered the water. Aparently a hot tub cooking "man soup" was too much.

This time though, instead of feeling offended, I found myself feeling something completely different. Empowerment. For the rest of the weekend, I found that with just a small display of my sexuality, I could get nearly anything I wanted. No seats available in the restaurant? Give a hug and a kiss on the cheek to one of the other guys. No space at the bar? Grab my roommate and slip him the tongue. (BTW...not a bad kisser at all...good thing other people were around). Hell...people would even avoid us in the lift lines the minute we started to lisp, allowing us to move ahead of them.

And the rest of the weekend, I enjoyed my power. So much so, that I forgot what it's like living back here in the city. Today, I could barely find space on the subway. So I started to lisp...and nothing happened. Nobody cleared out of the way. In fact, not one person paid any attention. I guess here, people are just more used to gay people. Damn...and I wanted to make out with that cute guy waiting at the 7th avenue stop.

Patrick - 2:25 PM -

Wednesday, March 07, 2007

Inadequacies

Once, during a job interview, I was asked the question of how I would define success. I can't remember the answer I gave, but I didn't get the job, so it's unimportant. However, success is something I've noticed over the years, and there are times I've not felt like I measured up to who should be my peers.

Tomorrow, I'm going to be riding in a car for six hours with two skiers. The first, is a Stanford educated, Harvard Law graduate, who is a partner in a law firm. His boyfriend is a Yale educated PhD, who owns one of the larger international marketing firms in NYC. Lawyer, Business Owner, and Secretary/comic will be traveling in a car together...yay! Won't we have so much in common? While they discuss their trip to Europe, I can discuss my avoiding a bill collector. Yes, it's my inadequacy, but if we were in a dick measuring contest, I'd feel as if I didn't qualify to compete. I'd feel really small.

Now I've had successful friends before. My friends B & K from Cleveland were able to buy a house large enough that my 2 floor house in Cleveland would have fit in their garage. The difference? B & K came from a modest background. K studied at a state funded institution and did very well for himself, something I respect immensely respect.

Having worked in higher education, I do know what an Ivy League education can get you. Basically a job that pays significantly higher. The problem is that Ivy League educations are generally only available to the wealthy families. I could have had the grades (I didn't...I dropped out of high school) and been admitted to Harvard, but I never would have had the money to go. I'm lucky I have the education I do (all from state schools...which I will have paid off by the time I'm 70).

New York is about defining the "Haves" and the "Have Nots". I don't mind being a "have not", but it does make being around a "have" all the more difficult. Summer in the Hampton's, weekend vacation homes, designer clothes, and investment portfolios are something I'm not ever going to have in common with someone. Avoiding bill collectors, surfing on someone else's wireless Internet service, and considering having sex for money is something I can relate to. Why the fuck is it so hard to meet those people?

Patrick - 2:43 PM -

Tuesday, March 06, 2007

Anyone Up for Swimming?

Last night, as usual for my Monday nights, I worked the second job at the restaurant. Except this time, something feels different. Standing behind the bar, I actually opened my eyes and looked at the liquor bottles. Missing was the Makers Mark, Dewars, most of the wines by the glass, and over 1/2 of the beers are out of stock. This is the second week in a row that I've noticed this.

I looked to the wall and noticed that the pictures of the chef's grandparents are no longer in their prominant place. In fact, most of the items that the chef brought in from home seem to be missing. Additionally, the chef has suddenly taken a very impromptu vacation and will not be back until next week.

Last night, we had six customers in the restaurant total. One table and 4 bar customers.

On Christmas Eve 2005, the chef's mother made a Christmas wish. "My wish, is for [insert restaurant name] to be a huge success and for there to be many [insert restaurant name]'s everywhere!"

That same night I though to myself, "My wish is to be out from the hell that is this job."

I have a bad feeling I know who's wish is going to come true first. The bell is ringing and I distinctly hear the phrase "abandon ship" being played on the loud speakers. Even the rats are looking for life jackets.

Patrick - 12:08 PM -

Monday, March 05, 2007

Lemonade

As a comedian, I'm always looking at my life for sources of comedy. Sometimes I can take a small thing and elaborate it into a great fictional story, and sometimes I'll use my friends and their experiences as ways of creating comedy from their tragedies. My date of Friday night was the kind of trauma that comedians dream of witnessing. So I can only choose to make lemonade out of the lemons I was served.

*****
I sometimes consider myself "Dating Bipolar" (yeah...I can't wait for the Google hits from this one). I have two levels of dating, those that have no further potential than a sexual relationship (sometimes of only one night), and those that I may actually could develop feelings for. Many, many, many, maybe too many men have progressed into the first type of relationship, but few have been able to unlock the prison walls I've placed around my heart (it's called self preservation). Those men that make the cut become significant to me, and when the relation ship ends, my "getting over it" is difficult.

So I was a little surprised that I was connecting so well with a certain gentleman during my ski trip. Yes, it's been long enough since my last heart break that I'm ready to date again, but I'm still careful. That being said, I spent a day last week skiing a handsome plastic surgery resident (from Barcelona), and since then we've been sending text messages back and forth over the week. His schedule is brutal, but he remembered and texted me a birthday greeting (something I found very sweet). It's been difficult though, as we weren't able to meet and have a proper date because of his work schedule.

Until last Friday. Another resident took his Friday night shift, and he had Saturday off, so he texted me and asked if I'd like to go to dinner. At the moment that he had texted me, I was on my way to happy hour (ok...I'd had one drink...I was already happy), but I more than agreed and hurried home for a quick shower and change of clothes.

Edwardo and I met in Chelsea and walked to the Greenwich Village for a dinner at an Italian restaurant. A short 10 minute wait in the bar, and we were seated at the 2 person table next to the window. Across from me, Edwardo, the Spanish plastic surgeon, to my right was the window, and on my left was another 2 person table.

One of the things about New York City that can be annoying is that restaurant tables are so close together. It's impossible to carry on a dinner conversation without the table next to you hearing all the details. So I knew it would only be a short time before the table next to us would be occupied, and this was exactly what happened.

The table was sat just after we had ordered our wine. I saw out of the corner of my eye two people sit down and heard my name called out. Looking up, I saw the last guy I had seriously dated. The guy who surprised me and took me home from the hospital post-surgery after reading about it here. The guy who my friends refer to as "EPT". Yes...EPT. Not because he's a pregnancy test (although a certain woman in LA might suggest pissing on him), but because he's an Emotional Power Top. Over the last year, he has continued to ram himself in and out of my life, and every time I think he's gone, he reappears to pound at me again. He's a very, very, very, bad man...and it's taken a while to get over him.

Friday, was my chance to feel smug. A chance to say, "I've done better, mother fucker!" And this was why I introduced him to my date.

"Edwardo, meet EPT. EPT...this is Edwardo, from Barcelona." These were my words, but my tone was more like this:

(in a Spanish Accent)EPT, this is Edwardo, from Barcelooooooonaaaa! Can you feel the heat of his Spaniardness? Do you see the fire in his eyes? Can you see the smoldering sexual energy pulsing from his pecs? That fire is directed towards me! You lost your chance, and it is now Edwardo's, from Barcelooooonaa, chance! Tonight...you will hear the screams of our passion!

EPT asked what Edwardo did, which he answered. "Plastic surgeon", and yes...I did see a twinge of jealousy in EPT's eye. Inside I sat there smug, although still lightly traumatized. It was difficult getting over him.

I turned to my soon to be Spanish lover and we continued our getting to know each other conversations and ordered our dinner. And it was during this conversation that Edwardo, the plastic surgeon from Barceloooona (hear that EPT?), informed me that he and his boyfriend are having problems, and this is why he decided to start dating again. But his boyfriend doesn't know this yet. In fact, his boyfriend thought he was working that night.

At the next table EPT coughed out loud. He had heard this tidbit and gave me the freaking "thumbs up" symbol, while he mouthed the words "Nice".

I ordered a glass of wine, as the night was about to turn ugly. I could have made a scene, but I didn't want to give EPT the satisfaction, so I just played it the best I could, and was very thankful that the appetizer arrived.

Mussels fra Diavalo. Now before anyone does the happy dance and comments that I'm eating solid food again, I'm not. In fact, as of today, my doctors are discussing doing another surgery, as I'm having extreme difficulty swallowing food. The problem is that food is often getting stuck going down...and if it doesn't go down...it WILL COME BACK UP. This was the case while eating my mussels fra diavolo. I began drinking water in mass quantities, trying to get my dinner down, but was not having success. Getting the familiar feeling that means, puke time, I excused myself and made way to the bathroom (only once considering puking on the table), leaving Edwardo, the plastic surgeon from Barcelona who's looking to cheat on his boyfriend, to sit alone next to EPT.

I came back to find EPT and Edwardo discussing something. Personally I just didn't care, and I gazed out the window, looking for any reason I could get away from this night from hell. Walking down the street was a man dressed in black pants and a white shirt. Very obviously a waiter from another restaurant. As he neared the window, I saw another man, in jeans and a hooded sweatshirt come up behind this man and hit him in the head with something. The man who was hit fell to the ground and the sweatshirt man reached into his pocket and took the man's wallet.

The victim of this mugging, lay on the ground not moving, and Eddie (fuck this Spanish bullshit), the philandering surgical hack, was out helping this man, while I called 911 to get assistance. Relaying the information to the operator, I explained his condition and an ambulance was dispatched. Now...I wanted to go home, but I couldn't because I had witnessed a freaking crime. And our dinner had arrived! The police interviewed me, took my statement and description of the assailant, and all the while my veal stuffed ravioli got cold (not that I would have been able to swallow the damn thing anyway). I finally was allowed to go back to my table. There I sat, hungry after puking my appetizer back up, emotionally traumatized and embarrassed upon seeing EPT, a material witness to a crime, and now tired as it was past midnight. And as I sat there, taking all this in, I thought..."Damn...have I got blogging material".

No more dating for me.

Patrick - 1:47 PM -

Friday, March 02, 2007

Compliments

Last night I recieved a compliment...I think.

"Oooo...you have an onion ass", he exclaimed.

I wonder if it was because of the shape, or were fumes bringing tears to his eyes.

Patrick - 1:21 PM -

Thursday, March 01, 2007

Under Armor

"Careful! You might break that." We heard those words almost every time we went into a store as children. Our parents taught us an important lesson, things that are fragile have value. Put those things are onto a high shelf and never touch it again. That can be a good thing, except some of us, put our hearts on that shelf. It's too fragile. It could get broken.

The thing is, love is full contact sport. If you want play the game, you have to risk getting hurt. The best you can do is put on your protective gear. In football, it's padding and a helmet. In the dating age, it's all about technology.

On the eight day, god created Google and it was good. With just a search on a name or an email address, you can find all those little details about someone. And those little details are what give you the clues about the bigger things. You can find where a person went to school, what they studied, prior addresses, and even sometimes prior boyfriends. Everything to prepare you for the potential heart crushing defeat of an ended relationship.

But what I find particularly interesting is that we don't put on the same protective gear when it comes to sexual relations. I've yet to meet a single person who hasn't hooked up at least once. Some of us do it often, some rarely, but most every one of us does it. Satisfying that sexual need is necessary, but isn't it odd that we will take home a perfect stranger from a bar, one who we've had only the shortest of conversations with, perform very personal acts with them (yeah...I think shyness is out the door once his dick is in your mouth), but not dare risk our hearts. In a time when sexually transmitted diseases can kill you, I would like to think that we would think our physical health is at risk. Then again...I'm just as guilty of hooking up.

When did our emotional health become more fragile than our physical health? Perhaps rather than developing a better armor...we just need a faster healing process for broken hearts.

Patrick - 1:33 PM -