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.

Wednesday, September 26, 2007

Valuable

Yesterday, I got notice that my rent would be increasing by $100 per month. Add to it, I'm currently facing some very large bills in the near future, I've become faced with a very sad reality. Either I need to move, or I need a roommate. I've got to face the music, and currently it's a sad song playing on the jukebox.

Since I have guests coming to visit for 10 days in November, I figured a roommate start December 1st was best, and I put an ad in Craigslist advertising the apartment. Within two hours, I had over 20 responses. Most of which do seem acceptable.

If in the age of the internet, you can find a roommate within 2 hours...why can't getting a relationship be this easy?

Yes, the internet sites exist, but people seem to spend more time cruising the ads, checking out the photos, and less time actually attempting any contact (myself included here). And bars are just as bad. We all go out in our own friendship circles and search for the perfect...or at least acceptable mate, but often rather than settling, we just continue to pursue new people.

Maybe it's just New York City, but it seems that real estate is more coveted than relationships. Of course...a relationship doesn't offer you the same security that a roof over your head will.

Patrick - 2:32 PM -

Tuesday, September 25, 2007

Sins

I've said this before, but I think life insurance is one of the biggest rip off scams of the century. Pay so much money a year and when you die...somebody else hits the lottery. Of course, if it's term life insurance, your relatives don't make out unless you die before a certain age. I wonder if medically assisted suicide is an exclusion?

Of course, the reason I'm bringing this up is kind of stupid. See...when i was less than a year old, my father opened up a whole life insurace policy in my name. He paid it yearly as was required, and continued to pay it while I was growing up. When I moved away at the age of 17, he continued the policy, until he died. My grandmother then continued to pay the policy bill. Until 4 years ago, when she happened to notice that the beneficiary on this policy was my dead father, and lets face it...hell doesn't have a lot of use for money.

So my grandmother tried to change the beneficiary into her name, but the company wouldn't do it, as now that I was over the age of 18 (I'll be 24 next year), only I could change the policy beneficiary. My grandmother just handed me a piece of paper and said "sign this", which I refused to do until I saw what it was I was signing. Thus, how I ended up paying this annual bill.

Wait...it gets better.

Normally, this bill is $119 annually, however interest rates have been ridiculously low, and therefore, my bill is higher. Aparently, when I was 18, my father took out a loan against the policy, with the intention that the interest being earned would be enough to pay the policy premimum and loan principle each year. This isn't the case right now, so I owe $400.

The sins of the father will be paid by the son.

If I cash in the policy, the cash value will not cover the entire cost of the loan, and I will then owe just over $3000. Well isn't that special! Thanks dad!

It figures that after 37 years, my dad can still find a way to piss me off!

Patrick - 11:03 AM -

Friday, September 21, 2007

Not a Date

As I left work, I distinctly told myself "It's not a date". We were just two people that happened to be meeting at the same restaurant for dinner. No expectations, no plans, no agendas or any of the prescribed things that make it "a date". Just a light, easy, breezy get together.

I arrived at home and took a shower. All the while cleaning myself, I insisted that this wasn't a date. A date involves a potential future relationship, something currently I don't need. In fact, the only relationship I need is a better one with myself. What I was going to have was a "meeting". A meeting with another gay man I've recently met. Looking southward in the shower, I decided to manscape. Not because I intended on anyone seeing me naked, but because it was time for the necessary maintainance.

I picked out a black shirt to go with my dark pants, and was well on my way down to Chelsea when I realized that I had picked the shirt with the condoms in the breast pocket. Totally unintentional I say. I just picked out this shirt to go with the black jeans. And even if I was to have sex, we aren't dating. Dating involves something more that just a friendly get together for dinner and possibly drinks.

Walking home at 6:15 this morning, I can definitely say it wasn't a date. A date includes breakfast or at the least coffee. What we had was more of a friendly get together.

**********

Sometimes lying to yourself is the best option.

Patrick - 1:09 PM -

Wednesday, September 19, 2007

Professionalism

No matter what job I do, be it making reports for a meeting that nobody reads, or soliciting bids for the least expensive pens I can get, I try to do the best job I can, all the while remaining professional.

Therefore, even though I wanted to spit in her drink last night, I served Ann Coulter her soda water with lime with a smile on my face. Now if you can excuse me...I need to take a shower. I feel unclean.

Patrick - 2:38 PM -

Tuesday, September 18, 2007

Surprised!

Last Sunday night, I had drinks with some friends in the East Village. That I went out on a Sunday night is one thing, but that I went to a bar over 70 blocks away from where I live is surprising. That's two subway trains on a Sunday. Do you know how slow the trains run on a Sunday night? I could grow a full beard waiting for a damn A train on a Sunday Night. Yet, I was meeting friends, and to me, that's more important than waiting on subways (and isn't that what cabs are for?).

At this bar, which was primarily filled with college students, the "hosts" of the special night were making announcements on the microphone. Only in New York City, where bar competition is so brutal, does nearly every bar have a "host" that plans a special party. This particular party consisted of hippy men, many who haven't seen a bar of soap in some time, walking around the bar without pants on. Before the amateur strip show had started, the hosts made a particular announcement. "Heeeeyyy! Come up to the bar right now, and show you're dick, pussy, or ass and get a free shot."

I considered it, and wisely chose not to do so...seeing that I didn't need free alcohol that badly. However, when the cocktail waiter came by, and offered the free shot, I figured what the hell, flashed him and got my free shot.

Surprised?

I was. But not for the reason you might think.

Upon getting my free shot, I asked him exactly what was in the shot. His answer was "booze".

Back in my college days, I would never have dropped trou for a free drink. In fact, showing my dick would only been done in the privacy of a sex situation. I was modest, and would never have done so. At the age of 37, I've been naked in front of enough people that I've not even flinched at being asked to show it. Heck...I've emailed a picture to two different people this week.

At the same time, in my early 20's, I would have drank the shot and asked questions about what it was later...usually when I could barely walk. I distinctly remember a cocktail waiter shooting an entire shot into my mouth using a super soaker. Now...well I have to get up in the morning...so drinking shots of bad tequila is not my idea of fun.

"When did I grow up?" I thought on my 70 block subway ride home. What happened to my carefree youth where I just didn't care, and was I really that stupid? Wait don't answer that...I already know.

Patrick - 11:55 AM -

Friday, September 14, 2007

Don't Make Me Sick!

Back in August of 2005, I was sleeping next to someone (yes...if he's good in bed, I might let him sleep over), when he woke me in the middle of the night worried. He informing me that I was choking in my sleep. Embarassed, I had to explain to him that choking while sleeping was a "normal" occourance for me. Going back to sleep, it was one of the many times I had said "I'd give anything to not choke while sleeping".

Be careful what you wish for.

Tomorrow I reach a milestone, nay...an anniversary.
1 year.
365 days.
525,600 minutes

Yeah...as a gay blogger I'm required by law to reference a musical whenever possible.

But that's how long it's been since I had a solid food meal. As my surgeon and doctors have informed me, the way I'm eating now is likely how things are going to be for the rest of my life. They were able to fix one problem and I no longer choke at night, but it does mean that I am unable to eat solid food easily.

They do encourage me to "push the envelope". Thus, I try eating other things besides undercooked salmon, overcooked pasta, and other soft foods, like the steak dinner I had last weekend. However, you can only puke in the bathrooms of so many restaurants before you begin to wonder if the attempt is worth it.

I'm wondering if it's worth it.

My last meal was of all things...salmon. One of the few freaking things I can eat now, and to be honest...the company I had for that last meal wasn't the best of choices. If I had known...I would have had a huge steak and steamed broccoli.

Could have, would have, should have...whatever. I'm focusing on the positive here. My waist is 2 inches smaller than it was last year. Perhaps tomorrow I'll celebrate my year without solid food by having a milkshake.

Patrick - 3:07 PM -

Thursday, September 13, 2007

But

I went out on a date with a guy. Smart, successful, ambitious, has a job, attractive, even breathing...but...

I do this. I'm a fault finder. Within the first few dates, I can usually find some fault, something about a future mate that I don't like. It could be something miniscule like being a nail biter, or being an axe murder. Or...it could be something worse like smoking.

Usually, I try to look past whatever it is, seeing that I'm far from being fault free. Hell...I could easily list off 100's of faults that I have, but I won't. My self esteem is bad enough without enforcing it.

But as I think about this, I wonder. Aren't we supposed to want it all? If I can't have someone who's driven, passionate about what he does, enjoys a shared bottle of wine, is athletic, and just happens to be attractive then do I take second best? Should I settle for someone that is missing some of the qualities that I want? I've found men who've had the qualities I've wanted and our relationships have burned fairly hotly, for as long as they've lasted. Is it better to settle for second best?

He's nice and I like him...but...maybe all these "buts" are only making me into an ass.

Patrick - 3:46 PM -

Wednesday, September 12, 2007

Fierce!

As I've learned to do in my line of work, it's always best to observe as much as possible in the world, since you never know when you are going to see something so outrageous or outstanding that you can use it in a humorous way.

Up until today, I was always on the lookout, but no longer. I have now officially seen everything.

This morning, while I was getting dressed in the locker room at the gym, the man next to me, put on pantyhose, a stuffed bra, a full dress, makeup and a wig. As he walked out of the locker room, I could only think one thing.

Not only is he really buff, but he's a damn brave man.

Patrick - 3:49 PM -

Friday, September 07, 2007

Stinger

Up until now, I've refrained from saying much about Senator Craig and his trysts in airport bathrooms. Mainly because all this time I've been using the gym steam room. I likely would have continued to keep my mouth shut except that my coworker asked me if gay men really did hook up in bathrooms. My answer was "of course...if you were a closet case back in the 70's. Gay men just don't do that anymore."

But as I thought about it, prior events in my life reminded me that maybe those things do sometimes happen. And apparently, not all straight men know the signals. Since Senator Craig insists he is "not gay", he obviously needs to learn those signals, to insure he isn't caught in further sting operations.

Rules for Gay Public Sex

Bathroom Sex

Tapping your toes in a bathroom stall is the equivalent of a straight woman saying to a straight man "buy me a drink".
Grunting while taking a dump isn't.
Looking at the penis of the person standing at the urinal next to you is likely going to get you punched. Unless he's hard.
Putting your hand under the stall is not necessarily gay, as long as you ask the guy next to you to hand you some toilet paper.

Gym Locker room

Any eye contact lasting longer than .5 seconds is an invitation to have sex.
Carrying a towel while you wear a second around your waist is considered carrying a cum rag.
Going to the gym for four hours, but never once seeing the workout equipment, means you have ONE TIRED JAW! Not to mention some pruned skin.

Porno Store (ok...I'm not real familiar here but...)

Sticking your fingers into the hole in the booth wall means you want "glory hole" action.
Same goes for sticking your fingers in any hole.
Poppers for sale at these places should not be used at these places. By doing so, you might as well start walking in the gay pride marches.
You don't go into a video booth with someone else because you are trying to save on the cost of the movie.

The Bathhouse

Ok...if you are in this place...you haven't got a prayer to save your sorry ass. You're gayer than a three dollar bill, and you are definitely taking it like a man.

Patrick - 1:08 PM -

Thursday, September 06, 2007

Seeing Green

When you're hurting for cash, you'll do some crazy things. I signed up for an experimental medical study, just to get the $600 bucks. I've been known to go to Macy's men's department for the free cologne when I've needed a recharge, and couldn't afford to buy any. I've even showered at the gym when I didn't have enough cash to buy shampoo. Desperate times call for desperate measures.

But the other day, I witnessed something even I wouldn't do...and that's saying a lot. I went with a friend to a local convienience store, as it was warm and we were both thirsty. We walked our way to the ice water section, where I grabbed two bottles. My friend, eyed the prepared and wrapped sandwiches. He then proceeded to pick one up, open it, eat it in the store and take his water up to the counter where he paid for only his water.

After we left (and I had picked my jaw up off the floor), I asked him why he had done as he had. "An egg salad sandwich is not worth $4.99!", was his answer.

I officially met someone who was more desperate than I've ever been.

Patrick - 4:31 PM -

Wednesday, September 05, 2007

Richer

Provincetown is a lot like Las Vegas. Yes, what goes on there generally stays there (unless it shows up on x-tube), but also when you leave Provincetown, your money stays there. It's not a cheap place and because of that, I'm currently a little broke. Ok...a LOT broke. So I did what I needed to do, and took a catering job.

My first gig with this company was at a house party in the South Hamptons last weekend. If I didn't feel this way before...I do now. Extremely wealthy people really annoy me.

40 of us left NYC for a 2.5 hour commute out to the private residence of a Mr. and Mrs. X in the South Hamptons. I called them Mr. and Mrs. X because we were never told their names. Yes, these two people have a 15 bedroom summer home (which they occupy 2 months a year) in the Hamptons. 15 bedrooms. Why the fuck 2 people need a 15 bedroom home is beyond me, but seeing that these people were dropping over 500,000 for a party for 270 of the "best friends", all of whom have homes in the Hamptons, I can only assume that the bedrooms are for storage.

Their maid, Maria, and Mexican woman and I bonded almost instantly upon meeting each other. For one...she hates her employers. Specifically the woman of the house, who she referred to as "Mrs. Bitch". This maid was the one who gave me the tour. The master bedroom could have fit the floor of my building (3 apartments) and down the hall of the house is what Maria calls, "the recovery room". This is where Mrs. Bitch recovers from each of her plentiful plastic surgeries. She's had so many, her mouth stretches open when she bends over.

Back down the stairs, we set up the tables, chairs, place settings, and food for the party. We were fed pizza. The party guests were having Fillet Mignon, Cornish Hens, and Lobster.

Big difference between rich people and poor people. Rich people change the names of food to sound better. For instance, the passed appetizer was "black American caviar with creme fresh, on a potato crisp". Sounds exotic huh? Us poor people would call this "Fish eggs and Cool Whip on a potato chip". Seriously...they were taking "potato crisps" from a Lays bag. Come on!

Now I understand I was the "hired help", but even employees deserve common courtesy. That means when you are offered a passed appetizer, kindly shake your head or just say no thank you. Not acknowledging me only makes me stand there and repeat myself. In fact, only their dog, the most mannered of the lot, would notice us. Mainly because the chef fed him scraps from the buffet line.

I've been treated badly before...but these people were horrible. And it was while taking their abuse that I realized something. They need me. These people wouldn't know how to wipe their own butts on their own, and really only feel superior when they compare themselves to people like me. If I wasn't poor, they wouldn't feel rich and privlidged.

But this relationship doesn't go both ways. I don't need them. Sure, you are paying a caterer to have a party and this caterer is paying me, but if I didn't wait on you, I could wait on my equals in a restaurant...and be treated better. So go ahead Mrs. Bitch and call me "Hey you" one more time. I'll smile at you and get you your wine...but I'm the richer one of the two of us.

Patrick - 11:51 AM -