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.

Thursday, May 31, 2007

Memory

I remember one night, while working in a bar, a boyfriend brought me a small bouquet of flowers. It was one of the sweetest moments, and I kept the flowers well past their prime, letting them dry out. They were a souvenir of that special moment, and I kept them for years.

My coworker told me he's kept a poem his first girlfriend had written him. In fact, he was still able to quote the poem that was written over 30 years ago. Love's got a way of bringing out the sappy in us. It's sweet and romantic, and something so many of us do. We hold onto a bit of that past. But what happens as we proceed into the future? How long do we hold onto those moments? When does it become time to bury the past?

This is the problem my friend is facing. After proceeding down the relationship trail, they are getting to the point of moving in together. To the point, where she's stayed overnight at his home, and unfortunately for her, found his souvenir of his first love. Not the usual love letter, or photos together, or even a dried up flower. Rather, what she found was much different. Her predecessor, and her boyfriend's first love, cut off her dreadlocks and gave them to her boyfriend as a remembrance. He has kept that matted piece of unclean hair on a shelf near his bed for over 6 years.

Imagine my friend, in the throws of coital bliss, looking to the sky and seeing some ratty piece of matted hair, similar to a cat hair ball, hovering on the shelf near her own head. Although we've never discussed it, I'm sure a climax or two may have been thwarted by that image.

6 years is a long time to hold onto a memory. Especially when it involves genetic material. Perhaps if it was a photograph, or a love letter, my friend would not be as judgemental as I am, but I wonder. If things don't work out between them, is he going to put her diaphram on the shelf next to the dreadlock as a memory of my friend?

Patrick - 1:33 PM -

Wednesday, May 30, 2007

Finding the Upside

Some things in life are bad
They can really make you mad
Other things just make you swear and curse.
When you're chewing on life's gristle
Don't grumble, give a whistle
And this'll help things turn out for the best...

When riding on the subway, I find myself reading all the ads. I'm not interested in the ads, but rather it beats staring at the crazy lady who pees, listening to the homeless poet's newest poetry ("I'm broke and that ain't no joke."), buying a candy bar from some kid, or risking getting too close to the old man who wants to touch you while he's beating off with the other hand (yes...all of these things have happened in the last week to me).

This morning, the one that caught my eye was an ad that had only the phrase:

Finding the Upside.

Yes, inspirational words on the subway. Who would have thought? Yet, the funny thing is, there are times when I hear my single friends, or even myself questioning the logic. What if this is the bright side?

My married and partnered friends tell me that I and my fellow singles have it all. We can date anyone, fuck around if we want to (which apparently I must do often based on recent feedback I've been getting), or even just take a night for ourselves. The thing is, most of my single brethern all lament that it's a bitch to meet new people, especially in New York, the town of the stand offish. There are times while running that I can't get the person running towards me to make eye contact. I hear most singles complaining that we get too many of those "nights to ourselves". Yet at the same time, we're not usually willing to take the chance and talk to the stranger that has caught our eye. We fear rejection.

When does our need for emotional interaction and sex out pace our insecurity and fear of rejection? Just how emotionally starved do we need to be before we're willing to take the chance and ask the hottie on the subway for his name and number? How many pairs of jeans do we need to buy before we get the guts to ask out the salesperson? How many beers are necessary to take a chance?

As for me, I'm looking on the bright side. Cooking for one is cheap.

Patrick - 2:02 PM -

Thursday, May 24, 2007

Being Bad

First, the answer: My insurance company was $224,468.37 for the total costs of all medical care provided in relation to the surgery. God bless my insurance company for saving me from bankruptcy.

**********

Lately, I've been a very bad man. In fact, I've done something unheard of in the male world (either straight or gay). I threw out my porn.

What is it about men that makes them keep collections of porn. I can remember growing up, and finding each of my father's porn collections. Stacks of magazines dating back over 10 years. And most of my friends have their own stashes.

The thing is, maybe it's just me, but porn videos bore me. I find myself hitting the fast forward button just to get to the splash finish a little faster. Seriously after the first two minutes, do you even see anything new, besides actors changing into a new acrobatic position?

So going through my storage closet in my loft, I found my old porn collection. Marco, Chet, Chad, Rocco, Rob, and Sam...in all their glory for my viewing pleasure. I took them each out of the box, and placed them in a pile, watching it become some sort of statue, erected to commemorate my erections. It felt kind of sad, so I decided it was time to dismiss those men from my life.

I carried them all to the trash bin outside my apartment building and tossed each of them out. Marco, Chet, Chad, Rocco, Rob, and Sam were each were tossed into the trash. I don't need them anymore. In fact, if I don't have them around, I'm more likely going to go out looking, and personally, I prefer to star in my own pornographic films.

As I turned and walked away from the trash bin, I though about how hard it was to meet guys while living on the Upper West Side, not to mention just how hard it is to meet men in general. So I went back to the trash and picked up Sam, and brought him back to the apartment. Tunagirl likes Sam, and I can't have her too lonely while her husband is deployed.

Patrick - 2:30 PM -

Wednesday, May 23, 2007

The Price is Right!

Today, I go for my follow-up appointment with the surgeon, so in honor of this momentous occasion, I decided to check with my insurance company and see just how much the total bill was for the surgery and post hospitalization charges.

This is the itemized list of procedures performed:

Endoscopy
Anesthesia
Biopsy
Manometry specialist
Manometry
cardiogram
pre-admission testing
surgeon
Anesthesia
hospitalization stay 4/16/07 - 4/23/07
contrast x-ray
chest x-ray
hospitalization 4/26/07-5/13/07
Cat Scan 1
Cat Scan 2
Cat Scan 3
Cat Scan Drainage Procedure

Obviously, I have health insurance, or I never would have done any of this. In fact, my total cost out of pocket is less than $100. (Including prescriptions).

Who wants to guess the total cost billed to the insurance company?
I'll post the answer tomorrow.

Patrick - 11:20 AM -

Monday, May 21, 2007

A Little Literal

Being a comedian, I find that my life mirrors sitcom life all to easily. Yes, I get myself into messes, and unfortunately, I don't get the luxury of having my problems solved within 30 minutes.

For the last 7 days, I've been one of two places. Either at my office for 1/2 days or in my apartment. Doing much more has been difficult, as I'm still sore from surgery, and have difficulty gathering enough energy to do much more. Yet, this past Saturday, I couldn't take it anymore. My windows have bars on them and it had suddenly begun to feel too much like a prison. I needed out of my house badly, so I took myself out to the coffee shop down the street.

Now I love living in Manhattan. A $20 taxi ride will take me all the way downtown during traffic. I get the convenience of being able to walk nearly anywhere in nice weather, and where else could I live and hear my neighbors have sex on a regular basis. However I live on the Upper West Side.

The UWS consists of predominantly married couples, married couples with children, and a few single people looking to get married and have children. I live in one of the most heterosexual areas of Manhattan. Yeah...lament, lament, lament. I'm lucky to find a somewhat affordable apartment here, so I'm not bitching too much. However, being a single gay man, the prospects of finding gay friends and dates in my neighborhood are slim. I've got better chances of meeting men in my gym locker room (although those men usually have wives) than in the neighborhood.

So I was surprised at my luck on Saturday. With coffee in hand I sat down and was about to open a book when two men at the next table started a conversation with me. Obviously a couple (they were holding hands), these men who were in their early 40's, introduced themselves and began the process of getting to know me. For the next hour, we discussed the neighborhood, the lack of affordable apartments, our work, and our past. The conversation was absolutely delightful, and I found myself happy to know that these gentlemen lived only three blocks from me. I was sure that my neighborhood had an ordinance that only allowed 1 gay man per 5 block radius.

My new friends were as equally enamoured with me, and surprised me by inviting me to a party they were having that evening. "Were having a party tonight and we would love to have you". I was touched, but unsure if I'd have the energy, so I told them I'd think about it. Later that day, they called and asked me again to attend, so I agreed to show up.

I dressed appropriately casual and checked in with the doorman, where I was then permitted to go up to the apartment. Walking in the door, I was once again astounded as to how much better everyone else's apartment is compared to mine. My place is a shit hole. Their living room was larger than my whole apartment, they had 3 bedrooms and were rent stabilized. Bitches.

The party hosts welcomed me and took my coat. 25 men, all around the same age were in the place, all talking, and my hosts gave me the quick tour, announcing that the last of the guests had arrived. The lighting was a bit dim, but I assumed it was only for the party atmosphere. I was wrong.

Returning to the living room with my party guests, I witnessed a jaw aching surprise. Two men were having oral sex in the middle of the room. In fact, around them, men were all beginning to have sex with each other. There I stood, slack jawed, as I felt an arm wrapping itself around my torso.

Can someone please tell me when did the word party and orgy become synonymous? Although flattered that I was invited into this sexual "free for all" I had no clue that when the hosts said they would love to have me, they meant it literally. There I stood, beginning to get felt up, looking around in a panic to find my coat so I could get the hell out of there.

I considered leaving my coat behind, but my phone was in the pocket, so it wasn't an option. Looking to my left, just past the blowjob daisy chain that was beginning to form, I saw my jacket lying on the guest bed. I made a beeline for it, and tried not to leave a Patrick shaped hole in the door on my way out.

And what was the 30 minute lesson that this sitcom taught me? Never talk to fucking strangers unless you want to see strangers fucking.

Patrick - 10:51 AM -

Monday, May 14, 2007

Prison Break

Over the last 28 days, I have spent 25 of them in the hospital. That's half of the time it takes to win Survivor. And during that time staying in the "NYU Hotel", I discovered what it's like to be in prison, and what it's like getting out.

The nurses monitor everything about you, including how much urine you are producing, the amounts of food and drink you are consuming, and if you've had a bowel movement (a question I began to dread daily). The days are spent waiting for something to happen. I found myself being entertained by what food my cell mate would get on his food tray. By the time I was getting discharged, I was actually nervous to leave. The whole situation had become very comfortable (let alone that I had a fantastic view from the window.)

Today, I wonder how often people exist in their own self imposed prisons? Living in this city, you get opportunities daily to change your life and take some chances, and all too often we let them go. It's easier to maintain the status quo and go with the motions rather than take a change.

I'm at work, performing half days this week until I have the strength to stay awake for a whole day. Percocet is my new friend in what is becoming a very long recovery. Still, seeing that I'm out of one prison...I'm beginning to realize that I've now got an opportunity to break out of my own self imposed prion and make some other drastic changes. So the question stands.

Should I dye my hair?

;-)

Patrick - 10:12 AM -

Monday, May 07, 2007

Tidal Wave

Tuna Girl here again. First and foremost, yes, Patrick is still in the hospital. His CAT scan is scheduled for Wednesday, so even if things look great, he'll probably be in the hospital for a few more days after that while they ween him back on food. If things don't look good...well...let's hope that things look great.

He feels fine and he's doing a lot of walking. But he is incredibly bored. If you have any DVDs to share or magazines to lend, I know he'd appreciate it. He tells me he's not picky. Anything to fight boredom would be very welcome.

He's still making me smile on a daily basis, though. Today he sent me this message.

"22 days. I haven't gone 22 days without since I first discovered it at the age of eleven. I'm gonna need a really big towel."

Here's your warning. If you're in Manhattan when he finally gains some freedom, you might want to take cover.* There's a tidal wave coming.

*Unless you're into that kind of thing.

Tuna Girl - 8:52 PM -

Thursday, May 03, 2007

Where, oh, where has Patrick gone?

Tuna Girl here. Where, oh, where should I even start?

Patrick asked me to go ahead and update his blog. When I asked him just what I should say he told me, "You know everything that's going on. Just write that."

Knowing what's going on is one thing. Explaining it coherently for his readers and friends is something else entirely. But I'll do my best.

Some of you know that Patrick went back into the hospital last Thursday because he was running a fever. He was admitted and tests showed that he had an abdominal abscess located between his lungs and spleen. They attempted to drain the abscess with a very large needle, but that didn't work out so great and Patrick was sent to a room to try and fight off his infection with intravenous antibiotics (and lots of 'em).

The doctors planned to let the antibiotics do their work and test again to see if the abscess had shrunk or gone away. He was originally told that he would be in the hospital until at least Monday.

During that time, he graduated from his clear liquid diet to a pureed one. Although hanging in a hospital is never fun, he was really doing okay. He wasn't really in much pain and he walked the halls of that hospital over and over and over again. His roommate was a pleasant man. He had visitors.

On Monday he was told not to eat or drink for a while because the resident wasn't sure when they would preform another CAT scan. Unfortunately, they weren't able to get him in for the test and he had to start fasting over again for a scan on Tuesday.

On Tuesday afternoon they finally did the test and found that the abscess had actually grown. Again, he was not allowed to eat or drink because the resident wasn't sure what kind of action his doctor would take. Surgery was mentioned as a possibility.

As of yesterday, the doctor ordered him onto a no food or drink diet until Monday. I'm a little fuzzy on the details here but it seems like the foods and liquids passing into his stomach may be making the abscess worse.

So in order to survive until Monday, Patrick was given a central line. The line will carry a milky white mixture of fluid and nutrients into his body. Let's face it, he was a skinny little bitch to start out with. He really needs those 1700 calories a day. The port of the line hangs off his left bicep.

He's still walking. He's still smiling. He's still hanging in there. He's putting up with his new roommate. And he's as bored as fuck.

Luckily they agreed to let him off the floor and he'll be able to roam more of the hospital. He'll be able to go to the lobby and outside in the garden. I know he's dying for a little fresh air.

The truth is that he really doesn't know when he's going to get out of there.

Whenever I ask him if he needs or wants anything he pretty much tells me, "No. I'm fine." And he is. But I know he would appreciate anything that will help him pass the time. I keep telling you people, baskets of porn are the perfect gift. (Actually, I think he'd appreciate baskets of old magazines and maybe a deck of cards even more.)

If you'd like contact information, you can refer to this post from the last time he was in the hospital last fall.

If you happen to be a reader of my blog as well, you should know that contrary to the tone of what I posted yesterday (which wasn't about Patrick as much as it would seem) he really is doing okay. He's far from a life or death predicament here. And Patrick rolls with the punches better than anyone I have ever met. As his doctor told me, "We're taking it slow, one step at a time. He'll get there. He'll be just fine."

I know he appreciates all of your comments (he's reading blogs from his Treo), e-mails, calls, and visits. And when he does get home again I'm sure he'll have plenty to say.

In any case, please keep him in your thoughts. I know he's always in mine.

Tuna Girl - 1:23 PM -