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.

Tuesday, July 31, 2007

So Much For My Happy Ending!

I hurt. I'm in pain.

No. Not the emotional pain that comes from a breakup, or from having an abusive father and a crazy grandmother, or the kind of pain that says "Oh shit...do I have enough money to pay rent?" Ummm...ok well that stuff is true too, but seriously, I'm in pain.

Saturday, I did a major leg workout. I usually don't work out legs very hard, as I naturally build leg muscles very easily and often have difficulty fitting into my pants if I work legs too much. But since it was "Major leg workout" day, I decided to do all the leg machines. This included the "Torture Machine of Death".

The adductor machine.

Who the fuck actually created this medevil torture device and WHY DO PEOPLE ACTUALLY USE IT? Seriously. Strap yourself into a machine that spreads your legs wide open, then using what little strength you have left (as this machine encourages pulled groin muscles) to close your legs.

This machine is made for women...and bottoms. Yet I did my four sets increasing in weights each set.

And today...I hurt. Opening my legs further than an inch is akin to bearing a child. Thank god I don't have a gynecologist appointment. But this machine has me aching (literally) to see a professional.

A professional masseuse. And luckily, I have a gift certificate for a massage at a men's spa in Chelsea. A men's spa that's full of hot men giving massages. My problem?

How do you tell a professional massuse that you need him to massage the muscle on your inner thigh, particularly the area right next to your ball sack without having them think you are looking for a happy ending?

Fuck.

Patrick - 2:27 PM -

Friday, July 27, 2007

Through a Window

I often hear gay rights advocates announcing the fact that we gay and lesbian people are no different than our heterosexual counterparts. We just happen to be attracted to persons of the same sex. However, I'm not so sure that's true.

I was one of the lucky few who came out at an early age, and therefore am comfortable with myself and with my gayness. That being said, I'm not a heterosexual, and I find the longer I live, the less the heterosexual world intersects with my own.

Seriously...how many gay men in their 30's feel comfortable in a straight bar? The last time I went (on Saint Patrick's day), I felt completely alienated, a spy brought in to see how the heterosexuals behave. Straight men, overcome with lust for the largest breasts they could find, and straight women who had to go to the bathroom in groups, and actually took care of each other (ensuring that none were so drunk to get gang raped). And the bar itself. No techno music? I was lost.

But the area that most alienates me is not the straight bar (which admittedly, I'd rather never step foot into again), but rather the area of parentage. Raising children fascinates me. I used to have dreams of adopting children (granted I was in my 20's and in a relationship) and raising them, but besides the fact that I'm alone and in my 30's, not to many agencies are willing to let cancer survivors who are still high risk adopt. Thus...my only option is to be the "gay uncle".

Being the uncle, I get to play straight for a few days. Take kids to places I would never attend (a single guy in the playground? Call the police). Toy stores, playgrounds, fast food establishments and restaurants with children's menus. This is how the other half lives! Still...I find myself an outsider, looking through the window of what the "regular" world goes through.

Not to mention, when I see my fellow homo brethern, I find them looking at me either perplexed, or worse...with disdain. Having children with me makes me look like the creepy "straight" guy who cheats on his wife. I see the look on their faces and I recognize it, because I give the same look to "straight" fathers I see cruising me.

Are we different? I think so. We may not choose to be gay, but we do choose to dissociate ourselves with the straight world we live in, embracing a sub-culture instead.

Now if you excuse me, since Tuna and the kids have left, I need to have gratitious amounts of gay sex to reaffirm who I am.

Patrick - 12:03 PM -

Wednesday, July 25, 2007

A Word

After a very long sleepless night, I finished the final book of the Harry Potter series. I find myself thinking one word over and over:

wow

My hat is off to an incredible imagination.

Patrick - 12:42 PM -

Monday, July 23, 2007

Everywhere I turn in this city, people are reading the newest Harry Potter book. My copy doesn't arrive until tomorrow, so I'm slightly dying here. I'm avoiding all internet sources, and not letting anyone talk to me about it.

But since Tunagirl and the Tunakids are visiting, I decided to take them all down to Soho on Friday night for a celebration on the final book release. The four of us were admitted to "Harry Potter World", where we were alowed to make magic wands, pose for pictures next to a 20' tall whomping willow tree, and get our faces painted.

The face painting line was 45 minutes long, but the kids were really into the idea, so we waited it out. Upon getting close to entrance, we read to the children the different face painting options.

Me: You can get your face painted as a Witch, a Wizard, a Warewolf, A Unicorn, A Dementor, A Death Eater, A Phoenix, or Harry Potter.
Tunadaughter: Who's Harry Potter.

***blank stare***

Avada Kedavra

She quickly decided on unicorn.

Patrick - 1:04 PM -

Thursday, July 19, 2007

Mathematics

By the time I started high school, I had discovered something about myself. I detested math. Division, subtraction, word problems...it all sucked. So it shouldn't surprise anyone that I majored in a subject requiring the least amount of mathematics in college. I've taken my one term of "business calculus" and remember none of it to this day.

It wasn't until I was in my 30's that I realized that mathematics explained nearly everything about the single population. Last night, I discovered a new mathematical law.

The law of Direct Proportion Copulation
The lower the attractiveness of a gay male is directly related to the insulting nature of his opening line, and to the likelyhood of his getting laid.

For instance, if an attractive man approaches someone in a bar, he may start his conversation with "Hi. My name is..." He listens to the person he is talking with, gets to know the name of his target, and as is often the case, suggests that they take the conversation elsewhere (like his apartment).

Last night, the attractive man was not at the bar I was at. I know this, because a revolting troll of a man sat down in the seat next to me and said ""Wow...you're comb-over is different than mine."

***Blank Stare of Death***

Rarely am I at a loss for words. This would have been one of those times. The only comeback I could even think of (nearly 12 hours later) was "Donald Trump is my hero".

Keep using that line buddy. It's gonna be a long time before you get a piece of ass.

Patrick - 1:28 PM -

Wednesday, July 18, 2007

The Love Boat?

Back in college, one of my best drinking buddies pointed out a fact that I would rather have not had pointed out. "Patrick," she said, "you are a freak magnet!" Of course, coming from her, it wasn't an insult as much as a welcoming to the club. Sadly, she's very correct in her observations of my attraction abilities.

It's been years since I graduated college, and I've gotten better at deflecting the freaks I attract...but not good enough. I still have a few freaks that roll under the radar every once in an while, and when they do...it's pure hell. Thankfully, I have friends who will stand in and deflect when necessary. It's amazing how much a friend playing boyfriend can help deflect a potential disaster.

Except, my friends aren't always around.

Last year, I attended the Heritage of Pride Sea Tea cruise, which is a volunteer appreciation for our work bartending at the Pier Dance. Last year, I went on the cruise by myself, and had a good time. After my 3rd Corona, I met the man who would be named "Canyon Boy". He earned that nickname by the size of his cavernous ... well lets just say I now know where people in Manhattan park their cars. If had I not had a 3rd Corona, my freak sensors would have been ringing and I would have been smarter, but this guy slipped under my radar and I took him home for a "discussion of the Middle East peace conflicts". Of course...looking back on the experience, I can honestly say that I'm not sure he knows where the Middle East is. Can you say dumb as a tree stump?

We had maintained contact (although very infrequent) after that until about November, when thankfully our schedules conflicted enough that we were able to lose touch.

***7 months later***

While at happy hour with some friends, I get four text messages from "Canyon Boy", letting me know that he "just got out of the hospital after being on suicide watch, had Christmas presents for me, and stared at the picture of me from the night we met just a little too much." I promptly decided to not answer any of those messages.

During my vacation in Provincetown, I received more messages from him asking if I had forgotten to charge my phone or if I had lost my phone somewhere. My freak sensors were going off so loudly that even my fellow vacationers were hearing the bell. I ignored the messages and decided it was best.

This past Sunday, I decided to go once again on the Heritage of Pride Sea Tea cruise, as my friends were also going. Except they cancelled at the last minute (literally), and I was again stuck on the boat by myself.

Freak number one approached me before we had left port. Partially insane, and with his front teeth rotting, he suggested he handcuff me. Now, I'll admit it. Handcuffs don't scare me, and during the pier dance, he challenged me to wear them. I never back down from a challenge, and therefore let him put them on me that day. But on the boat, this reprehensible (and possibly mentally unstable) man wanted to handcuff me and grope me again, and I had to put a stop to it. I suggested he grab food from the buffet.

He left to gorge himself, and I sighed in relief until I saw freak number 2.

"Canyon Boy" was on the dock, waiting in the standby line, to see if he could get on the boat. He looked up at the deck and waved to me when I caught his eye. Now had my friends gone on this cruise (as they had planned), those two spots would have been taken, and Canyon may not have been able to get on the boat. Unfortunately he did.

Once aboard, he made his way to me and tried to initiate a guilt baring conversation. "Why haven't you answered my texts?" I secretly wished I had the handcuff guy back, but told "Canyon" to leave me alone, and walked away. I was making my way down the stairs (considering getting off the boat) when I felt the all too familiar lurch...the one that says...the fucking boat is moving.

Trapped, I looked at the other attendees and realized something. I was stuck on the Titanic of gay bars. Now I never categorize myself as "hot". In fact, I've been told I'm only an "8", but looking around the other people on the boat, it was easy to ascertain that I was one of the most attractive there.

In the regular gay bar world, when this is the case, you just finish your drink, turn and walk for the door. But this was a boat...and my only option was to swim for it. Where was an ice burg when you freaking needed it?

As we chugged our way down the Hudson river, I spent the evening dodging "Canyon" who continued to follow me around, running from "Hand cuff's", and eventually finding a like minded person, who was considering walking the plank and swimming to shore. Seriously...how polluted could the Hudson River be? Right?

3 hours of hell, trapped on the floating troll bar of death, where drinks were selling at $10 a piece and it was a cash only bar. I never wanted to be home so badly. I was standing at the door as the boat docked, and was one of the first to get off the ship.

I watched "Canyon Boy" from a distance, trying to catch up to me. Have I mentioned I can run under an 8 minute mile and he smokes?

Next year...I'm suggesting the Pride Committee have a BBQ in the park.

Patrick - 1:04 PM -

Tuesday, July 17, 2007

Provincetown Marketing Campaign

Patrick - 12:54 PM -

Monday, July 16, 2007

Games

I feel like playing a game today.

Who wants to guess ~~who~~ ... what I did this weekend? Here's a hint.

Patrick - 11:44 AM -

Wednesday, July 11, 2007

Poop Scoops

When I was a child, I was fond of playing games with other kids on grassy knolls. It Tag, Red Rover, Catch and many other games. The grassy areas were the safe places kids could congregate without the inteference of cars. But every child learned one very important golden rule when it came to playing in the grass.

Avoid the dog shit at all costs.

You may be having the best time playing ever, but one step in that dog pile and your day is going to go way down hill. You'll suffer for not being aware of your surroundings. And each time you go back to that grassy area, you check to see if the shit has decomposed and disappeared yet. Once gone...the spot is now safe again.

I find living as a single man in New York is a lot like playing in that grassy field. Relationships are the game that we singles play, but when we lose, the shit is everwhere. Suddenly the city is full of piles, places that we can't visit in fear that we'll run into "him". Things we can't participate in because those were things that bring back the memories. Special dates and places that have significance. It can get to the point where you have to hang out in an entirely different neighborhood, and take a different subway route home.

Eventually, just like in the grassy knolls, the shit piles disappear. Yet sometimes there are some piles, some emotional landmines that just never go away. You see "him" walking down the street, and rather than run into him, you dive into the bodega and start buying stuff until you see he has passed. It's better to buy 20 candy bars, 4 newspapers, and a container of Pringles potato chips than actually have to speak to him on the street.

Always avoid the shit is what we learned as kids. What we should have learned is "Pick up the shit."

It's time we singles started picking up our shit. Did you see him and you feel like running? Invite the big turd for dinner and use the meal as a time to instill an inquisition. Put him in his place (politely...unless he deserves worse) and confront him on the feelings you have. Once that shit is gone...you again have a grassy knoll to play on.

Somebody hand me my poop scoop. I'm in a cleaning mood.

Patrick - 12:58 PM -

Monday, July 09, 2007

A Sign

How do you know when it's time to come home from summer vacation?

When pictures like this get taken.

If you see my self respect somewhere on the ground of Provincetown, please pick it up and bring it to me.

Patrick - 1:22 PM -

Monday, July 02, 2007

Taking Three Pricks Simutaneously

Provincetown. Day number 1.

It's been nearly a year since I was last here, and it's a little like coming home. Back to the town where everyone knows your name, and has stories to tell about you. Tales of outrageousness that grow taller each time you hear them told.

"Remember Patrick? He made $18,000 in tips that he used to move to NYC!" Yes...I've become a legend in the restaurant where I used to work.

Tunagirl and I started our day yesterday by going to my old restaurant, where one of my old coworkers and I caught each other up on the past year. Broken fingers, two surgeries, introductions the Jeff Stryker, and why yes...I am still single. And then my coworker says to me:

Did you see that they are giving free STD tests in the center of town? You should go there!

***Blank stare***

This year, the Men's health project was in the center of town giving free STD tests to anybody who wanted them. I didn't know this at first, but my former coworker thought of me. How nice.

Walking down the street with Tuna, we ran into some old customers of mine. "Pat Doyle! Oh my God you look great! Did you see they are giving free STD tests in town today?" Do I have "whore" tattooed on my forehead or something? Don't anybody answer that.

During dinner, I slyly spoke in Italian to our Spanish speaking bartender. It's a trick I learned. Most Spanish speaking people understand Italian, and visa versa. It looks impressive to non Spanish speakers and it's a great way to flirt. However it was in Spanish that he asked if I had stopped by the STD testing tent in town.

Tuna and were walking towards the Crown and Anchor when this person stops me on the street and asks if I'd like to get tested? I wasn't sure if I really wanted tested when Tunagirl pushes me into a seat, "Yes. He wants the works."

Before I can say anything else, I'm injected with two needles in my right shoulder while a nurse is taking blood from my left arm. Two vaccinations for Hepatitis A and Hepatitis B, and an HIV and syphilis test later, I'm dragged to a screened off area to give a urine sample for Gonorrhea and several other STD's. That's Massachusetts health care...very thorough.

Post testing, four guys and myself were all waiting for our paperwork when I started chatting them up. The cutest from Toronto Canada (nice ass...eh?) was asking what my plans were for the rest of the evening. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Tunagirl standing there, a little slack jawed. Mr. Canada and I were getting chummy, and the nurse had just handed me a towel with the words "on me...not in me" written on it. My Canadian friend liked that implication.

As I walked away from the testing center, Tuna Girl looks at me and says, "Only you could pick up a guy at the free STD testing clinic".

Guilty as charged.

Patrick - 8:44 AM -