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, August 31, 2007

Nothing At All

Date number 1 from last night:

My grandmother used to say "if you have nothing nice to say, say nothing at all."

With an IQ of a tree-stump, a demeanor of an ogre, and the breath of a dog, this douche bag deserves to be dipped in honey and thrown onto a fucking fire ant hill.

It will be a cold day in hell before I'd waste my time acknowledging his existance, let alone speaking to him.

Hmmm...do I sound angry? I am.

Patrick - 2:11 PM -








Thursday, August 30, 2007

Huh?!?

Can someone please tell me...why is it every time I feel like being the least funny, the most depressed I can be, the angriest...is the time I get a comedy booking?

Fuck.

Patrick - 3:18 PM -








Wednesday, August 29, 2007

Meany

Sunday, while at the Eagle with Crash, a younger guy bumped into me. Now I'll admit it...I flirted. I alway flirt a little (ok...a lot), as it's in my nature, but it really is harmless. In fact, I'm more likely to flirt with someone I'm not that into. Which puts me into a difficult situation.

I'm horrible at being mean. I see my friends do it all the time. An old man approaches one of them and after a polite no, the next response is "GET THE FUCK AWAY FROM ME!" I've never been able to do that. Instead, when an asshole comes up to me and says "You've got that stocky look going on", or "Your comb-over is different than mine", or "I just want to let you know that looks don't matter to me" I end up just being offended and not saying anything.

Worse, when someone is interested in me, and the feelings aren't returned, I'm likely to encourage him by still being nice. It's hard to get rejected...and I try to spare people's feelings a bit.

Therefore, on Thursday I will have two dates. And sadly I'm not sure if I'm into either of them. But being first dates, I'm making sure they are nice and quick. One drink and I'm out of there. We'll see if they can make it to a second date.

Patrick - 1:16 PM -








Thursday, August 23, 2007

A Time and Place

This is an open letter to the man I saw in the gym locker room this afternoon:

Dear Sir,
After finishing my lifting workout this afternoon, I headed back to the locker room to see you walk in. You were dressed in street clothes, and had obviously just walked into the gym. Since you took the locker right next to mine, it was difficult to not notice you.

Now I'm all for being an exhibitionist (as can be attested to from yesterday's post), but in all honesty, we were in a bit of a public place still. Have a little decorum. Stripping yourself completely naked and doing several over the head stretches was a bit much.

However, when you turned to show me your semi-erect penis, which you waved side to side to show that it was indeed growing, was a bit much. And it's because you did that particular move that I must wonder:

Do you really think it's appropriate to wear a cock ring at the gym?

Sincerely,
Patrick

PS. My dick is bigger.

Patrick - 3:35 PM -








Wednesday, August 22, 2007

On a School Night?

By the time I was a senior in college (ok...6th year senior...but whose counting?), I had a fairly rigid schedule. Up at 6 am, I worked and went to class from 7 am to 7pm, followed by rehersals for whatever show I was in from 7-11 pm. I would follow that by staying up and doing homework until 3 or 4 in the morning. It was the same every day and incredibly hectic, except that rehersals were always off on Thursday nights. Thursday nights were reserved for sleeping.

Well, they were supposed to be for sleeping. Instead, it was the night I could go out on the town, which is exactly what I did. Each Thursday, my best drinking buddies and I would hop onto the bus and ride the 36 miles to Denver to go out drinking and dancing in the "big city"! We were so cool! Of course, we were going out on a school night, but with the energy of youth, we didn't have any problems making it home by 3 and getting up at 6 the next day.

By the time I was working professionally in theater, I developed "actor's hours". Since most work for an actor starts at 6 and finishes at 11 or so, happy hour for the actor doesn't begin until after the show ends for the night. I got used to that until I finally grew up and took regular day work (I had student loans to pay).

Last night, I was invited to attend a birthday party for a date who works as a musician. We were to meet at the bar at 9:30 pm ...ON A SCHOOL NIGHT! I've forgotten how difficult it is to date someone that keeps these weird hours, as I'm usually in bed by 10pm at the latest. Maybe those of us with traditional employment are not supposed to be involved with those in the arts. Is this already set to be a doomed friendship, or am I going to have to start taking caffine pills to keep awake?

What surprised me, was just how many people were in the bar last night at this time. What the fuck do these people do for a living that they can all go out at 10pm and stay out until after midnight? Obviously I'm doing the wrong job.

Patrick - 1:26 PM -








Tuesday, August 21, 2007

Bad Ideas

Remember the movie "A Christmas Story" where the one boy Double Dog Dares the other boy to put his tongue to a freezing metal pole. We the viewer can already see the that no good is about to happen, yet we still watch in horror as the kid puts his tongue on the pole.

I'd like to think that I'm not the kind of guy who falls easily for "Dares", but I'm never one to back down from a challenge. This was why I was handcuffed the last time I was bar tending, and why recently I was sent the following e-mail. The sender's were two people I met while in Provincetown.

Hey Patrick!
It was great meeting you in Provincetown last weekend. We finally put the video up online. You can access it by going to this LINK ***************************.com.
We think it turned out really hot. Next time you are coming up to the Boston area, give us a call. Maybe we'll make another video.

Take care.
XXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXXX


***blank stare***

I accessed the video, and realized a few things:
1) What sounds like a good idea after a few drinks...isn't!
2) Some camera angles are just not flattering.
3) I might have a future career choice.
4) Thank God my grandmother doesn't have an X-tube Account!
5) I will never run for public office.
6) I need to wash my eyes with bleach.

You can click on my drunk face below if you actually want to see photos from the trip (buy believe me...I'm not posting that x-tube link!)


Patrick - 1:27 PM -








Monday, August 20, 2007

Indications of a Great Vacation

Actual conversations had during my vacation in Provincetown:

Byrne: You got grabby while at the restaurant yesterday night!
Me: We went to a restaurant? I was about to ask why we didn't get food...
*****


Middle Aged Woman: Excuse me. Where did you get all those beads you're wearing?
Me (said with a straight face): I earned them.
Middle Aged Woman: (nervous giggle)Oh...I'm not going to ask how you earned them...but I hope you had fun.
Me (wiping the corners of my mouth): Believe me...I did. You can buy some down the street though.


*****


While speaking to 9 lesbians traveling together:
Me: I think lesbians find the best boyfriends.
Lesbian One: What's your type?
Me: Single, athletic, and breathing would be good.
Alpha Lesbian (and softball pitcher): You heard him...Go!
(lesbians all scatter)...ten minutes later
Lesbian group: Patrick, meet Adam, Michael, Alex, and Steve. They are each going to be your boyfriend.


*****


Guy 1: That's a great swimsuit!
Guy 2: We've got to get going and walk the dogs.
Me: I love dogs.
Guy 1: You should come over and visit them if you're up for a good petting. You can play with the dogs too.
Me: I've got nothing againt heavy petting.

*****


Waiter: Here's your salad. You're my last table. Once I close your tab, we can head out of here back to my place.
Me: Here's my credit card, can I have this to go?

*****


Me: I realized something tonight. The more leather the guy is wearing, the more likely his heels are filled with helium.

*****


Me: (irritate in the pizza line) If you push any harder against me, I'm going to fuck you!
Guy: And that's a bad thing?

Patrick - 2:26 PM -








Tuesday, August 14, 2007

Itchy Scratch

When I was in my mid twenties, a friend had introduced me to a 37 year old man who I spent an evening taking around the city of Boulder Colorado. We toured several bars, and at one point we were discussing relationships. He said that no gay relationship lasts longer than 7 years. At the time, I had been dating the man I would eventually move in with, and move across the country with. So yes...I was offended. My boyfriend and I were going to be together FOREVER!!!! Fucker.

That boyfriend of course earned the title of "Ex" years later, and now here I sit, at the age of 37 and I'm hearing words spoken from my fellow gay men. Specifically, in regards to relationships and how they don't seem to remain monogamous after the 7 year point. What's happened?

Have we as gay men really become that jaded?

Yet, here I am, 37 and I can't think of a monogamous gay couple that's lasted longer than 7 years. Even the couples I thought were monogamous have admitted to having the occasional 3-way.

Yes, I know men are biologically programmed to fuck anything that moves, and I've heard all the "anti-establishment" rhetoric that says "We as gay people don't subscribe to your bourgeois "relationship rules"! We don't get married...we can define our own relationship rules!

Except do the new rules work? Hell hath no fury like a drag queen scorned, and let's face it...with testosterone and jealousy it's going to be a bumpy ride. That being said...I don't see the jealousy that much. Gay couples I know are so matter of fact about it. I've been approached more times than I'd like to admit by guys who are looking for the human sized toy for their toy chest. And yes, although it is flattering to get offered, and I have taken a few up on it (no Tuna girl...not the creepy guys we saw over pride fest), it does make me a little sad.

I've always hoped that I'd meet that one guy, and would know it's right for us to be together. We could build on something. I've never imagined that I would meet that pair of guys, or three guys, or entire sex club that I would fall in love with, and share a life with them.

Call me old fashioned...but if I saw my boyfriend (the rare occasions I have one) screwing someone on the side, I'm not sure Tuna girl could get here to stop a double homicide. (note...I am kidding here...I would not, nor have I ever committed a double homicide. The other guy might not know about me). And I sure as hell wouldn't join in. But I'd film it. I do have student loans to pay off.

Now if you excuse me...I'm about to leave for Provincetown. There are some relationships I need to break up.

Patrick - 3:50 PM -








Monday, August 13, 2007

The Howling

During the first semester of theater school, all newly admitted students were required to take a class called "Studio". We all called the class "Studio Hell". 5 days a week, four hours a day of intensive "ripping you a new one" training. Our sadist...I mean teacher would pick a name out of a hat, and if your name was picked...you were going on the stage to do a monologue.

Performing your monologue wasn't that bad...it was the instructor's attack that followed that had you nearly wetting your pants. Imagine being onstage for 40 minutes having a man yell at you, throw garbage cans, make you do push-ups, and generally get you to the emotional place you needed to be to perform the role. Psychological trauma at it's best. No wonder so many of us went into therapy.

Because I was a natural comedian, I was always told to do more serious monologues, to help me work on my weaknesses. My first monologue was a man's confronting his wife about her infidelity. The man, was supposed to be beyond angry, and I'll admit it...I sucked performing the piece. I was awful.

For the next two hours, my professor did everything he could think of to piss me off. He would tell my classmates (by whispering in their ear) to point and laugh at me. He had me shine his shoes, rearrage the furniture until I was out of breath, complain that he couldn't hear me well enough and when I'd shout, tell me to keep it down.

He made me so mad, I let out a howl that people in the offices on the first floor of the building heard. I threw things and my face was so red, my classmates were afraid I was about to have a stroke. That scream was truely the loudest sound I have ever made in my life!

Until Yesterday.

I was walking home from a late night out with friends, wearing my shorts and summer sandles. As I walked past the garbage bins of my building, a cockroach ran across my bare foot.

That scream you all heard last night was me. Sorry.

Patrick - 11:12 AM -








Thursday, August 09, 2007

Succubus

When referring to my own life, "restraint" is something I don't think of often. Restraints...yes, but the actual act of restraining myself (of holding back)...well that's something I just don't do to often. Hell this website could likely be listed at "Too Much Information".

Yet, I did something new this week. I held back and didn't blog about the one thing that has been on my mind, the one thing that would have made for such incredible blogging material. I just couldn't do it...until now! Christ...I've been dying to write this.

Last week, I along with my usual companions went out for happy hour. And once again...happy hour is never an hour...but for some reason, it's always happy. Since I hadn't eaten all day, I chose to drink beer (as it's harder to consume large quantities) and hopefully I'd make it home without making a complete fool of myself. It's about pacing people...and beer is the one thing I can pace easily.

Cut to a few hours later, and some additional friends have shown up. The conversation is going like usual, except that certain patron of the bar is giving me the eye. I know this eye. I've given this eye. The eye that says "Nice shoes...wanna fuck?" I like that eye. Now given that this particular person was in his early 20's made it only more flattering.

My night continued with my getting to know this young lad, while continuing to consume beer. It was at this point that my new friend suggested we go back to my apartment. Now I am going to admit something. I am one of the few single guys I know, and if someone I find attractive asks to come home with me, I'm going to say yes (provided I'm wearing the correct underwear, don't have house guests, and my place is tidy). Systems were a go, and we went back to my place via cab.

Now, to protect any reputations (and to discredit mine a bit), nothing happened while my new guest was visiting. We decided to just sleep together. No sex. I almost felt straight. I ended up falling asleep in his arms around 11:30.

6:00, my alarm went off because I had forgotten to shut it off before bed. I jumped out of bed and shut it off, and turned back ready to apologize to my houseguest of the evening. Strangely...my houseguest wasn't in bed. He must be downstairs, I thought, and I went downstairs to say good morning. Except he wasn't there.

I went back upstairs, and his clothes were on my floor. I checked his jeans...and yes...his house keys were in his pants. I sat and blankly stared at the clothes and shoes. Did I murder him in my sleep and dispose of the body? Had I finally become a succubus, and consumed the boy for his youth, and only his clothes remained. I wasn't sure.

I got dressed and walked out of my building, looking for my likely naked houseguest outside. No sight of him. I continued to walk around the block, running into early morning dog walkers. I thought about asking them "did you see a naked man walking down this street?", but thought it might not be a very good idea. After canvassing the neighborhood for 2 hours, I went back to my apartment and back to sleep, as I was now officially hung over. I was just too tired to figure out this mystery.

Around 10:30, I hear the familiar humming sound that is my cell phone's vibrate ringer going off. I go downstairs and find the phone on my table. I had several voice mails and 6 text messages. The case of the missing man was solved, and Scooby Doo wasn't necessary.

Around midnight, my guest's cell phone rang, so he quickly got up and went to take the call. Now since his clothes were on the floor of my dark bedroom, and I live in a studio, he stepped outside into my building's hallway to take the call. When my door closed, it locked behind him, locking him out of my apartment! Youth may be all that, but with age comes wisdom. I would have at least worn my underwear in an unfamiliar building's hallway.

My guest pounded on my door, and called my cell phone trying to wake me, so I could let him back into my apartment. Sadly I couldn't wake up. I had had 6 beers people! I'm lucky I woke up in the morning.

When he couldn't wake me, he had to call one of his friends, and have his friend bring him some clothes and take him back to his apartment until I woke up and could give him his clothes back. Imagine one of your closest friends having to bring you some clothes because your naked in the hallway of a building, and praying that nobody else in the building comes home.

I sit here today, a number of days after the all of this had taken place and can only think one thing.

"Thank God this didn't happen to me!"

Patrick - 3:20 PM -








Tuesday, August 07, 2007

The Difference

Back when I was in my 20's, before the cancer scare, I rarely went to the doctor. I was a student, I didn't have health insurance, and the worst thing that ever required my attention besides a sinus infection was those pesky injuries you get while falling down stairs after a drinking a beer funnel. College was some good times.

Now I'm in my 30's, but I don't really feel any different than in my 20's. I'm still achieving athletically (in fact...I'm more athletic than I was in my 20's), I'm less stressed (relatively), and to tell the truth, I really don't see the need to go to doctors. But I'm also a cancer survivor who's had way too many stays in the hospital over the last year so I should find a regular doctor. I went with one that one of my specialists recommended. Yesterday was our first appointment.

I explained to him that I really didn't feel any different from when I was in my 20's. He smiled and explained to me the difference.

In your 20's, you would have been paid money to receive a prostate exam.

In your 30's, you pay me for a prostate exam. Now roll over and relax.



Yes...I love a doctor who can be a smart ass.

Patrick - 12:00 PM -








Friday, August 03, 2007

Loving Your Enemy

Last night, a friend called with a personal crisis and asked that I meet him in the "Circuit Party of New York". Yes...he asked me to meet him in Chelsea. Land of muscle men, tank tops, and washboard abs (I knew I should have worked out yesterday). However, it was his personal crisis (read=breakup) so it was my duty to play good friend.

We walked down 8th ave, and I spotted a restaurant. Something was different. Empty tables, most people dressed appropriately, no muscles bulging...My God? Why is the restaurant have so few people? Especially when every other restaurant is packed? We decided to give it a try.

Entering the restaurant, our Russian hostess (appropriate for an Italian restaurant) sat us at a table right next to the window. Why? Because this is Chelsea...it's all about watching the eye candy walk by. And let me tell you...I've got a sweet tooth.

It was at this point, when I opened my menu, I realized why no self respecting circuit boy had walked into this restaurant. Carbs. They are the enemy and they had declared full war in this place! Every item is a garlic infused carbohydrate packed delight.

I looked at my waist, and since my pants were feeling a bit on the loose side, I figured I could handle it...as long as I did it in moderation. Bring on the feast!

Our waiter, a cute guy I honestly think I may have dated (read=fucked) in the past (so many men...so little that are memorable), recommended the Four Cheese Lasagna with a pink sauce. Pink sauce? Could I be any more gay? (shut up) I'll take it. My friend ordered the Chicken Marsala, which comes with of side of guess what? Pasta! Bring on the carbs! Neither of us will be having boyfriends tonight!

Our buss boy brought us 8 pieces of garlic bread. Eight? Seriously? Do you have any idea how many hours on the treadmill I'm going to need to spend to work off these 6 (mmmm...good) pieces of bread? Just one of these 4 pieces has to be at least 300 calories! (swallow)...they should warn you before they bring 2 pieces of bread to the table! What? Yes, please refill our bread basket. Thanks.

My pants were beginning to feel tight, so I thought it best to loosen my belt.

Thankfully, as we were finishing our second basket of bread, the lasagna came out. Now for those of you who don't know this, it's time I set the record straight. Ladies and gentlemen:

Size matters.

Specifically when it comes to lasagna, and the Gorgonzola, ricotta, Parmesan and mozzarella goodness that I was about to eat showed just what kind of size queen I can be. This lasagna was larger than two of my fists put together. There was no way possible I was going to eat all of it....but damn it...I was going to try!

Somehow I had transformed into a pig (read=pig...not PIGGY!) and this lasagna dish was my trough. My friend, seeing my dinner, tried to take a fork full taste for himself, but nearly lost an hand in the process.

"MINE", I growled, as I continued to shovel into my mouth the cheesy bubbly goodness that I am going to be working off in the gym for months. My fellow gay brethren stared from outside through the window, as I shed all sense of decorum and ate...and ate...and ate.

"Don't judge me! In 10 years, you'll be 37, sporting a gut and eating in the same fashion. Bitches!" I thought. I would have said it, but that would have meant pausing in my eating, and stopping was not an option. This was the best damn lasagna I'd had in 5 years (granted, it's also the only lasagna I've had in 5 years). Sadly, I had to stop, as if I ate any more food, I would have been sick. Not to mention, I think I split the back of my pants open.

Thankfully our waiter wrapped up the remaining 2/3, which I will be able to eat for breakfast...and lunch, and dinner today. It was that much food!

Now some of you (well any of you who've actually read this far down) may be wondering why I have this on my mind. Well, you see, I had dinner last night at 8:00 pm. It is now 3:00 the next day. I've brushed my teeth twice, flossed, had several cups of coffee and some sugarless gum. Yet still I'm tasting garlic!

That...and I realize that I have broken the gay laws. My prison sentence is to get on a treadmill. My waist currently resembles a muffin top.

Patrick - 2:05 PM -








Thursday, August 02, 2007

Hell-Ders

A few nights ago, I had a dream that had me waking up in such a rage. Angry enough that I turned the light on, and had to sit for a while and just breathe...and well throw a few things as well.

In the dream, my grandmother had decided to visit my apartment with a deceased aunt. They were cooking dinner in my postage stamp sized kitchen for some unknown guests that were coming to visit. It was while they were cooking, that I first spoke to my grandmother.

In the dream, I asked her to not move things around, as it was my apartment and I needed to be able to find things. My grandmother instead moved everything, and as I began to complain about it, she plainly said "All I'm hearing is whine whine whine whine".

My aunt in this dream tried to apologize for her, excusing her behavior due to her age. This is what was making me so angry.

I love my grandmother, but let's face it. She's a twat (I could have said the "C" word). So for this one instance only...I can say that I am a gay man who loves twat. *I think I just shuddered*.

We're taught at an early age to respect our elders, but is it possible to respect someone who isn't willing to respect you equally? If the crazy bat is going to do nothing more than criticize me, do I have to take it?

Yet my telling the old woman off is the equivalent of a Roman Catholic taking a crap on a crucifix. (Now there is a image). Instead I just find myself distancing myself further and further, keeping my thoughts inside...only to have them piss me off in the middle of the night.

Where's a fucking sex dream when you need it?

Patrick - 2:02 PM -








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