The Traveling Spotlight (test page)

Watching My Weight.

2009-01-20T21:26:00.004-05:00

During a lot of my catering events, I've had a running joke. Most of the events I've worked are high end, often with ticket prices of $1,000 or more. It's ridiculous, and I've jokingly stated that somewhere out there is my rich gay husband. The security guards have pointed out the rich gay men, and the captains have often put the rich cute guys at my table. It's a funny fantasy.

So when it's a reality, it's not as funny. The boyfriend will always be at a higher income than I am. It's fair...he went to school for a very long time to get where he is...and I know I couldn't do what he does for a living. I can accept that, but suddenly I'm in a position where he's spoiling me a bit...and I'm feeling a bit overwhelmed.

I have been a fiercely independent person for most of my life. My philosophy has been if you can't afford it...you don't get to have it. And that meant a ski trip that is on my birthday. It's not really a smart choice when I'm not employed full time and I haven't been able to even score an informational interview. I need to conserve money...perhaps take in a roommate...sell my body to science...not take a Vermont trip.

The boyfriend felt differently, and has generously paid my way for the trip. And I'm shell shocked. Rarely am I at a loss for words...but this moment is one of them. It's one thing if he had bought the trip and I could have paid for it on my own...but in this case, I'm not able to.

Yes...we will always be unequal in incomes, but taking a gift like this is a very difficult thing for me. I just don't want to be that guy. The one that says "I need new clothes...buy me them. I need a better apartment...buy me it. I want this...I want that." I don't want to look in the mirror and see that perceived kept man. I have this need and drive to pull my own weight...and this is an uncomfortable place for me.

Giving and Receiving

2008-12-29T13:26:00.003-05:00

To start: Supposedly 500,000 people lost their jobs in November. I'm number 499,993. It sucks, there isn't anything I can do about it, and I can only look forward from here. I'll survive. But it does mean that I can't really afford Christmas. The boyfriend (there...I said it), who is still working could spoil me a bit. It's sweet and I'm flattered, but leaves me feeling awkward. I know that he can afford more, but I like to keep things a bit equal. I joke about wanting to be kept...but in reality I'm more inclined to be an equal.

Thus this Christmas he gave me 2nd row seats to Wicked while all I could afford to purchase was a $5 spoon rest, and I was scrambling for ideas until Christmas Eve. At the last minute, I thought of something I could give as a gift.

Thus....

My Christmas Morning Conversation:

Him: Oh...My...God...
Me: Well I couldn't afford to buy you a gift...so I thought that was a good idea.
Him: That was your idea of a present?!?
Me: Um...well it is illegal in all 50 states.
Him: Thank god I'm not a cop.

Some gifts are better left to the imagination.

Compliments

2008-11-20T14:17:00.003-05:00

Warning...there is a rant in here...but I rarely do this.

Last night, I worked as a waiter at a major insurance and retirement company. My table consisted of the Chairman and CEO of the company, as well as 6 additional board members for this company. For the most part, I treat these people like anyone else, but since I had the CEO, I was supposed to follow him around the entire evening, refreshing his drink at all times, or getting anything he needs even before he notices that he needs it. Basically...everything but wipe his ass for him...and even then...I'm sure the company would prefer I do it rather than he risk dirtying his hands.

It's an awful gig...but I'm very good at kissing ass. Thus, half way through the meal, he decided to pay me a compliment. It was a simple one.

"You're a great career waiter. I want you serving me all the time."

I stared out the 35th floor window and luckily noticed that they wouldn't open, or I would have launched myself off the building. I fully understand that in the professional world of my day job I am a nobody and my thoughts and opinions matter about as much as monkey poop. Belive me..it's pointed out to me often. But I did not go to college for as many years as I did to be considered a career waiter. I understand that you were trying to compliment me, but it's a fairly backhanded compliment. Like telling a prostitute that they give great head for being a hooker!

I work as a waiter to survive, because CEO's like you have fucked up this god damned economy so badly that I will likely never be able to pay off my fucking 150k in student loan debt. I work as a waiter, throwing away nearly 6oz of that 10oz filet mignon because I know that if I'm lucky, the chefs will save me a few vegetables that I can shovel in my mouth for dinner and save on grocery bills.

I don't work as a waiter because I enjoy standing 3 feet from your sorry ass for a 5 hour party, without breaks, on hard sole shoes! Who do you think actually likes doing that?

You're the CEO of a major corporation, and I'd expect that you were intelligent enough to not assume that everyone doesn't have higher aspirations and dreams. Not all waiters are actors and not all waiters do this because they love it. Ask me about my purchasing skills, or my negotiation skills...or about how I can still quote federal regulations in educational financing? Better yet, give your director of purchasing a week off and see if I can't do their job better than they can?

Until then...how about a nice cup of "Shut the fuck up!"

Oh...and yes...I'll be here in two weeks to wait on you for your board meeting.

***sigh....***

3 Things

2008-11-17T13:44:00.002-05:00

During my routine dental cleaning and exam, my dentist gave me some harsh news. I'm drinking too much coffee. Personally, I don't think 15 cups a day is too much, but my dentist disagrees. He's issued the following initiative:

No more than 2 cups of coffee a week.

There are three things I can not live without in this world. Alcohol, sex, and coffee.

If my dentist tells me no more alchol or sex...I'm jumping off the Queensboro bridge.

Confessional

2008-11-12T14:20:00.003-05:00

When I was a little boy, My neighbor Lisa convinced me to play a game with her that she created. The games rules were fairly simple. We'd walk into the small space between her house and the house next door and then would each show a normally clothed area of our body to the other person. It's an innocent game that lots of kids likely play, and after about 8 weeks of this, I still have images burned in my head (could this be why I'm gay?).

However I had a Roman Catholic grandmother that I faced, and with that...I had guilt. Big guilt. When it came to the display of her snatch...I snitched. And my grandmother made feel incredibly ashamed about the whole situation, forcing me to promise that I would have to tell the priest of my transgressions on my first confession, which I'd be attending 3 years later.

For the next 1095 days, I dreaded that first confession. During the catholic school training where we had "practice" confessions leading up to our real one, I used to imagine what would happen if I had to tell the nun that I had seen and touched a girl "down there". I imagined her dragging me out into the hallways, so that everyone could see the little devil monster I was...doomed to fire and brimstone.

We had gone through the basic sacrament training (which I have no real memory of now) and had been explained that our first confession would be in the "booth". The booth at Sacred Heart Church was the standard priest in the middle with two side booths that had lights over the top. If the red light was on...somebody was in there confessing their sins.

My last name is Doyle, which is fairly close to the front of the alphabet, and because of that, I was told I'd be in the first group. We were brought to the church for a final dress rehersal the day before the big event (and the day before the priest would drag me before the class screaming what a dirty boy I was), when the nun in charge told us of the exciting news.

The Roman Catholic Pope in all his wisdom had approved "FACE-to-FACE" confessions and that my group would be the group facing Father Unger when it came time to tell our sins. I nearly fainted. The last thing I wanted to do was tell Father Unger (the stern one) that I touched Lisa's pussy (although I didn't understand why my dad called it that). Instead, sweating, I went home and stressed about it quite a bit.

Enough to call my mom and tell her my issue. Her suggestion was to just not tell that sin and then she asked to speak to my grandmother to likely bitch her out for scaring the hell out of me. Relieved at her advice, I was able to relax enough and try to eat a little dinner before getting ready for bed.

I should have known it was too good to be true. My grandmother, upon tucking me in for the night, informed me that I should tell the priest EVERY SINGLE SIN or I would not have absolution and would burn in hell. She pointed out that my mother was not religious and would likely suffer on her death.

Catholicism...good times.

The day of our first confession, I dressed in my Catholic school uniform, considered faking sick and seeing the school nurse. I would have done nearly anything to not have to face that man in black. Walking into the back area, I got on my knees and started with the Pre-prayer. (on a side note...I recently heard that one of the priests had molested some kids in that back area...but I'm not completely sure if that's true).

And then I launched into the big sins. I lied, I cheated, I stole, I disobeyed my family, I jay walked, I swam without waiting a half hour after eating...I tried to think of anything else that I could tell that would put off the inevitable. And then...staring at the monhogany paneling on the wall, told him that I had seen Lisa's Poonany.

25 "Hail Mary"'s and 50 "Our Father"'s and I was forgiven. That was the scariest thing I had ever done and would be that way for a very long time.

Giving the boyfriend this blog address and saying he could read the entire thing was scarier.

Invitation

2008-11-10T15:16:00.003-05:00

Recently I received the following invitation.

VIP Botox Party!

Spa Night Special - Friday, November 14th, 3-8 pm

Fall into beauty this season and join Dr Javier Zelaya and his staff for a Botox cosmetic VIP party on Friday, November 14th from 3-8pm!

You and a friend are invited to receive Botox at a special discounted rate!

Enjoy a savings on Botox Cosmetic at these rates:
$300 per zone (regularly $500)
$900 full face ( regularly $1500)

Space is limited to the first 40 clients.

Is it just me, or does anyone else find this to be completely unethical?

Society defines beauty as young and athletic, and let's face it. You can't fight time. My friend is currently celebrating his 29th birthday for the 14th time, and he's so sensitive about his age. He searches the mirror for wrinkles and grey hair, and is starting to take HGH hormones so he can prolong what is inevetible. He's signed up to go to this event and it's crap like this that really pisses me off. What's next? A liposuction party?

Clothes That Make the Man

2008-11-07T13:48:00.002-05:00

Today, I am wearing a poor fitting, non breathing, and partially food stained polyester tuxedo that I have worn for the third day in the row. I'm convered in a fowl material that I wear strictly for my catering gigs.

I am dressed like a frumpy mess (at least that's how I see it) and it does bother me at times. Clothes supposedly make the man, and if the outside appearance says "I'm too broke to buy an iron and ironing board and only wear perma-press", I can only wonder what else people think of me.

Normally, I don't care, but there are times I wish I could dress better (like when the man suggests a restaurant that requires a sportcoat I don't own)...but in reality, having a somewhat small savings account in this economy seems a smarter decision for me. Thus until then, I'll continue to wear my uniform, no matter how demoralizing it is.

Uniforms are supposed to instill the viewer with a particular thought or mindset. The priest is supposed to look modest, the SWAT team member menacing, the military man as honerable. Yet I couldn't help but wonder (how's that Tuna?)...what happens when they don't live up the uniform?

While working an event the other night, I was bartending for a group of military officers. Young guys, some who have not yet turned 21, yet their commanding officer insisted since he was having the party, it was alright for them to consume alcohol. I refused to serve them, and took quite a bit of harassment from the military men.

During the singing of the National Anthem, the military men refused to move or speak (as they are supposed to do), but were angry with me for not continuing to make their drink while the song was sung.

I have respect for the military, and honestly, this event left me with such a bad taste in my mouth, if I hadn't met military men before this event, I would have likely lost all respect for them.

Uniforms, like looks, only go so far. It's what is on the inside that really counts.

TMI

2008-11-05T14:33:00.002-05:00

Ever hear of the Myers Briggs Type Indicator test? Well I took it recently and yesterday, I got the results back. Now that should have taken 5 minutes, but in reality, it took a full hour because the woman who was giving me my results back had to go into the long winded story about how the test was created (Carl Jung's theories) and what each of the indicators were.

The woman then started to explain the indicators. First was the Introverted vs. Extraverted.

I said "I'm an Extrovert".

But she still felt the need to explain about extroverts. They talk quickly, are energized when around many people, are quick to strike up conversations...

"I know I'm an extrovert", I said.

However she just smiled and continued to ramble, and I listened to her patiently until she asked me if I was sure that I was an extrovert.

"Mame, I'm so extroverted, I could masturbate around other people."

****

Aparently she's an introvert.

Winners and Losers

2008-11-04T13:28:00.002-05:00

This morning, I work up and walked down the block to do the civic duty and vote. Turning the corner, what waited for me was completely unexpected. A line around the block of people waiting to vote. Seriously around the block!

Thus in this line of no end, I being bored, and strangely hungover from 3 glasses of red wine, waited patiently for over an hour to get into the school so I could cast my vote. And during this wait, I listened to the woman going for sympathy votes for McCain. Her argument? He's old enough that he'll likely not be around to run again in 2012. And with that statement, I thought of what the world would be like if Palin was to become president, and became very sick to my stomach. Granted...it could have been the three wine glasses last night...but I'm blaming it on Palin.

She could be one heartbeat away from the highest office in this country?

Not if I can help it.

Karma

2008-11-03T13:00:00.003-05:00

About a year ago, while walking down the street during the early evening, I noticed a shiny gold square on the sidewalk. It caught my eye enough that I actually took a second look. Somebody had dropped their Gold Visa Card on the sidewalk.

I picked it up, and to say that I never once was tempted about going shopping for groceries is a complete lie, but that temptation only lasted a full second. But I wasn't sure what to do with it. Leave it on the ground? Or take it and throw it away? Instead, I walked it the 5 blocks to the closest police station where I turned it in.

That being said, the police station wanted my address (which I don't give out), a copy of my ID, and several telephone contact numbers. I reacted by giving them a fake telephone number and saying I didn't have my id (which was true as I had been to the gym and hadn't brought my wallet). I just don't trust police officers.

They took the card, and called the credit card company where they cancelled the card for whoever the guy was that lost it in the first place.

Last night, karma paid me back. I left my apartment to go to the grocery store for some vegetables, only to have to face 40,000 runners and their family's all congregating on the streets of my neighborhood. I made it a block before I changed my mind and decided to go home to order in. I logged onto the delivery service and ordered a vegetable plate from the local Chinese restaurant, only to have my card declined.

I looked in my wallet to check the number, and noticed my card was missing. I called my bank card company, and somebody had found my card and deactivated it for me.

Fuck...now I guess I have to start being nice to strangers.

With This Ring

2008-10-30T12:41:00.003-05:00

An actual conversation I had back in May

Her: Patrick! Guess what? I'm pregnant!
Me: Wow!
Her: Guess What Else? I'm getting married!
Me: That's great!
Her: And Guess What else? You're performing the ceremony!
Me: What?

I have done some crazy ass things for my friends. I've housed them during breakups. Fed them when they were unemployed, and even offered to have sex with one who was going through a dry spell (I'm a giver). But becomeing a minister and finding Waldo...I mean Jesus (He's up on the hillside behind the merchants) has got to be one of the craziest things I've ever done. Yet 15 minutes and one online form later, I became a registered minister and leagaly allowed to marry anyone with a valid marriage license.

People always say we need to stop gay marriage, but I think what they actually meant was to stop gays from marrying. I have the power to really fuck up your lives. For instance, in the state of Colorado, all you have to do to be considered "common law married" is state you are a married couple. No forms, no license, and no minister needed. Just the two of you telling someone you are married. Look out catering crowd. Piss me off and *wham*...your married. Go file for a divorce!

For most of my adult life, I've been making a mockery of organized religion and suddenly I am now a part of it. I am a freaking reverend, and conisdered qualified to tell people to spend the rest of their lives together (like it or not). I'm barely qualified with my own relationship (how hard is it to say the "b-word"?).

That being said, I've noticed their is one good thing about being a reverend. Do you know how many guys want to role play priest/alter boy?

Now if you excuse me...I've got to give a certain man who is on his knees communion.

Sneeze

2008-10-28T12:34:00.002-05:00

Tonight I am facing a problem. I'm not alone in this problem as every catering waiter and waitress I know has had to face this same problem...but tonight it's my turn. I have to face "the situation".

I didn't call it this first, but rather some of my predecessors have and it's sort of passed down to the newer folk. It was coined in this fashion.

A black waitress was working an event waiting on a table consisting of some extremely rude and racist people. Throughout the evening, the customers spoke down to her including asking her if she was working the catering gig to keep off welfare. The waitress never reacted, but was fairly miserable. At the end of the meal, the head of the table patted her on the ass and said she was a "good girl".

The waitress, infuriated, put the platter down and walked away from the table, and spoke to the managing party planner. The planner said there was nothing she could do. She then spoke to the other waiters, lamenting that she woudld have to work for the same people in another week. She had to make a choice.

A: She could carry this up to the main office, indicating both the racial and sexual harassment that she had to put up with, and insist that either she not have to work these particular people or if she did, that they be not allowed to treat her in the fashion she was treated in. That being said, raising that kind of problem would likely insure that she would not get future bookings of anykind as she'd be a trouble maker.

B: She could put up with it, swallow her pride, and pray the other wait staff can run enough interference to keep her away from these miserable people. That, and if she could get away with it...serve them a sneezer appetizer.

Thus, she chose B...and last night I worked with her, and explained my upcoming evening to her.

I am working at a venue that books a lot of business through my catering company. The events are generally large scale, usually with 300k or higher budgets, and the catering firm salivates on these parties. The last time I worked at this venue, the person who runs the event space got drunk. Really drunk. Drunk enough that several times in the evening, he backed me up against a wall, and one particular time, actually put his hands down my pants. He's a lecherous creep, and I hate working when he's around.

The situation exists. I guess I'll be bringing a lot of pepper for a sneeze attack.

Newness

2008-10-24T14:19:00.002-05:00

Last night, after getting home from a catering shift, I completely cleaned my apartment. Wiped down and washed the kitchen, cleaned the bathroom, put away any clutter, and brought out the vaccume for an early morning sweep when I'd wake up.

This morning, waking up sick, I've been cleaning my place a bit more, while napping on the side. I washed my windows, wiped down the mirrors, and folded and put away all of my laundry. I've now just finished changing my sheets.

You know that inital part of the relationship where you always want to clean the house before he arrives, make everything look its best, have fresh pressed clothes, and have him think you have no bad habits.

Yeah that part is getting old.

Whitey Got You Down?

2008-10-23T12:15:00.003-05:00

Oddly, this political season, I've not blogged about politics or the political candidates. Frankly, it bores me when only one side is being stated. The pro Obama crowds read thier own blogs, and the Pro McCain people read their own blogs, and neither care to read the opposing opinion without spewing off some uneducated rambling tirade that usually is more emotionally driven and less thought out.

But I do have a thought I am posting out there. Back in 1980, Bush Senior was pretty harsh on Ferraro during the vice presidential debates. The press and the public looked poorly on Bush as a man picking on a woman. Had Reagan not been able to spin things back around, and our economic situation not been so bad), Mondale may have actually had a fighting chance.

It's why Biden had to run such a fine line when debating Palin, as he didn't want to look like he was picking on a defenseless woman. No matter what...men aren't supposed to pick on women.

This has me wonder. Would McCain be making a much more agressive campaign against if Obama was a white man? Or is the risk of appearing racist so easy and dangerous in the public eye that it's better to not have the traditional mudslinging that happens at the end of the campaign?

Remember that when McCain used the phrase "that one" to refer to Obama during the 2nd debate, people claimed it was derrogatory and racist. Personally I think McCain got shafted on that call, but it's all about public perception.

It makes me wonder, has this been a fair political race at all? Can a white man run against a black man without the race card coming into factor?

Conversations

2008-10-22T13:33:00.002-05:00

Excerpt from an actual conversation last night:

Me: So I got the results of the skills interest survey from the career counselor. Apparently, my top three career matches are Financial Analyst, Lawyer, and Interior Designer.

Him: Interior Designer? Ummm...I'm not so sure you have the eye for that.

Me: Excuse me? Do you ever want me to give you head again?

Him: Yeah...you're definately a lawyer.

Careers

2008-10-21T11:33:00.002-05:00

Today, I have a meeting with a counselor. Not a psychological counselor (althought I'm the first to admit I could benefit from one), but rather a career counselor. It's time to throw it to the professionals and have them help me to figure out what my next steps are in regards to what and where I want to go.

Now I had met with a director of HR at one point a few weeks ago, and he asked me a not so fun question. "What do you like to do in your free time?"

***Blank Stare***

I'm not sure I understand those words. "Free time". I've been working non-stop for nearly 3 years. It may sound odd, but I really don't have any hobbies anymore. I don't play sports like I used to, I'm never able to take time for myself, and when I have a free shift (a day is unnaturally odd), I'm more likely to just sit in front of the TV.

Yet, the first question the career counselor asks is "what do you like to do?", followed by telling me I need to incorporate what I like to do into what I want to do for a living.

What do I like to do?
Drink with friends
Have enormous amounts of sex
Converse with other people

Great...I'm either a prostitute or a US Senator.

Friday Fun

2008-10-17T16:11:00.002-05:00

Ok...so I decided it was time to learn photoshop.

This was my best first attempt.

Planners

2008-10-16T12:50:00.002-05:00

As an Atheist, I really have come to not believe in a god. No all knowing, ever good, ball of light that is planning on dooming me for me sinning ways. No everlasting heaven, no dark tunnel with a bright white light. Just worms and decomposition. I'm fine with that.

Except

If I don't believe in heaven and and all good and loving deity, how can I believe in hell and an all evil creature. And unfortunately, I've met that all evil being. They are called Wedding Planners.

And last night, I had to wait on the classless bunch. A famous crystal manufacturer (it begins with a "S") holds a bridal showcase event each year at this time in Rockefeller Center. Bridal designers showcase their wedding gowns, cake companies sample their cakes, and different alcohol companies give their alcohol as ways to show you how much you can spend. And these wedding planners are the ones to prey upon the young women and convince them to overspend themselves into premarital debt.

We start with the venue. This prize piece of real estate is located at Rockefeller Center and diagonally across from St. Patrick's Cathedral (where you can get married if your Catholic). This is one of the smaller venues, with only 5000 sq feet of outdoor garden space. All for only a mere $50k rental. Staffing and catering are extra, so expect to pay $200 a person for the dinner you'll be serving.

Now no wedding would be complete without the wedding gown. This taffeta hand sewn pearls mass of clothing (which can weigh many many pounds) is placed on the bride in a fashion that will have her constantly fearful that she may spill something on it all evening. These wedding planners ate it up, and by far, the hottest dress was the Vivienne Westwood (which went for merely a half a million dollars)

But in the event that the parents are too cheap to pay that much for their daughter to look the most beautiful on "her special day", their are other alternatives, each running just under 100k.

Most importantly, every wedding isn't complete without making enough cake to feed the entire nation. While passing drinks last night, I overheard a planner speaking to the press about how he recommends as a wedding planner an average of 4 slices of cake per guest.

And people wonder why we are the fattest nation? 4 slices of cake per person? I had wedding cake last night for dinner, and I could barely get through 1 slice. (Granted, I can't swallow that easily...but come on!)

Now I fully know that the people attending this event book only large expensive weddings (with 2+million budgets), but the sentiment behind the planners is the same regardless of the budget. Spend as much as possible to have the "dream wedding".

Catering weddings used to depress me a little. In my lifetime, I never expect my family to gather together and toast my relationship to another man, and after seeing the ridiculous amounts that these planners are selling things at, I'm not sure I'd want to get married.

I'd rather just tell him "I love you...let's go eat", while my closest friends join us in a potluck than go through all of the pomp and circumstance.

But that means I'd have to say the "b-word" outloud...and that's not something I do very easily.

Reading the Signs

2008-10-15T12:52:00.003-05:00

In 2004, while living in Cleveland, I took unofficial polls of the election. I would driving around and count all the political signage I saw on the lawns of all the homes. What was interesting to me was how when Bush was re-elected, just how angry people were. Businesses that had placed a Republican ticket sign in the window had to deal with post election organized boycotts.

This year, living in probably one of the most Democrat friendly areas, I'm seeing a whole different story. The socialites willingly discuss how Obama will be a good choice for the country, and McCain Supporters are very quiet in the city.

But walking around, I notice just how few signs I'm seeing in apartment windows. In this city, making your political choice in writing for the world to see is nearly nonexistent. I've had to rely on "official" polls, which although more accurate, really don't tell me much about my neighborhood.

I'm wondering...will there be more calls for boycotts based on how people voted? We're polarizing in this election in a dangerous way, and unless our leaders can work out compromise...nothing will get done over the next 4 years.

Hmmm...sounds like history is about to repeat itself.

Banshee

2008-10-14T12:57:00.003-05:00

A few years ago, I was sleeping next to someone who was snoring peacefully next to me. It fascinated me that he could look so damn sexy and so peaceful at the same time. Before I knew what I could really think about what I was doing, I reached out a placed my hand on his chest.

Ok...I'm lying here. I actually reached out and just ever so lightly caressed his nipple. What can I say? I've got an enormous sex drive and when a half naked man is sleeping next to me, and I wake up, I'm going to want sex again. Why not start out by lightly caressing his nipple.

Except that my bedmate at the time screamed like a banshee. Seriously, if had been a cat, I would have had to pry his claws out of the ceiling. He wanted to know what I was doing, and I did what anyone would have done. I denied that I had even touched him and said he must have dreamed it.

Saturday night, while sleeping in a tent, I woke up again, and looked over at my sleeping partner. Unfortunately (or fortunately depending on your outlook) I couldn't see him, as it was freaking pitch black out. So I lay there, trying to get back to sleep, listening to the sounds of the woods, and what ever wild animals were planning on attacking the flimsy tent we were sleeping in. We city folk are used to having more than nylon for bedroom walls. As I lay there, I imagined the bear that was most likely looking at our tent as a small snack, and unfortunately, I had to pee.

Bad.

Thus, at 3 in the morning, I had to crawl out of my sleeping bag, out of the tent, and wander in the pitch black woods to a tree outside of the camp area to relieve my bladder. And I didn't think to bring a flashlight. Feeling my way back to the tent, I misjudged, and tripped over my tent mate.

He screamed like a banshee, and wanted to know what I was doing.

Can you believe I actually tried to convince him that he had dreamed it?

When I was first asked to go camping, Sitting in the woods, Saturday night, freezing my ass off, I realized something.

Hassling

2008-10-10T14:53:00.004-05:00

Dear Elizabeth Hasselbeck,
Recently, while wating at the dentist for some preliminary work to be performed on my molar, I had the opportunity to watch you on Barbara Walter's The View. Before that, I had watched you on survivor.

Although I don't agree with your personal and political ideologies...I have to admit...I thoroughly enjoyed you getting told off by not one or two, but three of your cohosts. Perhaps if you actually were prepared better, you might be able to at least argue your point, without getting a finger wagged in your face.

Oh...and one more thing...

Never piss off a black woman.

Sincerly.
Patrick

First Impressions

2008-10-09T11:05:00.003-05:00

Ok...so I decided I needed a change to the layout. Feel free to criticize. As for RSS and Atom feeds, since I'm hard coding, I've not figured out how to do this yet. I'm getting there.

I won't be the first to say this. I've dated quite a bit. Ok...that may be down playing a bit, but I'd like to think that I'm more difficult to get into than a community college. So believe me when I say this. There are some rules to dating that must always be followed.

For instance, when dating someone new, you don't tell your family about it until you are both ready, as you don't want the expectations of too many people hanging over your heads.

Last weekend, the rules were broken.

The guy I've been dating told me that his sister would be in town for the weekend, and he'd love if the three of us could go out to dinner. Although nervous about meeting a family member, I agreed.

The two of us were to meet her at a local and very casual restaurant in my neighborhood. We waited at the bar, my date and I wearing jeans and t-shirts, and drinking beers. As his sister walked in, she walked quickly up to my date and said "I am so sorry".

His parents were with her.

My date introduced me to his sister, his father, and lastly...his mom. One look from the woman said it all..."You're the man who is fucking my son." Which although true, really was something I wasn't prepared for.

I finished my beer in one drink and ordered another one, asking what his family would like to drink. They ordered water. I now looked like the "Alcoholic man who is fucking her son".

We sat for dinner and conversation begins. They ask what I do for a living. That's always a complicated question for me, but comparing it to my date...let's just say he's got a very professional degree and job and I'm a nobody in the job world. I accepted it a long time ago...but trying to make my self look better in the parents eyes...well that wasn't happening.

I am now "the careerless alcoholic who is fucking her son".

I drink more beer, and order a salad off of the menu with nuts. I should know better. I have accepted a long time ago that I will likely not ever be able to eat as comfortable as everybody else. Steak, pasta, heavy breads and nuts are not allowed to be eaten, as I just can't swallow it. So me being a nervous dumbass, I ordered a salad full of walnuts.

And promptly puked it back up in the bathroom. Which would have been very covert, except that my date's father was in the bathroom as well.

Now I am the "bullimic, careerless, alcoholic who is fucking her son."

I skip dessert, as I'm ready for the evening to be over. My date has no clue the apprehension I have been going through, although his sister leans in and says I'm doing fine. She knows the rules!

We walk back to my apartment...I thought to myself. He's so lucky that my family doesn't live anywhere near me.

Answers

2008-10-07T13:02:00.003-05:00

He says: "This weekend, why don't we go camping. I know a great place near the lake, and if we bring warm enough clothes, we should be really comfortable. We can go fishing one day, and cook what we catch for dinner. We can also do a nice hike the other day. It's not supposed to rain that hard, so if we bring rain gear, we should be comfortable. What do you say?"

"fuck"

The things I'll put up with to get laid...

Head Waiter

2008-10-03T14:19:00.003-05:00

I would have much rather been home when the debate was on last night, but I was scheduled to work a job at a private residence last night. Thankfully, I was told it was a debate watching party, so I'd at least get to hear the debates while serving appetizers and white wine.

Now as with most Central Park West residences, all service staff must enter the back entrance where you are to ride the service elevator to the back door that opens into the kitchen. It's the new millennium version of "back of the bus". Upon walking into the kitchen, the place had a nice familiar tone. White walls, white cabinetry...something about it looked vaguely familiar.

I set up the bar and waited for the rest of the staff to arrive. The owner of the apartment came into the kitchen to introduce himself and as we shook hands, I looked him over. Well built, hot body, strong arms (this is way too familiar)...I remembered where I had met this man before.

Back in January...this man and his boyfriend had a sex party in this very apartment. His boyfriend who was also my doctor.

I could tell by the look on his face that he vaguely remembered me...but was trying to place where he had met me. I considered dropping my pants to give him a better idea, but instead continued to work. About 10 minutes later, I saw that all to knowing look of recognition on his face.

When he boyfriend arrived, the look was immediate. As well as for some of his male guests (but not their wives).

At the end of the night, he handed me $100 for my troubles, but didn't bother tipping the rest of the staff. I wonder if he tipped me for my service, or my servicing?

Gay Men in the Mist

2008-10-02T10:46:00.002-05:00

Yesterday night, I did something I've not done in a very long time. I went to a straight bar. Now this was not really my choice, but I was asked to check out a group of people that were meeting at this bar, and see if I was interested in joining in a ski house share (oh the pitfalls of dating someone who works ski patrol on the side).

Walking into this place, I immediately got the feeling I usually get in straight singles bars. The same feeling that straight men get when going to gay bars. The feeling that I don't belong.

The group of guys that were meeting there were 7 men, all in their late 20's and early 30's, and all very heterosexual. As in, when the waitress walked away, they all started commenting on how much they really wanted to "get a piece of that". (insert ogre like agreement here)

*shudder*

I left the bar, and called a friend and asked him why is it that I, like so many of my gay friends feel uncomfortable in straight bars? He answered it was the "lingering smell of vagina". Ok...he was joking, but he honestly wasn't able to answer it. I've even been hesitant to join my own alumni club because it's been primarily straight men in their late 20's swilling beer and cheering on their college football team.

I got home and thought about it more, I have to wonder...can straight men and gay men really be friends, without having a woman friend as a commonality? Why is there such a difference between the two, and why is it so rare to find a common ground?

I've been out as a gay man since I was 15 years old. I currently can't think of many straight men I actually know on more than just a work situation basis.

As for the ski house...I wonder how comfortable the rest of this 11 bedroom house would be if they knew 2 gay men were sharing a room in their midst?

My Hole

2008-10-01T14:50:00.003-05:00

Three weeks ago, one of my molars cracked and I am now missing a portion of my tooth. It feels weird, I'm concerned about this getting much worse before treatment (insurance takes forever to pre-approve crowns) and it's always on my mind.

So my dentist put a temporary filling in. And it promptly fell back out 24 hours later during the Italian gorging fest.

I went back to the dentist and he put in a "stronger" temporary filling, which lasted a whole two weeks, before falling out while eating onion soup in a restaurant.

And I called my dentist *again* looking for a temporary filling, but he says at this point, a temporary filling isn't the best option and instead I need to start the process and get a crown for the tooth. His secretary checked his calender and informed me that the first appointment he has available is October 17th. That's 16 days I exclaimed.

The secretary tried to appease me, but seriously...16 days?!? I ended up saying to her as I was hanging up "all I want is for him to put something in my hole!".

I hate when I have my own personal Beavis and Butthead moment.

Money Matters

2008-09-30T12:28:00.002-05:00

The Dow drops 750 points. My coworker loses $100,000 over the last few days in his investment portfolio. I get the notice from my landlord that my rent will not be going up next year.

There is a negative side to this right?

Preparations for Reparations

2008-09-29T12:42:00.000-05:00

A year ago, around this time, I worked an event at a private residence on the Upper East Side. The client was a very wealthy family (he's the owner of a hedge fund, she's the recipient of many face lifts) who holds a a party this time of year to show off their art collection within their 6 floor townhouse.

I've worked for many very wealthy people, some celebrities, and most recently, over 50 heads of state. Most of the time, the even patrons treat you well, but this particular family has historically treated us like slaves, not their employees.

We are not permitted to use their bathrooms, but rather must go to the Starbucks that is next door. During last year's party, the owners dog crapped on the floor and we were ordered to clean it (I *may* have washed my hands before touching the food afterwards). The woman of the house referred to me as "boy" all evening, and has now insisted the catering company not send any foreigners, as they aren't the most trustworthy.

Thus, since I'm a natural born US citizen...I've been assigned to this party once again. The company, knowing how poor we were treated, is paying us a higher pay rate...but it still isn't enough. So I'm taking matters into my own hands.

The morning, I ate an entire can of Bush's vegetarian baked beans for breakfast. Lunch has consisted of cooked cabbage and two hard boiled eggs. Dinner before this shift starts will be another can of beans with two more eggs.

I'm putting the Doyle family curse to use for the good.

Communicating

2008-09-26T12:34:00.002-05:00

During graduate school, in my accounting class, I learned about communication and the difference between women and men. Just the kind of thing that goes with profit and loss statements. Be it inherited or learned traits is still up for debate.

As the instructor pointed out (and documented with published research), Women share the problem or issue. They explain what's wrong, share how it's affecting them, and when they are done telling about it, the other women will commiserate with them. Basically they give the "wow...that really sucks" and then everyone moves on and eventually the woman comes to the conclusion, either on her own, or by asking for assistance.

Men are the opposite. Men will tell the basic problem to other men, and throughout telling the problem, other men will offer ways of solving the issue. They may not fully understand the issue, but they will attempt to solve it.

For the record...sometimes...I just want to have someone say "wow...that really sucks."

Fois Gras

2008-09-25T14:44:00.004-05:00

The thing that's hard about living in New York City is that eventually you become very accustomed to certain conveniences that you just can't get elsewhere. And it does change how you look at dating and friendly gatherings. When you live in the city and you say "come to my house for dinner", it's easier to get delivery than actually cook in your kitchen. Would you want to cook in a 15 sq ft kitchen when a telephone is your best cooking utensil?

So s few weeks ago, TGIBS invited me to dinner at his place after going to the Audubon society for a lecture (yawn) on birds of prey (huh? OK...kinda cool). We attended the lecture and before going back to his place, we grabbed a beer and a small basket of chips.

By the time it was time for dinner, I wasn't very hungry, so I figured I'd just have him order me the soup off the delivery menu.

Except...

He had arranged a friend of his to cook for us. An Italian chef. Did you know the first five words an Italian mother teaches her children? Mama, God, Yes, Good, and EAT! Ironically, all of those words are also used on her wedding night.

This chef had "eat" on her mind, and she never really told us how much food she had created. Thus, we sat down for a meal that neither of us were incredibly hungry for.

Our first course, consisted of a a bottle of pinot grigio and a small plate of antipasti (read = appetizer for 10 people). Both of us, being reformed Catholics, felt the need to clean our plates. So we began to shovel the crackers, brie, mozzarella, and salami into our stomachs.

Me...being the person that has difficulty eating solid food (if you don't know why...umm read the archives. Sept 06'...I'm tired of telling the story) was chasing all of this down with glasses of water.

By the second course of a mixed green salad with roasted beets, asparagus and a lemon pepper dressing paired with a chardonnay my stomach was sloshing and I was very full (not to mention a little drunk). But the Italian mother was not having it.

EAT!!!

The Third course of Angel Hair pasta with roma tomatoes and prosciutto was brought to the table with a pinot noir. Pasta is one of the most difficult things for me to eat, especially when cooked al dente...which is the only way an Italian would cook pasta. Upon running out of water, I was now chugging red wine to finish my food. My pants were now tight. I figured this was fine though seeing we could only have dessert after this. I was wrong.

EAT!!!

Fourth Course, minestrone soup. This woman wanted to kill us, and I actually had to undo my pants as I was getting uncomfortable. We opened another bottle of wine. As full as I was, my guilty conscience told me not to leave much food in the bowl...so I pushed.

EAT!!!

The woman brought out an entire branzino fish. Granted...they are smaller fish...but a whole fish for the two of us...on top of everything else was getting too much. As usual, I need to drink about a full bottle of water for every 10 bites of food. I was on bottle number 8 by this point...and I now had to pee.

EAT!!!

Now beginning to wish for bulimic tendencies as I watched the woman bring out our sixth course consisting of seared scallops and a corn succotash with a bottle of sangiovese. When the chef wasn't looking, I passed my scallops and some of my food to my eating companion...who was looking a little green himself. As she cleared the plates, we thanked her profusely for the dinner and started to gather the strength to get up from the table.

EAT!!!

We didn't get up fast enough and a seventh course of food, pork tenderloin with an apple brandy reduction, and roasted brussel sprouts were brought to us on plates. I looked in horror and asked the chef..."how much more is there?" She smiled and said,

EAT!!!

I seriously hurt, and secretly prayed for death. My dining companion had now undone his pants as well, and even then, it felt as if our clothes were too tight. In horror, I watched as the chef brought to the table frozen chocolate mousse and a freaking bottle of prosecco.

My companion, trying to be cute, took a spoonful and tried to bring it to my mouth, but I threatened him with castration. Yet when the Italian chef looked concerned that we didn't like the dessert...we both reluctantly ate a couple of spoons and smiled.

I looked at the backyard balcony and wondered if I could sneak out there, puke over the side, and not be observed by anyone. The only problem was that it would have entailed moving...and that wasn't about to happen very easily.

Moaning while sitting in my dining chair, I now know what a duck feels like as it's being made into fois gras. Next time...we're doing a bagel from the corner deli.

Machinery

2008-09-24T11:29:00.006-05:00

I'm working a very important catering gig today that required I get a security clearance. All things went well and since I'm working the event tonight, I am not allowed to have any bags with me (as the Secret Service is not allowing them).

Unfortunately I also had a big meeting for work and had to be somewhat dressed up. So I wore my black tux pants, a black shirt, and a black tie. Normally this wouldn't be a problem (even though I look like death is visiting), however at this meeting I was required to stand in the hotel lobby and direct any attendees to exactly where the meeting was taking place. Because signs are too hard to read.

Ever stand in a hotel lobby dressed in all black? Nearly every person that walked in the door asked me directions to meetings going on in the hotel. I needed to carry a sign that said "I don't work here!", and face the look of astonishment and apologies. One woman had the audacity to actually ask me why I would dress like I was dressed, not believing that I didn't work for the hotel.

They say that the clothes make the man, and unfortunately my choice of dress says I'm the servant. It's my life...and normally it doesn't bother me, but what I find interesting is watching how people treat the service industry. I've had people I worked with in the past snap their fingers at me to refill their drinks during a catering gig (not realizing that I've worked with them on an office level).

The problem with wearing a uniform is that it makes the wearer a faceless machine. And machines don't need to hear please and thank you, and ideally people aren't supposed to be bothered by them. Those of us forced to wear a uniform are the "children" of society. Be seen and not heard. Have no opinion, as any input you have is not of significance. And for God's sake...smile.

So I smile....but excuse me if my smile looks a little forced. It's because inside I'm likely wishing your death.

Art

2008-09-23T11:23:00.004-05:00

About six months ago, I was working an event at Sotheby's for a modern art auction. One of the hottest items was a statue of a man using his semen as a lasso. The images are here:
Jizz1
Jizz2

The piece was going for 7 million dollars minimum bid...and it SOLD! Yes, it was weird, and controversial, and even though it was still art, I wouldn't want it in my home since the Tuna Kids do come to visit every once in a while (although not nearly enough for my preference). I'd rather the kids learn about playing with jizz like I did, from my dad's porno magazines. And preferably when they are both over 40 and I'm dead.

So last night, while working at Sotheby's, a new art piece is now on display. It consists of a reddish brown cloth with splotches and streaks across the center. The title of the piece is called....wait for it...

ROPES OF CUM

This artist, shot his load 7 times on his sheets and now is selling the piece for over 7 million. It was the talk of the auction, with the high society types going dangerously close to examine the "texture". All I could think the entire night was that I would have been more than willing to sell them my comforter cover after a recent weekend for 1/2 the price.

But unfortunately I didn't think of it before this artist. So ladies and gentlemen...I bring you...

Ookie Cookie

I made it myself, and I'll be starting the bids at 1 million.

Swimming

2008-09-22T11:25:00.002-05:00

When I was nine years old, I had made friends with a kid in school that was from a skiing family. I, being a child of "the traveling hippy mom", was desperate for any friends, and therefore more that willing to exaggerate my ability of skiing. (I hadn't been on skies by that age). I had no problem telling this child how I was an avid skier that had gone skiing all the time the winter before. It was the perfect half truth that would get me a friend...finally.

Until he and his family invited me out for a ski weekend. Thankfully, his father was a ski instructor and after seeing me take a 15' run, just knew that it was going to be "private lesson" day. Ironically, I researched his address and sent him a thank-you card when I became an instructor in Colorado.

This past weekend, while walking the Hudson river, we saw a massive sailboat looking for shipmates to sail this upcoming weekend. A short sailing leaving Friday night and returning on Sunday evening, they are looking for experienced sailors. My companion has been sailing since he was a small child and signed us both up to sail this trip.

I have never been on a sailboat. I have worked on riverboat cruise lines, as a waiter, but have still no clue between starboard and port (unless you are talking wine). I tried to explain this to the captain of the boat, but she really didn't listen.

Thank God I can swim...because I have a feeling once we hit the open sea, we're going down faster than the Titanic.

Selective Memory

2008-09-19T14:26:00.002-05:00

Selective memory is something I find fascinating. For the most part, it bothers me that my brain will only remember certain details and block everything else out. Last month, I was in an accident at a catering gig. My left had got trapped in the mechanism of a loading dock elevator and my left middle finger was badly crushed. No broken bones, but I did leave with a significant amount of stitches. I oddly don't remember saying to stop the elevator. I remember cursing like a sailor, and then being in a cab for the hospital.

My coworkers inform me that I screamed until they stopped and reversed the elevator, then said in a calm voice that I was cut (as if the blood flowing down my arm wouldn't indicate it). I gathered my belongings including my bar kit, and offered to walk to the hospital, before the company put me in a cab.

I wish I remember that, but selective memory does have it's advantages. For Example:

Apparently, while staying in Provincetown, I was informed that during a morning while my roommate, Crash, slept only a few feet away, I was getting a little "hands-on" with my bed mate. It wasn't until my bed mate happened to notice that Crash was awake and trying desperately to ignore any activity that was going on that he stopped me from any more physical activity.

Somehow...I don't recall that.

Thankfuly

Expertise

2008-09-18T12:01:00.003-05:00

Back in the 90's, I was sought after for my knowledge of all things. I trained well over 90 people on federal regulations, ran audits of both student and offices, and was for the most part, proud of it. That was 8 years ago...and since then, I've not really been an expert on much. Until now. For the first time in a very long time, I am on expert on a very important subject that most people have no clue about. I am the leading authority on being poor!

All these Lehman Brother's, AIG, Citicorp, Merrill Lynch castaways have no clue how to manage their lives without making those 6 figure salaries they are so addicted to. They sit at the day spa getting massaged as they moan in denial, angry that the world owes them, wanting to know why the govt didn't bail them out and save their job! They call their $280 an hour therapist and schedule extra appointments, and watch HBO while hoping their "Network" of recruiters will find them a new job.

And I sit here an expert, offering them advice.

1)You are not the only one this is happening to. Likely, your "network" doesn't have time to deal with you, as they are looking for jobs themselves.

2)Turn off the cable television. It's a damn luxury, and there isn't anything on the TV that is all that good anyway. Not to mention...do you really need to spend the $4.39 a day on a Starbuck's Latte?

3)Cut up your credit cards. It was a huge portion of people living beyond their means that caused this crisis in the first place. Learn from their mistakes.

4)Giving a good blow job could get you a job. Right FARB?

5)Groceries are not expensive if you go with a friend. One of you fill up a bag with food and have the other cause a distraction as you leave out the front of the store. Just remember to run like hell.

6)Your therapist wants you to remain depressed to continue collecting her fees. She's heard from you how hard it is being poor.

7)What the fuck do you need a three bedroom apartment for if you are living alone?

8)You can save a lot on cologne by hitting the perfume counter at the department store before going out.

9)This phrase could save your life. "Would you like to supersize that?"

10)Anything can be sold on Craigslist.

Now that I finally am an expert...I think I'm going to start charging to hold seminars for those who haven't a clue. I wonder what I should charge...

Welcome to Catering

2008-09-17T11:50:00.003-05:00

Last night I catered a cocktail party on Fifth Avenue for a couple that was launching the new wine they've had made and are now marketing. 70 of their friends, all who have children attending a $34,000 a year school on the Upper East Side of Manhattan. The family having the party have 4 boys in this school. They pay more in tuition than I have in total school loan debt. Give or take a thousand.

That being said, this party was about showing off for their friends. The lady of the house insisted that we spare no expense. She had just had the apartment repainted and decorated, specialty lighting brought in, and she insisted that all the staff come with a freshly pressed uniform (It's polyester...if I iron the damn thing it would melt). She had fois gras prepared, a special caviar bar, and fillet mignon medallions in a Bordeaux reduction.

During the party, one of her guests dropped a glass of red wine on her white sofa (which I promptly cleaned to the best of my ability). Another guest dropped a glass on her new carpet, which our staff also cleaned. She was perfectly happy.

Until she got the bill.

She didn't agree with the catering standard that cater waiters get a minimum 5 hour pay, regardless how short the shift. She wanted to only pay us for the three hours we were working.

Lesson? Money doesn't buy class.

Word

2008-09-16T12:34:00.000-05:00

Ok...so I'm alive. I'll start off with that. As to the particulars as to why I've not been blogging...well it's complicated.

Blogging about work when you work for another blogger...um...not a smart idea.

Blogging about the catering gigs I've been working when I've signed a confidentiality agreement...well...what exactly could they sue me for? It's not like I have any money.

That being said...a certain Puerto Rican singer *may* have had a pool party where ironically no woman was at. Hmmmm...perhaps the National Enquirer will contact me? I do have pictures.

But mostly...those are just excuses. I've had a lot on my mind...but not really anything I could share with others. I still have things going on...and eventually...I'll share...but for now...it needs to remain a little private.

My apologies for pissing anyone off or disappointing you. You can call me a bad person.

I've been finding it hard to speak lately. I'm normally a verbal person. To a fault. I've seen looks from friends at times that say "will he ever shut up?", and I'll still go on. Part of it is that I'm a verbal thinker. When hearing the words coming out of my mouth, it's my actual thinking process. This has hurt me in the past (just ask me about the job where my opinion on anything no longer mattered). Yet, my life is all I have at times and I'm willing to share it with my friends and family.

Except.

I've become afraid of a word. One mother fucking word. No...not Republican, not McCain, Not Palin (cunt...oops...sorry Tuna), not even grandmother (cunt...happy Ricker?). I've become fearful of one particular word that I can't seem to say in public. Because if I say it...I feel like I may jinx myself.

I've been seeing this guy since June. That's not new...I'm a serial dater. But my friends noticed the difference first. I didn't nickname him. I nickname every guy I date. Curve Ball Albino, Dirty Curry, Pirogi Boy, Tiny Tot...all nicknamed. It's the way my friends are able to distinguish what has become the Sex in the City soap opera of my life. So of course my friends were the first to notice I didn't nickname this guy I've been seeing. And it's how I've been referring to him. "This guy I've been seeing". All because I've too afraid to say the "B-Word" in public. It's been used in private, but using it in public puts expectations on it. Once you say someone is your boyfriend (Aggghhh...spins three times and knocks on wood), people expect things. And if it doesn't work out...you face the disappointment in their eyes for you.

So I have problems saying that word in public.

God help me if anyone mentions the "L" word. I do know how to shoot a gun.

Johnny Appleseed

2008-04-07T10:03:00.004-05:00

Lately, I've been thinking about mortality and how easy death can happen to any one of us. Recently, my grandmother's boyfriend's sister died after taking a fall down the stairs. She was 78, and the head trauma was too much for her. She spent her final days in a nursing home not realizing who she was or where she was at. A perfect way to go.

But it got me thinking, what if my grandmother goes? I'm the sole one responsible for her...and that just ain't pretty. So weekly, I call and just check on her. I can tell she's getting older, as she'll tell me the same things several times during our phone conversation. Yes, I know she's critical of me and not the greatest for my self esteem, but she's the only family I have. Like it or not.

So I called her yesterday, like I normally do on Sundays (not during church time) and there was no answer. I then called again around 8:30 last night...and still...no answer.

This morning, I called her at 7 am...and again...she didn't answer, and I began to panic. In my head, she was lying dead on her apartment floor, or worse...she had had a stroke and couldn't answer the phone. So I did what needed to be done. I called her building's management office and gave them permission to go into the apartment. Yes...I said they were allowed to break the door down if they needed to. (She's 83 and paranoid. Even though she lives in a security building, she still feels the need to put 16 million chains on the door when she's inside.)

The building office called me back to say she wasn't inside her home, and that they weren't sure where she was. They asked if I wanted to file a report with the police.

At this point, I did what I've done in regards to my mother. I became the freaking parent. I started calling every single person I knew that knows my grandmother, asking if they had heard from her. I googled searched and found her boyfriend's telephone number and called him.

Apparently she spent the night at his home. My daily church going grandmother spent the night at a man's home...and if she was on her knees...I don't think she was praying.

My god...my grandmother is a slut.

It's true...the apple really doesn't fall far from the tree.

Sensitivity Training

2008-03-19T11:53:00.002-05:00

I am a sensitive guy.

Yes...I know...how progressive of me...whatever. Yes, I do try to think of other's feelings and I'm not ashamed to cry in public, but this isn't why I'm sensitive.

Yesterday afternoon, I was flipping channels and caught a medical show where people could ask the doctor anything they wanted. What caught my interest was that the entire audience was composed of nothing but men. And one of them asked the question:

How often and exactly how do I check for testicular cancer?

The doctor, being the health professional that he is, brought the guy onstage, and showed him and the audience on a cadaver that had been donated for this purpose.

Examine each testicle with both hands. Place the index and middle fingers under the testicle with the thumbs placed on top. Roll the testicle gently between the thumbs and fingers -- you shouldn't feel any pain when doing the exam. Don't be alarmed if one testicle seems slightly larger than the other, that's normal.

At this point, I was rolling on the floor in sympathy pain. This was turning into the longest 10 minutes of my life! Why the hell weren't they breaking for commercial?
As I was breaking out into a cold sweat. For the love of God!!!! I was in agony. If fact, I'm in pain just typing this.

I know I should be checking myself monthly...but you know what?

I survived cancer once... I'll chance it.

Knowledge

2008-03-13T10:48:00.004-05:00

They say that knowledge is power, and the other night I learned something while catering.

Sweetbreads...are neither sweet...nor bread.

People who spend 2000 a plate will eat some fucked up shit. I don't care how cute you are...you'll be washing your mouth out with Listerine before kissing me.

I've never been so glad to not be able to eat much in solid foods.

Left Behind

2008-03-10T11:44:00.002-05:00

A phone message I left this morning.

Hey. It's Patrick.
I was wondering. Did your boyfriend leave his cock ring in my apartment? If so...I found it under my pillow.

Call me later and let me know. If it is his, I'll hold onto it until the next time I see you both.

There is a perfectly rational explaination for this message...but with my reputation...nobody would believe it.

Digger

2008-03-04T11:39:00.000-05:00

Friday night, while at happy hour (which is always happy, but way more than an hour), my friends caught a blonde man staring at me from across the bar. Seeing that they are all in relationships, they brought him over and introduced him to me.

My initial reaction was that he seems nice and he's attractive. He's 31, works in marketing, blond. But that being said, the conversation was a little bland, but that can happen while being pressured to actually converse with my friends listening to every word we said. So we moved off to the side a bit and continued our conversation.

He lives in Manhattan, is single (which is a big change in my record), and grew up in the Midwest. I still found myself thinking "eh", and then he said the magic words.

"I bought my apartment this past year".

Suddenly he was really attractive.

Ummm...what does this say about me?

Class Dismissed

2008-03-03T11:17:00.004-05:00

Yesterday...I finally found out what it's like to be a woman. No...I didn't get pregnant, nor was I sexually harassed (although I'd welcome that), nor was I passed over for a promotion by a less qualified man. Rather, I experienced something a bit more intimate.

Who here hates Whitney Houston? To me, she is a crack addicted pimple on the butt of society. That being said, I remember when she pretended to act in the movie "Waiting to Exhale". At one point, she has sex with this guy, who climbs on top of her and climaxes within seconds, and with that...he's done. She's left there, laying on the bed, thinking..."is that it?"

There is no excuse for bad sex. I can understand if Mr. QC (quick cummer) is excited and loses control...but we have rules in gay sex.

Rule #1: If you both haven't had one...you aren't fucking done!

I'm to impatient to be a teacher, and at the age of 39...he's too old to be a student!

Class Dismissed!

Time Lines

2008-02-28T11:37:00.002-05:00

12:01 AM I'm cleaning the puke of the drunk guy that puked on my bar while ordering yet another glass of champagne.

1:18 AM While riding the A-Train home, the woman nearest me squats between two seats and pees. Clearly, she has been eating asparagus.

3:00 AM Still tossing and turning, I finally give up and realize I will not be sleeping, and get up to read a book. Search for copy of War and Peace. Settle on Memoirs of a Geisha.

5:00 AM Leave apartment to go for a short 2 mile run hoping to burn off the 10 pounds the doctor informs me I've gained.

5:01 AM Return to my apartment shivering and deciding I'd rather stay fat.

6:15 AM At the local diner for breakfast, the server accidently serves my 2 over easy eggs, with a side of sliced tomatoes and toast onto my lap. Clothes covered in yellow goo...I go home to change.

9:00 AM After one hour and still being the only one in the office, I ponder why I didn't grab a breakfast at a different diner on the way. Try to figure a way out of working tonight, as I'm scheduled to work a dinner for 800.

So far...38 isn't all sunshine and roses.

I've not really been upset about turning 38 this year, but I do hate my birthday. For me, birthdays are a reminder of where I should be, and less a celebration about where I am.

Singles Awareness Day

2008-02-14T13:54:00.003-05:00

Every February 14th, what couples call "Valentine's Day", the coupled people run around purchasing roses, chocolates, and bottles of champagne to celebrate their so called "love" for each other.

Roses, chocolates, and champagne all just get laid? Screw that...I'll just head to the gym steam room and save the hundred bucks. But I do find that many of my single friends don't realize that today is not Valentine's Day, but actually it is Singles Awareness Day!

Singles Awareness Day (otherwise known as SAD) is held every February 14th as a way of identifying all other singles that are not coupled (or tripled) You can easily spot the singles on this day, at the grocery store purchasing ice cream and a bottle of vodka, or sitting alone in a fast food restaurant during the dinner hours, or in the video store renting the Bridges of Madison County and Titanic.

Singles are also located on this day at the top of tall buildings looking down over the edge to the ground, throwing themselves in front of moving subway trains, and even once in a while chained to heavy objects falling rapidly to the bottom of the Hudson River.

Singles truly are everywhere on Singles Awareness Day. Even in bars. You can easily find them intoxicated and making out with the first random person who stands close to them. Now if you excuse me...I hear a cosmopolitan calling my name.

Commonalities

2008-01-30T13:42:00.000-05:00

This past Saturday, I had a date...with two different guys...simultaneously. An investment banker and an anesthesologist.

Sunday, I had two more dates, at two different times in the day, with two men. A financial consultant and an artist.

Tonight, I have two dates, with two additional guys, one at 7 and one at 10. A professor and a computer programmer.

Tomorrow, I've got evening plans with another guy. An architect. 7 guys in one week?

Should I invite them all to my birthday dinner next month and see if they can figure out what they have in common?

Poltergeist

2008-01-29T11:05:00.000-05:00

A year ago, my apartment looked like this:

Isn't it pretty? So neat and organized? It may be small, but nearly everything has it's place in my apartment. Yet I knew things would be a bit chaotic when I brought he rest of my belongings from Cleveland.

Thus, last Tuesday, my apartment looked like this:

Fuck

Yet I've been working diligently to get everything put away. I will have a home...somewhere under those books. Most importantly, I finally have a desk in my window area, so that I can sit and type. I need a work space that allows for minimal distraction. Currently my laptop sits on my lap, as I face the television. That may work when cruising online for sex, but when actually looking to type an email, or work on the play that's half written on my computer, you need a work space.

However, I didn't have a chair. Until last night. My neighbor is moving, and she decided to trash her office chair. A beautiful black leather monstrosity on wheels. She put it out to the trash area of the building, and I waited until she was out of site to actually pilfer it.

I'll admit it...I felt a little embarrassed and dirty, going through the trash to get the chair out, but damnit...I'm poor! Thus, I wheeled the thing into my house, and put it up to my desk. The chair sits a little high, and I can barely touch the floor when I sit in it, but it seemed to be perfect.

Last night I used the chair for the first time. I opened the laptop and turned on the power. Sat down in my chair, leaned back and closed my eyes. When I opened them...I was in my kitchen. Thinking that I must have pushed off while leaning back, I moved the chair back to the desk. As soon as I let go...it traveled on its own back into the kitchen. Remember in the movie Poltergeist when the chair slides from one spot in the kitchen across the room?

Either I have a ghost living in my place (like Tunagirl's ghost in the Cape house), or a really uneven floor, but either way I can't use my new found desk chair, as I can't stop it from traveling into the kitchen.

The positive...I can sit while I cook.

Strangers on a Train

2008-01-25T12:15:00.001-05:00

In my never ending quest to find a husband, and due to the fact that I feel like I’ve already met a majority of the single men in New York City, I realized that it may be time to shake things up and try something different. Sex may be easy to find in the concrete jungle (if you’re gay and aren’t getting any…call me…I can help), but finding romance and love, well it just isn’t pretty. It’s a man eat man world, and I’m hungry! I decided new scenery and city was what I needed…although my bank account didn’t agree. So rather than taking a plane to the Midwest, I took a train. Seriously…what’s more romantic than a cross country train ride?

Ok…I’m totally bullshitting here. I had stored some personal belongings at a friends place in Cleveland before moving to New York, and since they had sold their home, I needed to go to the “Mistake on the Lake” to get my things. At nearly a $400 plane ticket, plus U-Haul prices, the only affordable option was a bus or train, and since the idea of a train trip across country still sounded romantic, I went for it. Club cars, cocktails on the moving rails, booty calls in the bathroom…I’m all for it.

I booked my trip one week before I was supposed to leave, using the Amtrak website. Fairly easy, I had two options for my one way trip. At a cost of $52, I could travel to Washington DC, wait 5 hours and then leave DC and arrive at Cleveland Ohio at 2:30 in the morning. Otherwise I could pay $81 and travel on a train direct from Penn Station in NYC to Cleveland, landing there at a very late (or early…depending on how you look at it) 3:30 am. A-M…as in Ass Mine…Bite it! I debated once again flying, but while looking at my bank balance I purchased my ticket…all the while concentrating on that “club car” romance I would be having. Somewhere out there…was that stranger on a train.

I arrived at Penn station to the usual chaos that it is. Between the school kids hanging out by the donut place, the regular LIRR and NJ Transit commuters, I battled my way to stand before a very large board that tells you which gate you will need to be at for the boarding of the train. Except Amtrak never tells you which gate until 10 minutes before boarding, thus a mass of people stare at this board, looking all Orwell’s 1984, waiting to see where they go. My train, #49, the Lakeshore Limited, was announced to be boarding at Gate 8 West.

Now brace yourselves…the train left ON TIME!!! I was actually shocked! When taking that train to Boston, it’s always been late. As we quickly traveled North through Manhattan and along the Hudson River, I was able to watch the sun setting in the West. Amtrak would like you to know that on this particular trip, you will be able to see the lovely Finger Lakes area of upstate New York, before traveling along the scenic coast of Lake Erie. What Amtrak will not tell you is that it will be night time, pitch dark outside, and the only thing you will see for the next twelve hours is your reflection in the glass window! I may modestly handsome…but even I can get tired of looking at my own face.

It was time to find my next true love in the club car. I pictured him sitting in a leather seat, drinking a drink, nicely dressed and ready to engage me in wonderful conversation. Perhaps jazz music would be playing as he’d ask me to join him for dinner at his table…which of course I would accept. I opened the door to the dining car expecting to see a somewhat upscale restaurant and was greeted with something that resembled a moving McDonald’s! Plastic table clothes covered the tables and florescent lighting glared down at you. Has Amtrak ever heard of a dimmer switch? I was placed at a table with four other complete strangers, and given a very small menu to look over.

The menu is basic with a choice of deep fried wings, cheese, fries, and onion rings vs. microwave heated burgers and salmon! Yes…salmon. If I can pass any wisdom from my experience to you it would be this. DON’T EAT THE SALMON! I’ve tasted leather boots that had more flavor and were ironically more tender.

My table consisting of three strangers and myself gave our drink orders. Diet coke, diet coke, herbal tea, and a martini. One look at my other reviews will tell you what I was having. I’m not saying I’m an alcoholic…but for a 12 hour train ride, something had to get me through this, and the three people at my table were not helping.

Back at my seat, I sat down to hear the woman in the next aisle discussing with her seatmate about how she had found Jesus in the last year. I honestly didn’t know he was lost. Doesn’t he just hang out in Catholic churches? I could sense her impending proselytizing, and decided it was best to insure that the seat next to me remained empty.

Men: If you want to keep the seat next to you empty on any public transportation, I have one word for you. Porn. It’s sold in nearly every airport and train station bookstore, and all you need to do is flip through that baby and you are going to be left alone! In my case, I wanted extra insurance, so I put a porn DVD in my laptop and popped the headphones in the ears while watching. I stretched my legs onto the seat next to me, as my fellow passengers stared at me with horrified faces.

Around 2:20 in the morning, the train conductor announced that we had to make an emergency stop because of a sick passenger. The train stopped, and 3 paramedics bolted to the back of the car, where the frail old lady had been sitting. She wasn’t sitting anymore. She was sort of slumped over, and after working about 10 minutes on the poor woman, they put her on a stretcher and wheeled her off the train…with her face covered. The woman died on the train, and sadly the only thing I could think was “My god…I guess she had the salmon.”

Next time…I’m taking the plane.

Seeing Green

2008-01-08T13:59:00.000-05:00

Since I've moved into my apartment, I've really done nothing to make it my home. I have no furniture, and up until 6 weeks ago, I didn't even have a bed. My apartment was basically my shoebox that I used as shelter from the cold...which oddly enough wasn't that good as the landlord shuts the heat off daily.

This year I decided to make some changes. I want my place to be more a home and less a prison cell, so I decided I'd take some steps. When I signed my lease in December, I decided I'd do one thing a month to make the place more like a place I'd want to be.

My thing for January was to paint the entrance hallway. This 10 foot long and 31 inches wide area was the easiest starting point. And paint is the cheapest change you can do to your home.

I arrived at the paint store with a particular shade in mind. I wanted chartreuse, which would go well with the wood flooring and the wooden closet doors, as well as the frames of two prints I have framed in the hallway. However paint stores don't name their chips chartreuse. They name their chips Green Grape, and Pear Green. What the hell...it took me nearly 30 minutes to pick out a paint chip that I liked.

I took the chip to the counter and asked the guy to mix me a can of paint with the chip number 2028-10. He mixed the recipe, and sold me a gallon. $54.95 was the cheapest paint he had. That's more than I paid for my chair! But I bought the can, along with a brush, roller, and roller tray.

Getting home, I opened my can (the paint can that is) and proceeded to paint the hallway. The green seemed a bit bright, but most paint is lighter when it's wet. As it dried...it just got more intense. To the point where something didn't seem right. I compared the wall to my paint chip.

The paint store mixed the paint incorrectly, and I now have lime green walls.

I'm sensing a can of white paint for my February job.

Any Doctors in the House?

2008-01-02T10:16:00.000-05:00

After living in this city for nearly two years, I finally found a doctor! This may seem an odd statement, but I'm picky when it comes to doctors. I'd prefer my doctor to be a gay male. One who isn't going to judge, and doesn't blink an eye when I bring up some of the issues that gay men experience that straight people don't go through. It took two years, battling insurance companies, and finally getting a referral from my gay gastroenterologist to find a doctor I could work with.

Thankfully, I found this doctor, as I woke up Jan 1st with a head cold. Happy new year...blah...blah...blah, I woke up feeling sorry for myself and took some Tylenol, hoping that a few minutes in the shower would help sooth my sore throat. Post shower, I was back in bed, drinking hot tea, listening to the radio and contemplating when I should schedule a doctor's appointment, when I received a telephone call from my FFB.

Now some people have BFF (Best Friends Forever), some have EX's, some have a BF (Boy Friend)...me? I have a Former Fuck Buddy (FFB), who I've nicknamed "architect boy". We haven't spoken to each other in a while (at least 8 months) and I figured he was just calling to see what I was up to.

"Happy New Year!" He exclaimed.
"Ughh..." I sniffed.
"I was thinking of you today. I'm going to be in your neighborhood...".

I was really not in the mood to have him come over, let alone we've ended the "Friends with Benefits" actions back before the summer began. And then he surprised me.

"I'm going to a party and thought you might want to come with me. I submitted your picture and they were interested in meeting you." Now I can be dense at times, but I fully knew that this "party" was a sex party (I just can't bring myself to say orgy...It sounds too 70's). The thing is...I'm not that innocent...but still have some uncharted territory, and my resolution for last year was to try 12 new things. This would have qualified.

I pondered if I should accept the invitation and was about to decline when Architect Boy asked a question.
"Don't you want to see the inside of the (Famous building on Central Park West)?"

I shocked myself and said "yes".

He agreed to meet me at my apartment and we'd walk to the party together. At this point I realized how neurotic I can be. I changed outfits 4 times, trying to find the perfect ensemble for a sex party...when in all reality most clothing items are just left at the door. But I wanted to make a first impression!

We arrived at the door, and identified ourselves to the doorman, who muttered something under his breath, not realizing that I could still hear him. Apparently he knew what kind of party the residents were having. I felt his eyes of judgement (slut) as I got onto the elevator and we rode up to the apartment.

The door opened and we entered what cold only be described as a labyrinth of an apartment. Seriously...with an apartment valued at $3500 a square foot (Thanks Google!), I was amazed at the size of it. The living room, television room, and anywhere else a television was, porno was playing for viewing audiences. What guy is watching the porn at a sex party? Isn't that what the "live" factor is all about. Wandering the apartment were around 40 guys.

One of our two hosts of the party gave us a short tour of the apartment (kitchen, bathroom, living room, dining room, and here's the master bedroom) where he offered to take our pants and hang them up. I entered the room with my friend and my jaw hit the floor. There, on the bed, was my gay physician getting what can be described as his gag reflex checked. He's the other owner of the apartment.

Today I've decided...I think I need to find a nice lesbian physician. A nice virginal lesbian...with a wicked sense of humor.

War Ain't Pretty!

2007-12-17T16:00:00.000-05:00

Lately, I've been working a lot. A ridiculous amount of hours because this is the catering season. Unfortunately, it's left me little time to write, and with half the confidentiality agreements I've signed, I've not been able to speak about most of the events. And there have been many events. Like this past Saturday night.

Saturday, I worked a birthday party for Donnie Deutsch (I know...I had never heard of him either. Nothing is worse than a second rate celebrity). Now when I say birthday party, what I should really say is birthday extravaganza from hell. He hired the Pussycat Dolls to give a performance.

I arrived at the event venue at 12:00, at which point I was assigned a bar to set up. The details of the event were that it was a 50th birthday party that would have 300 guests. I get that. I personally know 300 people I'd invite to my 50th birthday party. Hell...all six of you who read this site would be invited.

I'm digressing. Now for those of you who have never catered before (be thankful), it takes an enormous amount of time to set up an event for 300 people. The initial set up for the event begins 30+ hours before the start. By the time I had arrived, the tables had been already covered in cloth and the bars were built. My first job was to put glassware, alcohol, and mixing product on each bar. For the 12' bar I was assigned to, it takes about 2.5 hours. The staff works together to help each other, but at 4:00 the bombs were dropped.

All the staff was asked to line up for a meeting. We lined up (like the good worker bees we were) and an event producer walked down the line. As she approached the majority of us, she said the word "no". To those that she said "yes", they were asked to follow her down to the 5th floor lounge. Out of the 100 staff, she chose two people to follow her, and the rest were told the news.

Every once in a while, I get the compliment "You're an 8. You can date two up, or two down...but that's it." And technically, I should be happy with that. It means I'm better looking than 80% of the male population. The problem is that I'm a single gay man, and a perfectionist. I want to be a 10. Anything less is failure.

The gay culture is incredibly looks focused, and there is a pressure to be fit, muscular, attractive at all times that's easy to succumb to. I've got a bad enough body image that I don't need to enforce it.

The event producer had hired models to work all front positions. Bar staff would premix the drinks and put them in pitchers, but the models would pour the drinks in glasses. Coat check staff would work behind screens, but models would take and deliver the coats. Our staff would work behind the buffets, but the models would explain to guests what we were serving. And with that news, the models (all 80 of them and our two staff members) arrived for the meeting.

War had been declared...and it ain't pretty.

An insulting slew of size zeros and chiseled pecs walked in front of us and took seats in the chairs we had set up. My fellow staff members glared at the back of their heads as basic information about the night was given to all of us. I'm not proud to admit this...but I hated them on site. My coworkers felt the same.

Now as cater waiters, we get the benefit of a staff meal on each event. It's the leftovers after the guests have eaten. On long events, the staff are given peanut and butter jelly sandwiches (one per staff member) to help curb your appetite. One of the male models had 8 PB&J sandwiches and when confronted by one of the sandwich owners (our names are on them), he said "I've got to eat enough protein to maintain my muscle mass". I'll give the fucker some protein.

The night grated on. Popular moments included:
A party planner telling a model that the appetizers on her tray would disappear a lot faster if she actually walked around and offered them to the guests as opposed to standing there watching the show.

A model complaining that she hadn't eaten for a whole 4 hours to a certain particular buffet captain who hasn't eaten solid food in nearly 18 months. That this said captain let her eat raw oysters that had been sitting under hot lighting for over two hours without any ice was a complete mistake. He had told her that the oysters should go in the trash.

As I look back on the next day, I wondered why I and my coworkers all hated them so much. Was it because they were beautiful? Maybe a little. Personally, I think it had more to do with the fact that they were being paid $45 an hour for the things we do at 1/2 the pay.

Keep your looks as long as you can bitches...because karma is going to catch up...and when it does...you won't have any job skills.

Smell That?

2007-11-29T12:23:00.000-05:00

Lots of things in this world have scents. Flowers are scented to attract insects and birds. Gay men are scented with gallons of cologne to attract other gay men (which is why you can reek when leaving a gay bar), and well, who doesn't like the pine fresh sent of industrial strength floor cleaner?

"Puff..."

But last August, I woke up to the most awful of smells. Sometime during the summer, my neighbors had taken up smoking, and the smell of second hand burning tobacco was wafting in my apartment as they were smoking right next to my window. Each morning, my apartment would reek of Marlboro Filtered, and each morning I would wake up gagging. So I had to do something.

"...the magic dragon..."

My first attempt was to put a fan in the window that would blow the air inside my apartment out the window, and towards the smoker. I thought it would work, but alas...I still woke up each morning to the smell of cigarettes.

"...lived by the sea..."

So in the spirit of Emeril Lagasse, I decided to "take it up a notch" and give those pesky neighbors of mine a taste of their own medicine. I put an fresh open bottle of poppers in front of the fan that would blow the smell of alkyl nitrites towards their new smoking spot. The results were fantastic. They stopped smoking outside my window...and although I can't confirm this...I think they started having more sex.

"...And frolicked in the autumn mist..."

After one night, I put the cap back on the bottle and forgot about it. Eventually they made my way upstairs to my bedroom. Now I'll be honest here...I hate poppers. They give me a massive headache, and my blood pressure is already low enough...I don't need anything that will lower it more. But I kept the things in my bedroom in the event I had a visitor (Tunagirl?) who might need them.

"...in a land called Honah Lee..."

Two nights ago, I mistakenly knocked that bottle off my loft's edge and onto the floor. A floor 6 feet below. Did you know that a bottle of popper will break when it falls 6 feet to the ground? Instantly my apartment was filled with the mind numbing scent of poppers. And 2 days later...I'm still high as a kite!

No wonder my sex dreams have been so vivid.

Sponge Worthy

2007-11-27T12:42:00.000-05:00

In this city, everything has a price, and it's expensive. Dinner out with friends? $60. Drinks out after happy hour? $15 a drink. Toilet paper? $5 for four rolls. Everything is expensive here, and it's difficult to save any money. Yet, I'm trying to be more fiscally responsible. I like to have a little money set aside in the event I have an emergency expense. I know...how grown up of me. So I set up a special financial plan.

Anytime I have sex with a new person, I have to put $200 into a special savings account. For the first time in my life, I'm paying for sex...and it's beneficial! I'm paying for my own prostitute, except this is completely leagal. I figured it would be a great way to save up for deposits on a new apartment if I decide to move next Christmas.

So cut to last night. I'm talking to this nice gentleman at the gym. He's cute and we've been flirting all through the workout when he suggests I accompany him back to his apartment. Now normally I would have jumped at this chance. Cute guy around 25 years old wants to take me back to his place? Except, I'm not sure this guy was worth two hundred dollars. In fact, I'm not sure most guys are worth $200. Hell...I have a hard enough time spending $40 for a pair of jeans...how the hell am I going to determine if a guy is worth the $200 sex ticket?!?

I might need to rethink this savings plan...

Haunting

2007-11-19T14:28:00.000-05:00

Growing up, I always wanted a Labrador Retriever as a pet. Besides being one of the most affectionate breeds, they aim to please and thrive on attention (which as a child I was dying to give). All through my college years and into my early adulthood, I put off getting that coveted dog. I always needed a bigger place, the time to care for the animal, the money.

When I moved to Ohio with the Ex, we got conned into adopting this "itty bitty little thing", which turned out to be a 110 pound black lab mix. The dog I always wanted...and unfortunately a major problem. The problem being that the house I lived in was so small that the dog couldn't turn around without knocking over furniture.

Yet, my partner and I tried. We bought a crate for when we weren't home, and a lease and balls and toys, and 25 pounds of dog food that the dog polished off a week at a time. In the three weeks I taught him the basic commands of "Sit", "Stay", "Fetch", and "Don't hump my leg!" He really was the perfect dog, but it wasn't fair to keep him in our tiny house. So, my partner used his connections and found a nice lesbian couple who lived on 30 acres of land. Those women agreed to to adopt my baby.

We drove him out to their farm, and he as always sat in the back seat with his chin on my shoulder...so he could look out the front windown. We took him out of the car, and his new moms met us in the front yard. Our dog was running around playing with their other animals and we figured it was probably the best time to leave. We got in the car and as we were driving away, I saw my dog for the last time. The look on his face is something I will never forget. He looked so confused, and started to run along with the car until the farm brush became too thick. That was the last time I ever saw my best four footed friend, and I cried the whole way home. The look on that dog's face haunts me still sometimes.

Yesterday, I got nearly an identitical look from someone as they rode off in a taxi cab to the airport. That look is going to haunt me as well.

What's Worse?

2007-11-13T14:32:00.000-05:00

What's worse? Waking up in the morning, looking out your window, and seeing the local homeless man peeing on the wall right next to your view?

Or?

Seeing that said homeless man is bigger?

...just wondering...

The Bums Rush

2007-11-12T11:20:00.000-05:00

For years, I always said I'd be fairly good at the amazing race. I know some of my strengths (I'm fairly fearless of heights, physical challenges, have a strong sense of direction...). In fact, my Ex and I auditioned and made the call backs. That's as far as we made it, but we made it further than some.

So it was only natural that I would join a race of similiar fashion that took place in New York City.

55 teams
110 participants
The 5 boroughs of New York
The Grand Prize...A week ski trip to France.

My partner in this event? A life long born and bred New Yorker, who is also a fellow runner.

We arrived at our starting line which was a movie theater on 23rd street, and were given the basic rules. No taxis, cars, bikes, or rollerblades. Only public transportation or travel by foot. On each subway, you must take a picture of a team member on the platform with the train station name in view, a picture of a member on the train while traveling, and a picture of a team member on the platform with the station name in view where you are exiting the train. If you change trains, you must take new pictures for the new train.

My team mate tried to be smart and took seats near the exit of the theater, so we could be out the door first. Our competition was pretty fierce. Both men and women...all determined to do whatever it took to get that free trip. I personally wanted to pull a Tonya Harding on some of the other teams. It was while we were leaving the theater, I realized how difficult this was going to be.

The only time I've seen people scatter as fast as this group was going was when I party I attended was raided. Seriously, people were sprinting out the emergency exits to get out of the theater faster. Panic on the streets of NYC and Jase and I were among them.

Clue: Liberte!

"Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free".

This poem is inscribed inside the base of a 305 foot tall gift to the United States from France.

Travel by subway and on foot until you can see this gift. Take a photograph of one team member with this gift clearly visible in the background, then proceed to your next clue.

And with that, we were headed to find a view of the Statue of Liberty. Now trains go down to South Ferry, which gives you the best view...but a real New Yorker knows you can get a view of the monument from the Christopher Street Pier...which is where Jase and I went. It's also where we made our fatal mistake.

A round trip run from the Christopher Street Station to the pier is just over 1.25 miles. When we had taken the picture, we checked our next clue.

Clue: Stone Cold
Make your way on foot to the site of the first Presidential innauguration and take a photograph of one team member posing in front of teh statue that marks this site.

First...thank god for Google and my Ex for giving us directions to this site over the telephone. However, this site was on Wall Street, five miles away. Jase and I would have had to run that distance. Instead, we got back on a subway and redid the Statue of Liberty photograph, and then made our way to the George Washington statue on Wall Street.

Back on the 1 train! Notice that the man in the photograph is looking at us like we are crazy...we got a lot of that.

At this point, my team mate and I were close to exhaustion, but yet we still continued. We needed to find 5 people who were willing to pose as if they were snowboarding on the subway platform. Thank god for tourists! These four sisters and a random woman stranger agreed to help us...just when I thought I was going to have to pay someone off. If anyone knows who they are...let me know. I so want to thank them, not to mention I'm sure they'd love this photo. Broadway may be dark...but these ladies know how to form a kickline!

Off to SOHO...the shopping grounds of my team mate. Upon exiting, we followed the directions of our next clue, which ordered us to proceed to a snowboarding shop and have one team member try on a hoodie, jacket, hat, and snowpants. My team mate grabbed clothes like he does on a regular Saturday shopping trip and had things on his body in less than two minutes. One of the other teams forgot to take the items off before they left the store.

From SOHO...my team mate and I had to run 2.4 miles to a bookstore on 6th Avenue and 8th street. We had to take a picture of the the Novel "Frankenstein" as well as get a stranger to act out a scene with one of the team members.

That look on my face is pure exhaustion...having at this point run over 4 miles.

By the time we finally made it to our pit stop, 2.25 miles away, we were sweat soaked, and ready for a rest before going on to the next task. Our task? Go home, shower and take a nap. We didn't get to the pit stop fast enough and were eliminated. Would I do this again? Oh yes...but you can guarantee I'd do some aerobic training first. Currently today I can barely get out of my office chair!

Hmmm...maybe I'm not ready for reality television after all...

A Hated Woman

2007-11-05T13:30:00.000-05:00

After watching the leaders finish the marathon, I "ran" down to the Bed, Bath, and Beyond for a new mattress pad. I don't know if you knew this, but if your mattress has a stain on it...you lose your warranty.

Hello? I'm a gay man. I'm going to need at least 6 or 7 mattress pads as insurance!

Anyway...while at the store, I heard the following conversation being said between two mothers who were pushing their babies in strollers.

Woman 1: Did you hear that the woman who won the marathon had a baby in January?
Woman 2: Seriously?
Woman 1: Yes. She did training runs during her pregnancy!
Woman 2: Bitch. I bet she ran to the hospital while in labor.

Sometimes I can find comedy in the best places.

Worst Ever

2007-11-02T14:03:00.000-05:00

I'm the worst mother/father ever.

I've heard that phrase uttered so often from so many parents I respect, and each time it makes the hair on my arms stand up on ends. I want to shake the parent who says it and say something along the lines of "Did you leave your child in a vehicle with the engine running while you went to an ATM?", or "Did you play pass the joint with your child?"!

Yet all too often I see parents judge themselves by the accomplishments and failures of their children. Their offspring, which are a genetic make up of themselves are supposed to be perfect...even when children have a will of their own. Why do parents judge themselves so harshly? Yet, parents do it. And it made me wonder...How do single people do to judge ourselves?

What makes a single person a bad person. Is it a person's credit rating? Where if you can't pay your bills, you are doomed to suffer for 7 years, hiding from collection agents, praying that you never get your wages garnished, hoping that eventually you will get your head above water.

How about the number of sex partners? Where a person who has too many (or too little) is considered less of a person?

Is it solely on our looks? Where if we gain weight, we are considered a failure in the eyes of a judgemental society that enforces an unattainable eternal youth?

Or is it employment? Where those of us with the high paying, high status jobs are the only good single people out there. The job is essentially our "child" and if we aren't successful...we're just such a bad employee/person.

Perhaps it's just all of the above in that until we have a relationship and/or children...we are already failures.

God...I'm the worst human being ever.

Mourning

2007-11-01T14:01:00.000-05:00

I know...I've not posted lately...but recently...something close to me died, add that with working the two jobs, I've not had a lot of time to post.

Sadly, this past weekend my air mattress died. I'm not sure when it happened, but somewhere during a...."gymnastics" filled weekend, the air mattress sprung a leak. This bed has seen me through a lot, and unfortunately I can't seem to find exactly where the tear has formed. This bed has seen a lot of my life and I regret I have to say goodbye to it.

Jerry, John, Patrick, Patrick, Larry & Mike, Robert, Curve Ball Rick, Canyonboy, Architect boy, Michael, Ricardo, Mr. Talkative, Low-hangers, Closet Case, DC, Frick, Steve, Bridge, Tunagirl, TunaDaughter, and TunaBoy have all experienced the pleasures of its supportive structure (some have experienced a bit more pleasure than others). I'm probably forgetting a few. Sadly...looking back, I should have charged users $25 a use, and this way I could have easily bought a new one.

So my question now is besides what mattress do I go out and buy, should I tell the person who helped inflict the demise of the mattress exactly what he did when grabbing it with his nails?

Why?

2007-10-29T12:42:00.000-05:00

Can someone please explain to me why is it that I always attract men that already HAVE boyfriends? Aren't there any single men in this city left?

Making the Cut

2007-10-19T13:49:00.000-05:00

Fashion and sex have many parallels, but the one thing sex has over fashion is that it's a lot more affordable. Walk into a Marc Jacobs store and if you are anything like me, you will likely be able to afford one item every other month...provided you don't eat. God bless Uniqlo and $25 jeans.

Getting dick in this town is much cheaper...mainly because of supply issues. You can find dick just about anywhere you go. You can get it in the gym, the bars, the neighborhoods...hell...you can even get Spotted Dick at the grocery store (however if you get spotted dick anywhere...and it's attached to a human, I'd suggest referring them to the free clinic). As a gay man, it's easy to get dick...and it's good.

Except.

What happens when the dick isn't that good?

Enter "Dr. Dirty" (because he likes talking dirty), a late 30's, very successful (i.e...no more student loans, owns a loft in Soho and a summer house on Fire Island), fascinating man who seems to have it all. He's got a career he's passionate about, and as a doctor, he's got job security. A great sense of humor, with an optimistic personality. He cooks for a hobby (and in fact has a culinary degree "for fun"), enjoys athletics, and has tickets to nearly every show in town. He's also uncut.

I mean really uncut. We're talking more than two handfuls of excess sausage casing, and I'm the first to admit this...I'm known for getting things caught in my teeth. So the first time, thankfully the lights were out. But just like when you feel a pimple on someones butt, the more you know it's there...the bigger it gets in your mind.

Now I'm not really against the uncut men...as I've had my share of them. Ok...so I may have had other people's share as well...but even for me, this monstrosity of excess is a bit much. Part of me is trying to think of ways to deal with it, while the other part of me is wondering how I could sneak a pair if scissors to the bedroom without his noticing. Hell, I could make a sling shot!

So sitting here today I'm wondering, is it time to just cut my losses?

Where Class and Crass Collide

2007-10-17T16:55:00.000-05:00

The other night, I arrived at the prescribed address for a catering gig as requested. Like all events, I have no clue who is going to be there, or what the event is until after I arrive. That being said, over the weekend I served (not serviced) Anderson Cooper. I've also been lucky enough to squeeze Brad Pitt's bicep while moving past him in a large crowd (Yes Angelina...you may have him...but I saw him first!). But the other night was very unique.

The only information I had was the address to show up at, and that a uniform would be provided, so I didn't need to bring any special clothing. With that in mind, I wore jeans and a t-shirt. Upon arriving and showing identification to security, I walked into a gallery like space, that had been converted into cocktail lounge. Oddly enough, I knew I had seen the place before and by the end of the night, recognized it as the setting from a television show. I was sent to the kitchen to meet with the supervisor and get my assignment.

I should have known where this night was going when I looked at the other staff. Eight other men, all...how should I put this...buff...and me, sitting in the kitchen getting assignments to make appetizers until "wardrobe" was ready for us. One by one, they were taking guys back into the wardrobe area for what I assumed was a uniform fitting. I was the second to the last to be taken.

Marching me down the hall, they handed me a pair of black underwear and some black boots and informed me that I would be wearing that, and the rest of my costume would be painted on. Yes...they painted a tuxedo on my body.

Once again, most cater waiters are also actors and models. Most cater waiters have abs you can bounce quarters off of. Most cater waiters don't eat carbohydrates. I'm not your typical cater waiter...except that I also need the job.

There I was, shirtless, in underwear, painted to look like I was still wearing clothes, with my nipples giving away just how cold I was. That's COLD...NOT TURNED ON. Of course...this event is just a step for me. I'm going to make it...someday, so I took it like a champ and went in the back to gather my wits, and appetizer to pass in the crowd.

My job would be to walk down an under lit runway and walk through the audience with passed appetizers of Hearts of Palm with Saffron Aioli and Salmon Roe. Basically, vegetables served with a little beefcake.

The audience was an invitation event for a premium scotch tasting, where the primary audience members were lawyers at several law firms. If you didn't know this, the average starting salary for a corporate lawyer in this city is $170,000. These people have cash to spend. They are definitely considered "upper class"!

However, these people have also not eaten in about 30 days, as the moment I walked out onto the runway, three female lawyers walked up onto the stage and took all 30 appetizers off my plate and asked that I go back to get them more.

Like pigs at the trough, these people attacked the appetizer buffet, and when I walked out with a plate of chicken skewers, I finally understood why I was wearing so little clothing. If I had been wearing clothes...these people would have eaten the clothes off of my arms. I actually have a scratch down my back from some skanky woman who was desperate to get a cheese puff!

This is what female strippers go through. My supervisor, feeling bad that the evening was so difficult, raised our pay rates to a proper $40/hr...but even that doesn't block the image of the woman taking an entire plate of Pigs in the Blanket out of my arms and demanding that I "bring her more"!

Have some class lawyers...you can buy yourself some dinner on the way home.

Pencil Me In

2007-10-16T08:55:00.000-05:00

I've recently found myself is a familiar predicament. A situation I've not been in for a while.

Back when I first met the Ex, we started spending all of our free time together. As this went on, our friends saw less and less of us. In fact, it got so bad that one friend called me and left a message asking that I verify I was still at that telephone number since I never spoke to him anymore.

I ended up feeling guilty for the neglect and made a conscious effort to make time for my friends as well, but the boyfriend still took up so much of my time.

I'm breaking a cardinal rule and stating something I wouldn't normally do. I've been in a relationship for the last month, and I've realized that "absent friend" syndrome is happening again. I'm not seeing them as much as I'd like to, but at the same time, I do need to nurture this new thing going on in my life...at least for now. Hell, I don't even has as much time to blog as I used to.

The problem? When the fuck did I get into a relationship with my job as a catering waiter and how the hell can I date during this horrendous schedule? Thank god for sex buddies! "Yes...I still have time for a sex date on Sunday from 7 until 10, but let's leave that tentative in case my boyfriend, the catering service, calls."

Meeting The Inlaws

2007-10-10T12:37:00.000-05:00

Getting involved in a relationship is always complicated. Beyond getting to know one another, learning and trust enough to let your guard down, and eventually saying those precious words ("The money is on the dresser."), you eventually have to do something that everyone dreads. Introducing them to your family.

No...not the blood family, but rather those people that are such good friends, we call them family. These are the people who know us better than we know ourselves, and the people we trust with our most intimate details. They know exactly what went wrong in our prior relationships and although they might not understand why we hurt, they still stand beside us. These people are expected to judge us and our potential other partners.

Now I'm not at all likely to introduce anyone I've been seeing lately to any of my family. Hell, I can count on one hand the number of potentials that my family has actually met (does it count if you and the potential are no longer together when your family meets them?). However, that isn't where I'm going with this right now.

What happens if you have different sets of family? Different groups that really don't know each other?

For instance, I've got several friends groups here in NYC and besides me...they have nothing in common. Having these groups meet invites something short of disaster. What if they don't get along?

This is exactly what happened this past summer. I introduced two people from two different facets of my family (think distant cousins) and although they were cordial to each other, but they just didn't get mesh. Worlds collided and I was stuck in the middle. Eventually, I had to excuse myself, as the level of discomfort was just too much.

More importantly, these two familial sets never agree (although they don't know it). While one side suggests I do one thing (call him...he likes you), the other side is saying something completely different (dump him like a used condom!). Neither of which was good advice.

Where's Dr. Phil when I need him?

One Night Only

2007-10-02T10:35:00.000-05:00

As we get older and still remain single, we all reach that point where we just want sex. The feeling of another person doing the things you need, and you repaying the favor. For whatever reason, we have needs and we will do what's necessary to meet them. Call it solace for being alone, or just substituting your own hand for someone else's. Yes it's sex, and it's casual.

The problem with casual sex, and specifically one night stands are that we all have our own ideas as to what a one night stand really is. Do we exchange names, or do they even matter at all? Does a one night stand really just make the participants into unpaid prostitutes, or is it really an audition for something a bit more involved. Is "shut the door on your way out" an appropriate ending to what really is a meaningless night? And really...is it meaningless?

I've had friends who met their partners on what was supposed to be a one night stand. They went back to one of their respective apartments and next they they knew, they were picking out china patterns.

That being said...in my case...one night is really all I have to spare.

Valuable

2007-09-26T14:32:00.000-05:00

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.

Sins

2007-09-25T11:03:00.000-05:00

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!

Not a Date

2007-09-21T13:09:00.000-05:00

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.

Professionalism

2007-09-19T14:38:00.000-05:00

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.

Surprised!

2007-09-18T11:55:00.000-05:00

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.

Don't Make Me Sick!

2007-09-14T15:07:00.000-05:00

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.

But

2007-09-13T15:46:00.000-05:00

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.

Fierce!

2007-09-12T15:49:00.000-05:00

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.

Stinger

2007-09-07T13:08:00.000-05:00

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.

Seeing Green

2007-09-06T16:31:00.000-05:00

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.

Richer

2007-09-05T11:51:00.000-05:00

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.

Nothing At All

2007-08-31T14:11:00.000-05:00

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.

Huh?!?

2007-08-30T15:18:00.000-05:00

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.

Meany

2007-08-29T13:16:00.000-05:00

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.

A Time and Place

2007-08-23T15:35:00.000-05:00

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.

On a School Night?

2007-08-22T13:26:00.000-05:00

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.

Bad Ideas

2007-08-21T13:27:00.000-05:00

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!)

Indications of a Great Vacation

2007-08-20T14:26:00.001-05:00

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?

Itchy Scratch

2007-08-14T15:50:00.000-05:00

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.

The Howling

2007-08-13T11:12:00.000-05:00

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.

Succubus

2007-08-09T15:20:00.000-05:00

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!"

The Difference

2007-08-07T12:00:00.000-05:00

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.

Loving Your Enemy

2007-08-03T14:05:00.000-05:00

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.

Hell-Ders

2007-08-02T14:02:00.000-05:00

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?

So Much For My Happy Ending!

2007-07-31T14:27:00.000-05:00

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.

Through a Window

2007-07-27T12:03:00.000-05:00

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.

A Word

2007-07-25T12:42:00.001-05:00

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.

2007-07-23T13:04:00.000-05:00

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.

Mathematics

2007-07-19T13:28:00.000-05:00

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.

The Love Boat?

2007-07-18T13:04:00.000-05:00

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.

Provincetown Marketing Campaign

2007-07-17T12:54:00.000-05:00

Games

2007-07-16T11:44:00.001-05:00

I feel like playing a game today.

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

Poop Scoops

2007-07-11T12:58:00.000-05:00

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.

A Sign

2007-07-09T13:22:00.000-05:00

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.

Taking Three Pricks Simutaneously

2007-07-02T08:44:00.000-05:00

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.