It Is Hard to be Upbeat...

...when Aquarius has a horoscope like this on the day that you're flying back to your hometown for nearly a week.

Meditations on a Saturday Night

To use a quote from [the absolutely hilarious] Ghost Stories: I dragged my happy ass out in the rain this evening.

...and everything felt alien.

Earlier this week, I was talking with Garrett and saw a piece on Will & Grace, which prompted me to ask if I was like Karen Walker. Garrett & I have the sort of friendship wherein honesty reigns supreme, so I believed him when he said "yes."

Although to be truly honest, I'm a hybrid between Karen Walker and Edina Monsoon, except that I'm male and have no interest whatsoever in fashion.

Or at least I was.

I omitted to tell you one interesting thing that happened on the cruise. I started a detox program for no other reason than to appease my own vanity.

It all started with a woman coating my torso, thighs, and posterior in algae, imbedding electrodes in them and then letting the currents do their thing. Their thing in this case being trimming the waist and getting rid of toxins, and dammit if it didn't do the business.

Of course these things come in package deals, and in this particular case, the package deal was a series of home treatments involving pills, assorted lotions and ointments to slather on my corpus, and a brush that is supposed to be used on dry skin (and hurts like hell).

This all sounds hunky-dory (and very Chelsea, actually), but the downside is that I can no longer drink the way I used to. I used to be able to handle if not 9 drinks a night, then at least 6, mixing to my heart's content.

No more.

I had 6 drinks Wednesday night and felt so bad that I couldn't even wait for food at McDonald's. I'm not so much obsessed with appearances--at least my self-perception tells me so--but I can imagine that vomiting at a McDonald's in Chelsea on a Wednesday night would not be an experience that I want to have.

So I'm on a 4 drink limit with no mixing, and I'll be honest with you, it has put me in a foul mood. You see, alcohol has that lovely effect of making you not as aware of your surroundings, so you don't mind the fact that the bartender takes some time in serving you, nor do you realise that apparently your voice is so soft that "Disaronno Sour" is rendered inaudible to said bartender, and nor do you really care about the inane discourse going on next to you by a bunch of college or grad students who think everything is so "FABULOUS!"

It's like a whole new world, and trust me, I'm looking forward to returning to the old one once I can finish off these pills and lotions.

Maybe we should add in Patsy Stone to the mix as well.

The Challenge to Find That Certain Guy

I have had my fair share of relationships and dates that seem to go nowhere and even more unrequited lust crushes that hang on the psyche like kudzu on brick.

I also have a permanently stiff back, that even a chiropractor has only managed to make a dent in.

How these two things related?

Well today, after a week where yet another trainer has attempted and failed to crack my back, I've decided to take the Gordian knot approach.

The man who can successfully crack my back is the one I'm destined to be with, or at least date for some time.

Who said whimsy is dead?

Soaps and Eurosexvision

As both Pookie & the Mizez know, I've been a keen watcher of The Bold & The Beautiful since last year. Well, these days I'm still watching it, but not paying as much attention to it (frankly, I wish it was Ronn Moss who was comatose. By the way, how the hell did Mario Lopez get into the opening credits?).

God help me, I am now paying attention to As The World Turns and The Gay Storyline That Is Taking Forever To Unravel.

The producers certainly know how to string people along. There was a backrub between gay teen Luke and his best friend Kevin (who he is infatuated with) back in early February, despite hints to the audience galore, the word "gay" wasn't even uttered until the beginning of this month.

Now, it's gotten all haywire with this addition of this girl who is partly blackmailing him (and the kid is so neurotic he doesn't even know it's blackmail) and partly closeting him. This is all fine and dandy, but honestly, all the queens want to know is if Luke & Kevin are going to get together.

As for the rest of the show, I can't figure it out. It seems like a whole bunch of perturbed blonde women and their dark-haired nearly-mute men in assorted life-threatening situations. I have to point this out, practically no-one smiles on this show. This only sticks out because the opening sequence involves all of these people smiling in the most unnerving manner possible.

As for the sex and Eurovision portion of this post...Well, this year is turning out to be quite interesting. We already know about Severina's sex tape and Popbitch features this tidbit (which I take with a grain of salt) about Arsenium who is part of this year's Moldovan entry:

"Remember O-Zone, who had a monster global hit in 2004 with Dragostea Din Tea? Two of the three singers are in a master-slave, dom-sub relationship. Lead singer Dan is the sex master of Arsenium, registered as his slave, no...Dan has given permission for Arsenium to indulge his fetish for rough sex with other dominant partners. If you are interested, Arsenium 'likes to be spanked or tied up,' but isn't into water sports, kids, animals or 'permanent damage.'"

Ok, Carola you'd better fess up about your kinky activities now. We all know the pious are the biggest freaks in bed.

Eurovision Is Back!

Before I get started, clap, say "hurrah," offer your firstborn to, or do some sort of salutation to Bougie Black Boy for the 500th post (observed). He rocks as does his blog.

Interesting fact: Aquarians are wildly different even from each other. Bougie's birthday is only a week before mine and yet, we are (no pun intended) like night and day--literally (this is a reference to blog design, just for clarification purposes). Visit his blog like it's got the meaning of life (and in many ways it does) .

Now onto the nitty-gritty.

If you thought Eurovision would not be mentioned here until the preview video season came about, then think again.

Today was the draw day wherein this year's participating countries figure out where and when they'll be performing come May. The hosts, a beefcake ex-athlete turned singer (Sakis Rouvas) and an Entertainment Tonight reporter (Maria Menounos) , did the ball-picking.

A word about Maria Menounos: Um, why ERT? Why on earth would you pick an entertainment reporter from the US to host a contest that will not be broadcast on any US network? I mean, I know that hosting duties don't exactly require that much skill (just smile and count to 12--skipping 9--in English and French), but this is a pretty random choice. If sketchy connections are all that is needed, then let me point out that I'm distantly Irish and lived in the UK for 2 years, so RTE & BBC, I'd like to put my name in the hat for hosting duties.

So here's the running order, with extra opinion added on:

Qualifier

1. Armenia: Yawn, and he still hasn't fixed that unibrow.
2. Bulgaria: Ballad, but it sounds like there is the possiblity for a good tortured performance, the way all ballads should be like.
3. Slovenia: Slo-Nick is now singing it as "Mr. Nobody." Draw your own conclusions.
4. Andorra: Well, I like the scratchy live version I've heard. Maybe they'll get out of the Qualifier this year.
5. Belarus: A rock song called "Ma" (fka "Mama"--how lazy are you?) from Europe's last dictatorship. If you try to analyse it, your brain will hurt.
6. Albania: Good, and he's made the wise decision to keep it in Albanian.
7. Belgium: Dance-pop. It ain't bad, and since I saw her videos in both Fort Lauderdale and DC, she'll probably get out of the Qualifier sans probleme. Though honestly, I know she's the Flemish entrant, but why not go the whole hog and sing it all in French?
8. Ireland: Considering that the Irish Tourist Board busy trying to sell us on this mythical happy-go-lucky-aren't-you-up-for-a-jig Ireland, they aren't doing themselves any favours with another boring ballad about inane general platitudes best suited for a greeting card.
9. Cyprus: Inane ballad.
10. Monaco: I want to like this, but this is no "Humanahum." Severine had better have a good stage show.
11. Macedonia: Is it just me that has noticed that the Macedonian entries are beginning to sound a lot like either cumbia or reggaeton? Does La Mega broadcast to Skopje?
12. Poland: Kto To should've won. I don't care for the band with the man who sings like he's got broken glass in his throat. The lyrics are mawkish as hell.
13. Russia: Ballad, and a poor follow up to La Podolskaya to boot. Plus, how well have Russian male entries faired at the contest? (Eh, Philip?)
14. Turkey: Superb. Gwen Stefani-meets-Madonna in Turkish with a good "screw you" attitude as well.
15. Ukraine: The song is called "I'm your queen." (The jokes just write themselves.)
16. Finland: Hard Rock Hallelujah, indeed. You'll make it to the final, just don't terrify us in the process.
17. The Netherlands: Eh. It's catchy. It's inane, but it's still catchy.
18. Lithuania: "We are the winners" Oh, how I relish the irony when this effort falls flat.
19. Portugal: I was expecting something more peppy, but it's not bad and the women know their stuff.
20. Sweden: Homophobic religious freak will make it to the final with "Stormvind (mark II)." Won't win it, thank god.
21. Estonia: Eh. See you next year. Should've gone with Ines.
22. Bosnia & Herzegovina: Dull ballad about inane platitudes. Will still make it to the final, because...well, there is always a "people who have no lives" voting bloc. What happened to your camp trend, BiH?
23. Iceland: Wacky, tacky, bizarre, and mind-blowing. Deserves to be in the final.

Final

1. Switzerland: Mawkish crap.
2. Moldova: Mawkish crap with a reggae beat.
3. Israel: Mawkish bilingual crap.
4. Latvia: Mawkish acapella crap.
5. Norway: Inherently better than the entries that proceed it.
6. Spain: See Portugal, funnily enough.
7. Malta: Like most Maltese entries, this seems bland to me, but I have this strange feeling that Malta will win this year.
8. Germany: Mawkish country crap.
9. Denmark: Inane retro crap involving dances that are solely done at weddings these days.
10. Qualifier
11. Qualifer
12. Romania: This is growing on me. The lyrics make no sense, but "Let me try" wasn't exactly a profound statement on life either. It's upbeat and I like it.
13. Qualifier (Romania better hope Belgium doesn't get this slot, nor #11.)
14. Qualifier
15. UK: Okay, I actually like this. I think if any country can pull off a comedy number, it's the UK. It won't win, but it will not be the bomb that many people think it will be.
16. Greece: Mawkish ballad with crappy lyrics (and La Vissi only has herself to blame).
17. Qualifier
18. Qualifier
19. France: Well, they're changing the song, so who knows? Odds are the 2003-2005 trend will be reversed, as I see it.
20. Croatia: Let's see, what do I think of the Croatian entry? Take a guess.
21. Qualifier
22. Qualifier
23. Qualifier
24. Qualifier

500th Post (Observed): A Special Hikaruland Tribute

"The most pathetic and tragic thing in the world is someone on their death bed who realises that all the holistic endeavors they took were for naught, and my experience has taught that most people in the world go out like that. Conversely, I will remember that I had happy moments and I never tried to hinder them, even if they came in the form of nicotine." --Hikaru

Hikaru's tales of Booze, Misadventures, Pop Culture and Socialism began only a year and 2 months ago. Miraculously, and interestingly he has opened himself up to the world in 500 posts (Yes! Dear Readers, 500 posts!) most bloggers traditionally would have done.

His looks have changed, his body has changed, his views have become stronger, and his life of debauchery. . . well, uh... that will never change. Afterall, what would you expect from a Black-Korean from Milwaukee, transported to the Chelsea district in NYC?

I've compiled some of the Best Looks of Hikaru (well, I tried, but thanks to Blogger, I'm having technical difficulties uploading the collection) as well as a recap of some of the most memorable posts.

January 2005
Hikaru stuns us with his family tale, "Dad Upstaged Me" comparing the feelings toward his father's death to his own birthday. A definite must-read to understand, early-on, in Hikaruland, the deep-rooted infrastructure of ideals and habits that follows throughout the remaining posts.

February 2005
February, Hikaru begins to learn to trust himself in his writing, and opens himself up by admitting he understands why people stay away from "drunk sex". In "A Temporary Halt" Hikaru's tongue-in-cheek type of humor, overshadowed with pure realism debates cigarette smoking and marijuana smoking.

March 2005
Brief crushes play a role in the month of March. We also discover that Hikaru is well versed in NY Jets (Does this surprise anyone? It does me!). We are also introduced to, what will become a weekly event, "The Splash: Post Mortem", revealing his whereabouts and happenings while he attempts to drink anyone under the table, as he channels his inner black woman.

April 2005
Diversity is added in Hikaruland when Hikaru offers brief movie reviews, and advice on what to do when someone tries to seduce you in a bathroom stall., in another Splash: Post Mortem tale. "The Sex Missive" somehow mentions the Pope, Zimbabwe, and Pornographic in one sentence, showing us Hikaru is truly the saint we deem him from day 1.

May 2005
We finally see a side of Hikaru that embraces pop culture (or, at least the irony of it) as he promotes the Britney &. Kevin: Chaotic television show. And, unsurprisingly we see he doesn’t lose his quick-wittedness, but strengthens his narcissistic tendencies as we’re thrown into his realm of his surgery to tighten his stomach. Even his post-surgery posting was a bit too much for Bougie Black Boy to read.

June 2005
Hikaru finally showers after his 6-day recovery from his tummy tuck, but still pretending to be an angry black woman in disguise claiming that, “Heifer, please don’t fuck with me! I’m all swoll up!” This swollenness puts an instant halt on his sexlife, smoking, work-outs, and drinking. What’s left for him? Well, he can write. Except June shows us that Hikaru had a bad writers block.

July 2005
Hikaru realizes his singlehood and proclaims that he must find a husband. Only thing—he has a long-ass criteria list. His readership begins to increase as he delves into topics comparing the rights of gays/lesbians to that of blacks and how the struggles are somewhat synonymous. His self-indulgence is fulfilled during his self-interview.

August 2005
Admittedly, Hikaru admits that “August is not my smart month”, yet dives into homo erotic (it seems?!) fair tales, stirring his creative juices to write his own homage. However, finally we are able to see WHY Hikaru considers himself a socialist and how his views compare to that of the NYC chapter. His confidence in his previous stomach surgery to rid himself of the extra skin, seems to be boosted as he posts a new, improved Hikaru picture.

September 2005
A reflection of Katrina victims is mentioned while he admits that he can get sloshed on a weekly basis, and how he refuses to wear socks until it’s 20 degrees – (ashy ankles?!). If Bougie Black Boy would have seen this post earlier, I would have commented, but he mentions “New York’s Uncle Tom’s and Aunt Condoleeza’s” which reveals a campaign for African-Americans for Mayor Bloomberg.

October 2005
Hikaru gives us a list of “famous Hikarus” throughout time, some real, some anime as he pulls in gay icon Madonna who gets crunk in her (then) latest video. We also learn about his 6-inch box, for his personal space he needs around him. Only a select few (me included! J ) get to get within a 2-inch space. Hikaru takes a stand and admits that we must have a National Turn Off Your Cell Phone day. This month, two things made him cry: Rosa Parks’ death, and the episode of Noah’s Ark on LOGO channel.

November 2005
Splash Post-Mortem Nights begin to evolve into other venues, strengthening his debaucherous ways. He writes extensively in two posts about middle-aged black men (like him? Nah!), and comparing himself to his American Idol (ha!) Tyler Perry. His writing suffers because he’s blogging so much, and he realizes that his personal writing assignments are piling up.

December 2005
Hikaru takes his writing by its balls and tackles 75% of his writing endeavors, returning him from his brief sabbatical. He becomes a bit more technologically savvy, and posts music videos on his blog – quite an entertaining addition. We begin to realize that Hikaru has quite a talent in his Post Mortem episodes with his brief reviews. Perhaps, he’ll be a bar/club reviewer sometime in the near future? Hikaru offers a recap (his version (not mine)) of 2005.

January 2006
Hikaru begins the year with a new blog look, and during his drunken nights makes references to Ralph Ellison at Splash Bar, and contemplates the validity of a date at a 24-hour diner. By choice, he takes Viagra (like he needs it!) for the hell of it, but nothing happens, disappointingly. Several times, Hikaru runs into his old one-night stands.

February 2006
Hikaru wakes up in a pool of vomit. Has his Post Mortem nights caught up with him? We’d think he had a cast-iron stomach now. But perhaps we’re wrong. His online video uploads seemingly overshadows the copy (in an entertaining, interactive sort of way). We finally get to see his views on Narcissism, and how he considers it the Fourth Sexual Orientation.

March 2006
His island cruise begins and completes as we see a new Hikaru in a Panama Jack hat, and a polo shirt, seemingly to make him look angelic, cherub-esque. But as we read about his wanton behavior we understand that those pouty lips and bedroom eyes are real, not just innocence.

Question remains--How much longer will Hikaru Blog? And is this simply the foundation for an extensive writing project he's been working on?

Bacchanal 2006 Post-Mortem: Episode 8

Hijinx in Fort Lauderdale

(Yes, this is the final episode, thank you for hanging on so far.)

I'd love to open with a pun about Connie Francis and "Where the boys are," but I think the irony will be omnipresent throughout.

Given what I said previously about not needing nor desiring the sun, it is a bit strange that I love Fort Lauderdale. Sure, I burn, but Fort Lauderdale does offer the basic requirements that I need for any vacation: cheap alcohol, indoor smoking, and sex. I'd like it better if one didn't have to drive everywhere, but such is life.

(And yes, this means that I cut myself off a lot earlier than in New York. It also means that I take taxis on occasion, a good thing, since I hate driving.)

The two nights in Fort Lauderdale came about by accident. I wasn't able to use my miles on a flight immediately after the cruise, so I had to wait it out. This was no problem for me. I saw it as a chance to get the proverbial "vacation from the vacation." With two gay cruises arriving in port that day, there were a lot of people who shared that view. The first evening--the sun being a bit too brutal for me to even sit out in the shade--I was approached by F, who happened to be the first of three (perhaps even five) people who were on the ship and seemed surprised that they never saw me. Despite the fact that the 2000 passengers on the ship were basically capitive, it makes sense to me that you wouldn't meet them all, due to different schedules, interests, and body clocks.

Anyway, F came onto me like a moth on a flame, which was very flattering, but I put a temporary kibosh on it, because I was hellbent on participating in my favourite activity in Fort Lauderdale: sticking dollar bills in the g-strings of go-go boys. Now, although I hate it when go-go boys dance all up in my face in New York, I don't mind it in Fort Lauderdale. Why? Because in Fort Lauderdale, they have bars that are designed expressly for that purpose alone. One of which is a curious, yet totally logical combination of piano bar and go-go boy bar.

The go-go boys loved me or more realistically, my wallet. I must have thrown them for a loop, since I was probably the youngest person (not performing or MC-ing) there. I loved it, not because of the ego boost, but because I find the interaction very straightforward. I want to feel up a good looking man with a nice body, they want to make money in the champagne room: everybody wins. Things got a bit strange when the 23 year-old compere at one bar decided to come onto me, but it fortunately coincided with my spending cutoff point.

One lesson I have learned: Don't go to the go-go boy bars commando. It's just painful when one guy decides to rub up against you repeatedly with a lot of force. I think he actually rubbed my shaft raw.

Eventually I made it back to the hotel in one piece. By this point, the pool area had officially become majority nude and F was waiting for me clad only in a bathrobe. I doffed my clothes and hit the hottub while we talked. Little did I know that we were being watched like a hawk. Still aroused by lap dances (isn't this getting a bit "Smack My Bitch Up?"), F & I went to my room and proceeded to have sex. I came first, for the aforementioned reason. (As charming and funny as F is, I had to use the fantasy option.)

Nonetheless, I made my way back out to the hot tub as I was still quite wired. Since the rooms were no-smoking, it made sense to be social with those outside: G worked in television in Los Angeles and apparently had his eye on me since earlier, to the point that he had come up to my room to watch F & I go at it; H & J were an interracial couple that were on the ship (and yes, they were surprised they never saw me, but after I gave my reasons for avoiding the sun, they completely understood). H & J were a hoot, but G seemed to be keen on holding a conversation solely with me to the rude exclusion of everybody else. Proving that men are more led by their crotches than their moral compasses, G & I went back to my room.

If two men are versatile, then they have no problem having sex...at least logistically. If two men are bottoms, then they can use a double-headed dildo. If two men are tops, well, then things take an interesting turn. G's solution was cock-and-ball "toys," although frankly, I would describe them more as torture. He put a cock ring on me, followed that up with what he termed a "ball stretcher," which was a sort of corset for the scrotum that squeezed the testicles out as far as possible. If that wasn't bad enough, he then put another cock ring on me that bent my shaft over upon itself.

If you're wincing at this, then you know how I felt.

If that wasn't weird enough, he also had a speedo fetish and asked me to put my stretched and squeezed crotch into one of my swimming trunks. This was apparently extremely erotic to him, but for me, it made me look like I had an elephant's head between my legs.

G was also very verbal, which normally I like, but he occasionally crossed the line over into comedy.

"D' ya wanna get queer with me, huh? Huh? D'ya wanna?"

This apparently meant kiss him.

Eventually we masturbated ourselves to orgasm, G left, and I was able to get to sleep.

A few things from my time with G before we move onto other letters of the alphabet: G thought I was prostitute when I went up to my room with F. Now, I don't take that as an insult at all, but it does sort of shed some light on how I may be viewed by others. G expressed shock that I was intellectual, a writer, and could easily support myself in conversation and in life (in other words, I told him that I had paid for my room). He also explained the four archetypes of "pretty": pretty, knows it, and is nice; pretty, knows it, and not nice; pretty, doesn't know it, and nice; and pretty, doesn't know it, and not nice.

Surprising how such a clearly evident thing can sound revolutionary when someone else says it.

The second night, I met K, who had actually invited G over the previous evening (via Manhunt). K is one of those guys whose life really should be turned into a book or play. He just had charisma and near star quality. I have to say I was in absolute awe over him. K was originally from Philadelphia, moved to San Diego, and then decided to start living in gay resorts in both Palm Springs and Fort Lauderdale while he decided on whether to live there or not. A gay male version of Maetel, basically.

And when we started talking about how love is too easy, but liking is difficult...I'll admit it, I swooned inside.

Unlike with F or G, when K and I had sex, I didn't have to resort to fantasy, it was all him. Now, he was admittedly "no Adonis because the gym would bore him to death," but his personality and the way that he carried himself was so attractive and erotic that I could easily see men just springing instant erections whenever he passed by.

Much like how G spied on F and myself going at it, K & I also had a spy, an anorexic twink who had previously followed K to his room (though K shrugged him off) and had earlier just gone down on one of the other guests who was lurking in the background...outdoors. Now, I'm a slut, but I like to show that off in private as did K who said so in a stage whisper to me.

Post-sex, K decided to arrange a threesome for us. (This made my day, since it really is no bacchanal without an orgy.) It may sound like the things that porn movies are made out of, but really, this was like Lucy & Ethel arranging group sex. Everybody seemed to say they were on their way or had K talked to them earlier they would've come, and so on and so forth.

We actually wound up in the hot tub with H & J, who were just as funny and entertaining as I had thought they were the previous night. They mentioned that they were scheduled to go out later that morning (as was as I, this is around 3 in the morning that we were all in the hot tub, and I had decided to just stay up all night) and that J put his foot down and said he wanted another day, and used his money to pay for it. Were that I was not flying free, I would've gladly done the same thing.

The subject somehow changed to the White Party and I mentioned that I had never been.

K (energetic): "Every faggot has to go to the White Party at least once in their lives."

J (equally energetic): "You must allow yourself to queen out. I've already got my tickets."

Did I mention that H & J live in Massachusetts and they were also on the cruise with me? The marketers are right when they say gay couples tend to have more disposable income.

So apparently I'm going to go to the White Party at some point in my life, probably next year knowing myself.

Bacchanal 2006 Post-Mortem: Episode 7

The Ethical Question

It seems oddly appropriate to write this on a Sunday, since this post might seem a bit like sermon.

I certainly enjoyed the trip, but there were definitely things that were nagging at my head during it. Most prominently was the fact that we were traveling through the Caribbean. Now, put aside the homophobic atmosphere of some Caribbean islands (Jamaica comes to mind), the discomfort came from basic tourism. It seemed to me, and this was very true in St. Maarten (and a little bit less so in St. Croix), that every time a ship came in there was a sort of unspoken theme going on: the ship would dock, the passengers would spread the money around with the residents, and then they'd leave. The residents get some money, but not enough to really bring the majority of their lives to a level far above "just surviving."

Now, I'm not saying that everywhere on this planet should be full of people who own a house with 2 cars, but there really is no escaping the poverty that one comes across, and to me, it seems that living conditions are partly due to the fact that tourism is the region's major industry. There appeared to be little to no incentive--not to mention desire--to diversify the economy. Tourism itself can be a dead end industry if you make it the sole one. It can only get the average person so far as a job. Yet, I'm fully complicit as are most of you who are reading this. We spend money in the hopes of improving the economy of a locale, but it can only go so far. One must also ask, where does the bulk of the money spent go to? Is it lining the pockets of civil servants, multi-national conglomerates based thousands of miles away, or is it actually going directly to the people?

Perhaps this question also hit me hard because I was reading Jean Genet's The Blacks during this cruise. I started to look at myself as somewhat of an outsider, perhaps one who was going against my culture and myself by participating in an experience that was overwhelmingly white. I'll be honest with you, it was an Imitation of Life moment. Was there anything "really for me" on the cruise? I don't need to tan, nor do I want one, since prolonged sun exposure makes me feel like an ant under a microscope--even with sunblock (therefore, I was definitely a nocturnal presence--more on this in the next episode). I could argue shopping, but why not just take a flight down there instead and go back home? I do like supporting gay-owned-and-operated businesses, but was that my m.o.? There were shows, gambling, parties, and interaction with others that made it worthwhile, but the main thing that attracted people there appeared to be the sun.

It did definitely bother me that there were few black passengers (especially compared to my previous cruise 3 years ago), but that is something that I have had to get used to in my life. I don't want it to be this way, and frankly, it is something that I believe should be worked on. I remember going to Nairobi with my mother sometime ago in the early-to-mid nineties and telling her in my teenage naivete: "I've never seen so many black men in business suits." She laughed, and I was perplexed, because I was being serious. I thought it was quite uplifting to be honest. For so long, I was told by both my parents that I can be what I want to be in this life, but it is hard to do so when you aren't given any images to show that it can be done. While we all applaud trailblazers, I reckon very few of us want to be one. It's an arduous task. You have to be the one that says "I belong," when the surroundings suggest otherwise. I don't think that I have the wherewithal to do so.

I don't want this to read like a complaint or an indictment, because it isn't. It's a statement of one part of what was going through my mind. No one is at fault here, since we cannot help the way the world is. We can only tilt things slightly in the right direction and hope that eventually the circumstances will change. Therein lies one of the reasons that I believe subconsciously guided me on this trip: a chance to recharge my optimism.

Yes, I am an optimist. I may come across as a strict realist bathed in cynicism, but at my core I am an optimist. So much of the world that we live in is governed by the brushing off of possiblities. We don't think we can do things because we don't look or act a certain way, or because of who we undeniably are. We cut ourselves off from others believing that they perceive us a certain way or that they will reject us. One of the advantages of being on a boat is that you are part of a "captive" group. There is no bigger and better person coming around the corner. You get the chance to sit down and have conversations with others that might have passed you by on land. The possiblity of having one of those famous "chance meetings" is increased. There may be a downside, but those are worth the risk, in my view.

Next Time: Hijinx in Fort Lauderdale

Bacchanal 2006 Post-Mortem: Episode 6

Vignettes from Open Seating Meals

I'm just going to lay this out right now and be honest with all of you. I am not a buffet person. As I see it, I did it for 15 years at school, and I'm not eager to repeat it. (The same goes for wearing blazers, ties, and socks in every season save for winter.) Considering that my appetite for anything other than alcohol goes down every time I travel, it would probably make a lot more sense if I liked buffets, but nature has a funny sense of humour.

So this meant that my 1-2 meal a day self was at the restaurant whenever possible. Maybe it was the fact that the cruise was passing through the Bermuda Triangle or the undying urge to get snippets of good conversation without lurking in the background, but I gave into the open seating, when the normal m.o. is table for 1.

Although the restaurant was open for breakfast on occasion, I only showed up for lunch and dinner. (The comrade was only there for dinner.)

Of the two, lunch brought out the earthier people. I do not know why, but it seemed that those who weren't obsessed with getting sun were more interesting. (Perhaps prolonged sun exposure dulls the brain.)

The cruise was majority couples and I have to say that it was interesting looking at various couples who had been together for various amounts of time. You had the relative honeymooners (5 years and under) and then you had the vets (over a decade). While The Comrade loved looking at the honeymooners, I was in adoration of the vets. The vets, to be blunt, were comfortable with each other. They hurled playfully bitchy comments at one another, weren't all touchy-feely, they just appeared to have no facade whatsoever. If I saw more of them on a daily basis as opposed to the honeymooners, then I would have no problem whatsoever with relationships, because I want to get to the comfort as soon as possible. I want to just sit there with my husband and just spar--friendly. If a guy I'm dating grabs my hand, my first thought is "what do you want?" not "how sweet."

Perhaps not surprisingly, many of the vets, were diehard cruisers (maybe in both senses of the word, wait for the Fort Lauderdale episode). At lunch, one of them put the fear of god into me in respect to pre-booking for next year.

"If you're even remotely thinking about it, put your deposit down now!"

Yes, sir.

The singles seemed to come out at night. In fact, there were two singles dinner, none of which I attended, but the Comrade went to one and didn't seem to be put off by the fact that one had to switch places at every course of the meal. For some reason, the Comrade & I always got sat at tables were the eye candy was low and the conversation a bit hard to get started. During meals, I'd always catch the Comrade looking wistfully at another table. Then again, I've always figured that conversing skills are nonexistent with those whose self-worth is based solely on their body fat percentage, so I was quite happy being with people who hold opinions beyond their chest routine and which hair products to use.

One of the more interesting moments at dinner occurred on the night when The Comrade was at the singles dinner and I was at the regular dinner. The table was populated by 6 vivacious people on one end (from the West and the South), three I-swear-they-must-have-thought-showing-emotions-was-a-sin men from Upstate New York on the other end, and myself. Once the neo-Puritans went off to go see whatever show was on that night, all of a sudden this man approaches me:

Him: "I sat at this table the other day."

Me (perplexed as why he felt the need to mention this): "Oh?"

Him: "I just want to say that you're very handsome."

Me (caught off-guard): "Well, thank you very much."

And he left.

Now, one of the members of the vivacious 6 asked me what he said. I relayed the conversation and he responded that he thought that was my roommate.

Me: Why?

Viv 6 member: Because you said he's at the Seniors dinner.

Me: No, he's only 26. He's at the Singles dinner.

Who said Borscht-belt humour was dead?

During one of the meals that the Comrade & I were together we were treated (perhaps "thrust upon" might be a better word) with the most bizarre curmudgeon I've ever come across. This man was in his late fifties and from San Diego. If you could imagine a gay version of Gerald McRainey, you'd be very close. He just complained about everything that others thought were great: smoking in lounges, the sun, the drag shows, not having to pull out your wallet to sign for drinks, and this, that, and the other. What really set him off was the fact that Joan Rivers was the special supposedly secret headliner that night.

"She's too vulgar."

He then went to a long-winded tirade about how he doesn't want to hear about dropping breasts, vaginas, and testicles. Now, that struck me as a bit strange, but sometime later at one of the dances, I saw him dancing shirtless (with his 26 year old roommate that he adores because "he keeps [me] young"--yes, I thought the same thing too) and there was definitely a lot of sagging.

Not that it's in any way related to his earlier comments.

Next Time on a special episode of Bacchanal 2006: The Ethical Question.

Bacchanal 2006 Post-Mortem: Episode 5

St. Croix: The Prettiest Big Ol' Oil Refinery You've Ever Seen

You see that face? That is the face of someone perplexed and overheated in polo shirt (something which I have not worn since elementary school), which is just how St. Croix left me.

Basically, it is the red-headed stepchild of the US Virgin Islands. When we arrived, the locals seriously pulled out the bandwagon and all the stops. Why? Well, apparently we were the first cruise ship to arrive there in 6 months. Clearly, unlike St. Maarten (which was the next stop), tourism isn't as big a deal here, and it showed.

Not like they really need it, since the island has (according to them) the biggest oil refinery in the Western Hemisphere. After seeing it, I may have to agree. If you can picture this, imagine driving through rural Florida with a whole bunch of palm and mangrove trees and thinking "oh, this is pretty," and WHAM! all of a sudden you see a chainlink fence and refinery towers shooting flames out into the sky. Sort of puts the kibosh on one's notion of Caribbean paradise. All I'm going to say is that it seemed mildly appropriate for a US possession in the Caribbean to have a huge screw-you-environment oil refinery.

I frankly couldn't quite understand why we stopped there, since it wasn't a normal stop on the cruise's itinerary. The only conclusion I can come to is that there is a gay-owned-and-operated resort on the island and we were doing them a solid.

Not that I saw it of course, for me, the islands were basically for one purpose only--cigarette shopping. What did St. Croix yield? A packet of Djarums and a panama hat (see above) that made me look like a plantation owner. That's all I could find, and I had to go hunting for those. The ship was docked in Fredriksted, and the main town is Christiansted, which meant a good 20 minute taxi-ride.

A shared taxi ride.

Maybe it's the New Yorker or Veruca Salt in me, but when I want to go somewhere, I want to go now! Sod other's schedules.

Not that taking the taxi wasn't educational. For starters, they drive on the left. It's a US possession and they drive on the left and it's all legal. We first got knowledge of this when the taxis arrived at the ship's gangway to take people from one end of the pier to another. I kid you not. A walk of maybe 15 minutes, and they had taxis. Well, as these taxis were making their journeys, they seemed to be constantly ducking the pedestrians. I uttered loudly "it's the US, drive on the right!"

After finding sod-all in Christiansted, I wanted back on the ship. There were spa treatments to do. (Mostly involving electrodes attached to my abdomen and having the toxins shaken out of me.) So I tried to get a taxi. All the cab drivers were waiting for more than one person.

I don't play that.

Finally, some entrepreneurial soul sees the steam beginning the pour out of my ears and agrees to take me back to Fredriksted for $5 extra. I have no problem paying $5 more, but that just boggled my mind. Wouldn't it seem to make more sense on a day with a ship in port to just make everything individual instead of constantly waiting for 15 people to fill up a cab at $15 a pop? I'm no math genius, but I'd bet it would all even out economically.

Next Time: Vignettes from Open Seating Meals

Bacchanal 2006 Post-Mortem: Episode 4

The Joys of St. Maarten (but where are all the Dutchmen?)

St. Maarten was the supposedly the main attraction on the itinerary (at least landwise, though honestly I think most of the people onboard--passenger and crew alike--saw the White Party as the highlight). It certainly was for me, for one reason only: $13 carton of cigarettes.

Let me say that again: $13 for a carton of cigarettes. As compared to $80 in New York, $36 in Wisconsin, and $30 in Florida. Not to mention that Yves St. Laurent brand--which I can no longer get in the US since NYS clamped down on duty free internet cigarette sales--was flowing like water, that is, the second I started calling it "YSL" instead of "Yves St. Laurent." I don't know why calling it by its acronym made a difference when unless you're blind as a bat, you can see that "Yves St. Laurent" is printed on the sodding box.

Not that it matters much, because it was $13 a carton. (Sorry, I can't help myself, this just rocked my world.)

St. Maarten/St. Martin as many people know, is a schitzophrenic island. The north side is French, and the southern part is Dutch, well, nominally Dutch. I don't know how Dutch a place can be with nary a Dutch word in sight. The main shoppers area is called Front Street, and there was nary a Dutch word nor accent heard by me. Now, I point out St. Maarten's schitzophrenia for one reason, it was where we came face-to-face (technically side-to-side, our ship is on the right in the photo above) with a predominantly straight cruise ship.

Let me paint a picture of what exactly our ship looked like by Day 5: Deck 13 way up near one of the smokestacks had been turned into a nude sunbathing area by day and occasional orgyland by night when the dances were in full swing; Everybody of all sizes wore speedo or low-cut bathing suits (including myself, although, obviously, when I was on the pool deck I was there to use the whirlpool not swim); there were spotlights and lasers set-up for the night's parties; basically, the ship looked like a floating circuit party, which is the appeal to be honest.

Now imagine Joe & Margie from Manitowoc looking at this. One would think, based on the state of gay rights in this country, that their reaction would be displeasure. Actually, it turns out they were green with envy, based on what the grapevine yielded. One man told me that he saw several men on their knees begging to be taken aboard. Another one mentioned that a great many passengers from the other ship went to their highest deck (the other ship being noticeably taller) to look down and never moved. Yet another one mentioned a woman who thought she could convert some of us over (not on a majority gay male couples cruise, m'dear, a man wore a jacket saying "Mr. Oregon Leather 2003" to dinner) by walking around naked in her stateroom. The best anecdote, however, was of the man on the other ship, who--in broad daylight, I stress--went to the public deck, looked over at us, and masturbated.

As funny as this all was, in a way it was rather depressing to hear about all the repressed desires coming out on the other ship, no pun intended.

I wasn't a first-hand witness to all of this ship envy, because I was shopping ($13 a carton!) and wound up dealing with the other ship's passengers who had decided to disembark. These people were pissed, I tell you. They were just waddling about complaining about the heat, their children, other people's children, other people on the ship, the food, the island they're on, the island they came from, and on and on and on. They also didn't seem to think that anyone else existed except for them, because I have never been pushed and prodded so much in my life, and I say that as someone who has ridden the subways during rush hour.

Were they spending money? No, but they acted like they were the Waltons on spending spree.

If there is a stereotype of gay males being rather courteous, polite travellers with deep pockets, then it certainly was in force.

Now, that said, there were definitely some aggressive locals out there. While I was on my carton hunt, blinded by the shock of a $13 price tag (yes, I am going to mention this as much as possible). I got corralled by a women named Doreen who tried to get me to go visit a timeshare some many miles away near the French border. While she may have thought that I was hanging onto every word she was saying, I actually was transfixed by her heavy lip liner, which made her look like she had a thin mustache around her mouth.

Doreen thrust a scratch card in my hand, and after it became clear that I was supposed to scratch it then and there, I did, and won (like this wasn't rigged). The prizes were: $500 shopping on Front Street, a free vacation for 2 to the timeshare, and something else which I forgot because "dear lord, lady, how on Earth did you wake up in the morning and think that was a wise thing to do with lip liner?" Doreen tried to get me to go shortly after, but, considering that I had no interest whatsoever in getting a timeshare period, I remained firm. Trying to appeal to my socialist side, Doreen pleaded with me "tourism is our only industry here on this island! I need my comission." My initial response? "Then complain to the governor and the Dutch government about diversifying the economy. You do realise that you are basically living in the Netherlands. I'm certain Phillips wouldn't mind setting up a plant here."

Of course, I didn't say that. Yet, in the odd chance that Doreen or her employer are reading this, I want to point out one thing: You catch more bees with honey. If you are trying to sell people on a timeshare, then having someone bark at you from a dusty booth off the main road (and hand you a dusty scratch card, I must add) is not going to appeal to your typical vacationer. You've got to seduce them and make the pitch subtle, and then when they least expect it trap them like a hawk.

As penance for that last sentence, I am going to go read the principles of International Socialism.

Next Time: St. Croix, the prettiest big ol' Oil Refinery you've ever seen.

Reminder: Send in or post your questions for 500th Post (observed).

Bacchanal 2006 Post-Mortem: Episode 3

Don't You Follow Me

Now, I realise that New York to Fort Lauderdale is one of the busiest flights in the country. I also realise that early March is favourite time for people to vacation. That said, you really don't expect to play out Six Degrees of Separation on a cruise.

First, I wasn't expecting to see the man who shot some XXX photos and video of me back in January. I was also shocked--as in running back to the room to tell my comrade/roommate shocked--to see that damn twink who won Porn Idol onboard. Apparently when he's sober, he's quite shy. Quelle surprise, I tell you. (The thought of tossing him overboard did indeed cross my mind.) Then one of the Atlantis staffers mentioned that he trains with my trainer back in New York and knew me by name and face! Now, given that the company is based in California, this struck me as very odd.

That daft car commercial about the stereotypicall DINK New Yorkers driving further and further to get away from other New Yorkers is actually true. God help us all.

Next Time: "The Joys of St. Maarten (but where are all the Dutchmen?)"

By the way, the 500th post is coming up. Since there are still about 5 more episodes of Bacchanal 2006 to get through (and thank you for your patience), there will be a 500th post (observed). Send in your questions via email or the comments section.

Bacchanal 2006 Post-Mortem: Episode 2

You Can't Love Another Without Loving Yourself (so get your self-loving butt off this ship)



Imagine this. It's the White Party, a sea of sunburnt people sporting white underneath lasers and flourescent lights. I'm bopping from one-side to another over by one of the whirlpools. (If you're flat-footed, you don't dance unless you're drunk...at least in my world.) All of a sudden a black man in a jockstrap arises from the frothy mist, sporting a laurel. He says "Are you a model?"

"No, I'm not. I'm a playwright."

"You should be." (Oldest line in the book, but he's an idiot as you shall see.)

"I'm a model, my name is (redacted for the sake of protecting the deluded.)"

First thought: Is he a model for kidswear, because Tyson Beckford need not be afraid.

Redacted proceeds to talk..A LOT. So much that my portion of the conversation consists of "um," "uh huh," and "yes."

Redacted also mentions that he is "A Christian." Somehow in his mind, god wants him to be dancing in a whirlpool with his booty sticking out in a whirlpool. Considering that we have all made our fair share of justifications, I let it slide.

Redacted then goes one inch too far.

"I want to marry a girl and have a child."

OH HELL NO.

It was at this point that Redacted went from fun pasttime to full-blown fool who must be avoided at all cost. Redacted dug his hole even deeper by grabbing me by the hand and leading me around the pool deck-cum-club.

Rule #1: You do not grab my hand if I have known you for less than 24 hours. (C did the same and trust me, I was pissed.)

Redacted also felt the need to mention that he was in a relationship and that he "liked [me]" and "wanted [me] to be [his] husband for the night." Redacted is an idiot.

And if that wasn't bad enough. Redacted's opening line? "I don't like black guys, but I like you."

I doubt it's just me, but there is no other more insulting phrase for any black gay man to hear. It conjures up memories of The Brown Paper Bag Test and Imitation of Life for me at least. I mean, let's be honest here. Can you possibly have such a high opinion of yourself that you granting someone else "good enough" status is supposed to make them like you?

I like to think that fate smiled at me that night, because shortly after managing to lose Redacted, I wound up copping off with a very handsome and swarthy Swiss guy in briefs--in full view of Redacted, and believe me, I made sure that he saw.

From Redacted and his numerous self-loathing passive-aggressive faux pas, we go to the Story of D. D took a shining to my comrade/roommate. D was also a huge flirt. D also made a huge mention of having a boyfriend back in Pennsylvania. D didn't know that my comrade/roommate does not cross that line.

Now while I certainly have loose morals when it comes to sex (note that my opposition to Redacted had more to do with his ego than anything else), I also believe in decorum. If one is attached and interested in playing, then at least act single for the night, if that's what you're interested in. Also, do not tease and run away, especially if you're over the age of 10. It may be cute as a child, but in a 32 year old Brand Manager, it's just pitiful.

Of course, the consensus was that D was tweaking.

Clue #1: He works in pharmaceuticals. (Now, I have been with a DEA agent on E, so I reckon easy access breeds pill-popping.)

Clue #2: He was running around shirtless indoors without dancing.

In a coincidental twist, D came over to me to ask if he should "protect" my comrade/roommate from B. As if.

I'd be much more concerned about the aging twink space case than the gentle giant that B was.

Bacchanal 2006 Post-Mortem: Episode 1

This will be a long post-mortem so I'm dividing it up into various "episodes," (currently at 8)because real life is episodic and not a continuous narrative...at least in my view. Now, I'm going to be honest with you lot, this will not be chronological.

Anyway, on with the show.

Episode #1: European Virgos and American Capricorns

Remember earlier this year where I stated that I was going to stick to Capricorns and Libras for dating purposes? Well, I tried to get this declaration started on the cruise. On the first night, my comrade/roommate & I had dinner with two guys from LA who were travelling together. One of them, A, took a shining to me and it was definitely reciprocated. The reason why? He looked nearly the spitting image of the proverbial one that got away. (For the scant few who know my work, the character of Jim in Midvinter was based on him.) A stared intensely at me and seemed to do his best to keep conversation limited to just us and not the other 4 seated at the table. I understood his rationale, but I still seemed a tad bit "wrong place, wrong time."

A was certainly a piece of work. A Mormon ex-rodeo performer-turned-actor. He seemed to stammer most of the time, which was certainly endearing, but made conversation stilted to say the least. Most interestingly--and perhaps this is a sign of how Mormonism can turn gay men awkward, introverted, and in love with risky behaviour--he wanted me to bareback him. Obviously, I used a condom irrespective of what he said, but I was surprised that in this day and age, that someone would actually claim that he is "allergic to condoms." I think that excuse merits a doctor's note.

A was the first Capricorn. The second one, B, was another awkward one. B was a doctor from New York who works out at my gym and was travelling with his acquaintence, who was a former porn performer and the star of the ship. He told me that he was thinking he'd at least get seconds, but hadn't yielded anything yet. I knew exactly what he meant. One of the more interesting things I have discovered recently is that there is a strong disconnect between how I see myself and how others view me. (More on this later.) B didn't believe me when I told him about how I still see myself as the pimply faced overweight kid, and probably will forevermore. I can't quite say what I felt for B. It was romantic, as much as it shocks me to say so. His awkwardness, his inhibitions, his pragmatism. I wonder if there is more to be written...in the metaphorical sense.

C, however, was a Virgo. An extremely extroverted Hungarian Virgo living in New York. Now, I try not to buy into stereotypes much, but when a man in see-through pants, a white faux-fur muff, and body glitter tells you he's a top...well, you have to wonder "really?" C, I met having a cigarette and a Sweet Vermouth in the cruise's coffee shop. I really just thought he was being friendly until we got to that night's dance ('90s Dance Divas--where they did NOT play "Everybody Everybody"). To make a long story short, buoyed by alcohol and the fact that no gay man can handle bumping and grinding against another man for 3 hours without being aroused, we wound up making out naked in the whirlpool. Two days later, he tried to go the whole way, but I was not that inebriated, so bottoming was not going to happen. (Not that I need to be drunk to bottom, but bottoming is something I like to save for close friends and relationships. It takes months of knowing each other for me to bottom.)

Next time: "You Can't Love Another Without Loving Yourself (so would you please go and jump off this boat now?)"

Win, Whore, Win!

Well, at least something went right on this big Eurovision evening (late afternoon here, to be honest).

Severina, her red dress, and high heels did the business and won the Dora. Seve dear, if you're reading this, know that there was a cheer across the Atlantic for your victory--and whore is a term of endearment in my world.

After seeing and hearing this year's Gwen Stefani-meets-Kylie Minogue Turkish entry, there are now two (maybe three)* entries that have got my ears and eyes all giddy.

*It's fair cop, innit?

Unfortunately, Jessica Andersson and Kayo got screwed at Melodifestivalen by some pop-era entry and a knock off of last year's Norwegian song, but you can't win them all.

Ana Nikolic had better win in Belgrade, that's all I'm saying.

Somewhat related to the headline, this corner of the internet is on hiatus for 10 days starting tomorrow for the conclusion of the annual bacchanal, which this year is going to involve a cruise (pun partly intended) and a few days in Fort Lauderdale.

Update: Alas, it's looking like Serbia & Montenegro is going to pull out over a dispute over the results. Not like it matters to me, since Ana only came in 2nd to a comedy number. In the meantime, here is Severina's performance from Dora 2006 and Ana's from Evropesma, where she did indeed Beyonce up her performance even more.

Go Whore, Go!

Perhaps I'm being a bit mean, since I really want her to win, but Severina has got the best song from this year's Dora. It's catchy as hell, and based on my very rudimentary Croatian, is basically about her owning a bunch of high heels.

What makes it more interesting is that Severina also had a sex tape leaked some time back. I've seen the screenshots, and it's not like she was going at it with a swarthy Goran Visnjic type, in fact, the only thing her paramour shared with Goran Visnjic was the same gender.

Anyway, come 2006, she appears to be playing up this image for all it's worth. For that, I say, go girl.

If both Severina and Ana Nikolic win their respective national finals this year, and the Monegasque entry (coincidentally sung by a woman named Severine) delivers on its promises, then this will be a very good year.

Update: Afrika-pafrika! She's in for the final, placing equal 1st and getting the top public vote as well as the second-highest jury vote. As for her performance, Severina wore a long dress that did show her high heels. The dress looked red to me, but could have very well have been scarlet, since I suspect a Scarlet Letter themed performance would be very appropriate.