I Have A Funny Feeling About This

Since I don't trust this new GLAAD under Giuliano (the article about him in the current Advocate sealed it for me--I have trouble believing that a man who highlights his hair, looks like he's about to go to The White Party, and is a Republican to boot cares anybody's interests barring his own), I'm going to be watching next week's Law & Order: SVU very closely.

The subject matter: the new superstrain of HIV and meth addiction.

Now these Law & Order shows make no bones about being "ripped from the headlines," but at the same time the trailer that was shown for it just left me with a slightly uneasy feeling. It just seems like exploitation. Having read about and seen in action many television writers, I always suspect the worst out of them and am always surprised when they don't. It's a very alpha male environment.

Yet the show does have out actor B.D. Wong who I would hope would be able to call the writers on any virulent homophobia. Plus, this particular episode's subject matter is something that should be talked about more. However, just like you wouldn't ask Phil Gramm to lecture about affirmative action, nor should you trust the many quasi-frat boys of television writing to do more than just sketch out gay characters. Quite frankly, we need more representation in that area.

Still, like Charity Valentine, I remain "hopefully ever after."

Periodically, I'm going to start writing about the new fall season. If you're curious as to why I'm starting so late, it's because I think it's best to always wait until the axes start falling (RIP Head Cases, Just Legal, Love, Sex & Secrets, and Inconceivable).

I have to say that FOX has gotten more of my evenings this season with Kitchen Confidential, Bones, House (not technically new), Reunion, and Killer Instinct. Of this group, Killer Instinct is real weak link. It seems like the creators brought out all cliches and no twists on them with the main character. You know the type: gruff, monosyllabic, no discernable relationship, mildly sociopathic.

Of course it could be that Johnny Messner just isn't that good of an actor. Good to look at, but nothing beyond that.

Let Them Eat Panic

When you're rich and powerful you have access to many privileges: A platnium American Express card, VIP entry, and apparently early warnings about possible terror attacks.

Don't you just love living in a city run by a billionaire?

Philadelphia Post-Mortem: The Fraternity of Blue Balls

That theory about being wild whenever I go on vacation? I just proved it again.

I shut down Woody's. Well, I have to say I had a lot of help. We were some very naughty boys, and loved every second of it.

First my impressions of Philadelphia: For starters, I love it, or at least I love the Center City, since I never left it. It was a bit bizarre being in one of the US's oldest cities and barely seeing any old buildings. Were all the old buildings torn down or burnt out? I kept comparing it to Boston, where everywhere you turn you see something like "Old Chicken Coop, established 1699" or something along those lines.

Secondly, what's with all these bars that serve food? I'm not just talking hip lounge places, I mean there were some dives that had cafes attached. It just seemed very odd and very British, to be honest. In fact, Philadelphia itself reminded me very strongly of London with less people and American accents. The fact that for the time being you could smoke in bars (hurrah!) and that even the tiniest alleyway was named made it very much like London.

Tourist board spiel over with, let's get to the juicy stuff.

I was drinking at Woody's, which is touted as "Philadelphia's busiest gay bar" (although on a rainy night it was more like "Philadelphia's slightly popular gay bar), and wound up striking up a conversation with two guys I will call X and Y. X was an actor from New Jersey. Y was down from New Hampshire on a job interview. X and Y seemed like old friends, but no, much to my surprise they didn't no each other from Adam. So we are all talking and having a very enjoyable time, when this really strange man (who I'll call Z) approaches me.

Z had his lines prepared:

Z: "Are you a model?"

Me: "No."

Z: "Do you have a portfolio?"

Me (realising he's not the brightest bulb): "No."

Z: "Well, if you do, I can put in a good word with an agency."

Z brings over his friend, introduces us. His friend, who bore a strong resemblance to British comedian Alexi Sayle, just looked at me with the most stunned expression on his face. I couldn't figure out why, so I did quick check to make sure there wasn't anything dangling out of my nose.

Z disappears for a bit and X,Y, and myself resume our conversation.

(Fun fact: We're all air signs. "An Aquarian, a Gemini, and a Libran walk into a bar...and contemplate it." Listen, this stuff is hilarious with several beers in you.)

Z returns and decides that he wants to break into our little group. I don't recall if it was X, Y, or myself that started the deception (probably X, the Libran, those Cardinal signs are always starting something), but somehow we told Z that we had been best friends for ages. Best friends with benefits to boot, implying that at one point X had been spit-roasted by Y and myself.

Z bought it. While again, I have to say that Z wasn't Mensa material, it was pretty impressive how without any discussion, X, Y, and myself just completely and believably behaved like old friends. At the same time, however, Z was giving us some major eye-rolling statements such as how he is a show-jumper with wealthy British parents, so tit for tat.

The charade continued after Woody's as Z was begging for us to go home with him. X and myself were hesistant, but Y was all for it. Considering that Y was the only person Z hadn't try to paw all night, this was rather interesting. After a long walk to Z's apartment, the four of us plop down on his couch. This is where things got a little sordid. Somehow, with no prompting X and I start making out. I don't know if this was part of our later plan or if hormones got to both us. All I know is that my tongue was down his mouth. This would've been completely fine (even with Y just observing--as I found out later), but Z saw us. Next thing you know, he's practically ripping my zip-up off and slobbering all over my chest.

Then he disappeared again. This is where Y finally verbalised the plan: Get Z naked and ditch him. Rarely have I had a chance to use my sluttiness as a mode of revenge. It felt good.

Z returned and then started making out feveriously with X...while I was still on his [Z's] lap. Trying to get some sense of what exactly was occuring beyond the slurping noises, I relied on Y to give me a running whispered commentary. Apparently it was less erotic and probably funnier than the sounds suggested.

Z tried to tempt all of us into the bedroom on an one-by-one basis (and they say nobody has any manners anymore). Quite aware that there is strength in numbers, we all said no. I caved in the second time, because X shot me a puppy-dog look that signaled "get this over with." So Z and myself go to the bedroom and start making out. Using the infamous "I'll show you mine, if you show me yours" I undo my fly. Z shows his boxers. By this time, X is also in the room wearing an expression of bemused bewilderment.

Alas, the plan would not come to total fruition, since I was not interested in sleeping with him with a morning train to catch, and X&Y found him too slimy to go any further than we had so far. So it was a quick dash out of Z's lair after that.

Reflecting on it now, it may seem very evil what we did, but on the other hand, I have to say that everybody pretty much got what they wanted in the end. X,Y and myself got an adventure and anecdote for the ages, and Z at least got some three-way groping if not a hopping orgy.

Moral of the story: Philadelphia is the new sin city.

Oh, hell no!

Clearly Brian Ellner is more of a political opportunist than his ads suggested. I guess he prefers to not have any legally binding relationship between himself and his "partner."

It's all about keeping the property value up. Sleep well at night, Ellner, while turning our rights back a decade. No bank account can replace your soul.

Thoroughly disgusting to have this announced on National Coming Out Day.

The 300th Post (Observed): Going farther away from the closet

Last night, I found myself watching a bit of Larry King Live. I normally avoid it (primarily because I don't care for Larry), but his guest was Tab Hunter who has recently come out publicly a la Richard Chamberlain--which is a way of saying that he's plugging his autobiography. Still, it was somewhat appropriate, considering that it's National Coming Out Day today.

On one hand, yes, it's a good thing that he's now admitting to the world that Confidential had it right. (I'm reading Richard Hofler's The Man Who Invented Rock Hudson which discusses how his former agent gave the infamous tabloid the story about Tab's arrest for attending an all-male, all-gay party--apparently male-bonding wasn't popular in the 1950's.) On the other hand, he made a point of saying that he doesn't like gays who are "in your face" and "out there." I have a problem with that.

Some will say that Tab is a product of his generation and time in 1950's Hollywood. Well, so what? I see no pride in admitting that you're an anachronism. Harry Hay and the Mattachine Society was around at that time as well.

We live in interesting times. Technology today allows free access to information, support groups, and obviously, hook-ups as well. You can, in most locales in this country, go into a gay bar and not have any fear of being arrested.

The bizarre thing is this, it's also allowed the closet cases to take from us and never give back.

Somewhere right now, there's a businessman in a for-show marriage on a business trip that is waking up after kicking his male one-night stand out of bed. Somewhere right now, there is a celebrity proclaiming general support for gay rights but still staging photo-op dates with starlets, despite having a boyfriend at home. Somewhere right now, there's a politician who refuses to support gay marriages, while keeping his male lover squirreled away out of town. Somewhere right now, there is somebody planning to harass an openly gay student because he doesn't want to deal with his own homosexuality.

The closet leaves me with conflicted feelings to be honest. Personally, I feel that a life lived duplicitly leads to a tortured soul. Yet, I had a painless coming out, and have never, for the most part, dealt with severe reprecussions. I wasn't coerced into a marriage or exiled from my family and their emotional support. I've had it easy, to be blunt. Not everybody is fortunate. I start to think about how it is when children are involved. You see, I grew up in a household where my parents were not that deeply fulfilled emotionally, but stayed together because of me. (Without veering this too much into my family history, they come/came from the generation that believes in sticking together "'till death do us part" and they did.) So I can understand, to some extent, why some men and women chose to remain closeted with children involved. I most definitely do not support it, but I understand.

That's about as far as my tolerance goes. I truly believe that most problems in life start when you live your life for appearances and to serve others, as opposed to yourself. Now, there's a difference between living your life for yourself and living self-centered. Living for yourself means being willing to take on responsibility for your actions and managing them effectively. Being self-centered means doing what you want and then consistently putting the blame on someone else when things go pear-shaped. Call me a curmudgeon, but there's too much of the latter and too little of the former these days.

Recent articles I've come across have suggested that the gay teen is at risk of disappearing. Homosexuality is not going away, but publicly identifying as a gay teen might become more rare. The "bi phase" reigns supreme. I'll cop to it, I certainly took that route for 3 years. It was the path of least resistance, but the thing is that it never rung true. It was like a way to be semi-honest with myself without feeling like I was alienating the rest of the world.

(Disclaimer: I am not the New York Times. I do believe there are real honest-to-goodness male bisexuals out there, but I'm also aware that for many--not all--it's a stepping stone towards homosexuality. I mean I'm hypnotised by Shakira's breasts in the video for "La Tortura," but I'd rather do Alejandro Sanz.)

You see this frequently in places like Myspace, which seems to be full of these early twenties Adonis looking male bisexuals that ape this almost cartoonish version of heterosexual posturing. I think this group isn't bisexual. Their true orientation is narcissism. They just want to be desired by everyone. This is the group that revels in the art of rejection. It'll be interesting to see if they turn all Jonestown once 30 hits.

But I digress...The fact of the matter is that it takes guts to admit to yourself who you are and that who you are does not gel completely with the mainstream. Listen, I'm black and that's a group that includes Condoleeza Rice, that gay man who works for Santorum (I am in no mood to hunt down his name), and Alan Keyes in addition to Coretta Scott King, James Baldwin, and Langston Hughes. We don't get to choose the members of our group, because if I could I'd kick that first group of three out. The same applies to being gay. We have to accept that we do have James West, Leopold & Loeb, and the LCR just as much as we have Matt Foreman, Fenton & Barbato, and Christine Vachon.

So often people say, well "I'm not like them." No, you aren't. You're yourself, so why are you afraid of what others will think? When those who would disapprove start paying your bills, then you can pay them some attention, otherwise, fuck 'em. Who has the right to your body? To your mind? Only you.

It's somewhat appropriate that I'm off to Philadelphia today. (Post-Mortem will be filed tomorrow.) It was the site--according to the literature--of some of the earliest gay rights protests in the US. My reasons for going aren't quite as high-minded. I'm just going because I've never set foot in the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania (barring airports) and all the ads have finally gotten to me.

The Thoroughly Underwhelming 300th Post

And it's on Columbus Day.

For Pete's sake, Columbus Day? Usch. Consider tomorrow's National Coming Out Day post the 300th post (observed).

I could delay posting, but I have to share this tidbit about Columbus Day:

"What do you want for Columbus Day?"

"A Smallpox vaccine and termites."

(Thank you, I'm here all night.)

Tagging with a hangover

Dondon hast tagged me.

This one was apparently sponsored by the number 5, with funding support from the number 23:

1) Go to your archives
2) Find your 23rd post.
3) Find the fifth sentence (or the closest to it)
4) Post it
5) tag 5 other people.

Well, here's what I was writing back in February 7th (if I counted correctly):

"Most notably Alya, who has kicked ass since her first EMA in 2001."

A reference to Slovenia's answer to Christina Aguileira, Avril Lavigne, and Pink, who is extremely more entertaining than any of them, in my opinion. I'm a sucker for someone who wears next to nothing and screams in Slovene. As her website points out, she's one of the "most wanted women" (in terms of searches) online.

I'm going to cheat a bit here and only tag 4.

1) Pookie
2) Stephen
3) CANE
4) Adam

And now I'm going to have "Exxtra" and "Fluid" running through my head for the rest of the day.

Splash-XES Post-mortem: I begin to wonder

Stephen, I'm sorry, but I gave in.

It was raining harder than I had ever seen north of the Mason-Dixon line, yet, I gave in. I went to Splash. It was...different. That's the only way I can adequately describe it, since one of the bartenders thought I was somebody else, and I ran with it.

Why? I don't know. Perhaps it was that viewing of Seconds today that set me off.

Edit & Update: (See what happens when you post drunk. I didn't even think I had posted about last night.) Let me get a little more detailed now. In retrospect, I should've paid attention to the signs. While I was waiting to pay the cover, I was jostled by two men--who really should know better than to mutter "move, move"--eager to get somewhere inside pretty quickly. What it was, I don't know. Perhaps someone was buying back ugly and they wanted to sell theirs badly.

I went downstairs and parked myself at the bar, well, "parked" in the sense of standing in one place. This is very atypical for me, since there were no videos playing, thereby negating the main reason why I go to Splash. That said, my pants and shoes were soaked through and I wasn't even considering moving until I was dry.

What I was privy to was two bartenders or go-go-boys having a tiff with the photographer who was plying his trade in the booths. I didn't catch all of what they were saying but it looked like two tan hens fighting.

Finally dry, I made it upstairs. In lieu of music videos, there was a psychedelic collage of camp performances and assorted sex scenes. I should've figured out what would inevitably follow: go-go-boys dancing on the bars. As much as I really don't like having a crotch and thighs thrust in front of my face, I gave a dollar. 1) Because they're doing their job and 2) It makes them move...unless you start carressing them. I discovered the latter part when these two soul-patched men (when will that trend die, it looks like trimmed pubic hair on the face) were all over this one ornately tattooed dancer.

This led to another pondering thought as I was drinking another beer at XES (with another crotch & thighs bouncing in front of me): Why am I such a stick in the mud about the Cinderella hour? I've started using that term to describe--or perhaps justify--why I don't stay out much past midnight. It seems to only apply in New York. When I go on vacation, I'm out until the cows come home and I have a blast. Why not try to replicate it here?

As someone who really does prefer to go out alone, I like to bring the party with me, so to speak. Yet, being a keen observer, I've noticed that people take their time in relaxing. It takes time and alcohol for the barriers that we put up in order to get through the day to come down (CANE describes this perfectly), if they ever do. So I am going to challenge myself next Saturday. I am not going to leave the apartment until 11:30 at the earliest. Perhaps I may even use that black card.

Comedy moment of the morning

Ann Tripp on this morning's The Steve Harvey Morning Show:

"Today is national depression screening week. Just call 311 to find a location in any of the 5 boroughs. My ex-husband needs to go to that. Newsnewsnewsnews. Yes, I bring my issues to work. Newsnewsnewsnews. I'm a sistah, you know how we do."

Look At Yourself (You're in denial, again)

(That Diamonds Are Forever entry has me in a David McAlmont mood).

So now that we are under an alert in respect to using the subways, which is yet another way of telling us to use common sense, I think the media are losing their collective minds.

Practically the whole of Good Day New York* was devoted to having reporters (even cantankerous and comical Penny Crone) tell us that the police are searching bags and will mess your trip up. They don't seem to be paying attention to what the people they're interviewing are saying: "so what?" I'm another one of them. What is the point of a life lived in fear?

* Although to their credit, they did speculate about how interesting it was that this information was released during a period when the government is under suspicion of cronyism and graft.

For Pete's sake, something is going to get you somehow. There aren't any immortal people running around. I'm think that most people, at the core of their being, know that we're not here forever and to enjoy the time that we are alive. The news is becoming more and more like a horror-thriller as opposed to information every day.

Switching gears somewhat, Rosie O'Donnell has lost her ever-loving mind. She's supporting Bloomberg. That's right, she who got married in San Francisco and wanted to fight for her marriage to her partner, is supporting the closet case who in February basically told all gays to go screw themselves. Now, I like Rosie. She is not afraid to speak her mind and gets a lot of undeserved flack for it. Yet, she's completely in the wrong here. For starters, she's barely a resident of New Yorck City proper (if at all--she lives in Nyack). She even defended Bloomberg skipping out on last night's debate in Harlem at the Apollo. Her defense went along the lines of "well, it's not going to reach that many people" (the debate was on NY1).

So what? Is he not the mayor of Harlem, but of the rest of the city? The man doesn't care. He doesn't care about blacks (Reverend Flake should be ashamed of himself, then again, he sounds suspciously like Shermen Hemsley's character in Amen); nor does he care about gays. The depressing thing is that these people are so dazzled by him and his faux concern, that they will hitch their sails to the boat to hell and run the risk of pulling the rest of us there for the next 4 years.

On your head so be it, and don't be surprised when you get called out.

Swedish Songwriters Take Lots of Acid

That's the only way I can make sense out of the current 1,300+ songs that SVT has on the shortlist for Melodifestivalen 2006.

Some of the god-awful examples:

• New York Reggae Day (How much you want to bet the writer is some pock-marked kid with blond dreadlocks from Malmo?)
• Welcome to the freakshow (High school goth band most likely)
• U smell (U suck already. I want to see your English scores.)
• This is my city (Ah, but did you build it?)
• Straight flush i kärlek (The latter part translates as "and love, I believe." A poker love song. No thank you.)
• Som en Boeing ("Like a Boeing." Sample lyric: "Baby, I love your 747 size behind.")
• Shut Up & Kiss Me (How about stop writing until you get an original thought?)
• Run, Wendy, Run! (Peter Pan meets German cinema in a Swedish penned song?)
• Paparazzivärld ("Paparazzi world." L. Lo sings in Swedish.)
• Oooh-lah-lah (I'm a fool for you) (Nobody, but nobody should attempt a song like this unless they are part of The Stylistics.)
• Mi chico latino (Why do you want to inflict the Swedish public with the tales of your Argentine trick?)
• Kiss me like they kiss on film (What? With no tongue or saliva? Do you mean with fake emotion?)
• I.L.O.V.E.U. (G.O.2.H.E.L.L.)
• How the hell edit (How the hell edit what?)
• Don't be such a Garbo (If Sweden's answer to Harvey Fierstein doesn't sing this, I'll be pissed.)

Geez, VH1 Classic is playing Johnny Hates Jazz right now and "Shattered Dreams" sounds like "Strange Fruit" compared to some of this lot--which admittedly I haven't heard, but still... There's a lot of crap for the people at SVT to sort through.

I think all the (non-Maltese) Anglophone lyricists should buy language books and flood the various national finals across Europe with the local equivalents of "This is a pen," "Mark is at the market," "He gave me the clap," and the perennial favourite "My lovely horse."

The Middle Gets More Mysterious

The Pittsburgh Post-Gazette has another article on the Kraynak-Wright case. According to Canadian police (though I couldn't find corroboration on CFCF or the Montreal Gazette, but 365gay.com also mentions this theory) Kraynak & Wright were running from the cab because they were cheating the fare.

While this is plausible, Kraynak's mother doesn't buy it. She says that he must've been threatened.

Personally, I don't know what to believe. On one hand, Kraynak is painted as the proverbial good boy exploited by those evil pornographers. On the other hand, it takes two to tango. How he could have no trouble having sex for a website named Straight Guys for Gay Eyes, but balk at stripping at a gay club? For starters, it would make sense if he had trouble having sex on camera, but no problem with stripping. I sense whitewash, which is partly understandable, because she is his mother and is most likely not wanting to really think about the bluer sides of her son's life.

Again, his actions suggest something that others might not want to fathom: for whatever reason, he went along. Indeed, he was seen performing at Remington's. You go by the actions, not the assumptions.

What gets me though is that the focus is on Kraynak. Kraynak is held up as this tragic figure, but there's nothing about Wright. It's almost as if they are tacitly saying Wright was expendable, but Kraynak--uber-heterosexual ex-military man Kraynak--only he will be truly missed.

In the gay press, this suggests the often unspoken belief that "straight is better." A thought process that is borne out of self-loathing. (Oddly enough, something that I've been accused of.) Not to get too much into this subject, which I could easily go on and on about, but I really think the fetishisation of "straight" men in porn and the mainstream gay media has got to stop. It's just another latch on the closet and in this day and age, that's the last thing we need.

RIP Steve Wright and Mark Kraynak.

First Martha, Now L Lo?

The mysterious film shoot that kept me up several nights ago has been revealed according to Gawker: That girl from the Disney Channel and Mean Girls with messed up but oddly attractive-in-a-trashy-way father was shooting a video on my block. I may actually start watching MTV now to see what it looks like.

Also some ignoramus wrote about seeing Tony Kushner in Brooklyn and describing him as being "very tall for a playwright." This is our educational system at work. Somehow there's a height requirement for being a playwright. Psychological requirements I can buy--we're not the most secure group--but height? I can already think of 3 who are over six feet tall, and I bet Adam can add even more to the list.

Crackpot Thought of the Day

"Diamonds are forever" is about lesbianism...or homosexuality in general (remember David McAlmont covered it).

(Courtesy of LyricsMansion)


Diamonds are forever
They are all I need to please me
They can stimulate and tease me
They won't leave in the night
I've no fear that they might desert me

So here we have the set up. Shirley likes diamonds. Shirley doesn't like one-night stands. Why? Well, diamonds are like an eternal orgasm.

Diamonds are forever
Hold one up and then caress it
Touch it, stroke it and undress it
I can see every part
Nothing hides in the heart to hurt me

Here we have the first instance where "diamonds" might mean more than just the shiny rock, especially when you get to the "undress it" part. Likewise, "I can see every part/Nothing hides in the heart to hurt me" could be reference to the old saying that "only a woman knows how to make love to a woman/only a man knows how to make love to a man."

I don't need love
For what good will love do me?
Diamonds never lie to me
For when love's gone
They'll luster on

Shirley ain't looking for love. She's looking for the big O. Again, who knows how to get whom off best? The plural suggests that she's not just talking about driving herself, if you know what I mean.

Diamonds are forever
Sparkling round my little finger
Unlike men, the diamonds linger
Men are mere mortals who
Are not worth going to your grave for

Shirley likes her posse of baby dykes. Not to be too lewd, but you can ascertain what act "sparkling round my little finger" alludes to. As for "men are mere mortals who are not worth going to your grave for," well, suffice to say she's spelling it w-o-m-y-n now.

Remember that scene in Diamonds are Forever with the psychopathic queens walking off into the sunset hand-in-hand?

I'm just saying...

The Ulitmate WHAT?

Reason #909 why I stopped watching BET since they stopped running new episodes of Hey Monie: The Ultimate Hustler.

Next on LOGO: The Ultimate Barebacker

Next on Spike: The Ultimate Misogynist

Next on The Food Network: The Ultimate Pig

Oh, Robert Johnson, what price greed?

Tezuka teaches about HIV

When I'm travelling through Narita airport, the one thing I always thought I needed was a classic anime character teaching me about HIV.

I mean, it's good that the message is out there--especially in Japan--but this just seems a bit odd. Can you imagine He-Man teaching us about roid-rage? G.I. Joe on the dangers of crabs?

Where I live

I got a little nostalgic for this past August while lurking through Curbed today. Oh, what I'd give for those halcyon days when all they were doing at that construction site was just cutting down trees instead of jackhammering at all hours.

When will this damn bubble burst?

Stonewall-The Hangar-View-Barracuda Post Mortem: No, I am not your brother

I think the carbohydrate-free week will be easier if indeed fate was trying to send me a sign tonight.

As I came home, I was asked by a panhandler--who addressed me as "black" whether I would give him a quarter. He said "brother, I saw you with your things (headphones) in your ear before. Give me a quarter." I was in my Johnny Marr (j'en ai marre) mode, so I told him quite frankly "I'm not your brother." This pisses me off to be honest. Black solidarity is not something to be used when you need a quarter for god-knows-what. If you indeed consider me your brother, then you have to show interest in me beyond just a means to an end. (I wonder what Stephen has to say about this.) That's what pisses me off the most, the fact that a well-intentioned movement is trivialised for junkie's next fix.

Perhaps as an only child, I'm very hypersensitive about this phrase, but I just think that if you say it, you have to mean it.

Anyway, onto the drinking. Tonight was my last night of carbohydrates for a week. I think fate was sending me a sign that I need this purging. I started out at The Stonewall, where some guy addressed me as "buddy" and asked if I could keep my eyes on his bag. Dutiful person that I am, I did...up to a point. After 3 Coronas, he's on his own.

Next was The Hangar, which I flock to on occasion, as it is the locale where I met the first man to ever break my heart. Crowded, ergo I left after sampling two Budweiser Selects--yuck.

Then I followed that up with 3 Twisted Teas at The View, which is where I should've spent the whole night since all I wanted was to get my liquor and some videos. There I got it with minimal muss and fuss. I never thought I would write this sentence, but I heart Chelsea. I mean after the controlled chaos in the West Village, Chelsea was bright and friendly. It disturbs me that I may very well be a Chelsea Boy now.

Since I was saying goodbye to carbs for a week, it was off to Barracuda for the final drink. (Y'see, sometimes it's not a proper night out until you get your hand stamped.) Why, I don't know. By this time in the game I was pretty sick of drinking, but I like the videos and it's hard to justify water as your first drink.

Ultimately this lead me to Chelsea Papaya and the run-in with my "brother."

I'm oddly looking forward to No Carb/No-Fun week now.

I can pout with the best of them

I wound up doing a photo shoot for a friend of a friend. Shockingly, I discovered that I can pout. Eat your heart out Michael Lucas.

The Middle Is Accidental?

According to the Montreal Gazette/CP, the deaths of Nick Wright & Mark Kraynak may very well be accidental. The relatives of Kraynak and Wright say that surveillance tape footage shows the two fleeing by foot from the taxi which was pursuing them. They jumped the barrier and then subsequently fell into a quarry.

Although warning signs are posted, they are in French only.

If this is indeed the case--which is rather hard to believe concretely since this is coming from the relatives as opposed to the authorities themselves--then the only missing pieces are: a) why they ran, b) did the taxi driver's pursuit encourage them to jump?

"A" will never be known, since it is impossible to read the minds of the deceased. (Lest I get too philosophical on this point, I'll just point out the old truth that we never know someone, we only know their actions.)