Saturday, September 30, 2006

Dirty Google Searches For Sex. And Nice Dinners.

Scanning recent Google searches that landed somebody on JMG reveals this gem from this afternoon:

"I'm just looking for a good broad built hairy chested masculine man who will fuck the hell out of me, rim me, suck me and take me to nice dinners."

Is that asking too much? I wonder....

From Twin Peaks, Looking North

If you embiggen the pic, perhaps you can make out the south tower of the Golden Gate Bridge.

Friday, September 29, 2006

"Mark Foley Is Gay!"

"Mark Foley is gay!" - Ray Rogers, page 26, Pride Magazine 2005, in the article Power Outage, for which my associate editor and I posed in a bathroom stall, hands over our faces, for the pictures accompanying the article.

So color me unsurprised.

Letterman On McGreevey

Too good to pass up....

David Letterman's Top 10 Chapter Titles For James McGreevey's The Confession:

10. The Day I Got Caught Governing Myself
9. How To Pretend To Like Girls For 47 Years
8. From Schwarzenegger-Pataki: Governors I'd Like To Oil Up
7. Another Confession - I Can't Resist Entenmann's Pound Cake!
6. At First I Thought I Was Bipartisan
5. The Jersey Budget Crisis - What Would Judy Garland Do?
4. A Look At The Governor's Balls
3. Politicians Who Left A Bad Taste In My Mouth
2. How To Push Through A Bill - Or A Steve Or A Larry
1. Why I Don't Like Bush

Folsom Party Reviews

It typically takes me a week to digest a major party......

Magnitude- ** (two stars)

Located at SF's Gift Center, a sort of non-retail mall, this year's Magnitude was generally viewed as a disappointment, due to the lackluster music. The execution of the event was excellent from beginning to end, however, starting with the hilariously forced drama of having ticket holders enter the venue by climbing five stories up the dimly-lit rear exterior metal fire escape stairs. (Disney does the same thing on Pleasure Island.) Getting a drink was generally hassle-free, the temperature was well-maintained, and the thousands of hot men made enduring the monotonous clump-clump-clump, boots-in-a-dryer, a bit less painful...however, in the end, it was the terriffically dull soundtrack that killed our joie de cuir. (Disclosure: I have an old association with the Magnitude party, having had a part in producing its 2000 CD release.) And a big shout-out to the JMG readers that I met at Magnitude: Adam, Pete, Ricardo + BF, Damien, and the three Davids.

Real Bad - *** 1/2 (three & 1/2 stars)

My children, THIS is the event upon which to model all others. A completely volunteer-run event entirely benefiting local gay/HIV charities, Real Bad turned in another brilliant installment in its unblemished 18 year history. Flawlessly executed from the door to the dance floor, I only subtract a half-star from an otherwise perfect score because of the venue's staggeringly unbearable heat. It was hot. It was Africa hot. Tarzan never had that kind of hot. At one point, I found myself in a long subterranean tunnel under the club with about 30 other bears, as we leaned on the cool concrete walls for their blessed relief.

The venue, 1015 Folsom, one of the most famous dance arenas in the world (and a former bathhouse, as I recall), has gone through a massive gut renovation, and even though I'd been there many times, I never seemed to get a handle on the new floorplan. So many rooms, so many floors! The nitrogen blasts on the dance floor only provided a momentary respite from the heat, so it wasn't until well into the party that I returned to the main dance room, where first-time Real Bad DJ Pete Savas, of Salt Lake City, took us on a soaring, triumphant journey of beautiful melodic techno/trance, holding us in the palm of his turntable until the very last note at 4am, after which he received a thunderous and well-deserved ovation.

I haven't been that moved by a DJ's performance in a long, long time. At one point, I had turned to my friend Leif Wauters (of Hot House and a Real Bad volunteer) and said, "Are you thinking what I'm thinking?" He said, "I don't even want to say it." What we were thinking was that Sevas' performance reminded us very much of the late DJ Neil Lewis, our dearly missed friend, who left us in 2004. After his applause died down, DJ Pete Savas opened the microphone and delivered a poignant, stuttering thanks, choked with occasional sobs, which got us all verklempt. I was as moist as my jeans! Thanks to JMG readers Donovan, JP, Eric, Andy (Otterpop), and others for saying hello. Big thanks to my buddy Kitchenbeard for hanging out with me.

Confession A Hit

Color me surprised to see that everybody's least favorite homo, James McGreevey, actually has a best seller on his hands. His autobiography, The Confession, enters at #3 on the next New York Times hardcover non-fiction list. Amazon is showing it at #71 overall. Was anybody else hoping/expecting/praying for The Confession to tank?

Thursday, September 28, 2006

Remember The Party

Don't forget to remember the party! Sunday, October 8th in SF, DJ Jerry Bonham takes the musically faithful down a glittery, mirror-balled street full of Trocadero Transer memories at Remember The Party 5, the fifth installment in a series of events celebrating San Francisco's gay disco heritage. It's killing me that I won't be there. Killin' me, I tells ya!

The World Can't Wait

On October 5th, people everywhere will walk out of school, take off work, and come to the downtowns & town squares and set out from there, going through the streets and calling on many more to join us - making a powerful statement: "NO! THIS REGIME DOES NOT REPRESENT US! AND WE WILL DRIVE IT OUT!"

I will be one of hundreds of thousands of New Yorkers gathering near the United Nations Building at Dag Hammerskjold Plaza at noon next Thursday for the Day Of Mass Resistance. Find out where to take part in your hometown here. I can't imagine a more noble use of a personal day off, can you?

Open Thread Thursday

Do you get what you give? Does it all come back? Do you believe in karma?


Wednesday, September 27, 2006

Top Three Folsom Quotes

Powerhouse, Friday 1AM

"Hello! My name is Ron. I was hoping to enjoy someone's penis this evening and you appear to have one."

Magnitude, Saturday 3AM

"If you decide to blog about this, can you make my cock bigger?"

Folsom Street Fair, Sunday 3PM

"This is the most twisted group of sick perverts I've ever seen. I want to marry all of them."

Morning View - International Orange

Tuesday, September 26, 2006

In Review

ABOVE: Rock Daddies: Rich Morel, Bob Mould.
ABOVE:Eddie gets his Blowoff on.

ABOVE: Crowd pleasers!

ABOVE: Nothing is more beautiful than young love. Nothing, this is,except hot young leather cubs in love who like to make out in public. These two? Winners: Folsom 2006 Most Fuckable Men, Generation Other Than Mine Division.

Monday, September 25, 2006


I'll put up a longer review of the major parties soon. In the meantime, here's a trio of photos that nicely capture the three defining events of Folsom 2006 for me. TOP: The world's greatest DJ and my dear friend Jerry Bonham headlining the dance stage for thousands of sweaty, horny, happy leather clad perverts of all 27 (currently named) genders. MIDDLE: The men behind the best album of 2006, Blowoff's Rich Morel and Bob Mould headlining the main stage for a jumping, sexy, alt-rock, art-rock, dance-rock, fag-rocking close to a pitch perfect day. BOTTOM: The sweet green icing flowing down on my day was spending it with my beloved Dougie, the man who made leaving SF just about the hardest thing I've ever done, seen here with Blowoff and some hairy groupie.

Folsom 2006 Sightseeing Checklist

1. Impossibly repulsive naked old dude carrying a giant snake: Check.

2. Morbidly obese hairy-pitted topless lesbians: Check.

3. Go-go boy working an Audrey Hepburn/Joe Gage/Beyonce stage outfit: Check.

4. Heavily-tatted naked German sex tourists masturbating for "shocked" tourists: Check and check. Can you do that again for the camera?

5. Society of Janus masochists impaled with weighted bloody fishhooks: Check. (Their t-shirts say "Yes, it hurts.")

6. Roving packs of spectacularly high porn stars, their manhole-cover-sized pupils hidden behind enormous reflective aviators: Check, on every corner. The stables of the competing porn studios took up positions on opposing corners. It was *this* close to turning into the big dance number with the Sharks and the Jets, only with way more nipple rings. Rita Moreno nowhere to be found.

7. Possibly dangerous, definitely deranged street person dancing to his own imaginary DJ: Check.

8. Exposed cottage-cheesed droopy ass cheeks fluttering in the slight breeze: Lost count due to searing white hot pain in my cursedly working eyes.

9. Freakishly 'roided bodybuilders who make those muscle-morphed porn photos suddenly seem feasible. Check. Today's drink special: Deca Smoothies! Now with more rage!

10. Various publicly performed SM scenes covering the dom/sub, daddy/boy, master/slave, Apple/PC oeuvres. Check times infinity. I flog because I love. You're making me do this. You're lucky I give you my scorn at all. Now thank me for punishing you. Louder. And what did I tell you about talking with my dick in your mouth?

Sunday, September 24, 2006

Drum Stud At The Love Parade

Here's a quick viddy I shot of my new favorite musician, Drum Stud. (Our name for him, we don't know his actual name. Anybody? A little help?) Note the highly charged erotic glances shared between Drum Stud and your humble videographer.

Saturday, September 23, 2006

Love Parade

We just had an amazing afternoon at San Francisco's Love Parade, the American counterpart to Berlin's famous techno street party. We followed the techno-pumping floats and the happy happy people down Market Street and into the Civic Center, where tens of thousands of Love Paraders happy hardcore'd the into the early evening. I was especially enamored of the hot, hot drum stud, pictured below the Tutu Of Love. Below Drum Stud is Eddie and Doug, kindly posing with SF City Hall. And at the bottom, JMG readers John, Mike and Dennis, who flagged me down to say hello. Here's a fun video I took in front of one of the floats. Happy happy disco dancers under the impossibly cerulean California sky. Another "only in San Francisco" experience.

Dressing Room

Friday, September 22, 2006

SF In The Sun

We did a long tour around the Golden Gate today, starting out at Cliff House and the Sutro Baths, then over to Fort Miley and Eagle Rock, where we found an elaborate rock maze laid out on the cliff, which drops off about 300 feet at the edge of the maze. Ed was determined to put his feet in the Pacific Ocean, which he accomplished on the rocky beach under Eagle Rock. Lots of rock totems everywhere, so cool. We hit the Marin Headlands, then had lunch in Sausalito before coming back into the city for Coit Tower, which is seen in the bottom picture, from our hotel.

SF: Day 1 Recap

San Francisco seems particularly well-scrubbed these days. I've only been accosted by grimy, raving, lunatic homeless persons twice. That's about 1/3 of the normal nutter-per-block ratio that I recall when I lived here.

We started the trip with a visit to the Castro, of course, lunching in the open windows of Harvey's. I had the Sylvester burger and boy did it make me feel mighty real. Coffee and cruising at Bearbucks afterwards, as required by law. Oh, it was a weird to find this for sale at A Different Light. After the Castro, I toured Ed and Tim around the Upper Market/Twin Peaks area, dropping in at my old roommate Robert's fabulous house in Cole Valley. Last night we hit the Eagle, where the talent was a weird chick playing Anarchy In The UK on her ukelele, and the Powerhouse, which was its usual riot of excessive tattoos and questionable body piercing decisions. Oh, and we've seen a ponyboy already, and the fair is still 3 days away. We've rented a convertible and today I'm showing the NYC boys around the Marin Headlands and Sausalito. I'll try not to bore y'all with too many touristy SF pics like the one below.

Morning View - SOMA

Thursday, September 21, 2006

Morning View - Helmsley Building

Built in 1929 above Grand Central Terminal to serve as the headquarters of the New York Central railroad companies, the Helmsley Building was sold a few months ago to the royal family of Dubai.

Open Thread Thursday

Could you live without your cellphone?


Wednesday, September 20, 2006

The Novice Contestant

The Powerhouse, San Francisco, 1999

I'm at the Powerhouse for the Mr. Powerhouse Leather contest, whose winner will compete in Mr. San Francisco Leather during the Leather Week buildup to Folsom Street Fair. My buddies Doug and Leif are standing with me on our "perch", the little raised platform on front of the second floor of the bar, from which we can survey the entire room. Over six years in SF, I will probably spend at least 200 evenings standing on that very spot.

The leather contest is being emceed by the eternal Mister Marcus, San Francisco's (and indeed all of leatherdom's) grand dame of leather pageantry. As is often the case for these contests, the festive mood of the bar's customers are occasionally drowning out Mister Marcus as he questions the contestants, despite several acidic requests for the crowd to settle down and pay attention. "Gentlemen! Please! This is your Mr. Powerhouse!"

The usual suspects shuffle through their question and answer portions as Mister Marcus grills them about their leather expertise, their kinks, their fetishes. We've seen them all before, these guys. All of them perennial contestants, consistent non-winners. Like the rest of the bar, we're pretty much ignoring the contest.

Suddenly, things liven up a bit. A really hot, really drunk guy has been cajoled into entering the contest. We've never seen him before tonight, although we'd noticed him staggering hotly around the bar before the contest. He clumsily climbs onto the stage and stands there swaying slightly (and hotly) as Mister Marcus peers skeptically over his reading glasses, from behind his podium.

The guy is clearly a novice on the leather scene and Mister Marcus gets annoyed after the contestant gives several clueless answers to some basic leathersex questions. Finally, Mister Marcus shifts to the basics. "Well, can you at least tell us if you're a top or a bottom or switch?"


"You don't seem too sure of that."

"Top. Definitely."

"OK, now we're getting somewhere. And while you're topping somebody, what scenes do you get into?"


Mister Marcus rolls his eyes. "Yes. Scenes. You know, like role playing, kinks, whatever. Do you do any of that?"

The contestant cocks his head, "Um, yeah man, I get dirty and all that."

Mister Marcus' eyes glint. He casts a conspiratorial look towards the audience and leaps on this opening. "Oh?? You get dirty? So you're into scat??" The audience laughs.

The contestant furrows his brow. "Scat?"

"Yes. Scat! You do know what scat IS, don't you?"

The contestant looks at the floor for a second, then snaps his head up. "Oh! Right! I know what that is! That's where you do the dude.....and then you KILL him!"

If anything is said after that, nobody hears it. The screams of laughter from the audience go on and on and on.

Tomorrow: Folsom Bound

Folsom Street
On the way to Polk and Castro
You don't find them finer
Freedom, freedom is in the air, yeah
Searching for what we all treasure : pleasure
Cycles, cycles in the night shining bright
Bright neon nights tell a glory story
Leather! Leather! Leather, baby!
Levi's and T's are the best now all right

Dress the way you please, a
nd put your mind at ease
It's a city known for its freedom
Cycles shining bright, b
reak the silence of the night
Inhibitions? No!
You don't need them!
No! No! No!

San Francisco,
San Francisco
City by the Bay, yeah

You've got me

Download: San Francisco - Village People, 1977

Less Protesters. More Cops.

One of the neat little features of my click-tracking program is that it tells me how many times a particular link is clicked or how many times a photo has been embiggened. This morning I'm a little amused to see that of the eight photos of yesterday's Iran/Iraq/Pakistan protest at the UN that I posted, so far 611 of you sick puppies felt the need to enlarge the photo of the motorcycle cops. The next most popular of the eight pics was enlarged only five times. It does help to know what the readers are interested in. Less protesters. More cops.

Tuesday, September 19, 2006

Bush Closes Down Midtown

Leaders of the world are sitting a few blocks away from me, as George Bush is just about to address the General Assembly of the United Nations. All of Midtown East is locked down. Roads are closed and traffic is gridlocked everywhere. There are thousands of cops in evidence, and I've noticed some "businessmen" wearing sunglasses and earpieces as they stand impassively on the corners. I'm heading out to get some pictures of the big protest march on Dag Hammarskjold Plaza.

UPDATE: While President Bush was at the podium making his perfectly cromulent case to the General Assembly, I found myself caught on the fringes of the very highly secured perimeter of the United Nations, where the NYPD twice singled me out to demand my photo ID on a public street crowded with hundreds of other onlookers, where I was accused of being in the CIA by a woman holding a pro-Iran banner, and where I very nearly got stuck in the middle of a spiraling confrontation between a couple of hundred pro-Musharraf and anti-Musharraf ex-pat Pakistanis.

And They All Meet On Craigslist

An interesting new study from the New York City Health Department revealed that almost 10% of the men who self-identified as straight, also reported having had sex with at least one man in the previous year. Most of those men also reported being married. They were also less likely to have been tested for HIV or to have practiced safe sex. The title of the study is "Discordance Between Sexual Behavior and Self-Reported Sexual Identity."

Morning View - Bleecker Street

How'd you like this staring into your bedroom window all night?

Monday, September 18, 2006

One Week Later

Manhattan, September 18th, 2001

In 2001, I lived in Chelsea on 21st Street near 8th Avenue. My third floor apartment overlooked the playground of P.S. 11, the William T. Harris K-5 School. A few days after the attack, on the outside of the wall around the playground, the school began posting drawings that the children had made, presumably allowing them to express their fears and anxieties about the attack by letting them make paintings.

Every morning and afternoon, I'd pass that wall of the children's drawings. And I'd be forced to slow, then stop, then linger. No pedestrian was able to walk past the drawings and ignore them, not one. We'd stand there silently, shoulder to shoulder, our eyes shifting from one taped-up depiction to the next. The younger children used familiar motifs with arrows pointing to stick-figures of "Mommy" and "Daddy", but with the unfamiliar addition of planes and flames. The older children depicted the towers themselves, often with explosions or people falling from the sky. One repeating theme was a tiny figure in the corner of the picture, with an arrow pointing to it, and the word, "Scared."

On Tuesday, September 18th, one week after the attack, I was heading past the school around 9pm just as a violent rainstorm began. I went around the corner to pick something up from the deli and when I came back past the school, I could see that the rain was ruining all the children's drawings. Some of them had fallen down into puddles, others were turning into runny messes of non-toxic paint.

A woman walking past exclaimed, "Oh, no! All those kids' drawings are being ruined!"

I said, "Yeah, it's a shame. But I guess the school wanted to leave them out here day and night as long as they lasted."

She and I looked at each other for a second, then she said, "Do you think it would be alright if we saved a few of them for ourselves? They're just gonna be piles of goo in a few more minutes."

I agreed, and we both selected two drawings and removed them from the wall. The first one I pulled down was nearly soaked all the way through and I had to be careful not to let it fall apart in my hands. When I got home, I laid it across the radiator in my living room and let it dry for a few days.

The artist, a kid named Jesus, captured all the key elements of that morning. The towers, the two planes, the figures running from the buildings. He even seems to have included one of the jumpers, leaping headfirst from the north tower, indicated by it's rooftop antenna. Note the unhappy sun looking down at the scene.

The other picture I took off that wall still brings tears to my eyes, and I've looked it a hundred times.This picture didn't get as wet as the other one, but it's still a bit hard to pick up that both towers are crying as they clutch each other.

After I brought these pictures home, it rained all night. On my way to work the next morning, I saw a janitor moving down the school wall with a rolling garbage can, picking up all the soggy pictures that lay ruined in the mud puddles and ripping down the few that still clung to the wall.

Morning View - Two Beauties

Jeanine Pirro

During the primary campaign for NY Attorney General, in which Andrew Cuomo earned the Democratic slot over Mark Green and Sean Patrick Maloney, I paid scant attention to the Republican side of the campaign. This morning I saw an interesting campaign ad during the Today Show, from the Republican AG nominee Jeanine Pirro, in which she pledged to "protect gays from gay-bashing". I don't think I've seen that from a Republican before, not on TV at least. The times, they are a-changin'.

Sunday, September 17, 2006

Flaccid Focus

At least 15 tries and I didn't get one in-focus shot. So much for the "Me & The ESB" series. And you'd think that a badly unfocused photo would hide somebody's wrinkles. You'd think that, but that would be wrong thinking. Anyway, maybe if you cross your eyes, you can tell that that's the Empire State Building on the far right.

Saturday, September 16, 2006

The Archive

The Archive, the largest structure in the West Village, was built in the 1890's as New York City's Appraiser's Warehouse, the place where customs agents inspected imported goods and imposed duties and tariffs upon them. Despite the "interesting" block that it's on , The Archive is one of the hottest addresses in Lower Manhattan, as artists and celebs jostle for one of its 479 "loftlike" apartments. Last I heard, one bedrooms were going for around $6000. The best part about living at The Archive? Knife-wielding teen-trannys are never more than 20 feet away!

Trivia: I think it's a good bet that just about every homo in the West Village knows who lives in the far left unit of the apartments with the semi-circle windows.

Friday, September 15, 2006

HomoQuotable - Jim McGreevey

"We undressed and he kissed me. It was the first time in my life that a kiss meant what it was supposed to mean - it sent me through the roof. I was like a man emerging from 44 years in a cave to taste pure air for the first time, feel direct sunlight on pallid skin, warmth where there had only been a bone-chilling numbness. I pulled him to the bed and we made love like I'd always dreamed: a boastful, passionate, whispering, masculine kind of love." - Former New Jersey Governor Jim McGreevey, in his new book The Confession, describing his first tryst with the man whom the governor would later appoint New Jersey's head of Homeland Security.

For his next project, I think McGreevey should take a stab at writing some boastful, passionate, whispering, Harlequin Romance novels.

HomoQuotable - DJ Adam Goldstone

"Oh, that will never do." - Final words of NYC-based DJ and notorious fashionista Adam Goldstone, 37, as friends frantically tried to put ugly pants on him before rushing him to medics after he fainted in the shower of his RV at Burning Man two weeks ago. He was pronounced dead on the scene. Family members say Goldstone had a congenital heart defect. Goldstone was a legend on the Manhattan nightclub scene, with DJ cred going back to Save The Robots. His record The Sky Is Not Crying is a classic. Every time I saw Goldstone, he was wearing his trademark ascot.

42nd Street Flashback

This picture of 42nd Street, circa 1910-1920(ish) (I think) covers the back wall of the Commerce Bank on the corner of 42nd & Madison. Hey, I can see my office! Seriously!

Thursday, September 14, 2006

In The Cookie Aisle

Walgreens, Upper East Side, Wednesday 7pm

I'm poking around the soft drinks section, looking for Diet Coke with Splenda, on the advice of my coworkers who swear by it. It doesn't seem to be on sale in any of the midtown delis, so I haven't had a chance to try it.

I'm studying the stupid number of different Diet Cokes on sale: Diet Coke, Diet Coke w/Lime. Caffeine-Free Diet Coke, Diet Coke w/Vanilla, Cherry Diet Coke, Diet Black Cherry Vanilla Coke, Diet Vanilla Cherry Cocaine Angeldust....ARGH! Where is the mofo Splenda?

There's a short black woman in the cookie aisle. She's walking a pudgy little white boy by both hands as he coos and points at the cookies. Here in the heart of Nanny Nation, the mothers are far too busy making partner to take their babies to Walgreens. The nanny is being very gentle and patient and is using the pictures on the cookie boxes to teach the boy colors.

"Jess! Dass'a red cooh-kie!" she says approvingly in broad patois as the boy points to a box.


"Berry guhd! Dass'a yellow cooh-kie!" The boy shrieks in delight at being right. His vocabulary seems limited to colors and shrieking.


"Jess, bebbie. Dass'a blue cooh-kie!"

I'm thinking, "What kind of cookie is blue?"

The nanny bends down to put her face level with the toddler. "Does you want a cooh-kie right now?"


This kid will make partner before his mother does.

Open Thread Thursday

Wednesday, September 13, 2006

David And Davido

Orlando, Labor Day 1979

Just a month shy of my 20th birthday, I was already old news at the Parliament House. After all, I'd been a regular there for over three years. You only really can maintain "new meat" status for about three months, six months, matter how young or pretty you are. After six months, you've had those that you wanted (and could get), and the ones that you couldn't get, you've dismissed as attitudinal bitches.

So by Labor Day 1979, I no longer turned the wagging heads when I strode into the piano lounge by the front door of the Parliament complex. I'd pause in the entrance, all hairspray and false bravado, but I'd merely get a flicker of recognition from the vultures perched along the walls, a nanosecond of appraisal and dismissal, before their attention returned to the door.

Pickens was slim in the Orlando gay bars back in them days. Tourists and businessmen were typically pounced upon before they got halfway to the bottom of their first Barcardi and Coke. (These were the pre-Everybody-Drinks-Vodka days.) "What's your sign?" Yes, people really opened with "What's your sign?" And sometimes, even if they thought you were very hot, the wrong answer would send them away. "Scorpio? Oh honey, Scorpios do nothing but break my heart. Bye."

That Labor Day Monday, I think I had decided to hit the Parliament House less in expectation of finding sex and more in expectation of finding drunkenness. Mondays were ten cent drink night. Seriously. Ten cents. And even in 1979 that was very cheap, because a regular cocktail was like....$1.25. Bud in the can was $.95, on which I would tip an outrageous 55 cents. Ten cent drinks could make a slow Monday night in a mostly-empty Southern gay bar very amusing.

It wasn't very smart of me to be out on the roads that Monday night. Hurricane David, the first male-named hurricane to threaten the United States, was forecast to come crashing ashore that evening, somewhere along the mid-Florida coast. And the first day of my sophomore fall semester at FTU (later to become UCF), was the next morning. But once my boss at Red Lobster realized that our customers were all busy at home nailing plywood over their windows, he closed us down and sent us home. I think I sat on my couch for ten minutes before I picked up my round brush and my blow-dryer and started getting ready for the Parliament House.

On the way there, the wind tossed me about quite a bit as I slalommed down Colonial Drive, as the outer bands of David were already bumping across Central Florida. The air-conditioner on my '73 LeMans had crapped out, so at every red light I wiped the inside of my fogged-over windshield with the cuff of my sleeve. (Why yes, I wore dress shirts to the gay bar. You probably did too, mostly, if you were cruising the bars back then. T-shirts and (gasp!) tank tops were strictly relegated to poolside events and t-dance.) I turned onto South Orange Blossom Trail and into the Parliament parking lot, where a scant dozen cars were in evidence. I waited for the rain to die down (my hair!) and thought about Davido.

Davido, Parliament's piano player, on whom I had a terrible puppy dog crush, always worked on Mondays. He'd sing Crystal Gayle's Don't It Make My Brown Eyes Blue while staring directly at me, causing others in the bar to turn and look. It always gave me strangely queasy feeling, standing there trying to not throw wood while my first grown-up man-crush sang to me. Davido looked very much like Freddie Mercury, probably on purpose, only without the overbite. He was about 30, far too old for me to do anything about, other than fantasize, or at least that's what I told myself. And oh, but didn't he know the effect he had on me, little did I realize it then, of course.

Taking a chance on a brief lull in the rain, I dashed across the lot to the covered walkways of the motel area and walked up to the front door of the nightclub complex. The door was unmanned. No cover charge. The piano bar is right inside the front door, next to the long mirrored hallway with the underlit floor panels that leads to the disco. Davido was standing outside, smoking and talking with an enormously fat black drag queen named Heavy Duty. I gave Davido a sheepish smile as I squeezed past them. He nodded back and said, "Hey! I was wondering if you were coming!" I nearly fainted. He was wondering...about me?

"Oh! Ha ha. Am I late? Ha ha ha ha." Lame, lame, lame.

Davido smiled and I ducked my lame self around Heavy Duty and into the piano lounge. The usual cock sentries snapped their necks around to give me a rake, then turned back to their eviscerations of whatever Broadway cast album had come out that week. I found a couple of my friends at the end of the bar and made small talk over my first vodka/sprite (see? ahead of my time!), but my mind was still out in the hallway with Davido, spinning dirty and excited fantasies over his comment.

The bartender unceremoniously yanked out the jukebox plug in the middle of No One Gets The Prize and Diana Ross' voice slid slowly into Barry White's range before the speakers went dead. That was Davido's cue to start his set, apparently, but he detoured on his way to the piano to slide a hand around the back of my head and pull my ear to his mouth.

"I know you're with your friends, but don't disappear," he growled.

"OK!" I said way too quickly, staring at his black forest of chest hair, slightly wet with rain beneath several gold medallions.

"Cool," Davido said. "There something I want to give you."

To be continued.....

Cuomo Wins, Maloney Shows

As expected, openly gay NY Attorney General candidate Sean Patrick Maloney finished third in yesterday's primary, as Andrew Cuomo easily steamrollered over Maloney and Mark Green. Cuomo is (not incidentally), the son of former NY Governor Mario Cuomo, as again, name recognition trumps all among the feeble-minded electorate. (By the way, Cuomo presently supports gay marriage, although he has not in the recent past.) I met Mark Green a couple of times during the campaign and especially appreciated his appearance at the Iran vigil, so I'm disappointed that neither Green nor Maloney did well against Cuomo. Still, Maloney impressed the party's star-making machine, so keep your eye on him, there's definitely more to come.

Morning View - Airport Express

My first view as I emerge from the subway in the morning is the bus stop for the express airport buses from Grand Central. The fare to JFK is $15, versus $60+ in a cab, and the bus is just as fast.

Tuesday, September 12, 2006

Full House: 3 Queens & A Pair Of Bears

The murky legality of the online gambling industry in the U.S., what with the feds arresting industry corporate honchos at airports, has not dissuaded from taking this huge honking billboard at One Times Square.

Similarly unfazed are the people behind, "the world's first online poker site catering exclusively to the Gay Lesbian Bisexual Transgender (GLBT) community", which launched today. While I cannot imagine what could be intrinsically gay about sitting in your underwear wasting money that could spent on precious porn, I confess I did get a chuckle from the Come Out Poker press release, which notes that in their poker room, straights are no good.

The Go-To Guy


I'm walking past our conference room where one of the sales teams is having a meeting. Somebody inside says, "We should just ask Joe. He's gay, he's got to know." I swivel smoothly on one foot and stick my head inside the room. "The answer is yes, it does hurt. But only at first. Usually."

I'm the go-to guy around here. There have been no requests for clarification.

Bringing Sexy Back?

Oh, it's broughten.

Monday, September 11, 2006

New York City Survives, Thrives

As a lovely counterpoint to the grim post below this one, yesterday I attended the annual Broadway On Broadway, a free concert in Times Square featuring the casts of current and upcoming Broadway shows, where host Martin Short and 50,000 theatre fans showed the world that New York City still gloriously, exhuberantly, spectacularly, survive and thrives.

The Farmboyz, David and I enjoyed two hours of great performances from the casts of Spamalot, The Producers, Hairspray, Grey Gardens, The Drowsy Chaperone and many others. In the final number, Martin Short and the cast of his hit show, Fame Becomes Me, brought down Times Square with the fittingly titled, Stop The Show, featuring the amazing Capathia Jenkins, who sang, "If your plot’s running thin, and the ticket sales are slow, let a big black lady stop the show." And then she proceeded to do just that. We particularly liked the line of the song in which she asks, "Why is it when I sing on Broadway, even gospel, R&B or blues, all the songs are written by gay white Jews?" (Stop The Show was written by Tony-winning gay white Jews Marc Shaiman and Scott Wittman.)

Martin Short brought all of Broadway back on the stage for an encore (pictured above), which of course, was New York, New York. Standing in Times Square on a perfect afternoon, watching those great performers belt out the city's anthem as several tons of confetti fell on our heads, the 50,000 0f us, impossibly, fell in love with New York City just a little bit more.