NYC Fleet Week Canceled

Fleet Week has officially been canceled for New York City.

The United States Navy says it will not send any ships next month and no additional sailors or Marines will head to the city for the annual Fleet Week celebration. Cuts to the defense budget under the sequester are being blamed. But a spokesperson says any Navy, Marine Corps and Coast Guard members who happen to be in the city will be allowed to take part in any local events that still take place. City officials say Fleet Week was expected to generate about $20 million. In a statement, the city said, "We understand the Navy’s budgetary limitations and hope that the Fleet Week tradition can continue in 2014."

Sequester Threatens NYC Fleet Week

Thanks to the sequester, it appears that this year's Fleet Week will be a bust for New York City.

How can there be a Fleet Week without the fleet? Organizers are still looking for ways to salvage the 29-year-old event, which was scheduled to start on May 23. But it seems certain that it will be without some key ingredients: naval ships and the thousands of sailors and Marines who would have filed off them and into the streets of New York.  “No branch of the armed forces may participate in community relations or outreach events that come at additional cost to government or rely on anything other than local assets and personnel, said Rear Adm. John F. Kirby, the chief information officer for the Navy. “We will follow that direction to include participation in Fleet Weeks.”

Fleet Weeks in other cities have already been scaled back or canceled entirely. (Tipped by JMG reader Dave)

Mr. Fleet Week

Originally posted May 28th, 2007

Mr. Fleet Week is climaxing. Waist-deep in the Hudson River he stands, back arched, toes curling, straining...UGH...to blow his patriotic load of bipedal cannon fodder one last time over America's well-fingered g-spot, Midtown Manhattan. That spot, after six nights of polite (compared to the locals) but woefully unskilled (ditto) attention, is currently wavering perilously between grateful, exhausted satiety and "not tonight fuckwads, I have a headache." As I watch the streets of Gotham swell a final time with jarheads and swabbies - all of them young perfect happy bounding eager horny puppies, their arrival again strikes me with feelings of envy and apprehension. They also make me think of boobies, but we'll get to that in a bit.

The enlisted men, who comprise a mammoth portion of the visiting servicefolk, trod confidently, five abreast, down the almost deserted streets of midtown, streets that only hours earlier were abandoned by legions of locals fleeing to their summer refuges in the Hamptons, Fire Island, Newport, Cape Cod. The swabbies stream past posh drinkeries where smiling men in suits stand at the open doors, welcoming all. (They have spirited away the "not you, maybe you, never you" ropes.) Hey Navy! No cover! Fleet Week specials! The jarheads that come inside are probably well-aware that if they were employees here, they'd likely always be "back of the house" material to most of these beaming restaurateurs, who this week are eagerly waving Puerto Rican gunners and Mexico-born supply clerks into their depopulated VIP sections. But it's OK. Everybody who's anybody is out of town.

The swabbies don't know that the folks who live behind the darkened-till-September windows of that fly penthouse duplex (with roof garden access!) consider Fleet Week the start of the "stink season," an expression that means exactly what you think it doesn't. These are the Ugly New Yorkers, the folks who spend a rilly, rilly unappealing amount of their time making it loudly known that Manhattan is the only place in the world to live if you are a Worthwhile and/or Important Person. (Except, you know, in the summer, when it isn't.) We hate them. And if we had a bajillion dollars we would go right out and buy a ginormous house in Upper Hamptaukategue Bay-On-Ocean and spend all summer long glaring at them from the cabana on our private beach. We'd give those plus-one Conde Nasties and guest list Viacommies a frowning they wouldn't soon forget, we tell you what. 'Course, all that frowning would be one way, cuz...well, you know.

Sorry. Back to reality. On the corner of 10th Avenue and 50th, street vendors have cagily created a push-cart gauntlet, an obstacle course of crapola. Later tonight, this Spanglish Armada of bootleg reggaeton CDs, counterfeit Yankee hats and Twin Towers snow globes will prove irresistible to beer-goggled ensigns as they stagger towards the forbidding superstructure of the U.S.S. Wasp, which intimidates even the nearby Notable NYC Landmarks. And they are Official Kodak Photo Spots (™), so that there's some high-end intimidatin', missy. Must be the nuke-tipped missiles. The vendors lie in wait, confident, relaxing. It's way early. It's gonna be a while before that first Tupac Lives t-shirt gets airbrushed, before somebody gets their baby mama's name burned onto a plaque bearing the likenesses of the Holy Trinity: Mother Teresa, the BVM, and Jennifer Lopez. Don't be mad at the rocks that they got.

But, you know, fuck all that noise, dude. Because right now, on this last night, especially fucking tonight, dude, Fleet Week has better things to do with its money.

Bro, we gotta roll. Leave dat shit on the table, son. We get it the way back, aiight? Long as you ain't throwed you money at every bitch you seen. (HIGH FIVE!)

You see, right now most of the men in Manhattan who are wearing white bell bottoms are likely carrying a fat roll of singles, a rubber-banded roll of dollar bills smirkingly acquired from the too-bored-to-be-disgusted tellers at every midtown branch of Chase or Commerce or Citibank. The tellers know where those singles are headed. Walking away from the bank, the roll of ones is fingered anxiously in each man's pocket. This is everything left over from his entire leave, savings harvested via hot dog carts, bottom shelf whisky, and walking back to the Wasp instead of taking a cab, even though there's five of you and it woulda only cost about 4 bucks each. Five, tops.

But, ah, five extra dollars to add to the roll of singles means five extra individual opportunities to place those dollars where they been destined to go. And that's to UNICEF's Feed The Children Fund. Snort. No. Actually, like Boy George, those singles are headed for a very short but closely scrutinized life on the NYC stage. There they will be shoved into the gaping orifices and glittery sweat-soaked thongs of the most popular and well-paid dancers of the New York City stage. Just like Boy George. Hah! Hey, the drummer just give me a rim shot! Just like Boy George! You're. Welcome.

The "gentlemen's establishments" 'round here seem tireless in their efforts to direct testicle-owning Gothamites to their nipplistiscated nightclubs, but even with their Howard Stern promotions, their taxi ads, their billboards, and their vampiric army of creepy Night Of The Steve Buscemi Living Dead guys handing out flyers all over Times Square, nobody seems to know where the strip clubs are. I can tell you without exaggeration that over the last week I have been asked, "Where the pussy at?" about a hundred million jillion times. Wait, it was three times. Whatever. The third time you mention pussy to the average gay man, his spam filter has kicked in. You can keep talkin' all you want, but like that guy who wants to share his Nigerian lotto winnings with you, you're just lying there unnoticed. Just like Boy George! (Yeah, still funny.)

I'm just about to cross Broadway when the intersection becomes flooded in a sea of white. An ill-organized flotilla of swabbies, perhaps one hundred in number, is milling around, anxious, excited, wanting to get somewhere really fast but having no idea where they are going or how to get there. The scene reminds me of a certain comic-book themed gay activist group. Some of the sailors shout conflicting directions to the others, but they do not appear to be in charge. Again, I am reminded. One of them says, "Dude, this sucks. We're almost outta time. Let's just all go do our own thing." Reminded.

Then the light changes, the sailors surge, and somebody shouts, "Don't nobody know the fuck where the pussy at?" And I die a little inside. At least they didn't ask me. Somebody says, "Ask the hot nuts guy!" And still they don't ask me. How rude. Some dude cups his hands and shouts, "Fellas, y'all just gotta stay going on 7th Avenue down to 23rd. It's 'bout a thirty minute walk, fifteen if you double-time it." And in a Broadway choreography miracle that is the stuff of which Tonys are made, one hundred young men instantly coalesce into a united multi-legged creature, a single-minded, purpose-driven, white bell-bottomed Naval sperm in search of an egg, probably one named Autumn, or maybe Summer, who is currently working her way through law school by stripping.

I stand there smiling, thinking there can't possibly be enough ho's in da house for when all those boys arrive. I watch them disappear past Red Lobster and I turn back to 42nd Street, thinking how I hope those boys at least get a good thrill from the dancers. And how I hope that a lot of them get to shove their damn singles wherever they want. Then I realize that all the titty bars I happen to be familiar with seem to be on 11th Avenue, not 7th Avenue, and I wince at the thought that those boys may have blown the last hours of their last night in New York City swimming up the wrong Fallopian tube. I can't imagine what grim nightmare the U.S.S. Wasp may have in store for her crew. But I hope every. single. one. of them gets this pussy thing that intrigues them so. The ones that want it, anyway. Including the girls. Especially the girls.

Afternoon View - Fleet Week Dancer

Today in Central Park a handsome young swabbie and his female companion happily joined the gay dancers in the center of the roller-disco area below Bear Hill.

NYC's Fleet Week Is Underway

The weather continues to be dark and drizzly, but the parade of "tall ships" from around the world rolls on as NYC launches its 25th annual Fleet Week. The streets of midtown have been crowded in white bell-bottoms for a couple of days. Event slideshow here.

Photo Of The Day

(Via - Towleroad)

Afternoon View - Fleet Week Outreach

DOWNWASH: Ten Injured In Staten Island Fleet Week Helicopter Demonstration

Ten people were injured yesterday when a USMC Osprey helicopter landed in a Staten Island park, sending tree branches and debris rocketing into the waiting crowd.

A family-friendly Fleet Week demo took a horrible turn Monday when a $70 million Osprey sent folks ducking for cover. Screaming onlookers ran for their lives when the two-prop warbird, which flies like a plane and lands like a helicopter, turned broken tree limbs in a Staten Island park into dangerous projectiles. At least 10 people in the crowd of several hundred in Clove Lakes Park Preserve were injured with cuts, bruises and scrapes, and now city officials are asking whether organizers took the proper safety precautions. "It was a really scary and horrific scene. I'm all shook up right now and I can't stop shaking," said Yolanda Maiurrno, 80, of Staten Island, whose ankle was thwacked by a piece of wood. It looked like "two tornadoes," said Keith Carlsen, 46, of Staten Island. "The trees were bending and then branches broke." Air Force vet John Wilson, 72, was sent flying some 30 feet. "I closed my eyes and turned away and the air pressure hit me and had me rolling," said the Richmond Town resident after being treated for cuts on his head.

Fleet Week Begins In NYC

An armada of U.S. military ships began arriving in New York's harbor today for Fleet Week 2010. The city's titty bars are bracing for record business.

Perk Up Your Holiday

I know which Fleet Week-er you're looking at, you dirty birds.

(Via - Gothamist)

What DADT? U.S. Military Uses Openly Lesbian Joan Jett to Promote Fleet Week

I find it more than a little annoying that while the Obama administration continues to kick out highly skilled soldiers like Lt. Dan Choi and Lt. Col. Victor Fehrehbach, the U.S. Navy has NO problem using openly lesbian rocker Joan Jett to promote NYC's Fleet Week.

Over on the website of the Commander Navy Region Mid-Atlantic, you'll find several photos of Jett (whom I adore, by the way) in flight gear and posing for photos with soldiers from several branches. Why, it's almost like they realize that Joan Jett is a lesbian icon and would be a great recruitment tool for young lesbians considering military service.

Fleet Week 2009 Hits Gotham

NYC's Fleet Week begins today, but times are hard even for the military.

Some 13 warships and other craft are sailing into New York Harbor this week for the annual observance of Fleet Week. The annual naval review that starts Wednesday is a sparse gathering compared to past years, with only three major U.S. combat vessels in the lineup. That's the smallest contingent in Fleet Week's 22 years. Navy spokeswoman Lt. Lesley Lykins says the service is trying to cut costs this year. The largest and most familiar vessel slated to parade up the Hudson River this year is the USS Iwo Jima, named for the bloody 1945 battle. The missile cruiser USS Vella Gulf and missile destroyer USS Roosevelt will also make an appearance.

The parade of ships sails up the Hudson this morning, after which an expected 20,000 sailors will have several days of shore leave. Manhattan's titty bars are gearing up.

Mr. Fleet Week

Mr. Fleet Week is climaxing. Waist-deep in the Hudson River he stands, back arched, toes curling, straining...UGH...to blow his patriotic load of bipedal cannon fodder one last time over America's well-fingered g-spot, Midtown Manhattan. The spot, after six nights of polite (compared to the locals) but woefully unskilled (ditto) attention, is currently wavering perilously between grateful, exhausted satiety and "not tonight fuckwads, I have a headache." As I watch the streets of Gotham swell a final time with jarheads and swabbies - all of them young perfect happy bounding eager horny puppies, their arrival again strikes me with feelings of envy and apprehension. They also make me think of boobies, but we'll get to that in a bit.

The enlisted men, who comprise a mammoth proportion of the visiting servicefolk, trod confidently, five abreast, down the almost deserted streets of midtown, streets that only hours earlier were abandoned by legions of locals fleeing to their summer refuges in the Hamptons, Fire Island, Newport, Cape Cod. The swabbies walk past posh drinkeries, where the smiling men in suits stand at the open doors, welcoming all. (They have spirited away the "not you, maybe you, never you" ropes. ) Hey Navy! No cover! Fleet Week specials! The jarheads that come inside are probably well-aware that if they were employees here, they'd likely always be "back of the house" material to most of these beaming restaurateurs, who this week are eagerly waving Puerto Rican gunners and Mexico-born supply clerks into their depopulated VIP sections. But it's OK. Everybody who's anybody is out of town.

The swabbies don't know that the folks who live behind the darkened-till-September windows of that fly penthouse duplex (with roof garden access!) consider Fleet Week the start of the "stink season", an expression that means exactly what you think it doesn't. These are the Ugly New Yorkers, the folks who spend a rilly, rilly unappealing amount of their time making it loudly known that Manhattan is the only place in the world to live if you are a Worthwhile and/or Important Person. (Except, you know, in the summer, when it isn't.) We hate them. And if we had a bajillion dollars we would go right out and buy a ginormous house in Upper Hamptaukategue Bay-On-Ocean and spend all summer long glaring at them from the cabana on our private beach. We'd give those plus-one Conde Nasties and guest list Viacommies a frowning they wouldn't soon forget, we tell you what. 'Course, all that frowning would be one way, cuz...well, you know.

Sorry. Back to reality. On the corner of 10th Avenue and 50th Street, street vendors have cagily created a push-cart gauntlet, an obstacle course of crapola. Later tonight, this Spanglish Armada of bootleg reggaeton CDs, counterfeit Yankee hats and Twin Towers snow globes will prove irresistible to beer-goggled ensigns as they stagger towards the forbidding superstructure of the U.S.S. Wasp, which intimidates even the nearby Notable NYC Landmarks, and they are Official Kodak Photo Spots (™), so that there's some high-end intimidatin', missy. Must be the nuke-tipped missiles. The vendors lie in wait, confident, relaxing. It's way early. It's gonna be a while before that first Tupac Lives t-shirt gets airbrushed, before somebody gets their baby mama's name burned onto a plaque bearing the likenesses of the Holy Trinity: Mother Teresa, the BVM, and Jennifer Lopez. Don't be mad at the rocks that they got.

But, you know, fuck all that noise, dude. Because right now, on this last night, especially fucking tonight, dude, Fleet Week has better things to do with its money.

Bro, we gotta roll. Leave dat shit on the table, son. We get it the way back, aiight? Long as you ain't throwed you money at every bitch you seen. (HIGH FIVE!)

See, right now, most of the men in Manhattan who are wearing white bell bottoms are likely carrying a fat roll of singles. A rubber-banded roll of dollar bills smirkingly acquired from the too-bored-to-be-disgusted tellers at every midtown branch of Chase or Commerce or Citibank. The tellers know where those singles are headed. Walking away from the bank, the roll of ones is fingered anxiously in each man's pocket. This is everything left over from his entire leave, savings harvested via hot dog carts, bottom shelf whisky, and walking back to the Wasp instead of taking a cab, even though there's five of you and it woulda only cost about 4 bucks each. Five, tops.

But, ah, five extra dollars to add to the roll of singles means five extra individual opportunities to place those dollars where they been destined to go. And that's to UNICEF's Feed The Children Fund. Snort. No. Actually, like Boy George, those singles are headed for a very short but closely scrutinized life on the NYC stage. There they will be shoved into the gaping orifices and glittery sweat-soaked thongs of the most popular and well-paid dancers of the New York City stage. Just like Boy George. Hah! Hey, the drummer just give me a rim shot! Just like Boy George! You're. Welcome.

The "gentlemen's establishments" 'round here seem tireless in their efforts to direct testicle-owning Gothamites to their nipplistiscated nightclubs, but even with their Howard Stern promotions, their taxi ads, their billboards, and their vampiric army of creepy Night Of The Steve Buscemi Living Dead guys handing out flyers all over Times Square, nobody seems to know where the strip clubs are. I can tell you without exaggeration that over the last week I have been asked, "Where the pussy at?" about a hundred million jillion times. Wait, it was three times. Whatever. The third time you mention pussy to the average gay man, his spam filter has kicked in. You can keep talkin' all you want, but like that guy who wants to share his Nigerian lotto winnings with you, you're just lying there unnoticed. Just like Boy George! (Yeah, still funny.)

I'm just about to cross Broadway when the intersection becomes flooded in a sea of white. An ill-organized flotilla of swabbies, perhaps one hundred in number, is milling around, anxious, excited, wanting to get somewhere really fast but having no idea where they are going or how to get there. It reminds me of a certain comic-book themed gay activist group. Some of the sailors shout conflicting directions to the others but they do not appear to be in charge. Again, I am reminded. One of them says, "Dude, this sucks. We're almost outta time. Let's just all go do our own thing." Reminded.

Then the light changes, the sailors surge, and somebody shouts, "Don't nobody know the fuck where the pussy at?" And I die a little inside. At least they didn't ask me. Somebody says, "Ask the hot nuts guy!" And still they don't ask me. How rude. Some dude cups his hands and shouts, "Fellas, y'all just gotta stay going on 7th Avenue down to 23rd. It's 'bout a thirty minute walk, fifteen if you double-time it." And in a Broadway choreography miracle that is the stuff of which Tonys are made, one hundred young men instantly coalesce into a united multi-legged creature, a single-minded, purpose-driven, white bell-bottomed Naval sperm in search of an egg, probably one named Autumn, or maybe Summer, who is currently working her way through law school by stripping.

I stand there smiling, thinking there can't possibly be enough ho's in da house for when all those boys arrive. I watch them disappear past Red Lobster and I turn back to 42nd Street, thinking how I hope those boys at least get a good thrill from the dancers. And how I hope that a lot of them get to shove their damn singles wherever they want. Then I realize that all the titty bars I happen to be familiar with seem to be on 11th Avenue, not 7th Avenue, and I wince at the thought that those boys may have blown the last hours of their last night in New York City swimming up the wrong Fallopian tube. I can't imagine what grim nightmare the U.S.S. Wasp may have in store for her crew. But I hope every. single. one. of them got this pussy thing that intrigues them so. The ones that wanted it, anyway. Including the girls. Especially the girls.
.

The Fleet Is In

Fleet Week 2007 begins today and the ships are beginning to pull in at Pier 90. Insert your tired "seaman" jokes below.