Gym Story

And this is exactly the way I'd always wished it would happen!

So today at the gym, I do what we always do. I'm getting my workout on, deciding what to do and what not to do, seeing what equipment is avaialable and what's not, noticing the astounding bodies and the not-so-much, knowing which set I belong to and being mad/sad/depressed/determined about it. And also what we do, brief eye contact and then possibly a very masculine head nod of acknowledgement, and keep it movin'. Because omg shoot, kill, and eat us right there on the spot if any of us dare be gay at the gym. So unless we're working out with a buddy (and I use the term loosely) we're all in our own little orbits of homophobia, saying nothing and dying to look sexy.

During, I saw a fella who I found attractive in a strange way. He had loose unkempt hair. He was medium build, no discernable paunch (unlike me)but no outstanding v-shape or awesome shoulders that I usually go for either. He had one of those interesting mouths, though. Lips thin and somewhat recessed, in an m-shape. Very white-guy-in-his-forties. Possibly Irish. Curlicues of wild chest hair poking up at the neckline. Not unlike the George that I used to live with three years ago. (Or is it four now?) Not unlike him at all. So let's call him "George II." I wound up doing shoulder shrugs next to his weight rack, where he was doing squats. Nary a word passed between us. I can only hope at this point that no one notices how much I look at them during any given gym session.

After I was done, I hastily changed back to my street clothes, not even stopping to shower. I had no one and nowhere to go so why bother? I was listening to a shuffle of Corinne Bailey Rae and it was affecting my mood again. The first lines of many of her songs can soooo send me to that place --

"Seems like everyone else has a love just for them ..." - Breathless

"Ohhhhhhh ... you're searching for something I know won't make you happy ... " - I'd Do It All Again

"I don't want to give you up, I don't want to hold you up..." -Closer

"So young ... for death ... we walk in shoes too big ..." - I Would Like To Call It Beauty

So I didn't wait around for a shower and I didn't do any aerobics on the elliptical. Just shrugged on pants, shirt, sweater, jacket, hat, scarf, sneakers, and I'm out the door.

Now, this gym is on the 15th floor of a Time Square hotel (one of its' best perks with BEAUTIFUL views of Hell's Kitchen and into the T-Square itself) so leaving it takes me to a bank of elevators. And who should be standing there waiting for an elevator? Why, George II of course! I'd missed when he stopped doing his squats and threw his clothes on, but it had to have been in a lockerroom apart from mine because I didn't see him. And trust me, I look. The lockerroom is the place where I get involuntary confirmation that I am, indeed, gay. Sorry, straight guys who just want to go get their workout on and get on with their day after a shower, but we gay guys are checkin yo shit out. I try not to stare, I promise. To be honest, I don't like you nude anyway. Your junk is ugly. No, I'm sorry, it really is. And your toes are often ghastly. But once you slip into your BVDs ... h'oh boy. And you be wearing them SEXY ones too. Oh no, not just tidy-whities anymore hath our Johnny Straight Guy, oh nooo. And then some of you have the nerve to have abs, and those interlocking rib-muscles?! And NORMAL clean feet with well-proportioned, trimmed nails on EVERY toe? You bastards.

Again, I'm trying not to stare. But wow. A glimpse says a lot.

Where was I?

Right! The elevators with George II! So these are highspeed elevators to service the 30 stories full of hotel tourists above us, who've shelled out good money to be here, and so accordingly, if you press the down button you better be ready to dash to one of the eight possible elevator doors that could open -- because it will not wait for you. And fortunately, when one did arrive, it did so near me, so in I went -- and I held the door for George II to catch up to it. Then I said as much to him by way of banter -- you know, about getting to the vator before it leaves. To which he answered 'It's a fitness test.' Which I laughed at because I thought the same thing about the hard-to-open lobby doors downstairs! And I said so aloud!

And then George II and I had a nice little stream of casual convo all the way down the elevator, down the escalators, through the lobby, out onto Broadway, and two blocks north until I departed to cross the street.

And we didn't talk about anything at all, really. Just about gyms and their opening, closing, the value of ours and the possible value of others. But his voice was sooooooo nice. Cool. Deep but clipped. Announcing every consonant and vowel. Like he could be a radio DJ. Again, very Middle-Aged White-Guy. Comfortable and safe like Ward Clever or Fred MacMurray. And apparently, comfortable with ME! So comfortable in fact that when I was ready to cross the street, he jut out a hand for that fraternal shake and announced his name! To wit I clasped in kind and gave him mine. So masculine!! So buddy!! Nice strong grip, but not trying to out-macho one another. Just Men being Men!

And then I thought DANG! I LIKED that!!! and went to my train.

So, his name is not "George". But neither's was the original George. And I'm not in LOVE or anything. George II had some manky teeth which caused his M-shaped lips to be as recessed as they were. But then again, my teeth are gappy, so who's perfect?

But he was the kind I like. Just a guy, you know? A guy who is open and friendly and ... a guy. An average guy. Who might have a interlocking rib-muscles under there. And a chest full of hair. And who might be gay.

So I'll end it with this -- the odds are, he's not gay. He's probably divorced and probably a sex addict. He's probably disorganized and maybe has some destructive addictions that he's trying to overcome. I'll probably never know why he'll accept me as a friend, but he will. And I'll probably wind up with a big inappropriate crush on him, and on it will go into nowheresville. You know ... that town at the junction of Despair Rd and Chronically Frustrated Life Ln?

Because hey. I'm nothing if not consistent.

And that's what happened today!

*curtsey*

NYC 2, ME 0

Welp, NYC claimed another of my cars, but this tragic tale started in NJ, honestly. Back when I had my accident and needed a new car, it was clear that my credit was shot 8 ways to hell and no sane person would extend me credit without something exhorbitant and rapey. So I got my car. 3.15 years later I've paid 14K on it and still have 10K to go. The hope was that I'd start making enough money to pay the principal off on the car loan early.

Well that didn't happen.

Then I moved to NYC and then I got the dicey job I have now, and then took the supervisor's position, then gave it back, then the car got towed ... and towed ... and ticketed ... and ticketed ... and towed ... and finally towed again two weeks ago. Just when my finances bottomed out.

So not only can I not afford just to maintain the car in an openly hostile driving environment (I'd love to meet the person who owns a car in NYC and has never gotten a ticket for anything.), but I can't afford the car itself. Insurance + car payment + gas + repair/maintenance equals a broke and despairing Me.

So I told the Toyota finance company to take the car -- I no longer can afford it. "Voluntary Surrender" they call it. 150 pts put on my credit to be reflected for the next 7 years, they warned. Okay, whatever, thank you ma'am. I can't afford the car anymore. And in all truth, I never needed it the moment I moved into NYC. Every dime I spent on it, except in the service of my clients, was a waste and a delay on my saving money and being able to get my own place, one prepaid-yearly lease at a time.

So in the next few paychecks, I'll know where I stand. Will it be just enough to only pay rent to this guy I live with, or will there be some savings this time around?

We'll see.

In other news, My First Man Date checked-up on me through e-mail. It was confirmed--I DID see him that night in Williamsburg when I was with my hetero Con Buddy. I told him everything I had felt and he put on his "I Understand" hat. And he's no longer in the relationship he was in. And he's been with guys since. And he's definitely not the one for me. I get the feeling he's pursuing me now because I'm the one that got away. Soon as he's had me, he'll be on his merry way and I'll never hear from him again. But for right now, he doesn't want me -- he wants us to be each other's wingmen at a gay bar. Although he doesn't know where because he says he doesn't go to them. Also, he doesn't drink, and to his recollection, neither do I (which has been true in the last two weeks. I've fallen out of love with the idea and the sour taste in my stomach started to annoy me.)

So I might do that, although I'm not eager. It still feels awkward to go out with a guy I rejected, even though he insists it's friendship only. I mean, I AM a guy. I know how we think. And too, I don't want to watch men in a gay bar dancing. That's not attractive to me.

So yeah. A little down at the mo. Treating my clients has become all the life-affirmation I can muster up lately, and that's not so bad. I'm still helping people deal with their lives, regardless of how badly I manage to keep fucking mine up. That'll have to serve for self-esteem at the moment.

Adventures In Gayville. Prologue.

The thing that is really going to cheese me off is the fact that this will wind up being not very unremarkable at all. That I'm not any more special than anyone else.

And yet.

This is me.

And not someone else. And it's kind of astonishing that I would be here. In this place.

So anyway, full of self-loathing and abandon, I was standing in the Haagen-Daas boutique store where the prices for their ice cream is even more expensive than their store pints. I had just ordered my Dulce de Dulce w/ Bananas and Caramel Dulce, and had given the shopkeep a piece of my mind in doing so. More than ANY meal from McDonalds it was going to cost me! He took it in good stride. He knew I was there to pay regardless of my outrage.

"Where are you from?" he asked.

"5 miles from here--up Broadway." I answered, prouder than I'd been all week.

So while I stood there waiting for the poisonous concoction to brew, in walked a pair of fellers in mid conversation. "...wait until you taste it. It's crack, I tell you." Or something to that effect.

I did what one does when alone while waiting for your stuff when other people are yapping. I said and did nothing. The two chatted a little more and I did what one does when the conversation of strangers continues, and continues. I stole a look.

Well, the one chatting and chatting was pretty much what he sounded like. A crisp, late twenties white dude, very earthy and yet ivy league. Like maybe from a working class family who made good in the business world. He wore a dress shirt and slacks, and was very animnated. I could easily see him in a "How I Met Your Mother" set bar with his buddies, throwing darts after work, crying foul with a tenor's trumpet. And while I was taking his full stock from my half a second's worth of glance, I dimly register that he's talking to me as well.

"Sir. Sir, have you ever had a Bailey's shake?" with the sudden familiarity of a frat brother.

Well. What could I do but get a better look at him?

The boy was handsome. Fratman all the way. Flat belly, open collar, hints of chest hair poking out of darker tones like maybe there's some Italian in him or one of the more swarthy Irish. Clean shaven, straight perfect teeth in a big open smile.

Who were these guys? Lovers? The older one also trim. A little taller than the both of us. Visiting NYC, according to the content of the previous conversation before I got included. Salt and pepper hair. Darker still, like maybe Greek or East Asian. Dressed more casually than John Bailey's-Shake.

I smiled. The boy was smooth. He was a talker. He was not afraid of the black guy standing in the ice cream store with the Reed Richards sideburns. "No," I said. "Never did. But I'm going for that golden cup of sunshine, myself," and I pointed to the poster on the wall that had brought me in here. They had to admit that mine looked real good too. But Johnny insisted, the Bailey's was amazing. "Not sweet like regular Bailey's."

"Oh," I said, "Then it's not for me. Sweet is what I'm in here for." And yes, I was. Flirting, that is. Ol' Johnny wanted to play? 'Ight. Let's play.

"It's about a million calories," said Johnny to his companion and me, "But so worth it."

"And about a dime per calorie," said clever, flirtatious little me.

They laughed. Oh, yes, I can make them laugh. I'm a funny guy. "He's payin' for it!" said Johnny. "So that's on him...!"

Then the awkward silence descended as it does, while shakes and sundaes are being made. Then mine came out. I handed my ransom over for it. Then I took more opportunity to show it off. "See," I said to them, "This is what ya need."

"It does look good," said Johnny. And then he said the following, as easy as a breeze. "If you want to stick around you could get a taste of our Bailey's."

And there I was. Trumped. Oh, Johnny B gooooooood. He was very aware of his ability to seal the deal, was our little flat-bellied, handsome-ass Johnny with the big smile and the dark eyebrows.

And I thought, me? This guy wants me to stick around? Me? What about his buddy here, who's buying his Bailey's? What about my fat belly? What about the fact that I'm not ready to be gay yet?

Johnny saw my hesitation. My expression. And he said, with nary a moment passing after his offer--in fact he made it the closing of the same sentence, "But if you're on your way to something, that's cool."

And I nodded, not shy or repulsed or even afraid, but very aware and even flattered, and not ready. "Yeah, I'm on my way to something. But you guys enjoy your shakes."

And out I went thinking, "You betta work, Johnny, with your handsome self."

And as flattered as I felt, or as delusionally giddy (for Johnny may have just been a really open and frathouse kind of guy, as genuine and friendly as My Super Hero is, with a sexy-ass wife waiting in their 775K condo around the corner) I also felt again, for the first time, "I'm not ready."

My fat belly. My self-consciousness. My fear.

I'm not ready.

But damn, is it always going to be that easy?

Because if so--then wow.

I better buy some condoms.

Re-Discovery

I re-discovered that I like to be alone--at times. But of course, who doesn't? But on Sunday and Monday, in the wake of this nice new opportunity to quit all my whining, I didn't re-open conversation opportunities (no texting, no nothing) with The Past Girl. I thought of doing it, of course, but I just didn't.

On Sunday I went movie-crazy, alone. I bought a ticket to a 1:00 show AND a 4:20 show down on Broadway. It sometimes takes me a little effort just to see one by myself, but I went boogity-boogity down for a two-fer. I saw PUSH and CORALINE. I liked them both.

Mind you, this was the day AFTER me and Childhood Bud went to see Soul Samurai. Saturday night he had soundly scolded me about blogging that I had a pang of loneliness whenever I left my friends to return to my Alone Life. Well, let me tell you, on Sunday, I had no such pangs. It didn't occur to me to call The Past Girl to see if she wanted to hang out, nor to call anyone else. It was just One Of Those Days.

This again reminds me of My Ned. When I get the opportunity to have someone in life, I seem to begin to value the opportunity NOT to. And when I have no opportunities, I seem to want nothing BUT.

But then again, I think we all have that in common.

It's called the Greener Grass Syndrome.

Still, I think I want rather than want not.

So I spoke to The Past Girl today about work, and she ended the call with an invite to tell her about my weekend.

And I will do that.

Because I like the sound of her voice.

Two Nights Ago...

...kind of like a freak snowstorm, I found myself hit with a hanging out at a bar and getting to know new people. All centered on a New York Times Bestelling author. He was in town to do a book reading at the Borders at Columbus Circle, which happens to be where I get my train to go home after a night of therapy. So, as fate would have it, thanks to my new Twittery obsession (see "Twitter; Blue bar above), I was made aware of all his comings, goings, and in-betweenings. Having been aware of him from my Slice of Sci Fi exposure, and the art of podcasters and Do It Yourselfers who have a talent, a microphone, and a dream (and A LOT of energy), I figured to go catch him at his reading (The pictures on the other side of the link is from a reading he did the next day in DC. My NYC people ain't representing on Flick'r, it seems), show my face, and maybe seal a deal to trade promo trailers . But as I introduced myself as the guy on Twitter who 'had to oppose his evil scheme, for I am aligned with a superhero,' he extended an invitation to the after-party at a bar a few blocks away. It wasn't exclusive--he extended it to everyone who he signed for, but it became incumbent on me to say 'yes' because I had decided to be so damn personable.

Yay meds. So after a moment's hesitation, I said, "I don't see why not!"

And off I went alone.

I arrived at the bar and had that New Alan/Old Alan moment. Do I go right in, alone, or do I turn and go home? I'm happy to say those times are growing more and more brief. I went in. Then it was, 1) stand around upstairs on the fringe, or 2) dive in? At that intersection, I stood on the fringe. Yes, our hero failed. I made it inside, the author was not there yet, so I felt like I'd fulfilled my commitment. All I had to do was wait, and if possible, get at the author's elbow and remind him of me. Not hard, right?

But after about fifteen minutes, I was approached by two guys who introduced themselves and swept me right up in the social event. Friendly, outgoing guys who came to enjoy the company and make friends. Thank God for these type of people.

So eventually, the author showed up and made the rounds. Where he went, that portion of the crowd circled. Where he wasn't, the crowd sustained itself with social chatter. "What did YOU like best about his second novel?" "What character do YOU like the best?" And having been just recently added to this culture, I had nothing to really contribute. So I talked about my hobby--the little corner of the internet where I Do It Myself for the entertainment of like-minded folk. And I got appreciated! One guy who was there for the author was a long-time fan of MINE! A listener of the project I produce!! It was astounding!!

And it gave me the courage to meet the author on equal footing. What I wanted to propose to him, I could do as a peer! I could do it confidently! I had a comaparable product that I could interest him in.

And I did! I got his ear more than once and he was more than willing! Credit him with being Geek Like Me, and having more energy than eighteen of us (which is why he is successful in this field), and being willing to do voiceovers for anyone who has a project ... and we have a winnah!

So now I have a new connection and a new creative interest to add to the fine work I enjoy in my "spare time." I'd say it was a great night!

In the next post; Other News...

A Good Day

I'm posting this at 1 in the AM so I'm not actually talking about the 20th when I say today was a good day. But it really was. It was a holiday so I slept in, but got up in time enough for a gym workout and shrimp at A Salt & Battery. Then I had even enough time to return home and shave my face, carving my sideburns to the jawline out of the scrub that I left on my face all weekend. I'm happy to say that the 'burns are now frosty white, fading to black up into my hairline. It doesn't look so much like a birthmark now, like the white patch on my eyebrow does. I tell you, I had no idea I'd ever really have to contend with all this middle-aged buuuuullcrap.

So I went to deal with my clients tonight, and coming home I made my walk to Central Park West and witnessing the snow coating the tree limbs and Park wall, plus illuminating everything inside the Park as if it were painted for detail--all reminded me of something.

This was part of my dream. To work in Manhattan. To belong here. And to be helping people. To be doing good. I've said it before, but in a panoramic flash, I was reminded of it afresh--like the snow itself.

I belong here. With or without a significant other.

And speaking of dreams, I wonder if I'll see my father again tonight. He's been making a lot of guests appearances lately. Showing up in the oddest places, but belonging in every one of them. I wonder if it's my brain's way for informing me that I've forgiven him and I don't even know it?

All in all, a good day.

The Baxter

Anybody seen this movie?

I've discovered two things.

1) I like movies like this. It's very in the line of "Juno," or "Nick & Nora's Infinite Playlist." Deadpannish comedy with blemished characters who you feel. Indie music by people you don't know, but love. Indie altogether.

2) If I were rich and had no need to work, I'd never leave my bed and wind up being one of those 800 lb people who make the news. This is not related to Item 1). It's just an observation.

I have nothing deep to reflect about the movie. I don't relate to anything in it except the main character's off-centeredness, but he isn't portrayed exactly as a geek. Just as a "Baxter," which is the guy which the girlfriends leave when they reunite with the REAL love of their lives. I've never been a Baxter. (Finally for once I don't identify with a weakness. But then again, I've never been the original boyfriend who has stolen the girl from her Baxter either.)

But to my surprise this Elizabeth Banks popped up in this movie and I'd remembered seeing her in that nasty slimefest movie with Nathan Fillion (title forgotten) and thinking how pretty she was. But now I know she's the Miri in "Zack & Miri Make a Porno", and it makes me think that maybe "Zack & Miri" is an indie-flavored film like "Juno" and "The Baxter" and that I would like to go see it, even though it's a Kevin Smith joint and he doesn't exactly do "indie" anymore, but I think he's very funny and I think too that I'd just better get out of this bed today before the sun goes down and I find my holiday weekend gone.

So how was your holidays?

Shopping As A Competitor Sport

In my neighborhood, there's a bizarre standard in the bodegas that is driving me out of my nut. Now, I'm trying to be understanding of other people's culture, and I'm not going to walk three blocks to the supermarket when it's literally freezing outside and there's a "grocery" store right downstairs in my building. But you walk in there and you are no longer in America. No one is speaking English. And no one knows how to whisper or use their inside voices. Music with especially pronounced treble blaring timpani and salsa beats while you say "Excuse me," for the second time to the swarthy man with the red eyes leaning back against the soda case that holds the Diet 7UP bottles while he listens with one ear to the short round man repeating the same Dominican phrase over and over (or at least he is to my ears).

But when you finally have all the items you want, you take it to the counter and the starter's gun fires. Because little did you know it, you can only purchase your items if you are fast enough and loud enough. That's right, stupid me, I thought it was a matter of lining up along the deli case and waiting your turn. Not so! For while I put my items up, here comes the chick with her mewling brat plopping her Enfamil ahead of my Diet 7UP and declares, "Oom, let me get a pack of Black & Milds" to my slackjawed surprise. And while she is waited on, in walks a Sherman tank of a grandmother from the street (not even having shopped yet) hollering her language at the store clerk and asks for something that I can't even re-pronounce, let alone type.

Well, two is my limit. Before a third person appears and causes me to lose my religion, I interpose my body in such a way that no one puts anything up on the counter again unless we hit the streets like the Sharks and the Jets, and I pin the clerk with my eyes. In them he may read at his leisure, "I'M NEXT DUDE. WTF." And I purchase my items, and I book out, seriously considering the three-block walk next time.

I mean, really. Culture, smulture. I thought manners were a Universal language.

It Stirs Itself

I did this because I remembered my camera in my pocket. Forgetting it would have \been difficult since I had to sign it in at the courthouse. Yeah, you know...the courthouse where I had to appear today because the people who evicted me in 2005 sued me to get the back rent. Oh didn't I tell you? Forgetful me!

Have you ever heard of such insult to injury?

Yeah. Some damn collection agency took over this debt (and probably thousands of others) and decided to sue me to get an income this year. The original landlords are probably not even living in America anymore. S.O.B's. In fact the judge himself said that usually landlords don't pursue the renters after they'd been kicked out. Lucky me. So all the money I thought I no longer had to worry about, I now have agreed in court to start paying back in January of 2009. It'll take me 18 months. And hopefully, by January 2009, I'll no longer have a car to pay for, nor insurance to pay for said car. That'd give me back 700 a month, easily.

Yeah, fate or karma or God or The Devil--I'm taking this one with me as a lesson I will learn and rise above. My interview is just a weekend and some days away. I will get this job. I will sell this car and get rid of this car loan. I will keep saving money no matter who I have to pay off. I will get my own apartment. I will be single, sexy, and free in NYC.

Try and stop me.

Oops I Did It Again

Entry for Wednesday 19th, 2008

On my way from a very good few sessions last night, I found myself in the middle of Times Square. I was heading to pick up my comics since I was done earlier than I usually do. and I thought, "this shouldn't be taken for granted."

So I photographed it for you.

Always you.

One Minute I Held The Key ...

...next the walls were closed on me
And I discovered that my castles stand
Upon pillars of salt, pillars of sand.

I mean, I'm okay now, but today I tripped a little into some sloshy emo territory. again, I dunno why. Except something very notable happened. I purposed to have barbeque today before I sequestered myself in my room. At the 125th subway station, I saw a developmentally disabled boy who I've seen on the "1" train before. He appears in his early twenties, afro often uncombed, and on the train he often stands up looking out of the windows. He sways back and forth as though he were blind--like Stevie Wonder at the piano. His fingers are often splayed at odd angles, fiddling with the opposite palm with unfocused preoccupation. And it's clear to me, he's getting a thrill from the ride. What I don't know is if he's just riding for riding's sake, or if he's going somewhere specific.

Today at the station, just as someone jumped the turnstile (yes, this was theft and if the rapscallion were caught by a policeman, he'd have been fined $500 dollars) I saw the boy rocking in the station "lobby". He wasn't looking at me--he doesn't do that. He doesn't make eye contact with anyone. But then I heard him clear as day saying, "Train fare so I can get home?"

Yes, he was panhandling. And panhandlers turn me right off. I just can't do it. Too many scam artists out there just making a living off scavenging people's compassion. And I hate to be suckered. But this boy was the real thing. I knew this because I had seen him before. I'm sure he wanted no more than to get on the subway. No money--just a ride. Unfortunately I had expended my last 2.00 on the farecard in order to get to this station. But I could easily replenish it for him--and when I purposed to do so, he had dashed away down the staircase out the opposite side of the station (it's an elevated platform over the street. Pictures forthcoming...) He was gone. I saw him across the street, but I couldn't go looking for him. And because I'd seen him before, I knew he'd get back on the train eventually, just as he'd done before.

But something about the fact that he was able to speak--and he was using his ability to ask for people's mercy--and that people weren't giving it, or he couldn't focus long enough to take it just then--something about that really got to me.

Plus, I'm reading "The Time Traveller's Wife" still, and I'm at the part where they'd been married and the wife, after waiting so long for the wedding that he's told her about since she was 12, is learning to cope with her husband's vanishings, and being left alone.

That's what it was. It was the boy's aloneness. He was there in the station alone. He had no one travelling with him. He had no one to pay his way onto the train. He needed a friend. And I knew the feeling.

So alone, I walked to Dinosaur BQ and alone I took a table from a very attractive waitress. And alone I watched large parties of families with kids and couples having a Saturday treat. and alone I ate my ribs. And alone I tipped and left the restaurant. And alone I took out my camera and started taking pictures because I wanted to share the day with someone

---and that someone is you.

Always you.


The 125th St Elevated Subway Station

The View From the Station, Looking West Towards The Hudson River

Close-Up To The World's Famous Cotton Club
After eating my lunch I go back to the station, but I have drifting on my mind. So I walk up Broadway to the south. After climbing the hill, I look back north up Broadway.

Looking North

The First Building of Columbia University

Travelling Southward The Next Building on the West Side is Union Theological Seminary


Continuing South
Next up, Barnard College

These buildings are all on Columbia University's campus. As are, as you can imagine, several thousand college-aged students. When I looked up suddenly was Joe and Johnny College flip-flopping their wonderful way through life. They couldn't wait for an opportunity to bare them feet. Evidently.

After making it past Stud 1 and Stud 2, The Perfect Couple met me at the corner as they came up from Riverside Drive and I continued south of Broadway. I wanted to push them over into the shrubbery.

Eventually I stopped at 110th & Broadway and sat myself on a fire hydrant. I settled down for some self-flagellation to watch the dozens of families crossing the street. Fathers with their children. Husbands with their wives.

But one father and his two daughters stuck out to me. He looked like such a gentle soul while living in the body of a rugby footballer.

He crossed to where I was sitting and rounded past to go towards Riverside behind me. I couldn't hate on him. He was the most inspiration I received today. He was more than a concept. He was real. as were his girls. He smiled like a young Santa Clause to his youngest in the cradle as he zipped her up against the wind off the river.

I was going to go down to karaoke to sing alone, but decided that I'd had enough melancholy for the day. Instead I'd rather home and be productive. So here's my entry for the day.

Tomorrow back to work. Goodbye weekend. Hello mad dash through another week. But at least there will be clients. By the way, I left a message at the phone number of the guy who offered me the part-time full-pay Manhattan position. I received no reply.

Charlie Brown: "I got a rock."

Peaceful, Easy Feelin'

I went to Central Park today to Sheep's Meadow (where my geek buddy holds his Sunday get togethers) and I laid me down and went to sleep. I was alone with nowhere special to go. I had "The Time Traveller's Wife" with me and I planned on going to the gym, but the week had caught up to me and the weather was balmy. So I found a landing of stone under the canopy of a tree copse and skygazed. One of the gently falling leaves came directly to my outstretched hand and I caught it. I poised my camera to film the next one's descent, but the magic would not duplicate. However, I snapped a pic of the world from my view.


Looking up into the turning leaves put my mind back to days that I can't even say I remember well, but I remember how I felt in them. It was the elementary school I attended in NYC, in the days before my mother came and uprooted me to Spring Valley. A "P.S. one thirty-something" or possibly not triple-digited at all. I can't remember names or faces, but I remember the school's backyard and the canopy of Fall leaves over us. I remember feeling like the world was so so big, outside of the fences that held us in. I remember feeling like I was longing to go somewhere without knowing the destination. I remember the smell of the air. I remember knowing that the evening was coming in shards of orange and yellow, and tree bark patchy like a jigsaw puzzle in dark browns and tans. I remember that if a song was playing, the tempo would be slow on a saxophone and perhaps with a dusting of cymbals. I remember feeling like I wanted to cry, even if there was no reason to.

All that I felt again today, and more.

I felt like if I turned my head just so, while laying on my rock, I'd see Ned laying not too far away from me. Maybe within an arm's span. And he too would be looking up at the leaves. And we'd talk, him and I. About everything. We'd be Charlie Brown and Linus, putting the world's ills to rest. Shades would come to our rock while Humanling flew a kite nearby, and would plant a kiss on his lips. While she settled into the crook of his arm, Grizz would come from the snack hut on the other side of the fence with our hot dogs. Madly overpriced, but our combined income makes it possible to indulge ourselves every once in a while. She helps me up and dusts me off and I hold the food. Ned wants one, but Shades is lovingly scolding him for not looking in the picnic basket that she's brought with them.

But there was no Ned, no Shades, and no Grizzbabe. It was just me. So I rolled onto my side and I went to sleep. I reserved waking as a likely but not too terribly desired option. Insert randomly heartbreaking video here;

I wish I were the kitten.

A Surprise Festival

Last night after I was done with my clients, I found myself loose on the town. I was feeling good. I had done good work. I often think I do, but lately the director of the center has been scrutinizing why I've had so many cancellations over the past couple of weeks.

"More than anyone else," he said.

Mind you, they were cancellations--not terminations. Some of my clients taking the night off for one reason or another. For me, when they cancel, I get the night off too. Feels good to me. But to the director, it's lost income. And yea, I lose income too--but I have a day job. The night therapy cases are extra income.

It'd be nice if the director didn't try to make me feel as though I was doing something wrong--"losing them," as he likes to put it. Not to mention going on at length about how the clients leave my services when they get the sense that I'm not helping them, but use excuses because they can't actually tell me that they want out. (Except I did have a client who told me that exact thing. The sessions were terminated with no malice at all. I understand that I'm not the right therapist for EVERYONE. But for the ones who keep me--have kept me for months now--I'm useful. Helpful, even.)

But now that I'm removed from the emotions of our disagreeable phone conversation by some days and a bunch of co-opted Chipotle utensils later, I can see it for what it is. He wants to make money so he wants to motivate me to minimize (well, actually, the way he puts it, STOP ALTOGETHER) the cancellations. But I don't like his style of criticism. He's not the man I thought he was. I don't know what his true motives are, but I don't like his delivery. It feels wrong. He feels wrong.

Anyway, all this was going through my head, along with the successful sessions I had experienced that day. All three clients, (two of them I've been seeing for 4 months or more) reflecting the changes they've been making in their lives for the better. Changes that I've helped them with. Changes that I just knew they were capable of with enough encouragement and enough opportunity & space for thought. Changes that made me feel like a worthwhile human on planet Earth, even though I walk around alone with a rucksack full of my own unfulfilled dreams and personal life goals. I'm telling you, helping other people--it's where it's at, man. I think it's what we're all alive for.

ANYWAY anyway, I didn't want to go home because it was Hallowe'en, and I didn't want to have to kill somebody's children after having such a good day. Yes, repeated ringing of our WWII-era doorbell will make me psychotic. Don't ask. So I purposed to catch up on my promise to Ned by going to get "The Time Traveller's Wife," from B&N, and then holing up somewhere quiet and latte-driven to start reading it when I discovered something wonderful along the way;





On All Hallow's Eve, in NYC, in Greenwich Village, straight up the center of my old haunts (5th Ave, 6th Avenue, from around 14th street and southward) the freaks come out at night! In the Village, Hallowe'en Night is like Mardi Gras! I knew they had a parade, but my deviant mind thought it was like a drag queen affair. Stereotype Greenwich Village much, Alan? For shame!! It was like a big comicbook convention only with the entire neighborhood!! And throw in the bored, pleasure-seeking students from NYU on a surprising 60-degree night, and you've got PARTY. Streets blocked off in rapid succession. Real cops taking pictures with costumers.

My Hero would have loved this!!

Anywaying the anyway's anyway--welcome to my first post of November. They won't all be this long.

Nick & Nora's Excellent Adventure

So yesterday I had an appointment with a movie. Over at Geek Central there's a subforum where the NY geeks shout out to one another and occasionally set up a meeting or two. Earlier this week, a few of the gang set up a gathering for "Nick & Nora's Infinite Playlist," which was a novel I had never read. But it starred Michael Cera, and it appeared to be a movie along the lines of "Juno", which I loved. These are movies about emo, angsty white late-teens in today's most excellent, effed-up society. (You gotta love the white people, which I totally do, as you all well know.)

Well, the appointment was set at the Union Square Regal Cinema, just south of Union Square park, where the emo, angsty white late-teens and early twentysomethings hang out skateboarding and lounging in an "Urban Living Room" which was a couch and a Twister board set on the concrete in the park. There were scores of them piled on top of one another. Oh those crazy kids.

Being that I got there mad-early because I wanted out of the house to capitalize on my one day off, I bought my ticket and went on the wander. I headed further south from the theater down Broadway, meandering. Went back to my old street, 8th, where I used to work at the Starbucks which no longer exists. I reminisced about the Gray's Papaya westward on 8th St at 6th Avenue but decided instead to go east where 8th St. would turn into St. Mark's Place. That's where the karaoke bar is that I like to rent a room and warble, and I had thoughts to do so, but I was craving sweets instead. So I went through St. Mark's instead of into it, and landed on 2nd Avenue, hunting sweets. I needed to hit up a Bank of Solvency...I mean, of America to get some cash in my pocket, and saw the oddest sight. An apartment over a corner deli/convenience store with huge storeroom windows. It had an attempt at curtains, but mostly was exposed. And although it was broad daylight, I saw a shirtless man walking around up there.

And here we go.

I mean, the man was good-looking. Trim with enough muscle to carry him. No handlebars, muffintops, or Pillsbury dough in sight. Dark hair accentuating his abdomen definition and giving his pecs a broad, superhero, pen-and-ink pattern.

And so my mind returns to it's haunting grounds. Dozens upon dozens of beautiful women singletons passing me on the sidewalks of New York on a chilly Saturday afternoon, and the most notable attraction I experienced was the shirtless Italian-type fitness model dude.

I'm just so gay.

So what am I doing and what do I want?

I want to fit into the society at large. I don't want to be a subset of a subset of a section of a subset of the population. I don't want to explain a "boyfriend". I want to be accepted, not just tolerated. Never wanted that. Ever.

Now here's irony. Two of the guys I went to see "Nick & Nora's ..." with are gay (not unlike the characters actually IN the movie). Out, openly, unequivocally vocally homosexual. This I learned at Geek Central, by their own posts. Neither of them "trips my trigger," so I am more inclined to hang out with them because they like what I like. Movies like "Nick & Nora's..." for instance. And comicbooks, for another instance. So I respond to gatherings when they put them out. And all the while I know that possibly the only difference between myself and them is 1) experience, 2) self-acceptance, and 3) a sad depletion of melanin (but we'll allow for that. They can't all be Black Like Me).

So why haven't I told them about my Time On Planet Earth? Why haven't I soul-shared? I'll tell you why. To share it with gay people I "know," as opposed to gay people I blogread, is like making a declaration that I'm not prepared to make. I can write about it, diary-like, but I can't say it out loud (too often, anyway). Because still, I don't want to be gay. Is that so hard to understand?! And who am I trying to convince?! Am I yelling?! I don't mean to be yelling!!

Well guess what I discovered last night. One of the two gay guys? Used to be a pastor of a church. Actually of two churches. For SEVEN years. So, yeah. He's not a pastor now. He doesn't even largely resemble a pastor, in fact. In fact-fact, I had no earthly idea. He's as angsty, suggestive, funny, and profane as they come (no pun intended). In the few times I've hung out with him, I've heard him represent his outness with candid little details about his what trips his trigger. Now, while it isn't clear to me if he has had a prior relationship with the other gay guy in the party, I have eavesdropped on their conversations enough to know that they share intimate details about guys. And it was those graphic and humorous details that never indicated in the slightest that this man had clergical service in his history, let alone seven whole years of it.

So now this guy is a fountain of information for me, right? A veritable Fort Knox of sexuality. So do I spill? Do I drop at his feet in an eruption of unburdening? Nooooooooooo, not me. Last night I drug out most of the details of his experience, and kept mum about most of my own. Oh, I told him about my years in Bible school and where I split from the doctrine as it became evident to me that my black face wasn't going to fit in their conception of the family portraits--but did I tell him a nagging feeling that dudes rock has derailed the consummation of every female relationship I've ever had? That religion was the perfect fallout shelter from the nuclear storm of adolescent sex at age 16 until ... well, now?

No I do not. Becaue I do not want to identify myself as such. I do not want to make the leap into lifestyle. I do not want him to begin equipping me in the war, supplying my front lines, or breaking down my defenses for that matter. I don't want a gateway in, I want a gateway out.

That's what I want. I want not to.

Meanwhile, most of the places I visited yesterday before the rendevous to the movie? The reason why I detailed my travelogue at the start of this post? They were IN the movie. It was the most surreal, funky cool, badass experience I've had in a movie theatre since watching The Dark Knight in Imax while sitting next to my own personal real-life superhero.

If you want the visuals to my city experience yesterday, I urge you to run, don't walk, to watch "Nick & Nora's Infinite Playlist." The church where Nick gets menaced by homoerotic homeless was three blocks south of the theatre on Broadway where we were watching the movie. The nature of these fellow geeks allowed for going to those locations after the movie to squee and giggle. We went to eat at the restaurant, in fact, where a poignant pairing of Nick & Nora occured, Veselka (I called Childhood Bud from there because when he used to live in Brooklyn and we used to play D&D at the Geeknasium he took me there one night when I drove him home. We're trendy like that. And I just found the coolest-ass html-map of 8th Street that I've ever found. Go here. Oddly, the karaoke bar is missing from the map, but if you scroll down the page into the first St mark's Place block, on the right, just above the "St. Mark's Comics" link is where the karaoke bar should be located).

Anyway, so I have a new resource that I can use if I ever decide to declare myself openly homosexual, I mean in the real world. I have an option. And I don't want it. It's clear to me that I don't. It's as clear to me as it's clear to Ned that his relationship with SF is over. And I wish that could be the end of it. I swear I do.

Until the next shirtless dude struts by. And then what?

And this is why I feel like I'll never be with anyone ever. This is why I can eternally encourage love between men and women, and revel in the successful pairings, and mourn the unsuccessful ones, but never enjoy one myself. Destined to live vicariously. Folded on the inside.

And sometimes, it doesn't feel like a life worth living. It feels like living death. It feels like I'm inside a dead body, looking at life through the film formed over dead eyes. Sometimes.

And sometimes, like now before I've started my workday here in Edison, NJ on a Sunday near-noon, I have to blog for two hours before earning my salary because I couldn't take my day seruiously without processing this. Because when you're the living dead, facing the 44th year on Planet Earth without a pulse, you don't really give much of a damn if you're stealing the company's money by blogging instead of working.

And really, that's all I wanted to say today. Well, that and "Oh Don Piaaaaaaaaaaaaano."

Comments welcomed.

The Difference A Day Makes

Yesterday I played hooky and almost paid for it with my life.

So yesterday I woke up late. After Friday and Saturday of roleplaying games, I was supposed to get up early Sunday AM, get to the mid-Jersey site by 8ish or 9ish, and join them in a walk-a-thon. But on Saturday a confluence of events happened; mostly Grim Jester did the pool thing again for the girl host of our Saturday get-togethers, which means he was in swim trunks before I got there, but when I did arrive, he was in her shower. They like to have me jump to conclusions, but this time I didn't take the bait. Either they are or aren't. So what if Grim is hot. On my laconic way driving up to Westchester, I had eaten three cupcakes piled high with buttercream icing. I had already lost my trim midsection gained a few weeks ago. And I was never going to get laid. So what if Grim is bumping his manlies with out host? So what? Then later on either all the buttercream, or the dicey dim sum we ordered from the Chinese restaurant, forced me to admit to my peers later in the night that I was entering a battle vs. explosive Hershey(TM) squirts. Then, that night (morning, really), when I finally got home, I had to park West of Broadway. Which meant I'd have to go on a safari the next morning to retrieve the car.

So when I woke up late for Sunday work, I had no inclination to limp into the day. Not when the day had promised to be so incredibly beautiful. It was Sunday, dammit! I needed my space!

So I put on my gym togs and packed a change of clothes for after the gym when my Friday night DnD pal (through which I could have pursued Irish Girl) texted me and invited me out to Central Park again for another afternoon of frolic and fun. Would Irish Girl be there? Maybe! But I decided not to ask him, lest I convince myself not to go.

So I copied Day One of a stunning muscle-building routine from the first (okay, second) muscle mag that I've bought in five years (such ridiculously attractive men in those effing things that it's crazy) and took it to the gym. I successfully fulfilled the routine and felt hella good afterwards. I had eaten the right breakfast and was planning the correct after-workout meal as I left the gym. My DnD buddy texted to say he and his fiancee were running late (she's not that big of a gamer, by the way--so yeah, I see her as Yoko) and as I'm texting him back I look up to see there's a Suburban backing up laterally along the sidewalk towards me. Apparently, someone blocked him in, or blocked off an available parking space by double-parking in the street, so Suburban Man decided to ride the sidewalk to get where he wanted to go. Well, he was going slow enough for me to step back against the wall, leaving some belly room for him to pass.

Which he does, until the passenger-side rear view mirror reaches me. At that point he decides to angle his drivers' side rear to the street, which physics being what they are, turned his passengers' side front towards me. The rearview mirror missed my head, but the truck and tire didn't miss my body. The vehicle, now angling, presses into me and pushed me up against the wall. And while I'm thinking "What?!" the passengers' side front tire mounts my left foot, ever so gently, having somehow missed my right foot. At that point the man stopped--not because he was crushing me, but because he was still looking over his shoulder to see what to do with this truck and how to get it back into the street (where it belongs, btw).

Before he accelerated again, completing my grisly death, I slammed his hood with my free hand (not the one holding my phone mid-texting) and finally getting his attention, I jerked my thumb into the direction he should drive to save my life rather than end it. Fortunately, he didn't panic, and shifted into forward, and rolled off me.

In retrospect, I was in shock. Because I finished my text message to my DnD buddy and walked up the block to get my protein shake from Starbucks, testing out the flattened foot & toe. (Ironic I have to talk about these bodyparts of mine now, isn't it?) There was no pain. I didn't want to look, but there was no pain. There was sensation--not a nerve-destroyed numbness. I had been aware of the pressure of the tire on my foot, and the fact that it had rolled on me enough to prevent me from jerking my foot loose, but there had been no pain. So after I got my drink and headed back up the block towards to Park to the rendevous.

And there was the Suburban and the driver, completing his parking job into the street from the sidewalk.

And suddenly I realized--that parking spot wasn't worth my life. This man needed to answer to that. So I stood there waiting for him to finish his parking and just watched him.

When he finally stopped, he rolls his window down, recognizing me, and begins to sputter apologies. They are, of course, not enough. The man could have killed me. Slowly. Painfully. Crushed the life out of me in a true gory "Final Destination" way. Blood pooling out of my mouth as the Suburban compacted my vertebrae into my lungs and heart against the brick wall. But God damn this cursed world, I wanted his apology. I stepped to him and asked him if he did that as a regular course of action--just run people over? His apologies devolved into self-debasing, ill-worded assurances that he was a good guy and he never did anything like that and how scared he was. (Didn't stop him from getting the parking spot he wanted, though, I should like to add.)

And then I let it go. I was fine. I told him so. (No, I'm not interested in trying to sue him for any money that I won't see until WAY AFTER I've already met my own financial goals anyway. This litigious society can kiss my ass.) But I insisted to him that he try to have a better day, and implicit in my tone was every bit of "and try not to run anyone else down today, you utter and complete asshole," because that's what I was feeling and I let it soak my voice. But there was no need to say it aloud. Because he was remorseful enough.

But I guarantee you. And this I coldly know, just as I know I am moderately intelligent and possess some writing skill--if that man had not apologized to me yesterday, I would have been in my first physical fight since 7th grade. Because you are not just going to run over me, you stupid son of a bitch. F*ck YOU.

Okay. Got that off my chest, like I did the Suburban. (Don't think for a second that I didn't entertain the possibility that I was like Bruce Willis in "Unbreakable". Why didn't that Suburban do more damage to me? I'm not even sore today. No foot pain or damaged big toe. Take THAT!)

Anyway, the outing was great with my DnD friend and his pals and his fiancee. Like with DnD'ers, I love hanging out with people who give good verb. Language is a joy to hear when its done right, and these folks had good food and lyric.

And Sheep's Meadow is a total meat market. And so, I share my pics with you in celebration of life. In addition, I'm back on my diet. I'm going to go topless with pride by next summer. (If you can, click on the pics and hopefully you'll see some of the detail that I saw. Hubba hubba. It was like a beach for models, only with no ocean.)

Early Saturday Morning, after Fri Night D&D

On the way to the train, crossing 5th Avenue...

I know, right?!

Well... Wow.

I mean ... I never thought I'd have this reaction. But I guess I kind of feel bad for some of these folks. Again, it has to be from the intersection I've been experiencing of late with these unbelievably monied people.

This story indicates that the money manufacturing Lehman Brothers (no, I really, literally don't know what they do, except make lots of money for some of its' employees) did not get the bail-out that many of us cynical and jaded onlookers expected them to get. so the following happened;

Employees emerging from Lehman's headquarters near the heart of Times Square Sunday night carried boxes, tote bags and duffel bags, rolling suitcases, framed artwork and spare umbrellas. Many were emblazoned with the Lehman Brothers name. Its businesses in Britain were placed in administration Monday, said the administrator, accounting firm PricewaterhouseCoopers, and employees carrying boxes and bags were walking out of Lehman's London offices.

TV trucks lined Seventh Avenue opposite the building, while barricades at the building's main entrance attempted to keep workers and onlookers from gumming up the steady flow of pedestrians flowing in and out of Times Square.

Some workers had moist eyes while a few others wept and shared hugs. Most who left the building quietly declined interviews.

People snapped pictures with cameras and their phones. Observers pressed up against a police barricade drew the ire of one man who emerged from the building and shouted: "Are you enjoying watching this? You think this is funny?"

See, all you had to do was put a human face on this, and I'm affected. Never mind that this human face was probably attached to a guy who, so high above me in economic strata he may have been that he couldn't give less than his wife's poodle's crap (that she didn't pick up while walking it as per NYC law) about me and my life (which, btw, is why I won't be owning a dog in NYC any time soon). The fall of any human is hard to watch. That's why I also don't engage in the skullduggery on Sarah Palin, or in most politics. Okay, all politics. People are people. No matter who they are, they deserve to keep their pride and dignity. Except of course if they're filming themselves having sex, because shucks, now they're just GIVING it away like Crazy Eddie.

Just last night I was sitting in a posh eatery in my neighborhood, waiting for my Chicken Caesar salad-to-go, with dressing on the side, watching the posh eaters having their Sunday evening, last-social-gathering-of-the-weekend conversations. See, my neighborhood, Inwood, has a rather stark geological/economic divide. Broadway is like the rear eastern border of the expensive co-ops of the affluent.

The streets there are clean and the buildings have decor and lobbies. This I know because my first exposure to Inwood was through a guy who lived in this section.

I say Broadway is the "rear border" because literally, the co-ops and buildings which cost good money to have face west. They face Jersey and the Inwood Hill Park. Their backs are to us who are east of Broadway. However, the bus stops, train stations (the 1 and the A) and all the fancies eateries are on or a block from Broadway.


So they have to =literally= descend their multi-tiered stone staircase to join us at times.


And last night, I found myself feeling slightly resentful. Clearly, one half of the dining quartet was an early thirties (if not late twenties) pair of successful, self-possessed, driven yuppies elaborating about their importance in the world. I didn't outright hate them, but I did think of The Grim Jester who does, which is why he psychotically avoids Manhattan and thus avoids me.

But then I awoke to this Lehman Brothers story and I find compassion again.

Welcome to the other side of Broadway folks. I'll spring for a sandwich when your trust funds run out.

That didn't sound as compassionate as I originally intended it to be.

Just....WHY?

Now, I ask you. Was this necessary? No, not 'was it necessary to take this picture?' because yes, it was. I had to! I couldn't let this perfectly illustrated reason for my protest of flip-flops to go by unexploited! Why should I and the citizens of the 1 train suffer alone?!

So...how does a man get to the level of either apathy or self-actualization to bare feet like these?

And you should thank the god you pray to that my stealthy picture-taking skills were not good enough to get the clear details of those nails.

*shudder*

The Thing I Didn't Tell About...

...so, on Labor Day, I got a surprising invite from one of my NYC DnD-playing buddies, who has been absent for weeks because he's learning the language of his new fiancee's homeland. This love stuff. Oi what it can make you do.

He invited me to a frisbee-throwing leisure event at Sheep's Meadow, which is this big lawn in Central Park where the sunbathers worship Sol for every ounce of carcinoma they can sacrifice. I've never been attracted in the least bit, except for all the gorgeous bodies awash in tanning lotion, which can number in the hundreds on a weekend. It's like Manhattan's equivalent of a beach.

So I met him first, and then these other people from other walks of his life. Two guys and a girl. The guys were endearingly average. Good senses of humor, pot bellies, non DnD players, NYC professionals living on the island, awkwardly still single, good $$ earners. Then comes the girl.

The girl is Irish. Like my friend who invited me. The girl has brunette hair and blue eyes. The girl has an Irish brogue. The girl is captivating to me. So there's the five of us on a blanket, awash in athletic men and women and I'm talking to the Irish Girl. Learning her profession and she's learning mine. And I distinctly feel an exclusivity going on. Out of the five people on this blanket, three of us guys are single, two of which are white and one of which is also Irish (only Americanized, third generational). But here we are, me and her, chatting up a storm.

The other two already know her, and so I see they didn't need to jump into the convo, but I still felt awkward, so I applied the brakes and addressed them as I had done before she arrived fashionably late. However, they went scarpering off to some event, leaving the party planner, me and the Irish Girl behind.

Cutting to the chase is that I enjoyed the Irish Girl. When, however, we three got up to leave I went utterly superficial. She was a bit taller than me. Slumped a bit. She walked like a rugby player. But then, as opposed to the greeting (a nice safe handshake) she hugged me goodbye. And when I said, "we have to get together another time!" she responded "Definitely!"

Well, before I blogged about it, I texted the party planner and asked him if Irish Girl was single. And he said yes, and did I detect a vibe? And I said I thought so, and was I being foolish? And he responding aren't we all, and how did I want to arrange this.

And I froze up. But I did tell him that I had to consult my advisors.

Yeah, that's you guys.

The Party Planner knows nothing of all this bisexuality going on up in here. With him and the other gang, I play a 12th level wizard with high stats in Strength, Dexerity, and constitution. That means he's a hunk. So I play him like one. Like a arrogant, powerful, exhibitionist wizard. I have him doing calisthenics in only a loincloth in the AMs when we travel. The DM has seen fit to pander to my posturing by having a longterm woman enter the campaign and allow my character to get shtupped on the regular (until he threw a massive spanner into the gears, as DMs are wont to do). But the point is, I roleplayed a very masculine guy, and entered the shoes of the kind of person I wanted to be, and had/have a great time doing it.

So the Party Planner has that kind of general impression of me (because I am a bit hunkish, if I do say so myself, and Party Planner said I have a great voice). And in the back of my mind, I think he may have even set up the meeting for the sake of his single Irish friend and I bit in, hook and line, with the sinker trailing closely along my flank as I try swimming for safer waters. So possibly this girl might have been sold a bill of goods fraudulently.

And my Tribe, I know what you're already going to say, and I love you for it.

But tell me anyway.

To date or not to date?

In Praise Of Women

So here I am at work on a Sunday, with a laptop and a live wireless connection. So why on earth would I be working? I've made hours and hours of quality client contact today while trading blog I.M's with my tribesman Ned (I was sitting in the midst of my clients, watching Ratatouille while I was talking to you, Ned).

And now I've driven an hour to another site and doing my last client contact for the day. I have no midtown clients on the weekends, so tonight is mine. Woo hoo. To do what? Whatever it'll be, it'll be alone.

But here at this other site, a fetching little lady breezed through here a minute or so ago and wished me a happy holiday tomorrow. And was it the meds, or was it Ned, or was it my constantly regenerating intolerance for lonely that pressed me to ask her what she was going to do for her holiday.

There is such magic in the transaction between man and woman. Me plying and prodding into her life. Her responses, some coy, some not. Uncovering her interests layer by layer and discovering, like favorite chocolates, the things we have in common. She loves Manhattan, she said. She likes the area down by W. 11th. St. (That's the West Village and the Meat-Packing district, where I was a few avenues away from yesterday as I got my shrimp from "A Salt & Battery" and ate them in the park across from Magnolia's Bakery on Bleecker St.) And were I an average citizen of the Testosterone Brigade, I'd have totally said, "We should hang out sometime! I was just down there yesterday!" Gotten her number and placed it in my little black book.

But I look at her, her soft eyes and concave teeth (yes, like the kind that has a natural almond-shaped space as though she'd been a late-age thumbsucker) and I avoid further conversation other than "have a great holdiay." When she asks the same of me, I stay non-committal. I do not volunteer a tenth of the same information to her as she did for me. I tell her my plans, which are to do nothing tomorrow. Not. A. Thing. Except I might to to the gym and run in Central Park. I'm still 10lbs. lighter than I was last month and I still have 20 to go. But I didn't tell her that. I didn't even tell her that I live on the island that she loves.

Because I think this precious lady co-worker of mine doesn't need a case like me all twined up in her heart. Ned's making me--no, not true--Ned's awakening the side of me that doesn't want to hurt my next partner. They see me, an assistant director of some charm with no wedding ring on, salt&pepper sideburns and vandyke, and they wonder if I'd make a good father for their kids. A good lover? A good friend? And the answer would be "Yes. I would."

But would they tolerate the fact that I also think some men are terrific? Why would anyone sane want to take on the challenge of finding out their partner's tolerance level while falling in love with them? Because when it's a matter of "You freak! How could you do this to me?!" screamed at glass-shattering decibels...well you get the point. I'd be a masochist and a sadist rolled into one.

Are there women who would actually dig that? Would they dig it the same way guys would dig having their chick singing "I Kissed A Girl, And I Liked It...!"?

I said I'd try it out on CraigList. I'm lax in doing so. But I do know this. I wouldn't want to live in a world without women.

I love women.

Anyone want to trade places?