So they caught Eric Rudolph, the man who bombed the Olympics, a gay nightclub and a family planning clinic.

Given the current administration, I imagine he'll get prison time for the Olympic bombing and a grateful handshake from John Ashcroft for the bombings of the clinic and the nightclub.

Okay, the nastiest seach term hit on my site just came in. Someone in Alaska was looking for pictures of Ann Coulter's nipples.

Jesus tap-dancing Christ.

I think I need to take a long, very hot shower. Can't get clean. Can't get clean.

Got busted today by one of my teammates who found my blog while surfing. Hi, Lee. Luckily, the only one of my teammates that I routinely bust on is Brian . . . and he usually deserves it.

Note to self: don't bitch about Lee or Mike now that they know about the site.

Hey, Lee. Since you are sort of a techno guru, can you give me any advice about including pictures in my blog? I'm useless when it comes to such things (I can already hear myself gearing up for my Blanche DuBois impersonation - "I've always depended upon the kindness of strangers," . . . though sadly today if feels more like a Blanche Devereaux . . . actually it feels more like Dorothy Zbornak . . . maybe I'll just sing a chorus of Bosom Buddies . . . now I'm thinking of Peter Scolari . . . aaaaaaaaahhhhhhh, please just stop my brain. Where was I? Oh, yeah) So if you can give me any pointers, I'd appreciate it.

Speaking of the Golden Girls, which one of them would you kill?

I'm curious, let me know who you pick.

Speaking of Peter Scolari, when I was a kid, I had a huge crush on him. I always thought Tom Hanks looked like Stockard Channing on that show. But Peter, yummy. Funny, I always thought he'd be the one with a career. He was so funny. By the time Newhart rolled around . . . well, let's just say I knew that was the beginning of the end for him.

How did I get on that subject? Hell, who cares. No one reads this far into my blog anyway.

Well, I'm off to bed.

Should I be offended that most people visit my site for 0 seconds? They show up, see that the site has nothing to do with Gabriel Byrne or David Byrne, or they see that there are no pictures of Daniel Cudmore (or any other X-Man) naked and then they leave.

No!! Stay!! Read my blog. I'm witty, damn it.

Christie Whitman reads my blog!!!!

Well, okay, probably not her. But someone from the EPA does. First, someone from the EPA reads it. Then the next thing you know, Ari Fleischer will be writing in admitting to having a crush on Daniel Cudmore, too (aren't all White House press secretaries gay?).

I know everyone bitches about this sort of stuff . . . so why should I be any different. I'm on my way into work this morning, late as usual, and I cross 96th to take the stairs into the subway. So there's this 20-something, hippy-wiccan idiot standing on the stairs having an argument with her boyfriend who is standing above her on the other side of the rail. On her left, blocking the rest of the stairwell, is a father and mother deciding if they are going to take the baby out of the stroller or just carry the whole thing down. Meanwhile, there are about 8 of us behind them waiting to go down the stairs.

Now, I feel for the parents because I can only imagine how difficult it is to get around with a kid in this city. But even so, unless this was their first time in New York or using the subway, they should have known that you make the decision about how to go down the stairs before you are actually standing at the stairwell.

Hippy chick . . . I had no sympathy for.

So what did I do? Like any good New Yorker, I gave the kid (and his parents) the benefit of the doubt, shoved the hippy chick into the wall (basically rucking over her like a good little rugger) and said "excuse me" with a little smile on my face.

The great thing . . . the rest of the people behind me did the exact same thing.

While I'm bitching about that, did you see in the Daily News (not quite a newspaper, not quite a tabloid) about the pregnant girl who got a ticket for sitting on the stairs in a subway station. Were you one of the bleeding hearts who said, "Oh, the poor thing. Those brutes. How could they?" Well, I wasn't.

Her excuse . . . the benches in the station were dirty so she sat on the stairs. I'm sorry, what? The bench was dirty so she sat on the bubble gum encrusted, spit soaked, grimy stairs. Sure.

Nope, I don't buy it.

Almost the weekend. Soon Sports Ball will be a distant memory. Woo hoo!! Sure, I've still got 40 tickets or so that I'm probably going to throw away (anyone want one?), but what can you do? I've invited just about everyone I know. Next year, we'll just try to sell fewer tickets.

And by we I mean, anyone other than me. 'Cause I am so not doing this ever again.

Oh, and just because I haven't said it in a while . . . Daniel Cudmore.

Though the joke is beginning to wear thin.

I guess I shouldn't get too drunk on Sunday. I've got meetings on Monday and can't call in sick. Bugger.

The meeting was exactly what I expected it to be, a cluster-fuck. A cluster-fuck with time limits and Robert's Rules of Order, but a cluster-fuck nonetheless. I was the only non-h.o.p. person there and they were talking about shit that didn't concern me. Why was I there then? Well who the fuck knows? I sat around for an hour then excused myself. Luckily, Mike was done working out and I was able to go to dinner with him. After the long day and the bad mood of the last few days, this was a fun light-hearted evening. Exactly what I needed.

I feel a lot better. It was either Mike or the chicken-fried steak. I'm going to give Mike the benefit of the doubt and say it was him. Even if it was the chicken-fried steak, he was the one who suggested it, so he gets the credit for my mood being better.

He and I are supposed to go gallery hoping on Saturday to see the Larry Clark and Pierre et Gilles exhibits. That should be fun. Then we have the Sports Ball on Sunday. I long for that event to be over. I'm waiting for some of my teammates (and I'm not trying to make you guys feel bad, I'm just venting) to step up and help me a little on the sports expo part. I've gotten two guys to agree to set up our table at the expo, but no one has come through with things to put on the table. I'm going to get a jersey and a ball. I wanted to sell t-shirts or raffle them, but the person with the shirts won't respond to my e-mails and the person with the raffle tickets won't either. Well, fuck it. This isn't my job.

Brian, since I know you read this, you now have my undying respect for managing to pull off the auction. I'd have either slashed my wrists or killed someone.

On to the important stuff, it's $25 for an open bar. I plan on getting good and sloppy. If I'm not singing Danny Boy and puking by midnight then the evening will have been a waste.

After a long and grueling day at work, I'm off to "an emergency dance meeting." The Knights are working at this year's post-Pride Pier Dance (we'll be the boys in the coat check). It seems that the people planning the event aren't getting enough support, ticket sales, etc., and are toying with the idea of canceling the event this year. So they've called an emergency meeting of all the people invovled, which unfortunately includes me.

Now, to be completely honest, I don't give a good goddamn whether this event takes place or not. My team is involved in order to make money. We're trying to host next year's Mark Bingham Rugby Cup Tournament and could use the funds. I've never gone to the Pier Dance. I tend to think of the guys that go to such things as E-snarfing circuit queens. Who needs that crowd?

But I'm off to the meeting nevertheless.

Pray for me.

Well, I've been getting more and more hits by people looking for Daniel Cudmore, naked or otherwise. I guess the X-Men movie is doing fairly well then. I can only imagine how many hits I'll get if I start talking (typing) about Ian McKellen, Hugh Jackman, Patrick Stewart, James Marsden and Halle Barry. By the way, guess which one of those five I wouldn't sleep with. The answer may surprise you.

Nah, it probably won't. Whatever.

Back to Daniel, Danny, Dan o' my heart. On the off chance that he ever decides to run a google search for his own name and runs across my blog . . . I have five little words for him.

SEND ME YOUR WORKOUT ROUTINE!

Damn, I want to have that body the next time I step out on the rugby pitch. Mind you, I'd have to grow eight inches (no comments from the peanut gallery) but the bone grafts would be worth it.

And I should amend something. When I called the younger generation a bunch of "mouth-breathing idiots," what I meant to say was "a bunch of Abercrombie-and-Fitch-wearing-poseur-pseudo-intellectual-mouth-breathing idiots."

This is just Crash-speak for "cute guys who won't talk to me in a bar."

Sigh.

So any thoughts on what I can do for a vacation this summer? I was going to go to Hawaii in a couple of weeks, but because of the whole will-I-or-won't-I-get-the-apartment thing, I don't really want to spend the money right now. Another friend said that he'd be going to Prague and a couple of other places in Eastern Europe later in the summer and that I might be able to tag along. This is very appealing. I love the architecture and history. But even more so, I've seen just about every Bel Ami movie and can't help imagining that I'd run into Johan Paulik who, struck by my raw masculinity, would fall madly in love with me. Then I could bring him home and show him off to all my friends (In your face, Fumia!!!!).

Then again, maybe this isn't the best reason to plan a vacation.

My only other vacation plan is a trip down to Atlanta over Labor Day weekend. Now this is a change for me since I normally go to New Orleans for Southern Decadence. (On a side note, last year I went with some of my rugby teammates. I felt like the ugly girl at the dance because they hooked up frequently and, as the Spanish would say, con mucho gusto. Me . . . well, aside from spending about $250 in singles at the Corner Pocket, I got nothing. Though, one of the strippers thought my $15 fake Movado that I got on Canal St. was real and seemed really interested in me after that. Next time I go down there, I'm taking twenty of them with me to hand out to the strippers. Like a horny Santa Claus. But I digress).

The reason for the trip to Atlanta is . . . Dragoncon. Now before you roll your eyes or ask me if I live in my parents' basement (only when I go home to visit), this is not something I would normally do. A friend of mine is an editor at Tor and has to go to Dragoncon for business; he has to go to lots of the Sci-Fi conventions, meet and greet, schmooze authors, etc. So for a lark, he asked if I'd like to come down with him. Mind you, I won't be seeing him much since he has to work, but what the hell. Other than sharing an elevator with two Klingons when I went to a baby shower that was being held at a hotel which was hosting a Star Trek convention, I've never done something like this. I love reading Sci-Fi, have been known to obssesively quote Buffy and Angel, watch many of the Sci-Fi TV shows and movies, and I rarely get laid, so I'll probably fit right in. Damn it.

Speaking of which, I wonder if Klingons are tops or bottoms?

So one of the highlights of going to Dragoncon will be meeting the celebrities. Now I'd go down there just for the chance to meet Ray Bradbury and Anne McCaffrey; I grew up reading their work and the idea of meeting them turns me back into a junior high school kid all over again (only taller and less pimply). But the idea of meeting James Marsters (woof), Noah Hathaway (don't judge me, damn it), Gil Gerard and Erin Gray (okay, you can judge me on this, but I did grow up watching Buck Rogers in the 25th Century, which at the time was the height of coolness . . . hey, they even had Gary Coleman guest-star), gets me all giggly like a little school girl. Or rather like a big, hairy, rugby-playing school girl.

Well, geeky or not, I'm looking forward to this trip.

But Lordy, I wish I were made of money so I could also go to Hawaii. My teammate Austin is going back there to visit family and invited some of us along to hang out with him while he's there. I've heard so many great things about it and I wouldn't have to pay for hotel . . . all in all a great opportunity. But if I get this apartment, I won't have any money left.

Hawaii or getting away from my psycho roommates? I'm going to have to vote for the latter. (And if you're reading my blog, roomies, you're not really psycho, I just am ready to live by myself again).

Okay, now that I've had more time to read the blog I mentioned last night, I have to say that this kid is great. I've really enjoyed the hell out of his writing. And I have to include this link about the Freudian interpretation of Willy Wonka. This is brilliant, scary, and hilarious, though I may never eat chocolate again. And I'll certainly never eat it from a waterfall.

I just went to a blog that almost . . . and that is high praise indeed . . . makes me think that the younger generation isn't made up entirely of mouth-breathing idiots. Check it out. The kid is a pretty amusing writer.

Now, I know you may be saying to yourself, who are you to call someone a mouth-breathing idiot, you Buffy-watching-Daniel-Cudmore-lusting-after-rugby-playing freak.

Well, fuck you.

I'm so ready for this fucking week to be over. I've decided that I really need a vacation. A real, honest-to-God vacation.

Why is it that when I find out a guy is interested in me, I lose all interest in him? Why do I only fall for guys who don't want me? Or worse, with guys who want me as a friend so I can see them day after day and torture myself about what should have been? Why am I still hung up about guys from high school or the one from college who broke my heart over a decade ago?

Christ, what a fucking loser.

And while we're at it, why do I watch those goofy romantic movies where, despite all the obstacles, love always triumphs? Where the geeky guy gets the cool girl? Where the ugly girl becomes beautiful and wins the boy's heart? 'Cause in real life, the geek doesn't get the cool girl. And the ugly girl stays ugly. Sure the geek may end up with the cool girl, but only if he makes a fortune first. And the ugly girl may grow into her looks and become stunning, but not when it counts.

Why am I so maudlin all of the sudden?

My rugby club has been selling tickets to Sports Ball 6, a sports expo/dance party/open bar thing this weekend. We bit off a tad more than we can chew by agreeing to sell 80 tickets. Well, we just went over the break even point so even if we don't sell any more tickets (which I hope we will) we will have made money on the venture. Thank God.

This is so cool. Put in your website and this will spit out a poem randomly generated from stuff on your site.

Mine was:

from your dogtags to go
with Mike
The living
room. You imagine Ann
Coulter having a blast.
I decided to
the train leaves. The holiday schedules are a comment A
good evening out of horoscopes and cute. when
I got to balance the
boyfriend is now
that helps victims of the funding for something
else where = the road of Buffy.

My favorite parts of course are "you imagine Ann Coulter having a blast" (no, I imagine her being sodomized by syphilitic elephants) and the phrase "the road of Buffy." Especially the road of Buffy line which sounds remarkably messianic. Friend, do you walk the road of Buffy? Yea verily, my Lord and that of her Watcher.

I am not a Buffy freak. Shut up, Brian.

Not that anyone seems to be responding to my entries (I know, I know, you're looking for Daniel Cudmore porn and this is merely a diversion keeping you from your true quest), but here is a question. If you were a character on Buffy (sorry, but I watched it last night so it's in my head) which one would you be and why?

Me, I'd have to go with Xander. An ordinary guy surrounded by extraordinary people. Knows he doesn't quite fit in. Always falls for the wrong person. Uses humor to hide self-doubt. Deeply loyal. Yadda, yadda, yadda. So what about you?

And as a little side note, did you know that there are people out there writing Buffy/Xena crossover fanfic? Why, dear God, please tell me why?!?!

So if I understand this correctly, female hormones make people go crazy. And they're just figuring this out now?

For those of you who are coming here from the 646Guy's site, the question of the hour is . . . will our favorite 646 guy finally get something going with the mysterious Wrestler Guy? Or is he doomed to a life of solo blogging? In the words of the old song . . . something's happening here, what it is ain't exactly clear. Maybe a little Greco-Roman (well, maybe just Greco) wrestling in the near future?

And my latest Daniel Cudmore musing . . . I'm betting he was a lock (the ruggers will know what I mean). Mmmmm . . . scrumming with Daniel.

Dinner and all with Mike was a little on the . . . well, dull side. Mostly because of my mood. We went to EJ's for dinner then just hung out at his place. At least I finally got to see the series finale of Buffy. That too was a little disappointing. Why did Anya have to die? Why couldn't it have been Dawn, the Scrappy Doo of the Buffy clan? Whiny, annoying little thing.

I guess my mood hasn't improved any.

By the way, you do realize you can leave me a comment by clicking on the link immediately below each entry, right? If you want to say something about Daniel Cudmore, rugby, the blues, New York, liberals, conservatives, yaks or any other fucking subject under the sun, you can. Do it. Do it now! Obey me!!!!!!

I'm off to Chelsea to dine with Mike. The boyfriend is out of town, so he has time to hang out again.

Not to have this turn into the Daniel Cudmore love fest page, but did I mention that he used to play rugby? Sigh. The perfect man.

So, I now have an even worse "search term" hit. Some one looking for Daniel Cudmore scat porn. The search originated on the German yahoo. Now I don't mean to stereotype, but what is it with Germans and human waste? Whenever I'm in the video store and I notice a video like that, it's invariably German.

Makes me think twice about shaking hands with them.

Not to stereotype . . . like I said.

So it was a good weekend. Watched the Trading Spaces marathon. I'm guessing Doug was an only child. A spoiled only child. A spoiled, evil only child who delights in the pain of others.

Vern, however, is awesome. And cute. And I love that touch of Valley boy in his accent.

I'll have to talk with Mike about signing up for Trading Spaces when I get my new apartment. Knowing full well that he would never do it. And I love my furniture too much to ever allow it to be painted. Ah, well.

Has anyone seen the production of New Boy that was running at the Lion Theater? It's being transferred to the Samuel Beckett and I'd like to go see it (I loved the book . . . not as much as Are You Experienced? but it was still pretty amazing. William Suttcliffe is one hell of a writer, The Love Hexagon excluded). Well, if anyone saw it, let me know how it was.

Okay, I've decided to go visit my mom tomorrow. She's been dropping subtle hints (like, why don't you ever come visit me?) for the last couple of months. I was supposed to go see DanceAfrica at BAM this weekend, but 1) I haven't seen mom in a while, and 2) I was mostly going to go to DanceAfrica so Mike and I could hang out, but that got all fucked up so what's the point? At least the ticket was only $14.

Now I've got to figure out what time the train leaves. The holiday schedules are always difficult to figure out.

Okay, just for giggles I decided to run the same search that the X-Men pervert ran. Daniel . . . Cudmore . . . porn. So mostly I find blogs. One blogger said that he'd just seen the movie and was giving his heart to Daniel Cudmore (back off, bitch, he's mine). But I'm reading the site and it's kinda cool and funny. Then I notice his links. In his archives he has a link to Gay Muscle. Well, there's a rumor that one of my rugby teammates is on that site (captain, my captain . . . you know who I'm talking about); so I decided to see if I could find him. Long story short, I couldn't. However, I did find one of my other teammates. One I really wouldn't have expected to find. One that I will be giving a hard time to later about his ad. Ah, something to look forward to.

Well, I got my first "search term" hit on my site. The person was looking for "daniel cudmore porn." You sick fuck. I can't believe you'd look for something like that.

However, if you find any . . . shoot me an e-mail. Mmmmmmmm . . . Colossus.

I love getting stuff like this in my e-mail. Makes me feel like I'm back at home. For those of you who are wondering, my star sign is Armadillo. I supposed to be looking for another Armadillo or a Possum. Any takers?

Some of us Southerners are pretty skeptical of horoscopes and the people that read them. If we are to ever fully understand all the star signs and the people they represent, we need symbols that all true Southerners understand:

OKRA (Dec 22 - Jan 20) Are tough on the outside but tender on the inside. Okras have tremendous influence. An older Okra can look back over his life and see the seeds of his influence everywhere. You can do something good each day if you try.

CHITLIN (Jan 21 - Feb 19) Chitlins come from humble backgrounds. A Chitlin, however, will make something of himself if he is motivated and has lots of seasoning. In dealing with Chitlins, be careful they may surprise you. They can erupt like Vesuvius. Chitlins are best with Catfish and Okra.

BOLL WEEVIL (Feb 20 - March 20) You have an overwhelming curiosity. You're unsatisfied with the surface of things, and you feel the need to bore deep into the interior of everything. Needless to say, you are very intense and driven as if you had some inner hunger. You love to stay busy and tend to work too much. Nobody in their right mind is going to marry you, so don't worry about it.

MOON PIE (March 21 - April 20) You're the type that spends a lot of time on the front porch. A cinch to recognize the physical appearance of Moon Pies. Big and round are the key words here. You should marry anybody who you can get remotely interested in the idea. It's not going to be easy. You always have a big smile and are happy. This might be the year to think about aerobics. Maybe not.

POSSUM (April 21 - May 21) When confronted with life's difficulties, possums have a marked tendency to withdraw and develop a don't-bother-me-about-it attitude. Sometimes you become so withdrawn, people actually think you're dead. This strategy is probably not psychologically healthy but seems to work for you. You are a rare breed. Most folks love to watch you work and play. You are a night person and mind your own business.

CRAWFISH (May 22 - June 21) Crawfish is a water sign. If you work in an office, you're hanging around the water cooler. Crawfish prefer the beach to the mountains, the pool to the golf course, and the bathtub to the living room. You tend not to be particularly attractive physically, but you have a very, very good head.

COLLARDS (June 22 - July 23) Collards have a genius for communication. They love to get in the melting pot of life and share their essence with the essence of those around them. Collards make good social workers, psychologists, and baseball managers. As far as your personal life goes, if you are Collards, stay away from Crawfish. It just won't work. Save yourself a lot of heartache.

CATFISH (July 24 - Aug 23) Catfish are traditionalists in matters of the heart, although one's whiskers may cause problems for loved ones. You Catfish are never easy people to understand. You run fast. You work and play hard. Even though you prefer the muddy bottoms to the clear surface of life, you are liked by most. Above all else, Catfish should stay away from Moon Pies.

GRITS (Aug 24 - Sept 23) Your highest aim is to be with others like yourself. You like to huddle together with a big crowd of other Grits. You love to travel though, so maybe you should think about joining a club. Where do you like to go? Anywhere they have cheese, gravy, bacon, butter, or eggs and a good time. If you can go somewhere where they have all these things, that serves you well. You are pure in heart.

BOILED PEANUTS (Sept 24 - Oct 23) You have a passionate desire to help your fellow man. Unfortunately, those who know you best, your friends and loved ones, may find that your personality is much too salty, and their criticism will affect you deeply because you are really much softer than you appear. You should go right ahead and marry anybody you want to because in a certain way, yours is a charmed life. On the road of life, you can be sure that people will always pull over and stop for you.

BUTTER BEAN (Oct 24 - Nov 22) Always invite a Butter Bean to a party because Butter Beans get along well with everybody. You, as a Butter Bean, should be proud. You've grown on the vine of life, and you feel at home no matter what the setting. You can sit next to anybody. However, you, too, shouldn't have anything to do with Moon Pies.

ARMADILLO (Nov 23 - Dec 21) You have a tendency to develop a tough exterior, but you are actually quite gentle and kind inside. A good evening for you? Old friends, a fire, some roots, fruit, worms, and insects. You are a throwback. You're not concerned with today's fashions and trends. You're not concerned with anything about today. You're almost prehistoric in your interests and behavior patterns. You probably want to marry another Armadillo, but a Possum is another somewhat unusual mating possibility.

Well, thanks Brian for linking to my site (you bastard). Now I guess all the 646 and Tales freaks (meant in a nice way) will know all about my uniform fetish. Just what I need.

But speaking of uniforms . . . Times Square was just crawling with them today. Woof.

So here are my top five reasons to sleep with Marines:

5) If you don't ask, they don't tell
4) It's so cute when they ask if they can hang up their uniforms instead of just tossing them on the floor
3) Their bodies . . . oh my god, their bodies
2) They're out of here next week
1) Well, duh, they're Marines.

So I got ol' Brian his burger. Or rather I would have if I'd had any bloody money in my wallet. Oh, well. It's the thought that counts. I guess now that people have the potential to read my blog, I should stop posting lots of sexy bits. Or maybe not. After all, it is Fleet Week and there are hundreds of Marines out there for the picking.

Brian is a god. Not a Zeus, mind you. More like a Loki. But he is responsible for the new and improved Crash and Byrne site. Woo hoo!!!! This looks so much better than it used to. Now I owe him a dinner at McHales. The best (and biggest) burgers in midtown.

One more little political thing. Conservatives I like: Bill O'Reilly and William Safire. Though I disagree with a lot of their ideas, I like the fact that they are daring enough to have their own opinions, even when those opinions go against the party lines (look at Safire's op/ed piece for the Times today). Can you imagine Ann Coulter having an original thought in her pretty little head? Hell, no. She's a flying monkey till the end.

A little not-quite-Schoolhouse-Rock for you.

We, the GOP, in order to service the corporations, deny you justice, ensure domestic theocracy, satisfy our imperial bent, gut the funding for Welfare, and secure the profits of liberty for the white Christian majority, do ignore and eviscerate this Constitution of the United States of America.

So I'm walking through Times Square this morning, annoyed because I'm running really, really late for work and it's raining and I was up way too late last night. My basic bad mood. Then as I'm crossing 43rd St. what do I spot in front of me? Three Marines. Young, blond Marines. With pants so tight they look like they spray-painted their legs blue. Then I saw three squids (Navy boys) on a tour bus. And the Navy band set up in front of the ABC studios. What could it all mean?

Yes, that's right boys and boys. It's FLEET WEEK!!!!!!!!

For me, it really isn't spring until the Navy comes back to roost for Memorial Day. Now in a way, spring came early this year because of all the military boys posted in the train stations, carrying their guns and waiting for Al Qaeda to storm the LIRR. Sure they're pretty to look at and they're armed which is kind of a turn on, but that isn't the same as a group of off-the-boat Navy boys looking to drink their asses off and then do a little something else with their asses later in the night. Don't ask, don't tell. Yeah, right.

And to all the military boys reading this blog . . . if you don't want people to know you're in the military, don't wear your dogtags to the sex clubs. Oh, by the way, J's Hangout is closed so you'll want to find somewhere else to hang out this weekend.

I know a really nice spot on the Upper West Side.

Last night I had a "wow am I back in high school?" moment. I went to the Sanctuary for Families benefit (a group that helps victims of domestic violence . . . a truly amazing organization). In addition to the usual awards, speeches, etc., Cyndi Lauper performed a few songs; she is a supporter of SFF. Now I've always liked Cyndi Lauper . . . or at least her music since I don't actually know her. But I'd never heard her sing live. So many performers sound great on their CD's but don't have much voice when they sing live. Cyndi Lauper is not one of those people. If anything, hearing her live brought out so much of the power and nuance in her voice that sometimes gets washed out in a recording studio. She was truly amazing.

And I have to say, the little part of me that is still a 15 year old high school social outcast was so excited to hear her sing and to sit less than 20 feet away from her.

So continuing with the high school theme, the rest of the entertainment for the evening was DJ Grandmaster Flash spinning tunes from my high school and college years (as well as more modern stuff). I wasn't too psyched about this, since I wasn't sure what kind of music it would be and how the crowd would react. Turns out I had a blast. First, as I said this was the music from my salad days; hard to hear that and not be transported back. Second, the crowd, most of whom were my age, just let loose and had fun. Until you've seen a bunch of lawyers and bankers dancing around singing "I'm down with OPP" you really haven't lived. I had fun dancing for a while with some of my peers from other law firms, some of whom can really move.

I was thinking that this was how my high school prom should have been. There was no attitude, no cliques, good music and drinking. Add to that the fact that I was wearing a suit and not a tux, I wasn't freaked out about having to kiss my date goodnight, and I didn't have to tell my parents all about it the next morning.

Well, I suppose going through the whole prom from hell experience makes me appreciate evenings like last night so much better.

Well, I'm sitting here wearing a formerly clean rugby jersey which is now stained with Black Cherry Jello, whipped cream, beer, ketchup and vodka cranberry. Just another evening out with the rugby boys. We had a fund-raiser at the Phoenix tonight. Hey, Brian! Where the fuck were you? Anyway, here are my observations for the evening:

1) I only get play when I'm drunk or the guy is
2) When I get play, I forget to ask what the guy's name is or simply don't remember it
3) When I get play when I'm drunk, I tend to do things in bars that could get me arrested
4) When I'm drunk, I forget about being vegetarian
5) The cheap store-brand whipped cream is really good
6) But it stains
7) I shouldn't lick whipped cream off anyone's crotch, fingers, tongue or other body part when cameras are around
8) Steve is evil or at least a bad influence
9) My teammates seem to have a thing for nipples

I'm sure I'll think of other things later, but I'm still pretty potted, so I'll just leave it be for now.

Now Saturday was something of an adventure. I have this friend called Heather who is an actress, playwright, and all around talented chick. She wrote this amazing one-woman show called After the Storm about her experiences as an officer during Desert Storm (or as it seems to be getting called now, Gulf War I). Well she was recording a CD of army marching cadences and asked her friends to help her out. I said I would because 1) it sounded like a hoot, and 2) I haven't seen her in over a decade, except to see her show and we didn't get to talk to each other. I showed up at 9:45 a.m. (ungodly hour) in Central Park by the Bethesda Angel fountain. And I had a blast. I was great to see her and to meet her friends, especially this really cute guy called Galen. But the actual recording was fun. Tourists kept stopping and filming or taking pictures of us (not that we were doing anything dramatic, just marching in place and singing cadences). We were also recorded by a reporter from National Public Radio, who will be doing a piece about this. That's pretty cool.

It's times like this that I wish I were more involved with theater. I really do miss it. But I really like having a job that pays. How to balance the two? I haven't figured that out yet.

Anyway, I'm still working under the assumption that I'll be getting up to go to the gym tomorrow, so I'd better call it a night.

The latest happening in the apartment saga. I got a call from a representative of the management company asking me to provide my last three paystubs because, and this is what she said, my salary that is listed on the employment letter that my boss wrote (this month) doesn't match the salary on my 2002 Tax Return. So she couldn't understand why my salary in 2002 was different than my salary in 2003.

Well, let's see. Yearly raise, maybe?

Anyway, I don't care if I have to provide DNA samples; if I get this apartment, it will all have been worth it.

Wow. Maybe I shouldn't blog when I'm really drunk and really tired. Oh, well. Live and learn.

Don't you just hate it when you're sitting at the bar, frustrated as hell after having spent the whole night trying to get B. the bartender to take off his underwear, pleasantly flirting with L. the other built-like-a-brick-shithouse bartender, while jerking off a really hot half-naked Asian guy under the bar where no one can see, and you ask the Asian guy if you can bring him off and he replies "not unless you take me somewhere private"? Then you mention the fact that one of the bathrooms has a lock and he says, "I'm not getting off with you unless you take me back to your place or to a hotel" and you can't take him back to your place because you have like 25 roommates most of whom are totally square and your room is a pig sty and you can't take him to a hotel because, and you mean this nicely, for the price of a hotel room, you could afford a Bulgarian guy from Stella's who is hotter and better hung. So you wind up just kissing him goodnight and going home to jack off to internet porn.

Or does that just happen to me?

Arrgghh!!!!! I have got to quit going out with Steve on a weeknight.

Brian, my blogger Yoda, has offered to help me out with my site. Since my computer knowledge is limited to "on" and "off," I can't wait for him to help me out. By the way, Brian, I've put this in writing so now you can't back out.

There is nothing like having to account for my time to make me realize that I have a remarkably boring life. Anyway, this weekend was supposed to be rugby and drinking. Well, I did the drinking part. I just have been in so much pain lately that the idea of rugby (games or practice) makes me cringe. I guess it's time to start seeing the physical therapist again.

So instead of playing rugby, watching my team play and partying with them afterwards, I played hermit in my room. I was supposed to be packing for my (God willing) upcoming move, but in truth I just sat around feeling depressed. I'm sick of the constant fucking pain.

On the upside, I went out with Mike on Saturday night. That lifted the hell out of my spirits. We went of Cuban food at some restaurant on Christopher. Then I dragged him to Marie's Crisis Cafe. I really need to be drunk to enjoy that place 'cause it's kind of creepy when I'm sober. But we had fun goofing on the other customers. Then we stopped at the liquor store and went back to his place to drink and watch TV. Now I know that living in New York, I should be wanting to go to bars, clubs, theaters, etc., but in truth just hanging out with my best friend watching crap on TV (he sat through Dante's Peak which almost evens out his making me sit through O.C. & Stiggs . . . almost) is what I really needed. That and a bottle of decent port. So we hung out until two or so when he finally started to fade (wuss).

Sunday was all about the X-Men, Catherine and Mexican food. Guacamole at Mama Mexico. X-Men . . . mutant hotties (Daniel Cudmore. Colossus. 6'8". 255 lbs. Woof.). And of course the incomparable Catherine. Sadly she is moving to the West Coast as I found out this weekend. Well at least I'll have another reason to go to LA.

Oh, I also saw a guy I used to work with on Malcolm in the Middle last night, an actor out in LA named Paul. A damn good actor, too. Went to Yale's acting program. It's always so odd when I see someone I know on TV. I saw another co-worker on Law & Order a couple of months ago. Of course, this being New York, all of the actors I know have been on L&O at least once.

Well, back to the salt mines. I want to get out of here as close to on-time as possible so I can go out drinking at the Web. Woo hoo!

Well, after listening to all my blogger friends tell me that I needed to set up a site, I finally gave in. One of us . . . one of us . . . gooble gobble, gooble gobble. Pity that I don't have a damn thing to say.