So I was reading this article in the New York Times (the only thing better than doing the crossword puzzle . . . is not doing the crossword puzzle).

Now, I know that this is a serious issue, but I ask you, could you take seriously an organization called the Association of the Living Dead? Really, I mean it.

What's next? The N-double A-LD?

I have this image of zombies in three-piece suits, lurching through the corridors of Congress to lobby their representatives. And if someone turns them down, they'll eat his brains.

From time to time, I like to quote the great philosophers, not only for the general edification of the unwashed masses (i.e. you), but because it somehow fits with the blog entry.

Here is the philosophical quote for this entry:

The venga bus is comin' & everybody's jumpin',
New York to San Francisco,
An intercity disco,
The wheels of steel are turnin' & traffic lights are burnin',
so if you like to party,
Get on and move your body

We like to party
we like, we like to party
We like to party
we like, we like to party
- The Venga Boys

Now I realize this is too deep for many of you. Take a breath. Read through it a couple of times. Enlightenment will come.

In the meantime, here is why this quote is relevant to this post.

Rugby boys are gonna partaaaaaay.

As I may have mentioned (incessantly), I'm on a rugby team. Well, one of the boys on our team is a filmmaker who will be making a documentary . . . you guessed it . . . about our team. In order to do this, he needs money. That's where the party comes in.

This Sunday he'll be having a fund-raising party at Slide. Slide has agreed to donate an open bar from 6-7 p.m. The party will, of course, start earlier and last later than this one hour window, but if you want free booze, you need to be there from 6-7. Yaniv2 (who I've mentioned a few times) is the host of this party. If you meet him, don't refer to him as Yaniv2. That's just my shorthand on this site to distinguish him from Yaniv1, one of my former roommates at the old apartment.

Here is all the relevant info:
Date: Sunday 08/03/03
Time: 05:30-10 pm
Where: The Slide
356 bowery St. (in the basement)
(Between Great Jones & E. 4th St.)
Cover: $10 donation

Come on down and party with the beefy, sexy, rugby boys.

I've gotten a lot of Google hits for people looking for "Daniel Cudmore pictures" and in a couple of cases "Daniel Cudmore gay pictures" (those naughty devils). I can only hope that after weeks without any Daniel Cudmore hits, we've finally entered a Daniel Cudmore Renaissance.

Now if I can only free him from the evil clutches of WeHo Mark, who currently has poor Daniel trapped in his basement (or whatever passes for a basement in California), hoping to brainwash him into thinking he's in love with Mark and not me. Where's the Count of Monte Cristo when you need him?

Danny, don't worry. I'll save you.

Yea! Blogger is finally working again. I had all this stuff I wanted to say, but I've forgotten everything.

Oh, well.

Quote of the Day
Keeping children organized and well behaved in an endless line, in a public place, is like trying to push an elevator button with your flaccid penis.
- Will Leicht

Leicht, in case you're wondering, writes for The Simon. This was the column I took the quote from.

If you go to the website, check out some of his other stuff. He's pretty good.

The Carpenters album is on my CD player.

I think I'm gonna be sad I think it's today, yeah. The boy that's driving me mad is going away

Hearing Karen carpenter singing that is just heartbreaking. Yes, I'm still in a Carpenters mood.

He said that living with me was bringing him down. He would never be free when I was around.

Okay, one little bummer story that this album puts me in mind of, then I'm off to the gym.

Long ago and oh so far away, I fell in love with you

In college I was in love (or rather, in LOVE) with this guy; I'll call him Lee . . . because that was his name. (and yes, I hope he reads this . . . or his wife does . . . and as tempted as I am to give out his last name, I'm not that much of a dick). He was the sun and the moon; everything to me. And he pretty much existed to jerk me around. "I can't do this; I'm straight." But when he had a drink or two, he was in my dormroom. And I could have handled being a fuck buddy. It wasn't my first choice, but I could have dealt with it.

But no, he had to tell me he loved me. He loved me! And that was it, I'd heard the words I'd been absolutely dying to hear for years. And from the guy that I was in love with. It was the happiest moment of my life.

Note the use of the word moment. Because from that point on, my life was miserable. He'd make plans with me and cancel. No call. Nothing. Then a few days later, he'd be back telling me he loved me and he was sorry for being a jerk. Then when we'd be done, he'd be off to his dorm and the same old shit would start right back up. He seemed to take some sort of cruel pleasure telling me about the other girls/guys he was sleeping with.

And I took it. For a year. And would have probably gladly taken it for even longer had I not graduated.

I saw him a few times after that, but it was really awkward. And it was clear that the love, such as it was, was gone and the friendship probably was too.

Don't you remember you told me you loved me, baby?

Then he quit returning my calls, got married and that was that.

What to say to make you come again, come back to me again and play your sad guitar

And part of me still holds a torch.

Talking to myself and feeling old. Sometimes I'd like to quit, nothing ever seems to fit. Hanging around, nothing to do but frown. Rainy days and Mondays always get me down. What I've got they used to call the blues. Nothing is really wrong. Feeling like I don't belong.

And when I get into one of these maudlin moods, nostalgia hits me full force and I'm back in the Lee quagmire.

Funny but it seems I always wind up here with you.

Jesus.

I'll say goodbye to love. No ever cared if I should live or die. Time and time again the chance for love has passed me by and all I know of love is how to live without it. I just can't seem to find it.

Well, if I don't go put on some Britney Spears or something of her ilk, I'm going to slit my wrists.

Hold on.

My loneliness is killing me. I must confess I still believe. When I'm not with you I lose my mind. Give me a sign.

Well, crap. That didn't help at all. It's just a little dancier.

Hit me baby, one more time.

That's it. I'm going to the gym. The techno crap they play doesn't have lyrics.

As I have recently mentioned to MAK, I've decided to try the Atkins diet. Now since I don't really like to eat anything with a central nervous system, I didn't come to this decision lightly.

But I have a number of friends (several guys on the various rugby teams) who have done very well with this diet . . . what the fuck. If I can drop the weight I've gained during the team's off time, I'll be better able to play in the fall (assuming my knees get a little better).

In order to keep myself from cheating too much, I'll be giving little updates on my progress.

Progress today . . . I'm easing into it. No bread, pasta, etc., but I did have some potato chips. Other than that, eggs, meat and a little bit of fruits/veggies. Okay, so I'm not doing the hardcore Atkins stuff yet. Tomorrow it will be a meat and veggie day . . . no fruit, no other high carb stuff.

Blech.

I really would prefer to be on the amphetamine and steroid diet, but my friends yell at me when I suggest this.

Yes, I'm a touch angry.

Well, George W. finally had the balls to say what we've known all along. He's against gay marriage and will do what he can to make sure it's illegal in the United Church of America. I imagine that the only people who are surprised by this turn of events are the Log Cabin Republicans.

Remember, the far right hates us.

Not opposes, not dislikes, not disagrees with . . . hates. With a blind unreasonable fury. And they will do everything they can to ensure that we have no rights. Then no voice. Then no liberties. Then no life.

But don't worry, these are "compassionate conservatives." I'm sure they will give us juice and cookies as they load us on the cattle cars.

There's something about the Carpenters song "Sing" that makes me want to stomp cute, fuzzy little animals.

Though their song "Goodbye to Love" really suits my mood.

From Goodbye to Love:

So I've made my mind up I must live my life alone
And though it's not the easy way
I guess I've always known
I'd say goodbye to love.

All the years of useless search
Have finally reached an end
Loneliness and empty days will be my only friend
From this day love is forgotten
I'll go on as best I can.

At the request of the God of Biscuits (and really, who can say no to a god?), I am posting my own little haiku response to his Haikuesday entry for this week. First, go read his.

Here is my response:

Poor chupacabras!
Ann Coulter is giving them
a really bad name

"Sure, we may suck goats,"
they say, "but at least we don't
vote Republican."

Well, my mood is still a little down. Family stuff. I'll blog about it later . . . perhaps.

I will admit that the drinks last night at Flannery's helped. Nothing like cider, good music, friends and cute straight boys to bolster my mood.

This is one of my favorite NY Times columns. Take a look at the article and you will understand the next sentence.

Timothy Terry should be the next mayor of New York. Or at least the next person in charge of the MTA.

Bad mood. Bad fucking mood. Really, really, really bad fucking mood.

Do you see the theme of today's post?

I'm tired and pissed off and emotionally wiped out and I just don't want to be at the office. I want to be in a bar. A dark, cold bar with draught cider and a bartender with an Irish accent. I guess I'll have to wait until 5:30 or so, though. If anyone needs to find me this evening, I'll be the really drunk guy at Flannery's. Or if you get there late, the really drunk guy throwing up in front of Flannery's.

My loyal fans (both of you), I am leaving town for the weekend, so I may not be blogging for a couple of days. While I'm out debauching (which will either involve hanging out with a bunch of drunken ruggers or sitting around mom's house eating pretzels and watching Trading Spaces . . . I haven't decided yet), you'll just have to struggle by without me.

Now, I know it seems strange that I'd travel to my mom's house and do nothing but eat pretzels and watch Trading Spaces, but 1) I love pretzels and 2) I don't have a TV, so going home is my only opportunity to watch Trading Spaces. So don't judge me. Anyway, Ty is adorable.

The only reason this will likely win out over hanging with the local rugby boys is that in order to hang with them, I'd have to drive. In order to drive, I've got to borrow my mom's car (without which she wouldn't be able to travel to work). To borrow mom's car (without which she wouldn't be able to travel to work), I'd have to agree not to drink . . . and mean it.

Have you ever been sober around a bunch of drunken rugby players? It's not pretty. Nor, indeed, is it much fun.

However, being drunk with a bunch of other drunken rugby players is a fucking riot. Especially when there is skinny dipping involved.

Note to self: Meeting at 9 a.m. Monday. WAKE UP!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Guess who's getting pounded like a piece of dough this weekend (no, it's not me, damn it). Click here to find out.

From VodkaPundit a list of 50 words and phrases not to use on the first date.

I am officially out of the old apartment. Nothing left in the room, left the card key with old roommate. Done. Finis.

On the downside, I left this big-ass piece of furniture out by the garbage cans. The super is going to be really pissed. Not that I care too much, but I hate to leave that for him to deal with. But after walking up and down the six flights of stairs over and over, I wasn't in the mood to take the fucking cheap piece-of-crap bureau over to the church to donate with the rest of the stuff.

Thank God, Yaniv2 showed up to help me take over the big furniture. I wouldn't have been able to move it without him.

So while I was over at the church dropping off the last of the last of my donations, Yaniv2 started looking through the boxes of albums that were there. Now, I expected lots of 1970's crap. Nope. There was all sorts of good stuff, some of it from the 30's and 40's.

Being a fucking theater queen (this is the only time I'll officially cop to being any kind of "queen" since I'm so goddamn butch. Shut up, Brian), I bought the original cast albums for Damn Yankees (I want to be Gwen Verdon when I grow up . . . but I can't because I'm so goddamn butch. Shut up, Brian), Candide, Tom Jones, Do Re Mi, Sweet Charity, Fiddler on the Roof, Cabaret and Mame. I also bought a Smothers Brothers album that I've never seen before.

I could have bought a lot more, but I ran out of money. Considering that all the albums are just a dollar each, I may have to run back by there next week. They had lots of classical, opera, you name it. I was hoping to run across some old blues albums, but no such luck.

I was amazed to see some of the stuff I brought over already being sold by the time I left. Part of me wanted to say, give that back, it's mine. I'm an only child, you see. We weren't taught to share.

I saw this Quizilla quiz on WaterSea's Ocean Bloggie, but I figured the results must be flawed because his results seemed wrong for a guy who is so very, very cute.

My results, however, are pretty much correct. Especially if you consider the earlier "Sorority Slut Barbie" quiz.


You are the horniest of the horny. You want ass,
and you want it now. Lookout world, because
you are on a mission.


How Horny are YOU?
brought to you by Quizilla

Bow before the God of Biscuits. In his latest entry he not only calls Ann Coulter a chupacabra (especially funny to me being from S. Texas), but he manages to do it in Haiku form.

You truly are the God of Biscuits (you have to kind of pretend I said that like Charleton Heston in Ben-Hur, otherwise it loses a little of the humor).

I just went to a work-related party. My firm, for the first time ever, hired a DJ instead of the usual Valium-mellow jazz combo. (I'm being mean, the jazz combo was actually quite good).

It occurred to me while I was standing there listening that it was the first time in ages that I heard Lady Marmalade without being surrounded by at least half a dozen drag queens or flag-dancers.

It was oddly disconcerting, but not entirely unpleasant.

I . . . um.

I don't have words to describe . . .

Oh, hell. Just click here.

I don't know if any of you read Dave Barry's blog (he's really funny), but he had a rather brilliant idea of asking everyone who reads it to go to poetry.com and submit a poem (you'll see how to do it when you get there).

There are two requirements: the poem must be submitted under the first name "Freemont" (mine is submitted under Freemont Crashburn) and must include the line "the dog ate mother's toes."

My humble submission:

A-gamboling through the fields I went
Under the bright blue sky
The weather it was heaven-sent
My spirits they were high

But this sad thing I must disclose
The day, it went awry
Because the dog ate mother's toes
And now it has to die

Blah, blah, blah.

Nope, no trouble.

Brian says he's having trouble posting so he wants me to try.

43 Minutes and 37 seconds. Then they can't find my fucking order.

My next phone is going to be whatever it is that Catherine Zeta-Jones advertises.

I HATE AT&FuckingT. They screwed up a cellphone order that I made in May. I'm still trying to straighten it out. I'm on hold with customer service. It's heading toward 25 minutes of being on hold. They are a multi-billion dollar corporation, yet they only seem to have one customer service representative.

Fuck.

At least a taped voice keeps coming on every two minutes to tell me they know my time is valuable. Thanks, that makes it all better.

All I need to do is return a cell phone. There was supposed to be a return label in the package; it wasn't there. All I need is another label. They were supposed to have sent me one on May 14th. Well, nothing had arrived by the time I moved. So I'm calling to get another one. Maybe it will be here by Christmas.

Just hit 26 minutes on hold. Woo hoo!!

I guess I'll give up around the hour mark. At least the phone call is on their dime.

Just for fun, everyone who reads this blog should call AT&T Customer Service at 1-800-868-8415. Do it when you have free time. Then when someone picks up, tell them you don't have any business to do, you just wanted to see how long it took for them to pick up.

Longest wait wins.

Celebrity sighting from yesterday: Tom Mardirosian (from HBO's Oz) having dinner at Mare in Chelsea. He had this adorable dog, maybe an Italian greyhound.

Something that bears repeating from time to time, especially with Mullah Pat's recent press coverage:

Judge not, and you will not be judged; condemn not, and you will not be condemned; forgive, and you will be forgiven; give, and it will be given to you; good measure, pressed down, shaken together, running over, will be put into your lap. For the measure you give will be the measure you get back. Luke 6:37-38

Farmers' market . . . cool. Tomatoes, basil, cukes, eggplants, bread, zuccini bread, a couple of cookies (yum) and carrots. Good stuff.

I'm still working throught the stuff I bought last week.

After shopping I went to luch with Stuff. He's doing Atkins, so we were a little limited. I took him to Mare which is on my block. As the name would suggest, it's a seafood place. I got fish and chips. He got the seafood omelet.

After that, he looked at a couple of aparments that are open in my building. Turns out one of them is as big as mine and about $150 a month less. Damn it.

Then it was back home. Did a little packing. Wrote a letter to the editor in resonse to a viewpoints article that really pissed me off.

Now, it's back to unpacking.

Back. Not bubbly yet, but not as dark as I was last night.

Well, I'm sure a trip to the farmers' market will help. As will a trip to the gym. Maybe I'll take a book over to Starbucks and read for a while.

I will point out that I'll be doing all these things alone . . . but I'm not going to dwell on it.

And you know what set this off? I went to see a movie tonight. Johnny English. Cute, funny, predictable . . . pretty much what I expected.

I wanted to talk about it. To laugh about a couple of the funny bits. But I was alone.

And I realized that with the exception of T3, all the movies I've seen recently have been by myself. And the theater. And going out to dinner. And getting coffee.

It just kind of made me snap a little.

Of course, none of this is really true. It's just being shadowed by the way I feel now. I've gone out with friends recently. I've done things that I've enjoyed the hell out of, in fact. I'm just missing doing them with "the one." If such a person exists.

Well, at least I'm supposed to go out with friends on Sunday . . . but it's with a couple. And I always feel somewhat left out with them. They have their jokes and half conversations and little coupley things that I can never be a part of.

That's all I really want.

Eh bien, la vie est dure. Mais celui doit continuer.

With that, I'm off to bed. Hopefully I'll have happy dreams.

I promise to be back to being my bubbly self tomorrow.

No. I started this, I'll bitch a little more and hopefully get it out of my system.

I'm sick of not having anyone in my life that I feel passionately about. I love my friends, I love my family. But my friends don't really need me in their lives and they're growing in different directions. And my parents are getting old.

I want someone who enraptures me. Someone I ache for when he's not around. I feel like everyone else has it (clearly not true, but that doesn' t matter). Or if they don't have it, it's because they don't want it. Or they've had it, lost it and are about to find it again.

Why am I here? There has to be more to life than this. And if there isn't, I'm fucked. I'm fucked because I can't stand living like this all the time. And I'm fucked because I'm too scared of dying to think that might give me some relief.

At what point is the hope going to kick in again?

I'm sick of pretending that I'm okay. Or that I'm happy or satisfied. It's all bullshit.

I just feel old and tired and lonely. How would you like to hear that when you ask someone how they're doing?

There's just no passion in my life right now. I don't feel passionate about my job. In fact, recently I haven't felt anything about my job. I know I used to love it. I remember feeling that. But now . . . nothing.

My writing. It's the same. I get sparks . . . little moments of excitement. But they fade away. Or rather, I crush them with feelings of inadequacy. Your writing sucks. You aren't saying anything anyone wants to hear. Writers like you are a dime a dozen.

So instead I just feel numb.

Sorry. I haven't been on a jag like this in a while. It just seems to swoop down and grab me when I least expect it. A good night's sleep, a long trip to the gym, a lot of unpacking and I'm sure I'll be fine.

Bored . . . bored . . . bored.

And feeling sorry for myself.

Bad combination.

This is going to be a self-pity post. Sorry.

I'm so fucking tired of being alone. I go out alone. I go to movies and plays alone. Even when I'm with my friends nowadays, I feel like I'm alone. The only time I don't feel alone is

Oh, fuck this.

And in an homage to palochi.com and god of biscuits (would that make it an homage a trois?), I'm going to try a haiku for one of the movies I saw recently, Whale Rider.

A girl, not a boy,
Wants to lead her people but
Grandfather says no

Still she keeps trying
Learning what she can from her
Classmates and uncle

Grandpa disapproves
Punishes her classmate. No,
You cannot be chief!

Pai calls out to her
Ancestors "You must help me"
And they hear her cries

Send a pod of whales
To beach themselves. If they die,
Then the tribe will, too.

The tribe can't save them
Grandfather's magic is gone
They give up and leave

Pai climbs the lead whale
And a connection is made
She rides him to sea

Saved from drowning, her
Grandfather understands that
She is to lead them

The whale rider has
Returned, making the tribe whole
And saving them all

Another Celia article. I think I'm going to go to the public viewing to pay my respects. I imagine the Mass at St. Pat's will be too crowded.

I laughed so hard at this I thought I'd need a paramedic. First go to Bruner's blog. Then click on the Farking Robert link. Then click on the link that will take you to Fark so you can see what they did to this poor guy's picture.

Ah, fuck all that, just click here for the Fark page.

Woo hoo!! I'm the quote of the day (the first one) on Brian's site.

And on a side note, Faustus, MD, is looking for sponsors for the Blogathon. I just sponsored him and you should, too. He's funny, he's adorable and he's a cheerleader . . . that means he's all bendy.

So go to the Blogathon site and sponsor the boy. The money he raises is going to the Generator Theatre, a n-f-p musical theater company, which I guess is being spun off from or sponsored by NYU's Tisch School of the Arts.

Quote of the Day

I think the burden is on those people who think [Sadam Hussein] didn't have weapons of mass destruction to tell the world where [the weapons] are.
-- Ari Fleischer (Ventriloquist Dummy)

Um . . . what?

Last one. I'm off to bed.


You're A Yaoi Boi (Gay Boy)!
Sensitive and caring, you just want some boyXboy
love! Is that too much to ask?


What Type Of Anime Character Are You?
brought to you by Quizilla

Gay Bear


Which Dysfunctional Care Bear Are You?
brought to you by Quizilla

As you can see, it's a Quizilla night.

Threat rating: Medium. Your total lack of decent
family values makes you dangerous, but we can
count on some right wing nutter blowing you up
if you become too high profile.


What threat to the Bush administration are you?
brought to you by Quizilla

You're Soroity Slut Barbie! You're easy and you're
really cheesy! Have fun with the entire
football team.


If You Were A Barbie, Which Messed Up Version Would You Be?
brought to you by Quizilla

Wow . . . reminds me of my college days.

What rating is your journal?
brought to you by Quizilla

Okay, one more then I'm done with Fat Cat Pat for a little while.

This phrase is on Pat's site, too:

"God is good. Pat Robertson encourages us to taste and see."*

So . . . I nominate the following to go along with it: "God . . . less filling, tastes great" "God, he's not just for breakfast any more" "God . . . now with less trans fat" "God is yummy in my tummy"

Any of these work of you?

* And for any of you Bible scholars out there who sputteringly say "But . . . that's from the Bible. Thou shalt not mock." Yes, I know. I've read the Psalms. I understand what it means. But it still sounds odd.

Well, Mullah Pat is back in the news. Turns out that he didn't want any three particular Supreme Court Justices to be taken out by God. Just any three of the liberal ones.

I'm tempted to ask God to take out a right-wing religious broadcaster. No particular one.

And speaking of Mullah Pat, take a look at this link from his web site. If I understand the first two paragraphs correctly, Pat Robertson's mom asked a handsome Dutchman to take her son out to a fancy restaurant (note: it's Pat who called him handsome).

Hmmmmm.

I wonder . . . if Pat's mom had fixed him up with a cute Rabbi instead, what would the world be like today?

Now this fella, I'd have risked decapitation for.

See I told you it would be anticlimactic. Pun intended.

Okay, at long last . . .

The Tale of the Hot Arab Cabbie

A week ago Monday, I had been packing at the old apartment. As was my habit, after packing for a few hours, I filled two suitcases with things that I wanted to move myself (computer, writing, art, etc.). I went downstairs and hailed a cab.

The cab driver was a cute, young-ish (25 yrs. old), Arab. As we were driving down the West Side Highway, he began asking questions. What was I doing, where was I going, etc. I explained that I was moving into a new apartment. He asked if my wife was moving with me. I said I didn't have a wife. "How about kids," he asked. "Nope, no kids either," I replied. "But you've got a girlfriend, right?" he asked. "No. No girlfriend." "What, don't you like girls?"

Well, at this point, I'm getting some of the same vibes off him that I'd gotten off a lot of the jocks in high school. This guy had a bit more than idle curiousity going. Either that or he was planning to pull off the highway and beat the crap out of me.

I decided to follow my "high school" instincts and do what I used to back then. I explained that, no, I didn't like girls. I liked guys.

What followed was a bunch of questions about whether I'd ever been with a girl (no). If I'd ever wanted to (no). How old I was the first time I had sex with a guy (12). Then he started asking the big stuff. Did I like to get fucked (I told him . . . and in case you're wondering, you have to find out from me one on one . . . a girl has to keep some secrets)? Did I like to fuck? How big's my dick? How long had it been since I'd gotten laid?

Then he hit me with "What's the biggest dick you had?" I told him it was a Spanish guy in college who had right over 9" and was so thick I couldn't get my hand around it. He asked if the guy was Puerto Rican and I explained that he was Spanish . . . from Spain.

Then he asked if I'd ever been with an Arab.

Now, I'd sprung wood as soon as we started talking about the whole gay thing. At this point, well . . . I think I'd sprung steel.

"No. I've never been with an Arab, but I think lots of them are hot."

"And we have really big dicks."

"Really," I asked. "How big is yours?"

"About nine, too."

Then he floored me. "You want me to show you?"

I managed not to scream out, "Fuck yeah, whip it out." I just smiled and said, "Sure."

So he reached down to his pants.

At this point, I began to worry somewhat; I mean we were whipping down the highway well over the accepted speed limit. I didn't relish getting into a wreck and having to explain that the cabbie didn't see the car in front of him stop because he was busy fishing his cock out of his pants.

But, no fear. He pulled out his cell phone and opened it up. Clicked a couple of buttons and there was a picture of him, buck naked. The next picture showed his dick. And the next. And the next. Ten or so pictures.

And it was a hot dick. Big, thick, cut. With a head the size of a small apple.

Well, at this point, we'd missed my exit. He turned us around and headed to my apartment.

We had some more idle chatter about sex.

He pulled up in front of the building, told me it would be $11 (I gave him $15). Then he leaned toward me, smiled and said, "So you want to suck my dick?"

Well, duh, of course I did. And I nearly said that. 75% of my brain and 100% of my dick was screaming "Do it!!!"

Unfortunately, the other 25% of my brain said "One, sure he's hot, but you don't know him. You're going to invite a total stranger up to your apartment when you have $600 in cash lying around for the movers? Are you nuts? He could rob you. He could kill you. And if he kills you, you'll be found the next day . . . your mother's birthday. Don't you think that might put a damper on the celebration?"

And damn, if that 25% didn't put the kibosh on the whole thing.

When I told Mike the story, he reminded me that this guy said he slept with lots of girls he picked up in his cab. Chances are he had lots of strange and unusual diseases. He also said that if I was worried about inviting him up or getting diseases, I should have just given him a hand-job in the cab.

That didn't help.

I really wish I'd said yes. He was cute, there were no strings attached, it could have been hot.

But logic always wins out for me . . . unless I've been drinking. If I'd had a couple of drinks in me, this story would have had a much different ending. Hopefully not one where my head is found in a bag on Staten Island a week or two later.

So that's the story. Lesson learned . . . Crash is a pussy and this is why he never gets laid. Not exactly Aesop, but there you go.

And yes, I keep looking in cabs to see if he's driving them. Pathetic.

A fellow at lunch today was mentioning how much trouble he's had recently with Verizon. I did too when I moved (they said I could take my old phone number with me. Then my old number got turned off, they assigned me a new one and didn't bother to tell me for two days).

Then it was pointed out to me that their spokesman is James Earl Jones.

Darth Vader works for Verizon.

Explains a lot, nu?

Here is a great Celia Cruz article/tribute.

I'm horribly offended that no one bothered to comment on my list of things I love about New York City on July 3rd.

So I'm re-opening the discussion. You know what I like about the city. What do you like about it?

My predictions:

Brian, the 646 Guy: McHale's Bacon Cheeseburgers
Faustus, MD: all the tops :)
WeHo Mark: his upcoming visit

What about the rest of you?

So I won't be posting the cab driver story tonight. Maybe in the morning.

There have been a number of high profile celebrity deaths recently, but I just heard the one that hurt the most. Celia Cruz, Queen of Salsa, died today.

I can remember the first time I ever saw her. I was right before The Mambo Kings came out. She and Tito Puente performed at an outdoor concert back in Texas. Here was this throaty-voiced, sequined salsera singing song after song, creating a rapport with the audience. I was mesmerized. She moved around the stage with a voice that said "I may be in my sixties, but I'm still sexy." And she was. I can only imagine what it would have been like to have seen Tito and her in their prime.

Ever since that day, she was la reina. Sure, I listened to others, but I always came back to her. That voice . . . who could stay away from it? I hesitate to guess at how many of her CDs, records and tapes I own.

Now she's gone.

I remember when Tito died; the city's Latinos (and his many other fans) gave him an amazing send-off; tribute concerts, a long, city-wide funeral procession. I imagine they will for Celia as well.

As for me, I'm going to go home, light a candle and listen to Azucar Negra, my favorite of her albums.

Adios, Celia. Adios y gracias.

Forgot that I was meant to babysit a meeting this evening. So I won't be leaving work until 7 p.m or so. Damn.

I was planning to stop by a couple of gyms in hopes of finding one I like. I won a three-month membership at the Steel Gym. Seems a little less health-clubby than I like, but no big deal. Anyway, if I don't like it, I'm not out any money.

I've got to start working out again now that the distractions of moving are over. Rugby practice starts back up in a couple of weeks and I am really, really not ready. In truth, considering the constant pain in my knees, I don't think I'll play this season. Not unless I can drop some weight and start going to physical therapy again. I just don't really have the money right now.

Speaking of rugby, I've had one of the inane rugby songs stuck in my head all day. And here it is:

If I Were the Marrying Kind

If I were the marrying kind, which thank the Lord I'm not, sir
The kind of rugger I would wed would be a rugby (this is where one says one's position, so I'd say "prop") prop, sir.
Prop, sir, why's that sir? (this is what the team yells back)
Because I'd (this is where you say the thing that is associated with your position) support a hooker (if you don't know rugby, this won't make any sense) and he'd support a hooker (pointing to the other prop) and we'd support a hooker together
We'd be alright in the middle of the night supporting a hooker together.

For whatever reason, this has been running through my mind all day. I find myself humming it (singing it, when I'm not paying attention) and it's driving me crazy. Well, at least it's one of the inoffensive rugby songs. Better this than "Barnacle Bill the Sailor" or "The Rimjob Song" (don't ask). Ruggers are a nasty bunch.

I promise I'll tell the hot-Arab-cab-driver story when I get home tonight. I forgot to blog it last night.

Of course at this point, who even cares?

I mean other than you, Brian.

I found a new blog that was an interesting read. A fellow living in Pakistan. There aren't too many entries yet, but what's there is good. Check him out.

So Mullah Pat wants a new Supreme Court. Am I the only one to be worried about the fact that he wants an Iranian-styled theocracy in this country? Not just any theocracy mind you, but one in which he and his other "Christian" fundies rule.

Wouldn't that be lovely? How long would it take before women lost the vote? Or before the forced repatriation of all (non-white, non-European) foreigners? Mandatory prayer in school. No abortion, except for the rich who can still travel abroad to get theirs. An end to all those nasty little social programs for the poor (Jesus didn't really mean that we have to feed the poor . . . it was more of a metaphor). Gays in death camps . . . I mean "re-education centers." Separation of mosque and state; separation of temple and state, but full integration of church and state. Heck, Mullah Pat may get rid of that whole "state" thing completely.

Ah, the glorious future. I can almost hear the jackboots on the cobblestones and Mullah Pat whistling "Onward Christian Soldiers" as we march on to Gotterdammerung.

God save us from the pretenders to His throne.

Another thing to add to the list of things I like about the new apartment . . . in-building washers and dryers.

I woke up at 6:30 this morning, took my laundry downstairs, started it, went back upstairs and slept for another 45 minutes. Then I went back down, put it all in the dryers and went upstairs to shower, etc.

When I was finished, so was my laundry. So I didn't have to go to work in my underwear.

Okay, right now I'm listening to a band called Salsa Celtica, a Scottish salsa band. They are playing a salsa version of Auld Lang Syne from their album, El Agua De La Vida.

Again, I love WNYC.

Yet another reason why I love WNYC. I'm listening to New Sounds right now: "Classics revisited is the theme of this edition of New Sounds. Host John Schaefer spends an hour sorting through the twisted wreckage of classical music after various new music bands have played it. Hear Stravinsky, Rodrigo, Ketelby, Khatchaturian, and Mozart as you've never heard them before. Artists include Brave Combo, Krakatoa (performing Aram Khachaturian's "Sabre Dance"), Buckethead, John Fahey and many others."

I just heard a couple of songs from Brave Combo's "Box of Ghosts" and they were great. They did a polka verson of Rondo a la Turca (Mozart) and a tango version of one of the pieces from Swan Lake. Very cool idea. I'm going to buy the album, if for no other reason than to see what the do with the William Tell Overture and Musetta's Waltz.

The show also reminded me of how much I love Swan Lake, both the music (thank you, Pyotr Il'yich Tchaikovsky . . . one of the more unusual spellings of his name that I found) and the show itself. I first saw the show at the Royal Ballet in London. It was mesmerizing. Especially considering that I wasn't much of a dance fan up to that point. I have yet to see a version that I didn't like. In fact, the last version I saw was Matthew Bourne's and I was enthralled by it. I saw it twice, which given the price of tickets on Broadway kind of shows how much I thought of it. But don't take my word for it. Read this.

Just read this on NewsMax.com (perhaps it's a joke . . . I hope):

"Sen. Hatch: Amend the Constitution for President Schwarzenegger

Sen. Orrin Hatch, R-Utah, is pushing a constitutional amendment that would allow his friend Arnold Schwarzenegger to run for the White House.

Under the Hatch Amendment, foreign-born people who have been naturalized U.S. citizens for at least 20 years would be eligible to run for president.

Hatch introduced the legislation without fanfare last week, the Deseret Morning News reported today in Salt Lake City.

The Austrian-born Schwarzenegger said Monday that he'd decide within the next month whether to run for governor of California, where the disastrous Gray Davis is fighting a recall."

Didn't Germany do something like this right before another Austrian-born fellow took office in the 1930s? Ah, what the hell. Nothing bad came from that, right?

Took Mike'nDavid to Brothers BBQ. Great, but I feel as though I've eaten my entire body weight in beef, chicken and pork. David and I split the "Pig Out for Two." Christ, can that boy eat. I'm in awe. I'm also in pain. Since I don't eat too much meat any more, when I overindulge, I really feel it.

But it was worth it.

No unpacking tonight. I'm going to turn in early so I can get up at six and do laundry. It's either that or go to work in just my underwear. Amusing, but not practical.

Anyway, that's it for now.

Also, if anyone wants the name of my movers, let me know. They did a great job.

Forgot to mention one moving day faux pas. I seem to have left a porn tape sitting next to the box into which all the rest of them had been packed. Luckily it didn't have a box so unless the movers knew who William Higgins is, no problem.

Tonight I'm taking Mike'nDavid to dinner to thank them for the baker's rack and bookshelf. And I'm not going back to the old apartment until tomorrow or Thursday. I only have a few things left to move over and I'm paid through the end of the month, so there's no hurry.

Still, the former roomie seems to be really anxious about why I still have stuff in the apt. and why I'm not moving it yet. I know he expects to be able to move the new girl in as soon as the elevator is fixed, but I'm going to let him know that she can't move in until August 1st unless she wants to pay me for the week. I'm a good guy, but if I'm paying for the room, I'll be damned if she can store her stuff there for free.

The move went without a hitch. I am now, finally, at home.

The movers (three of them) arrived at 8 a.m. and managed to get my furniture and around 50 boxes (mostly books and magazine) downstairs, despite the lack of elevator, in just under two hours. Two hours after that, it was done.

I'm now in my extremely messy apartment (boxes, etc., everywhere) eating a salad while my main course cooks. Which brings me to my point, I have an entire kitchen all to myself. An entire refrigerator. All the cabinets contain my stuff. God, it's wonderful.

This weekend I went to the farmers' market at Union Square and bought over $60 worth of food. I was thrilled with my purchases though one of my friends heard what I had bought and was unimpressed. But I love fresh produce. I bought kale, chard, collards, arugula, potatoes, corn, radishes, tomatoes, cilantro, basil, two loaves of bread (sourdough and multi-grain), four kinds of cheese (the hard, smelly kinds that my former roommate would have thrown out thinking that it had gone bad), apples, scallions, kohlrabi . . . well, you get the picture.

I'm so fucking psyched. I love to cook. Unfortunately at the old apartment, the fridge was always full of other people's crap and the dishes were always dirty (the roomies seemed not to understand how dishes go from dirty to clean . . . I think they thought elves were involved.) Now I can cook to my heart's content.

Tonight it's a spinach/arugula/lettuce salad with cukes, tomatoes, mandarin oranges, green olives, carrots, a dill/maple vinegar dressing, some fake-bacon bits and one of my stinky cheeses. Sounds nasty? Well it's fucking awesome. Dinner is black bean soup with tomatoes, garlic, onions, scallions and cilantro. And the best part . . . lots of leftovers. And no one else will eat them.

For dessert fruit, yogurt and maybe a little port if I can find the bloody bottle opener.

This is so fucking sweet. It almost makes me forget that I have some thirty-odd boxes left to unpack.

A few quick highlights from the weekend, then I'm going to have dinner. The arab cabbie story will have to wait until tomorrow night.

Friday, Mike'nDavid brought over a baker's rack that they gave me. It's great. I was able to get almost all of my kitchen stuff put away. The sad thing is most of my kitchen stuff is still at my mom's house. It'll be great to have it all in one place, but I really don't think I have enough room for everything. Though if I utilize all the space in the kitchen I may surprise myself.

Saturday, I hung out with Mike (sans David, who was out on Long Island at a concert) who was sick. We just watched TV for a while. Then I went to see T3 with Stuff. I was really ready to hate the movie, but it was really pretty good. And Nick Stahl . . . damn! In the next movie he needs to take off his clothes more.

Went out drinking with Stuff after the movie. Phoenix, Wonder Bar . . . the typical E. Vill. places.

On the way back to Mike's, I passed Matthew Modine in the street, looking all scruffy and I-just-came-from-the-gym. Even better-looking in person.

Sunday, packed like crazy at the old apt. Most everything done. Then I went to a Sea Tea with the other HoP volunteers. Stuff went, as did Will G. and Yaniv2. Good guys to hang out with. And the day was perfect to be out on the water. Breezy, yet not too cool. I love cruises.

Ran into Timmy, Jon from Belize and a couple of their friends on the way back to the Christopher St. station. Called Timmy Jimmy, until he corrected me. Jimmy's his brother. I felt like a putz, but then I haven't seen him or Jimmy in nearly two years.

So that brings me to today and my soup. Which I'm going to go eat now.

Bollocks! Bollocks! Bollocks!

All did not go well today. The fact that I'm in the office instead of with the movers speaks volumes.

So here's the story. The movers had two jobs today. Someone in the morning and me at noon. They called to say that the first move was going to take longer than they expected since there were more boxes. They'd be at my apartment at 4.

I check with the doorman in the new building. No. You have to move in between 9-4.

So I'm fucked.

I called the mover and after much sturm und drang and many phone calls, I've been rescheduled for 8 a.m. on Monday.

I guess I'll move my computer down this weekend myself since I'm tired of having to use the work computer during my breaks. Plus I really, really want to tell the hot Arab cabbie story.

Anyway, pray for me and my move. Really, any deity. Doesn't matter to me. Well, maybe not Baal. I think you have to sacrifice a baby at the end of that and I'd feel a little guilty for having caused that.

Well, the move is tomorrow. That means tomorrow morning is my last opportunity to pack. There is a lot of stuff I plan on moving myself, pictures, all my writing, etc., but for the most part, I'm happy to have others move it.

I just hope the weather cooperates.

My only move glitch so far is that it has been moved back from noon to 3 p.m. This isn't a huge deal, but finding parking at the new apartment on a Friday at during rush will be a major bitch. And co-op rules state that I'm supposed to move in on a week day (during working hours) so the elevator isn't tied up. But this is beyond my control so I'm only doing a little bit of stressing.

I'm just so looking forward to having most of my stuff in one place again. Then I have to go to the parents' houses and figure out how much of that stuff to bring. I really wish I weren't so sentimental. There are tons of things that I should throw out but just can't bring myself to.

I have a great story about something that happened to me Monday night. Unfortunately, it is a "don't blog this from the office" story. And since I'm moving this Friday, my computer at home is in boxes. I will be blogging about it this weekend though.

Just a teaser . . . a hot Arab guy . . . the most interesting cab ride of my life.

Celebrity sighting of the day (and damn them for blocking the street during rush and making me late for work): Richard Benjamin and Patricia Heaton shooting a scene for the remake of The Goodbye Girl at the wine shop on the corner of 21st and 7th Ave.

Ah, Richard Benjamin. Great actor. Gifted director. But to me, he will always be Captain Quark.

If there is anyone out there who remembers that show, please let me know. I think I may have been the only person in America who watched it.

So, why exactly do we need a remake of The Goodbye Girl?

I stand corrected. He was indeed Jm J. Bullock on Too Close for Comfort and now goes by Jim J. Bullock. Turns out he went by Jm (or JM) because there was already a Jim Bullock in SAG.

Even though 646Guy didn't manage to provide me with this info, I feel compelled to mention that he was right and I was wrong.

I am still, however, cuter.

The 646Guy has mentioned to me that the actor's name from Too Close for Comfort was actually JM J. Bullock, not Jim J. Bullock. I, however, maintain that the JM is a recent thing and that while he was on TCfC, he was going by Jim.

If you do a google search, as he pointed out, you pretty much only find references to JM J. Bullock. I again maintain that this is because the web is new (as is the name).

Now, the only person who's opinion will sway me is JM Jim J. Bullock. So unless you're him, you're just pissing in the wind by arguing with me.

So, what did I do with my fabulous and exciting weekend? After all, it was the 4th and a long weekend. And I live in NYC, the bestest place in all the world.

I packed.

Friday, I packed. Sunday, I packed. And the sad thing is, I've got lots left to do. But on the up side, all of my books and magazines are packed and ready to go. Most of the stuff I have left is of that "I'm not sure what it is but I'd better not throw it out" variety. Lots of little scraps of paper. Keys to locks I'm not even sure I own. That sort of thing.

Now lest you worry that all work and no play makes Crash a psychotic lunatic (it takes so much less than that), I did have some fun.

I hung out with Mike'nDavid on Thursday. Took a nice walk down the new Hudson River Park. Very nice. Saw a really cool looking jellyfish in the Hudson (the City is way below the salt point, so there are sea creatures galore); it was translucent, of course, but it had purple and maroon lines coming out of the center of the top. Very pretty.

Saturday was my "salvation from packing" day. My buddy Todd called to say he was coming to town. Todd is one of my oldest friends and one of my best. We've known each other since elementary school. If I remeber correctly, we also both had Great Danes when we were growing up.

Todd is married to a great woman and they recently had twin girls. This was his weekend away from family. He hooked up with some friends of his down here (two of whom were visiting from San Antonio) and the group of us went bar hopping. We started in SoHo (or rather, that's where I hooked up with them) and we worked our way up to the East Village. They were still going strong when I left (around 11 p.m.). After all, I still had packing to do the next day.

Every bar that we went to had cider; many of them had it on tap. God, I love this city.

The best part was that all of the folks were cool with me being gay. I mean, I had met a few of them before, but I'm alway a little nervous hanging with the heteros because you never know how they're going to react. Last thing I want is to go out drinking with someone who wants to "save my soul". But these guys were cool and I genuinely had a great time. It was exactly what I needed.

Alcohol tally: around 8 or 9 ciders. Feeling good.

The last bar I went to with them was in the East Village and for the life of me I can't remeber the name. It was around 13th and A. But it was a cool little bar with lounge chairs. I nearly fell asleep in one of them which would have been embarrassing. But this place was showing Japanese cartoons. These things make absolutely no sense if there aren't subtitles (I'm not sure they do with subtitles). Anyway, this thing was called Magic Monkey. After that, they showed a movie from 1979 called The Warriors. This was one of those gangs ruling New York movies. Only these gangs were really into costumes. Leather, baseball gear, shiny satin coats. Really, it was like the Pride Parade.

I missed the end of the movie, so I'll probably rent it. The funny thing was, one of the gang girls was the same actress who was on Too Close for Comfort, Deborah Van Valkenburgh. Very strange to see her playing "tough." At least it wasn't Jim J. Bullock. It was hard enough to buy him playing a hetero on Too Close for Comfort. Seeing him in a gang movie would have been . . . well, words fail me.

So that was the weekend.

My work "lunch buddy" is on vacation, so I think I'll skip lunch and take some boxes over to the old apartment. I wish the fucking elevator was working over there. I hate climbing those six flights.

I really, really want to see 28 Days Later. It looks like a great little horror movie and everyone I've spoken to who saw it said it was great.

But here's the deal. I have a thing about zombies. A deep, abiding, irrational fear of the walking dead (not that there could be a rational fear of the undead, but you know what I mean). Yes, I know they don't exist. Doesn't matter. There is this tiny, little part of my brain that truly expects me some day to be attacked by a zombie. And as my flesh is being ripped from my bones and devoured, that little part will be screaming, "See!! I told you so!!!"

The Zombie Phobia
When I was a little kid, my nightmares usually involved me walking down my street in my pyjamas in the middle of the night. All the streetlights were out and none of the houses were lighted. And in my dream, I knew that all of my neighbors were looking out their windows at me, waiting to attack. In my dreams, my neighbors were all werewolves. At some point, right before I woke up, my wolfen neighbors would stream out of the houses and chase me. Just before they got me, I'd wake up.

This went on until Junior High or so.

At some point, the dreams changed. I was no longer in my neighborhood, nor was I in my pyjamas, and the werewolves were now zombies.

Eventually the dream became a recurring one. I'd be in a house (a la Night of the Living Dead); something big and Victorian, with lots of little rooms and staircases. I'd be running from the zombies, who like zombies from Night of the Living Dead, were slow-moving but relentless. I'd always wake up before they got me, though.

Another feature of these dreams, I was more of an observer than a participant. I was the central character, but it was more like watching myself in a zombie movie than being in a zombie movie.

And that dream became my standard "stress dream." If I was having trouble, I could be pretty sure I'd have the zombie dream.

Fast forward to a couple of years ago. Still having the dreams from time to time. Same dream as always, sometimes little things change but nothing much.

Then, my friend Mike shows me one of the ". . . of the Living Dead" movies. Now, I had up until this point managed to avoid almost all zombie movies for the obvious reasons. But he said this one was more like a comedy than a horror film. The one differnce, these zombies didn't just shamble around . . . they could run.

A couple of days later, so could my dream zombies.

I'm not sure that I've forgiven Mike for this yet.

Anyway, jump a little further in the future. My shrink puts me on Prozac. One of the interesting side effects is that my dreams become much more vivid and much more immediate. I'm no longer a spectator in my dreams; I'm an active participant. The sex dreams were absolutely amazing. Colors, textures, tastes, everything seemed like it was real. I often woke up unsure whether something was a dream or reality. I thought it was the coolest thing in the world.

Until my first zombie dream.

Suffice it to say, that was an unpleasant experience. I could feel them. Hear them. Smell them. And they were able to catch me, which they had never been able to before. And worst of all, I could no longer just tell myself that it was a dream. I woke up choking back a scream and couldn't go back to sleep that night.

Adios, Prozac.

Now the zombie dreams have returned to normal. Though I haven't had one for quite a while.

Until last night.

Now I know that this zombie dream was triggered by the commercials and trailers for 28 Days Later, because it was basically like them. No Victorian house. No bloated corpses seeking blood or brains. Just red-eyed, vaguely human creatures stalking me.

And you know what? It was terrifying.

So I'm thinking that I may have to skip 28 Days Later and go see something else instead. But perversely, I still want to see it. I'm sure common sense will win out in the end. Of course, Mike wants to see it too and I'm sure he could hector me into seeing it with him.

Maybe I should just go out of town this weekend.

I saw Whale Rider last night. Very good movie.

Three things. Keisha Castle-Hughes, who played Pai, was amazing. And she is going to be a beautiful woman. Cliff Curtis, who played her father, is really good looking. And the actor who played Pai's grandfather, a Maori chief, reminds me a lot of my friend James from college. Which is odd because James is not that old, nor is he Maori. But interestingly he looks similar.

It was a remarkable film; I really recommend it.

I saw the link to this on Faustus' site. The first Haiku is my favorite.

In an effort to bolster my mood, I thought I'd list some things that I love about living in the City.

1) The little breeze in the 42nd St. station that lets you know the F train is coming.
2) Knowing I could go to the theater every night and not run out of plays to see.
3) Mike.
4) My rugby team.
5) Central Park when the violets bloom.
6) The carpet of hyacinth and daffodils running down the middle of Park Ave. during the spring.
7) The research room of the main library.
8) The Quad Cinema.
9) The Ghandi statue.
10) The farmers' market at Union Sq.
11) The Angel of the Waters statue in the fountain on the Bethesda Terrace in Central Park.
12) Riverside Church.
13) The Still Hunt statue in Central Park that scared the hell out of me the first time I noticed it.
14) The brownstones on 20th between 9th and 10th Ave.
15) Fiddlesticks Bar.
16) Live Irish music.
17) The Piper's Kilt in Inwood.
18) The Magnolia Bakery.
19) The Donut Pub - best coffee in the city.
20) Trying random Dim Sum places in Chinatown on Sundays.
21) Seeing the city through my friends' eyes when they visit.
22) The view from the Empire State Building, though I haven't been able to bring myself to visit it since 9/11.
23) Seeing the Statue of Liberty up close and knowing it was the first thing my great-grandmother saw when she arrived here.
24) Peter Luger's.
25) Seeing famous people. I know we're not supposed to act impressed, but I still get a little shiver when I recognize someone famous.
26) Fruit stands.
27) Having a doorman.
28) Reading Gawker and frequently getting it.
29) Meeting President Carter when he was here.
30) Meeting Harlan Ellison.
31) Sitting in the comfy chair at the 98th St. Starbucks and reading away an afternoon.
32) Sitting in the grassy area behind the Metropolitan Museum and people-watching.
33) The Metropolitan's sculpture garden.
34) All the van Goghs.
35) The galleries in Chelsea.
36) The view of the city from our pitch on Randall's Island.
37) WNYC
38) Watching the hockey games at Chelsea Piers.
39) The Museum of Television and Radio.
40) Portuguese bakeries.
41) TKTS.
42) Walking along the Hudson at sunset.
43) Greek food in Astoria.
44) Trinity Church.
45) Soul Fixin's.
46) CBGB's.
47) Watching people do Tai Chi at the courthouse.
48) The ebb and flow of Grand Central.
49) The decor of the bathroom at XL.
50) Sitting on the fire escape and watching the river.

I have an official day for the move. I will quit being an Upper West Sider on Friday, July 11th.

Goodbye, Gourmet Garage. Fare thee well, Famous Famiglia's. Ta ta, Tacita de Oro.

That Friday, I'm officially a Chelsea boy (though I'm no longer a boy and I'm hardly Chelsea).

I tend to enjoy The Simon, but find the articles to be a little hit-or-miss. But it's because of articles like this that I keep reading it.

I didn't run into FB, so I'm not cooling my heels in Rikers today.

Party was fun. HoseA seemed to have a good time, even while being molested by a stripper. The stripper in question was entertaining. Acrobatic. Inventive. All in all rather amusing.

Best parts of the routine . . . at one point he was humping a bent over HoseA while holding up one of our coaches (the female one) whose legs were wrapped around his face.

You know, in trying to describe it, I realized you really had to be there.

He also did this amusing thing where he had the Moppet sit in a chair which he then proceded to flip upside down so that Moppet's face was in his crotch and his was in Moppet's.

Again, you had to be there.

A lot of the team was there and a good time was had by all. Just the antidote to the date from hell.

Alcohol tally (a la WeHo Mark): 2 Cranberry Vodkas

I also forgot to mention that I'd sliced open my finger at the Pier Dance trying to cut something with one of those box cutters.

Not a very deep cut. Or particularly painful. But I'd still like some sympathy. And maybe someone to kiss it better.

And on another Pier Dance related note, in the contract we (and all the other groups) signed with HoP, we agreed to break down the area we were working at the end of the evening. If we failed to, we'd lose half of our grant. Well, at the end of the evening, all of the other groups in the volunteer area had bailed and hadn't bothered to break down their areas. Who broke it down? My boys. Why? Because we're good guys who step in when we're needed even if it was supposed to be someone else's responsibility.

One of the many reasons I love the guys on my team.

Speaking of the guys on my team, I'm off to a surprise party for one of them. Should be fun, except that it's in the bar that FratBitch always hangs out in. We hates him, yessssssss, hates him. (This Gollum moment was brought to you by New Line Cinema . . . New Line Cinema, churning out puerile crap for the masses since 1967 . . . like Dumb and Dumberer, in theaters now.)

Since this is the first time I've mentioned FratBitch, let me give you some background. When I was in grad school, I fell big time for an underclassman. Let's call him . . . Snow White. Well, I was crazy for him. And he was . . . well, I imagine he saw me as convenient. We were friends, he wasn't attracted to me, but he didn't ever turn me away when I wanted to spend money on him (when I'm in love, I'm pretty much that person's bitch . . . I'm trying to get over that, not terribly successfully so far). But I always hoped that he'd realize that we should be together (think Duckie from Pretty in Pink).

Well, I was crushed when he started dating FratBitch, this pretentious, closeted, know-it-all, little fratboy (I'm sorry . . . fraternity boy. One of his first lectures to me was about not using the word frat "It's fraternity. You wouldn't call you're country a cunt, would you?" No, but I'd call you one you shit-eating bastard). And worse, because Snow White and I were roommates (I know, I know), I was forced to see them together all the time.

Time passes. I move to New York. Snow White and FratBitch want to come visit (not me, mind you, but the city) and they need a place to stay. Well, I'm still in thrall so I let them. At the end of the visit (during which time I never saw them, nor did they invite me to spend time with them), Snow White confesses that he broke up with FratBitch. O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay! Not that I had any illusions about getting together with Snow White (I may have been blinded by love, but even Helen Keller could have seen nothing was ever going to come of this) but because I didn't have to worry about feigning friendship with FratBitch anymore.

He called a couple of times, presumably to see if I'd put him up the times he visited New York, but I didn't bother to call back.

Time continues to pass. The crush on Snow White passes as I choose a new guy to abuse and ignore me.

Then one night I'm out with the rugby boys at this Chelsea bar and I see this little guy looking at me. Now, I have very little memory for faces and names, but as soon as he speaks to me I realized it was FratBitch. Well, he was no longer a closeted frat boy. He had become an Hispanic and slightly (very, very slightly) butcher version of Bobby Trendy.

And every time I go back to that bar, he's there.

Usually, I'm drunk enough to be polite and to feign interest in his life, loves and many faaaaabulous adventures in the City.

Tonight I'm just in the mood to hit someone.

So, I'm going to the party tonight, but if I don't blog tomorrow, it may mean I'm on Rikers.

Forgot to mention two celebrity sightings from last week:

Zeljko Ivanek (from Homicide, Oz and a bunch of other Tom Fontana shows) and Philip Seymour Hoffman (currently appearing in Long Day's Journey Into Night) separately in the Times Square station while waiting for the 1 train.

Pride Dance wasn't as horrible as I expected. The rugby guys were great, we made good money for the team and everyone seemed to have a good time. It was a long fucking day. But on the up side, I got a date out of it.

I only mention it, because I went out with the guy last night. This leads to my next discussion:

The Date From Hell
-or-
Parker Lewis Can't Win
-or-
Psycho Part Deux

As many of my friends will attest to, I tend to like younger guys. So I was somewhat psyched when I was hit on at the Pride Dance by a 22 year-old college student. He was a bit odd (he had recently done some stand-up comedy and was trying to use some of his routine while we were talking, but wasn't able to do it naturally so it was obvious what he was not being spontaneous) but kind of cute so I figured I'd ask him out. I mean, he'd made it clear he was into me so I thought it would be worth finding out more about him. So we made a date for Tuesday.

But then he said he also wanted to get together on Monday.

Okay, this raised some alarm bells, but I thought I'd still check it out.

Before our "date" on Monday, he left me 5 messages on my cell.

More alarms going off.

When he finally got me, we had a long discussion during which he accused me of being insincere (by saying he was cute, which he considered to be a non-compliment) and snobby (I'm not exactly sure where that one came from).

Alarm bells ringing everywhere.

So, I don't want to be the bad guy by telling him I'm going to cancel. I figured we hadn't actually gone out yet and I might like him better in person. Besides, when I called a friend to discuss this, he made it seem like I was being too judgmental and that I was looking for ways to sabotage the date before going on it.

I agreed to meet the kid for coffee. That was fine. He's funny, cute, likeable . . . but not what I'm looking for. He's too talkative (i.e. he never shut up), too young, too "on" all the time (the stand-up comedy thing again . . . the funny stories were never spontaneous and rarely had anything to do with what he had been talking about even though all of his stories started with "it's like when . . ."); we just didn't click. Or perhaps I just didn't.

Well, that wasn't what he wanted to hear. He told me I was blowing him off because I wasn't attracted to him, that I was a liar, a game player, arrogant, snobbish, too quiet, insensitive, too slow to anger (I have no idea how this is a bad thing, but whatever); you name something bad and I was it.

Being a good Southern boy, I didn't feel like I could just stand up and walk out of the restaurant (yes, he gave his little diatribe about my faults at a restaurant . . . not too loudly, but I was on edge thinking he was going to go all Joan Collins on me). So I let him say his piece then I got the hell out of there.

And a good time was had by none.

Then I had to go to the old apartment and pack.

Top o'the world, ma!!!!!!

So this has led to a change in one of my dating rules. I have had for several years what I call my "Oedipus Rex" rule. I don't date anyone old enough to be my parent or young enough to be my child. My basic cut off is 15 years in either direction. I've only broken this once and it didn't work out. (n.b. When I created this rule, I was in college and being hit on by old guys . . . you know, in their thirties. It never occurred to me that I'd ever really be old enough to have to think about the 15 years younger part of it. And in fact, until a couple of years ago, dating anyone 15 years younger than me would have involved prison time).

Well, my new rule is that I'm narrowing it down further. I think 7 years younger is probably a decent cut off (I'll keep the 15 years older). Not that I think there are a lot of guys in their early twenties who will be mourning my decision. But I probably am a lot better off just dating guys who are closer to my age.

And who aren't psychos.

So if you're between the ages of 28 and 50 (and aren't a psycho) give me a call.