Busy

I'm busy. But at least it's 'happy' busy, not 'kill people because I'm so stressed' busy.

Here's another quick recap. Sorry no scintillating prose today. Of course, one could argue that I've never really provided that. If one wanted to get bitch-slapped.

Last weekend.

Saturday - Our rugby game against Danbury. We lost 42-10. This is absolutely amazing given the point spread the last two times we played them. We will be having our first rugby union win some time this year. I hope it's this coming Saturday. Drink up at the Eagle. Fun.

Sunday - Errands, laundry, all the other fun stuff that I've put off for ages. Got together with Frank to write, but due to my tight schedule, all we did was chat. Very nice. Afterwards, I went to see (hear?) the Red Bull Theater's reading of The Knight of the Burning Pestle by Beaumont and Fletcher (a couple of Shakespeare's contemporaries). I studied this play back in grad school and was really psyched to see/hear it performed.

It was a brilliant production with remarkable cast. Go to their website for more information.

This is part of a weekly series of play readings. This Sunday's production will be Women Beware Women by Thomas Middleton. Can't wait for it. If anyone wants to go with me (I was all alone for Knight), let me know.

Monday - Painbringer, PT. Work. Home. Work on stuff for my not-for-profit. Work on stuff for the other not-for-profit. Musical Monday at Splash with a couple of rugby buddies. Sweet!

Tuesday - Not feeling up to snuff. Call in sick. Sleep. Sleep. Sleep. Get up. Go see Shaun of the Dead, despite my zombie issues. Hilarious and scary. Well worth seeing, especially in the theater. Come home. Cook dinner (Sweet Asian Chicken with rice). Cook ham (something for sandwiches this week). Sleep.

Wednesday - Painbringer, PT. Work. Invited to board meeting for the other not-for-profit. Get asked to join board, which is very, very cool. And hopefully won't be too stressful.

Today - Work. Work on my n-f-p (I think I have a name for it). Work on the other n-f-p. Now it's time to go home. Maybe go to the gym. Maybe not. We'll see.

Well, that's basically it. Tomorrow night, some of the ruggers and I will be heading to Marie's Crisis Cafe for a pre-game sing-along. Nothing really gets one psyched up for a game like showtunes, right?

Everyone is invited. We'll be there at 8 p.m. (which really means 8:30 or so).

Also, our game this weekend is against Suffolk RFC. If you're out on Long Island and would like to watch us play, info is on our website.

Marie's Crisis

Okay, I have lots to catch up on, but I'm going to ignore it for now.

From time to time, I've mentioned going to Marie's Crisis Cafe, a piano bar down in the Village. Sing-along showtunes. Fun stuff.

But I have been asked on more than one occasion, who was Marie and what was her crisis.

Well, here you go.

Back in 1809, Thomas Paine died in a house on the spot that now houses Marie's Crisis (the current building dates back to 1839). You remember Paine, right? Author of Common Sense, The Rights of Man, and the American Crisis papers ('These are the times that try men's souls'). His work was one of the main reasons America split from England.

Fast forward. Marie Dumont starts a bar in the basement of the building. She names it Marie's Crisis Cafe because it's in the building (or rather on the site of the original building) where Paine wrote much of the American Crisis papers.

This goes a long way toward explaining the mirror over the bar that features a decidedly revolutionary theme.

I wonder if Thomas Paine's spirit haunts the place, puzzling over the middle age theater queens who are drunkenly singing showtunes? And I wonder if his ectoplasmic heart swells with pride when they start belting out songs from 1776?

Catching Up

Okay, I just realized that I really haven't blogged this week. Between work, my new not-for-profit, rugby, working out, physical therapy and another not-for-profit for which I serve on the advisory board, I find myself with little time left.

So a quick recap of the last week.

Last Thursday, the Townhouse with the blogger boys.

Friday, Brian's birthday. I missed the party because I was working on stuff for the rugby game.

Saturday, rugby, rugby, rugby. Bus ride. Deluge. Thunderbolts and lightning. Margaritas. Game. Lost, but with marked improvements over the last time we played them. More margaritas. Game. Lost (see earlier comment). Bee attack. Post game drink up with the Montauk boys. Drinking on the bus. Home. Go home to change and go to the after party, fall asleep instead.

Sunday, write with Frank. Dinner with Steve at the all-you-can-eat mussel place. Celebrity sighting, Jason Alexander.

Monday, Painbringer, PT. Passed out during physical therapy. Very, very scary. Thought I was dying. I wasn't. Work. Home. Lots of work for my other not-for-profit group.

Tuesday, work. Lots of stuff from Amazon arrived, including season one of Dead Like Me. I watch pilot episode, fully intending to only watch that one. Instead, I watch five more episodes.

Wednesday, Painbringer, PT. Everyone very nice, afraid I'm going to pass out again. I didn't. Work. Cocktail party after work for Hispanic organization. Good time even though I didn't know anyone. Celebrity sighting, the Dude-You're-Getting-A-Dell guy at B'way and 52. Gym, one hour of cardio. Tried the NY Sports Club on 23rd and 8th. Scary. Muscle Marys, waaaaaay too much cruising in the locker, all the plastic steroid bodies made me feel really fat and ugly. Better living through science my ass. Made roasted eggplant for dinner.

Thursday, work. More work for the other n-f-p. More Dead Like Me.

And that takes us to today. Sure, the writing wasn't great, but I'm in 'fire bad, tree pretty' mode, so that's all you get.

Tomorrow is our first home rugby game. Field 17 on Randall's Island. Should be fun. If you're free around 1 p.m. you should come watch us.

Now We Know

Remember yesterday when I asked, Who Would Jesus Kill (WWJK)?

Well, it appears we have our answer.

WWJK?

Compassionate Conservative Quote of the Day
I'm trying to find the correct name for it … this utter absolute, asinine, idiotic stupidity of men marrying men. … I've never seen a man in my life I wanted to marry. And I'm gonna be blunt and plain; if one ever looks at me like that, I'm gonna kill him and tell God he died.
- Former Televangelist and Prostitute Hound Jimmy Swaggart

When the fundamentalists say "love the sinner, hate the sin," they're really imagining cattle cars and crematoria. After all, what better way to save the sinner than by making sure he can never sin again?

Slainte

An interesting little quiz.

Take the quiz: "Which Random Irish Gaelic Phrase Are You?"

Teastaioinn cineal uaim
Teastaioinn cineal uaim - 'I want sex.'Horny little bugger, aren't you? You enjoy porn and being naked. Hell, you're probably naked right now. Both hands on the keyboard, you pervert!

Rugby Party

Tomorrow is our first game of the fall season. It's being played in Montauk, which is, I'm told, part of Long Island despite being somewhere close to Nova Scotia. Needless to say, I won't be trying to guilt any of you into coming to watch the game. Next week, though . . .

Anyway after 1) the game, 2) the first round of drinking with the boys from Montauk, 3) the second round of drinking on the bus, and 4) the first round of puking, one of the players will be hosting a post-game party at his apartment. You are all invited. However, since I don't want everyone on God's green Earth to know where the party is, you have to e-mail me for the address.

I will leave you with the following:

1) If you come to the party, bring a bottle of something. Liquor, mix, whatever.

2) If you come to the party, you may have a celebrity sighting. A certain Mr. Norton from TV's Comedy Central has been showing up at several of our parties.

3) If you come to the party, don't pass out. I have photographs of the last person who passed out at a rugby party. He should be glad we were on our best behavior.

4) Regardless of whether you come to the party, stop by his site and wish him a happy birthday. He turns 34 today (even though he's telling people that he's turning 30 . . . that little imp).

Those silly politicians

George W. doesn't read my letters and Elliot Spitzer thinks I'm a Jew.

I'm not surprised by the first and am rather confused by the second.

A week or so ago, I sent a letter to the Monkey-in-Chief taking him to task over his refusal to do anything to preserve the assault weapon ban. I knew he wasn't going to do anything about it; if the NRA told a Republican to sodomize himself with a cactus, the only thing the Repub would say is 'how deep' and 'how much will you contribute to my campaign'.

But I digress.

Now I knew full well that W. wasn't going to read my letter. First, he's the President. Between taking vacations, campaigning and planning the invasions of various and sundry Middle Eastern countries, he doesn't have time for mail. And he went to Yale, so it's likely he's illiterate anyway. But I did expect that one of his minions would respond to the letter with a "we're sorry you disagree with the President on this issue, but" which would be followed by a well-written explanation of the President's reasons for opposing the assault weapon ban.

Instead I received a letter from the White House thanking me for supporting the President's "War on Terror".

WTF?

Now I'm sitting here trying to figure out how allowing the sale of assault weapons assists in the war on terror.

At least when I wrote Boss Hogg*, the responses were on point.

Ah well, what can you do? Other than voting for Kerry, that is.

As for Elliot Spitzer, I have no idea how he decided that I'm Jewish. I mean, my full name reads like a tour of the British Isles. All I need is a little Welsh and I've got it all covered. But for whatever reason, A.G. Spitzer has decided I'm Jewish. In a way it's nice. He sends me cards at Hanukkah. Every Rosh Hashanah he sends me a nice letter. I appreciate it, however there are several generations of dour, Scottish Presbyterians rolling in their graves every time I say something in Hebrew. On the up side, I hear their otherworldly moans of joy every time I save a nickel or drink some Balblair. What can you do?


*My presidential nicknames from the early '80s on: Bonzo, FauxTex, Boss Hogg, and Monkey-in-Chief (or mono malcriado, when I'm in a Spanish mood . . . I was told it means 'poorly-made monkey' which is what the people in Quito call the people from Guayaquil).

If Kerry wins, I'm going to call him Eeyore.

I've seen the future . . . and it's scary

It worries me that there will soon be more people who speak Klingon than Yiddish.

qaStaHvIS DIS chu'vam, bIQuchjaj!

Or as we say on Earth, Happy Rosh Hashana (okay, I'm a little early since it doesn't start until sundown).

In Other News

I mentioned a while ago that I wanted to start a not-for-profit organization that would sponsor a playwriting competition for gay and lesbian youth.

Well, I met with the attorneys last week. Soon, if the fates smile and I somehow come up with about $600, I will be the director of an as yet to be named playwriting competition. Thanks to the words of support from my friends (Rob, David, Faustus, et al), I am less freaked out and more excited than I have been about anything I've ever done.

I think that's a good sign.

Here are the steps I have to take. Name the bleeding thing. Come up with the various filing fees (thus wiping out my savings). File the documents. Get a bank account and post office box. File with the IRS. Start raising money like a fiend. Set up a web site. Open the competition.

Then the fun begins.

I know that several of you who read my site have backgrounds in theater. If any of you would like to make helpful suggestions, or better yet, get involved with this project, send me an e-mail and let me know. I'd love the feedback and extra help.

I imagine I'll be posting about this again soon.

Yum

You should smell my apartment today. Instead of the usual 'oh my God, doesn't he ever clean his bathroom' smell, the apartment is redolent with the fragrence of cloves and thyme.

Last night was a cooking night.

I tried out two new dishes. The first was Tyler Florence's recipe for Slow-Roasted Spanish Olives with Orange and Almonds. The second was a slow-cooker recipe for Chicken and Sausage Cassoulet.

The olives were absolutely amazing. The recipe called for Spanish olives, almonds, orange slices, sherry vinegar, thyme, bay leaves, a red chile and olive oil. This was then roasted in the oven for two hours. The results (not to mention the smell of the dish as it cooked) were amazing. The best part was the left over flavor-infused olive oil which I'll be using for dipping.

The cassoulet was basically a good recipe, but it may need a little work next time. It called for carrots, onion, tomato paste, red wine, cloves, thyme, garlic powder, white beans, chicken and sausage. Next time, I think I'm going to substitute shallots for the onions, use a merlot for the wine (all I had was cooking wine which was good, but a little too sweet), add a little fresh garlic and maybe just a touch of crumbled bacon. Considering this was a slow-cooker recipe, though, it was pretty good. Since I made this for the week and only had a taste last night, I have enough to make several meals.

For dessert, I had vanilla frozen yogurt topped with Cinnamon-Candied Zucchini. Okay, I know the Zucchini probably doesn't sound good, but they look, feel and taste like cinnamon-candied apples, so belive me when I say they are tasty.

Anyway, the house smells great. Especially after last night's dinner (Caponata, which was store bought) and this morning's sausage and spinach omelette, sprinkled with romano cheese.

I have a recipe for Black-eyed Peas with Stewed Tomatoes that I'm going to try later in the week, as well as one for a Three Bean and Sausage Casserole. Can't wait to try those out.

Man, I love to cook. Now if I could just get this excited about working out. Or finding a boyfriend.

A Rare Saturday Post

This is something I wrote a couple of years ago. Take a moment to remember those we lost.

September Morning

There were shoes everywhere
High-heels, clunky sandals, oxfords
Scattered among the briefcases, purses, gym bags
Anything that slowed us down

We ran in stocking feet
Through glass and metal, mud and ash
Not feeling the cuts
Not noticing the blood

How could we?

When all around was fire and smoke
Paper like rain, bodies like hail
The screams, the anguish, the chaos
What was our pain compared to that?

Only later, alone at home, safe
Could we look at our feet and guiltily wonder
How could something that tears open your soul
Leave such little marks?

Scary Carpetbagging Freak

So for shits and grins, I decided to peruse BSCRH* Alan Keyes websites (there are a few . . . Keyes for Senate, the Alan Keyes Blog, etc.).

Holy fuck, this guy is scary.

When President Bush says God wanted him to be president, I can forgive him. What with all the cocaine and booze that he ingested, I'm not at all surprised that he hears God talking to him every now and then. Brain damage has a way of doing that to you.

But when Alan Keyes says that it's God's will that he carpetbag his way to Illinois and run for Senate . . . well, that's not brain damage. That's just nuts.

Anyway, if you live in Illinois, vote Obama. God mentioned to me yesterday that he wants you to.

*Bat-shit crazy racist homophobe

Vote!

Okay, I've taken this from David. The guys who started Hot or Not are having a contest. If you win and you're registered to vote, you get $100,000.

So click here to sign up.

A Little Late

My uncle tells me that the folks in Georgia call Zell Miller Zig Zag Zell.

Me, I just call him that bat-shit crazy cracker.

Semantics.

Slowly I blog . . . step by step

Man, Blogger is taking its sweet time today. It took me nearly 10 minutes just to get to the create page.

Now I've forgotten what I was going to blog about.

Crash + Stuff + Booze =

Chaos.

Stuff, Hugh and I went out for cocktails last night at S. Diddy (a/k/a Splash, SBNY, Splash Bar, etc.). What started as a welcome back for Stuff quickly turned into a drunkarama.

Man.

I lost track of the number of drinks, but my wallet was empty when I went home, so it had to have been pretty high. Especially considering it was two for one.

Turns out that Monday nights is musical theater night at S. Diddy. So the place was stuffed to the rafters with current chorus boys, ex-chorus boys, ex-chorus ex-boys, you name it. At the table next to us were about half a dozen cute early twenty-somethings. Being bitchy old queens, we nicknamed several of them (okay, it was mostly me nicknaming them). There was the Nose (cause he had a big nose), Aqua Man (his shirt was blue green), Token (the girl), Dancing Queen, a couple of others not worth nicknaming, and finally, there was Stoic.

Stoic was good looking. He had auburn hair. He had a great build. Where his friends were loud, he was quiet. They were up dancing and screaming, he sat watching them. Not embarrassed or anything like that. Just enjoying their energy without joining in.

I was captivated.

Much later in the evening, as I was approaching what I've decided to call my FARB (Famous Author Rob Byrnes) threshold, Stoic started chatting with me.

I was gobstopped.

Now for the life of me, I have no recollection of why he was talking to me. Clearly, given my absolutely retarded social skills when it comes to speaking to guys I find attractive, I didn't talk to him first. So how did we start talking? I wish I could remember.

Anyway, it turns out Stoic is a dancer in "Movin' Out". Hence the great body. We had a nice little chat, most of it lost to me in the haze of ethanol fumes. I remember talking about meeting one of his castmates at Marie's Crisis some months ago. He gave me a little dish on the guy. And that was that. He went back to his friends and left a little while later.

I wish I had a better ending to this tale that I could share. Something about going back to my place and finding out how limber dancers are, etc., but that is sadly not my style. Still, it was nice having a good looking Broadway dancer chatting with me for a while, so I'm going to call it a good night.

Plus it was great hanging out with Stuff and Hugh.

I'm Back

Okay, I'm back. Mom is doing well, though I really wish I could stay for another week or two to help her out. But because of work, that can't happen.

Argh.

Anyway, glad to be back in my own bed. That futon at her house is a killer.

I don't much feel like blogging today, so I'll just post the song that is stuck in my head.

What'll I Do
Irving Berlin
© 1924 Irving Berlin Music (ASCAP)

Gone is the romance that was so divine
'Tis broken and cannot be mended
You must go your way and I must go mine
But now that our love dreams have ended

What'll I do
When you are far away
And I am blue
What'll I do

What'll I do
When I am wondering who
Is kissing you
What'll I do

What'll I do with just a photograph
To tell my troubles to

When I'm alone with only dreams of you
That won't come true
What'll I do

What'll I do with just a photograph
To tell my troubles to

When I'm alone with only dreams of you
That won't come true
What'll I do