The 6th Floor

In Which I Thank You, Spread a Little Love, And Move On

2006-05-13T20:25:00.000-04:00

Some 18 months ago, give or take, I was sitting at my bullshit job, fearing another outburst from the asshole who signed my meager paychecks, waiting for a phone call from my then boyfriend who lived in LA. I don't even remember how I stumbled upon my first blog. But a day later I had opened the 6th Floor and was updating on a regular basis.
I was bitter, depressed, feeling trapped, and more than a bit lost. I had graduated law school and passed the bar, living on a prayer (WHOA-OH! We're Halfway there!) and needed a place to unload.
This isn't to say that I'm not still all of the above, to a degree.
But things have changed a lot since then.
Since that first post, I left shitty soul-crushing job and got another, where I made some great friends and started to believe in myself again. Last December left that job and started my current employment as a real lawyer.
Since that first post, my parents have split up. Life has gone on.
Since that first post, my sister, my roommate of 2 years, moved out. I renovated my apartment and kind of started over.
Since that first post, A* became one of my best friends, met an incredible man, got engaged, and is now planning on moving to North Carolina.
Since that first post, my circle of friends has changed dramatically. One very close friend got cut out of my life entirely. Another got cut out, and then died shortly after we had taken the first steps toward reconciliation.
Since that first post, I lost my Grandfather.
Since that first post, I've become great friends with Allison and Jules, through a meeting with BR.
Since that first post, I've had the worst year for cluster headaches in my life, and spent most of last summer afraid that I would die and wishing that I would.
Since that first post, that boyfriend in LA and I broke up. He treated me horribly in the ensuing months, and I now know exactly what kind of man I had tied myself to for 9 months. I have dated quite a few men since then, some notable, some not so much.
Since that first post, I made 2 great friends in Bradders and Rhys, whom I get to see maybe twice a year, but value above so many others.
Since that first post, the world has lost a Pope and gained a new one. The latter being kind of an asshole with nowhere near as impeccable taste in hats as the old.
Since that first post, I got a fourth tattoo.
Since that first post, the U.S. has seen two new Supreme Court Justices appointed. Gay people are no closer to being treated like human beings.
Since that first post, Hurricanes Rita and Katrina killed thousands, left thousands of other homeless and hopeless. But since that first post, we've learned that Brownie did a "heck of a job".
Since that first post, I've watched Donald Trump anoint 2 new Apprentici, America elect 2 new American Idols, Tyra anoint 3 next top models, and the viewing public ignore Arrested Development, and let it go the way of so many other brilliant shows.
Since that first post, Audrey lost her father, Bird lost a baby, and LJ gained a daughter.
Since that first post, Bird got pregnant again and is expecting her first child in June.
Since that first post, I stopped seeing my shrink, because I realized that I can be neurotic for free.
Since that first post, the U.S. has become a reviled nation (moreso than it ever was) and the president has blindly led us down the path to war, loss and intolerance.
Since that first post I have contemplated leaving New York 100 times, and find myself completely incapable, if not for the life that I have built here, then because I find it completely impossible to feel as alive anywhere else in the world as I do when I walk the streets of Manhattan.
Since that first post, I met and dated a man who broke my heart, messed with my head, and made me (and by extension all of my friends who listened to me whine about him) absolutely insane. Since that first post we have played out an incredibly intricate dance of avoidance, passive aggression and childish jealousy. We've also been completely unable to be together and yet completely incapable of being apart.
Since that first post, I've tried to become a bit more comfortable with what I want in a relationship, and attempted, somewhat unsuccessfully, to take things a little easier.
Since April, we're giving it another try. And I'm terrified I'm going to get bulldozed again, but I sincerely think that the chance of being with him is worth it. Trust me. He doesn't look at you the way he looks at me. Things aren't playing out how I imagined them, but that's the game, right? Some of the best places are the ones you never planned to go in the first place.
My job doesn't leave me with a lot of time to write, which sucks. I miss writing. But I just don't have the energy or time to commit to really putting things down as often or as completely as I would like. And of late my free time has been devoted to either working or going out and living the life I've so carefully documented.
This isn't to say I suffer from blogger guilt, because I know that there really aren't that many people clamoring for my latest update. But I also hate leaving this page sitting here, collecting dust. Unfinished.
Rereading what I use as signposts for this blog, I realize more than ever that this was a completely personal thing. Unlike many of the bloggers who get paid to write and have made cottage industries of their ramblings, I haven't marked my time (that often) with Paris Hilton's latest appearance or tracking Lindsay Lohan's weight fluctuations. Which is why my readership was never all that huge. I've been examining my own life, and there aren't all that many people interested. Which is totally fine. And yet, if I had starred in a movie or had an album, all the weird minutiae of my days and the breakdown and rebuild of my relationship with Bartender and I would have been all that half the country cared about. (Take a moment to picture me jumping up and down on Oprah's couch screaming about how much I love this man! Scary, right?)
I know that the urge to write will never stop completely, and I imagine the closing of the 6th Floor will be akin to Cher's Farewell tour: Just when you thinks it's over, she adds more dates (Seriously Cher, I love you. But you've been on a farewell tour for 4 freaking years. Please just stop.). So I might pop up somewhere else in the future. And I might not.
I'm a bit taken aback by how many of my readers are complete strangers. I've never met or spoken to a lot of you, and yet you comment, you encourage, you rage right along side me. Thank You.
It's weird to be looking back and looking forward at the same time. I'm so confused I can't really even think of a snarky note to finish with. I guess you could queue up that sad waking away music from "The Incredible Hulk". Anyone have that on mp3? No?
I have no words of wisdom to go out on. There are no quotes for me to copy here (although I briefly considered Carrie's last monologue from the Sex and the City finale, but, Jesus, that would be GAAAAAAAAAY and I'd probably have to kick my own ass.). No revelations. No Jerry Springer-esque final thought to wrap it all up. Because I can't wrap it up. Nothing is really ending. My life is going on. So is yours, Dear Reader.
So I'll just say this:
Take care of each other.
Know that, despite all my bitching, I believe that people are generally good, and that above all else, love will find a way.

See you Around, Bitches.

Peace.

There Are No Words

2006-05-02T12:00:00.001-04:00

Watch for the kid at 0:09 who seemingly licks his hand.

One Foot In Front Of The Other

2006-04-24T16:43:00.000-04:00

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When I moved to New York and came out of the closet (Ed. Note: I HATE that phrase. HATE it. It just has such weird connotations. I'd prefer to say "Accepted myself" or "Finally got me some man lovin" or "Signed up for a lifetime of bodyhair maintenance and $200 jeans". But I guess as a people we've opted for "Came out". Whatevs. What was my point? Oh, yeah...) AIDS was, to me, kind of like the gay equivalent of a baby pigeon or a compassionate conservative: I knew it had to exist, but I just had never seen it up close and personal. I mean, I watched And the Band Played On and Philadelphia, and I had a concept of the disease. But a concept does little good.
In June of 2003, I was engaged in a rather casual relationship with someone I had met in my neighborhood. I was always safe, but it was just out of habit.
I became friendly with my paramour (sounds better than "fuckbuddy"), who was (surprise, surprise) a Latin immigrant. I was working for an immigration attorney at the time, and he asked if I would talk to my boss about picking up his stalled case from his current attorney. I called his attorney from my office on a Monday afternoon, 4 days after my 24th birthday.
"HIV Law Project can I help you?"
"Uh, Hi. What did you say?"
"HIV Law Project. How can I help you?"
"I'm sorry. I thought I misheard you." This is where my mind locked in for about 3 seconds and asked the only logical question I could think of. "Do you only handle clients who are HIV-Positive?"
"Yes. HIV-Positive and families of HIV-Positive individuals."
I don't remember thanking her. I don't remember hanging up the phone. I don't remember walking out of my office, buying a pack of cigarettes at the newsstand and passing out against the office building on the corner of Fulton and Broadway. But I did all of these things. I remember coming to and lighting a cigarette, calling my doctor, my shrink and my mother, in that order, and sitting on that street corner and shaking from sheer terror for about 20 minutes. That was the day that HIV became real for me.
Breathe. I tested negative. Although the lab lost my bloodwork and I spent 10 days freaking out every time the phone rang thinking it was my doctor calling with a death sentence. Those ten days lasted a lifetime. For me, for my family, for my friends.
I have perspective now as to just how close I've come to becoming infected, as to how in an instant AIDS can go from being just another cause to the controlling factor in your life. I'm still friends with the guy, though it took a few years for me to really forgive him for putting me in a situation that didn't provide me with all the information I needed to protect myself. He has since apologized for not telling me up front, and I after I forgave him I thanked him. Because now it's not just habit using condoms. It's real to me, and I know that I will never be the guy to say "what the hell" or to assume anything about anyone's status.

Before I moved here, I had never met anyone with HIV.
Now, one of my close friends is positive. Every time he gets a stomachache I lose my mind with worry. One of my best friends from my last job went to the doctor for pneumonia last spring and came back with a positive diagnosis. Roommate's best friend, who is 23 FUCKING YEARS OLD was diagnosed positive two months ago. And that's the tip of my personal iceberg. AIDS is out there in a big way. We all know someone living with HIV. And if not personally, consider my friends your friends.
Meds for HIV are incredibly expensive, and pharmaceutical and insurance companies are not chomping at the bit to lower the price. There is ongoing research, but we're living with a government that would rather spend millions to end lives in the Middle East than attempt to save them worldwide. HIV and AIDS don't need to be slowed. They need to be stopped. And people currently living with HIV/AIDS need as much help as they can get.
Mainstream culture seems to have forgotten about AIDS to a degree.
I haven't. My friends who are infected certainly haven't.
On May 21 I'm participating in the AIDS Walk with many of my friends, some of whom are living with HIV. If you're in New York, walk with us. 6 miles isn't far, but it's not the walk. It's the money it raises. It's the show of support for people living with HIV and AIDS. It's giving something to work towards a cure.
Please give if you can.

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Laid Bare

2006-04-24T08:49:00.000-04:00

Historian Sean Wilentz makes the case for Rolling Stone that W is, in fact, history's greatest monster.
And, to read his article, he isn't alone. He contends that the vast majority of historians, when holding the Bush administration up against such disasters as the Nixon, Johnson and Hoover, have deemed W the worst of the worst. Last in the summer school class.
Read for yourself. It's all there. It's nothing we didn't know already.

Separated at Birth? (Or "This One's For A*")

2006-04-14T10:28:00.000-04:00

Tough Call. But unless the Pope starts screaming "UNGODLY!" and calling people Gargoyles, I'm giving the edge to Margueritte Perrin of Wife Swap fame.

Confessions From The Upper Decks

2006-04-10T10:56:00.000-04:00

I got my Madonna tickets.
Let me rephrase that:
I was in my office at 8 this morning, and had 2 phone lines and 5 internet explorer windows going the second tickets went on sale at 9:00. I needed 6 seats together for me and mine.
When I got the nice lady on the phone at exactly 9:06 she told me that there were only pairs left behind the stage, and scattered singles.
Then she found 6 together. Which I took.
Now mind you, these were the BEST AVAILABLE seats. (Read: There weren't even any of the ridiculously prices $354 seats left.) And, the good people at Ticketmaster were kind enough to promise me my own escorts to my seat (!!):

A few minutes later, 2 more shows were suddenly added (DAMN YOU MADONNA AND YOUR EVIL PLANS TO SCREW US ALL BY SUDDENLY "ADDING" DATES THAT SHOULD HAVE BEEN LISTED ALL ALONG!)
I bought three more tickets for another show. A bit closer. Like I believe these to actually be in U.S. airspace.
Basically, here's a map of where I'll be sitting:

So on the second night, for a mere $110 per seat, I can watch Madonna on the big screens and imagine how cool it must be up close. On the first night, for $80, I get to see Madonna, but I'm also relatively certain that I'll get to spend some Q time with dead relatives, as I will be sitting in fucking heaven. And really, $80 isn't really all that high a price to see Grandma again.
So that's that I guess. We're making base camp at the concession stand and setting out for the summit about an hour before the concert.

On Being Heard

2006-04-06T17:00:00.000-04:00

Once upon a time, an NYU student, incensed with Justice Scalia's view on sodomy laws and gay rights, attempted to turn the tables on the judge and show him just how embarassing it is to ahve your private life dragged out into the public eye and asked him if he sodomizes his wife. And I deemed him my hero. And I said I would buy him a beer. And now that I'm dating someone who goes to law school with him, I just may get the chance.
But this guy. Oh Lordy.
He stood up at one of those Bush press events where they pass the mic around... you know the events - the ones where obviously pre-selected people stand up and say things like "I don't have a question, I just wanted to say that you're the best president ever and just looking at your image on TV cured my rickets and I'm relatively sure that your foreign policy has single-handedly brought sunshine and rainbows to the children of the world."
Well, you see, Harry Taylor made it past the screeners. And apparently Harry wasn't about to claim that the photo of W on his den wall at home weeps tears of blood:

"I feel like despite your rhetoric, that compassion and common sense have been left far behind during your administration, and I would hope from time to time that you have the humility and grace to be ashamed of yourself. You never stop talking about freedom, and I appreciate that. But while I listen to you talk about freedom, I see you assert your right to tap my telephone, to arrest me and hold me without charges, to try to preclude me from breathing clean air and drinking clean water and eating safe food. If I were a woman, you’d like to restrict my opportunity to make a choice and decision about whether I can abort a pregnancy on my own behalf."

Harry: when A* moves to North Carolina, and I visit her (ahem), I'm looking you up in the phone book. And I'm coming over. And I'm bringing you a bottle of the most expensive scotch I can find. And a great cigar. And my firstborn child.
Would you have the balls to stand up and say that to W? Not just because it's ballsy to begin with because he's the president, but because, honestly, this administration deals with criticism about as well as the Church of Scientology.
I don't know that I would have the wrinklies to stand up and say it outside the comfortable anonymity of the internet. But Harry did. He rung the fucking bell. And as they tell us in law school: you can not unring that shit.
Harry wasn't a pundit. He is not, that I know, peddling a book, pushing a charity, or Bono.
He's just a guy. Who has apparently really had enough.
So Harry, where ever you are, you have my undying respect. You were true, to the point, eloquent, and above all, braver than most of us dare dream. You had a chance most of us will never get. And you took it.

Politics Aside

2006-04-05T16:29:00.000-04:00

So here's the thing: I know just how political I've gotten of late. I'm well aware. I look at my archives and see what I was writing about a year ago, and I rarely mention politics. For the most part if was self-obsessed whining about failed relationships and the occasional attempt to recall just what I may have done in a drunken stupor the previous night, but all in all I wasn't as polarizing as I've become.
And it's not that I have gained new opinions or that things have gotten any better or worse (Delay resigns: Better. Everything else going on with the government: Worse.). It's just that work has robbed me of what social life I used to have, and I'm trying to shy away from writing about anything all too personal (though there isn't that much personal going on right now). And the news is all I really am exposed to this day, absorbed through other blogs or cnn.com during the day (read: when I should be paying attention to the very important meeting I have teleconferenced into and have to summarize for myclient later).
Being grown up has robbed me of the free time I had to obsess about the excruciating minutae that make for decent personal blogging.
I'm looking for things to write about other than politics.
Swear. (I've been sleeping around just to get some good stories for ya'll (in the name of research and pleasing my literally tens of fans...furreal!). So far, nothing great.)
In the meantime:
Senator Bachman can Suck it.
So can Scalia. (But you knew that already, didn't you?)
Feingold, on the other hand, is pretty ok.
So is the Irish Prime Minister.
Oh yeah: And apparently I'm supposed to care that Katie Couric is moving her perky yet annoying self to a anchor position with CBS. Yeah...Pressing. Indeed. News about news anchors...fascinating! Or...not.

The Pot Calling the Kettle African American

2006-04-05T16:13:00.000-04:00

REP. TOM DELAY (Yes, the recently resigned, deisgraced, soon to be "Indicted Former Rep. Tom Delay", followed by "Convicted Felon Tom Delay", ultimately followed by "Get yo' Sweet Ass over here, Bitch. And Don't be screaming for no guards now!) : 'Cynthia McKinney is a racist. She has a long history of racism. Everything is racism with her. This is incredible arrogance, and -- that sometimes hits these members of congress, but especially Cynthia McKinney'
Now, mind you, I am in no way implying that Delay is a racist. I'm sure he may very well be (considering the wealth of other decent human qualities he exhibits on a daily basis, I'd wager he's probably all kinds of -ist, -phobe and -hole), but that's not what I'm talking about here.
"This is incredible arrogance, and -- that sometimes hits these members of congress..."
Seriously Tom? Seriously?
Because it seems to me that someone may have gotten a little arrogant and thought himself invincible and got caught with his hand in the cookie jar and then resigned claiming that his reelection would have "gotten ugly". (Note to Tom: You're right to think that things might have gotten "ugly". Would you expect your opponents to just ignore the fact that you've been implicated in breaking the fucking law?! But then, ugly is in the eye of the beholder. If you consider (rightfully) losing your re-election bid due to involvement in criminal activities to be ugly, then Quasimodo that shit up, Yo.)

ITMFA

2006-03-29T10:41:00.000-05:00

Sadly, It Will Never Happen.
But I'm ordering a T-shirt anyways.
I just don't get it. Clinton gets a little head from an ugly girl and it's obstruction of justice when he lies about it. Bush lies about, oh, roughly EVERY FUCKING THING he's ever addressed publicly, and no one bats an eye.
And for those of you who think I'm just rambling and don't know the meaing of "impeachment", I do. Constitutional Law at a fancypants law school, Bitches.
Not to mention I make it my business to know what the fuck it is I'm whining about so as not to make an ass of myself like, oh, say, Bill O'Reilly or Ann Coulter or George W. Bush.
Illegal wiretaps. Going to war under false pretenses. Obstruction of Justice. Violation of human rights in Guantanamo.
And that's just this week.

In Which Anton Scalia Ruins A Perfectly Pleasant Monday Simply By Existing

2006-03-27T14:35:00.000-05:00

I. Hate. Anton. Scalia.
And here's why:
Symptomatic of one-sided Religious Right mouthpieces and head cases, Tony is suffering from a severe case of myopia.
When questioned about his very public displays of his conservative religious beliefs, the honorable (*rolls eyes so far back they actually become detached and swivel around in their sockets*) Justice Scalia, now stay with me here, made an obscene gesture to reporters and said "It’s none of their business. This is my spiritual life. I shall lead it the way I like.” First of all, Classy. Very Classy. Then again, he has been known to go fishing (at least its safer than hunting) with Dick Cheney, the man who told a Senator to "Fuck Off" on the floor of the Senate. I'm glad these are the guys crusading for values and a moral compass. Up next: Jessica Simpson as Secretary of Education!
Now, I agree with him. Completely. He should be able to worship whomever and however he wants. A person's spiritual life is their private business. And yet, Fat Tony, apparently you think that who I choose to sleep with or wish to marry doesn't deserve to be my choice and should be punishable by law?
Seriously? Seriously.
Because here's the thing: The last time I had a spirited round of naked fun with the guy I'm seeing behind the closed door of his bedroom, it didn't affect anyone else. It didn't change the country, or change the world (though I did feel the Earth move just the slightest bit... what can I say? The boy is talented.). It most certainly did not affect Justice Scalia's right to practice his religion how he chooses.
But when Scalia rules fom the bench based on his "private" fundamentalist beliefs, it affects the private lives of the rest of us. It affects my ablity to have my private life behind my bedroom door. It affects the ablity of people who don't share his religious beliefs to go through a school day without being subjected to them. By definition, it affects the country and the course of history.
Interesting how Scalia as a public figure determined to establish the boundaries of his private life, while at the same time devoted to controlling the personal existence of millions of citizens who have no effect on him whatsoever.
But then, he's got God on his side.

My Mama Didn't Raise No Fools

2006-03-22T15:29:00.000-05:00

A recent study has shown that Whiny Insecure children grow up to be Conservatives while self-assured and confident children grow up to be Liberals.
Furreal. They tracked 100 kids from birth in a personality study at Berkley for 20 years. They weren't even looking at political leanings. And yet they noticed something very interesting.
Kids who were whiny and fearful (Fear leads to anger. Anger leads to hate. Hate leads toThe Dark Side (i.e. Republicanism)) grew up rigid, with a narrow world view and an inability to see the complexity of life.
I know, by no means conclusive, but it makes some sense, no?
Would anyone be surprised to find out that W and Cheney were the type to take their toys and leave the sandbox if things weren't going their way when they were little facists? Or that Ann Coulter wouldn't play with any other little girls who didn't let her be Queen at their tea parties, even after they tried to explain to little Ann that tea parties don't even have royalty, and that she couldn't always have her way no matter what and for God's sake Ann, it's probably just an awkward phase and you won't always be this gawky and horsefaced and bitter?
On the other hand, I can't imagine Kerry was too well liked as a kid either. He reeks of mama's boy.

It's Been A While...

2006-03-17T18:33:00.000-05:00

While I was waiting for my plane to LA yesterday at JFK, I took advantage of the fact that my firm provided me with a laptop (so I can really take work with me WHEREVER I go) to catch up on a little online reading. As I was perusing a few of my favorite blogs, started clicking around in their blogrolls, until one landed me here. And it struck me: Holy Shit! I have a blog! I totally forgot!
Not really, but it makes for a better opening than "Hi everyone. I've been working like a six-year-old Korean in a shoe factory, and haven't had time to write anything at all in over two weeks. But fear not, I'm in LA, it's raining, and Alex's neighbors have a relatively insecure wireless connection. So until they catch on, I'm back, baby!"
So looking back on the month that has been thus far, I'll hit a few of the more prominent events.
My oldest friend in the world, the one I met in 3rd grade, at whose house I had my first kiss, with whom I used to play on the swings in fourth grade, who has seen me through better or worse (mostly worse, and occasionally drunk), who never forgot my birthday, who sent cookies for every occasion and care packages whenever she felt like it, whom I find to be one of the most dynamic and amazing people in the world, who was busy in college running marathons, editing magazines and falling in love all before I woke up and figured out where I was on any given Sunday morning, gave birth to her first child on March 5, 2006 (Oscar Sunday, but we'll get to that in a minute). Mom, Dad and Baby Audrey are all doing wonderfully.
And despite the fact that I feel incredibly old knowing that the girl woman who used to write plays with my in the coat closet of Mrs. Donnigian's class is now a mother, I couldn't be happier. LJ is one of the best people I know, in every sense of the word. And she's going to be an incredible mother. Congrats LJ and Mr. H. Hi Audrey!

OK, I've had a few emails from friends and readers asking for my thoughts on the Oscars, particularly the upset of Brokeback Mountain for best picture. Frankly, I was much more interested in what was going on with Charlize Theron's dress, but that's another matter entirely.
Let me start by letting you all know what I think about the Oscars. I love them for the spectacle that they are, but I'm entirely cognizant of one thing: they are completely, utterly and absolutely meaningless. Let's look at who the Oscars matter to most, shall we: The Gays and the Theater kids. That's right. The High School outcasts. And what are the Oscars other than the one night where the outcasts, all grown up, can basically shower each other with acceptance. Trust, kids: The Oscars are right up there with being invited to sit at the cool kid's table. I know, because A) I've held one (I dated a Best Actress winner's nephew, who kept it in the bathroom. I made it a point to pee when he took me to her house. And yes, I gave my acceptance speech in the mirror. And no, you weren't thanked.); and B) I never got to sit at the cool kids' table.
With that in mind, consider this: What effect does Brokeback's losing have on the film itself? None at all. In point of fact, 2 weeks later, now that the alleged dust has settled, who can quote Crash for me? Or give me an example of the effect Crash has had on the social consciousness other than as "the movie that beat out Brokeback". Brokeback got people talking. It changed some minds. It pissed off the Religious Right to no end. And isn't that the real reward? That Focus on the Family hates your guts? The Oscars are a zero sum game. They may determine who gets paid more next year and who gets to jerk off his fellow film makers as a presenter at the next ceremony, but that's about it. The Oscars did not close the door opened by Ang Lee and Brokeback Mountain. Remember: more people saw Brokeback than Crash. More media attention has been paid to Brokeback than Crash. And no film in recent history has stirred the public to attention like Brokeback. The fact that Jack Nicholson didn't read its name off that little card on March 5 means absolutely nothing. So Thank You, Brokeback.
Was Crash a good movie? Meh. I think it was totally unbelievable plot-wise. The acting was good (Thandi Newton was particularly heartbreaking), but I think it was heavy handed. REALLY heavy handed. When I first saw it, it took my breath away, made me guilty and sad and made me basically want to get off the couch and hug a minority. And that feeling went away after about 2 hours. Because it was a manipulative film that makes us care by putting little girls in danger and throwing Sandra Bullock down a flight of stairs (Yeah, that part was OK). Not to mention it was about as subtle as Margueritte Perrin on Amphetamines.
Go Ahead. Google Her. I'll wait.
Seriously. I'm relatively sure that after Crash won, Lion's Gate hired a team of people to actually take to the streets, raid their local Blockbuster for copies of the film and physically beat people over the head with them. Racism = bad. I get it.
Brokeback was a great movie, And it stayed with me. For a long time. It was powerful and heartbreaking and yes, it spoke to me on a different level, because I've been to some of the places they go to during the course of that film (Emotionally. Not Wyoming.).
But you want to know a dirty little secret?
I wish Good Night and God Luck had won.
Because I rented it last week, expecting to be bored, but feeling that I would be remiss if I didn't see it. And it was one of the most galvanizing pieces of film I have ever seen. There's no action sequence, no fires, barely any cursing, and no nudity. It's just the story of the type of man who no longer exists in this country: an honest man with integrity and balls, who stood up in front of the whole country and put his own freedom in jeopardy to throw light on the darkest recesses of what flourishes when narrow-minded and power-hungry men are allowed to terrorize the people of this once-great nation. A journalist who realized that the government was out of control, and instead of slinging mud or making jokes, stared directly into the camera week after week and presented the unslanted, indisputable truth, unflinching in his dedication until the world began to change around him.
Murrow wouldn't have stood for Fox News. Murrow would have thought John Stewart a clown prince at best. He would have thought Michael Moore a grandstander with no follow through. Murrow certainly would never have been a blogger. Men like Murrow don't exist any more, at least not in the public eye. If they did, I don't think we'd be this far down the rabbit hole.
And without men like Murrow, Brokeback Mountain and Crash would not have even been remotely possible.
Sorry, ya'll. All that Oscar Shit's been building for a few weeks. Not to mention that I was QUITE perturbed that Dolly lost. Cause Travellin' Thru is a great song. And you know her acceptance speech would have been filled with homespun metaphors : "I'm as happy as a pig at a frog stompin' contest in Joo-Lie!" Whatever that means.
So that's about it. Back to work on Monday. Posts when I can.
Until Then: Good Night, And Good Luck.

Man At Work

2006-03-08T21:53:00.000-05:00

They actually expect me to earn my ridiculously large salary.
Dammit.
No time to write anything of substance.
Sleepy.
Post-Oscar rant and news on LJ's baby coming soon.

It's YOOOGE!

2006-02-27T21:38:00.000-05:00

Some of you may know something about my not-so-secret addiction to The Apprentice. And tonight started season 5, with, thus far, the most annoying contestant in the history of the show: Whiny Fat Guy Whose Name I Refuse To Learn Because He Won't Be Around Long Enough For It To Matter. And if we've leaned anything, it's that fat does not make for good reality TV. Unless it's in the form of a black woman on American Idol who can wail to the rafters (Go Mandisa! Can't Wait to see you lose and start a career performing in gay clubs the world over!). And like Anne Coulter with a microphone, Fatty seems to just be getting worse. Normally I'd be completely excited about scenes from next week's all new Apprentice. Unless they contained, as tonight's did, clips of Fat Bastard gyrating on the street in boxer shorts and a bathrobe. *Shudder*. The only thing that kept me from grabbing Griffin's nearest chew toy and taking out my now filthy, dirty, irreparably soiled eyes was the fact that the clip seems to indicate that Fatty's antics may just lead to his firing next week. I just worry that he might get waaaay too depressed, don his "Big Fun" T-Shirt, and take a swan dive off an overpass if he gets fired (Points for Martha Dunstock reference: 12). It isn't looking good, Tubby. If I were you, I'd be sweating like Dick Cheney's hunting partner.
Trump gave a bombastic speech (is he capable of any other kind?) over lunch with the winners (the relatively palatably named "Synergy Corporation", as opposed to the semi-retardedly monikered "Gold Rush Corporation" - Way to go, sycophants! Worst name since "Capital Edge"!) about the atrocities in Africa and the homeless (Atrocities are a 3 BILLION DOLLAR INDUSTRY! They're YOOOGE! And No One Carries Out Atrocities Like the Trump Organization!), using it to point out that "What we do is really not that important." And coming from the man with the biggest ego this side of Kanye West, that's just...scary. Honestly Trump. Don't be humble. We love you overinflated. Don't disappoint us. Martha was humble. And Her show sucked. Hard.
And WTF is with bringing in Ivanka to replace Carolyn? Ain't no one can ask a pointed question that has no right answer like my homegirl Carolyn. I fear her. And her hair. I want to go to a cocktail party with Carolyn some day, just to watch her stare down everyone in the room until they wet themselves. Seriously. Last season I piddled on the couch when she turned her icy gaze on Jen G and her "Tethno" cake and zapped her ass back to the land of socially crippled anorexic scarf-enthusiasts.
And lastly: Did anyone else notice that Orlando Bloom, still smarting from the failure of Elizabethtown and Kingdom of Heaven, has assumed the name of Tarek and attempted to kick start a career as Trump's boot licker?

"Elf"

"Project Manager"

Reach Out, Touch Moo

2006-02-27T20:57:00.000-05:00

Lest any of you doubt: Moo was in my house this weekend. And I *touched* him. With the Fickle Finger of Fate, no less.
Yes, I consider myself lucky to have met (and drank with) the man behind the curtain. We had a great time all weekend, Moo, Allison, Jules, Hof, A* and I.
I'd do a full recap, but I think that Moo and Allison covered it pretty darn well.
Come back any time, Moobert. New York *Hearts* You.

Confuse Me? What Was That?

2006-02-23T11:37:00.000-05:00

He Added: "Unless of course it's an election year. Or I'm trying to get a Supreme Court Justice on the bench. Or it's the State of the Union. Or Scooter Libby has been indicted. Or my shady deals are coming to light. Or Michael Moore makes a movie. Or... Well generally at any other time except right now."

Let's just break this down.
The party who stood on the ashes of the World Trade Center for 5 Fucking years, who spent 5 Fucking years claiming that the terrorists from the Middle East are comin' for us, so git yer gun!, who keep raising alerts for New York City, and who keep claiming that "If you're not with us, you're against us.", have, through backdoor deals that ignored legally mandated investigatory waiting periods and questionable deal provisions, deigned to hand over major New York and New Jersey ports to the United Arab Emirates. Donald Rumsfeld claims to have never heard about it, yet he sits on a board that unanimously approved the deals.
Don't worry about terror. Until when George?
Why can we relax now? Because it serves your greed? Because it serves the lies that your administration has perpetuated since day 1?
And the worst part? They'll get away with this, and 90% of the morons that live in the country will buy it hook line and sinker without even thinking about why we don't have to worry about security now, but may be on red alert tomorrow.
Words fail me.
Completely.

Cuter Than A Box Of Babies

2006-02-21T10:39:00.000-05:00

It was no small feat. Seriously.
I had to let Dr. Douchebag and his wife come and look at my apartment to make sure that they felt it is "fit for a dog". Seriously.
I had to sign a ridiculous agreement, stating, among other things, that I would let them know my address no matter where I live for the life of the dog, that I would arrange for playdates with the dog's mother at Dr. and Mrs. Douchebag's request (in Washington Heights!!), and that they could remove the dog from my house if they felt he was being mistreated in any way. Seriously.
It turns out Dr. Douchebag is also a lawyer. Though he studied medical administration at some no-name lawschool in Ohio. I studied promarily contract law and litigation-related topics in New York Fucking City. And they taught me this neat little thing: If you write all sorts of ridiculous promises into a contract, it helps to have consequences for breaking the agreement written in. Or all you have is a piece of paper promising to bring my dog on playdates, but no way to enforce it. Oh, and you never took the Bar, right? I might know a little more about contract enforcement and property rights and basic Fuck-you-up-you-think-you-an-take-my-dog-when-all-you-studied-is-hospital-admin-law-and-I-was-trained-by-a-soulless-fuckwad law. I'm just sayin' is all.
Well played, Douchebag. Well. Played.
And so, after putting up with his condescending bullshit in my own house for an hour, Douchebag and wife finally left. And I spent the rest of the weekend lying on the couch with what we have come to decide is the only puppy in the world made of babies. He's that fucking cute.
Now, now, Bitches. Lest you think I would soften my cold black little heart by bringing a puppy into my home, or, worse, become one of those freakass people who carries their dog around in a bag and refers to it in the first person (Puddles and I hate that restaurant), or, God forbid, as one of their children: Fear not. I guarantee that by the time he hits 6 months, my dog will be watching other dogs go by in the park, mocking them under his breath to his best friend, and peeing on command on people I don't like. And I will remain as evil as always.
And now I have a hound to do my bidding.
Bitches, meet Griffin. Griffin, The Bitches.

You kids play nice now.

Not Without My Puggle

2006-02-13T12:39:00.000-05:00

A few weeks ago, Roommate and I decided we want to get a dog. Fully aware that we live in Manhattan, we didn't want anything too big; a puppy just large enough to fill the gaping emotional hole in both of our lives. Ex-officemate Lynn forwarded me an email from a couple whose puggle had a litter in the beginning of January. I contacted them and arranged to go up and see the puppies and possibly pick one out. I made the journey to Washington Heights and met with Jenn, the wife of the man I had been in contact with. I played with all 8 puppies. They are absolutely adorable. And I picked one out: a chubby little brown male (insert joke, re: my apartment already having one bitch *here*). While I was playing with him, I noticed that he was favoring one of his back legs a bit. I commented on it to Jenn, and asked her to just keep an eye on it over the following 3 weeks (the puppies were, at that point, too young to leave their mother). She agreed, saying that of course she understood that I wouldn't want to take home an injured dog. I went home and immediately sent pictures of my prospective puppy to everyone I know. I started picking out names with roommate. Excitement grew. A week later, I emailed both man (let's call him Pedro) and wife to confirm my choice, pending that his leg was ok.
Today, Pedro sent me the following via email:

Dear Dan

The puppy is doing fine but your concern with his leg has made me concerned. Although I am pretty sure he is healthy, I keep imagining the possibility of him getting sick for whatever reason and then not been taken care off.

Those puppies are like my kids and I have to make sure they are getting unconditional love. Your questions about his leg, even though they lack any medical basis, make me think that he would care for as long as his healthy and that is not good enough for me.

Therefore, I am not convinced you are ready for the commitment of raising a puppy.

Sincerely,

Pedro MD

OK, let me walk you through it.
First of all, this douchebag has never even met me. His wife did. And we got along great. And yet he's condescending enough to say to me that he's "convinced I am not ready for the commitment of raising a puppy"?! Because I'm concerned the dog may not be healthy?! Hey assface: when my parents bought me a cat for Christmas 2 years ago (which, I might add did wonders for my fears that I was going to die alone with 1,000 cats) and it developed a brain disease causing it to have seizures and crap all over my apartment, I spent over $1,000 and 2 months doing everything I could to keep it healthy. In the end, I had to have it put down, because the only other option was fucking brain surgery. So maybe I know something about taking care of a sick animal. But I guess you'd know more about me because I was concerned about the puppy's leg, right?
Fuck you, douchebag.
Second: I didn't want to buy into a puppy that was injured from the get go. I think that's pretty valid, don't you? Or would it make more sense that I said "Oh, he has a bad leg? Potential for suffering on the part of the dog and extra cost and difficulty for me? Where do I sign?" A dog is an investment of time, money and effort. And while I have plenty of all three to give, my resources are limited. I'm not looking to take on a huge challenge. I was just hedging my investment. Would you adopt a dog until you were sure it was completely healthy?
Fuck you, Douchebag.
Third: Who signs an email "Pedro MD"? Seriously. I'd bet good money this assface is a surgeon. That kind of arrogance in a doctor screams surgeon. Should I have signed my response "Dan, Esq."?
Fuuuuuuuuck you. Douche. Bag.
So I responded. I'll spare you my email, suffice it to say that I pointed out his jackassery in full and basically told him that he was being ridiculous and ought to reconsider. He replied and asked for my telephone number. I am patiently awaiting his call.
Is it wrong to want the puppy out of spite now?
I'm pissed at his judgment which is completely without basis. I'm pissed that he has the arrogance to condescend to me. I'm pissed that I was all excited and he decides I am not fit to raise a dog without having ever laid eyes on me. I'm pissed because I don't think being concerned about the dog's leg before I take him home is indicative of anything except that I have fully thought the decision through and want to make sure that all things are taken into consideration. And I'm not giving up without a fight.
Because this mouth breather has awakened the litigator within. And I'm not talking about the bitch you all know and love whose acerbic tongue has been known to reduce total strangers to tears merely for cutting me off on the sidewalk.
I'm talking about the litigator who by the end of the conversation will calmly have talked Pedro into not only handing over the puppy that I already think of as mine, but his wife, the combination to his safety deposit box, and a kidney.

Wouldn't you go to the mattresses if this was on the line?

Founding Fathers

2006-02-07T11:13:00.000-05:00

Attorney Alberto General Gonzalez, speaking in defense of President Bush's blatantly illegal wiretapping practices, claimed that (and there is video, so I'm not making this shit up) George Washington used electronic surveillance on a "far broader scale".
Brother had wooden teeth, but was all cloak and dagger with the earpiece and the mini cameras and the iPod and the Bluetooth and whatnot.
Yeah...
And Thomas Jefferson totally met the slave he had a child with on Craigslist.

Dinner Date With Death

2006-02-07T10:39:00.000-05:00

I'm trying to be all positive in the face of Valentine's Day. I'm not going to play the yearly game where I get all upset because I dont' have a boyfriend. I mean, honestly, why should February 14 be any worse than the, oh, 364 other nights I spend sleeping alone. Besides, trying to develop a relationship would completely eat into the time I have alotted each day to spend convincing myself that my career keeps me far too busy to have a boyfriend.
So I was getting there. I wasn't even going to sit with a single friend on the couch and whine or get drunk. I was going to have a normal day. I was going to go to work, go to the gym, meet up with A* for dinner, then go home and watch Scrubs before bed. No feeling bad about not having a man in my life. All self-affirming without being self-pitying. Rah Rah mental health. Suck It, Hallmark.
And then MSN.com decides to publish this little piece.
Yes, because being single isn't only depressing at times. Apparently it will be the death of me.
Awesome.
Oddly, it's not being single that is slowly convincing me to take a nice hot bath with my laptop. It's fun little fluff pieces of journalism like this that remind me that not only am I unloveable, but that I'm going to die because of it.

Where's Biff?

2006-02-03T10:20:00.000-05:00

I've pretty much resisted posting anything about Brokeback Mountain. At this point I think every gay man in the universe has beaten that movie to death. Yes, I thought it was great, and it made me cry, etc. etc.
The parodies have been amusing at best.
And then Defamer posted a link to Brokeback To The Future.
Jeen-Yus.
Enjoy, Bitches.

Get It While You Can

2006-01-31T11:20:00.000-05:00

Uh Oh...
And so, tonight, while I still can, I'm going to have as much gay sex as possible.
And to all the ladies out there: If ya'll believe in it (and if you don't that's fine too. No judgement here. Wait. I can say that with a straight face. Let me try again: No...Judgment (*snicker*)... oh fuck it.), go out and have an abortion. Again, while you still can.
Oh, and everyone else who values little things like civil liberties and being free from tyrannical executive power wielded by an autistic frat boy who's in way over his head because said power might have been checked by a system of government which was set up to control said jackhole by creating a judicial body which was meant to review and, on occasion, override the decisions of said jackhole instead of just rolling over like a beleagured wife who has simply had enough of her husband's wheedling to "just loosen up and try something new": Good Night, and Good Luck.

And if ever you doubted that there are now officially 2 Americas consider:
Alito is confirmed on the very day that a movie about gay men and the damage that can be done to their lives and the lives around them by homophobia stands along side a film about racial disharmony, a film about an openly gay writer, a film about the tragedy and consequences of war, and a film, most ironically, about what happens to our nation when government is allowed to spin out of control and rule by fear, paranoia, and intimidation as a contender for the best picture of the year.
Which side are you on?

Broked

2006-01-28T17:42:00.000-05:00

Using my brain non-stop all day and social-interaction-depravation have broken my blogging muscle. Seriously. Everytime I open up the dashboard I can hear it making this funny "Clunk Clunk - tiktiktiktiktik - whrrrrrrrrr". I took it in to the shop, but the guy wanted me to get up on the lift, and I wasn't having it without dinner first. I'm old fashioned like that.

Back In The Race

2006-01-18T22:32:00.000-05:00

Life has a way of...surprising you.
Some of you know that my parents went through a pretty ugly split this past year. I'm 26 years old. That didn't make it any easier. In point of fact, it made it a lot harder, because I'm fully capable of knowing not only the damage inflicted on my siblings and I, but also the extent to which my parents were able to really shatter each other's lives and fuck each other up beyond reason. OK, I'm being a little too fair here. The extent to which my mother basically destroyed my dad.
You see, my father is just under 53 years old. He's never really known much except my mother and trying to make her happy (which, we have all since discovered, is akin to looking for actual humor in an episode of "The War at Home"). When she walked out, my siblings and I were, for lack of a better word, worried. What would he do? He didn't have many friends, and was beyond devestated. He had few hobbies, no stated interests, and seemed to have resigned himself to an eternity of sitting at home feeling sorry for himself and mourning a life that may not have been all that great in the first place, slowly sinking into the sedentiary depression that eventually helped claim his father.
And life went on. He fell into a depression. The he climbed out. He panicked. He raged. He worried about what he was going to do with his life.
Gradually, things got better.
She emptied the house. He refilled it. Holidays normally spent with her family were scaled down in attendance, but not in spirit. He learned to do a lot for himself. He learned that he has his own taste in decorating and clothing, nothing like what he lived with for over 30 years.
And tonight, a mere 5 months after she walked out the door, he sent an email to me, Brother and Sister.
It would seem that my dad, at the age of 52, without telling anyone except his best friend, saved a little money, trained tirelessly, and flew to Phoenix to run in a marathon last week.
The man who was always a bit overweight, who devoted his entire life to his wife and children and never to doing much of anything to challenge himself or make himself happy snuck across the country and ran a fucking marathon.
And he finished.
I literally sat here speechless for about 5 minutes. And I'm not ashamed in the least to say that when I finally got over the shock of the whole thing, I realized I was crying just a little bit.
Proud doesn't begin to cover it. Neither does "Happy for him". In point of fact, if ever in my life there were to be a point of metaphorical critical mass, I believe this is, without a shadow of a doubt, it.
Who is this man?
I'm just completely floored by the turnaround he's gone through, not just since August, but from the man I've known my entire life.
Way to go, Dad. Keep running.

Aural Sex

2006-01-18T15:12:00.000-05:00

I'm running out of things to say of late. Quite possibly because I'm all grows up now and spend most of my day in the office reading and writing about the fascinating world of Corporate law and governance. Which doens't really leave me a lot of time to be out in the world being taunted by idiots.
So in the interest of, um, filling up this space, a short list of what is in heavy rotation on my ipod of late. Why? Why not? I've already told you almost every little excrutiating detail about my life. Why not let you in on what is currently contributing to my premature hearing loss by being thumped through my headphones at unacceptably high decibel levels? Tomorrow: Dan's lunch menu!

1. Mariah Carey - Don't Forget About Us (Tony Moran Remix)
I used to hate Mariah. Until this album. When Mariah tells her ex-lover "I can see it in your eyes, you still want it...", there isn't a person alive who can't relate to catching that look from a former flame.

2. Mary J. Blige - Enough Cryin'
I heart Mary. Luuuurve. Especially when she's a bit pissed, as she is here about wasting time on a man who was never going to come around.

3. David Guetta - The World Is Mine (Fuck Me, I'm Famous Remix)
Huge in London. Had to ask Bradders for the artist and title no less than 6 times before I could remember. The reverberating electronic hook takes me immediately back to New Year at the Fridge.

4. The Freemasons - Love On My Mind
Tina Turner's lyrics from "When the Heartache is Over" dragged agross the hooks from Kim Wilde's "Shame". Pure disco candy.

5. Kelly Clarkson - Behind These Hazel Eyes
I don't care if it's over a year old. I dare you to find a better pop-heartbreak-kissoff track.

6. Mary J. Blige and U2 - One
Mary took one of my favorite songs of all time and made it sound new again. "One, But not the same", indeed.

7. Damien Rice - Cannonball
While "The Blower's Daughter" will most likely always be the #1 most played song on my ipod, "Cannonball" is just as haunting, if not a bit less tragic. One of the best meditations on simply missing the little things about someone that I've ever heard.

8. Shakira - No
I can't understand a word she's saying. And I don't have to.

9. Rob Thomas - This is How a Heart Breaks (That Kid Chris Remix)
Makes you want to cry and dance at the same time, with a beat underneath it all that is just pure sex.

10. Remy Zero - Save Me
I know it's a WB theme song. But long before Smallville, Remy Zero was a great band. The song is desperate and hopeful all at once, acknowledging that even if everything is coming down around your ears, there may be someone coming to your rescue, as long as you scream loud enough for them to hear.

11. The Sweet Inspirations and Cissy Houston - Shake Yourself Loose (Dynamix & Haameyer Mix)
Whitney's Mama lets it rip, thowing her hands to Jesus and inviting everyone with problems to connect to God in the best way possible: "Lose your seat! Now move your feet!" You can almost picture her clutching a hankerchief and shaking convulsively. Or is that Whitney in withdrawal on any given afternoon ?

They Make A Pill For That

2006-01-18T14:59:00.000-05:00

Scientists are working on a literal Eternal Sunshine Pill that blocks the formation of painful memories.
OOOOH... ethical dilemma!
While I think it might be a good idea to provide to, say, hurricane victims, rape victims, and any thinking person alive after the 2000 Presidential Election, I still have to wonder whether painful memories are a part of the human experience in general. I mean, our bodies react the way they do due to thousands of years of evolution. The reaction to a painful memory is there for a reason, isn't it? And who would we be without the memories of everything that has happened to us? Don't therapists focus on uncovering repressed memories? Aren't we just the sum of our experiences and memories? And when the Eff did I get all philosophical?
All of that being said, if the FDA approves it, I'm keeping a candy dish full of them on my nightstand.

Meet Cute

2006-01-17T13:51:00.000-05:00

Sometimes I"m not so smart. Like when I buy a pair of jeans I know are too long, and leave the store without having them hemmed.
And so it was that I found myself heading back to Diesel on Sturday in the pouring rain.
The guy behind the counter is cute. I've noticed him before, mostly noticed him noticing me.
He made small talk while measuring my cuff: he's from Argentina (Danger! South America! Danger!), he used to be a lawyer in his country (And now works at Diesel? Orange Alert! No goals or motivation!). But he was sweet and made pleasant conversation.
So imagine my surprise when I got home from Diesel to find that he had taken my phone number from the little sheet I had to fill out when I left my jeans, and had texted me his phone number.
Ballsy. But cute. Definitely a good "How we met" story.
So I called him last night. He was on the other line, but said he'd call me back.
An hour later, the text came (and what is it about South American men and text messaging? Pick up the phone, for fuck's sake!):
"Hi. Don't know why I took your number. Didn't want to bother you. But I have a boyfriend. But we can still hang out. You seem nice. But I don't want to be a bad person with you."

It's funny. When I was in Saks, the salesman told me that the cologne I was considering would definitely attract unavailable Latin men with mental problems.
Can't say he didn't warn me.

The Single Gayest and Most Melodramatic Thing I Will Ever Commit To Print

2006-01-10T19:22:00.000-05:00

Mario Cantone said it best in the Sex and The City Finale Special: "All my gay friends think they're Carrie. You're Not Fucking Carrie! You. Are. Not. Get over yourself."
Remember the 2nd Season finale? Big comes back from Paris, Carrie finds out he's engaged. They attempt to be friendly, until she finds out he's engaged. The discuss their relationship a bit. She tries to be OK with it. The four women compare Big and Carrie to Hubbell and K-K-K-Katie in The Way We Were. She meets him outside the hotel after his engagement party. He finally tells her the truth about why he couldn't be with her.
"Why wasn't it me?"
"Carrie..."
"Come on. Be a friend."
"It just got so hard. And She's..."
"...Your girl is lovely, Hubbell."

...

Bartender returned from his vacation in South America last week.
Let me rephrase that.
The week before Bartender left, he dragged me away from our friends at a bar, grabbed me and kissed me. I did nothing to prompt it. Swear. A week later, standing in a doorway, I was yelling at him for fucking with me. I asked him why he kissed me. He kissed me again. And again in a bar. And on the street. And against a fence. And on a corner. And at the top of the stairs to the train. And we talked (through our vodka haze) about why he treats me like he does, and why he doesn't just give us a chance.
Then he got on a plane and left to spend Christmas with his boyfriend in Columbia.
We didn't talk for 3 weeks. In the interim I went to London, where I gave it all serious thought. And realized what everyone has been telling me for a long time.
I came back. He called me the day I got back and immediately asked me "Did you meet anyone in London?" No. I did not.
When I saw him the next night, I had little to no tolerance for his bullshit. He told me I was not allowed to go back to London because it made me bitter. I told him it gave me perspective.
Last night, due to an argument that I wanted to settle, we ended up having one very long and very overdue discussion, at the end of which I decided that I will not be talking to him for a long time. Not because I hate him. Far from it. Because we named everything between us, and I just can't do this anymore.
The culmination:
"Bartender, just cut the shit and be honest. Where do I stand with you?"
"I like you. I do. But you're too intense. Things got so complicated between us. I want to make it work with my boyfriend. It's simpler."
"...Your girl is lovely, Hubbell."

Home

2006-01-04T21:49:00.000-05:00

Back. Busy shopping and preparing for the new job. Regular posting to resume shortly.
In the interim, Thanks to Bradders and Rhys for an incredible time.

If We Took A Holiday...

2005-12-30T00:21:00.000-05:00

I've officially descended upon London. East Finchley to be precise (quite possibly the most fun to say Britishest-named suburb ever. Try saying it. Really.).
Have already begun to misbehave in ways most of you can't possibly imagine.
Bradders is lovely. Rhys is as well. They've already both promised to fetch me from prison, should I end up there.
I think this may be the first vacation in the last 5 years that I'm not climbing the walls from Day One to get back to New York.

And He Loves Her

2005-12-28T11:37:00.000-05:00

He proposed to her today. She said yes.
I couldn't be happier for these guys. I remember the first time A* came to my apartment and talked about Hof. I remember the following weeks, filled with stories of hours-long phone conversations. I remember her incredible nervousness aobut going out to spend a weekend with him in Vegas, and the absolute glow she returned with. I remember meeting him for the first time when he came to New York and thinking how great he was for her, how much I immediately took to him myself, and how she just seemed so much more right when she was with him.
Hof, if I have to give up my straight wife to be anyone's real wife, I couldn't have picked a better man.
Congratulations a thousand times over. I'm not going to get all mushy (ok, any mushier). I totally heart you guys. Separately, and 100x more together.
Now about this whole moving her to North Carolina thing....

Here's Me Overseas

2005-12-28T11:05:00.000-05:00

It's been a long holiday season. Leaving for London tonight. I'm sure I'll drop at least one or two posts while I'm there.
If I don't talk to ya'll before, Happy 2006, Bitches!

Better Be Good For Goodness' Sake

2005-12-21T14:18:00.000-05:00

And remember boys and girls: If you're not good this year,

SantaPope will come into your house while you sleep, tie up your parents and fucking eat you.

Higher Math

2005-12-20T12:31:00.000-05:00

A lot has happened in the last week that would make for some pretty decent blogging - I saw someone get hit by a cab, I saw Brokeback Mountain, I went to Puerto Rico, where I watched a woman actually try to get $8.55 from an ATM (This after attempting $29, then, upon reading the legend "Money only available in multiples of $10", taking out $10, then selecting "Make another Transaction", taking out another $10, and then attempting the $8.55. The best part? She worked in the store where the ATM was located. Did it not cross her mind that maybe the absence of slot-machine-esque clanging of change on a daily basis 10 feet from her register might be an indicator that the ATM doesn't give change?!). Bartender left for 3 weeks in Venezuela. I'm heading home for the holidays. I'm winding down at work (read: doing nothing and leaving early all week).
But I can't really bring myself to write anything all that in depth. Just don't have the energy right now.
I'll be back. Probably when I'm so bored at home over Christmas that I want to eat my own head (Chances of that happening when I'm spending the holiday with my recently-divorced father and recently-widowed aunt? Slim to None). And I'm leaving for London immediately after I come back to New York.
I'll be around. Keep watching this space.
In the meantime, Happy Holidays!
Yeah, I said it: Happy Holidays. Because, contrary to Religious Right Wingnut belief, there are various celebrations occurring round the world during this season. Not just Fucking Christmas. Hell, New Year's Eve is considered a holiday, so that validates it right there.
So Happy Chanukkah (Hanukah? Hannuka? Jew Week?)! Happy Kwanza! A Festive Looney Scientology Aliens Are Living In Me And Depression is Not Real and Sure a Frontal Lobotomy Sounds Great Day! Happy New Year! Merry Christmas! Happy Birthday Audrey! Happy Birthday Chris!

Peace On Earth, Bitches.
See You Soonish.

Mini Break

2005-12-17T01:01:00.000-05:00

It's been a long week. I was in the office from 9:30am last Sunday straight through 5:30pm on Monday. Like Tina Turner when Ike came home to a cold dinner, I'm beat.
So I'm going to Puerto Rico for the weekend. Leaving in 4 hours. Back late Sunday. And this time I won't be shut out of the flight.
See you next week, Bitches.

Forecast

2005-12-09T09:00:00.000-05:00

When you go to bed drunk and your entire apartment only has 3 windows, and they're all covered in curtains, it's difficult to tell what's going on outside in the morning.
I'm not a news person in the morning. I generally stumble around, try to make a short list of people I need to apologize to for my actions the previous evening, find my pants, shower, get dressed and get out the door. There's really never a lot of planning that goes into it.
So imagine my surprise when I walked out the door this morning into a few inches of snow. Which, of course, necessitated the need to go back upstairs and dress a bit more weather-appropriate.
And lie on the couch for another 10 minutes.

Milestone

2005-12-06T08:53:00.000-05:00

I never thought I'd make it this far.
I have a habit of giving up on things after a short period of time. Boyfriends. Hobbies. Beliefs. Medications. "Work Release" Programs. Rehab.
But a year later, and here I am. Still whining into the void of cyberspace.
And there you are. Still reading. Fascinating.
It's a little weird to me. I have tried to keep a journal before, but I always get bored and give up. Perhaps because my neurotic need for attention wasn't been fed in the pages of my private, leather bound tome, whereas here I can mark the days of my life and still have people comment, read, give advice, tell me I'm funny, tell me I'm an idiot, tell me that for just $10 a month I can get low low car insurance rates, and for even less I can get a swell Rolex replica!
Yes, a year and a week ago, I somehow (and I wish I could remember how) stumbled onto Vividblurry. I spent the next 3 days ignoring work and reading everything Toby had ever written. And decided that, hey, I can do that. So I did.
This little corner of the internet has actually given me quite a bit: I've made some great new friends, both in New York (Hi Allison! Hi Jules! Hi BR!) and in those other places that aren't New York (Hi Everyone else!). I've been able to start writing again. I've been able to keep friends far away and even those I don't see in New York up to date on whatever it is I'm bitching about now.
A little part of me was considering making this, my 300th post (take a beat to love the synergy), my last. To make this a year long experiment, and then, like Jeff Buckley, drunkenly wander into the tide and leave you all with only the brief catalogue of genius produced in my regrettably short career. Then I realized that most of what has come thus far is really just crap, and it wouldn't actually be going out in a blaze of glory. In point of fact, it would be much more like Elvis dying in a sequin jumpsuit on the toilet. And while "Suspicious Minds" and "Viva Las Vegas" are great tunes, they really aren't how we want to remember the King.
And so, with you all in tow, we enter my "Chamber of Secrets" year. And if you thought I was an amusing drunk before, you ain't seen nothing yet. So Stay tuned! Lots more to come, including Ben Affleck, and the award for Best Costume Design when... shit. Got confused there. Wrong notes. Where the hell is my assistant?!
Thank for hanging around, Bitches.

Falling Up

2005-12-05T16:31:00.000-05:00

It was just under a year ago that, fed up with the asshole I worked for and the abuse he meted out for $30,000 a year, I walked out of his rinky dink firm, with nothing but 2 months rent in my bank account, admission to the New York Bar, my ipod, a pack of cigarettes and a dream.
That dream was to open a chain of Rice Krispie Square Stands across Manhattan. That dream, sadly, was never to be realized.
Cut to February. Somehow I was hired for a 3 month position that paid roughly two and half times my old salary with full benefits. Plus no psychological abuse.

I was a bit shaky that it was only a temp position, but then I was about to start hunting pigeons on my building's roof for dinner, so who was I to argue?
Two months into my new position I played hookey in order to spend a day with Bartender, whom I was dating at the time. When I returned to the office the next day , I got a message that I had been taken on full time at the firm. Salary in tact, no limit on my contract term. Sweet.
A month later, while drunk at a happy hour for my team which only 4 of us attended, I met my superiors, who promoted my gin soaked ass on the spot to a position of relative importance on the case. Lots of responsibility. Lots of face time with superiors. No more money. But it was a chance to make a little more noise for myself, so I took it.
And then a month ago an ex-coworker of mine called me in the office. She had made the move to another firm, and had jumped in both position and salary. She told me that there was an opening, and that she had recommended me, as she had apparently always thought highly of me and that my talents and intelligence (her words, I swear) were wasted in my current position as lead document monkey.
So I submitted. I interviewed last Wednesday. I was hired given an offer on Friday. I accepted about an hour ago.
What does this mean for our hero kids? It means lots more money. It means the chance to be a real lawyer and use my brain (now worth roughly $200,000 in education loans, minus wear and tear from drugs and alcohol). It means the chance for advancement. It means a secretary of my very own (Small moment of geek joy there. Ok, It's passed.) It means a wall on which to hang my law school diploma. It means I can pay a LOT of bills. It means I can start living a little differently. It means I am signing away my life and will not be around very much for the next few months and will most likely cut back on blogging. It means that I have to prove myself, because the chair of the firm told me that they are taking a chance on me and will not hesitate to fire me if I'm not up to task. It means I have to do well by the ex (and once again current) coworker who not only clued me in on the job, but flattered me beyond belief by writing an incredibly complimentary letter on my behalf.
It means that after 3 years of law school, a year of toiling as a Soulless Fuckwad's indentured servant and whipping boy, a brief tango with unemployment, and 9 months as a glorified secretary, I'm going to actually start doing what I'm trained to do. And have the opportunity to sacrifice my life, friends, social skills, health and general well being for a six figure salary. It means that sometimes, barely competence level performance can be rewarded. Repeatedly (Four More Years, Anyone?)
To someone who once was rejected for school loans, lived off popcorn, snuck airline bottles of booze into a bar so he could drink, and thought he'd never see the word "Associate" after his name, it means quite a bit.
It means I have one more excuse to get drunk beyond all comprehension tonight.
Bottoms Up, Bitches!

Holding Pattern

2005-12-05T14:52:00.000-05:00

So that Big News?
Still awaiting confirmation.
So sit tight.
In other news, tomorrow marks the one year anniversary of this here Blog-thingy being posted on the internets.
Time flies, when you're drunk, no?

Queue Up The Theme From "The Jeffersons"

2005-12-02T16:00:00.000-05:00

Big Things happening. Big Things.
Don't want to say anything until it's all finalized on Monday, but it may be a very Merry Christmas for Dan.

With Frickin' Laser Beams Attached To Their Heads

2005-12-01T14:15:00.000-05:00

A group of squirrels in a Russian park apparently descended from the trees and
bit a stray dog to death. And that's not all. Earlier in the year, according to Russian scientist Komosmolskaya Pravda, chipmunks terrorized cats in the region.
Does this sound a little James Bond to anyone else? Like the Russian are secretly developing an army of adorable yet vicious and deadly woodland creatures that will make their way into our hearts via our chest cavities?!
In point of fact, wasn't this the plot to Leonard, Part 6?
And we laughed at poor Bill Cosby in 1987. If only we knew then what we know now.
It's a damned good thing I have seen roughly every bad movie ever made, and will be prepared when Russia's army of super squirrels finally learn to swim (or, God forbid, fly) and make their way to our verdant shores. If it were lobsters, It would be all too easy (as Leonard taught us: they can be repelled with butter). But squirrels are much, much trickier. Be prepared, People. That's all I'm sayin'.

Virtual Tour: After

2005-11-29T09:23:00.000-05:00

OK, so here are the "After" pictures.
Let's start in the bedroom. Where the enemy sleeps. Where the magic used to happen. I know there were no "Before" pictures of the bedroom, but it wasn't pretty. Ikea all around, a dresser with drawers that didn't open, a beige (!) Nautica bedspread that had since become a mottled kind of yellowish brown. Ew. Note the green accent wall. Color chosen when I decided to paint that wall at approximately 5:30 pm. Paint store closed at 6. I painted it all by myself.
Ladder shelf courtesy of my furniture guy from the 39th St. Flea Market. I love him. He's old and cantankerous and makes beautiful stuff and gives it to me cheap. Don't you just want to sleep with me? I'm currently taking applications for emotionally distant Latin men to, ahem, "fill", ahem, the, uh... position.
We make our way out into the hall, now completely devoid of super soakers and hemp jewelry. And dried flower arrangements. Also, I painted the walls a fun color called "Starlight". Wheee!!!!
You can also start to get your first glimpses of the bathroom, purged of all nautical nonsense (If nautical nonsense be something you wish, drop on the deck and flop like a fish! Spongebob Squarepants! Spongebo- oh, sorry. Forgot you were all here for a second. We move on.)
I totally installed the shelf above the toilet. I also installed all the other shelves in my apartment. I used a drill. In many instances to bore into concrete. I'm butch, yo. You can't see it in these pictures, but the walls in the bathroom are now a nice sky blue, and there's this nifty West Elm shower curtain in there.
We round the corner into the kitchen/hallway. The fridge now cleansed of all ridiculousness, the storage space now cleared of the camping stove and halloween decorations. The scooter and mini fridge gone. Dad even hung my big fat mirror (yes, I am naked to the waist taking these pictures. I'm hot. You want to be in my bedroom even more now, don't you?). Also note the fun floating candle shelves. Those are my second favorite thing in the house now.

This fun little corner, now home to antiques from my Grandparents' house, was where the giant lizard tank used to be. It's somewhat more inviting right when you walk in the door than a 45 cubic foot plexiglass house of stink. In the reverse view, you get to see my awesome table, which is surrounded by chairs on loan from Chris until mine come in from back order in January. You also get a view of the two most important things in the house: #2 is the DVD tower to your right. Because when my life sucks, I watch TV and movies. A Lot. #1 (also for then my life sucks) is, of course: The Bar. Donations to stock the woefully empty and sad bar are now being taken. For just pennies a day you can keep me and my friends inebriated to the point of forgetting our jobs, lack of relationships, parents, bills, and lack of more booze.
And the living room itself. The biggest change. It is now a place where I like to be, where I feel comfortable having people, where you want to sink into the couch and never get up. My roommate and I have already spent many an entire day lying on opposite legs of the couch, attempting to be productive but incapable of escaping the grip of the powerful assmagnet buried deep within. Dad hung the curtains, because Lord knows that had I attempted, the result would have been several small fires and a trip to the Emergency Room.
You can also get a much better look at my table, and the new TV, as well as my tiny coffee table, also made by my furniture guy at the flea market. Other things of note: The Fickle Finger of Fate and its place of supreme prominence in my gracious drawing room, the shelf of useless tzochkes picked out by various friends (Thanks A* and Allison!). My coffe table has actual coffee table books. The carpet matches the curtains. And the throw pillows. And the throw. The picture in the middle of the room was purchased for me at Auction by Mr. K. I love my living room now. I love sitting in it and watching TV. I love sleeping in it. I love having friends over. Ya'll are totally invited.
The final picture is of what has become everyone's favorite spot in the house: The nook. (What do you want? Can you think of a better name? It's a fucking nook, people. Deal with it.) As Beth put it so succinctly (as succinct as one can be after several glasses of wine) "It's just so... cornery." Bartender tells me it's the most inviting place in the entire house (Note to Self: should have employed nook-style magic in bedroom). Bradders and I spent most of an afternoon sitting on the chest and windowsill smoking and discussing, well, everything. It doesn't look like much here, but in real life, when it's dark and the light is on under the plant, it's really nice. The picture doesn't do it justice.
So that's it kids. This concludes our tour. We hope you've enjoyed your stay. Thanks to everyone who helped me get at least the apartment part of my life together.
Now if anyone out there is really good with relationships and jobs, I'll be all set.
All in all, I think I should just leave the law and become an interior designer.
Either that, or Beth, Lynn, A* and I are going to buy a van and drive around in it solving mysteries.

Virtual Tour: Before

2005-11-26T18:38:00.000-05:00

Remember way back in August when I started talking about renovating my place and promised to post pictures?
Well, Sister has since moved out, and after several paychecks, months spent driving my poor friends and officemates (Sorry Lynn!) insane with color samples, maps, catalogues and style questions, orders to Target.com, an incredibly kind gift of a discount on the part of Allison's sister, a paint job and all sorts of other lunacy, it's pretty much done. Mind you my chairs are on back order until January, and I still haven't finished hanging art (Chris is having an incredible piece framed to put on loan to me... Thanks buddy! Love ya!). But it's time for the big picture posting (Read: I'm out of interesting things to say, so I figured pictures would take the place of actual substance).
So here are the before pictures. The After pics will be posted later this week. Enjoy, Bitches!
The Living Room. the biggest one of contention with Sister. Note the Refugee Chic... couches from my parents' house circa 1996. The unused turntables. The 3 picture frames crammed onto one wall.
I could never relax in this room. Ever.
The amount of crap Sister
managed to squeeze into this room is unfathomable. Among that crap, the 3 foot lizard in his 45 square foot tank. This is not a pet. It doesn't play with you. It can't be walked. It's illegal in New York to own one. I hated that goddamend thing. Hated it like poison.

The bathroom. Sigh. Note the flourescent painting of an underwater scene on the wall. This replaced a sharks jaw that Sister once hammered into the wall to accent the ceramic fish shaped tiles that once hung over the mess of a cabinet that stood above my toilet. The nautical theme was, as she put it, because "That's where the water is. In the bathroom."

The view of the hall between my room and the bathroom. That thing on the right? No, not the supersoaker that inexplicably sat in the hall for 2 years. The necklace holder that is, in this photo, holding ALL of Sister's jewelry. I came home one day and she had physically BOLTED that fucker into the studs behind the wall.
The rest of these photos are just to get a real taste of the conditions under which I lived for 2 years. If you have any burning questions about what you see here, feel free to ask. I'll be happy to explain every little worthless knocknack that crowded my existence for 2 years. And keep in mind, about 2% of anything in these photos belonged to me.

Every Little Thing That You Say Or Do

2005-11-26T12:00:00.000-05:00

WARNING: Self-indulgent-depressive-whiny-Bartender-related writing ahead. Proceed at your own risk. And don't say I didn't warn you. Cause I did. I'm doing it now. Heed, Bitches.

So here we are again. And before everyone starts commenting "Oh, you're too good for him." or "I told you so." or "For Fuck's Sake, Get Over It!" Just stop. Cause I've heard it all before and I have tried and I hear it every day from A* and Beth and Lines and Leslie and Audrey and Chris and countless others. But at the end of the day, it's harder than it seems to just quit. Because the game is more addictive than Freecell was back when I was in college and would play so much that I actually started having fucking Freecell Dreams.
I'm not going to go into all the details of every tiny insignificant occurrence from the last month. The Cliff's Notes version is that, well, things have been the same as always, but they haven't. We go to the movies. We go to dinner and hang out all weekend. At his birthday Lines managed to capture, unbeknownst to me or Bartender, a picture of the two of us unconsciously holding hands. Natural as Tom and Katie.
When I was out wednesday night I get a text at 1 A.M.: "Having Fun?" (God this sounds eerily familiar). We texted on Thanksgiving. We talk almost every day. We had plans to go to a screening of Brokeback Mountain last week until both of our schedules made it impossible. He asked me if I was seeing anyone. I said no. I asked him. He said no. We discussed his ex who is living in South America for 5 months. We discussed our upcoming holiday plans. We went out last weekend and all but sat in each others' laps all night.
And last night at the bar, one of our mutual friends points out this guy that was with him at a birthday party about 3 weeks ago and says, loud enough for said acquaintance to hear, "I can't believe Bartender is dating him."
This is the point where Dan does the Cartoon Wide-Telescope Eyes Double Take.
Now. I met this guy about 3 weeks ago. Let's just do the math here... hmmmm.... 2 dinners, one movie, countless late night text messages.... carry the 3.... subtract what little dignity I had left...
I'm sorry people, and I know this was inevitable. And I'm not pissed that he's dating someone (what right do I have in that respect? None.) I'm pissed because this just seemed to have slipped his mind all this time. That I have basically made an ass of myself. That he made an ass of me. That he knew, that our friends knew, that this was never brought up, that this guy may as well have not existed in all the conversations we've had together and all the time we've spent together. That I finally stopped moping around, took Elvis' words to heart and tried the whole "A Little Less Conversation, A Little More Action" approach. And the whole fucking time I was oblivious. Which explains so much. It explains why I don't get an answer when I respond to the 1 am text with "Where are you?" (Answer: leaving the house of the man I'm dating) or why his answers to "What did you do last night?" are more evasive than W's explanation of our withdrawal timetable from Iraq.
The real kicker is that when I was all adult and called to ask him "Why didn't you tell me you were dating this guy?" the response was "Am I dating him?"
Answering in the form of a question? I'll take Potent Potables for $500, Alex.
The next answer: "Why do you care?"
You know why I care, asshole.
Fuck.

Gay-A

2005-11-23T10:07:00.000-05:00

Then vatican has released a new document stating that men may not enter the priesthood unless they have been "free of homosexual 'tendencies' for at least 3 years."
And here we go again. First of all, I personally can't imagine what would drive a gay man to want to be a part of an institution that so fervently campaigns against us. But then again, I'm not really in touch with what it feels like to believe in something. I believed in something once, but then I found out that the Muppets didn't really live in a theater somewhere, and that Miss Piggy was nothing more than a sock puppet with a decent wig. And it changed me.
But why 3 years? Is that the expiration date for buggery? What do you get after 5 years? A bigger hat?
This isn't the first time the Chruch has employed a system like this though; If you detach yourself from memories and litigiousness for several years, they let you keep your status as altar boy. If you detach yourself from reality for a minimum of 20 years, they make you Pope.

Now, Who Could Use A Banger In The Mouth?

2005-11-16T16:54:00.001-05:00

First of all, I am not randomly vulgar. It's a quote from the best damned show on television, which has now been canceled because Fox didn't promote it and most people didn't get it.
But I digress.
The point, dear friends, is that Swedish scientists have taken time off from eating odd foods and developing new, affordable, DIY furniture to figure out that performing oral sex can lead to certain types of mouth cancer.
Um...
Quoth the Swedish Scientist: "Whendin flooopy floppy isinder cakeinholen, ees making der cancerflugen! Bork, Bork, Bork!"
Translation (and this is a direct quote from the article): "You should avoid oral sex."
Um...
Or, if they're so smart, they could get on finding a cure for mouth cancer as soon as freaking possible. Like yesterday.

Weekend Recap: The New And More Appropriate Name Edition

2005-11-14T10:20:00.000-05:00

In the interest of truth in advertising, we here at the 6th Floor have decided that the Weekend Recap will be replaced with the much more appropriate "Hangover Report".
I even spent time at work making up a new graphic. Wheeeeeeeee!
A lot happened this weekend, including but not limited to my using a kitchen knife to perform surgery on my own foot friday night while clutching a bottle of vodka in the other hand (in your face, Dr. Quinn, Medicine Woman!), Bartender's announcement that he will no longer be working $6 Ketel Thursdays (Eras end, children. Get used to it.), Brunch with Hof, A*, Jules, and Allison, yet another Non-date with Bartender, this time a dinner for his birthday that ended with Champagne and a long walk home (followed by a phone call from Beth stating the very obvious "Dude. you're fucking dating him. You're just not getting the fucking part."), a trip to the world's most offensive straight bar with Beth and Leslie, and Desperate Housewives followed by a long night of drinking with Bartender and the Venezuelans at an array of shitty gay bars.
There are quite a few stories wrapped up in each one of those events, but I'm too tired to write them up or even come up with clever metaphors with which to pepper the anecdotes (and why pepper? why not salt?). Besides, I spent at least 5 minutes making a nifty new graphic. What do you people want? Blood?
If nothing else, we are going to start learning from our forays into the alcoholic arts. Each Hangover Report will now come with a prepackaged lesson at the end. Like an afterschool special, but the alcoholic stays an alcoholic. And is gay. And swears. A lot. So here is is kids. The first "Hungover Revalation":

"Unlimited Bloody Mary's and Mimosas with Brunch!" is not a dare.

In Which I Remain Completely UnSurprised. Again.

2005-11-10T17:00:00.000-05:00

You are a
Social Liberal
(76% permissive)

and an...
Economic Liberal
(25% permissive)

You are best described as a:

Strong Democrat

Link: The Politics Test on Ok Cupid
Also: The OkCupid Dating Persona Test

I Will NOT Title This Post "London Baby!"

2005-11-09T17:27:00.000-05:00

It doesn't take much to get me to spend money I don't have. Case in point: Bradders visited from London. I realized how much I miss London. I realized just how tired I am of New York and how much I want to do something different for New Year's this year. I looked at tickets online. They were ridiculously expensive. So I waited 24 hours. They did not go down in price. My officemate Lynn got tired of listening to me hem and haw (and whine) over tickets and said "Jesus, book the flocking thing! What good will that money do you just sitting in the bank? You can pay your bills with other paychecks. Go to Effing London!"
So I'm going to Effing London. December 28 through January 3.
Mind you I haven't really settled my arrangements for accommodations yet. But I'm certain my nearest and dearest British friends wouldn't let me freeze on the streets (not to mention I have learned my lessons from Houseguest and know EXACTLY how to stay at someone's apartment and when my welcome is worn). Plus, when you consider it, we won't even be sleeping on the night of the 31st, so that's like 4 nights. And if my last trip to London is any indicator, we won't be sleeping at least one other night as well. So really, one lucky friend will only have to put up with me for like 3 nights. And what's 3 nights of Dan on the couch? Nothing. A Pleasure. An honour, really (Notice that much like Madonna, I'm starting to practise my English spelling and accent now. I'd like to really capture the local colour before I get there.). And if my friends won't take me in, there's always the Happiness Hotel. And if you don't get that reference, stop reading right now. We are no longer friends.
Booking the flight really was the hard part. I am not above taking odd airlines (Aerligus, anyone?) or stopping over in the more exotic destinations if necessary (I hear Reykjavik is lovely this time of year). But it ws a bit tough justifying spending roughly 1/2 a paycheck on a plane ticket.
You'd best believe I am taking FULL advantage of Virgin's free alcohol policy.

In Which I Remain Completely UnSurprised

2005-11-09T14:19:00.000-05:00

I tashte like Alcohol.

Heh. Heh. I taste like beer. I like beer. Buy me a beer. I'm not drunk, I can drink plenty without... What was I saying? Beer. What Flavour Are You?

Quite Frankly, I would have imagined I taste like Vodka and (once upon a time) cigarettes. At least that's what my ex used to tell me.

Weekend Recap: Sunday Bloody Mary Sunday Edition

2005-11-07T10:17:00.000-05:00

I know I had a weekend. I know this because it's Monday morning and I'm back in my office and I have roughly $500 less in my bank account than on had on Friday. But it would seem that I've forgotten large chunks of it.
On the upside, I have some new picture frames, some fuzzy memories, and a wicked hangover. Hooray!
Friday: After running home to put Confessions On A Dancefloor on my ipod and burning copies for a few undisclosed parties, Bartender came over for a non-date dinner and a movie before he went to work. (At this point, I encourage you all to treat this blog like a midnight screening of the Rocky Horror Picture Show: feel free, upon the arrival of certain characters, to hiss, cheer, or throw toast at your computer screen) We bought tickets for Shopgirl (his choice) which was oversold, and ended up seeing Kiss, Kiss, Bang, Bang (not a porno, but sounds like it, no?). I thought it was smart and funny, but a little slow. Bartender fell asleep. When I nudged him, he indicated that he had a long day and was exhausted and wanted to nap before working until 4 A.M. THEN WHY DID YOU ASK ME OUT IF YOU'RE SO TIRED? Sigh. I can't really even get indignant anymore. Who has the energy? Point being: why did I wake him up? I should have just let him sleep. If he wasn't enjoying it, why did I feel the need to ensure that he watched every frame? Insert your own theories here.
After the movie I walked him to work, and then beat a swift retreat to a straight bar in the East Village to meet Leslie, Molly (who came back to visit from Denver) and Molly's sister for her (the sister's) birthday. And by swift, I mean I took the longest route possible so I could listen to as much of the new Madonna as possible. After 2 beers and countless snickers at men wearing Dockers with their blackberry clipped to their belt, I headed home.
Saturday: Met Molly and her Sister for brunch, kicking off what was to be a weekend fueled by the spicy tomatoey goodness of Bloody Marys. After a few, I met Asha downtown for some shopping, which was followed by a nap, a smoke, and a trip back down to Chris's apartment in Chelsea, where the real boozing began. I know we spent some time smushed up against the wall at g, and eventually made it to XL, which was emptier than the Mensa chapter in Texas. I'm not sure how it happened, but Chris and I spent the last few hours of the night sitting drinking in a diner (I believe it had somethig to do with his crush on a waiter there).
Sunday: Met Mr. C, an Italian who spent the second half of his life in London, for Brunch.
Now, the Europeans know how to relax and enjoy a meal. And by enjoy a meal, I mean sit for 3 hours at an outdoor table and drink Bloody Marys until the brunch tab is higher than what I paid to take 2 people to dinner last week, and tie it all up with Bailey's mixed with Grand Marnier. You'd be surprised how well french fries and gorgonzola fondue goes with booze.
Note to self: don't go shopping after spending $60 on Brunch booze, or you'll wind up at home wondering where you got $75 worth of picture frames (Answer: Bed Bath and Beyond in Chelsea, apparently).
After another quick nap, I met Rob and friends back in Chelsea for Pomegranite mojitos and Thai tapas before one last swipe at my liver in the form of an $11 vodka redbull served in a dixie cup by the sloe-eyed bartender at Hiro.
All in all, a great weekend. At least I've spackled in the holes with fun details. So I imagine had a great time. If you know different, please, don't tell me. It's not pretty when the reality that I most likely puked on 8th Avenue and insulted at least 14 different cultures in the span of a block shatters the somewhat wholesome memories I've created for myself.

I'm Going To Tell You A Secret

2005-11-06T11:45:00.000-05:00

By way of my musical Fairy Godmother, I happened, on Friday, to get myself a copy of a very in demand CD that has not yet been released.
This wasn't something I connived or worked at; I just happen to have a friend who has some musical connections who knows how much I love music. I was sitting quietly at my desk when he IMmed me some lyrics. Which is generally his secret code for "Look in your AOL Mailbox. I've just sent you this song."
As my friend (Let's call him Will) is in pretty tight with a few of New York's most prolific DJs, I thought he had sent me a remix of just the song he was referencing. Which excited me because I can't really wait to hear what gets done with this track. The album cut is already a great dance song, and the vocal track has more promise than any I've heard in a long time.
I knew something was up when I signed onto AOL and the little voice said "You've got- Holy Shit! You've got a friend somewhere! Can I have a copy?"
No Mr. AOL, you can't.
Why am I telling you this? To brag? To rub it in your collective faces?
Yes. I've got it. You all have to wait 2 more weeks. Neener. Neener. Neener.
But there's another reason too.
I've now listened to the album roughly 1,000 times. It's fantastic. It's everything I'd hoped it would be.
But I have this thing about music. You see, I hate it when music I like becomes popular. No, I'm not insane, and I know that this album is by one of, if not The Most popular artist in the world - OK, cryptic is pointless. I have Madonna's Confessions On A Dancefloor. And it's amazing. And you don't. But you will in just over a week. - so I have no illusions about this album "becoming popular". I will be number one for a LONG time. And deservedly so. It's slick, well produced, and makes you want to get up no matter where you are (living room, subway, office, in line at the bank, Dr's waiting room, holding cell, boardroom) and shake your ass.
But something weird just clicks in my head when music is no longer "mine":
When I was younger I used to listen to a little alternative radio station in Rochester. WBER. BER played all the shit that's in your CD collection now. They just did so 4 years before you knew it existed. And I've always had a thing for music that no one else really knows about. It's like belonging to a club of some kind. If you meet another person who likes that obscure artist, or that B-Side track, there's just a connection. I can't explain it. The music just belongs to you. You're not subject to other people's interpretations, or their tonedeaf singalongs, or over exposure on radio and (once upon a time) MTV. You get pure, untainted music.
I remember hearing Dido's Here With Me on my way to school during my junior year. A full year before it became the themesong for Roswell on the WB, and a full 2 years before Eminem sampled Thank You, which put Dido on the proverbial map. I bought that CD the next day. I listened to it relentlessly. I lost my fucking virginity with that CD playing in the background (during thunderstorm in my Grandfather's house while he and my parents slept downstairs no less. Hot, no?). And then Here With Me blew up 2 years after it's original release, and I couldn't turn on the radio without hearing it. Mind you it was still played less on the radio than I played it on my own. But it was no longer just mine. Everyone in the friggin world was humming it. Playing it on their car stereo.
Or take Dave Matthews Band. Please (Ooooh! Snap!). Flash back to sophomore year of high school. I saw Dave play a show in a small venue in Rochester, which he couldn't sell out at the time. At a concert two years later, tickets to which cost me 5 hours on line at 6 A.M. and no small amount of dignity, Dave played the opening chords of Satellite. The girl next to me, confused by a song that wasn't getting heavy radio play, turned to her friend and said "Oh Wait! I think this is on the first CD!", which she then whipped out of her bag and scanned for the lyrics so she could sing along. Now I know this makes me sound like a bitch, but this isn't church. If you don't know the words, do NOT turn to page 83 in your hymnal and try to sing along. Stand there and look fucking bored until he plays Ants Marching. That's what you came to hear, isn't it? All you're doing right now is pissing me off.
Probably the worst case of this was Dashboard Confessional. I was at a show in Rochester when they were just starting out where Chris Carabba came out after his set to sign autographs and take pictures with the maybe 150 people who came to hear him play. My first boyfriend had gotten me into him, and I LIVED for his music (I was in college. I was maudlin. Leave it alone.) A month after I moved to New York, MTV used Screaming Infidelities as the theme song for one of its misguided made for TV movies. And I consequently couldn't get tickets for is next show at Roseland Ballroom because they sold out.
Now don't think me misanthropic. I am happier than anyone that these artists have all found huge commercial success. In point of fact, I'm thrilled. Because I knew their music way back when. I knew them when they were struggling, and I love to see people with real talent succeed (I'm looking at you, Ashlee Simpson).
The thing is, some of the magic is lost when the rest of the world is singing the same tune as you. I don't know why, and I can't explain it, but these last few days I've been walking around listening to Confessions and loving every second of it because it belongs to me and a few select others. It's like having a secret and not wanting to tell anyone.
The weird thing is, the more I think about it, the more I realize how, in a strange sort of way, my wanting to keep this to myself parallels (WARNING: HUGE LEFT TURN AHEAD) the whole argument against gay marriage.
Maybe those who are against gay marriage consider it their very own early release Madonna album (oh, the irony), and want to keep the secret all to themselves. Maybe once everyone else can get married, some of the magic will be gone for them because marriage will be so commonplace.
Or maybe not.
Point is, I don't know what you Bitches are doing for the next week, but I know you won't do it while listening to Future Lovers.

Redacted

2005-11-04T11:01:00.000-05:00

I have a very strict "Once It's Posted, It's Posted" Rule, and have not once since I started this blog taken something down.
Until now.
Not because my plans have changed (Dear God No), but because the information contained in that post has created a sensitive situation that I have to address before it turns into an international incident (and by international incident, I mean my murdering someone I love dearly and depositing the body in the UK somewhere).

Paging The Roaming Gnome

2005-11-02T13:21:00.000-05:00

Can someone find a way for me to get to London from December 28/29 through January 2/3 for under $400?
Thanks.

Return To Form

2005-11-01T11:55:00.000-05:00

Well, that was interesting, wasn't it?
Looking back on the last month, I became a political conspiracy theorist nutjob so gradually that I wasn't really aware of it until I woke up one morning wearing a tinfoil hat and realizing I had cupboards filled with canned food and handguns.
Harriet's gone, Alito is in, and who knows what will happen? I'm not a huge fan of him, but at least we know where this guy stands on something. Do I think it was amazing misdirection that despite the President's assurance that he would "Take time and deliberate" over his next nominee, this nomination was announced just in time to knock Scooter Libby's indictment from the headlines? Yes, I do. But I'm not going to go all wacky over it here.
You see, I find that I go in stretches. A maudlin self-absorbed pity party for one month. A politcally charged rant for another. Pop Culture obsession for a week or two. It could be all the drugs have ruined my attention span. Or it could be -Hey look! Unicorns!
In the interest of getting things back on track (It's like that season of Alias when it got all crappy and they abandoned the Rimbaldi plotline for that crap with Vaughn's wife and Syd's sister and Sloane was all good and shit) I give you:

Weekend Recap: The Much Longer Than Just A Weekend Edition
(Mind you my memory isn't what it used to be, so things may be a tad out of order here)

Renovations are almost complete. I'm awaiting a table, chairs, and some art. Huge Thanks to Allison and her wonderful sister for their furnishing help.
Sister is moving again. It turns out her roommate was an abusive little fuckstick who may or may not go for a swim in the East River sometime in the very near future. If he does end up washing up on the Jersey Shore, I expect each and every one of you to corroborate my whereabouts.
Bradders was in for the weekend from London. There are few people in this world who can make me feel like a better version of myself, or with whom I can simply just enjoy sitting there talking about nothing. I had conversations the likes of which I have not had in some time, had more fun than I have had in a considerable amount of time, and now that he's gone, am a bit sadder than I have been in a long time. Odds are that I'll be in London for New Year's (barring financial issue), which is one of the most promising prospects I've had to look forward to since last year's trip to London. (Rhys: I took good care of him and by now he's returned to you in one piece. It's your responsibility to keep him in good condition until I get there. Can't wait to finally see you in person!)
Bartender turned 28 last week. I will spare you the whiny details of his birthday party. Lines and I had a few drinks (OK, I had Several) and Bartender continued his campaign of ambivalent terror.
Madonna's new song has moved its way onto my top 25 played. See above, RE: Bartender
Brother, Sister, Sister-In-Law, Leslie, LG and I saw Spamalot last weekend. Absurdity is Effing Funny. The lady in front of me with the big hair who obstructed my $76 view of the stage? Not so funny.
My parents are insane. Divorce is not so fun when you're too old for them to buy you gifts in an attempt to curry your favor and win your allegiance and/or love. Where the hell is my gameboy advance? Huh?!

Pictures of the apartment to appear soon. I promise. As soon as it's done.

In the meantime, it's fall (at least for the one to two weeks we get it in Manhattan). I'm in good spirits. Enjoy it while it lasts, Bitches.

Harriet, We Hardly Knew Ye. No, Really. We Didn't Know Shit.

2005-10-27T09:14:00.000-04:00

Harriet Miers has withdrawn her nomination to the Supreme Court. Or, rather, the Bush administration asked her to withdraw so that the President wouldn't expose what an idiot he is (too late) by admitting he nominated someone completely underqualified.
In a pretty shrewd move which was no doubt engineered by Karl-soon-to-be squealing-like-a-pig-in-prison-they-like-those-chubby-boys-new-meat Rove, the White House started a whole flap last night about release of documents that are protected by Executive Privilege, documents that might have given the slightest glimpse into Harriet's views on anything at all. Now having an argument on which to hang their hat (and Harriet out to dry), Rove's winged monkeys had Harriet withdraw, citing that the release of the documents or fighting against the release would be too big a burden on the White House. Lord knows that already have their hands full washing W's crayon drawings off the walls and providing Cheney with fresh kittens to eat.
And so Harriet Miers becomes a footnote. Another failed Bush II experiment. I'm actually sad to see her go. I feel bad for Harriet, considering the entire country just spent the last few weeks tearing her to shreads publicly.
Plus, I was interested to see just how far she'd take those snappy pantsuit/scarf combinations.

Science, Schmience

2005-10-24T12:50:00.000-04:00

A recent poll shows that 51% of Americans reject the scientific theory of evolution, instead believing that God created humans in their present form.
Not surprisingly, "Americans most likely to believe in only evolution are liberals (36 percent), those who rarely or never attend religious services (25 percent), and those with a college degree or higher (24 percent).

White evangelicals (77 percent), weekly churchgoers (74 percent) and conservatives (64 percent), are mostly likely to say God created humans in their present form."

Just so we're clear: A theory supported by scientific evidence and actually observable throughout history: Bad
The idea that a big man who lives in the sky sent down his son through a virgin and he died to forgive everyone and once a week you go to a building and a man in a robe changes wafer into flesh and you eat it to celebrate the big man who lives in the sky: Good

I'm all for believing in something - most of you would be shocked to hear that I actually do have religious beliefs, and that I actually don't fault people for their own beliefs.
It's just when belief takes the place of reason that I get bothered.
Believe in heaven, hell, Buddah, Scientology, Cher, whatever. But use your freaking head.

Nostalgia

2005-10-24T11:05:00.000-04:00

Remember the good old days, when I used to post more than once a week?
*Sigh*
Good Times. Good Times.

Harriet! Sweet Harriet!

2005-10-17T11:01:00.000-04:00

I've received a little flak for my aggressive approach to the investigation of Supreme Court Nominee Harriet Miers. It has been posited by a few of my loyal readers and friends, as well as a few complete strangers, that my partisan politics may get in the way of being part of a fair investigative team. That my hopes of finding skeletons buried in her closet behind all the sensible pantsuits will somehow corrupt the process.
Let me take this moment to respond, which, those of you who know me well, will realize is completely out of character for me when it comes to blogging. Usually I write and leave it. I don't comment, I rarely respond. This is an outlet for me, little else. But this time around I feel I may have to clarify some of my thoughts and actions.

So, with all due respect Everyone: Suck It.

Here's why:
My partisan politics are exactly what will make for a good investigation.
Think logically. If you were in court, would you rather have a prosecutor who believed the defendant committed a crime and would go after them with every fiber of their being? Or would you rather have a friend of the defendant who would be less inclined to dig deep, to use all the legal tactics available to them?
What's that? A neutral investigator? Good luck finding one. Anyone educated enough to be in the position of investigating a SCOTUS nominee is going to have formed an opinion. Call me crazy, but it seems that most people of late have sided with one party or the other politically. Something about the President being a "Uniter" comes to mind....
The other point is this: I'm not going to be making things up and turning them over. I feel like some of you have visions of me sitting at my desk late at night practicing my "Harriet Miers" signature like some highschooler forging notes from his mother until I perfect it, and then slapping it on a falsified memo that reads something like "Dear George, Great Coke party last night! Call me tomorrow and we'll get back to screwing the Jews, the Gays, the Blacks and The Hispanics! P.S. - Don't worry about that little 'issue' with the DCPD on Saturday. Everyone kills a hobo now and then. Laura and Cheney have nothing to worry about. Kisses, Harriet".
If I find something, you can bet your sweet ass I'm handing it over. Especially in light of recent revelations that Harriet has indicated she would vote to overturn Roe v. Wade (because it's not just about abortion... in fact, for the uneducated, it isn't about abortion at all. It's about the government's ability to invade your privacy and control the decisions you make with your life. Abortion was the medium, but the ruling affects everything you do in your daily life. And with the hard line religious tack favored by this administration, I'm all for keeping the government and the Church out of my business).
And the possibility remains that we won't find a damn thing, and that Harriet Miers will be cleaner than Al Roker's colon after an all you can eat Chipotle and ExLax bender.
Harriet Miers will be playing a key role in the shaping of this country and the way we live our lives. And I, personally, not as a Liberal, a Conservative, Republican or Democrat, but as a free thinking and intelligent citizen, want the people investigating her views to be as tenacious, dedicated and adversarial as possible.
The point is to bring to light any indications of where this woman stands politically and socially. And in light of John "I would recuse myself if a case came up where U.S. law differed with Vatican law" (WTF?!?!?!) Roberts, I have a lingering fear that Harriet may subscribe to a few newsletters that might not be so in line with the values that matter most to me and mine.
So yes, I'm biased. As biased as the day is long. But so are you. And so is everyone else. And the only way to get a fair investigation of someone supported by such an extremist administration is to have people of the equal but opposite extreme vet her.
So thanks for your civic concern everyone. But at the end of the day, I'm still going in there. And whether you like my politics and attitude or not, you still should give me a little credit for making a "So I Married an Axe Murderer" reference in the title.

Quack

2005-10-13T11:42:00.000-04:00

Have you ever been to Philly? Boston?
Are you unfortunate enough to live in one of those cities?
Cause right about now I am feeling your pain.
Big cities can always find a good way ot make tourists look like assholes. OK, maybe tourists can always find a good way to make themselves look like assholes (*thinks back to this morning when family of five wearing matching khaki shorts, fanny packs and white visors passed, each member sporting a t-shirt emblazoned with the name of a different and exciting destination they had no doubt descended upon in the last year ("Phoenix!" backed by a vaguely Native American design on bright orange was my favorite)*). But here in New York we don't need yet another identifier. We know who you are. Trust me.
You're the idiot looking up. You're the moron eating anywhere within 6 blocks of Times Square, and paying $13 for a cheeseburger that doesn't contain truffles, aged cheese, or some kind of hormone-fed super beef. You're asking for directions to Ground Zero. And taking pictures of the kids in front of the massive hole in the ground when you get there. You're reading a map. You're eating at T.G.I. Fridays. You're asking where "Fay-O Schwartz" is. You're riding a carriage around Central Park. You're actually watching street performers. You're buying an "I (Heart) NY" T-shirt. You're complaining about the noise. You're walking 3 across on the sidewalk. You're looking for the Sex and the City Bus Tour. You think we're rude. You want to know where the "Soup Nazi" is. You're timid, but at the same time you're pushy, because you think that's how you have to be when you visit New York. You think you're going to get mugged on every corner. In broad daylight. While holding hands with a cop. You're outside the Today Show. You're outside TRL. You bring your children in to restaurants you ought not to. You're wearing shorts with socks and sandals. You've only located in Times Square, The Financial District, Central Park, 5th, Madison, and the major train stations. You have no idea that there are other neighborhoods. You're in line for Mama Mia. Or the Producers. Or Hairspray. You're on one of those double decker red buses. You're a little lost. You're in my way. You're pissing me off.
And now, not only is New York looking into a new way to corral tourists into large groups, we're giving them a means of being even more mind-meltingly annoying and making them mobile!
New York is getting those damned "Duck Tour" boats. When I go to Philly (and I'm not a tourist there, because Philly is home to Brother and his wife, so I am not wandering alone and have a good reason for being visiting other than that I really want to see if it's like it is on (insert name of TV show here) and those damned boats pass me, I have to reign in my barely controllable urge to climb the side and use my stylish shoes to bludgeon to death every single person who leans over the side and blows one of those fucking duck bill noisemakers at me.
Philly Peeps and Bostonians: Ya'll with me?
Most New Yorkers don't know it, but if you're lived here for more than 3 years, you can legally kill 1 tourist for each year you've lived in Manhattan proper (It's a little known legal loophole. Thanks Forham Law School!). And I am leading the charge to up that number.
Because I'm telling you, the first fully grown adult who makes the mistake of leaning his denim-shirt-clad self over the rail of one of these idiot pontoons and quacking at me is going to get yanked over the bow and strangled with his own fanny pack.

Desire, Thy Name is Apple

2005-10-13T11:15:00.000-04:00

Apple has now unveiled their New Video Ipod.
I just got a fancy new ipod in July, and that shit is already obsolete?!
Damn you, Steve Jobs! Damn! You!

In Which I Take Out My Grief On J. David Enright: Socialite, Homosexual and Complete Fucking Jackass

2005-10-13T11:08:00.000-04:00

9 days is a long time not to write.
They've been a full 9 days: 24 hours at home to mourn the death of Audrey's father and to reunite with 3 of my closest and oldest friends (nothing brings the family together like a funeral...I kept expecting the soundtrack to The Big Chill to start playing in the overhead speakers at the funeral home), some light shopping and heavy realizations with Leslie last weekend, furniture delivery (so close to having a grown up apartment), the death of my uncle/godfather (we weren't close, so please don't worry - Dan is A-OK).
Busy busy busy.
And yet I feel like nothing worth writing about has happened. Or maybe nothing appropriate for blogging in great detail.
On the other hand, I think that this guy definitely wins the Asshat of the Week award. The ramifications of this are pretty interesting.
If he wins, the whole "homosexuality is genetic" theory will be knocked back a few steps, despite overwhelming scientific evidence (*looks in direction of Bill Frist, raises one eyebrow, then makes obscene gesture and throws a rock*) , and the Right will have a new place to hang their NASCAR hat (pointy white hood?) when it comes to the gay marriage argument, the rehabilitation camp argument, and generally every ridiculous hateful theory they hold so dear.
Not to mention, dude, come on, even if the Church 'made' you gay, get fucking real. What are you suing for? It got you a job as an ad man, some snappy taste in clothing, and I'm sure a rapier wit. Not to mention he seems to have great skin in his photo. I'm just sayin' is all....
This fuckstick is all pissed off because if it hadn't been for the Church "I believe that my life would be very different now. I’d probably be married, living in Greenwich with four children in boarding school.”
What's that sound? Is it every gay rights activist across the country grinding their teeth? No... The sound of homophobes smiling at being given a boost in their unfounded arguments? No....
It's the self-loathing phone! And it's for you, J. David!
Come the fuck on. You got molested. I can't imagine the horror that it brought upon your young fragile psyche. But your accounts of being a closet case in the 70s have nothing to do with that. They only illuminate one thing: You were a fucking closet case. End. Of. Story. There are hundreds (probably thousands) of clergy molestation victims out there who are not gay.
So thanks, J. David! You're going to cost the Church a couple of million. But you're costing every self respecting (Self respect J. David? No? Not familiar?) gay man and lesbian more than you could imagine.

Muckraking

2005-10-04T14:13:00.000-04:00

Is there any particular reason Drudge is so appalled by this?
Not to mention this "support" was waaaaaay back in 1989, when the world almost respected the United States and gay rights were almost (almost) ok to support without fear of being burned at the stake by one's fellow Victorians... I mean Conservatives. Conservatives. It kills me that Drudge considers himself such a "Journalist" when most of the items he flags as so important (noted by his ubiquitous "Spinning Red Light" - Note to Matty: Ever hear the story of the little boy who cried wolf? Seriously. Numb to the siren. When you apply the same siren to Michale Jackson's trial, Katrina coverage and a little self-loathing piece about Barabara Streisand (you closet-case asshat), it's a tad hard to get all stirred up whenever the little graphic is on screen, because we can't determine what is hard news, what's fluff, and what is the product of your unquenchable thirst for all things Babs cloaked in a need to mask it as hatred in order to satisfy your Republican masters) is usually spun so hard or so inaccurrate or misquoted that it becomes meaningless. Drudge doesn't report news. He takes real news, alters the headlines and stands back with a self-satisfied smirk.

Fuck You, Drudge. It must suck to hate yourself so much. But you're not alone. A lot of us hate you too.

I do a lot of bitching about the state of our country and government. And I'm certain that there are those of you out there who are thinking to yourselves "Who does this punkass think he is? All talk and no action? Stop whining!" OK, first and foremost, I'm a Liberal Democrat. Our motto is "All Talk and No Action!" We talked about putting it on our letterhead, but no one really got around to going to the printers.
But today is a new day, Bitches. A day when I can put my fancypants law degree to good use.
You see, my firm does an independent review of the Supreme Court nominees. Remember when Roberts was found out to have worked on gay rights cases? That came from our investigation. His statements to the effect "Next thing you know women will be wanting equal pay"? Also ours.
And this time I'm joining the team to investigate Ms. Miers.
Because we know nothing about her except that she's 60, thinks W is "brilliant" (dear lord, she's retarded), has never sat on a bench, and is an eyeliner enthusiast and part time Estelle Getty impersonator.
Because I think at this point we can be relatively certain how Roberts is going to swing, so Miers is a pretty key player all of a sudden. Because it's important to me, and I'm tired of feeling powerless against the Right and there ridiculous standards of moral superiority, their cronyism, their complete lack of justification in their actions, and their complete lack of responsibility.
Because when a memo surfaces proving that Harriet Miers is not only dangerously underqualified, but that George W. Bush ought to be run out of this country on a rail for even suggesting that she be appointed to the Supreme Judicial power in this nation, well, dammit, I want to be able to say "I found that memo. I played a part in stopping the Conservative railroading of all that is good and decent in this country (because I believe that the level of lying, disregard for human decency and greed supported by this adminstration is a few county lines over from good and nowhere approaching decent). The people are not going to just let things happen any more. I'm not afraid of these idiots anymore. And as of today they'd better start becoming afraid of all the little people like me."

Or I could spend 3 days looking through her old phone records. Either way, its a flash of political idealism I haven't felt in a while. And it's a tad empowering. I think I'll go beat up someone on the Upper East Side.

Toe to Toe

2005-09-30T11:25:00.000-04:00

OK, can I talk to the Ladies for a minute?
Look, I'm all for tight pants. In point of fact I can't actually get into any of my jeans without having 2 friends hold them open, climbing onto the nearest piece of furniture and jumping into them. It's actually the reason I stopped having one night stands - I could never sneak out, but had to ask for assistance getting back into my pants. It got to be too much. But girls, there are certain body types that do not go well with certain pairs of tight pants. If you are zoftig, big boned, heavy set, "festive" or even just plain old fat, PLEASE dress accordingly.
Point is that yesterday I rounded the corner in my office and came upon one of our larger research analysts standing in my hall. She had opted for a pair of cotton pants that are relatively form fitting (I believe they are called "Gaucho Pants" or some such nonesense. Do the people who name these clothes have even the slightest idea what a Gaucho is? No? I used to. It has something to do with cowboys. And last I checked, John Wayne would not be caught dead wearing light cotton flare pants that only came down to mid-shin. Roy Rogers may have, but then again Roy could pull it off. He had the legs for it.).
And so, standing between me and the safety of my office, like some kind of lumpy bouncer, was the World's Largest Camel Toe.
Honestly. It was like staring into the sun. I'm relatively sure it winked at me. Had I not known better, I would have sworn there was a midget in the front of her pants mooning me.
Slick as I am, I could not simply observe the horror and move on, but rather froze at the other end of the 5 foot long hallway and commenced an Old West style standoff. Just me and Senor Camel Toe. It suddenly became almost appropriate that she was wearing the Gaucho pants. The real paradox lies in that if she hadn't worn the Gaucho pants, we would never have found ourselves in the Main Street-Camel Toe-Quickdraw situation at all. If only I'd brought my chaps.
We could have stood there all day, Camel Toe and I, if the head attached at the top of the tightly clad vuvla had not broken the silence by asking if there was something she could help me with.
Oh, Sweetie. No, but then again I'm not the one here who's in need of help.

Hammered

2005-09-26T13:10:00.000-04:00

I honestly had no urge to post today (mostly because the weekend's activities left me so exhausted and serotonin-depleted that it's all I can do to keep myself from crawling under my desk and drifting off to sleep to the soft hum of my computer tower), but the office is so mindmeltingly boring today that it's this or spending more money buying random things I don't need on Craigslist.
Friday night I had dinner with Don at his favorite restaurant in the West Village. We had a cocktail at the bar, and split a bottle of wine over dinner. Then Don's friend, the owner of the restaurant, joined us for 2 rounds of dessert wine. Somehow by the time the words "35 year old congnac" were tossed around, I was no longer in control of the situation.
Don and I somehow made it back uptown to my place for shots of vodka (Vodka shots? Who the fuck are we? I'm mildy surprised we didn't follow that with a game of beer pong or possibly whip out a deck of cards and start a swell game of "Asshole") and headed over to Barrage for further cocktails. I left Don at roughly 2 am and stumbled back to my newly painted apartment.
This episode of Extreme Makeover: Home Edition is brought to you by Smirnoff.

Dan (entering apartment alone): (ok, I was alone, so I wasn't really talking. This will be more of an inner monologue thing) Walking is fun. Legs is a funny word. Leeeggggs. Luh- Eggs. Hee. Keys. Keys go on the table by the door. (noticing a slight bolt-shaped bump in the wall next to door frame) Hey! (addressing bump in wall) You shouldn't be there.

Now, whether God, my roommate, or cruel, cruel fate left the hammer on the console table just inside the door, directly beneath the spot on the wall to which I was speaking, I will never know. But said hammer was literally 3 inches below my hand when I noticed the bolt under the surface of the drywall.
There wasn't even time to look for the hammer during which I could have thought "Maybe I should wait until I'm sober to attempt to pound things into a very visible spot on my nice new clean walls. Perhaps hammering in the middle of the night isn't a good idea when I've had, oh, 12 drinks." Oh no. It was roughly 4 seconds from the inception of the thought to the thunderous pounding at 2:15 a.m.

Dan (pounding wall, and realizing bolt will not move and must be up against a pipe or stud): I'm gonna make you go in dammit! (continues pounding, now missing bolt, but oh-so-satisfied that hammer seems to be going into wall) There!

The following was actually spoken aloud. I remember saying it. Vividly.

Dan: Oh look. I put a hole in the wall. (setting hammer back down on console table) I wonder what's on TV.

And so, Saturday morning: spackle.
Tune in next week when I smoke pot and attempt to hang my roman shades! Wackiness, I guarantee, will ensue.

Dream House Sold Separately

2005-09-22T14:38:00.000-04:00

Mid-East Barbie. No effing joke. I so want one.
She lives a great life.
Until G.I. Joe busts in and "liberates" her by blowing the shit out of Mid-East Ken and Skipper.

(Almost) Liveblog: From The Big Apple To The Big Easy

2005-09-21T09:23:00.000-04:00

I was roughly 30 feet from Simon and Garfunkel last night. They sang "Homeward Bound" and I broke out in goosebumps.
If you were watching pay-per-view, you most likely saw the back of my head (Come to think of it, that statement is pretty dirty if taken a certain way. Ew.).
At about 10 am yesterday Miss. V. at work sent an email to some friends that she had 5 tickets to the "From The Big Apple To The Big Easy" Katrina Relief Benefit Concert. Free. Floor seats. Don't ask why or how. Just be jealous.
And so I spent last night with Lines, Molly (on what was to be the night we had our last dinner together before she moves back to Denver - this was so much better than dinner), Officemate and her friend at the Garden.
Because I didn't have a computer on me at the time, and thus could not liveblog, consider this a liveblog on a slight delay:

7:04 p.m. - Lines, Molly and I arrive at the Garden, which is all decorated Mardi Gras style. I have a hard time deciding if this is tacky in the face of the tragedy or a symbol of the unbeatable spirit of the people of New Orleans. Then I see the girl on stilts in the Pink Flamingo costume. Decision made.

7:10 p.m. - After a quick bathroom stop, Lines, Molly and I make our way to the floor, where we are escorted to roughly center ice, about 40 yards from the stage. Some jazz pianist is on stage, and is shortly joined by Lenny Kravitz.

7:15 p.m. - Officemate and her friend show up.

7:25 p.m. - Nondescript blues band is on stage. Lines remarks that it is quite possibly the whitest crowd she has ever seen, and posits that most of these people must be Tulane grads. As if on cue, Suit behind her leans forward, explains that he works for Morgan Stanley, and informs us that he went to Tulane. An odd bit of exposition, but it validated Lines, so we're happy. Officemate and I discuss that it does look an awful lot like a Rotary Club meeting. Molly and I decide to go for beers.

7:28 p.m. - While we are gone, Lines shares her gummy bears with Tulane/Morgan Stanley Guy. Maybe this happened before she got the exposition info. I can't remember.

7:39 p.m. - Jimmy buffet takes the stage. I call my Dad's voicemail to let him listen. Molly notices a teleprompter mid-crowd with all the lyrics on it. We all become obsessed with teleprompter and stop watching performance in lieu of staring at karaoke style teleprompter.

7:44 p.m. - Girl in front of Lines drops her purse and spills Lines' beer. We quietly plot her death. Then we see her attempt to dance, and decide it's more cruel to let her live.

7:51 p.m. - Jessica Lange (??) introduces the Dixie Cups, Erma Thomas and Cyndi Lauper. Jessica Lange looks amazing. I am convinced she drinks blood.

7:54 p.m. - Erma Thomas sings "Time Is On My Side", which she sang before the Stones apparently. I am mentally brought back to pledging. The song rocks.

8:02 p.m. - Cyndi sings. I don't know what song, but I love her. She is my favorite in the world. Ask me sometime about my Cyndi/Madonna comparison.

8:04 p.m. - Cyndi takes off her shoes to dance. Love Her. Momentary fear that her breasts are going to come flying out of her dress.

8:04:15 p.m. - Crisis averted. Boobs contained. Rock on Cyndi.

8:10 p.m. - The Dixie Cups (like the Dixie Chicks, except old and black and, well, Cups I guess) take the stage. Apparently they are famous for singing "Going to the Chapel". It's an odd song choice, and every couple in the room has their arms around each other. Every Jewish girl in the room has a deathgrip on her I-Banker boyfriend and is innocuously "Just Singing Along" whilst rubbing their ring finger and staring menacingly into said boyfriend's eyes. I resist the urge to start licking the exposed sound cables lying on the Garden floor.

8:16 p.m. - Erma and Cyndi come back onto stage to join the Cups in "Iko Iko". I hate this song. I have visions of Tom Cruise in Cocktail. I finally lick the sound cable. Damned thing is insulated. Shit.

8:17 p.m. - I rise from the floor and look around, realizing that this is better than Christmas. The last 3 concert I attended were Madonna, Cher and Britney. I have not seen a rhythmless white straight crowd in ages, and their sad attempts at dancing fill me with sick glee. Suddenly enjoying myself much more. Wish "Iko Iko" would never end.

8:19 p.m. - "Iko Iko" ends. Straight white people inexplicably keep dancing, even without music. My heart overflows. Feel like kid in American Beauty watching plastic bag.

8:30 p.m. - Where did the people behind me get gumbo?

8:40 p.m. - Bette Midler takes the stage and makes the first (and only) anti-Bush statements of the evening. She's also the only performer all night to use the word "Fuck". We cheer. Other boo straight through her performance. Note to Bette: I love you, but judge your audience. These are I-Bankers and Finance people for fuck's sake. I think I was the only man in the room not wearing Brooks Brothers. The best line" "George Bush is a big fan of mine. He came to see me in the 70's. A coke dealer of his had tickets." Awesone. She sings "I Think It's Gonna Rain Today". I am alternately touched by the beautiful song and amused by the title in light of the reason we are at this concert.

8:50 p.m. - Scarlett Johansson introduces Elton John. We attempt to put rhyme and/or reason to the choices of celebrities introducing performers. Deciding that there is none, we wait for our turn to introduce someone.

8:53 p.m. - Sir Elton arrives on stage in a black caftan thing, sits at the piano and plays "Funeral For A Friend (Love Lies Bleeding)" while images of the hurricane play on a screen behind him.

9:00 p.m. - The opening chords of "Someone Saved My Life Tonight" give me chills. Images of rescue personnel behind Elton are touching, yet at the same time a little weird when one considers the lyrics to the rest of the song, aside from the whole "Someone Saved My Life Tonight" line.

9:01 p.m. - Watch fat guy and his odd girlfriend drunkenly do the stadium rock fist in the air pump thing and dance to "Someone Saved My Life Tonight", rocking tune that it is. Realize just how much beauty there is in the world. Wish for another beer.

9:07 p.m. - Elton and gospel choir sing "Levon". Elton leaves stage. Lines remarks that now that Cyndi, Elton and Bette have performed, we have ended the gay portion of the evening, and there is little reason for us to stay other than Simon and Garfunkel.

9:07:22 p.m. - We go for another round of beers.

9:18 p.m. - As more nondescript jazz musicians play, an 18 year old concert staff chick in ripped t-shirt approaches and asks us if we would like to move up. We follow her on a misguided journey past several angry security guards to the 8th row. We are not sure if the people who have tickets for those seats are just in the bathroom or have left for good. We no longer care. We are now 30 feet from the stage.

9:22 p.m. - More blues and jazz bands I am not familiar with. We chat. Officemate and I decide we are getting Miss V. something from Saks to thank her for the tickets.

9:23 p.m. - It dawns on us that we are now in the Bear Stearns VIP section, and everyone around us most likely spends their weekends in the Hamptons or on their yachts, and has a coke problem. Oh, and there are cameras every 3 feet.

9:50 p.m. - The random celebrity introduction machine spits Ed Bradley onto stage, and he introduces Jimmy Buffett (again?). Ed Bradley is wearing an earring. My heart becomes sad.

9:52 p.m. - Jimmy Buffett takes the stage for an extended set. Officemate, her friend, and every pudgy white guy in the room seem to be thoroughly enjoying something called "Fins", and thrusting their hands in the air at varying angles. I am adrift in a sea of confusion. Buffett continues his brand of feel-good middle-class-island rock for roughly 6 hours, covering his entire song catalogue and several numbers by the Beatles, The Mamas and The Papas, and, oddly enough, Death Cab for Cutie, during which time I am treated to more hetero-Caucasian banker dancing. Officemate's friend even remarks that the room is filled with syncopated clapping and "White Man's Overbite". I point out that the room is also not lacking for muffin tops (when a girl wears pants that are too tight and her midline spills over the waistband like a muffin top). We laugh.

10:08 p.m. - It becomes apparent that Ed Bradley is not only wearing an earring, but is now playing tambourine for Jimmy Buffett. I realize that if I watched 60 Minutes, I would never be able to look at him the same. But I don't watch 60 Minutes. I remain unchanged.

10:18 p.m. - Jimmy Buffett replaces the lyric "And I know...It's all my fault" in "Margaritaville" with "And I know... It's all Katrina's fault!". Too soon? Oh, I believe so.

10:23 p.m. - The length of Jimmy Buffett's set is making me want to drink. Why is everyone around me shouting "Salt! Salt! Salt!" ?

10:25 p.m. - Dave Matthews joins Jimmy Buffett on stage to sing Neil Young's "Heart of Gold". I realize several things: A) I used to love Dave Matthews B) Dave Matthews appears mildly autistic C) Dave Matthews is The go to guy for awkward banker types D) I need to download Neil Young's version (it just doesn't sound the same without the harmonica)

10:42 p.m. - Former President Bill Clinton arrives on stage to thunderous applause to introduce John Fogerty. I briefly flash back to the 90's, when things were better. Wish W had showed up, only because I was so close to the stage that I could have most likely hit him with my flip flop.

10:45 p.m. - John Fogerty is good. I suddenly realize that I used to listen to all of this music (Elton John, Creedence Clearwater, Simon and Garfunkel, Dave Matthews) when I was in college and more or less one of the people I was now laughing at. Wonder if I am a better person now, or if I had continued to hang out with people like that I might have a better job and be happier. Decide I don't care, because at least I have rhythm.

10:52 p.m. - John fogerty sings "Have You Ever Seen The Rain". I decide to download my Creedence CD, long sitting on a shelf collecting dust, to my iPod tomorrow.

11:15 p.m. - Lines borrows ticket from girl next to us in order to go pee and be able to return to our section.

11:20 p.m. - Paul Newman comes on stage to introduce (finally) Simon and Garfunkel. Lines is obviously still in the bathroom. Art Garfunkel has apparently not changed his clothes since the late 60's, and is still wearing the same white oxford shirt and black vest he donned for the concert in Central Park. Maybe that's his lucky New York City outfit. Or maybe he left it at the dry cleaners here 24 years ago and just picked it up. Whatever. If you've got a look that works, stick with it.

11:21 p.m. - Simon and Garfunkel begin their 3-song set with "Mrs. Robinson". Lines comes charging back to her seat. Paul Simon, who looks incredibly old and a lot like Mel Brooks, does some weird thing where he plays his guitar while squatting and thrusting guitar neck at audience. I am revolted, but mesmorized. They then sing "Homeward Bound". See above referenced goosebumps.

11:30 p.m. - Aaron Neville returns to the stage to join them for "Bridge Over Troubled Waters". Most of the time he looks as if someone is grinding a thumb into his lower back. And the man has a cross tattooed on his cheek. WTF?!

11:30:42 p.m. - Garfunkel garbles the first verse. Simon looks on from the shadow thinking "That is why I dropped your ass, Bitch."

11:38 p.m. - Simon and Garfunkel leave the stage. Officemate, her friend and Molly depart. Lines and I attempt to stick it out and see who the finale is. Lines scams a program from nondescript I-Banker, wherein we read that the finale will consist of the Neville Brothers singing "When The Saints Go Marching In" while a brass band marches through the audience. While the whole thing is so very New Orleans, neither Lines nor I have ever been there, nor are we big fans of songs I learned in Middle School Band, so we decide to head out.

11:59 p.m. - Lines and I leave the Garden almost 5 hours after we arrived, feeling proud that we did our part to help the hurricane victims. Until it dawns on us that we didn't pay for the tickets. Or buy the T-Shirt. Or make a donation.

12:00 p.m. - I walk home, secure in the knowledge that while I am not a better person, I'm also no worse or more apathetic than before. And I got to see Simon and Garfunkel and Elton John.

Meh

2005-09-20T15:24:00.000-04:00

I'm totally over blogging. Over it. J-Lo over it. Trucker Hat over it.
I look at the blank page, and there is no longer that overwhelming urge, nay, need to pour my guts onto it. I don't have a lot to say. And I'm feeling pressure that the 34 people out there who read it are going to abandon me if I don't come up with something witty or insightful (note the implication that to date I have, in fact, been witty and insightful. Ha!).
And yet I continue to do it. Why? Who knows? I don't know why I do half the shit I do (Note To Self: Self, why did you get your navel pierced in 2001? And those man-capri pants you bought in Australia? What was going on there? Just asking.).
I'm certain that you're all dying to see pictures of my renovated apartment, to find out if I ever sober up, find love, leave New York, get a decent job, stop whining, find Jesus, get it together, get over Bartender, discover the meaning of life, actually learn to say no to people, go broke, fullfill my New Year's Resolutions, stick with kabbalah, learn the tango, forgive my mother for leaving my father, or drop dead of a massive stroke at age 27.
And you will.
Because, like all bloggers, I have a self-absorbed need to bare my soul to complete strangers.
Of late, things have actually been going so smoothly (This is the point where, much like homer Simpson's my brain just said "Way to go, asshat. Jinx yourself when you're finally on karma's good side. Bra-vo. "*slow clap*), and I don't have as much to bitch about. Or maybe I've got a different perspective.
Sister has moved out, the apartment is painted and the new furniture is on the way. Work is so calm that I spend most of my days reading blogs and talking on the phone.
And while my parents incredibly abrubt separation three weeks ago and pending divorce has threatened to turn my life as a 26 year-old attorney into an afterschool special, it hasn't. In point of fact, I can't even get that worked up over it.
So maybe it is a perspective thing.
Maybe it's an older and wiser thing.
I thought people were supposed to get edgier the longer they went without sex, and yet the longer I go, the better I'm feeling... Oh dear lord what if it was the sex that was making me a complete asshole? What if the only way I'm centered and happy is without physical contact?
Then so be it: I'm going to be an asshole for the rest of my life.
I mean, I like being all nice and stuff. But seriously, Fuck That.

Easy Like Sunday Morning

2005-09-18T11:40:00.000-04:00

It's an incredibly beautiful Sunday. I need to clean my apartment and put a second coat of paint on my bathroom walls.
I want brunch.
I want to walk the flea market and pick out some furniture.
I've been in my office since 10 and will be here till at least 3 because some douchebag in our computer support office who is vital to the project I am working on decided he isn't coming in until 1.
Until then, I'm sitting at my desk shopping online and rocking out to Kelly Clarkson.

Greetings From Louisianna!

2005-09-13T10:52:00.000-04:00

Since U Been Gone

2005-09-12T10:47:00.000-04:00

I'm back from a week off.
The first three days of my vacation were great. I did nothing but sit in Starbucks and read, ignore my blackberry, and have dinner with friends.
And then, like a plague of spandex clad locusts, Houseguest arrived.
I'll spare you the details, save that A) He remains as crazy and oblivious as he always has been, B) I was completely right in my prediction that all of his other friends who swore he could stay at their house mysteriously stopped answering their phones once he arrived, and so he spent all but one night on my couch C) He has no boundaries D) He bought a Madonna cover CD done in all cheesy disco that he blasted at ALL hours of the day, regardless of whether I had been listening to anything else at the time (seriously, fuckstick, a Madonna COVER CD??! Buy the immaculate collection! And Goddamnit, I was listening to Kelly Clarkson! ARGGGGGH!)
Audrey and I, on the plus side, had a fantastic time this weekend. At some point on Thursday we dubbed ourselves Lord and Lady Drinksalot, the Duke and Dutchess of the High Five, and consequently spent the rest of the weekend attending fashion shows and drinking to the point of physical illness.
The capper to my weekend occurred last night when I woke up on my couch at 1 a.m., as Houseguest was walking into the apartment.
Dan: Hi.
Houseguest: Hi. I'm going out clubbing. Is it OK is my friends come in for a second while I change?
Dan(Still not quite awake) : Sure.
Houseguest at this point does not buzz them in from the street, as I am expecting, but opens the apartment door to give entry to the two people he had already let into the building ho were waiting outside my apartment door.
Houseguest: Make yourselves at home. Do you want a drink?
Dan (mildly confused): We don't have anything to mix with.
Houseguest: I bought orange juice.
Dan: Did you buy vodka?
Houseguest (throwing open Dan's freezer and beginning to pour out bucket sized drinks for the strangers now poking through my DVD collection): You have some right here. Fellas, I'm going to shower. Have another drink if you need it while I'm showering.
And so began my slow burn into morning.
I checked my previously 3/4 full bottle of mandarin vodka before I left for work today. The bottom of the bottle is still a bit damp, so it's not a complete loss.
I was still feeling sick, (Audrey and I both developed some kind of cold/flu/viral infection/cirrhosis of the liver and spent Saturday and Sunday on the couch drinking orange juice and eating soup), but if I didn't get away from Houseguest I would have smothered him in his sleep, so there would be no taking of a sick day.
And of course, one bad apple spoils it for the whole bunch: I love you all, but if you're planning on coming to New York, you're staying at the Holiday Fucking Inn (except you, Bradders - you can stay with me any time).

Scary, Maddening, Tragic

2005-09-06T23:00:00.000-04:00

I've been shying away from Hurricane coverage. Mostly because I can't deal.
And I will continue to not deal.
Cyrus, on the other hand, addresses what happened (and what failed to happen) in New Orleans so simply and precisely.
At this point I'm beyond being disgusted. Beyond being saddened. I'm terrified by the implications. I'm terrified that the people who lead us are capable of letting things like this happen. I'm not saying that they were responsible in the least. But the Three Stooges Style response that precipitated the deaths of thousands scares me more than any threat of terrorism ever has.
God help the victims.

Impending Sense of Doom

2005-09-04T10:35:00.000-04:00

Chief Justice Rhenquist died last night.

Now the thing is, I've never really cared for the man or his opinions. And we all knew that, frighteningly enough, W was eventually going to put 2 justices on the Court. But I have to say that in his last months, Rhenquist proved, to me at least, to have a little more character than I gave him credit for. Refusing to resign in the face of illness, making some middle of the road statements and crossing party lines (not big ones, but crossing nonetheless).
The scariest part is not the chance of some goosestepper being nominated, but those 3 little words every homosexual, minority and woman fears above all else:
Chief Justice Scalia.
Because you know its the only possible next step. Any of the other candidates have either A) A little too much skin color (Thomas), B) A little too much liberal (Souter, Stephens, Kennedy, Breyer) or C) A little too much penis (Bader-Ginsburg)

"And Maybe We'll Drink Hurricane Punch While We're Sitting On The Porch..."

2005-09-02T13:36:00.000-04:00

President Assface at a Press Conference in Mobile, Alabama:
“We got a lot of rebuilding to do…. The good news is — and it’s hard for some to see it now — but out of this chaos is going to come a fantastic Gulf Coast…. Out of the rubbles of Trent Lott’s house — the guy lost his entire house — there’s going to be fantastic house. I look forward to sitting on the porch.”
Oh, George, I've got something you can look forward to sitting on. You fucking douchebag. Seriously, what goes on in that head of his? Does he think of the least appropriate and possibly dubmest thing he can say, and then attempt to top it?
Anyone want to take bets on how much faster Trent's house will be rebuilt than the homes of the thousands of others who are dying, injured, homeless, scared and seeing little done except the holding of numerous press conferences and politico-mutual masturbation?
I thought tragedy was supposed to bring out the best in Americans. Maybe if we had someone to blame...is there a place where hurricanes might be harbored that we can bomb the everliving piss out of?

I Hate Thinking Of Titles

2005-09-02T10:30:00.000-04:00

Apparently I am capable of being so drunk by 9 pm that I forget the entire second half of dinner with my officemates. The bucket sized margaritas may have had a hand in this. Or the vodka that Bartender poured so freely. Or the lemon drop shots Miss V. decided were necessary.
And this morning, I arrived at 8 am to find that my officemates and the other 2 coworkers who came along for the ride last night had called in sick. I am here all by myself. Now, I drank all of them under the table. Mind you I am a seasoned professional, but I'm a little disappointed in my colleagues. I consider it a minor coup that I didn't wake up blind, and these bitches can't even make it into the office? Exactly what is the magnitude of my hangover? I'm contemplating leaving the office to rent a car so that I can drive upstate just to find some roadside diner where I can ease the pain with a greasy omelette made with a slice of american cheese and served with a side of those homefries that have that inexplicable orange tint to them, slammed onto the table by a middle-aged woman in a gingham apron wearing pineapple shaped earrings and pouring coffee that's been sitting on a warmer since 6 am into a chipped earthenware mug. Because some hangovers are so severe that only a cliche can help.
Last night also heralded Sister's evacuation of our palatial 9th Avenue digs. It's a bit weird, and hasn't quite sunk in that she no longer lives with me (though the absence of the lizard was immediately felt and celebrated). It's strange to think that if I want to talk to her I'll have to call her or (oy) go to Brooklyn. The last 2 years have definitely made me appreciate a lot of things about Sister, hate a lot of things about her, and generally made us much closer than I thought we could be. But now I can whore around again without feeling guilty for bringing guys home. Once again, I'm Mr. Brightside .
Today, thankfully, marks the beginning of my weeklong vacation. Sadly, my trip to Greece transformed into a spending spree on furniture, and I'll be lucky to make it as far as Fire Island while I'm off. Unless I get my act together today and hop the train out to hang with Allison on LI for the night before my father arrives in the morning. But, at least I won't be in the office, and I can concentrate on getting my shit together, getting my apartment cleaned out, and generally relaxing.
Until Houseguest arrives on Wednesday.
And Audrey on Thursday. And I'm certain that someone else will most likely decide that Labor Day will be a great time to descend on New York and enjoy my newly empty apartment. (Note: Audrey - don't take this personally. I love you and am happy to have you. I'm just a little harried and the arrival of Houseguest is making me want to stick hot pokers in my ears and scramble my brains.
So let's just recap: My vacation will be dedicated to Dad, Houseguest and Audrey.
Apparently I'm a big doormat who has no trouble rolling out the Welcome Mat.
I think there's roughly 6 hours between departures and arrivals where I might get a little Me time.
But not likely.

Pope A Cap In Yo' Ass

2005-09-01T09:40:00.000-04:00

After a long hiatus, PopeWatch! is back, and more out of touch with reality than ever.
Pope Benedict XVI (This Time, It's Personal!) (Ed. Note: I also considered the taglines "Catholics in Space" and "The Pope Takes Manhattan", but opted for the more vague and appropriate declaration of the personal nature of this Pope. It just played better with test audiences) has come out swinging once again, fists in the air and head planted firmly up his ass.
This go round, Il Ratz has boldly declared that Catholics need to have more babies immediately 'for the good of society'. The Pontiff (Latin word meaning he with the oversized hat and neck wattle) also stated that "Having children is a gift that brings life and well-being to society," during an address given right after he returned from his summer residence southeast of Rome.
Oh, antiquated, shortsighted puppet, you make it almost too easy.
First and foremost, I'm glad that the Pope is addressing such serious issues. As we are all aware, the world is dangerously underpopulated. So let's get on that kids. Uglies must be bumped as soon as possible, for the good of this woefully barren and desolate rock we call Earth. Seriously. Where all my fruitful peeps at?
OK, secondly, I'd just like to point out that the Pope, much like President "There's A Storm A Brewin' and A Major City's Under Water and Hundreds, Maybe Thousands Are Dead and I Forgot I Started A War But Let's Take An Extended Vacation Anyway", spent the summer away from the action. No real point to that observation, I just thought the comparison was insteresting. And I hate the President, so I'll take any chance I can to insult him (In his defense, I hear tell that W didn't really know there was a hurricane; He thought Cheney had popped his copy of The Day After Tomorrow in the DVD player again, and only realized that maybe something was up when the people running from the walls of water didn't fall in love in a library, and Jake Gyllenhaal was nowhere to be seen).
And lastly, because I take everything personally, does this feel like a kind of sly swipe at the gays to anyone else? He's making this big hooplah about having children being essential to society's well being and went so far as to say that not haivng children "deprives some nations of freshness and energy and of hopes for the future". Now, who is incapable of having children...think...think....hmmmmm... Perhaps underpinning yet another spate of anti gay rhetoric?
You know, Scientology may be the religion of egomaniacal lunatics, but at least they don't hate like the egomaniacal lunatics of the Catholic Religion.
Beam Me Up, Tommy.

Houseguest 2: Electric Boogaloo

2005-08-30T12:55:00.000-04:00

I received a call from Houseguest yesterday afternoon. I actually have barely heard from him since he left our verdant shores and returned to the icy tundra of Stockholm, so I was happy that he was checking in.
And then not so much:

Houseguest: Did you receive the birthday present I sent you?
Dan: No Babe, I didn't.
Houseguest: Well I'll just have to give it to you in person then.
Dan: I'm sorry Houseguest, you're breaking up. Or I just hallucinated. What did you say?
Houseguest: I'm coming back on the 5th! For 7 days! I got a ticket but can't afford a hotel, so I figured I could stay with you!
Dan (Pausing on street to look for Ashton Kuther and the Punk'd Van, then realizing that he wasn't kidding, lost control of my bladder, and basked in the large warm spot steadily growing in my crotchal area): Huh?
Houseguest: Isn't that great?!
Dan: Yeah, spectacular. Wheeeeee! The thing is, um, I can't really have you at my place. Sister and I won't be living together at that point any more, and I have a new roommate and no furniture yet. Not to mention my friend Audrey from home is staying that weekend (she really is) and I can't have 2 people staying my first week with a new roommate.
Houseguest: Well my coming is a surprise! I haven't told anyone but you. I will stay with you at least one night and then figure it out. I'm sure that someone will let me stay once I'm there.
Dan (Now realizing that while we all love Houseguest, once he's settled into my couch, ain't no one going to volunteer to take him on for 6 days): Okaaaay, I have to go throw up a little. Email me your flight details and it will be figured out. Good talking to you.
And then I walked into traffic.
OK, not really, but the urge was stronger than ever. The only thing that stopped me was the fact that I was meeting someone for drinks in less than 2 hours, and it would have been rude to stand him up. Plus, I like drinking.
Let me walk you through it: It's my one week off all year. I'm dealing with some stuff that is incredibly emotionally draining and too personal to even blog about (Nonsense! you say. Nothing is too personal to throw out there into cyberspace for complete strangers to read! Well, some things are. Deal.). My apartment is being painted. One of my best friends will be visiting for the first time since I moved here. My new roommate and I will be in the honeymoon/adjustment phase. I will most likely not have my furniture yet. I'm out of valium.
Not the best time for Houseguest to visit.
And This, Bitches, is why when I purchased my new couch, and the sales man offered me a sleeper built in, I said "NO!" so forcefully that he shrunk back under his desk.

Lost In Love

2005-08-26T11:01:00.000-04:00

Another Friday, another morning spent realizing I'm still a bit drunk from last night and wondering A) How I got home, B) What I said and who I said it to, C) Where I got the keys to a police cruiser.
And then the day got infinitely better, as my officemate decided that today is "Wuss Rock Friday", set her iPod on Air Supply, dimmed the lights and cranked her speakers up.
Because when it's been a long week and you're still a little nauseated from the prior night's activities, a little Australian falsetto can suprisingly be just what you need. Mind you we've locked the office door while we rock out (can you actually "Rock Out" to Air Supply? Maybe only during those moments when Deep Voice Guy trails off the verse and High Voice Guy drives the chorus home like a minivan from soccer practice.), just in case anyone stops by. It might be slightly embarassing to be caught mid-air guitar solo while she holds a lighter up in the air.
But until we sneak out out at 5 today, we'll be making love outta nothing at all, with brief interludes of making all the stadiums rock.

Runneth Over

2005-08-24T15:05:00.000-04:00

Big Cup, the seminal (hehe, I said 'seminal') gay coffee shop in Chelsea, is closing.
Much happier to walk past and eyeball the queens inside, I've never been one to spend a lot of time in "Big Slut".
Its closing does, however, spur one of my very first New York memories.
Roughly 7 years ago (holy shit 7 years) my brother spent a year living on Long Island in Med School. He later transferred to Syracuse to be with his then-fiance, but his living on Long Island was the genesis of my first visit to Manhattan, my falling in love with the City and pretty much the rest of my life to date.
My parents and I came down with him to help him move in. It was my first ever visit to New York.
My mother loved Manhattan, and my brother loved the idea of having my mother far, far away while he set up his apartment, so she and I hopped the LIRR to spend the day in the City.
Long story short (too late) we ended up in Chelsea. Mostly because I wanted to go to Old Navy on 6th and subsequently got lost. I had spent my entire life in Rochester. The whole "streets are numbered on a grid" thing hadn't quite sunk in yet.
It was mid-August. We had no idea where we were. As it turns out, we were on 8th Avenue between 14th and 23rd (affectionately known to gay New York as "The Catwalk" or "The B.Q.E. (Big Queens Expressway)".
I realized we were in Chelsea when I saw the sign on the Chelsea Fire Station (I was much sharper in my college days), but neither my mother nor I really knew what Chelsea was about. I remembered a friend from college saying something about it, but couldn't quite remember what she said the neighborhood was known for.
As we continued up 8th, I started to notice a lot of barely clad muscle queens. Still closeted, I tried not to gawk as it became apparent to me what type of person hung out in Chelsea.
And... cue Mom:
Mom (peering into window of a store called "Rainbow and Triangle"): Let's stop and get something for your little sister in here.! She loves rainbows.
Dan (pausing to look over gay porn rags hung in window and ads inside door for HIV trials and escorts): Um... I dont think they have anything for her in here, Mom.
Mom: But she loves rainbows!
Dan (trying to avoid awkward situation with Mom at any cost): Let's just keep moving. I'm tired. Let's get back to Long Island.
Mom (Moving one doorway up to Big Cup and looking in Window): Well if you're tired let's stop for coffee. This place looks cute! It's all pink inside!
Dan (Now noticing all male couples inside, several holding hands): Nah. Don't want coffee.
Mom: I do. Let's go in.
Dan: Mom. Look inside. Really look inside.
Mom: Look at what? It's cute. A little crowded... wow, there's a lot of men inside... those two are - oh. Oh! Ooooooh.
And...Scene.

Add It Up

2005-08-24T14:21:00.000-04:00

Why is it that just when I'm poised to blow several thousand dollars on home renovations, all of my necessary daily electronics (hair clippers, digital camera, sunglasses -technically not electronics, but they are still something expensive I use everyday) break, forcing me to considering spending, in total, another $500?
Damn you cruel fate. Damn. You.

Music To Drink Bleach To

2005-08-19T12:05:00.000-04:00

Somewhere between our first and second margaritas, A*, Allison and I started playing a little game that was borne of the movie High Fidelity: We tried to list our top 5 heartbreak songs of all time.
And we're not talking just breakup. We're talking the 5 songs on repeat during those days when you've holed up in your bedroom with a carton of cigarettes, your teddy bear (Yeah, I still have mine. What of it?), your cell phone and charger (because he could call at any minute) and a t-shirt of his that still kind of smells like his cologne.
You know, the dignified period when you've just been dropped like a hot rock and most of your words are hitched through sobs, and you wear the same pajamas for at least 3 days.
The game took on a life of its own the more we drank, and 3 days later we were still trading songs for the list via IM and email.
The list is far too long to post here, because it would take up the whole page. But the songs that came from my iPod are here.
Mind you special awards have been awarded to certain artists and albums; those that truly make you want hang yourself in the shower with your belt:

Annie Lennox (Particularly the Bare Album and the song Why?)
Matchbox 20's Mad Season
Fiona Apple
Aimee Mann
Dido
Sarah McLachlan
Ani DiFranco
Bonnie Rait's I Can't Make You Love Me

So go ahead, Kids. Click the link, turn on your iPod and weep. Openly.
I'm certain I've forgotten some, and I'm sure that the rest of you out there have a whole different list of tracks to play while you're turning on the gas and easing your head in past the roasting pan. But I highly recommend some of these songs (OK, all of them) next time your heart has been pulled from your chest and nailed to a lamppost.
Happy Listening!

Whichever, Really

2005-08-18T20:47:00.000-04:00

Dan: I'm Lame. Just sitting at home
L: Me too. I'm reading a book on my couch.
Dan: What an adult evening.
L: Yeah. I just wish I had a guy to be here and read a book too.
L: Or, you know, do me.

2,102,400 Minutes

2005-08-18T16:04:00.000-04:00

I'm a rearview mirror person. Always have been.
I am obsessively prone to navel gazing and tallying up what has happened or what I've accomplished in the time spanning between landmark events and anniversaries. My old journal is filled with such self-indulgent bullshit. One year since I graduated. A year since my grandfather died. A year since my breakup. New Years. Birthdays. Holidays.
So it came as quite a shock to me to realize that today is my 4 year anniversary in New York, and I hadn't given it even a second thought.
4 years is not a lot of time. It's college. It's law school plus a year. It's 2x a Hollywood marriage. It's just over half the run of the entire series of Buffy. It's roughly 2 Oscar broadcasts.
But it's a long time too.
I'd write a long drawn out comparison of who I was and what the world was like compared to who I am and the current state of affairs, but I'm really trying to curb the habit. Every week it seems there's some milestone that warrants personal nostalgia.
I'm like VH1 without Michael Ian Black.
They say if you've lived in New York for 10 years, you can really call yourself a New Yorker.
I say if you've ever lived on Popcorn and Soda bought at Blockbuster with a giftcard you got for Christmas because you can't afford food, you're a New Yorker.
I say if you've ever walked home at 9 A.M. and passed people on their way to church when you're just sobering up, you're a New Yorker.
I say if your friends live less than a mile away but it's too much of a hassle to visit them, you're a New Yorker.
I say if you climb the walls because the city bleeds you dry and makes you nuts and as soon as you leave it you think that maybe you'd be happier away from it, because you realize that it's impossible to afford a decent life or meet anyone or sustain a relationship with in the confines of Manhattan, and it becomes painfully clear that a six figure salary makes you middle class in Manhattan, and the rent on your shitty one bedroom is roughly equal to the mortgage on a small mansion with a full staff and dune buggies to drive from room to room, but eventually you need to get that pulse back in your system as soon as possible, to walk the avenues and hear the noise and perform the slam dance that is New York etiquette that only we understand, and to be overcharged for cookies in a deli at 3 a.m. because dammit, where else in the world are there 7 delis within a block of your house where you can even get cookies at 3 a.m., and to walk home, and to know the guy working the door, and to go to a party on someone's roof, and to drink till 4, and to turn up your nose at Jersey and outer burroughs, and to hate tourists, and to avoid certain parts of town not because they're rough, but because they're tacky, and to order in, and to choose between the good-bad Chinese place and the bad-bad Chinese place, and to cross against the light, you fucking NEED IT, because you know the City is like an abusive boyfriend, and though it beats the shit out of you, you love it anyways and always hold onto the foolish belief that things will eventually change and you'll live happily ever after, then, and only then, are you a New Yorker.
4 years.
Still here.
Bitches.

Location, Location, Location

2005-08-18T11:43:00.000-04:00

I spoke to a friend last night who, after a failed 2 year bid at living in Manhattan, moved out to San Francisco. He loves it.
His take on things is that everyone in New York is miserable, and that the only way they unburden themselves is to complain, and to do so about anything: their jobs, their sex lives, the hours they work, their apartment, their bills, their stress levels, their friends, their relationships, their families, the city, the noise, the heat, the cold, the smell, the lack of nightlife, the lack of space.... this is the point where I realize he's basically reading post titles from this blog.
People in San Francisco are, as he puts it "Genuinely Happy". He wants me to visit in the fall. He assures me that I'll love it.
I'll visit. I may love it (I have been a little New York weary lately).
But you know what?
My city can still kick your city's ass.

I Got Nothing

2005-08-17T10:21:00.000-04:00

Seriously.
Nada.
Zero.
Nothing interesting has happened. No one has pissed me off. The world continues to bore me.

Not So Fast There, Buddy

2005-08-12T23:03:00.000-04:00

One of the downsides of having a perk like flying for free is that you have to do so standby, and sometimes between the time you leave for the airport and the time you get there, the 19 available seats on the flight will fill up, and you will have spent 5 hours at the airport just to turn around and go home again.
It sucks, but it isn't the end of the world. I once spent 12 hours on Valentine's Day trying to get a flight to Vegas, only to come back to the city and realize I had given a friend my apartment for the weekend and had nowhere to stay. Luckily a friend of mine let me sleep on his floor. And by sleep on his floor I mean his boyfriend, who had given him a ring for Valentine's Day not 6 hours prior, was bartending that night, and we ended up having drunken sex while he was still at work. I used to be a not so good person. I suppose karma is finally catching up to me.)
Oh well, there's always next weekend. And besides, the hotel refunded my room in full, and Mom was at the airport (she had just worked a flight and was heading home) and gave me $50 to spend on vacation. So I may not be going anywhere, but now I have $50 to waste on booze tonight.
My plan is to go out and buy a case of Corona, sit on my couch, and invite the Puerto Rican busboys from the diner downstairs up for the evening. Virtual Vacation here I come!

¿Dónde Están Los Hombres Fáciles y Calientes?

2005-08-12T12:57:00.000-04:00

I'm going to Puerto Rico. In 7 hours.
I woke up this morning and realized that I haven't left the city for reasons other than a wedding in months, and the last time I went somewhere I spent the night at Ex-Boyfriends. Not so relaxing.
I'm tired, I hate the city in August, and I need to just get away.
Because the Go-Go's said it best when they said "Our lips are sealed..." - Wait. That's not right..."Vacation, All I ever wanted. Vacation, had to get away. Vacation, meant to be spent alone." Yeah, that's it.
The biggest perk about having a mother who works for an airline is that I came into my office this morning, made a phone call, and booked $615 round-trip plane tickets to San Juan for free. FREE.
It's supposed to be a little rainy in San Juan this weekend, but I don't care. I have 2 new books, a teeny-tiny bathing suit, and a high tolerance for alcohol.
See you on Monday, Bitches!

Booze, Cheese and Petty Larceny (Or, My Evening With A*, Julie, Allison, Spencer and Hof)

2005-08-07T05:15:00.000-04:00

Every once in a while you have one of those nights where the story of the evening's events ends with the most ridiculous and obtuse factual statement in the world. It makes perfect sense to those that bore witness to the night's events, but it's a long journey to get there. Often a journey whose steps include booze and questionable judgment.
The story of my friday night dinner at a wine and cheese bar with A*, Hof, Julie and Allison culminates in the following statement:
"And when I woke up Saturday afternoon and went downstairs, the Bronze Fickle Finger of Fate was sitting in my mailbox, right where I had left it the night before. "
See what I mean? The 5 others who were at dinner know exactly what I'm talking about. The rest of you are sitting scratching your heads muttering "The Hell?"
Allow me to explain.
Hof's arrival in town (coupled with the fact that A* and I Heart Allison and Julie) warranted dinner. And Booze.
So I dragged everyone to this little wine and cheese bar near my house. The place is adorable, and we were lucky enough to be seated at a back table against shelves that were jam packed with all manner of shit that one might find at a flea market, or possibly in a mobile home. While waiting for Hof and A* (Ahem), Allison, Julie, Julie's boyfriend Spencer (whom I also think is a comedic genius and an incredibly great guy to talk and drink with) poked around the shelves. After looking over CDs from the 80s (which prompted a 20 minute discussion on the merits of craked out Whitney Houston vs. sober Whitney Houston), duck shaped meansuring cups (don't ask) and a wayward computer keyboard, we found it. IT. The Bronze Flying Fickle Finger of Fate. And it was all over. The Finger became the stone monolith to our drunken monkeys.
A large pot of fondue and several glasses of wine later, it was decided that the finger needed to come home with us. And into my jeans it went (Yes, I steal on occasion. But in my defense I am going back there next week to balance the karmic scales by leaving a knick knack from my home on the shelf. So Shut It.)
A* covered me, and we left the restaurant. Quickly. Thing is, only A* and Hof knew I had it. That is, of course, until we hit the street and I spun round, asked "Guess who got himself a souveneir?", whipped it from my pants (the Fickle Finger, not.... oh never mind) used it to point at myself and yelled "This Guy!"
Yeah, I'm classy and witty. Why some man hasn't snapped up a sharp klepto such as myself is beyond me.
Things didn't get too bad until we hit the McCoy's for whiskey. And I ran upstairs to get my camera. 6 adults photographing themselves playing with a Bronze hand. That shit is just Piping Hot.
After McCoy's, when I should have gone home (evidenced by the fact that I could no longer actually say Flying Fickle Finger of Fate without having to sit down and concentrate really hard), Allison and I decided that what we actually needed to do was drink more at Therapy (because what evening of fun isn't complete until I ruin my mood without seeing Bartender? Masochism is so hot right now.).
Too lazy to climb the stairs to my apartment, I threw the Finger in my mailbox and stumbled back to Allison.
Things get a tad hazy from there. There was vodka. Allison and I agreed that Kelly Clarkson is a genius, that men are all idiots, and that liquor is a good thing (We were roughly 8 cocktails in by then. What were you expecting? Discourse on transitional Romanesque architecture? My functioning was reduced to a drool and grunt level.)
Somehow I made it home and into bed.
And when I woke up Saturday afternoon and went downstairs, the Bronze Fickle Finger of Fate was sitting in my mailbox, right where I had left it the night before.
Thanks for an amazing evening everyone.

You Guys are Number One.

I'm Looking For Something In A Padded Wall

2005-08-05T22:22:00.000-04:00

Upon climbing out of a deep depression, it often helps to have a project to keep oneself busy. Something into which you can pour your time, energy and unexpectedly large bonus check.
As I mentioned earlier, Sister is not staying in our palatial 1,100 square foot, $2,000 per month (Ed. Note: that figure gets completely opposite reactions from New Yorkers and people who live elsewhere, though the words are usually exactly the same. Non-New Yorkers will exclaim 'You pay $2,000 a month for this?!', believing the rent to be astronomical and akin to my walking over to my landlord's once a month, grabbing my ankles and taking it like man (Note to Self: Self, you need to get laid. Bad.), while New Yorkers respond 'You pay $2,000 a month for this?!', because my apartment is ginormous by New York standards, and in a great neighborhood) 2 bedroom apartment in Hell's Kitchen - Clinton to you real estate brokers. But let's be honest kids, NO ONE who lives here calls it Clinton. No one anywhere, save for real estate brokers and the occasional tourist reading a taxi map, calls it Clinton. It's Hells Kitchen. Always has been, always will be. A rose by any other name will still be gentrified just as quickly. So Step off my Region, Kay?
Anyways, after looking at several shitholes in my neighborhood that were half the size on the top floors of 6 floor walkups with a 15% broker's fee, I made the power real estate move of resigning my lease.
Because I realized something: I have a nice fucking apartment. The problem is that it's filled with all of Sister's not-so-nice shit.
You see, over the years, Sister has thrown out approximately, um, nothing.
There is camping equipment in my apartment. Honest to God camping equipment. Why? I have no idea. She said she might use it some day. 2 years we've lived here, and never once has she set off into the wilds of Central Park to pitch a tent, fire up the hot plate and commune with what passes for nature in Manhattan. Fuck, I would have been satisfied if she had gathered all of our houseplants into the living room and pretended she was outside if it meant that she could justify the presence of the camping stove currently taking up space in my kitchen.
We have a saw. Why? Again, I have no idea. A saw in a Manhattan apartment is like an Amish video game. It makes no fucking sense. Last I checked we weren't buying any lumber. But we have a saw. I could see the use for it, but then I realized it's much easier to dissolve the bodies in acid in the tub and...um, a saw. We have a saw.
The list goes on and on.
Aside from having roughly 3 houses worth of shit crammed into one apartment, the real problem is that none of it matches. When I moved into this apartment a month before Sister, I decorated in gay sleek chic. Matching picture frames, clean lines. Neutral tones. I didn't have much (those were the unemployed-Ikea-popcorn for dinner years), but it had a flow. The way Sister moves into a space makes my heart sad. Furniture culled from my parents' and grandmother's house, knicknacks made by her friends. Large holes punched in the walls to haphazardly hang mismatched picture frames from one end of the wall to the other. Within days everything I own had been moved into my room due to both lack of space and out of refusal to be associated with Sister's ragtag assembly of misfit belongings. That is not to say that our place doesn't have a certain shabby chic kind of charm. Just with a little more emphasis on the shabby end of things.
And then there's the iguana. The 3 ft long useless belt and matching shoes in training that does nothing but crap and take up 45 cubic feet of my living room with its tank. A tank that Sister's friends made and surprised her with on her birthday. Trust, Children, she was not the one registering the look of shock when the door flew open and the tank was paraded over the threshold like the spoils of the failed war on bad taste. I'm relatively certain a little piece of my soul died that afternoon.
So she's leaving. And taking all her shit with her. And my new roommate has nothing to his name save for books and his bed.
For years I have longed to live like a grown up. I want hard wood. I want sconces (yeah, I said sconces. What of it, Bitches?) I want a couch that doesn't date back to my high school days. I hate my current bedroom setup. And if I don't want to be in there, no one else is going to either, right?
I got me a West Elm catalog. I got me a big fat bonus check. I got me a need to start over. I've already picked out paint colors, a new kitchen table and some shelving. In the next few weeks I'll post some Before, During and After pics (OK, it will be over a month before we get to the 'after' pics, so sit and wait, Bitches.)
And when it's done, you're all invited for the house rewarming. Provided you hit up the wishlist and buy me some hot new stemless wine glasses. Or a martini set. Or that Bose iPod stereo I've had my eye on.

Someone Should Have Done Their Homework

2005-08-05T09:19:00.000-04:00

It seems that President Fuckstick's nominee for the Supreme Court helped the gays win some rights back in the 90's.
Is it too late for a takeback, George?
If he does go to the Court, it would be a shame if he bowed to his partisan masters instead of sticking to what may be his philosophical guns.
I'm interested to see what other little secrets Johnboy has in his closet. Pun intended, Bitches.

Reunited And It Feels So Good

2005-08-05T00:39:00.000-04:00

I'm Drunk. For the first time in 5 weeks I put alcohol in my body. Cluster headaches be damned.
Is it a bad thing when your personality changes drastically because you haven't been drinking? Possibly. But I don't care. Tonight marked the return of Ketel Thursdays. The return of Hangover Fridays. The return of the Dan you all know and love (and sometimes are embarrased by when he stumbles across a room and can't form coherent sentences and occasionally passes out on the floor fully clothed after picking a loud fight with the coat rack because honestly, what does a coat rack know about the political ramifications of tort reform?).
I finally got it Kids. Bartender is back with his ex. Or as he put it: "I think we're dating. But I'm not sure. But I'm still sleeping with other people. You should get laid. I can't imagine why you don't just hook up. I mean, you're going to be 30 soon, and you'll think that you wasted all that time not having sex." Or, and this is just a theory, I could turn around and think I'm glad i didn't whore myself out to keep from feeling alone and then sex could actually mean something to me when I hit 30. Either way, really.
And just like that, I climbed out of the bell jar, squeezed myself into a pair of Diesels, called my nearest and dearest, and reclaimed my status as Alcoholic Emeritus.
A lot had me down: headaches, broken heart, moving stress, Medication-enduced mood swings, lack of Junior, the death of a friend, the whole Bolton U.N. appointment, the realization that the Spice Girls Reunion really isn't going to happen... all things that no one should have to face, much less all at once.
Nothing a little alcohol can't fix.
I'm still on a little bit of a break. I have some major things to focus on in the next 2 months. But trust that we're heading directly back into Pope Bashing-President Hating-Power Drinking-Soap Box Territory.
Because really, who was that whiny bitch that was posting here for the last month or so? She sucked.

Epilogue: Waking up hung over this morning was like waking up in the arms of an Ex-Boyfriend - you know it's not good for you, but it feels So Fucking Right. You feel slightly sick, but at the same time, you really missed it.
That swimmy-headed feeling, that taste like a cat snuck in and shit in your mouth in the night, that slight confusion as to how you got into bed, that empty feeling in your stomach that can only be filled by a greasy breakfast (which will be evacuated from your stomach roughly 20 minutes later in the office bathroom), the rereading of the above post and not quite remembering writing it... God it's good to be back. If anyone needs me, I'll be under my desk trying not to puke.

Return of The Mack

2005-08-02T01:44:00.000-04:00

You know what's really not fun?
When you are all crazy about someone, and you think: "Maybe one day we'll get back together. Maybe we really are supposed to be with each other."
And then you realize that they feel exactly the same way. About someone else.
It took a while to get there, but as my trusty shrink told me: Dan, you ought to just let it go. But then again, if you're going to get wet, you might as well get soaked. (Why am I all about the italics today? Am I that out of blogging practice that I can't think of any other tool to provide emphasis? I suck.)
I'm feeling better.
I'm feeling bitter.
*Reaches for pack of Parliament Lights, Diet Coke and Headphones, and settles down in front of computer*

I'm not quite back to full strength, Kids. I've got a few hours of Sex and The City to watch, a new apartment to find, furniture to buy and drinking to catch up on.
But I will be.

And I've Been Doing Just Fine...

2005-07-27T19:48:00.000-04:00

It's been a week since I've posted anything of substance. I dare venture to say that it may be a bit longer until I do so again.
I've never wanted this little adventure into writing to become a private bitch session, and I'm afraid of late that it will become precisely that if I start writing in my current state.
My head is not getting any better. The drugs I am on are making me moody and exhausted. And poor.
Sister decided to tell me at midnight on Sunday that she would not be staying in this apartment, as I had thought, which means I now have a month to find a new place. Which also means that the money I was planning on using to go to Greece for a week next month will have to be spent on furniture and a deposit on a new place. And the time I was going to spend in Greece will have to be spent looking for a new place. And deciding if I want to live alone. And shopping for new furniture. And generally not being on the vacation I so desperately need right now. The apartment might help though - I could definitely use a fresh start at the moment, and something tells me a new haircut just isn't going to do it this time.
So for the time being, The 6th Floor is going on Summer hiatus. Like most of Europe, I'm going to take most of the month of August off and get my shit together. I'm going to get my head working right, get certain people off my mind, get myself a place to live, and maybe get my professional life in order as well. Because while I heart my bonus, my new office, my coworkers and my paychecks, I HATE what I do on a daily basis.
I'll be back. Give me a week or two. Or three.
Sit Tight, Bitches.
Danny loves you, and he'll come back for you.

Drawn Out

2005-07-27T09:43:00.000-04:00

Hof made a great sketch of me.
See the original pic here.
Go. Now.
Appreciate the synergy of my striking features and Hof's amazing talents.
Thanks Hof.
And I think you're pretty neat too.

Have You Seen This Blogger?

2005-07-21T18:25:00.000-04:00

I've been pretty concentrated on my health these past few days, and I don't know when I'll be back to posting regularly. So I'll just throw a few things out there really quickly.

First and foremost, A Big Fat Happy Birthday to A* !!! Loves you! Means It!

On Monday night I caught dinner with A*, BR, Allison, and Julie. Had a great time. From the moment we all sat down (or BR, A* and I sat down, and Jules and Allison did a half hour or so after poor BR had approached several pairs of women in the bar to inquire if they were, in fact, Julie and Allison... ahem) there was not a break in convo or an uncomfortable silence. I only wish I had been able to drink. Because I like drinking. Damn you cluster headaches. Damn. You. Oh Well. There will be future dinners, I'm sure.
BR: I'm still waiting for my Toblerone. perhaps when Hof is in town we will meet again?
Jules: I would love to live in your pocket. But can we make it Percoset?
Allison: I hope your foot is better. And once I'm better, $6 Ketel is on.
Anyway, blah blah Supreme Court nominee, Blah Blah I hate my insurance company, blah blah my doctor is an idiot, blah blah my neurologist shrugs so much her traps are bigger than mine, blah blah not much has happened to me as I have become somehwat of an agorophobic and haven't really left the house due to my headaches. I read a lot of Harry Potter, took a lot of Vicodin, injected myself with enough migraine drugs to make my face go numb, realized just how badly I need to get laid (3 months people! 3 MONTHS!), spent too much time with certain people who are bad for me and speak Spanish and play with my head, saw Charlie and The Chocolate Factory (Gene Wilder will forever be Willie Wonka for me. His completely indifferent and yet somehow malevolent disregard for the harm about to befall those nasty little fuckers that tour his factory rings so much truer than Johnny Depp's Michael Jackson impression. Fuck Johnny Depp. Fuck him in his stupid ass. There. I said it. Now hate me. Go ahead. I can take it.) and that's all I'm giving you today. And possibly tomorrow.
Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go stick my head in the freezer and scream for a little while before smashing myself in the face with my bedroom door. It's this little thing I do lately.

Weekend Recap: Banging My Head Against All Sorts of Walls Edition

2005-07-18T12:09:00.000-04:00

It's been a busy few days.
And by busy, I mean I 've spent them:
A) Bashing my head against my bedroom door and floor due to a rare and incredibly debilitating medical condition I was lucky enough to develop some 8 years ago.
B) A* bought me the new Harry Potter for my birthday. I spent all Saturday Morning waiting for the mailman to buzz. When he didn't, I went downstairs and found a little slip in my mailbox saying "You weren't here. Please pick up your Amazon.com package on Monday at the Post Office." A half hour and three slightly frightened mail carriers on the streets of Hell's Kitchen later, I had identified my mailman on his route, berated him for not actually buzzing, retrieved the coveted tome from his bag and headed home. Yes, I have a life. But I like Harry Potter. A Lot. Shut It.
C) Late Saturday afternoon I met Bartender downtown. Hung out with him and his dog for a few hours, went to yet another Non Romantic Dinner, then drinks with the Venezuelans. Again, Shut It.

Hot

2005-07-13T15:06:00.000-04:00

What are the odds that the only prescription is "More Cowbell"?

Nice Shoes. Wanna Fuck?

2005-07-12T23:39:00.000-04:00

I stopped by a bar in the neighborhood tonight to drop a CD off to one of the Venezuelans. While I was standing there, I actually heard someone say to a guy he was making out with:
"Oh, when I'm good, I'm good. When I'm bad, I'm even better."
And then I went spontaneously deaf.
I'm relatively certain that if I could have brought myself to look in their direction, he would have been giving the guy the "double guns".
And yet I haven't made out with anyone in a loooooong time. Perhaps it's time I brought a few of my gems out of retirement:
"Did It Hurt? When You Fell From Heaven?"
"If I Wrote the Alphabet I Would Have Put U and I Together."
"Hi. I'm recently single and fragile."
"So, You Look Pretty Clean..."
It's not me, it's them, right? Right? Hello? Anyone? Bueller?
*Crickets*
Oh Come ON. There ARE no crickets in New York. And I can hear you breathing out there. It's SO not me. Or my attitude. Not me at all.

Fancy Me

2005-07-11T23:42:00.000-04:00

I got me a new iPod. A 20 gig, color screen, actually updates, shows album art, needs a name, fuck you up, plays so loud I can ignore my coworkers, traded in my old one for 10% off, shake my ass on the street, yes I'm singing along on the subway, substitute for a boyfriend, most important appliance I own, I couldn't afford it but I wanted it, new iPod. Bitches.
As some kind of odd twist of fate would have it, my download engine happened upon a VERY rare remix of a classic Diana Ross track: "The Boss". It's one of my favorite Junior tracks.
Not that the guy who spent several hundred thousand dollars on a legal education with a concentration in copyright law would be illegally downloading music or anything. Cause I would never illegally download music that I can buy. But most remixes I can't. So I have to seek them elsewhere.
I've been looking for this track for almost 2 years. I've had it in a constant search rotation. And it was the first song on my new iPod. I consider it a sign from God. Or something. Shut It.
I'm having trouble naming the new iPod though. The old one was simply "Dan's iPod" (And to think I've been having trouble with the novel...). This time around, Sister suggested "Surrogate Boyfriend".
Thoughts? I'm taking suggestions. If I use your name for my new iPod, I'll send you a photo of me with the iPod along with the candy bar of my choice and a CD copy of the above mentioned Diana Ross track (Tempting, I know....)