Friday, November 29, 2002


As I type this my apartment is being sweetly perfumed by a cinnamon-scented candle that my mom bought for me. I'm watching a Will and Grace repeat and eating leftover apple and pumpkin pie. Not a bad end to a very good day.

Thursday, November 28, 2002


Last night I saw the new Spike Jonze/Charlie Kaufman film Adaptation at a special producer's screening at the Sony screening room, which A. invited me to (he worked for the producer prior to his current art museum gig). I've been waiting to see it for like two years--in addition to Jonze and Kaufman, the movie features Meryl Streep and Nic Cage, both of whom I love--so it was satisfying to finally be able to do it. I enjoyed it, though didn't think it was quite as brilliant as I expected to.

Post-screening I found myself more obsessed with the fact that I had sat directly behind Jonathan Safran Foer, the hotshot first-time author of this year's massively acclaimed novel Everything is Illuminated (which he published when he was 25, something that makes me sick to my stomach every time I think about it), and his girlfriend Nicole Krauss, who published (at an older age, thankfully) her own, slightly less acclaimed, debut novel Man Walks Into a Room, than with the actual film--another sign that it wasn't as stellar as it could have been. They darted away directly after the credits, leaving Kim Cattrall the only celebrity in our midst at the casual reception that followed. She more than made up for it: she was gorgeous, even better looking in person than she is on TV, and so tall she was practically an Amazon. Plus she was rocking these really fly suede boots. I tried to focus on what A. was saying to me but kept averting my eyes to steal looks at her. I don't think she noticed. Then again, she probably did.

Today I took the day off from work and went for an interview, finally, at the paper where I applied for a job more than two weeks ago. It went well, albeit briefly, and I expect to get called back for a second, more intense interview with a few of the other editors. At least I'm praying that I do. Then I hightailed it up to my bro's place on the Upper West Side and hung out with him and my folks, who are up from Texas for the holiday. That meant that my dad and I mostly watched TV (including the Dr. Phil show, which I've never seen) while my mom and my brother baked pie after pie after pie. Then we went to dinner and, afterwards, strolled past the Macy's Thanksgiving Day parade floats that were being blown up and tamed on the two streets on either side of the American Museum of Natural History. It was freezing, and for awhile I thought I'd stepped in dog shit, but it was fun too.

Tuesday, November 26, 2002


So the sickest thing that happened to me yesterday was running into the same nasty Internet trick I'd run into on the 1st Ave. L platform headed to Williamsburg about five weeks ago. Then I unfortunately made eye contact with him, albeit briefly and without any acknowledgement of anything on my part. Yesterday, luckily, I didn't even make eye contact. But his presence a single table away from me at Java 'n' Jazz, a quasi-coffeehouse a block north of Union Square that I didn't particularly care for (the green tea was gross, and one of the employees accidentally stained my $400 Diesel leather coat when she was clearing the table I was sitting at--the eye patch she was wearing might have explained the mishap, but still), unnerved me regardless. I was in the middle of discussing co-producing two plays with a friend of mine--actually a member of my therapy group--when I heard what I assumed was the voice of a gay male, so I sneaked a surreptitious look behind me to scope out the bearer of the voice and, to my great horror, noticed who it was. I shuddered and tried my best to concentrate on the conversation I was having until it concluded.

What have I done to deserve this regrettable karmic payback? I wouldn't enjoy running into any of my past online hook-ups, but this specific one is probably the least tolerable of them all. And to run into him not once, but twice (and who knows, considering this nascent pattern, how many more times)! It begs the question of why. Why me? Is it to remind me of what a good boy I've been in not soliciting sex in chat rooms since my dismal encounter with this guy over the summer?

Somehow I think the reason isn't nearly as redemptive as that rationale is.

Sunday, November 24, 2002


I'm totally exhausted from running myself into the ground the past few days, so this post will be brief. Let me just say that I had a most enjoyable time with Best Friend, who was in town since late Wednesday night to attend the MIX Festival, where her first short film was screened Thursday night. It was a pretty big deal, and it was great to see her film on a giant (or fairly giant--this is Anthology Film Archives after all) screen. There was a motley crew of us in attendance for the screening to cheer her on; afterwards, Best Friend, T., and I went for storefront Chinese food and furiously conversed, as is our wont. Then Best Friend and I went to the after party at Urge, where the festival's technical director flirted madly with me and the executive director, whom Best Friend had told earlier in the night that I thought he had a sexy voice, basically ignored me. We got drunk and went home at 4 a.m.

Friday night, after recovering from being hung over all day, she and I (and her sis) got sushi, then I went to Bowery Ballroom with L. to see Mr. Scruff, who dropped a great, highly danceable set. He's on Ninja Tune, which used to be one of my fave record labels.

Yesterday I worked all day, then went to the terrible bar Subtonic (underneath the rock club Tonic) for drinks with A. and A., my friends who are engaged. A friend of theirs was spinning there; otherwise we never would have stayed in that dingy dungeon filled with oversized former pickle barrels that customers were actually sitting inside. It was like a sick combination of The Brady Bunch family room and 2001: A Space Odyssey. Blech. I'd rather go to a water sports party than go there again.

And now--now I'm going to sleep.

Thursday, November 21, 2002


I stayed home tonight to watch the Victoria's Secret lingerie show on TV instead of attending the opening night of the MIX Festival. Talk about having your priorities out of order! But I'm kind of pissed at the MIX folks for denying me press accreditation, even though they gave it to me the past two years. I guess freelancing isn't as cool as a full-time media gig like I used to have. Reason number 234 that I need to get a full-time media gig again: to regain my status as a journalist.

Last night Marvelous and I checked out for the first time Jonny McGovern and Dean Johnson's "Happy Endings" party at the bar Happy Ending, which is a convenient four block stroll from my apartment. I've been hearing such scandalous reports about this latest venture of theirs, so I was looking forward to making the scene. And it was a scene, all right--but a very predictable one, composed of the same crowd that seems to show up at all their events. Lots of fashion tiredness. (Like, what's up with the poor-boy caps still? Weren't they trendy a year ago? Same goes for the thrift-shop truck-driver hats, the faux hawks, the Metallica t-shirts, and all the other formerly cool items many guys were sporting last night. Sheesh, move on!) Lots of music tiredness too, as Johnson was spinning all these old records, like Destiny's Child's "Survivor"--what's up with that? With all the hot music that's been coming out this fall, you'd think he'd be dropping some of that shit and actually making an effort to be hip. But probably the grossest aspect of the party (aside from the several instances of barebacking I witnessed later) was the presence of two seemingly prepubescent boys who were wandering around wearing white towels and clear plastic flip-flops and nothing else. When they first appeared in the jammed bar upstairs, it was like Moses parting the sea: almost everyone turned to stare, with all the older (read: anyone over 25) guys ogling them like mad, practically drooling. It was so sick, I thought I was going to throw up. Marvelous was equally appalled. And then you wonder why people sometimes lump gay men together with pedophiles... For the record, while the boys were standing near us at the bar, I leaned over and asked one of them how old he was, and he told me 21, although he admitted he looked younger.

But enough of my complaining. All in all, I had a fun time, though the back room, which made good use of the downstairs bar area, with its half moon-shaped banquettes and two red-lit ceramic-tiled rooms (where later I spied those twinkies were being blown by men twice their ages, whatever they actually are), was not nearly as scandalous as I had expected. In fact, it was downright friendly, and I hooked up with two guys. One was this nice, older (he looked like he was in his 30s) fellow named Lou, whom I happened to be standing next to at one point when Marvelous and I paused from circulating. He reached over and groped my crotch, and the next thing I knew, he was licking my ear and unbuttoning my jeans, pulling my dick out to stroke. When my eyes finally adjusted to the dark, I was pleasantly surprised to realize that he was cute too! And he was such a gentleman: after he sucked me off, not only did he not expect reciprocation, but he actually held me in his arms and massaged my back! I couldn't exactly believe I was in a raunchy, dehumanizing back room. It felt like Oz.

I wandered back to the front of the room and rejoined Marvelous, who hadn't been as successful as me yet. I dispatched him to find a brief moment of happiness, then entertained myself by watching the rest of the action, which I could survey quite well from the banquette I was kneeling on. I figured I'd get my voyeurism on some more, wait for Marvelous, and then bounce. But all of a sudden, this brutally cute guy, who had cruised me upstairs towards the beginning of the party, wandered into my view and sat down a foot or two away. I saw that he saw me, and just as I was wondering if anything would happen, he got up, walked behind me, and started stroking the side of my leg. I was so excited! I faked resistance for a few seconds, turned around, leaned into him; he undid my jeans, pulled them and my underwear down to my knees, and started jacking me off right there, in the better-lit part of the room, in front of several casual onlookers. Even though I had just came, I popped a major boner. I dragged him to a more secluded spot a few paces away and feverishly tried to undo his jeans but the buttons kept sticking. He kept working my dick and shoving his finger up my ass. Soon enough I freed his dick and tried to kiss him, but he avoided my lips, which I found unsettling but strangely alluring. I couldn't stop thinking about how skinny he was--he was literally a toothpick, with just the slightest hint of an ass--which, in turn, made me think that he was a drug addict. That only made me hotter for him.

Fast forward a few frames: he pulled up my shirt, pressed his dick against my stomach, and came all over it and my hand. Then he pulled his finger out of my ass and embraced me, and we just stood like that, frozen, for awhile. Eventually he pulled away, hiked up his jeans, walked out of the back room, and disappeared. I don't think I once looked at his face.

Tuesday, November 19, 2002


Okay, I caved and had not one but two whole cigarettes tonight while feverishly conversing with C. about this new job I'm (hopefully) up for. She works at the place and has been doing major behind-the-scenes legwork for me, so we were strategizing, and she was giving me the lowdown all night long. Thank God for her. I haven't seen her for almost two months, so it was great to hang. We had a lot of catching up to do. Met up with her at the Slipper Room to catch this rather whitebread cabaret act, which she was checking out for an article she's currently reporting. Not nearly as good as the Fun Club, the monthly multi-culti burlesque show there that some friends of mine are involved with and that I've written about before here. Then we dropped by Lolita, right around the corner from my pad, for a few more drinks and some more fast-paced conversation.

Unfortunately, nothing else remotely interesting happened to me during the day, which is making me worried, considering that there was a huge spike in traffic to my blog today, thanks in part to my new friend Kel., the purveyor of that slash site I linked to yesterday. Also thanks in part to Justin Timberlake, whom people are really interested in from a queer perspective. Random web surfers across the world are apparently searching for info on him in connection with gayness, and they're stumbling across my humble little attempt at self-expression. I hope my scintillating writing keeps them coming back. That is, if I can achieve scintillation again now that I've effectively begun my winter hibernation and stopped being social (hence the worrying)...

Oh, and poor Justin! It's recently come to my attention that the newly emergent solo star has broken his foot! I hope that doesn't ruin his rise to world musical domination. It's bad enough that he has to compete with tons of major records coming out between now and the holidays--now he can't even perform! If he can't shake his cute little ass, what will become of him?

Monday, November 18, 2002


Just a few links tonight, as I did absolutely nothing of note today, except for fantasizing about what my life would be like if I were rich. The other night, when I was in thrall to the "details" section of my blog's Sitemeter profile, I discovered the most interesting website, which was included, along with my blog and several other sites, in the results to a random person's Google search for "Justin Timberlake interview gay." Basically, all the stories contained in the website are a kind of "slash," which is an appropriative genre of writing where the writer depicts straight, fictional characters of popular culture in a decidedly queer context. But this particular slash, because it is constructed around non-fictional, real people (namely 'N Sync members), is known as real-people slash, which the creator of the website told me is highly controversial and frequently hated. I love it, though, and am now obsessed, to the point where I'm searching out as much as I can.

The author of those slash stories also referred me to an interesting article on the queerness of Justin Timberlake. You can read it here. And at the end of that article, I discovered a fascinating article from The Advocate a few years ago on the young gay boy following of boy bands in general.

And last but not least, when I was cleaning up my apartment yesterday I came across a catalog for Heifer International, a group which purchases animals, from cows to llamas, for indigent people across the world to help them prosper financially. For some reason I get a lot of socially engaged junk mail, so I'm used to these entreaties for money, but this organization is just plain weird. You tell me if it's real or satire.

Saturday, November 16, 2002


So I never made it to my therapy workshop this morning, which really doesn't surprise me at all. I wasn't properly registered to begin with, and when I woke up at 9:30, tired and feeling gloomy in solidarity with the weather, I decided it was too much effort on too bad a day to travel all the way up to 14th Street (all the way, I say--it's only 18 blocks, which is four stops on the F train!). Instead, I reset the alarm for 12:30, turned off the TV (I always set the TV and alarm, which go off simultaneously), and eventually dragged myself out of bed at 1:30. Actually, although I did surface out of the bed linens, I really have left my bed all day.

The only time I left the apartment, in fact, was to get a cup of tea with this British dude visiting from Manchester whom I met on We went a few blocks away to one of my fave cafes, Rivington 99, at the corner of Ludlow, and had an amiable chat. He was nice, but very British, if you know what I mean. He's a filmmaker, though interestingly enough, we didn't talk about film once. We did chat quite a lot about celebrities, mostly about my distaste for them, and about cosmetic surgery--in particular, Michael Jackson's recent nose-tip collapse, which was given big play in the Daily News earlier this week. I told him I was listening to the Streets lately, that British rapper from Manchester whose real name is Mike Skinner, and mentioned that Skinner was from the same territory as him, and he looked at me blankly, then said he didn't know that. I found that highly strange. Finally we parted, and he said something vague about dropping me a line in the future--I couldn't tell whether he meant the immediate future, i.e., next week when he's here, or whether he meant the Future. I also didn't care.

Now I'm just chilling at home, for the second straight night. I forget how much I dig this! I did a bit of redecorating, which normally I'm loathe to do: I hung in my window this glass orb an ex-paramour gave me, which has been sitting on a shelf since I moved in over a year ago; I rearranged the Donald Judd-inspired self-created sculpture on one of my walls; and I put up above the door to my bathroom this old Museum of Modern Art exhibition poster for a show on furniture by Mies van der Rohe. Hey, if I can't afford a chaise longue or a club chair designed by him, at least I can stare longingly at schematic renderings of them.
Correction: Actually, those three magic words do appear in this blog--if I knew how to link to past entries, I'd show you the instance. They just don't happen to appear in the context the Google searcher was hoping for. NB: In verifying that information, I made the additional discovery that the Google searcher used the German-language version of the search engine.
This just in: I was drowsily checking my Sitemeter statistics a moment ago when I noticed that someone visited this blog because it was listed as a result for a Google search for "Nicky Hilton pussy"!!! Isn't that awesome? I don't mean to embarrass the visitor, who may or may not be following my blog now, but I'm just bowled over by this discovery. It's the coolest thing ever, especially considering that, to the best of my knowledge, the proper name "Nicky Hilton" and the term "pussy" are nowhere to be found on these pages. But now they are...

I feel like my social life is slowly crumbling. I've been increasingly neglecting it in the past few weeks, mostly because of the increasing cold and my increasing productivity on the job-searching front, not to mention the increase in workload at my day job. This week my stomach's been in knots most of the time due to the most current job prospect, which isn't exactly a condition conducive to having fun. One positive outcome of lessening my schedule: I'm finding out who calls me unprompted and who doesn't it. As it turns out, it's only one person in particular who hasn't been calling me whom I kind of thought would have been.

The good news is that two of the ideas I pitched to the publication I'm gunning for (I ended up staying home from work on Wednesday to write a four-page story memo) have actually shown up in the publication since I pitched them. Obviously their appearance has nothing to do with me--the stories had to have been in development before I applied for the job--but it does seem to indicate that I have the right sensibility, which I'm hoping the editors are in the process of realizing.

Tomorrow morning, or rather this morning, considering that it's officially Saturday even though I'm still living Friday, I'm supposed to go to this psychotherapy workshop at Identity House on images of gay men in the gay male community and the culture at large, and how those images affect us. I had planned to attend their September workshop on sex and dating but royally overslept after a particularly boisterous night out. I've never been to Identity House, nor to a therapy "workshop" before, but I'm hoping it's a good way to meet guys. I hope so, at least, because I'm starting to think I can only date boys who are also going to therapy.

Thursday, November 14, 2002


In route to meeting Court, J-bird, Lazy, and M. at Sea in Williamsburg tonight, the identical twin (only much bigger) of my fave Thai restaurant on Second Ave., I got caught in a literal jam as I was exiting the L stop at Bedford Ave.: a tall scraggly guy with a British accent was trying to enter through the same turnstile I was trying to leave through. Allow me to set the scene. Everyone's streaming up the stairs, flitting through the turnstiles by the tens, hurrying to meet people for dinner or a drink, or just eager to get home after a long day at work, and I'm following them. As I near the left-most turnstile, I spot the guy in question hovering near it on the side that I'm trying to get to, like the rest of the crowd, but I don't pay him any attention and proceed towards the bar, where suddenly I run up against him. Our chests meet, he drops his token into the slot, I attempt to push forward anyway but he blocks me, pushing back, nearly screaming, "Come on, man!" "Dude," I say, in the most annoyed tone I can muster, and glare at him. "I just put my money in," he shouts. Realizing that this means he'll lose his dollar fifty if I successfully dislodge him, I back away and take the high road, wordlessly moving into the turnstile lane to my immediate right. He's still not happy, though, and as he passes me he snarls, "For fuck's sake, I can't let everyone pass!"

Moments later I wished I had told him he was a dickhead, but right then I simply ignored him, not wanting to dwell on his negativity or allow it to invade me. As I bounded up the stairs to the street, I felt a rush of pride for standing up to him and forcing the issue--because, really, he was clearly in the wrong (why, yes, you can let everyone pass, that's the polite thing to do)--but the next second my eyes welled up and I thought I was going to cry. I didn't, but I was irritated that this total stranger had almost made me. It surprised me, and I couldn't figure out why I felt that way. I still can't.

I just finished watching Nightline and the topic tonight was very interesting: a secret training program in North Carolina for U.S. military special forces units. Obviously it's not so secret now that Ted Koppel's has had his grubby hands all over it, but clearly it was a calculated ploy by the Department of Defense to gain some sympathetic publicity for once. The training program is set up so that the special forces trainees (in this case, they were training to be Green Berets) actually have to enact a military operation with the aid of freedom fighter guerillas against the enemy occupiers of their land. The whole thing takes place in a forest somewhere over two weeks, and real local citizens participate in the charade, which I found weird. For one thing, I apparently missed whether they were using live ammo or not, though I would assume they weren't. And yet, it sure looked like they were firing real rounds...

The weirdest thing was the names the military cooked up for the "countries" enmeshed in the pseudo-conflict. There was "OpForLand" to the north, which apparently comprised most of the mid-Atlantic region above North Carolina, "Pineland," which I believe comprised most of the South beneath North Carolina, and "Occupied Pineland," which was North Carolina. All of it. Which was being ruthlessly occupied by OpForLand.

Now, I don't even know what OpForLand could possibly mean or stand for or refer to, but I certainly know what Pineland is, and it's dumb as shit. Can't the military come up with a more creative name than that? Furthermore, how could anyone seriously defend a country called that?

If I were unfortunate enough to have been born in Pineland, I would definitely emigrate.

Tuesday, November 12, 2002


So more job prospect-related stress: today I spoke with my ex-colleague who's one of the features editors at the publication where I'm applying for a job, and he strongly suggested I submit story ideas to the editor who's handling the hiring. I sort of knew he was going to say that, and was sort of hoping he wouldn't, so now, instead of venturing out to Happy Ending tonight to check out the McGovern and Johnson party (the official name of which I can't quite figure out from the various e-mails I've been getting, each calling it something slightly different), I'm sitting here typing up a list of them. Actually, procrastinating. Mostly because I'm apprehensive, because the ideas could make or break my candidacy, and I'm working from a disadvantaged position, considering that I lack the resources (such as lists of upcoming movie and music releases and regular communication with a plethora of entertainment publicists) I would have if I were currently employed at a publication.

I know, cry me a river, right? I'm doing my best, and I think it's going to be fine. At least that's what I keep repeating to myself.

Monday, November 11, 2002


BUT, I went eight straight smoke-free days before having a cigarette (okay, three or four) on Saturday night. What could I do? I was hanging out with two smokers, and I felt like I deserved a reward for not smoking for so long.

Anyway, I'm zonked. I've been focusing all my mental energy lately on this great new job, which I'm absolutely perfect for, that I found out about late Thursday. Since then I've been marshaling every resource of mine (including two former colleagues who work on the publication that has the job vacancy) in order to snag it. The actual applying for the job has been easy, though I was making myself physically ill this afternoon when the fax machine I was using to send my stuff to my friend, who was going to hand it directly to the editor in charge of the hiring, kept screwing up the transmission. No, it's the sheer anxiety-inducing wait for something to happen that's killing me. But that's all I can say for now, lest I jinx the whole thing and not even get called in for an interview, God forbid. If you're reading this, please pray for me.

(FYI, if you're a devout media observer like myself, there's a fairly fascinating thread on's boards right now in which various members of the media detail a day in their lives. It's all anonymous, unfortunately, but still interesting. I successfully wasted almost an hour reading this shit today.)

The other reason I'm tired is that my old college boyfriend and his current boyfriend, whom he's been seriously involved with for over a year, were in town, and I was entertaining them. Talk about focusing mental energy: mine was honed to a point so sharp it could kill. I mean, considering that I hadn't met my ex's boyfriend yet, I was ready to wield knives. Luckily I didn't need to--the boyfriend was surprisingly acceptable, and he got on my nerves in only a low-key fashion. I was afraid I might feel jealous, either of the boyfriend, despite the fact I was sure he wasn't going to be nearly as cool or as hot or as smart or as well-dressed as I am (and he wasn't), or of their relationship, which clearly blows out of the water my measly four month-long affair with my ex (which terminated over three years ago when he graduated from our college and moved to Berlin; I had another year left in school and was going to spend the summer in New York).

But I wasn't jealous at all. I was happy for them, and I was happy for myself. I realized they have their thing, and I have mine, and we're both satisfied. The only weird thing was that the current boyfriend kept touching me, sometimes even putting his arms around me, which I thought violated some kind of rule about how one should act in the company of the ex-beau of your current boyfriend. I occasionally wondered if said touching might lead to a threesome (which El Mar immediately suggested when I told him who I was hanging out with this weekend). After all, they were staying at the W Union Square Saturday night, and I would've loved to see their room.

Turns out, as my ex confessed last night, his boyfriend is rather conservative when it comes to incorporating others into their sex life, so a threesome was off the menu from the start. Which was fine, because neither of them turned me on.

Thursday, November 07, 2002


Tonight I reached a new milestone in my life, one which I hadn't even considered a milestone until after the fact: I met my first blogger. Because he is innocent, and because he already has a large, avid readership (and, for that matter, because I've previously linked to his blog in these entries and I'm not even getting paid to be his publicist), I will protect his identity by not naming him. But for the record, let me say that it was a quite enjoyable experience; I'm already looking forward to the sequel, and, perhaps, if the stars have ordained it, the whole franchise.

He has good taste, too, exemplified by his choice of Tea & Sympathy, the glorified British teahouse on Greenwich Ave., as our meeting spot. I've always wanted to check this joint out but, because I rarely venture to the West Village--especially since El Mar, who lived on Waverly Place, moved to L.A. in August--I'd never managed to do it. I'm so glad I finally did. It's wonderful, and now occupies a favored position on my list of local haunts to frequent. If only I could have deliciously homemade macaroni and cheese and a pot, preferably with adorable little teddy bears painted on, of green tea all the time. Then I think I could truly be happy.

Wednesday, November 06, 2002


The best thing about Election Day, which is one of my favorite days of the year, aside from watching the election returns and listening to the TV talking heads dissect them, is that my sweetheart Terry Moran, ABC News's White House correspondent, gets lots of air time. Doesn't he look adorably cherubic in that publicity photo? I so want to be his boyfriend. Sometimes when he's answering Peter Jennings's questions on air, I imagine his formidable lips clamping down on my dick--what an appealing thought.

In other news, I'm feeling much less sick today, thanks to all the fluids I drank yesterday, which caused me to pee all the germs away. Also, I purchased J. Timberlake's album Justified, which the record store near my job was completely sold out of when I went at lunch (I had to go back after work), and I have to say, it's fucking amazing. No one's going to believe this, but I really think it's like the new Off the Wall. It's that good. It exerted such dominating power over me that while riding the smelly, slow-moving M15 bus to my back-to-back therapy appointments tonight, I was happily tapping my foot to the album's dope beats, barely noticing the fact that I was being crushed to death. Normally I would've nearly screamed; instead, I was smiling.

It's so good that I'm not even upset that Stanley Aronowitz, the Green Party gubernatorial candidate whom I voted for this morning, is--with 98% of precincts accounted for--some 10,000 votes short of the 50,000 he needed to get in order for his party to gain official status.

Monday, November 04, 2002


So I'm sitting here on my bed, sniffling, slowly chafing the sides of my nose into oblivion, typing away on my computer (it's a lap-top, hence the reason I can sit on my bed and work), listening to my boy Justin Timberlake live on Z-100 answering questions and previewing his new album, which drops tomorrow. I just heard the next single, "Cry Me a River," and it's hot! I know it's totally cliched for a gay boy like myself to be digging on J.Tim., but I can't help it--he's the anointed one. He's got progressive musical tastes, the best producers (the Neptunes, Timbaland, et al.), major rock-star quality, a great voice, and he's the cutest thing ever. Verging on the obsessive, I also watched his interview with Barbara Walters earlier tonight on TV. My only comment is that he seems to have a strangely Oedipal relationship with his mother, constantly referring to her, thanking her, claiming that she's his best friend. She even appeared in half the interview! What is it with these gay (or seemingly gay) pop-cultural figures who, while self-consciously shoring up their straightness on the surface, also unconsciously paint themselves into psychologically revealing corners that seem to contradict their public discourse? Is it only noticeable to a queer theory-trained observer such as myself?

Anyway, to segue into a more self-pitying mode, I'm slightly ill, which I blame entirely on smoking too much last week. Now that I've quit, if I smoke too much, I irritate my sinus tracts. So I'm reaffirming, once again, my desire to forgo cigarettes completely. And I mean it.

Ooh, now they're playing "Senorita," another track off Timberlake's new record, and it's hot too!

Sunday, November 03, 2002


Had a blissfully low-key weekend, sans Friday night, when I got schlitzed at G-spot's under-attended cocktail party and at Wonder Bar afterwards. The only piece of news that emerged was that Nicodemus confirmed that he strongly dislikes Benji.

Yesterday I went to the Met with L. and Babydoll and saw the Avedon show, the Vija Celmins' prints show, and the Costume Institute's exhibition on the Duke and Duchess of Windsor and their coterie of society friends--all quite wonderful and satisfying. I also paid a visit to the spirit of Nany, an ancient Egyptian princess whose sarcophagus, wig, and turquoise scarab pendant are on display around the corner from the Temple of Dendur. I'm working on a piece of writing about her and needed to be re-inspired. I was.

Spent the rest of the night (we visited the museum late in the day) at home, slowly drinking one of the massive Russian beers my dad brought me from his trip to Moscow over the summer (it's been safely refrigerated since then) while first watching Mildred Pierce on PBS and then reading Peter Cameron's novel Leap Year, which Nicodemus lent me last week, proclaiming it one of his fave books ever. I went to sleep early and was very grateful to have stayed in for the first Saturday night in forever.

Today I went to work for a few hours, came home, finished reading Leap Year (it's a fun, quick, light read, but certainly not deep or brilliant or anything, making me question Nico's judgment in yet another realm, despite the fact that he's pursuing a humanities Ph.D. at a respectable university), watched Alias (Sydney discovered that her father programmed her to be a spy as a child!), and cleaned up around the apartment. Now I'm watching the Giants; soon I'm going to sleep.

Friday, November 01, 2002


Happy fucking belated Halloween!

Last night came close to being a total washout; were it not for the heroic efforts of Marvelous, who stayed true when others couldn't or wouldn't, I would've never left my apartment (which is what I had planned to do originally, as this year I was completely not into dressing up or any of the rigamarole that goes with it). Ended up at Phoenix for a cocktail, then to Wonder Bar, where the staff was costumed and the ceiling had cute, home-made, Caspar-like ghosts hanging from it, for a nightcap. Then Marvelous and I parted ways and I went home. Score one in the not-being-accosted-by-crazily-attired-nut-jobs column.

Wednesday night I hit up the Fun Club new wave-burlesque Halloween-themed show at the Slipper Room, up the street from my humble abode. Ash was decked out as some character from Star Wars, complete with a Java the Hut constructed out of a mobile garment trolley. How she was planning to ambulate around the city Thursday night with that accessory, I don't know. Court and J-bird were totally drunk, which I found amusing. We agreed to start a regular movie night at J-bird's new loft--she just purchased a film projector, and she has the wall space to use it properly. We also quasi-feverishly discussed Halloween plans that, less than 24 hours later, they inexplicably quashed. It's okay, though; I love them too much to hold it against them.

This morning I had a physical check up at the Callen-Lorde Community Service Center and found out a) that I don't have testicular cancer (I was concerned about a mysterious lump I had noticed a few weeks ago in the shower, which I was told was not a tumor or anything cancer-related but was, in fact, my epididymis); and b) that my apparent occasional heart palpitations are perfectly normal for someone my age. My doctor suggested that I refrain from consuming caffeine, which probably causes them. Too bad I just slurped down a Diet Coke.