The Search for Love in Manhattan A gay odyssey of neurosis
Saturday, August 30, 2003
At Thursday's cheerleading practice, I threw round-off back handsprings and round-off back tucks for the first time since breaking my hand. My form wasn't the cleanest, but by the end of practice I'd lost count of how many I'd thrown.
I think the whole recalling Gray Davis thing is ineffably stupid, but it would almost be worth it just to see how Arnold Schwarzenegger would go about implementing this. (It's safe for work, but you have to have the sound on.)
N.B.: Some people have suggested that this is a fake, but CNN disagrees.
I am being driven mad by the recent mouse infestation in my apartment. The people who lived above us were apparently slobs, and their apartment was full of mice; now that they've moved out and the apartment is being renovated, all the mice are leaving the noise and turmoil of upstairs and coming to stay with us. We're like the mouse Hamptons. Or perhaps the mouse Fire Island (depending on the proclivities of the mice involved).
At the beginning of the week, the super gave me a bunch of glue traps. Since then, I have apprehended and disposed of six mice. There are at least three still at large, and perhaps a great many more.
At first I worried alternately that I was damaging my karma and that there would be no one to help me get dressed to go to the ball after I'd helped my wicked stepsisters get ready. I felt very bad.
Many people are actually surprised to hear that there's a large and thriving Jewish community in my hometown of Charleston, South Carolina. In fact, Charleston was the home of the first Reform congregation in America, and Jews in Charleston have done a remarkable job of adapting their traditions to those of the community in which they live—perhaps too good a job.
For example, there's the matter of Bar Mitzvah presents. (For those of you who aren't in the know, a Bar Mitzvah is the ceremony at which a thirteen-year-old becomes a man in the eyes of Jewish law.) Traditional Bar Mitzvah presents around the country include books, money, whatever one might want to give a thirteen-year-old.
In Charleston, the traditional Bar Mitzvah present is a mint julep cup.
For my Bar Mitzvah I received no fewer than seven pewter or silver mint julep cups.
I mean, I'm all for when in Rome do as the Romans and all, but still, something about equating manhood with becoming a total lush makes me wonder.
In any case, we used all seven of them in a production of Sweeney Todd I was in in college and I haven't seen a single one since.
1. I'm always honored when somebody links to me, and I try to keep track and return the favor, but sometimes I get confused (by "sometimes" I mean "every day") and forget. So if you've linked to me and don't see your blog in my sidebar, e-mail me and I'll rectify the situation posthaste.
2. I'm planning a new sidebar with a collection of "the Best of the Search for Love in Manhattan" posts. If you've been reading this blog for a while, or have plunged into the archives, and have a favorite post or posts, e-mail me and let me know.
3. If you pledged to sponsor me in the Blogathon and have not yet heard from the Blogathon people about how to make your donation, please e-mail me and let me know. I'll send you the necessary information. The Blogathon people remain curiously silent on this issue.
As far as the promised free sex, you'll have to wait until my lower back is no longer in agony from cheering at Jersey Pride yesterday. But then, I swear, I'm all yours.
Okay, I never, never, never do this but here are the results of the online quiz I took about what my medieval name would be.
Your medieval name is: Magdalen. Out of conformity and inducing sexual meaning, you're seductive and passionate, silent until spoken to and only violet when provoked. Gorgeous and mysterious, you've got it all.
Tonight, the cheerleaders practiced outside at the piers in Chelsea. We were practicing a part of the routine during which I go up in a half-extension; on one particular go-round, my group, thinking that we were only marking the stunt, failed to put it up, while the other two groups succeeded. We had gathered something of a crowd, and one more vocal member of our audience shouted to us, "Why didn't he go up?" I foolishly attempted to explain that we hadn't known I was supposed to, but she interrupted me and shouted, "Is he too big to go up?"
I can't really remember a time when my desire to grow long sharp nails instantly, so as to be able to rake bloody gashes into somebody's face, has been quite so burning and intense.
I was all set to write a post about how in the morning I have my certification test to become an aerobics instructor (or, as this man would properly insist, a group fitness instructor), but my ability to think clearly seems to have deserted me utterly in the face of the burning question towards which I am bending all of my energy:
Who is Faustus, Jr.?
Someone using that moniker has now twice left comments for me. I'm trying to figure out if this attempt actually succeeded somehow, and produced a child capable of dashing off witty and urbane epigraphs at age two, or if this is some sort of Patricia Highsmith Boy Who Followed Ripley thing, in which case perhaps I ought to be slightly concerned.
In any case, let's just hope my mind can wrench itself away from this confounding conundrum enough to pass the test tomorrow. Of course, assuming that all the other people taking the test will also be cute gay men, my mind will have to wrench itself away from more than this confounding conundrum if it is to focus on the test.
At the same time, the practice test, which I took yesterday and passed, contains questions like the following:
"Which of the following is NOT a probable cause of common injuries associated with group exercise classes?
A. Inferior choreography
B. Proper instruction
C. Poor body mechanics
D. Muscle asymmetry"
It is I, Faustus. I thought I'd be blogging tonight from the den of iniquity we know as New York, but because of the blackout, my flight back today was cancelled.
On the one hand, this means that I have to wake up at the obscene and ghastly hour of 3:30 in the morning to make the flight they managed to get me on.
On the other hand, it also means that I will forever be able to reply to the question "What did you do during the blackout of '03" by saying, "Oh, I lounged by the pool and got a manicure and a pedicure."
In the final analysis, I think I end up in the black.
After a three and a half hour walk from Manhattan to Queens, an hour-long drive from my boyfriend's apartment in Astoria to Flushing to drop off my coworker who made the trek with me, another half-hour drive to my apartment in Jackson Heights, followed by a one-hour drive to my boyfriend's family's house in Yorktown, your faithful guest blogger T.H. has returned for my final day here at Search for Love.
On the very dark drive up through the Bronx and Westchester last night, my boyfriend and I were discussing the pros and cons of the power outage.
"The only regret I have about this whole situation," I dwelled, "is that we won't be able to conceive a child and tell them the romantic story of how they were created during the Blackout of 2003."
"Well, that's true," he replied. "But we can kidnap one in the dark when its mother isn't looking and just run with that concept when it's old enough to understand."
We're so crafty. Rest assured, however, that no children were stolen last night. At least, not by us.
At any rate, I have greatly enjoyed my time here guest blogging for Faustus, and I invite all of you to visit me at 'Til the Cows Come Home. And maybe one day, you'll find out just what those questions were...
Good morning. T.H. here, fresh from my morning commute, where I had a dismal round of the Subway Game (those of you familiar with my blog know what I'm talking about, the rest of you feel free to check out the rules and requirements here).
The morning crop usually yields quite a few hotties, but the pickings were slim this morning. I blame this on the fact that I was running about fifteen minutes behind schedule. Clearly, the later into the morning rush you find yourself, the better the chance that you'll be riding with the commuters that were scraped from the bottom of the genetic barrel.
This morning's round emphasized that point. What did I have to choose from? For starters, there was the man who thought a mesh shirt was a good idea, despite being fifty pounds overweight. Next in line was the old man whose nose hairs were so long, I nearly mistook him for a deformed miniature elephant. Nearly offering some redemption was the Middle Eastern fellow. His face wasn't altogether unattractive, but I could see straight up his baggy shorts, so at least I knew in advance what kind of goods I'd be getting if he were to be my official selection. Then I looked down and saw that he was wearing black socks with white jogging shoes, so I was forced to disqualify him.
In times of desperation during the Subway Game, I alter the rules a little. Instead of choosing the man I'll have sex with for the rest of my life, I choose a woman based on how good our kids will look (conceived via artificial insemination, of course). I still bombed in that department, though. The only slightly attractive woman was wearing what could only be described as a rubber band for a skirt, and she was playing a little game of Basic Instinct and Sharon Stoning the other male passengers.
Alas, as the train neared Grand Central, I realized I wouldn't come out a winner this time. But, just as I stood up to exit, I noticed that, tucked away in a corner, was a hot young Latin thing wearing fashionable jeans and a tight black t-shirt that showed off his biceps. I had just enough time to deem him my official selection before I stepped off the train (and thereby not in violation of rules), and telepathically thank him for saving the morning.
And thank god. Because I didn't really want to have to spend my lunch hour riding the 4 train on the off-chance that I'd have a good round of the Subway Game and be able to get the taste of ugly out of my mouth.
T.H. here, with my Wednesday report. Rather than proceed with my regularly scheduled broadcast, I feel the need to say a few brief words:
I don't kiss and tell...without a book deal or an open bar tab, that is (although several cocktails often lead to more kissing and telling...it's a vicious circle, isn't it?). Those of you waiting for "The Story of T.H. and Faustus, as told by T.H. (with special forward by Jude Law)" will have to get used to having a little mystery in your lives. Or draft up a quick contract with the publishing firm of your choice and send it to me, with a hefty advance check enclosed, and prepare to buy me drinks.
However, being the generous soul that I am, I can't leave you completely in the dark. Below, I have provided the answers to some of the more common questions that are no doubt circling around out there...without having provided the questions themselves. Without further delay, and in no particular order, they are:
2. Oh my goodness, yes.
3. No, but I wouldn't have objected.
4. I'm not at liberty to say.
5. True redhead.
A bit like Gay Jeopardy!, no? It could bring entirely new meaning to the term "Daily Double". Perhaps I should pitch this to the boys over at Bravo.
T.H. here, reporting for duty. I would like to thank Faustus for that particularly heartfelt introduction. I feel as if I’ve just received an honorary doctorate from Faustus University. Or an Academy Award. It’s all so glamorous. Perhaps it is time to bust out the tiara and the scepter and parade around my apartment, stopping every few moments to bow in front of my make-believe diploma or statuette.
Ummmm…I typed that out loud, didn’t I? Uh, no, no scepter or tiara here. Nope. None at all. Carry on.
At any rate, I’m happy to take the reins while Faustus is in Los Angeles “working” on his latest project. Mind you, he still hasn’t offered sufficient evidence that he actually is in Los Angeles. Have we seen pictures of him sunning himself by the pool, being fanned by muscular Latino bottoms in short, square-cut swim trunks and sipping a cosmopolitan? Okay, that’s actually my fantasy poolside scenario. But substitute the bottoms for tops and the cosmo for a non-alcoholic spritzer or the like and there you go, back on track.
If there is anything I can do for all of you faithful Search for Love in Manhattan readers out there, it is to try and get Faustus to post a picture of himself in a bathing suit. I recognize an important community need when I see one. Always the ambassador of good will, I am.
Earlier today, I sat in my aunt's kitchen with my aunt, my collaborator, and my two not-quite-infant cousins, who, confident in the tyranny of the young, demanded that everyone at the table do something his or her favorite character from The Wizard of Oz did. My aunt sang a little bit of "If I Were King Of The Forest"; my younger cousin barked like Toto. When it got to me, it was too late to sing "Somewhere Over The Rainbow," as my older cousin had already done that. "I can't think of anything," I said. "I mean, I could try becoming addicted to Benzedrine and Dexedrine, or giving birth to Liza Minelli, but honestly I don't rate my chances of success too high in either of those endeavors." My collaborator accused me of trying to weasel out of the whole thing, since she was certain my favorite character was the Wicked Witch of the West, and I should either cackle or melt, but I swear it's Dorothy.
My younger cousin then said, "You can SKIP!"
I was forced to skip through the house as if skipping down the Yellow Brick Road.
I was wearing Daisy Duke cut-off jean shorts, by the way. And an H&M shirt.
I don't need to become an aerobics instructor; as of this morning, I'm already the gayest person on the planet.
In other news, I've found the stress of maintaining this blog while working my ass off lounging by the pool far too much to bear. So as of tomorrow, until my return, I'm going to have a guest blogger.
Continuing the tradition of novelty here at the Search for Love in Manhattan, this week's guest blogger will be someone I've slept with. One might point out with some justification that that's hardly novel at all. However, so far, my depths have as yet remained unplumbed by any of the pool of guest bloggers I've had in the past.
As of tomorrow, you'll be in the capable--and, I may add from personal experience, extraordinarily deft--hands of T.H. Now, judging by the last blog entries in which he appears, you might be surprised to see that we have had a rapprochement serious enough to allow me to ask him to guest blog for me. But that is in fact what has happened.
Or, put another way, he started a blog, sent me an e-mail full of overdone and therefore extremely effective flattery about my own, and I forgave him for being a fool.
Let it be noted that this brings to three the number of people I've slept with who have subsequently started blogs.
Okay, I am madly in love with the guy who wrote Underland. He posted sporadically but brilliantly up through February. Last night I stopped by to satisfy my need for bile--of which there seems to be precious little here in Los Angeles--and saw, to my shock and delight, that he posted something in June.
The thing is, there seems to be no way on his web site to contact him.
So if anybody knows who he is, can you please tell me, so I can get in touch with him and plead desperately with him to marry me?
Last week I had my first experience with BDSM (for those of you unfamiliar with the seedier side of the sexual underworld but too lazy to click on the link, this stands for bondage & discipline/sadomasochism). Since, as I've mentioned many times, I enjoy being told what to do in bed, it made sense to follow that preference to the logical extreme.
When the relevant part of the encounter—which I quite enjoyed, though I don't think I'll be pursuing this as a lifestyle choice—was over, my partner removed my blindfold and I saw that the room I was in was filled almost to overflowing with Star Wars paraphernalia.
There was a poster on the door saying "Welcome to Coruscant!"
All I could think was, I wonder whether he spent more on the leather with which he tied me up or on the Star Wars figures.
The anaerobic physicist, that is. Not God. God may or may not be a bottom, but I'm not so interested in him.
I want to sing and dance around with joy, but I'm too exhausted from the relief of it all. Because of course if he's a bottom then it never would have worked anyway, and I can just forget about the whole thing and move on.
I'm sorry not to be more amusing about the whole thing. I'm just so damned thankful that I can't think clearly.
When I was six, I picketed my house, hoping to be allowed to eat breakfast before getting dressed rather than after.
I marched back and forth in front of our front door, carrying a sign that said "BREKFAST FIRST DRESSED LATER."
My parents, being civil rights workers, didn't cross picket lines, and that was the only way into or out of our house,
so they were trapped there until they acceded to my demand.