racing ride

Last night I spent the evening with Best Friend and her man having a good time in Sunset Park. We chatted, drank, cooked, listened to music and watched a movie (which I could not make it through because I have pumpkin syndrome- I can't stay out late and start to fall asleep at 11). Right about the time I could no longer keep my eyes open the DVD began skipping so I saw it as a sign that I should go home. Best Friend is always kind and calls a car for me when my eyes are red slits and I can't talk. After a brief awkward period of bare feet in cold hallways the car service arrived and I was happily on my way.

I don't like to fall asleep in car service cars because it makes me a little nervous. Sure I can fall asleep on the subway and not give two shits when I wake up at Coney Island but a "car service" just doesn't offer the same luxury. The drivers often have no idea where I live and it ends up being a " Choose Your Own Adventure" on the streets of south Brooklyn. I usually try not to give too many "turn here... OH OH OH you should have gone left" because that is really annoying and means I have to pay attention. I also had a driver tell me "shut the fuck up I know what I am doing" once so that sort of put a damper on my direction giving. Now I just let them do their thing, get confused, run me around and I zone out. I never pay more than 12$ for the ride no matter which way they go.

A medium sized SUV was the car of choice this evening and I climbed into the back seat and shouted out my destination. The driver repeated it and we were off. I like it when the driver just leaves me alone or even better is on his cell phone headset talking to the air about his girlfriend or shouting in another language. Anything that means I don't have to talk because if I am in a car it means I am too drunk and tired to take the subway.

Suddenly we stop short.

"Oh my, did you theee that! learn how to drive misther!"

The driver yelled out the window. I couldn't tell if he had a lisp, an accent or was gay. He pressed the gas hard and I was thrown to the back of my seat. He began to stare at me in his rear view mirror .

"You know people juth don't know how to drive, I mean they are idioth. I have several carth bigger than this and my mom always sayth..." that's where I stopped paying attention and decided he was gay. Talking about your mom with strangers- unless she is sick, in town or famous, to me is kind of gay (I talk about my mom all the time and she is none of those things- see gay gay gay). Coupled with a funny voiced lisp made it complete for me. Lisps on their own can't be a determining factor as there are plenty of straight men that need speech therapy too.

Unfortunately he continued on about driving and life with his mother. It all sounded like leaky tires and gravel to me then I began to wonder if he was hitting on me? Was he? Was he cute? Should I pay attention? Damn I was drunk.

Suddenly I was hit with a question of "Don't you think?"

I was caught off gaurd. I had no idea what he was talking about anymore because of my interior monologue and trying to decide if I thought a car service driver was actually cute. I did my usual car speak of "hmmmmm yeah, right on". Then continued the contemplation. I tried my best to catch a full on glimpse of his face. He didn't seem cute. I think he was about 35. The car was nice and he made sure to tell me about those bigger cars several times. Maybe he was all right- I'd done worse... right? I couldn't remember.

He was still staring at me in the rear view and this time more intensely. I began to squirm. I didn't know what the hell was going on or where the hell I was in brooklyn for that matter. I decided after an awkward 45 seconds and deep contemplation that I had to talk to this guy now. I decided to slur out my two cents on driving.

"I have a hard enough time with people walking on the street, let alone inside metal objects that can kill you- I could never do your job." yeah yeah, a compliment that will shut him up.

Silence and stink eye.

He didn't get it. He just kept staring at me, more than the road. I was nervous. I thought I had made a fatal mistake and I was about to get my ass kicked... or fucked - I still was not sure and I really wasn't interested in either.

Sudden laughter errupted from the driver "Yeah yeah yeah..." - wait was he on a blue tooth and I didn't realize it. I opened my half shut eyes wider to get a better look. No, he was talking to me, unfortunately. He then thought he was free to go off on a tangent- this is where it all went wrong.

"You know who really can't drive- the Chinese. I can't stand their asses. They park for like 20 minutes in the middle of the road. The Chinese are taking over! They were outside my mom's place and I had to park their chinese asses..." Wait- was I transported back to 1942? Is my Irish Nanna driving me around?

"Not like the Spanish are any better with their music blasting and..."

Yup 1942 and Nanna.

The guy wasn't gay. His racial tirade cleared up his lisp and he had a thick brooklyn accent. He was starring at me in the back seat to see if I was of any recognizable nationality (other than white) before he could spew his venom on me, not his sperm. I was really uncomfortable. I also was beginning to realize that my tolerance for alcohol was lower than I thought. I hate when people go on evil tirades and expect you to chime in. This has happened to me before but usually I can walk away or say something about how horrible the person is being THEN walk away. The key - I could walk away. This time I was stuck in a car with a racist Brooklyn mama's boy I thought was gay and trying to pick me up. All I could do was say "mmmm".

When it finally was over I began to laugh a little, then bite my lip, then laugh some more. I was THAT desperate for a second to think a poc marked car driver with thinning hair and bug eyes was 1. hitting on me 2. could be cute and 3. I was considering HITTING on HIM. Man I was out of my mind. I laughed out loud at myself again, this time not containing it- just looking like a crazy person. I love laughing at myself like that- especially in front of people when I look like I belong in a padded cell.

He looked back and gave me a "you're fucking weird" look, did a giant U-turn and wouldn't you know it I was at my apartment. I gave him a 3$ tip out of fear and he looked intensely into my eyes as he handed back my change and said in a low voice "Thank you thir".

Seems like my Irish Nana was there- there to wake my drunken half Irish ass up and say "You asshole, this guy is ugly- what the heck is wrong with you!". Oh Nana, always watching out for me in the man department with guilt, shame or a smack on the head because as she liked to say "the gays are a good people".

I take love where I can get it

The other day I received an email from best friend informing me that a new animal had entered her life. My first thought was "oh god this poor woman will never breathe normally again". See, best friend works in an office (a very cool and fun office- for me , not for her) that contains two cats. I say "contain" because no one really likes them very much and EVERYONE is allergic to them. The reason they are there? The boss man likes it that way, even if he is out of that office six to nine months of the year and never sees them.

The cats are those long haired fur ball bitch cats. They show you their ass all the time (complete with clumped hair in the anus- no matter how many times they are cleaned), they whine for attention then run away when you offer it and worst of all they shed like nobodies business. While at first they were cute little kittens that everyone played with and loved despite the sneezing, watering eyes and inability to breathe the fun wore off when they began to play on the fax machine and piss all over the halls.

The idea that a new animal would be introduced to this environment was not something I thought Best Friend would be jumping for joy over until she told me that it was not her animal to care for (thank god) but a new visitor from a fellow employee. Then she sent me this:
Everyone now with the collective "awwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwww"

but what I really loved was this next picture that describes the situation with the animals so perfectly I need not say more:
OK I do want to say more - Look at that damn adorable dog! Then there is one of those crazy ass whacked long haired cats that shows its clumped anus all the time with its piss matted fur looking sad. OK so its kind of sad but seriously, the cat is crazy and it makes everyone have an allergic reaction on a daily basis. It's OK folks, in spite of her deathly allergy Best Friend pets and loves these cats everyday- even worries about them. Partially because its her job and partially because even though something is causing her utter misery she still loves it. hmmmmmmm

Anyway I was more than thrilled to see this adorable dog. I could not wait to meet him. I can't explain it- the uglier the dog, the cuter he (or she) is to me. I love pugs, Boston terriers, French bull dogs... ok thats pretty much it. I think they are just the best dogs, so friendly and playful, not too big but not so small. You can still have dignity walking those guys around without looking like big old mo. They are still scary enough to keep small children with dirty hands from shoving their mitts in its face until you say "Its ok! He's friendly". If only I felt that way about guys...

I got to meet Mr. Moo (Moo is his name) yesterday. It was raining, I felt like shit, I was down, I could hardly breath through my nose, I was wearing dirty underwear because I needed to do laundry and oh so much more. When Best Friend greeted me at the office door with moo in her arms I lit up. I forgot he would be there! I am always nervous around new things and this was no exception, if I were a dog myself I would probably pee all the time when entering a room. Thank god thats not the case- although see me if I make it to 80.

I tentatively played while everyone worked away and finished up for the day. I then put him on my lap and he sat there for a while and I pet his fur, squeezed his little rolls and didn't pay attention to what people were saying. Eventually moo turned his face to me and licked me. I was grossed out of course but remembered that this was the dog way of saying "hey you are all right".

I noticed that moo really liked my pant hem and boot so I started to tease him a little and get him riled up. He made cute noises and did the head thrashing thing dogs do. I twirled around in my office chair getting him all dizzy then stopped suddenly and watched him freak out. He was so happy- maybe a little too happy.

Next thing I know my leg was mounted and I was getting humped. I know there are a lot of people who have had this experience- right? I thought it was funny at first and removed my leg from the situation. He was in hot pursuit. I shouted to best friend for help and all she could do was laugh and say "OH MY GOD MOO IS GAY MOO IS GAY!!!".

Yeah thanks for the help.

Apparently I am the only person he has ever mounted and humped repeatedly. What an honor.

I let the little guy go for a minute figuring he was just a puppy and didn't know better. It was not really a fun feeling knowing I was essentially this dogs "pocket pussy" for the moment but whatever I masturbate too- just not on peoples legs (ok not on peoples legs in public). I then pulled out an old tennis shoe thinking maybe it was my smell that he was into. He played a minute and then went right back to the leg. The good thing was there was really no contact against my leg; it was more "air humping". The second the lower half came into contact I was like "Ok ok the funs over sorry buddy I can fell your goods on my leg and thats no good" and had to pull away. I distracted him away from my leg with some butt plug looking toy. He seemed sad but still happy to play. He kept going for slight air pumps on the leg but nothing as major as the first few attempts. After about 10 minutes his owner came with the leash to take him home and he lost interest in my leg. Men.

This of course started my whole "IIIII want a Doooooog" speech. The good old "It's just what I need. I have the space for one his size, I have the love to give, I could use the company and I live right next to the park". The usual counter argument from Best Friend whenever I get this fanciful idea "If you had a dog, you would not be here right now... besides you are allergic to most dogs"-- touche. My mom's argument for this "Ugh ick you want them rubbing their asses all over your house!" Um mom- people do that too... but she has a point. My argument "I'll never want to leave to visit my family or go on vacations, its a 10 year commitment at LEAST". So it always puts a damper on the idea.

Last night I was dreaming about having a dog. It was awesome. Well ok truth be told I had a boyfriend and a dog in the dream (the only thing missing was a house with a pool). Maybe I can't have those things in real life but in my dreams they are the best pets ever and I don't have to worry about cleaning up after them (the dog and the boyfriend). Hooray for vivid dreams.

ps- I still want a dog.

Sinking

You ever get the feeling like no matter how hard you try you are sinking and nothing you do will get you out of the hole? That everyone thinks you are an idiot? That you have lost your path, yet again? yeah its kind of like that right now...

Foodnetwork, you broke my heart

It was 11:30 pm on Friday night. I had just spent the evening with Best Friend on an unexpected bar hop and was starving. I decided that it was ok to indulge in my secret guilty "I have no cash at the moment" pleasure and order pizza online- yes from Dominos. Yes, I eat Domino's pizza and damn it when you are drunk, haven't eaten dinner, don't feel like cooking and you live alone so no one can witness the carnage, it's allowed. I placed my order and left the tracker up so I could see when I could expect my processed pizza to arrive at my apartment. Next I saddled up to the TV in my favorite chair and blasted on the radiation tube for my usual late night surfing.

Channel 18- TBS... freaking bridget jones AGAIN
Channel 15- Fox- Seinfeld and I just can't take that it is on all the f'n time
Channel 21- CW 11 Stupid in the City
Channel 78- Foodnetwork...static ( I try again)
Channel 78- Foodnetwork again... blank screen

I turn the tv off then on

Channel 78- Foodnetwork... absolutely nothing

I unplug the cable from the back of my tv and plug it back in again

Channel 78- Foodnetwork... still gone

I stare at the blank screen in disappointment. My eyes begin to get misty. I let out a giant sigh of "Nooooooooooooooooooooo!". I was devastated. No "Ace of Cakes" , no "Iron Chef", no crappy "Throwdown", no "Foodnetwork in the Kitchen" Saturday mornings, not even freaking Mark Summers with his stupid ass "Unwrapped"! Just a blank screen where I can see myself reflected in the black tube with a dumbfounded look. It's gone. My favorite channel, my late night friend, my cooking instructor, my weekend morning companion, my confidant- essentially my boyfriend- up and left in the middle of the night with no explanation.

Typical.

I stared, hoping it was a figment of my drunk imagination.

30 minutes passed in silence and I was startled by my buzzer- the pizza came. I proceeded to eat the entire box of buffalo kickers and a large mushroom pizza with misty eyes lamenting my loss... in 20 minutes. See what happens when TV is not pacing me!

The thing is- I don't have real cable and I live alone. Deadly combo- television and a person who likes to be visually stimulated. I have what I call "apartment cable". This essentially means I moved into my apartment, there was a cable on the ground, and I thought "What would happen if I just plugged this little cable into the antenna input" and tah dah- clear reception on select channels. This also means that I am subject to cable whims. There was one point when I thought all was well with my TV relationship. I had figured out which channel was Bravo and I also managed to get The Cartoon Network. I thought I had tricked the system and this would last forever. I was wrong.

Channels started to dissapear. First went HGTV. I found it odd as it had been there since the beginning with the Foodnetwork. No love lost though as I was tired of watching House Hunters (with ever stale Suzan Wong). Candace Olsen's dorky Canadian antics on "Divine Design" with Chico were annoying the crap out of me and if I had to watch one more stupid prospective buyer talk about how the colors in the house were a problem I was going to shoot my TV. I thought good ridden to bad rubbish because I learned all I can learn from that channel.

A few weeks later I turned on my man and switched to the Cartoon Network. Blank. It too was gone. I was just getting into shows like "Foster's home for Imaginary Friends" and "My Gym Partner's a Monkey". I liked knowing what my niece and nephew would watch... sober... after school... if they were 6. I knew I would be ok as long as the Foodnetwork and Bravo were still around.

A week after the Project Runway finale, Bravo went missing.

Finally the cord was cut- the Foodnetwork was gone.

It's odd to be so attached to television and in particular a network dedicated to food. I find food shows soothing and comforting in ways that sit-coms or movies aren't. I feel like I am learning something pratical while being kept in a vegetative state. The foodnetwork taught me about deglazing pans, braising meats, reposing steaks, how to properly prepare an artichoke, making rues, making stocks, why fish and cheese don't go together and so much more. It brought out the cook inside me and made me feel confident in the kitchen the way no one else could. I began to cook circles around my family members and soon was getting the approval of best friend with her "restaurant quality" seal of approval on dishes I had made. No one taught me more about loving food than this channel, no one.

To see it gone, even as I write this, chokes me up.

The channel has come back intermittently and given me a glimmer of hope that maybe this will work out. Maybe if I just paid a little bit more attention to the channel, loved the new chefs I hated, tried more of their recipes, turned it on more, something- it would stay with me. No, it just kept telling me " you can't afford me no matter how much you love me". Now I am left with a bad habit of surfing from 62 (former Bravo) 67 (former Cartoon) 78(former foodnetwork) only to find blank screens or scrambled pictures that turn into blank screens.

Yesterday TBS was shut off.

Television? I HAVE no television.

I don't write about that

I try no to write about my dating life very often as there are plenty of anecdotes one can hear about dating on a regular basis. Simply turn on your television past 11p, and you will see any number of single gal on the town typing single life witticisms on a laptop or single men acting quarkie with women on dates. It becomes a little depressing when you only get "apartment cable " and are left with a total of five stations (It also makes me question the demographic of tv watchers avoiding the news at 11pm). Go to any number of bars or cafes and just listen to other people- chances are you will eventually hear a sex/ dating story told much too loud for public ears but there it is.

It could also be that dating is the one topic I refuse to talk to my mom about in my life. It drives her crazy. I get worried that if she finds this blog and starts reading it she will think we can talk about it together over cocktails. While I love my mom, I just don't feel the need to talk about all my one night stands, hook ups, or month long relationships with her. None of it is significant enough to bother her with or have her get invested in. It will also make me look like a big old whore.

I once made the mistake of mentioning the fact that I had a sex life at Christmas during the post dinner drinks drunken boyfriend interrogation;

"So any new guys?"
"No"
(sip)
(sip)
" What about the lawyer, you seen him?"
"Ma, we are friends"
"Right, right right... what about that other guy"
(sip)
"There is no guy"
(sip)
"The one from last year?"
"No Mom"
(sip)
"Really? I thought you were-"
"Nope, no one"
"I mean its just you are so-"
"Mom- I get LAID if thats what you want to know!"
-Silence-
-Silence-
(gulp)
"So are you using safes*?"
"I need another drink"

*Safes= condoms

It's just not the conversation you want to have with your mom as an adult.

My point is that the market is saturated with dating stories and I don't know if I feel comfortable sharing dating stories (unless I am in a bar getting drunk shouting about how I was dumped again to my friends). However, I also think its a part of life, like picking your nose. I once told my niece who loves to pick her nose that it was OK she did it, just don't let anyone SEE you do it. Now when she is in a crowded room and wants to dig for gold she goes to the corner, gives us her back and picks away.

I am going to the corner now and talking about dating... to myself... while I pick my nose. Some things are better left unsaid. Granted- I wrote a whole post here before and decided to erase it after much thought and advisement so I was not fully above it at first. I decided I am really not into writing about dating- it gets messy, people know who you are talking about- and hell its kind of intimate and involves someone besides yourself. Why drag them through the blog mud unwillingly. It really doesn't make anyone like you more, in fact I think its a turn off to know you may be written about on some ass wipes blog if you go on a date. I have decided to leave that topic to the stupid asses who do it best with their lap tops in Starbucks and expensive shoes.

Changed my mind

After careful and lengthy consideration I decided to say "fuck it" and I am still going to write here. If people see something they don't like- tough shit, its my blog. Yup, spoken like a spoiled brat.

It's a shame...

This will be my last post on this blog. I love this blog but in case you haven't noticed I have not been writing. It has become more difficult to write for me as stress increases at my job and more people become aware of this blog (yeah...like so many people are reading it). I can not write freely anymore and that bothers me. I want to be able to write about anything in this blog, thats why I started doing it; that has become less of an option.

It sucks.

It's a shame people have to know you.

Love to all.

R

Umm I had Soup Yesterday

The other day after a staff meeting I was invited out to lunch by my supervisor and the director where I work. They are good friends and wanted to include me in on the much more informal meeting and rehash of events just discussed in our full on staff event. My first response (as with any time I am invited out to lunch) was "I brought my lunch". Its true, I always bring my lunch- I am THAT guy.

That did not go over too well and was met with "Oh come OONNNNNN" and "You always bring your lunch, live a little". Next move and the true reason I could not join them " I don't have the money for lunch." I hate when I am forced to admit that. It is odd, even though I am making more money than before I have never been more broke in my life. Seriously. I don't know why a weekly paycheck makes it impossible for me to balance my budget but I have been broke more than once since I started this job.

"Oh Please, no one is paying for this- its a business lunch" my disappointed supervisor replied.

"Oh... well in that case... cool- where are we going?"

We went over options- Thai (too noisy), Italian (too expensive), Diner (rip off greasy spoon), Go Go Curry (nowhere to sit). We were left with Balkan food. I know, seriously, what the HELL is Balkan food. I thought at first they said VULCAN and was thinking we were headed to some gimmick laden tourist trap fitted with Dr. Spoc memorabilia and a futuristic menu- you know "astro burgers" and "chocolate vulcan death grip cake".

I didn't want to let them know I misunderstood and had no idea what I was in for so I merely said "Yeah that sounds awesome".

We headed down the block through the busy streets outside the porn shops and fabric palaces until we stopped in front of a brightly painted lower restaurant front. It wasn't until then I realized "Balkan" not "Vulcan" . Relieved I looked over the menu in its outdoor case. It seemed doable and we all went inside.

Now Balkan food is essentially Turkish/Middle Eastern cuisine. There are kabobs, meats in cabbages, lots of potato, spetzel (which seemed odd), iceberg lettuce, cucumbers, hot sauces, cool yogurt garlic sauce etc. Since none of us had eaten at the restaurant before it was decided we would all share our meals so we could taste a variety of items. I began to tense up at the idea of "family style".

I have always had an issue with sharing food. This partially stems from my father picking off my plate without a care in the world when I was growing up (eventually my mom yelled at him enough so he stopped) and the nag of my mom's "Do you want me to have some of that?" while she would pine over my plate if I ordered something better than her at a restaurant. However, the real meat of the issue has to do with bodily fluids - more specifically, saliva.

I don't mind swapping spit when making out but when eating...

People stick utensils in their mouths and then in their food, mush it around and repeat. Its just sort of gross to me. Then there are items like popsicles or ice cream on a cone which just totally gross me out. I refuse to eat ice cream on a cone because I think it is nasty to have a spit covered treat exposed to the world. The fact that people offer each other "licks" is even worse. I have the chills just thinking about it. I will share utensils or eat ice cream off someone's cone if I am having sex with them or they are a REALLY good friend but only then... and possibly not even then. I don't even share straws or drink a drink that is mostly gone with my best friend- and I love booze and straws.

Back to Balkan lunch...

It was not like this place was set up for family style- it was meant as a single dish per person which really meant no serving utensils and no holds bar for the spit in food. I cringed thinking of spit covered forks with leftover bits between the prongs, potato crusted knives and more. I decided that I would have to use my grab before stab method of sharing before anyone can dig in (basically I offer my food right away so people are taken a bit off guard and then share their meal before they had a chance to taste it). I am still new to this job so I didn't want to offend anyone, I wanted to be part the "work family" and fit in.

That's when I heard the following order.

"And I will have the bean and ham hock soup"

A wave of nausea went up my spine. How does one share soup?! WHO THE HELL ORDERS SOUP TO SHARE IN A GROUP! I calmed myself down by thinking "oh stupid they will bring small bowls or at least more spoons... just don't eat the damn soup".

The food arrived, no bowls, no spoons. I asked for extra spoons but the waitress just walked away. I tried my hardest to start the grab then stab sharing offering up my food,they took from my plate but no offers to take from their's came in return. My plan was foiled. I watched as forks dug in, went to lips and left spit strings hanging- then back for more. Next thing I knew I was being given a giant serving of stuffed wet cabbage with a side of saliva on my plate from a dirty fork.

"MMMMMMM thanks!" I grinned. I nervously plunged my fork into the wet cold mound and decided to block it all out and enjoy.

"Oh this soup is amazing! Here try it!" the spoon was handed from the director to my supervisor who quickly took up the offer and professed its glory.

"This is AMAZING, oh you MUST try this" She passed the bowl my way and licked the one spoon on the table clean and plunged it back in.

I hesitated. A bead of sweat went down my back. I didn't know what to do. I began to panic as a brown creamy mass was slowly slid my way.

"Ohhh uhhh I had soup yesterday..." Why did I think that would make me safe?

"That is ridiculous- try this its amazing" She reprimanded

"No really I mean I made a big pot- I am all souped out. It smells great though!" there that is good- I made a big pot... idiot.

"One taste will not kill you! COME ON!" and she nudged the plate into my dining space.

I had not experienced this much peer pressure since I was in middle school when all the boys told me if I didn't shower after gym I was a "scrub". I gingerly grabbed the spittle soaked spoon nested deep inside the bean matter.

I raised it to my lips while chanting "its OK, its OK, I am sure this is fine, the heat of the soup killed the germs, its OK, its OK..." Yeah the heat of the soup made it more of a breeding ground and I knew it but before I could withdraw I saw puppy eyes looking at me waiting for my soup approval. Down the hatch it went- without touching my lips or my tounge- essentially I plopped the bean mush in the middle of my mouth. Then I did the pull out - it was all teeth. Such a gross feeling, teeth on spoon.

Smiles of relief when I let out a "MMMmmmmmmMMMMMmmm this IS good"

I lied, it wasn't, however to prove how OK I was with sharing a spoon I took a second bite before I passed it on. "Really good!" spoon, teeth, grind, shudder

The rest of the meal was actually good. I downed the shared food so I could get that over with and went into my own. It was really tasty. I had a spicy veal kabob with a garlic yogurt sauce, a red pepper relish and this amazing flat bread. All of this required some hand involvement which I happily did. I ate most of my meal then remembered I had not washed my hands when I got inside. The last thing I had touched was the sticky railing coming down the stairs inside. So much for worrying about spit on a spoon. I felt slightly ill but pushed it all out of my mind. When I got back to the office I took an airborne... because for some reason I thought that would help.

After the whole affair I realized I learned something - sometimes to make people happy you have to let go of your own inhibitions, if just for a moment, stuff it down deep inside, take the spoon and taste what is offered. You can always rinse your mouth out with Listerine in private later.

We're Back

You know that scene in Mommie Dearest after Joan Crawford aka Faye, picks up ungrateful bitch Tina after she gets in trouble for showing her grandma panties while making out with a boy? You knooooow they argue in the car- Tina tells Joan there is a liquor store on the corner- Joan (Faye) dramatically cries out " I should have known you'd know where to find the BOOZE and the BOYS"? Come on- its right before the famous choking scene... no? Well, anyway Joan walks in bringing the cool night air and ill feelings with her and declares to Barbara (a reporter from Red Book)

"WE'RE BACK" (scarf swooped off head and the heels click on the marble)

We'll...

I am back.

No scarf on my head, no heels (in my case hard soled shoes on marble). No fights with ungrateful children. I am just back...

I had a rough summer, got a new job, hated the job, loved the job, hated the job again, then settled on "like" and thought that was fine- no need to roller coaster that one again. I hit a really hard wall with "creative" energy and became a sad sack of shit. I stopped making work. I grew a beard that itched, shaved said beard (because Best Friend kept giving me funny looks but was too kind to say it looked like shit. Everyone else said I looked thin with it-which I loved. Truth be told I had lost almost 20 pounds and THAT was why I looked thin- nothing to do with the beard). I wallowed, did not leave my house for days on end, barely showered, watched mid afternoon TV where they told me "Depression hurts- but you don't have to..." and talked to the television. I stomped my feet, cried, drank myself into a stupor, laughed alone, talked to the walls... you know the usual crazy "no one understands me" artist crap.

Then suddenly I snapped out of it (thanks to a dumb ass dream).

I mean, I love melancholia as much as the next self loathing fag but that shit was exhausting.

I now can safely say, I like my new artwork, my new focus/ direction and am well... it is Christmas though and my mom did remind me to have my anxiety meds filled.

Long, long story short- I thought it fitting I begin writing again...

Enjoy!

New Job

I have been extremely lazy about writing lately but all with good reason, I have a new job. I no longer working in higher education (at an art school) and have progressed to a non-profit art organization. Now I can officially answer the question

"What do you do for a living"
-with-
"Artsy Fartsy stuff".
-Instead of-
"Life coach the unintelligent into graduate school"

I will return to my writing antics very soon.

Rose lost her Turn

Early this week it was reported that famed piano and sing along bar Rose's Turn will be closing its doors forever. All the gay musical men and loud mouth musical girls let out billowing cries of disbelief knowing they could no longer scream along to songs by the piano while getting drunk. It is a sad day when the happiness of a marginalized group is brought to an end by Real Estate, yet again, in this city.

If you had never been to Rose's Turn you missed a treat. I mean that in the most sincere and honest way possible. I am not a piano bar/ sing along kind of guy but I do of course have a story about my own trip to a place I swore I would never go in. I dreaded the idea of a hot bar filled with large clouds of smelly exhaled breath from people singing while downing drinks. To me, people singing along to a piano was worse than Karaoke. A live instrument instead of some cheesy synth back up seems to make people think they can sing, and sing well.

One cold and rainy night I was scheduled to meet up with a group of misfit former musical theater people and a musical composer for dinner and drinks. We chose a campy and ridiculous spot in the Village known for its sausage and schnitzel called Lederhosen. I of course was there early and had to sit at the bar and make obvious gestures that I was waiting for someone lest some stranger think I am a loser (you know the audible sigh and looking at the watch as you drink your second giant beer). Finally when all the late comers arrived we were sat in the back room at a picnic table surrounded by a mountain mural on the wall. The place reminded me of some cafeteria at a YMCA camp or basement of an elementary school. The food was OK, expensive and while fun for a one time deal, not worth it. The beer however, completely worth every last drop.

We payed our check after some rowdy raunchy conversations and of course no one wanted to go home. Our next thought was "where can we go that is not far where we can drink cheap drinks as we just spent all our dough on sausages". My friend Métier lit up and snapped his fingers "I know a place, my friend is working, we can get discounted drinks, maybe even a few rounds for free!" Then he waited for all to agree.

*Note- Métier likes all things campy and ridiculous, I mean two of the guys favorite movies are "The Apple" and "Xanadu". Mike had also been trying to convince us to go to Jekyll and Hide just for shits and giggles- neither of which interested us.

"NOT JEKYLL AND HYDE " we shouted in unison. He looked wounded.

'No no, I know no one wants to go there, just trust me" he replied

Now the thing with Métier is when he doesn't tell you what the place is right off the bat you need to be careful. My best friend, who was with me, and I have known him for years and not telling you a location is sort of his ruse to get you to go somewhere he knows you won't agree to if you hear it ahead of time. She and I looked at each other quickly and almost simultaneously said "Where Métier" in that "OK what is it NOW" way.

"ROSE'S TURN!" he gleamed.

Shit, shit SHIT. A piano bar. A piano bar I vowed never to go into every time I passed it and saw the head shots in the display case. I am not sure why I make stupid "vows" on such dumb things like bars and restaurants and then feel some sort of moral high ground because I VOWED not to go in- but I do it and always end up breaking it. What sort of self respecting gay man would VOW not to go into a piano bar and sing loudly and drunk... ugh- me.

My best friend looked at me and saw my terror.

"Hey we can make fun of people..." in her best tempting the devil voice.

I looked into her eyes for a moment, turned away then after a moment blurted out-

"Hell free drinks- lets do it Métier."

Métier did his happy nervous jump, turn, snap and lead the way to the mischief.

We went through the door and down the three steps as he hollered out to his friend working as a cocktail waitress. It was still quiet in the bar as the singing had not begun yet. The place was dimly lit with a red light dive bar aura about it.The familiar smell of bar rot filled the air. There was a microphone stand and an upright piano in front of a fish tank. In my memory its a fish tank, it totally could have been a wall of "queers" or something for all I know, I was tipsy. I let out a sigh as I sat down, rolled my eyes (nervous habit) and then smiled. Smiling helps when you are scared and nervous- just like whistling (I was Louis in "The King and I" when I was 8 what can I say).

We all ordered our stiff drinks. Métier was beaming, Best Friend and I were chatty, our third misfit, Composer was texting a hook up / former fling and getting ready to jet. The service was good and I must say the people in the bar were extremely friendly, especially the staff. I was starting to ease up and my tensed ass had just relaxed when suddenly there was a tinkle on the key board.

"Ladies and Gentleman, thank you for coming out this evening, my name is Joe and I will be playing for you all... if you have any requests let me know and if I don't know it, I will certainly try and fake it..." he played a few scales and flourishes then moved his mouth closer to the piano microphone so you could hear his giant inhale and out with "It's nine o'clock on a Saturday, the regular crowd shuffles in ... hey Nancy!..." He waved to a big man that walked into the bar. Fear washed over me and my ass tightened again.

I began to panic and looked over at Métier happily chatting with Best Friend, Composer was texting furiously and I had no choice left but to watch this man sing... singing a song...sing oh so seductively... heavily breathing in the mic... looking playfully my way- wait- was he actually cute? Huh, he wasn't bad. His voice was actually kind of good. Hang on hang on.... I was actually beginning to enjoy this.

OK this is after I downed my drink, blushed and promptly ordered another but it was a feeling of joy nonetheless.

The piano man sang a few more songs and picked up the mood with some up beat pop songs. More people began to pile in ranging from flaming queens to tourists and even business men with their arm candy they wanted to seduce. An affable mood was developing in the bar and the place felt like it had a growing "glow". I had about 4 vodka sodas at this point that were mostly vodka so that could have been it too- I of course did not care. I did however need to switch back to beer.

Out of the corner of my eye I noticed a woman sitting at the bar who seemed very anxious and nervous. I thought perhaps she was a patron like me, lured in by free drinks but terrified of public singing. She had dark short hair hidden underneath a scarf, a septum piercing, sleeveless shirt and cargo pants. A nervous lesbian. She looked around and around at all the people, darting her eyes back and forth. The piano man began to wind down his first set and paused to sip some water. She suddenly got up and approached the mic stand. She leaned over and spoke with the piano man then readjusted her position to one of confidence in front of the crowd.

"Hello" - feedback of course rang through the audience adding to the nerves.

"I just wanted to sing this song for you all, I hope you like it". Her voice quivered. Composer friend chose this moment to get up and leave to meet his sex ex and try and get some. We all said goodbye drunkenly quiet (which everyone knows is loud like a stage whisper). Once he had left and the commotion settled the woman took a deep breath and the piano began.

Now I was pretty drunk at this point so I do not remember what song she sang. I do remember thinking "OF COURSE SHE SANG THAT" which makes me think it was Melissa Ethridge's "I'm the only one" or a K.D. Lang song- but as you know I believe there was a fish tank in the bar too. After the first few painful notes she suddenly loosened up and was actually, dare I say it- GOOD.

Oh my god- I liked this. I, the man who vowed to not have fun in a sing along bar was liking it. I was enjoying the performance from this butch woman who stepped out of her comfort zone and belted a song out with true passion. It was sort of moving, in the way that you find things moving when you are drunk.

After the woman finished the crowd cheered and I let out a big roller coaster style "Weeeeehooooooooooooo!". She looked my way and smiled then went back to the bar to resume her nervous drinking.

This is where the evening became hazy, foggy and amazingly fun. I was being given free drinks, allowed to yell and sing as much as I wanted and no one batted an eyelash. Song after song was being played as waiters came up and did their thing, pointed to the audience for the chorus etc. I started out shyly blurting lyrics here and there too embarrassed to let loose at first. I slowly built up my courage and came up to full musical theater crescendo, singing with all my might by the sixth or seventh song- proud and ashamed that I knew the lyrics to most of the crap being played.

The Climax to the whole affair came when "Total Eclipse of the Heart" began on the piano and our waitress, Métier's friend stepped up to the mic. Silence and goosebumps filled the air as the raspy sorority girls behind us blurted out "I love this song!". It started out as a solo then the audience filled in the duet part. Next thing I know Best Friend, Métier and I were shouting the chorus at the top of our lungs laughing so hard that were were red and out of breath. By the end the whole place was alive with shouts, hoots, laughing and singing as everyone declared

"I really need you tonight
Forever's gonna start tonight
Forever's gonna start tonight"

Then we all warbled down to the serious part slurring around

"Once upon a time there was light in my life
But now there's only love in the dark
Nothing I can say
A total eclipse of the heart"

I had a lump in my throat, a stain on my lap (from my spilt drink) and a tear in my eye. It was beautiful.

We decided that it was time to go when each one of us needed "fresh air". We payed our very low tab, told the waitress she ruled, said goodbye to all the fresh non-drunk faces around us and stumbled up the stairs and out the door into the cool night air. As we walked down the block we all had the look of "One more... come on guys lets go for one more". Métier, embolden with liquor slurred out "no no , I have a real treat jussssshhhh follow me." We walked down the block tripped down some stairs and opened a door to another bar.

Our nostrils were hit with the distinct smell of testosterone, sweaty crotch and urinal cake. We pushed through a crowd and suddenly I heard a familiar tune on the piano. We had stumbled into the all musical theater sing along bar "Marie's Crisis Cafe". There in front of us were tons and tons of gay men singing along to the Guys and Dolls favorite "Sit Down You're Rocking the Boat". The image of twinkle eyed gay men singing to each other in an exaggerated musical theater fashion as if actually in the freaking show is burned into my head. It was just too much. Sing along to a variety of songs was one thing- but to Musicals only- Best Friend and I looked at each other in horror- not for us at ALL. (The place was packed so certainly gay men of that persuasion LOVE the place- and there is NOTHING wrong with that- just not our bag).

We looked at Métier who was swaying and hiccuping and said "We gotta get out of here" and hurried up the steps. We hopped into a cab dragging poor Métier back to Brooklyn with us so he wouldn't have to trek to the Upper West Side reeking of booze as he slid into bed with his sober boyfriend- again. We laughed like crazy in the cab, sang a little, recapped and fell out onto the streets of Sunset Park Brooklyn. Best Friend was kind enough to host our rowdy asses and smoke us out as we talked until 3am. Everyone agreed- killer time.

When I learned of Rose's Turn closing I was actually kind of sad... for a second. I had a blast there that one time. I am glad I did it. I am glad that I got to go to yet another New York landmark place before it was closed or changed for good (just like the time I bought weed with Best Friend in Washington Square park from the same guy who sold weed to the kids in KIDS the movie- and just like the movie it was that "sticks and pebbles crap"--this of course was in the mid 90's before they cleaned up the park and made it boring so old farts would feel comfortable.)

It saddens me that gay men, lesbians, lecherous men and their dates, tourists and anyone of the like will no longer have a piano bar to get drunk, shout out their feelings in the form of a pop song and feel deeply connected to total strangers.

Goodbye Rose's Turn...

"True"

Normally I like to use my blog to tell stories or something of the like. I try and refrain from bitching too much because I do that enough in my daily life and writing it down just gives me a complex. Sure my first posts were on those bitching-esq topics but then I found my footing and began to write less and less about the daily monotony of working in an office, New York City subway rides and instead decided to expose my most embarrassing or telling stories.

Therefore I will TRY and keep this brief. (after reviewing it, I realize I failed on that count so just sit back and hopefully enjoy)

What the HELL is up with that freaking site "True"? Whenever I log into my myspace (I know... myspace, the passive aggressive way people keep in contact with former or distant friends that are to lazy to even email. Through the magic of sites like friendster and myspace you can learn all you need to know without ever having to talk to them- just keep dibs on them .)

Anyway whenever I log onto myspace I am greeted by an advert for "True" featuring two buff shirtless men holding each other looking as happy as can be with "Live, Love, Learn" or " Romance is just a click away" written in bold underneath.What the hell kind of slogan is that!? Live, Love, Learn? If it were that easy wouldn't we all be walking around in a wonderful sex filled bliss?

If its not "True"reminding me that I need to live love and learn its fucking "Gay.com". Usually the ad features some shaven buff guy all wet coming out of a pool looking sexy/pissed at the camera asking me if I have "given Gay.com a try". Um yes and my profile was deleted for some unknown reason and all anyone wanted on there was sex. Not that there is anything wrong with that- just don't market yourself as a dating site when you are indeed nothing of the sort- just a hook up site with some queercentric "news" articles.

Which of course leads me to the OTHER site I get advertised on myspace all the time. Manhunt. There coyly posed in front of me after I log in is this beefy, large pectoral man with a square jaw line and perfectly manicured chest hair telling me to "go online and get off". While I appreciate the straightforwardness of the whole thing I know that the same guy does not exist on this site. If he does it is in headless torso form. This headless torso that looks great soon turns into a monster when that same picture is "unlocked" to see the guys face. Its always a gamble and you run the risk of either turning to stone or the guy is 50.

My favorite advert to groan at after I log in or out is the Dr. Phil endorsed "Match.com" telling me "It's okay to look" while a seemingly live video loops of some guy with his shirt unbuttoned looking at the camera and trying to figure something out. Now this is somewhat true - there are some cute guys on web cams however they are all in Europe or nowhere near you to actually meet. Then there is always the point in which the conversation disintegrates to sex talk and he is stripping. Then you are stripping. Then you feel weird and isolated like you are in some bizzaro version of Logan's Run calling up a sex partner but they never "materialize" before you for actual contact. You just have to please yourself and watch someone else do the same. Oh and you don't meet those guys on Match.com, never.

In case you haven't noticed- I have tired online dating, quite a bit in fact. I don't go to gay bars very often because they make me feel like I am in a living version of online dating but heightened and with bad music. When I moved to New York City I gave on line shit a shot. I have done almost every kind of site from hook up sites to genuine dating sites (where gay men create a ruse of wanting a date when really they want to hook up - ANNOYING! If I wanted to spend money for sex I would buy a hot hooker instead of a shitty dinner with bad conversation and an awkward make out session to follow.) There are a few things I have learned from these trials and tribulations which go against all the damn slogans they tout like facts.

1. It is not OK to look- people have profile trackers. If you stumble across someone who looks good in a thumbnail then click to enlarge and think OH JESUS! YUCK! they know it.

2. Crazy people are on there. Sure I was on there, but I am not a crazy person hiding behind the guise of sanity- I admit I am a little crazy, sometimes shit house crazy. I think its part of my charm... yeah that's it my charm... right?

3. If someone doesn't appear crazy at first, give it some time- the crazy will come out and hit you faster than you can say "Check Please". I can not begin to tell you how many dates I went on where they started normal and then somewhere between the second drink and the abrupt end the person came loose. One instance a man cried and told me how lonely he was as he grabbed my knee and begged me to keep him company. I felt bad but JESUS it was a first meeting! I never called him or spoke to him again.

4. Almost NO ONE looks like their picture. The rule of online pictures - if there is more than one pick the UGLIEST one, and think to yourself "That's what they look like". When you finally meet them you will either be right or pleasantly surprised. If they are shirtless, you can almost bet that picture was taken after a few months of starvation so they could sit on the beach and feel better about themselves and have a good "on line" pic. Sometimes and I repeat again- ONLY SOMETIMES the pictures are accurate. When that happens its great, you met an honest person, you are off to a good start however, see 2 and 3.

5. The same 20 people you are going to be interested in are the same 20 people on every dating site. Period. -- Again, look at me, I tired them all---

It pisses me off that I have to look at that blatant false advertising everyday that I log into my shitty myspace page to see if any half ass friends have talked to me or anyone has returned my half ass messages out of boredom or worse- maybe some stranger liked my profile and wrote to me (myspace and friendster are the single person's safe haven, people can claim they never have done online dating but if you have a myspace page or friendster page and declare yourself single- you have done online dating. Its true- end of story- don't deny it).

Sure we all know the few success stories for online dating. Perhaps it is a hetero thing- perhaps not- perhaps I am jaded about the whole thing, I don't care. I am tired of being told I can meet a sexy, sane guy by sitting in front of the computer when it is just not true. Now if they showed a bloated guy with thinning hair, and the slogan was

"Lower your expectations lazy ass, after all you are sitting in front of your computer eating ice cream in your underwear."

Then I might believe it and not be so mad.

Big Steel

Richard Serra, a minimalist sculptor, is currently having a show of his work at the MOMA. It is really an amazing show. Sure some of you may be thinking "wow... big sheets of rusting metal... great" but seriously, it is so much more than that. The massive sculptures are really an amazing site to see in person- sure you can look at pictures and think "Woah that is huge"- but to walk through and around them is a whole other feeling.

Yesterday I ventured out of my hermit world into the light to meet my best pal and head to the MOMA to see the show we had been talking about seeing for weeks. We had seen Serra's work together years ago at Gagosian before it was really "Gagosian" as she likes to point out (meaning it wasn't so polished and divided- I also saw a Damian Hirst show there before the space was really established. The show was awesome, it had the sliced cow, sorry to demean the art like that but really, that's what people know it as). At the time of the Serra show I was not very into abstract sculpture, in fact I am still not someone who longs to look at abstract sculpture or seeks it out- however, Serra's work is different.

Perhaps it is indeed the grand scale, the massive plates of metal twisted to look so malleable yet hard as rocks or the precarious way in which they stand that draws me in however I can honestly say I really am a fan of his work. While walking around and through his pieces Sequence, Band and Torqued Torus Inversion there is this disarming energy, I felt as though I had no balance and almost dizzy. While inside one of his shapes surrounded by metal that looks as though any moment it may come crashing down I had this intense feeling I can only describe as "ass tingle" - crude, I know, its the same feeling I get when I am up high and there is no railing and I look over an edge ( The first time I got this feeling from art was at a Bill Viola show at the old ICA in Boston- it was then that I decided video would be my medium of choice). The feeling inside a Serra shape for me is excitement and fear with a dash of disturbing serenity - a vortex of confusion if you will...with ass tingles. However this feeling is also unique for each individual and some may not feel anything at all and just be starring at the water stains running down the seem of the curved wall- which is all good if you ask me.

If you take the time to appreciate the rusted beauty of the finish, the curves, the scale, the gouged out spots that make it appear to be clay, if you look at it from different angles, walk around, just absorb- you will not be disappointed. I found many amazing views through openings that created abstract landscapes for one to admire, or even what I like to call "sets" and enjoyed finding new ways to look at the work. There are also smaller works of his on the sixth floor that prove even without the grand scale his work is powerful, transforming and transcending materials to raise questions in one's mind. Often times when people see things like this (or art in general) they are looking to be "DONE"- They walk in and expect something amazing to happen and when it doesn't they think they either don't "get it" or it's "stupid". I know because I used to be one of those people. I learned that just by looking at something and being open to it I can enjoy it far more than if I am looking for "meaning" thus frustrating myself when I don't "get it".

It seems lately in the New York art scene "idea and person" has eclipsed skill and craft thus intimidating some people into thinking they are not capable of understanding art. I find that very unfortunate. While I am one who knows and respects ideas I also find this disheartening at times for many reasons but one in particular is that some artist now hide behind ideas and use that as an excuse for poorly crafted art (yes some people do the opposite by hiding behind skill with no idea- the key is a balance). In my opinion the self importance of the artist is what keeps the general public from wanting to be a part of it. That behaviour begs the questions- is one making art for art sake, for artists only, for the select few- or is one making art as an expression of self, for the masses, even just FOR oneself? I do not know the answers to any of these questions and once again it is a personal question for each artist.

There is one thing I do know- once art is made and on view it is open to interpretation in as many ways as the human mind can go and there is nothing wrong with that. An artist may be frustrated because you do not see what they intended you to see however a good artist (once again, in my opinion) is open to new ideas and welcomes the new views on something they have made (I mean who the heck doesn't like to talk about themselves or something they made).

Serra's work is open for interpretation , he may in fact find it disgusting that I do not see some ideas embedded deep withing the spiraling sheets of steel or that maybe I even missed his point all together. I honestly don't care- sure I would love to hear what he had to say, but for me my reaction and my interpretation was all I needed. I read the essays provided by the museum (I always do) however it did nothing to increase my enjoyment of the work- it did inform me as to a historical time line and what the museum sees in the work, however once again, I enjoyed it on my own level. This work ultimately reminded me of why I love art- and that is something I have not felt in a long time. So please, go to the museum's this summer, enjoy the air conditioning and fuck all the "arty" people- just go and look at something nice and enjoy it on any level you can. If you don't enjoy it- hey no love lost at all but at least you stayed cool while you tried.

Hair Part II

Once again, not my version of the musical sequel to “Hair” in which Claude rises from the dead to find his hippie friends have turned into yuppies - My hair. If you actually care you can read part one so the story has “fluidity”.

When high school was over I had found the hairstyle that suited me most- "The Caesar". However, the expense of 150$ haircuts was weighing on my pockets and I began to cut my hair myself. People, this is NEVER a good idea. Sure you can do the front fine and maybe the sides but definitely not the back. I gave myself so many bad haircuts it makes me cringe; it is also why in almost all photos from freshman year of college I am wearing flat caps backwards. The final straw for home hair cuts came when I gave myself what I like to call “The Corky St. Claire”. Yes, the gay community theater director created by Christopher Guest in “Waiting for Guffman”- I had that freaking hairdo- for a moment. After a month of this disaster the “straight” guy I was pining over told me I looked like a Dodo bird. I was crushed. He then came out to me. I was ecstatic. I threw up and then shaved my head.

When you shave your head you get treated like a person who gained a lot of weight suddenly and people pretend not to notice (I only know this as I had that experience as well). You get a lot of “Oh MY! Well at least you have a nice face and a normal shaped head…” as they look away in fear. I was “hardcore” at the time and did not care. I had dropped out of musical theater and was now attending art school. I was free to finally go nuts and do whatever I wanted without worrying about casting or needing it to be manageable. Everyone had fucked up hair in art school- in fact I think it is a requirement. There were so many options open to me now I didn’t even know were to start other than noting to myself “GROW YOUR HAIR BACK”. Thankfully it grows very fast.

I knew that I could maintain a low cost buzz cut with clippers and that style looked OK but was so pedestrian for art school. I was becoming more interested in alternative scenes at the time, attending rock shows, going to Goth nights and actively partaking in counter culture. The only question was how to express my inner person on top of my head like everyone else so I would be unique… like everyone else? I decided to bleach and dye my hair. It started innocent enough with a punky bleach kit from Newbury Comics. 45 minutes of agonizing scalp torture later and I had a nice yellow white hue on my head. It was pretty hip, especially when the roots came in. I however could not let it be. Every season I had to have something new about me, whether it was the way I dressed, my music, or my hair, it was always SOMETHING. Soon I was sporting bright purple hair, then blue, then pink (it was an accident). Soon my head hurt so much I couldn’t think and my hair was like straw; I had to call it quits. I decided since my soul was now black from the Goth scene my hair should be too and I went with blue-black like superman.

Note: This is not a good color for someone who is prone to put too many products in their hair; it highlights all the flakey weird shirt that happens when gel dries.

Note 2: NEVER dye your hair “purple black” it looks like mulled wine old lady hair when you do.

I settled into the color after a few months and I was off to England where bad haircut number… whatever… happened. I had grown my hair over the summer a little bit and was looking forward to a year of hot British boys with even hotter accents. I knew I had to get a new look for my solo life. I wanted to wait to cut my hair until I got to London where I had visions of fantastic outlandish haircuts existing everywhere. I mean, it is the home of the Sex Pistols, Siouxsie Sue, Morrissey, people with GREAT hair. I thought any expensive place would do as long as it looked cool (still had not learned the cost/quality lesson). I walked into a hip saloon in Soho and was greeted with excitement over being an American (obviously this was before the war in Iraq). I was hooked up with a bleached out older gay man who tanned too much and was wearing all black. My dream hair at the time was the “Edward Scissorhands”. I knew that was not possible with my hair so I thought that if I told him “spiky, cool and edgy” it would get me close. It did not.

I was spun around in the chair in the dramatic “look at you now!” fashion reserved for make over shows and I cried. Yup, I really cried this time. There before my eyes was my head- buzzed to the scalp on the sides, with a messy pile on top sculpted into a peak in the middle of my head. How could he have done this to me! As I continued to blubber he tried to comfort me with tea and kept saying “It’s the HEIGHT of LONDON FASHION! All the cute boys have it, trust me, you go out tonight and you will see- Its called the pile up or faux hawk if you will- look Daniel has it” ; a waif of a boy dressed in bright colors with limp wrists traipsed out from the back room with a broom. I sobbed.

This was 1999. The Faux Hawk had not hit ANYWHERE in the USA. It would not surface for at least another three years on any indie rocker, New York fag or hipster. In retrospect I now consider this a “cool” haircut that I got WAYYYYY before anyone else (yeah I am that petty). However at the time being ahead of fashion was not what I had in mind, I wanted to just be in fashion, not defining it. The funny thing is I eventually took to this haircut and kept it for a little while. The hairdresser turned out to be right and it got me laid like nobodies business.

Over the course of my year in England I started going to Toni & Guy’s hair school for discount cutting edge hair cuts. I was given three cuts; “Monkey Boy” or as they referred to it the “Vidal Sassoon Coif”- but don’t tell Vidal. The “Fuck Up”- which resulted from a student cutting my hair who had coke nostrils and was so frazzeled they couldn’t finish - the teacher ‘Made do” with what I had left (which was buzzer tracks and a front bouffant, I wore a hat for a month – thank god my hair grows quickly) Finally- “The Mess” which sounds like a bad thing but it was not. It was essentially a choppy cut mullet that I just put tons of wax in so my hair stood on its short ends. It worked really well with my hair texture and curl. I finally got my “spiky & edgy” hair cut.

When I came back to the states all the boys were growing their hair getting ready for the next big rage on cute indie boys, the 70’s shag hair. I knew inside I could never have this hair as I had already seen its cascading curls on my shoulders and triangle head. This however did not stop me from growth spurt number 2. I grew it out again and it looked AWFUL growing out this time (I mean WORSE than high school if at all possible). I recently found some old videos of me acting ridiculous for an installation project and was horrified when I saw this pasted down parted, long in the back short in the front grown out mullet mess on my head. That combined with my confused clothing aesthetic (black jelly bracelets, orange polyester shirt, grey flash dance sweater, spiky belt and tight black jeans) was enough for me to chuck that video across the room and then laugh at my poor choices.

When my hair did finally reach my chin, I knew how to care for it. Sure I often slept with a stocking on my head to flatten it and still played with it every night in the mirror. However I gave into the curl and was very careful with it. I became the person who every woman came up to and asked about my hair. I heard things like “Oh my god it’s like Nicole Kidman’s hair!” or “How the did you get it so shiny” (umm Vaseline and olive oil treatments - gross but it worked) and even “I wish I had hair like that” which usually came from my mother. It really was pretty, girl pretty, but still pretty.

The season changed- I got impatient and got it cut again. This time I was willing to shell out money and went to a Jean Pierre David on Newbury Street. I was sat in front of a Latina woman with brown lip liner and white pink lips. I made the mistake of not having a picture and the other big no no of “what do you think?” Well she thought “Latino Pop Star”. Basically it was short on the sides with lots of curls on the top, dripping onto my forehead. I looked like I was ready to hop on stage at the Latin Grammy’s (I was also into tanning at the time, don’t ask). It was actually a good haircut when I relaxed on the product, but that was rare as I was still a product whore, ruining pillow case after pillow case.

Well patient reader, another season came and yes another look. From this point forward the hair is a blurry mystery. History repeated itself, I fell back on old tricks, buzzed, shaved, even had a faux hawk again. I eventually settled on a haircut that was very similar to “the mess” cut that I got in London. This time given to me by a fantastic hairdresser at “Frenchy’s” in Burbank California(yes as in the character from “Grease”- the place was all pink and black and the girls who worked there were rockabilly pink ladies… of COURSE I got my hair cut there). This very fitting cut lasted me until last summer where I once again repeated the growth. Stupid, stupid growth. Once again when it was cut everyone applauded and told me how great I looked and how the long hair didn’t suite me. (This was after two haircuts- the first I freaked out when I left the Salon- no crying, I bring a hat now. I was given my middle school “George Michael/ Wham” bouffant again, she even had me under the fucking dryer! I don’t know why I didn’t say anything. I quickly hopped into another salon down the block and had it fixed.)

Now I wear my hair pretty much the same, subtle changes here and there but it is the same short haircut. I carry a picture of myself with the haircut at its best for whenever I am faced with a new hairdresser. It must be a good one because no one has fucked it up yet (well excluding the incident with break ups and haircuts- see blog). I have also learned that “thinning” only makes me look like I am losing my hair. It does not prevent the inevitable poof that happens with curly hair; it just rips your hair out and makes it grow in funny. It also does not work for someone who piled on product like no tomorrow in an attempt to control the uncontrollable. It merely exacerbates the situation.

This brings me to my final hair realization- product use. My head supplies enough natural oil that I do not need to load on the products causing clogged pores, itchy scalp and ruined sheets. My friends gently started telling me my hair looked greasy. I have one friend who referred to my hair as “Extra Crispy or Original recipe” depending on how much goo I piled on. Then one day my best friend (the very one who first encouraged me to grow my hair long) asked me why the hell I put so much shit in my hair. I did not know the answer. Enough taunting and a few days on a vacation when I ran out of product taught me that I really did not need to put stuff in my hair nor wash it everyday (sorry but its true, you really aren’t supposed to. I wet it but I only “wash” it every few days). I must admit this realization was the hardest and I still struggle with it on the days I wash my hair.

Hair is a very strange thing. It expresses a lot about someone; people make assumptions about personalities, lifestyle and interests based on it. It can be a source of rebellion or conformity. People grow it on weird parts of their bodies while “training” it not to grow on others. Men mourn its loss on their heads and grow it on their backs. Women style it to no end and it can drastically change the way someone looks. Trends and time periods are defined by it! It is amazing when you talk with people about their hair because everyone has at least one “what was I thinking” story- it’s a common bond. I have learned to like my hair despite the struggles, the growing amount of grays and the strange blonde highlights on the side of my head. It’s my hair, all mine. I thank my body everyday for deciding not to turn on me and make it all fall out. I can assure you when that day comes I will look at my past hair pictures, realize the fun we had, and say goodbye forever, shaving it off... hopefully I won’t be fat, adding insult to injury when I hear “OH MY! Umm well you have a nice face…”

When people tell you things about yourself

This past Christmas I attempted to patch a rocky relationship with my Aunt. She was a very significant figure in my life during middle school when I had no friends and then she just got "weird" as my sister and I like to say. She and my mother have not been speaking for almost two years and as a result I hardly see her. Its a long story that has very little to do with this blog but lets put it this way- Italians can hold grudges and add to that competitive sisters, you have yourself a match made in hell. I digress...

While visiting my Aunt for a Christmas lunch we had run out of things to talk about and resorted to the etiquette low of "remember when" ( I had no idea that was a conversation low until recently when I read an article about the art of conversation). It started very amusing with "oh and you were in that play where you had to wear tights and an oversize shirt" or "Oh yeah Auntie I remember I saw you asleep in the audience during that show" (bless the woman for even coming to all the horrible children's shows I did). Things began to get a little ugly from her side when she started to bring up things I had forgotten as a child.

Apparently when I was about 4 she had taken me with her to a friends house who had a boy a few years older than I. He was stocky in build and sort of a bully. While the two adults were having tea we were sent to play in the yard and around the house. My Aunt informed me that an hour later they found me screaming in a tiny locked closet. When they opened the door there I stood, crying and in a puddle having peed my pants. They all laughed at me as I cried from fear of the dark and closed spaces. Funny right?

She laughed and laughed about this story like it was the funniest thing since Britney Spears tried to stage her come back. I sat there, mortified and slightly horrified that she found it so funny. I did not remember this event at all. I had sufficiently blocked it out by stuffing it down and replacing it with other horrific bully stories (like when I was held down by one kid and had my eyelids pulled open by another so a he could spit a loogie in my eye, yes my eyeball, yes a snotty wad of spit in there- or when I was tied to a tree and whipped with a rope- OR the time I was beaten with a red bat in a shack in order to be part of a "club" the bullies were forming- anyway you get the point.)

I thought of this today as I was sitting at my desk trying to complete two more tasks before I went to the bathroom. I always do this. I avoid going to the bathroom for as long as possible. My office is like a closet, my job like a bully and it got me thinking about this gem of a story...

Its amazing when someone tells you something you completely forgot and think " You bitch! That shit screwed me up pretty good!" while they laugh and laugh and laugh at your misfortune. Good times.

PS- She did apologize for telling the story with such joy and guffawing-However seeing as I am half Italian, the damage was done and the grudge born.

Hair (Part I)

No, this is not about the musical I saw with my dad that I sat uncomfortably through as everyone got naked and my dad whispered "Jesus Christ" under his breath. This is about my very own hair and the trials that it entails.

I was born with light blond hair that grew into beautiful locks of gold. It was amazing, and then cut off so I looked less like a girl and more like a boy (proof is in the Super 8 footage of my first haircut. My face is that of a girl on Top Model about to cry when they cut off all her hair). My hair stayed light, soft and straight until I was 12. Then, one of my most hated words in the English language set in PUBERTY (that even gives me a shudder to write that word). My hair started to get darker and darker. No amount of “Sun In” was bringing the blonde back; slowly the highlights faded and became plain old brown. Then one morning I woke up and realized not only was I not blond but my soft hair was now coarse and quickly becoming wiry. Soon enough I had a full on white boy fro. I was in deep denial.

All throughout middle school I would wake up extra early to shower so I could spend 15 minutes blow drying my hair straight. It was a chore but I happily did it. My Sister did it, my Mom did it and even my Dad did it. Our house was filled with the whirl of blow dryers and shouts of “Are you DONE YET” from 6:45 until 7:15. Each school year I would try and come up with a new way to hide the shameful curl.

-In sixth grade I sported a "Zach Morris/ Wham" puffed hairdo that when people tried to touch it I would freak out and back away (no wonder everyone called me a pansy).

-In seventh grade I gave up on the poof and just tried to keep the damn out of control mess straight with lots of spray and gel thanks to my father’s abundant supply of ozone destroying Aquanet.

-In eighth grade I tried the "thinning" method. My hairdresser, Meryl, would attack my dry hair with sheers going from the scalp to the end essentially ripping out some of my hair to keep it from getting "big" (I would fall victim too this stupid method for the next 15 years of my life). I gave up on styling it at this point because I was chubby, had acne, braces & a chin strap; it was the least of my problems.

Finally after freshman year my braces had come off, I was sent to a dermatologist and my very best friend convinced me to give up all the fuss and let my hair "BE". I was given a teen make over (which is a whole other story) and went to school for the first time without blowing it dry and a full head of curls. I was happy. Happiness as a teenager is such a fleeting thing so of course it didn’t last. I got some looks and was asked what happened to my hair by several curious classmates. My replies of "this is how my hair is naturally" did not go over as well as I thought it would (much like when I said "better safe than sorry" in my earlier years). My hair had “come out”. The peak of my hair's expulsion from the dark occurred during the class all physically inept people dread most - GYM.

I was sitting on the bleachers with some girls chatting away avoiding any physical activity. I noticed the bitchy female gym teacher glaring my way and tried to avoid eye contact. I didn’t want to have to play shirts and skins “crab ball” and was trying to make it seem like I was more interested in “deck tennis” (aka sitting in the bleachers purposely losing rounds in the tournament). It was too late, she was walking towards me. My face got hot with guilt and all the girls around me began to hush. We were all worried she was going to ask us to doing something "sporty".

"Randy..." she approached

"Um yes Mrs. Cowell" I meekly replied.

"I just wanted to say I LOVE your hair!" Her voice boomed.

"Oh, well thanks" I was surprised- the first compliment, granted from a female gym teacher but I would take it where I could get it.

"What did you do to it?! Did you get a perm?!" she asked excitedly as her hands extended forward for a touch.

Laughter. I felt like Carrie yet again.

"Ummmm no Mrs. Cowell, this is how my hair is naturally, I was straightening it before"- I backed away from her hardened dry hands as they slowly approached my luscious locks.

Dumb ass! Admitting I worked at my hair as a boy in high school was almost worse than singing and dancing on stage in front of jocks... almost.

I was shamed into submission with hair talk for another year until the very same friend who suggested I let it “be” had another idea …

It was 1994 and grunge was at the "height of fashion". My head was filled with fantasy's of Eddie Veder raping me, I possessed four discount Van Heusen flannels I washed over and over to make them look used (it just ran the shitty dye), I sported Doc Martins with pride and was filled with angst. It was suggested as the ultimate teenage rebellion I grow my hair long. This friend of mine had a penchant for shaggy haired dirty boys and thought the look would suit me. I wanted to have sex with shaggy haired dirty boys so I immediately began growing out the mess.

It took a year. A year of awful mullet head, hats and down the middle parts pasted to my forehead. After months of pulling my hair down my face to see how long it was it reached my shoulders. It was a shining example of my love for Pearl Jam, Nirvana, and all things that looked like they were picked out of the trash.

The thing about a gay boy and long hair is you can spend hours practicing hairstyles-- on yourself! I would sit in front of the mirror doing the Marsha Brady 100 strokes a night, style it into French twists, French braids, regular braids, pig tails, the Bjork "Big Time Sensuality" hairdo, Princess Leah's- you name it I did it on my own head and quite well! I would even put on hair shows for my best friend (much to her delight)when I visited her. The problem of course was I could not figure out how to wear my hair as a GUY. I usually just pulled it back in a pony tail and called it a day. I was not the best at caring for it as I did not understand the amount of time long curly hair consumed to make it look effortless. However when I pulled it out of the ponytail, it had a nice straight sheen to it and I could let it flow free (God I wanted straight hair). This fantasy would abruptly end when the wind blew, the sheet of hair broke and I had triangle head. It was a curse and a blessing all in one. Curse because it was girls hair, blessing because without those locks I never would have played the "most poetic" (aka GAY) Romeo in Romeo and Juliet at the Boston Public Theater (I also happened to look good in the costume).

I soon decided that shoulder length was too much to care for and was not a good look for an “actor”. I had auditions for college coming up and needed to feel attractive and clean, not dirty and downtrodden. After my senior photo was taken I decided to cut it. This time however I had so much hair to work with I wanted to go to a curly hair specialist. I begged my mom to take me to a salon in Boston where they understood how to work with curly hair. I wanted to avoid the hair ripping thinning process and finally have an easy care hair do. My mom was having a hair crisis at the time herself so she set us both up with appointments at an expensive salon on Newbury Street.

Going into a Salon where you are not familiar with the hairdresser and saying “Go Nuts” is really not a good idea. I thought if you were paying top dollar for a hair cut you were getting the best. I still did not grasp the idea that “just because it’s expensive doesn’t always mean it’s good”. I was set up with a slim, young black man wearing tight jeans and a 70’s style shirt open to his navel named Corey. I sat in the chair and explained my hair history thus far. When asked what I wanted I said “whatever you think would suit me best”.

What did Corey think would look best? A Cosmo Kramer- yes the beloved wacky neighbor from the wildly popular Sienfeld with curly hair that stood up on end. Now this was not the “typical” Kramer cut it was more along the lines of the “moussed” Kramer (remember that episode, it’s the one were Elaine is moving into Jerry’s Building and Kramer discovers the joys of mousse). It was still up in the front but the curls were overly shiny and in tact, sliding down the side of his head. When I was spun around to look in the mirror I did not speak, my Mom spoke for me “He loves it!” I was given products galore to maintain the frizz and keep the curl in tact which brought the grand total to $150.

Being the influential teenager I was I kept this style for a total of two months. We have some really great Christmas photos where I look like I just stuck my finger in an electrical socket and then poured grease on my head. I was told by my acting teacher it was a much more “casting friendly” hair style. I was not that pleased. I felt like it made my pubescent face look fat. I also thought it was not stylish enough for the young man who wrote the fashion column in the daily bulletin. I needed to change.

After seeing a few of the above said photos I was horrified. It was worse than I thought. I immediately took my Christmas money, called up Corey and made another appointment. This time I went in with a plan. This time, I had a picture.

George Clooney was on ER and hitting it big time. He was handsome, dashing and he had that killer haircut. The “Caesar” had hit America. It was the “must have” of the hair season. I too HAD to have it. I arrived at the salon and was greeted by Corey with a kiss on the cheek and I handed him the photo- “THAT is what I want”.

It was a good haircut for me. When it grew out a little the curl would make me look like a roman statue head. I was even told I looked like “Mahk Antneee” by a grocery store clerk. I was happy, truly happy. I found the haircut that worked best for me. It was effortless, wind proof, water proof and required very little product (even though I still piled it on, old habits die hard).

Then I grew restless….

Xanadu, ONJ and Broadway

Sunday night, 7 pm, 1980 something I am on the floor in my underroos starring up at the bright colored puppets of Fragle Rock. They sing some songs, the doozers build some things out of radish crystals that the Fraggles eat and I am loving it. Usually when the end is near on the show I would get a feeling of dread and worry, fun time was going to be over and it was time for bed (took me years to realize the beauty of sleep). However this time it was different, this time there was a special treat- Olivia Newton John had her "Physical" tour being broadcast on HBO. I loved Olivia, and I loved the song "physical" because I thought it was about aerobics, my mom taught aerobics and lets face it- I was a mommas boy(my fondest memory- me watching her shout out 'WINDMILL' and all the women doing the "wweeeoooooo" as they kicked their legs up and over). I was allowed to stay up for the first part of her concert then it was off to bed. Dreams of skipping rope and dancing ensued.

Olivia Newton John was my first crush. Now I say "Crush" but really it was a crush in the way a gay boy crushes out- I wanted to be her. I loved her saccharine sweet voice, her spunky personality, her non-offensive all American (yet Australian) looks. I loved that she loved to work out and created soft dance hits with her angelic voice ( I had no idea how dirty "physical" was until three years ago when I put it on a mix for a friend, I mean she is BEGGING for it in the song) . She was just the image of perfection- then along came Madonna and it was so long ONJ.

I often forget that she was my first love and foray into Pop music however when I hear certain songs of hers again (Magic, Suddenly, Physical, Hopelessly Devoted etc.) I feel like I am four again in the back of my mom's blue Oldsmobile with leather seating getting butterflies in my stomach. In fact even writing about her now I am smiling and feel giddy... I am also listening to Xanadu, the failed movie that was intended to launch her big time into movies (it didn't) about a muse who inspires a Santa Monica artist to open a Roller Disco to save "ART". The combo of ELO's rich and full 80's rock orchestrations with the sweet voice of the Australian Beauty- what could be better? Ummm let me see... let me see... a STAGE SHOW OF COURSE! And one where they roller skate damn it!

Well it finally happened.

I have an amazing friend who likes to indulge my gayest of gay sides and takes me to shows, movies, anything campy and ridiculous where I can honestly enjoy myself without judgment. Last week over coffee he casually asked me if I wanted to see XANADU on Broadway. I had walked past the sign two weeks earlier and said "holy shit I want to see that" under my breath lest any business men hear me.

"OH MY GOD TOTALLY!! I LOVE OLIVIA NEWTON JOHN!" my falsetto voice rang out. My face lit up and butterflies fluttered in (I knew full well she would not be in it but her spirit would be there). He was surprised at my reaction and said "Really? All right- a little Xanadu and dinner next Saturday". It was all I could talk about all week long. My Broadway actor friends made fun of me saying it was supposed to be terrible. People in my office kept saying "I know you are gay but I had no idea you were THAT GAY" to which I would reply "Have to believe we are magic" in my out of tune singing voice (because lets be honest- the gays ARE magic)

Saturday night I got dressed in my best attire despite the 85 degree weather with 100% humidity for a night at the theater- Nobody dresses up for it anymore but I don't care. I like to honor actors giving it their all by giving it my all as an audience member and to me that means dressing up. (Its all about respect you t-shirt & jeans wearing tourists who have ruined the art of dressing for the theater.) While yes I was stopped in the street and told "You must be hot!" I didn't freaking care, besides with all the old people going to theater these days they blast the AC almost like a preservative so no one has a heart attack during the show.

We arrived at the theater and realized, yes, we indeed were the demographic this was targeting- gay men, big woman, fans of the movie and people who love rainbows and roller skates all lined up and humming songs. The theater was tiny- the Helen Hayes. The set was that of a Greek theater and at first I was disappointed, I thought it would be all "Starlight Express", the other roller musical, with ramps and fancy lights etc. It was pretty stripped down. There were seats on the the stage, a rock band in the back and a tacky ass projection of a bad chalk drawing on the stage being reflected in the giant mirror above the stage. This is the very mural the young, dumb artist is working on when the muses spring to life and come out of the floor- the COOLEST most campy opening I have seen since Hairspray's bed trick for "Good Morning Baltimore".

The leading man, Sonny played by James Carpinello- who has a hot ass body with 1% body fat but no comic timing or real zip on stage (other than the zip of his rippeling leg muscles), starts the show off with a monolgue that leaves a lot to be desired. The problem- I could not tell if it was his character or him that was so bad, which ultimately left me not caring about him and just hoping his shirt would come off (it didn't). Thankfully this was soon forgotten when the most amazing comedic ensemble rode up in an elevator through the floor to "I'm Alive" through the chalk mural- I could not stop laughing. They even had the neon outlines in the projections on the floor of the "drawing" just like the movie. The muses, a mixture of effeminate hot men and character women with their beautiful leader Clio aka Kira ( Kerry Butler, who was beautiful, sunny, and hilarious) rise up and save Sonny from doom (in the plot line yes, but also from his own performace). They plan everything in faux Greek/Shakespearean/ Victorian - oh hell lets just call it fancy unison theater speak, as to how they can help this poor California artist. Clio decided she must go down to help him however she must not create art or fall in love. But how? how? She must have a disguise... that disguise- Leg warmers, roller skates and an Australian accent (the leg warmers end up being the thing that saves her life) Brilliant! The audience went nuts. I knew this show was going to rule the second Kerry Butler rolls on stage in her awesome skates with clear green flowered wheels, pink roller plates (the axles if you will), white boots, leg warmers and barret to the side of her flowing blonde hair.

The cheesy jokes, the outlandish dialogue all worked because the actors were all so amazingly committed and having a good time. Its rare to see EVERYONE and I mean EVERYONE in a cast enjoying themselves. Kerry Butler was better than I could have imagined. She had that ONJ feeling right down to her breathy "look at me" in the beginning of "Suddenly" (which includes Sonny and her dancing around with a phone booth in skates- yes people its true and it was pretty awesome). All her pop vocal nuances that sited ONJ were dead on without feeling like a Karaoke version or impersonation but an homage and a genuine comedic performance. Her Australian accent was HILARIOUS accenting all the words like "Unleeeeees" (as she rolls down a ramp with one foot out approaching Sonny) and "Mate" to give it that extra funny kick. The highlight to her hijinx is in the final number ("Xanadu") when she rolls downstage to a high wind fan being held up by a muse and blows her hair around with "sexy face" ala ONJ- I almost peed my pants it was so damn funny. It takes a lot to get me to laugh out loud and feel it all the way to the core- My friend Sonia is one of the few people who can do this- Kerry Butler, now you too.

The plot is different from the movie a bit from what I understand (only seen clips of it) but it worked very well. The two added jealous, villainous sister muses, Mary Testa and Jackie Hoffman (muse of tradgedy and epic respectively), bring the laughs and the vocal goods during songs like "Evil Woman" & "Strange Magic" both deserved a standing ovation for their comic genius. The dancers were amazing, and for such a small space they really were doing tough choreography. Andre Ward had one of the funniest moments in the show where he is Hermes delivering news to Clio in a very upright and straightforward manner when she goes on and on about her problems he sashays his cape away and says "Bitch- I don't know you" and storms off like a diva. Once again sheer comic grace.

YES- there is a ride on a cut out horse, Pegasus, to bring Clio to Zeus where she swoops gently through the cut out clouds and fog machines. YES Clash of the Titans comes to mind when on Mt. Olympus. YES there is some great tap dancing. Finally YES- there is a roller disco finale with tricks galore and awesome spandex and shorts costumes. (James Carpinello redeems himself with his skating abilities and his short shorts- very hot).

Now this show won't last - as was stated by the amazingly talented Jackie Hoffman in the show "This is like Children's Theater for 40 year old gay people" - and tourists don't like that nor get it but I sure did. All the sly references like how the show was ending (only an hour and a half no intermission) and "They only just hit the barricade across the street for the first time" (referencing its neighbor Les Miz) were lost on many but not those they targeted. We all laughed with aplomb because WE all got the jokes and that always makes a spectator feel special and more involved in a production of this sort.

This show feels like an over the top, rediculous breath of fresh air and while it may seem like a campy sketch comedy rendition of a muscial it KNOWS what it is and the sincerity of the performers make it work. Just when you are about to shift your numb butt in your seat the show is over and you are still laughing. I encourage anyone who Loves ONJ, Loves ELO, Loves 80s cheese, loves ROLLER SKATES and wants to laugh and have a good time to go and see this show- support these actors and give them the respect they deserve for truly taking you to a magical funny place, "Xanadu". (and dress up damn it!)