"Perge modo et qua te ducit via dirige gressum," said Venus to Aeneas.
Monday, February 27, 2006
Saturday, February 25, 2006
Near the Staten Island Ferry Station
C took this rather perfect picture last week while we were wandering lower Manhattan.
Color. Composition. Texture.
What's not to like?
Friday, February 24, 2006
Saturday, February 18, 2006
Lesbians, Ty-ers and Bears, Oh My!
Well there really weren’t any lesbians, but on Saturday night, We went downtown to see the blizzard, the wonderful blizzard of Blarg.
Earlier in the day, we had brunch at DeMarcheliers with Joe and this Fascinator. When I suggested that he fall in with us for the evening’s procession, RJ laughed and said, “Oh no thanks. Been there.”
“Well you’ll be able to peruse the reviews in about a dozen different blogs.”
“Please. I could write it right now.”
And he could have.
At exactly 10PM, the snow and the wind, arriving as predicted, swept us into Pieces, the first blarg depot. This is a pleasant place peopled with men who seem to be dreaming of a better world but are happy to turn some scraps of color into a warm and functioning engine of a Saturday night. The Blarg doubles their ranks, and we meet a really cute young guy with shiny wavy long black hair to whom the concept of blog must be explained. He’s a first grade teacher, and while he compares professional notes with Glenn, I wonder how school would have been different had I been taught by two hot men like these.
Also at Pieces, Mark-O-Cane's limber boyfriend and I get into a Catholic conversation that is of interest to only the two of us. Rule: if you want to clear a room, get me started on Church.
Joe interrupts us with protocol. “We’ve got a tight schedule, my tender butterflies.” I contribute the first of many half finished beers that will form a 40 blarger wake of debris along this nostalgic canal of tumbleweedy watering holes.
I recall odd moments of conversation.
At the Monster, C, and someone who will remain nameless, had a serious discussion about the bathroom door at Urge and its need for restoration.
At the Duplex, C and Helen have an astoundingly serious conversation about midget sex. Here, also, we make the first of several toasts to the absent Dagon.
At Ty’s, Circle (who got the evening’s Congeniality award for spending quality time with absolutely everyone) receives instruction from Glennalicious about how to produce the Funny Voice by inhaling the contents of a helium balloon. Here, we also examine the “John Deere green” of WeLike Sheep's tee shirt, and are reminded by C that corporate colors are not uncommon in the pantone world. Pepsi blue is an example.
As we leave Chi-Chiz, a rueful bystander says “They told us there’d be more of you here”. I’m not sure what he meant. I don’t think he was referring to “bloggers”. I have an idea it might have been a statement of racial/ethnic expectation.
At the Hangar, Joe is restrained from taking photos while Glennalicious announces “I can so look at any girl and tell exactly what her bra size is.” Helen is the only opportunity for verification, and Glenn nails it.
There is only one conclusion to be derived from this anthropological tour: bloggers may have off-switches, but they are rarely used. Marinate them in bad beer and wind-driven snow for a few hours and they will remain lively. I kept thinking that this is the exact group with whom I’ve always dreamed of taking a bus trip to Cleveland. The driver has a medical/dental condition that causes a detour to Akron, the only food on the bus is a five pound Yugoslavian salami hidden in Aaron's backpack, and, well, RJ, you can just write the rest from here, can’t you?
Earlier in the day, we had brunch at DeMarcheliers with Joe and this Fascinator. When I suggested that he fall in with us for the evening’s procession, RJ laughed and said, “Oh no thanks. Been there.”
“Well you’ll be able to peruse the reviews in about a dozen different blogs.”
“Please. I could write it right now.”
And he could have.
At exactly 10PM, the snow and the wind, arriving as predicted, swept us into Pieces, the first blarg depot. This is a pleasant place peopled with men who seem to be dreaming of a better world but are happy to turn some scraps of color into a warm and functioning engine of a Saturday night. The Blarg doubles their ranks, and we meet a really cute young guy with shiny wavy long black hair to whom the concept of blog must be explained. He’s a first grade teacher, and while he compares professional notes with Glenn, I wonder how school would have been different had I been taught by two hot men like these.
Also at Pieces, Mark-O-Cane's limber boyfriend and I get into a Catholic conversation that is of interest to only the two of us. Rule: if you want to clear a room, get me started on Church.
Joe interrupts us with protocol. “We’ve got a tight schedule, my tender butterflies.” I contribute the first of many half finished beers that will form a 40 blarger wake of debris along this nostalgic canal of tumbleweedy watering holes.
I recall odd moments of conversation.
At the Monster, C, and someone who will remain nameless, had a serious discussion about the bathroom door at Urge and its need for restoration.
At the Duplex, C and Helen have an astoundingly serious conversation about midget sex. Here, also, we make the first of several toasts to the absent Dagon.
At Ty’s, Circle (who got the evening’s Congeniality award for spending quality time with absolutely everyone) receives instruction from Glennalicious about how to produce the Funny Voice by inhaling the contents of a helium balloon. Here, we also examine the “John Deere green” of WeLike Sheep's tee shirt, and are reminded by C that corporate colors are not uncommon in the pantone world. Pepsi blue is an example.
As we leave Chi-Chiz, a rueful bystander says “They told us there’d be more of you here”. I’m not sure what he meant. I don’t think he was referring to “bloggers”. I have an idea it might have been a statement of racial/ethnic expectation.
At the Hangar, Joe is restrained from taking photos while Glennalicious announces “I can so look at any girl and tell exactly what her bra size is.” Helen is the only opportunity for verification, and Glenn nails it.
There is only one conclusion to be derived from this anthropological tour: bloggers may have off-switches, but they are rarely used. Marinate them in bad beer and wind-driven snow for a few hours and they will remain lively. I kept thinking that this is the exact group with whom I’ve always dreamed of taking a bus trip to Cleveland. The driver has a medical/dental condition that causes a detour to Akron, the only food on the bus is a five pound Yugoslavian salami hidden in Aaron's backpack, and, well, RJ, you can just write the rest from here, can’t you?
Thursday, February 16, 2006
Blarg moment
Helendamnation, with the aire of a middle eastern seductress, displays evidence that there is at least one straight man in NYC who recognizes a fine woman. This attainment happened at either The Hangar or Chi-Chiz. Clear memory is lost under 26.9 inches of snow that night.
Blarg Moment
Helendamnation, Circleinasquare and Bouncer Brendan formed this disconsolate, wistful, melancholic and slightly irritated (Brendan) group whose pose deserved John Singer Sargent.
This was at Boots and Saddles which had once been a venerable bar, but has been brutally gutted and redecorated by a taxidermist. It was our fourth stop of the night. (Circle requested I take out the "red eye", but I think leaving it in more fully captures the entire evening.)
Monday, February 13, 2006
Central Park Studioigloo
New construction. Excellent location. Southern exposure. Superb amenities. Many bathrooms. Terrace. Professional landscaping. Body heated. Pets OK. Expansion/addition possible. Act fast. This one won't last.
Friday, February 10, 2006
Four Bitches
“Hi Bart. Can I pick up my case of Shiraz Mourvedre or have you sold it like last time.”
I put on the exaggeratedly sour and suspicious face that is designed to signify humor to someone who does not know me well enough to be sure that I am only joking. Although. Although last year he did break open his last case and sell it off rather than hold it for me, so there is precedent for worry.
While he is calling downstairs for someone named Aleef to locate the case, I wonder if I really need to use the big “cartoon face” to signify sardony when I am in New York. God knows I need it in Connecticut where ordinary conversations must be accompanied by hammer blows to the skull and 90 decibel laugh tracks before anyone actually gets you. Here perhaps, just maybe, may I actually relax and assume that the guy who sells me wine can swallow the nuances of his customers without choking? What a luxury. (Fort Lauderdale offers social relief that is the flip side of this coin: there is no such thing as subtlety, so no one tries it, and no one expects it. Traffic is loud. Men are drunk, and the sun sits on your face like a fat whore smoking a cigarette on your dime.)
While Bart makes the call, I lean on the counter and look at the other three customers who seem to have convened at exactly the same time, and may be wondering who ought to be served next. They are three Typical Upper West Side Women. Thin, spectral, with cheekbones of defiance, and straight hair streaked in a way that makes me think that a pipe must have burst at their salons, drenching their dos mid-tint and ruining the intended color. They are dressed in ski garb of teal and plum and lime. Ms. Teal holds a bottle of George DeBeouf Beaujolais Nouveau. Ms. Plum holds a bottle of Red Truck, and Ms. Lime is grinding her teeth into her cell phone. They are impatiently chewing gum, and when they see that I am looking at them, they each perform an almost imperceptible adjustment of carriage that throws forward their well-tended breasts. I smile with amusement. They read appreciation.
When Bart puts down the phone, I turn around to face him.
“Do you have any organic Sardinian wine?”
He comes around from behind the counter and brings me to a rack just a few feet away.
“I don’t have any organic, but it’s funny you should mention it because I was thinking of ordering some. I do have these four from Sardinia. This one’s fine, oh, but this one, the Cannonau di Sardegna, now that is one big, great big mouthful of good wine.” He taps the bottle and raises his eyebrows.
“OK. I’ll try that one.”
While Bart returns to the counter to ring up the sale, I turn to face Teal, Plum and Lime who have been intently listening to every word of my transaction.
I look at the bottle of Red Truck that Plum has placed on the counter.
“Oh. Red Truck. Pretty color. The label, I mean.”
I look at the bottle of Beaujolais Nouveau, and then I look up into Teal’s face, hoping for an explanation. Finding none, I let the smile wordlessly fall off my face.
And now for the hat trick.
Lime wags a finger at Bart and at the bottle of Sardinian wine on the counter, and says into her cell, “Gimme one of those.”
“Sorry. He’s taking our last one.”
I turn to face her with a big Bette Davis cartoon face.
“I’d love ta invitcha over for a sip but my husband just washed his hair.”
I put on the exaggeratedly sour and suspicious face that is designed to signify humor to someone who does not know me well enough to be sure that I am only joking. Although. Although last year he did break open his last case and sell it off rather than hold it for me, so there is precedent for worry.
While he is calling downstairs for someone named Aleef to locate the case, I wonder if I really need to use the big “cartoon face” to signify sardony when I am in New York. God knows I need it in Connecticut where ordinary conversations must be accompanied by hammer blows to the skull and 90 decibel laugh tracks before anyone actually gets you. Here perhaps, just maybe, may I actually relax and assume that the guy who sells me wine can swallow the nuances of his customers without choking? What a luxury. (Fort Lauderdale offers social relief that is the flip side of this coin: there is no such thing as subtlety, so no one tries it, and no one expects it. Traffic is loud. Men are drunk, and the sun sits on your face like a fat whore smoking a cigarette on your dime.)
While Bart makes the call, I lean on the counter and look at the other three customers who seem to have convened at exactly the same time, and may be wondering who ought to be served next. They are three Typical Upper West Side Women. Thin, spectral, with cheekbones of defiance, and straight hair streaked in a way that makes me think that a pipe must have burst at their salons, drenching their dos mid-tint and ruining the intended color. They are dressed in ski garb of teal and plum and lime. Ms. Teal holds a bottle of George DeBeouf Beaujolais Nouveau. Ms. Plum holds a bottle of Red Truck, and Ms. Lime is grinding her teeth into her cell phone. They are impatiently chewing gum, and when they see that I am looking at them, they each perform an almost imperceptible adjustment of carriage that throws forward their well-tended breasts. I smile with amusement. They read appreciation.
When Bart puts down the phone, I turn around to face him.
“Do you have any organic Sardinian wine?”
He comes around from behind the counter and brings me to a rack just a few feet away.
“I don’t have any organic, but it’s funny you should mention it because I was thinking of ordering some. I do have these four from Sardinia. This one’s fine, oh, but this one, the Cannonau di Sardegna, now that is one big, great big mouthful of good wine.” He taps the bottle and raises his eyebrows.
“OK. I’ll try that one.”
While Bart returns to the counter to ring up the sale, I turn to face Teal, Plum and Lime who have been intently listening to every word of my transaction.
I look at the bottle of Red Truck that Plum has placed on the counter.
“Oh. Red Truck. Pretty color. The label, I mean.”
I look at the bottle of Beaujolais Nouveau, and then I look up into Teal’s face, hoping for an explanation. Finding none, I let the smile wordlessly fall off my face.
And now for the hat trick.
Lime wags a finger at Bart and at the bottle of Sardinian wine on the counter, and says into her cell, “Gimme one of those.”
“Sorry. He’s taking our last one.”
I turn to face her with a big Bette Davis cartoon face.
“I’d love ta invitcha over for a sip but my husband just washed his hair.”
Tuesday, February 07, 2006
Blarg Hopping
I'm not sure why we are announcing this, as it may result in what something like the arrival of a plague of locusts, but here's the news, lifted straight out of Joe.My.God, and we will all feel free to ignore the one cocktail per bar rule, as that is exactly what did me in during the Proto-Blarg-Hop of two weeks ago:
Event: Blarg Hop (blog + bar hop = blarg hop)
Date: Saturday, February 11th
Place: Christopher Street
Time: 10PM (22:00 hrs if you are Eric)
What: An old school bar crawl down Christopher Street
Who: A veritable cavalcade of gay bloggers and friends, including: Blather And Bosh, CircleInASquare, Diary Of A Dandy, Glennalicious, Ham & Cheese On Wry, Joe.My.God., Perge Modo, Plastic Music, PogueGO, Robocub, Someone In A Tree, The Ninth Circle Of Helen, Tin Man, The Mark Of Kane, VelleityNYC, We Like Sheep and doubtlessly some others. Bloggers interested in joining us, email me to add your name here.
Itinerary: (We start at Pieces at 10pm. The bars will be visited in the following order, at least one cocktail per bar, but we allocate no specific duration to any venue in case they like, suck and stuff.)
1. Pieces - 8 Christopher Street
2. Stonewall - 53 Christopher Street
3. Duplex - 61 Christopher Street
4. The Monster - 80 Grove Street*
5. Boots & Saddles - 76 Christopher Street
6. Ty's - 114 Christopher Street
7. The Hangar - 115 Christopher Street
8. Chi-Chiz - 135 Christopher Street
9. Dugout - 185 Christopher Street
Feel free to join us. Mike P of Blather & Bosh will be audioblogging the event for his podcast, and there will be copious photographic records made of the entire, sure to be sordid, affair. And of course, we will all post hungover recaps on Sunday. But probably not too early.
* Yes, we know that The Monster is not on Christopher, but it's close enough and too legendary to ignore. Marie's Crisis gets no such dispensation.
Event: Blarg Hop (blog + bar hop = blarg hop)
Date: Saturday, February 11th
Place: Christopher Street
Time: 10PM (22:00 hrs if you are Eric)
What: An old school bar crawl down Christopher Street
Who: A veritable cavalcade of gay bloggers and friends, including: Blather And Bosh, CircleInASquare, Diary Of A Dandy, Glennalicious, Ham & Cheese On Wry, Joe.My.God., Perge Modo, Plastic Music, PogueGO, Robocub, Someone In A Tree, The Ninth Circle Of Helen, Tin Man, The Mark Of Kane, VelleityNYC, We Like Sheep and doubtlessly some others. Bloggers interested in joining us, email me to add your name here.
Itinerary: (We start at Pieces at 10pm. The bars will be visited in the following order, at least one cocktail per bar, but we allocate no specific duration to any venue in case they like, suck and stuff.)
1. Pieces - 8 Christopher Street
2. Stonewall - 53 Christopher Street
3. Duplex - 61 Christopher Street
4. The Monster - 80 Grove Street*
5. Boots & Saddles - 76 Christopher Street
6. Ty's - 114 Christopher Street
7. The Hangar - 115 Christopher Street
8. Chi-Chiz - 135 Christopher Street
9. Dugout - 185 Christopher Street
Feel free to join us. Mike P of Blather & Bosh will be audioblogging the event for his podcast, and there will be copious photographic records made of the entire, sure to be sordid, affair. And of course, we will all post hungover recaps on Sunday. But probably not too early.
* Yes, we know that The Monster is not on Christopher, but it's close enough and too legendary to ignore. Marie's Crisis gets no such dispensation.
Monday, February 06, 2006
new fl
Just before the downpour, we stood on our terrace wondering who would own a boat this big and why. How much do these things cost, and how many people are required as crew? Pointing out the largest of them, C guesses twenty million. I guess lower. Maybe five million. We have no clue, and we have no desire for it. Something smaller and inflatable maybe. Once, on a lake in the Bershires, C and I had sex in an inflatable raft as the yellow plastic paddles floated away from us.
You'd miss this. We will all miss this.
Old Fort Lauderdale was composed of exactly this sort of visual moment. New development is obliterating all traces of the past as parcels are assembled to allow for glass towers. Walking or driving across the draw bridge on East Sunrise, you'd barely notice this place down twenty feet at the level of the old road before the bridge was built. Oh well.
Wednesday, February 01, 2006
shadow face
Here's another photo C got last Saturday while I was still asleep. It's Central Park West, a block or two up from us. The shadow of the street light does form a sort of animal face. Sort of conjures the Pink Panther, I think.
under bow bridge
Sometimes C gets out of bed before me and goes for a pre-coffee trudge in Central Park. Sometimes he comes back with pics in the cam. Here's one he took last Saturday. A place we've photographed a million times and crossed two million times, but for some reason, this photo stood above the usual ones as a beacon to memory of the place. This bridge leads to the Ramble, at night.
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