How I Go Down

In any show I've ever done, there comes a point where as an actor, you just know if you have a good product or not. It's at that point where you either start inviting all of your friends to come to the show, or start looking for new work as you already know the show is going to bomb.

When I perform a comedy show, my judgment is more clouded. I write the material, I design the costume and coordinate the music, and have also had to do the marketing. It usually isn't until after I've done the show that I realize how good or bad it is.

I've made it a point to not blog about work, nor do I try to bring it up on this forum. However, currently I am working on an event, and this event is going down faster than the Titanic. Seriously. Sales are at an uncomfortable level, web hits and phone traffic are low, and nothing I can do is going to change it at this point. As I walked up the escalator to work today, I thought I could hear the phrase "Abandon Ship" being called out. Life jackets are being distributed and those of us involved are fighting for our lives (I have a life jacket...But I'm watching others panicked). Not everyone is going to fit on the lifeboat.

So the big thing I need to do in the next few months...Create a better attended event for the fall. I'm thinking my organization should sponsor the adult video awards.

On a Downtown Train

This past weekend, I attended the Gay Lesbian Business Expo, which was held at the convention center. Apparently, we gay people are a serious commodity, and business will do just about anything to sell to us. Including appealing to our most primal instincts...the gay sex drive.

Now I know that sex sells. Hell, if I put up pictures of naked men my statistics would rise like the nether regions. But it pisses me off.

I'd prefer to have someone sell me something because they have goods or services I need. That being said, the Metro Transit Authority seems to be marketing the subway system.

I may have to take a ride on the "E" train.

Hey Loser in the Back Row...

Ok...here goes. I'm not one to acknowledge critics, but this one time...Well lets just say I'm feeling a little charged up. Not because of this commenter, but more because of some other things. This is the comment I received yesterday:

For an alleged "Stand up" you are remarkably dull......Oh, that's right, that's because you are a small mean horrible person that learned nothing after your cancer experience.

Michael.
IP Address 157.238.154.18

Dearest Michael,
Wow...You've told me. Obviously since you haven't listed your email address, you're taking the cowards way out. I decided to do a little detective work.

Michael

Domain Name (Unknown)
IP Address 157.238.154.# (FIOS)
State : Oregon
City : Portland
Time of Visit Mar 27 2006 2:28:38 pm EST
Last Page View Mar 27 2006 2:45:24 pm EST
Visit Length 16 minutes 46 seconds
Page Views 7
Referring URL http://tunagirl.blog...u-can-skip-this.html
Visitor's Time Mar 27 2006 11:28:38 am

I've only dated one person from Portland and we keep things civil, so I'm assuming you're not him. Additionally, he's more likely to email me.

You think I'm remarkably dull? Big deal...I think you're stupid. Put us together and we can make a frat boy. If this is the best you have in insults, you need to go back to middle school and listen to the kids there. They would give me a better run for my intelligence.

Since I've first started blogging, I've had some very strange experiences, and your senseless and unwarranted attack has been the most pathetic. I've had men break up with me because I blogged something they've not cared for. I've had the three wisemen (Balthiar, Caspar, and Melachoir) send me $18 (in sets of $6) to tell me I'm going to hell. THEY'VE DONE THIS THREE TIMES, including one time to my workplace in Provincetown, where they nearly scared off someone I was dating. Imagine me trying to explain to someone while taking a walk on a deserted beach that I have a stalker. He nearly ran home.

And speaking of Provincetown, I'd be completely remiss if I didn't mention that I had someone show up at the bar where I worked to ask me how my erections were. Currently he feels I'm not good enough to be "from" Provincetown.

Do I blog to be funny? Hell no. I blog because it's cheaper than therapy, and it's a great way to take up what little free time I have. Perhaps if you did a little less reading of blogs and spent a little more time working (you did comment during working hours), you wouldn't find the time to attack others. Don't like me? Boo-fucking-hoo.

And really, Miss Thing...If I am boring you so much, why did you view 7 pages and spend nearly 17 minutes on my site? Seriously...Do you have a masochistic need that says read what bores you? If I'm bored, I usually entertain myself. Often by masturbating compulsively...But that's not the topic here.

Lastly, exactly who are you to say I didn't learn something about my prior illnesses? What should I have learned? That I shouldn't go into the water until an hour after eating? That working in financial aid is hazardous to your health? How about 4 cosmos will get me to make out with strangers and five cosmos will have me sleep with them.

Here's what I learned. When you get an opportunity, you take it. Otherwise you can spend your entire life miserable and friendless (not unlike you). I've met some incredible people through blogging (one you felt the need to call a bad mother who's children don't love her). Some I've met in person, a few I've slept with (secrets are safe with me guys) and most importantly, a free place to stay in several different states and countries! Hotel rooms aren't cheap Michael (and yes...People are welcome to stay with me.)

Michael...Move on with the existence you call your life. You live in Portland. There are several bloggers out there who would be more than happy to welcome you into their circle of friends and you can spend all your free time with them. I'm over your antics.

Oh...and have a nice day! xoxoxo

CALGON, Take Me Away!

"New York City is the greatest cities on Earth!" said my boss from the restaurant on Saturday night. Of course, he lives in a queens suburb. The minute he's done with work, he leaves the city, and never comes here on his day off.

But New York is a great city. You can find a million things to do here every day. Yet almost all the people I know that live here have traveled away as much as they possibly could in the past year. They've gone to Montreal, Boston, Washington DC, Florida, the Hamptons, Antigua, Puerto Rico, Rome, and Philadelphia. For a city so many people live in, those same people seem to want to get away as much as possible.

Why?

What is it about this place that makes so many people want to go away as much as possible? Yes, it's crowded, but that's what makes it so fascinating. Having dinner with a friend, you can hear a couple argue in French at the table next to you. While running in the park, I can run into ex boyfriends! That I can go out to a part of town I don't normally go to and feel like I'm in a completely different city. Those are the parts that make this place so wonderful.

I like that a homeless woman will walk onto the subway car and inform us that she is collecting for United Negro Hamburger Fund, which provides Big Mac's to her hungry mouth. I love that I can risk my life riding in the back seat of a cab driven by Mohammad who never gets off his cell phone. I even like that I have to fight film crews (Including Law and Order) to get into my apartment as they like filming my street.

So...Why am I looking to go on a vacation somewhere?

Making The Cut

In the past couple of days, the conversation of the preference of a “turtleneck” or not has come up more than usual. That the subject has come up at all in my social circle is odd.

The decision of weather or not to circumcise your child is a personal one. Do you want your son to look like his father (the majority of American men are circumcised)? Are you afraid that your child will be made fun of when he’s in the locker room as an adolescent? Will he even care?

Of course, some men believe they can remember the trauma of being circumcised. They claim that their sex lives are suffering because of the loss of excess skin as a baby. These same men express anger at the doctors and parents who made the decision for them. Get these guys going and some will claim that every life setback they have is related to their childhood circumcision. “I was laid off because I was circumcised!”

***blank stare***

I need to use that excuse some day.


I’m not going to popular here, but I personally prefer the “crew neck” over the “turtle neck”. It’s just a preference. I get things stuck in my teeth. Of course, I have the same feeling about size…it doesn’t matter to me as much as the person attached to the penis. If you can get my heart pumping…well you’re going to get me pumping. Cut or not.

But if I ever have a child I might have to make the decision to make the cut or not. Some people say to let the child decide when he is older, but is it right to put that decision on an adolescent? I’m not sure what I’d decide to do.

What about you? Do you prefer the turtleneck look?

Decisions...Decisions

When I was 11 years old, I watched an old movie(1968)called "Barbarella" on cable. The movie itself sucked, but the blond buff guy with angel wings did help me realize how much of a horny devil I was to become.

The one scene that stuck with me was a scene where the two main characters accidentally walked into "the suicide chamber". The chamber had three doors, each with a different form of death behind it, and each door was a one way door. You couldn't see what type of death was behind it and once entering the chamber, you couldn't get back out. The person was forced to make a choice and once the decision was made, their was no going back.

As an adult, I finally see the ironic metaphor on life this movie was showing. We all eventually get put into a place where we are forced to make a life changing decision. Once the decision is made, your life is never the same. Good or bad, you live with the ramifications.

Do you accept the marriage proposal or not? Do you take the job across the country or not? Do you move to Provincetown and start over or not? Each major decision we make leads us down a particular road, each filled with it's own pitfalls and potholes. Granted, some decisions cause us to walk down a jungle path, but each path comes to another decision. My first major decision was when my leaving home when I did. Granted, my father threw me out, but I had to choose where to go to.

Life and time move hand in hand, and like it or not, we can never go back. I often wonder "what if" I had chosen other tracks in life, where I would be right now. I don't regret the road I'm on right now, but at times I feel I need a weed wacker...(oh the sexual puns I'm thinking right now).

What was your first big decision in life?

Free Tampons!

I've said this before, but I am so glad I am not a woman. Yeah...Women may get to cum as many times as you want, but the drawbacks are so not worth it.

Unequal pay, sexism, child bearing (Pushing something that big through that small of an opening is inhuman), and even restroom inequalities.

I currently work in an office building that has a Unisex bathroom. All public toilets have toilet paper for anyone to use, provided free of charge. Why is it that women have to pay to get a tampon? Are tampons really worth that much that it has to be sold? Come on! How much does a piece of rolled up cotton really cost? (note...if it involves more than cotton...I don't want to know.)

And women accept this! That's what shocks me the most. If men had a period and had to PAY for a tampon, you can pretty much guarantee the guy would bleed all over the place until the items were offered free! I say women need to fight back. Get together and take over the bathroom. Put the toilet paper into a pay dispenser, or better yet...put laxatives in the office coffee pot and spend really long amounts of time in the bathroom. Complain that if you had a free tampon dispenser, you could be in and out of there (uhhh...is that a bad pun?)!

I know...I'm a man. I really don't understand what it's like to be a woman...but does this make sense to anyone at all? Yes, men are from Mars and Women are from Venus, but this gay man...Well I'm from Uranus.

:-)

Masochism Part Deux

For years now, I've had a recurring dream that leaves me waking up in a very unsettled cold sweat with difficulty in falling back to sleep. The dream is nearly always the same situation. For whatever reason, something feels wrong in my mouth. I place my finger in to check out something and find a tooth loose. As I touch the tooth, it comes out in my hand, and I see the tooth, roots and all. Small droplets of blood still remaining. I hurry to the bathroom and realize that all of my teeth are suffering the same problem.

Yesterday afternoon, I felt as if something was stuck in my gum line. Using my fingernail, I scraped the edge of my back tooth, and 1/4 of it came out. Apparently, I had broken my molar recently, and now have the pleasure of having to go to a dentist and hear what ever bad news they have for me. My worst nightmare is coming true.

This is the curse of poverty. The poor go so long neglecting their own health care because of cost that when they finally do go, the damage is so great that the treatment is very drastic. I've been under that curse for the last 5 years, and although I finally have health insurance again, the copayments alone make it difficult to prioritize. Pay for groceries...or get a root canal? Now, I'm not that bad off. I've got savings set aside and can tap into that if necessary (although not an ideal situation).

It's a sick and sometimes unfair world we live in here. We have the "freedom" to do whatever we want, but if you don't make enough to pay for insurance, you're fucked if you get sick.

As for me...I don't think I'll be smiling anytime soon. It's overrated anyway.

IQ

When I first started working professionally, I worked in the area of Financial Aid administration as a financial aid advisor (Yeah...I wonder how many google searches for financial aid are going to find this post). All day long, I and my other coworkers would get calls from students and parents who had questions about their aid. Each of us advisors could tell you horror stories about problem students (Jill Buccholz) that each of us had, but we all had one thing we remember the most.

The average population has the IQ of a dart.

Seriously, I would get calls from students that would sound like this:

"Yeah...I just got this letter from Financial Aid", jock college boy would say.
"Yes...", I'd answer.
"Ummm...What's this all about?"
"Well...what does the letter say?"
"Oh...I should open it?"
"Yeah...probably."
"It says my aid is suspended because of my grades"
"Did you fail your classes?"
"Uhh...yeah."
"Then you lost your aid. Any questions?"

I've come to the conclusion...if somebody gets a piece of mail, they just don't read it. All they do is look for the telephone number and call. Today, I am working on a charity and shopping event that my employer is sponsoring. The phone is ringing off the hook from people who received a mailing letting them know that for information, they can go to our website.

In the past 4 hours, I've gotten calls saying the same thing over and over.
"I got this post card. What does it mean?"
"What does the postcard say?"
"Oh...so that's it?"
"Uhhh...Yeah"

Behold the future of our country.

Red Alert!

Apparently the New York City police think my lunch is a weapon of mass destruction. At least that's what I think, as they decided to search my bags this morning.

"What's in this?" As the cop poked around in my lunch.
"Seriously guys...Who's going to carry a bomb in Chinese take out?" I said.

Once in the past (well before the September 11th attacks) I had cracked a joke about a bomb while at an airport. The security guard yelled at me, but let me go with a very stern warning. In this more recent case, the men in blue were not amused.

The two cops called over a third, and I was required to stand there while they unpacked my entire bag. Unfortunately its been more than a few weeks since I completely cleaned out my bag.

• Gym shoes (careful...I could attack your foot by stepping on your toe)
  
• shorts and t-shirt
  
• jock strap (yes...I got a sick sense of smugness as the cop had to unpack that)
  
• condoms and lube (Where did they come from?)
  
• an advertisement for an upcoming gay event (Confirming my gayness if the condoms and lube didn't give it away)
  
• Leftover Moo Goo Gai Pan (or weapon of mass destruction)
  

What the police don't know is that when I combine Moo Goo Gai Pan with my family's curse, I can create a weapon of mass destruction. Ask the riders of this morning's packed E-Train, who all wished they were dead.

Matza Madness AKA Jewish Haiku

Yeah...yesterday was a bit heavy. Sorry for the glimpse into my neurosis. Imagine if you were my shrink.

Those who know me know that for whatever reason, I've been attracted to Jewish men. Most of my more significant relationships have been with Jewish men. Living on the Upper West Side (where the bagel is a staple and all the restaurants were open on Christmas), I get to see way too many attractive Jewish men. I figure if I keep staring at them, maybe one will invite me back to his place to celebrate the Sabbath.

One of my friends from college knows of my fascination with all men Kosher and sent me the following Haiku.

*****

Lacking fins or tail the gefilte fish swims with great difficulty.

*****

Beyond Valium, peace is knowing one's child is an internist.

*****

On Passover we Left the door open for the Prophet Elijah.
Now our cat is gone.

*****

After the warm rain the sweet smell of camellias. Did you wipe your feet?

*****

Her lips near my ear, Aunt Sadie whispers the name of her friend's disease.

*****

Today I am a man. Tomorrow I will return to the seventh grade.

*****

Testing the warm milk on her wrist, she sighs softly.
But her son is forty.

*****

The sparkling blue sea reminds me to wait an hour after my sandwich.

*****

Like a bonsai tree, is your terrible posture at my dinner table.

*****

Jews on safari --
map, compass, elephant gun, hard sucking candies.

*****

The same kimono the top geishas are wearing:
I got it at Loehmann's.

*****

The shivah visit:
So sorry about your loss. Now back to my problems.

*****

Mom, please! There is no need to put that dinner roll in your pocketbook.

*****

Seven-foot Jews in the NBA slam-dunking!
My alarm clock rings.

*****

Sorry I'm not home to take your call.
At the tone please state your bad news.

*****

Is one Nobel Prize so much to ask from a child after all I've done?

*****
Today, mild shvitzing. Tomorrow, so hot you'll plotz.
Five-day forecast: feh

*****

Yenta. Shmeer. Gevalt.Schlemiel. Schlimazel. Meshuganah.
Oy! To be fluent!

*****

Quietly murmured at Saturday's Synagogue services,Yanks 5, Red Sox 3.

*****

A lovely nose ring, excuse me while I put my head in the oven.

****

Hard to tell under the lights. White Yarmulke or male-pattern baldness.

Running My Mouth

My apologies...this is a really long post...but I just feel the need to get this all out.

Saturday, being the first real day of spring like weather, was my first "real" run of the season. Now I say "real" run, because I decided I'd do a more lengthy course, and actually get to know the terrain a bit more. By the end of the day...I'd say it was rocky.



The run started out at W 81st and Central Park West, the closest entrance to the park from my home. This entrance is next to the Diana Ross Memorial Park (how appropriate for later in this story). Left, right, left, right, left, right...the rhythm is set. When I run, I focus on keeping my breathing steady and slow, using my lack of breath as a pacer. I ran through the entrance and across West drive, and up the hill to the Great Lawn (ow, ow, ow, ow, this hurts my legs, ow, ow, ow) and boom...Entering the lawn I'm with every dog owner of New York City.

Ever run through a pack of unleashed dogs? Great Danes and Poodles chased me down the pathway, nipping at my heels. The owners remarked "oh how cute!", but I thought "which of these mutts is going to bite me?". The Great Lawn, is exactly 1/2 mile around, and completely flat. It's a great place to do training runs, and being an elevated area, the views of the city are absolutely inspiring. I circled around the lawn and turned left onto East drive and started my Northward trek along the East side of the park.



The beginning of my misfortunate afternoon hit me at East 90th street. With the Jacqueline Kennedy Onasis resevoir on my left, and 5th Avenue on my right, my body finally realized that things were moving. My body responded by telling me that it was time to move things. I'm being somewhat discrete here, so lets just say, THERE ARE NO PUBLIC TOILETS ANYWHERE NEAR 90TH STREET. Looking back, I realized I would never make it back to the apartment on W 82nd. I had no choice but to try and venture into the Upper East Side neighborhood and try and find a bathroom. I slowed my run into a walk.

Actually, it was more of a step, step, clench. I approached a private building on 5th Avenue and begged the doorman to let me use his bathroom. No deal. My second building attempt was with a nicer doorman and he let me use the restroom (after I tipped him $5). Doormen have nice bathrooms in the wealthy buildings. I'm just saying.

Relieved, I left the building a happier man, crossed 5th Avenue and entered the park for the second time heading up East drive. As I reached the 102nd cutoff, I was completely in my own "zone", regulating my breathing and enjoying the view when I heard:
"Patrick? Is that you?"
I looked up to see an ex boyfriend from college (who apparently now lives in NYC) headed in the opposite direction. What transpired in those five minutes was what can only be described as incredibly awkward. Nobody wants to see an ex, but seeing an ex who is now a doctor and owns his apartment in NYC? Fuck.



I started running North again, and completely forgot about controlling breathing, let alone turning on the 102nd cutoff. Everything North of 102nd street is nothing but hills. It's some of the prettiest terrain, but the hills are brutal for running. I didn't realize where I was until I started the downward slope towards the Lasker Ice Arena. I slowed my pace to something a fast walker can do, and prepared myself for what would be the inevitable climb up "Heart Break Hill". An appropriate name for what was about to happen.

As I reached the initial steps of the climb, I heard behind me..."Patrick?"
Apparently, I have more than one ex now in NYC. This one, also a runner, slowed his pace so we could run up the hill together. About 1/8th of the way up the hill, I renamed it "Heart Attack Hill!" I thought I was going to have a coronary. The ex, continued to climb without me. I think that was what broke us up...his always leaving me behind. Asshole.

It took me nearly a mile of walking to recover enough to begin a light run again. I ran down West drive and as I approached the near end of my run, I noticed a really hot guy in blue. Nice arms, great legs, and ...oh no...

I saw a much more recent ex.

There are 5 leves of ex's.

• Level 1 - where you barely remember each other's names, and the relationship was merely casual dating.


• Level 2 - Where the relationship was more than casual, but you both decided to end it on good terms.


• Level 3 - Where you ended it, and the other person is a little shocked to hear it was over.


• Level 4 - Where the other person shocks you by ending it.


• Level 5 - Hell hath no fury in this bad divorce. This is the type of ex that if you see them, you want to be driving a bus, so you can hit them.

The ex I saw now, was a level 4.

Now my brain said that with this ex, I needed to keep running, as fast as I could, and get away from him before he sees me. Feelings I had for the guy (some honestly not gone) all flooded into my heart, which betrayed my mind. I stopped. "VR?", I called out. He looked and the recognition I had on my face twice earlier was on his face.

Hello's were exchanged and he asked if I wanted to go to lunch. My defensive mind said "no...He'll bail on you and break your heart like before." My mouth said, "Sure". He made the promise to call me (he still has my number?) when he was done with his run. Yes, I am going to make a therapist a lot of money someday. I swear, somebody pass me the salt as I have an open wound that needs to hurt more!

I ran about 50 feet out of his site and immediately started to walk. "I'm never gonna hear from him." I said to myself. I circled back and walked back to the house, where I debated eating an entire container of Ben and Jerry's and laying the rest of the afternoon in bed. Instead, I put on the IPOD and listened to sad songs while doing the dishes.

Cheryl Crow's "I Can't Cry Anymore" was topping that list. (Wow...could I be more gay?)

An hour and 1/2 later...he shocked me by calling to meet for lunch. This was my opportunity to speak the script I had had written in my head five months ago. I was going to be able to get the truth out of him, and find out the "why" and "what", and I was going to do it over lunch!

The only problem was that the script I'd written started with him speaking first. He never spoke his line. Instead, the lunch consisted on us catching up on our lives, discussing our immediate future plans (plans that were no longer intertwined), finding out he read this site recently, and that he had remembered my birthday (yeah...an email greeting would have been nice). Meanwhile, a huge elephant was sitting on the table, and neither of us would bring it up. I lost my chance of finding out the one thing I wanted to know.


Was it me?


I left the lunch frustrated, and had a restless night of sleep as my head tried to grapple around the whole experience. Sunday...it appropriately rained, and I just had no desire to run in the park. Feh...I think I'm going to switch to biking.

What did you call me?

In my days being single, I've been called a lot.

I've been called a slut.
I've been called a prude.
I've been called fat.
I've been called gaunt.
I've been called old.
I've been called a baby.
I've been called cute.
I've been called ugly.
I've been called emotionally distant.
I've been called needy.
I've been called a cornered Pitt Bull.
I've been called a kissing bandit.

Last night someone gave me a new classification.

"You're quiet and reserved." He said.

***blank stare***

In 36 years of my life...I have never been called quiet and reserved. At first, I laughed it off. I had been ignoring the guy, mainly because I was listening to a friend speak. But I've been thinking about it this morning.

I'm going to be honest here about something. I'm horrible at the dating game. If I'm at all attracted to someone (as in "My God...He's so beautiful...I hurt), I instantly become "Mr. Shy and Stupid". I will continue to check the guy out, but never get the nerve to actually talk to him. Didn't our mother's tell us never to talk to strangers? It doesn't matter anyway. Usually the guy never notices me, he's with someone, or I'm just not his type.

At the "Meat Market" it's a big buffet, and we all have our preferred dishes. Some want a little "Egg-Foo-Hung" and others will only take the "Cream of Sum Young Guy." Me? I'm just lucky if my meal hasn't been under the heat lamps for too long. Once the dish starts to dry out...it's not as tasty any more (suddenly I'm in the mood for Chinese food).

My problem though...I'm a fairly flagrant flirt...but only if I'm not interested or it's humorous. If I catch a guy checking me out that I really don't want(as the guy last night did), I'm usually one to start flirting with him. Making eye contact, smiling...etc. Next thing I know...the guy will be talking with me, asking me if I'll go home with him (to see the new paint trim in his apartment).

Of course, today I wonder why it is that I'm flirting with someone that I really have no interest in. What is it? Boredom? The need to feel desired? Or is it just the fun of flirting itself, knowing full well it won't be going any further.

Am I really shy and reserved? Well yes...but only if I really am attracted to you.

I think I need to break out of that shell.

Hair Care

Today, while riding a very over crowded subway train, two Hispanic girls (around high school age) and the one girl's boyfriend were standing near each other. The boyfriend had his arm around the one girl, but what I found most interesting was the way the two girls were interacting. Girl number one would just reach over and run her fingers through the hair of girl number two. It was this act that caught my attention the most. The simple act of physical intimacy. Not sexual (as was this case) but still intimate.

One is the loneliest number that you'll ever do

New York is a wonderful city, but there are times when you can feel so incredibly alone here. You go throughout a regular day and never see the same face twice. The subway rides are spent focusing on the advertisements, or staring out the black windows at your own reflection. Lunch consists of a quick bite at your desk, and the daily workout involves wearing the IPOD. You get home, check the emails, and get ready to do it all again the next day. The thing is...you begin to notice how alone your life can become.

Seeing that girl run her fingers through her friend's hair...it made me notice what I'm missing in my life. A hair brush.

Professionalism

Last night was a very slow night at the bar. Two lovely ladies came into the bar, both wearing what had to be dresses valued at over $1000 a piece. Their driver waited outside for them in the limo...the Rolls Royce limo.

Obviously these women had a lot of money, and sitting at my bar, they ordered a bottle of the best champagne. I of course was bored (on a Monday night...duh) and started up a conversation with the two.

Immediately the compliments came pouring out of them. "You are really cute!" "I'm surprised this bar isn't packed with your personality behind the bar." "It's obvious you work out." Where were these women when I last got dumped? I could have used their compliments then. They kept it up for about 20 minutes, asking me all kinds of questions (including asking if I had a girlfriend....Truthfully...No) and then asked the kicker question.
"Don't you want to buy us a shot?" The woman asked.
"Not really." I answered.
"You're gay aren't you."
"What gave it away."
"You weren't staring at my tits."

And with that, I found out that both of these women work in Nevada in a legal brothel. Something I decided to keep quiet from the rest of the waiters (the horn dogs)as they all bought these women drinks, food, and tried to woo them. The guys were making asses of themselves to impress these women.

As the night wore on, the ladies and I talked about what kind of money the women make in their chosen profession. Apparently the younger woman (at 27) just bought her 3rd house...in cash. Her take home pay is over $150k a year. Her partner (at 32), owns rental properties all over Las Vegas, and Southern California.

These women gave me a ride home (a car ride...get your minds out of the gutter), and although I may be getting a bit old for the work...I think I need to move to Nevada. I'd do the work for 1/2 the pay.

Take a Deep Breath While I Put It In

Important words, but not ones I wanted to hear on Saturday morning. For those of you who are afraid of the dentist...READ NO FURTHER! Seriously...Ouizer...Google something!

---

Saturday morning I had a 9:15 appointment for what can only be called pure torture. My back right molar on my lower jaw finally needed a root canal. I found this out two weeks ago when I bit a pretzel stick and thought I was about to die. Now normally I would be shaking in fear over this appointment, but for the most part...I wasn't very nervous this time. Probably because I took 3 Xanax before the appointment.

My walk to the dentist's office was a butterfly filled, pretty color fantasy world. Snow White was skipping with the seven dwarfs as I floated across the park and down 30 blocks south to midtown East. I walked through the door of the dentist "tra-la-la'ing" and checked in. Within seconds, I was wisked back to the happy reclining chair, and prepped with a nice paper bib.

It was at that point that I started to have a panic attack. Apparently, the Xanax I took was not strong enough. The doctor sensing my apprehension (probably because my hands were nearly pulling off the arm rests) told me that I wouldn't feel a thing. He lied.

He topically numbed my gum and then injected a shot of numbing crap. We waited the appropriate 3 minutes and he reclined me back for the start of a drilling frenzy. Until I started to feel the pain. Yes...I needed to be numbed more. Seven shots later, my eyeball was numb, but I still could feel the drill on my tooth. He took a look and said "I'm sorry...but no matter how I do this...it's going to hurt." He informed me that he was going to have to inject the nerve with some type of anesthesia.

"Take a deep breath while I put it in". Yeah...I've heard that before. Usually after way too many beers or a really nice date.

It took two assistants to hold my arms down while he injected the nerve, and that was when panic attack number two began. Twenty minutes later, I was calm enough to actually sit back down, where they proceeded to continue drilling a hole nearly 1/2 the size of a dime in my tooth.

Dentists are fucking sadists. If they actually enjoy their jobs, they should be smacked.

I finished the appointment 3 hours later and have to go back 3 more times. And just like a bad date, this guy after drilling my mouth, had the audacity to make me pay my entire March food budget. Of course, I don't plan on ever eating again, as it hurts to chew and if I never eat...I can't get a cavity.

I'm going to drink my calories.


Whoever said that a root canal is nothing...lied.

Just An Announcement

I've fucking had it.

Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!

Mean Girls

So being a gay man, it's assumed that I follow the prescribed stereotypes (decorating and fashion expert, throwing the perfect party, the ability to use the phrase "Miss Thang" and get away with it, and a frequent emulation of feminine traits). However...I'm not the type that follows stereotypes very well. Probably because I was never given the manual, although I've got two copies of the gay membership directory.

I don't throw like a girl (if you've seen me play softball...just shut up) and I've got no fashion sense (I've only bought about 10 clothing items in the past 10 years).
That being said...I do one thing like a woman.

I fight like a woman.

Now this wasn't something I was born with, but rather something I picked up while working in offices run with a female majority.

When boys are growing up, they fight with might. Strongest guy wins, and if you want to win a few battles...you are going to have to show the physical strength to take down the adversary. A male bully hits you...you hit him back harder. The loser is the one who hurts the most.

Girls go for the real damage though. They work at making you look bad in front of others and attacking when your guard is down. A girl will work at chipping away your self esteem and smile while she does it. She keeps her friends close, but her enemies even closer. Battle a girl and you will have a knife in your back to show for it. I can respect that.

As we grow into adulthood, the corporate world is not much different than the playground. Men fight in the boardroom like boys. The guys bully each other and the one with the strongest numbers and presentations wins.

The women...that's another story...and currently what I am dealing with. They make it their job to make you look bad in front of others. For instance, I am currently sparring with a idiot woman I work with. She has been working hard to make me look bad...and hasn't been succeeding.

Now I could have fought like a man, and bullied her in the board room, but instead I chose something very subtle. On my birthday, she came into the office and remarked over some flowers I had received.

"Those flowers are beautiful! Is it your birthday?" she asked.
"Yes," I answered.
"My high school sweetheart just turned 50 this month."
And I smiled and said, "Really? Wow...you're just a few years younger than my mom!"

Meow...Miss Thang!

Birthday Packages

The next time I have a birthday...remind me to unwrap the package faster. He almost got away.