A Most Morbid Of Shags

To the tune of "Finally," by CeCe Penniston.

Finally it's happened to me, right in front of my face, and my lips can't describe it...





Actually, they most certainly can:

It all began innocently enough, as most things generally do, and ended up quite debaucherous with an almost instant karmic backlash, again, as most things do.

Cliff had procured 4 tickets for the two of us, his current beaux and friend Christie to see the final performance of the Trachtenberg Family Slideshow Players off-Broadway.

If you've never seen TFSP I highly recommend the venture, it's definitely an experience.

TFSP consists of three family members: the mother, who procures random slides of what they call Anonymous Dead People (ADPs) from garage sales; the father, writes music and lyrics set to a theme constructed from a set of the slides such as their first big 'hit' Big Mountain Vacation to Japan; and the daughter, plays drums.

Aside from playing the whimsical ballads that have made them indy-darlings, the band spends even more time tuning their instruments and performing a more clumsy stand-up routine full of self-deprecating humor. Obviously an overall great time.

After the performance our group was largely exhausted: well, everyone except myself. So logically enough, I grabbed a beer at the Metropolitan bar a block from my sublet.

Can I just say: one, today is the exact one month anniversary of my arrival to NY (and still no glorious job awaits me); two, I had earlier made claims of a planned one month of abstinence when I arrived, perhaps as some form of penance for my deeds before arriving; three, I lasted nearly that long; oh and four, once I arrived at the Metropolitan, it took half a Stella Artois to score. (I've been back practically every night since...)

The more interesting angle of the evening, though, was the manner in which I so expediently purloined some late-night talent (and no, no payment exchanged hands, but if you saw some of the seductive adonises frequenting my gym you'd be pulling out plastic like you was the only one to show up at a NY fireman's auction...)
















When I sat down and ordered my Stella Artois I immediately caught the eye of a man nearby, who came and sat next to me. His great line: 'what are you doing here tonight?'

To which I rattled off droll explanations about SF, sublets, proximity, thirst, horn-dog.

When I reversed the question on him, however, it was slightly more interesting...

'So why are you here by yourself tonight?'

'I just needed to get out of the house and get drunk.'

'Sounds like a healthy habit. One that I quite often share. Is there a reason you need to get drunk so badly?'

I should have known not to pry, but the conversation was otherwise thoroughly lacking, so I went with it. In fact, I felt the power of a stranger. He could easily tell me anything because we didn't know each other, which later went quite the other way as well.

'My father is dying,' he answered.

'Oh, god,' I said, genuinely shocked and attempting to empathize.

A few uncomfortable moments later...

'And my boyfriend died as well,' he tactfully added.

'Dear God!'

'But that was fifteen years ago.'

I let slip, which I tend to let happen a little too often:

'Well could you stop acting like such a baby?'

'What did you say?,' he said, apparently upset.

'Nothing, really nothing.'

'No, what did you say? Tell me.'

This was when I flipped the whole 'stranger, therefore can say anything' phenomenon.

'Could you stop playing such a victim and just cheer up you little baby?'

Again, my oh so sensitive self.

We argued for a brief moment. I apologized, bat my eyelashes (foreshadowing), placed a tender and understanding hand on his knee, quickly but subtly massaged it into his inner thigh, and offered to try and take his mind off things for a while...which he thoroughly agreed to.

I finished the second half of my beer, and we were off.

Upon arriving I realized the accuracy of my 'victim' comment instantly.

There wasn't a single tasteful photo, or even two photos set for reverie: there were twelve. Pictures of he and his former partner were placed emphatically and prominently throughout the apartment.

In the several significant places where a photo of the heart-swelling young couple was missing he had placed a figurine of Scooby-Doo, something else he seemed quite obsessed with (the man was 33), and when I noticed a stack of CDs piled on a shelf near his stereo (and knowing what a great signifier such things are for personality insight), I madly rushed to them as he peed, discovering two separate recordings of Phantom of the Opera, and a Judds Greatest Hits. Can I call it or what?

After a rather 'entertaining' evening, I received my punishment: gonorrhea.





Just kidding.

I did, however, wake up to find in his bathroom mirror: an eye infection.

I realize I got some big-ass eyes, but one would think with my Aeon Flux eyelashes that I'd be able to keep any kind of bacteria out of them easily.

Well, think again.

NY is undeniably a dirty place, and every time I wash my hands (at least 4x a day) the soap is muddy and brown, so I guess it's somewhat understandable, but with this new development I rushed from his house head down and scurried to the subway...