A Shag Before Shopping

I had a one-night-stand on Saturday night (no, not with Charo).

My sister was spinning in Park Slope at a club called Caddyshack (wonder where that thought originated...bet they couldn't pull Charo...) and I was meant to see her when she began her set at about 1am.

What good is a night in Park Slope though without hitting the men's bars first, particularly since Caddyshack was expected to have at most three men, my friend and I included.

There's the argument, however, that the boys you do find at lesbian bars are all quality.

Whatever the hell that crap means. I wasn't looking for any quality shit (then again my most current actions wouldn't really justify an emphasis on quantity either).

Doesn't really matter actually since we never made it there. By 1am I was trashed and had my hands down some guys pants whose name I honestly forgot after about ten minutes. But what's a name really? [insert existential dialogue here]

He pulled the whole, 'I live nearby', routine, which I actually found quite inviting at the time. From his attire of sloppy jeans and torn shirt I expected some tiny Brooklyn first-floor railroad apartment with four roomates huddled around a Playstation.

I forgot though what he had mentioned earlier, this nameless guy: he worked in real estate.

Anyone who works in real estate here is loaded.

He lived in a top floor apartment with one full wall as a window overlooking most the rest of Park Slope. Absolutely stunning, large one-bedroom with art and sculptures that looked like they were actually worth something adorning pedestal and walls.

The clincher came the next morning (and so did he - sorry had to say it...).

I awoke abruptly and made like I had to get home quick, which was partially true. Although the subway system is convenient going into Manhattan, transport throughout Brooklyn is still antiquated and frustrating. To get home I needed to catch a train back into Manhattan and then back out to Brooklyn to Williamsburg - terribly annoying.

'Coffee before you go?' said Noman.

'No,' I said, 'I have to get back to Williamsburg.'

'That would take you nearly 90 minutes!' said Noman.

'I know,' I said. 'No coffee for me, I gotta go.'

'Just stay and have some coffee, I'll drive you home.'

'You will!, but what about parking, won't it be a bitch when you come back twenty minutes later?' (sometimes my pleasant nature confounds me...)

And here it is...

'That doesn't matter. I have my own parking space.'

(has car in New York = money, lots of money; has own parking space in NY = fucking loaded)

Continuing with the actual point of the story, along the car ride home I discussed my potential plans for the rest of that Sunday.

'You know Barney's is having their annual Warehouse sale today,' he said, and that was the end of all my other plans.

After brunch with my flatmates, my sister and I madly sprinted to the sale, and they weren't kidding about warehouse.

The merchandise was in the basement of an unmakred building and all the clothing was piled into boxes. My first thought was Barney's mafia, which was reinforced when I noticed all the friendly sales clerks with Scappaticci printed across their name badges.

Mafia or not, I scored a hot tie, a sweater, a Penguin dress shirt, and a Juicy Couture yellow-striped polo. Beautiful.

The greatest moment came with a couple pairs of John Varvatos jeans though.

Flashback: On my mere second day in NYC I attended a going out of business sale at Helmut Lang off Wooster in SOHO (expensive part of town).

Being high fashion the clientele was high beauty and like backstage at a fashion show the beauties freely tried on the racks and boxes of Helmut Lang for sale. Men, mostly European, carelessly stripped to their briefs and tried on clothing throughout the store. Overtaken by the passion of it all, I did the same.

Now at Barney's I once again became overwhelmed with the fury of the sale. I hid myself beside a rack of suits and started ripping off my pants to try on my Varvatos jeans. I didn't notice the small woman folding clothes near me. She could have simply mentioned a better place to try on clothes, but instead she hollered quite loudly and within range of a good number of people:

'Sir, you cannot take off your pants here!'

I couldn't help but laugh hysterically to the staring crowd.

Big Yellow Taxi

My first fight with a New York cab driver came this afternoon.

It was actually my first experience ever hailing one in general which was much easier than dealing with the driver himself - although he would probably say the same about me.

I came to work this morning already hindered by a laundry list of chores and extensive plans to traverse the city's subway system several times and somehow try and sneak a two-hour lunch to finish all my personal errands.

Gloriously, my on-vacation boss called needing a package delivered to her home and offered that I simply take a taxi across town and expense the fare.

I eagerly agreed to her offer and used it a bit further as I kept the taxi afterward and rode it through town to running errands.

My first mistake was not looking for the Visa label. Having coughed up close to 4k's for the deposit on my new apartment (which I move into tonight) I had NO cash. Therefore my errands were imperative, not just to me, but for the cab driver to get paid anything.

I didn't want to mention I had no cash because that would anger him prematurely. Therefore as we arrived at my temp agency and I leapt from the cab and told him to wait before he had an option to diagree. When I returned with my paycheck he was pissed. When I told him we had another stop I swear little bursts of steam pulsed from his veined forehead and emerged out his ears.

I will say though, he was definitely a NYC cab driver. He designed a strategy of hitting each red light in the left lane. As cross-traffic congested the intersection on the green light he easily swirved around it to the left and raced down the right side of the street to the next red.

My fur-browed driver, who continually looked back at me in disgust - not only at this point because of my difficult behavior but also from my obnoxious phone conversation consisting regularly of 'oh my god!' or 'precious!' or 'no he dident! no he dident!' or maybe even a good 'hell to the no, hell to the no!'

When we arrived at the next stop he nearly went postal on me as I explained how I needed to run inside to deposit the checks before I could pay him.

I guess along Madison Avenue it's difficult to just wait on the street for people. Oops.

So I told him to make a lap around the block and deal.

He was pissed. I took off.

By the time I returned he was further irrate, stewing in his fury for ten minutes, and had words prepared for me as I approached the car.

I was in no mood to deal so I simply waved $40 dollars at him and asked for little back in change. His verbal assault was unhalting, so I pointed out the large tip I had included.

I could see the little wheels spinning in his head and he slowly did the math, and then he quickly shut his mouth, grinned a wide dumn grin, and waved graciously as he took back off into traffic.

Cross your fingers I don't get busted trying to expense it all.

Overwhelmed & Overjoyed

There is simply too much to do - and not nearly enough money, but just like SF if you work at it hard enough you can find plenty of free opportunities, and knowing this Jew I've found many already.

Thursday, August 25th: Joan Armatrading continues her international tour at the historical Apollo Theatre in Harlem.

Friday, August 26th: Benin-born Angelique Kidjo performs a free concert of her new music at the Lincoln Center Outdoor Festival, which serves $7 dixie cups of chardonnay and has a main hall that boasts two enormous Chagall paintings, just kickin' it there, shoutin' what's up, I'm a Chagall, I'm huge and cost millions of $$$ and I'm just gonna hang here.

Saturday, August 27th: Not only is Lou Reed appearing in the E.Village to read Allen Ginsburg as part of the annual Howl! Festival there, but he will be accompanied by the questionable New Yorker darling of contemporary wimpy French pop, Keren Ann.

After which, one short train ride back across the East River, mere blocks from me home in Williamsburg, Of Montreal will play some obscure venue that most likely sits above a falafel shop.

Sunday, August 28th: Back at the Lincoln Center Outdoor Festival jazz singer Dee Dee Williams will perform for free. What a perfect way to complete a Sunday afternoon but some live mellow jazz. For free. Did I mention that?

While some have probably never heard of a single one of these people except for Lou Reed who was probably mistaken for one of their meth dealers, this lineup of acts over one weekend is undeniably overwhelming.

No Dowd About It

Maintaining the political tip for one more entry, following is an op-ed piece by the diva of editorials: Maureen Dowd.

If you're looking for something a bit lighter I recommend you check out: The Hottie Next Door or The Beauty of 12.

Her tone is usually caustic, but you will be amazed at the length of her ability to rip W a new one on several fronts.

My Private Idaho
Published: August 24, 2005

W. vacationed so hard in Texas he got bushed. He needed a vacation from his vacation.
The most rested president in American history headed West yesterday to get away from his Western getaway - and the mushrooming Crawford Woodstock - and spend a couple of days at the Tamarack Resort in the rural Idaho mountains.

"I'm kind of hangin' loose, as they say," he told reporters.

As The Financial Times noted, Mr. Bush is acting positively French in his love of le loafing, with 339 days at his ranch since he took office - nearly a year out of his five. Most Americans, on the other hand, take fewer vacations than anyone else in the developed world (even the Japanese), averaging only 13 to 16 days off a year.

W. didn't go alone, of course. Just as he took his beloved feather pillow on the road during his 2000 campaign, now he takes his beloved bike. An Air Force One steward tenderly unloaded W.'s $3,000 Trek Fuel mountain bike when they landed in Boise.

Gas is guzzling toward $3 a gallon. U.S. troop casualties in Iraq are at their highest levels since the invasion. As Donald Rumsfeld conceded yesterday, "The lethality, however, is up."

Afghanistan's getting more dangerous, too. The defense secretary says he's raising troop levels in both places for coming elections.

So our overextended troops must prepare for more forced rotations, while the president hangs loose.

I mean, I like to exercise, but W. is psychopathic about it. He interviewed one potential Supreme Court nominee, Harvie Wilkinson III, by asking him how much he exercised. Last winter, Mr. Bush was obsessed with his love handles, telling people he was determined to get rid of seven pounds.

Shouldn't the president worry more about body armor than body fat?

Instead of calling in Karl Rove to ask him if he'd leaked, W. probably called him in to order him to the gym.

The rest of us may be fixated on the depressing tableau in Iraq, where the U.S. seems to be delivering a fundamentalist Islamic state into the dirty hands of men like Ahmad Chalabi, who conned the neocons into pushing for war, and his ally Moktada al-Sadr, the Shiite cleric who started two armed uprisings against U.S. troops. It was his militiamen who ambushed Casey Sheehan's convoy in Sadr City.

America has caved on Iraqi women's rights. In fact, the women's rights activists supported by George and Laura Bush may have to leave Iraq.

But, as a former C.I.A. Middle East specialist, Reuel Marc Gerecht, said on "Meet the Press," U.S. democracy in 1900 didn't let women vote. If Iraqi democracy resembled that, "we'd all be thrilled," he said. "I mean, women's social rights are not critical to the evolution of democracy."
Yesterday, the president hailed the constitution establishing an Islamic republic as "an amazing process," and said it "honors women's rights, the rights of minorities." Could he really think that? Or is he following the Vietnam model - declaring victory so we can leave?

The main point of writing a constitution was to move Sunnis into the mainstream and make them invested in the process, thereby removing the basis of the insurgency. But the Shiites and Kurds have frozen out the Sunnis, enhancing their resentment. So the insurgency is more likely to be inflamed than extinguished.

For political reasons, the president has a history of silence on America's war dead. But he finally mentioned them on Monday because it became politically useful to use them as a rationale for war - now that all the other rationales have gone up in smoke.

"We owe them something," he told veterans in Salt Lake City (even though his administration tried to shortchange the veterans agency by $1.5 billion). "We will finish the task that they gave their lives for."

What twisted logic: with no W.M.D., no link to 9/11 and no democracy, now we have to keep killing people and have our kids killed because so many of our kids have been killed already? Talk about a vicious circle: the killing keeps justifying itself.

Just because the final reason the president came up with for invading Iraq - to create a democracy with freedom of religion and minority rights - has been dashed, why stop relaxing? W. is determined to stay the course on bike trails all over the West.

This president has never had to pull all-nighters or work very hard, because Daddy's friends always gave him a boost when he flamed out. When was the last time Mr. Bush saw the clock strike midnight? At these prices, though, I guess he can't afford to burn the midnight oil.

On a Lighter Note

I just found this Salon.com photo essay, Iraq: The Unseen War.

It's an apt title considering the Bush administration's refusal to allow press to photograph killed soldiers returning from war and has made attempts to censor information about the conflict.

Iraq: The Unseen War

The Editor's Note is appropriately cautionary in saying, The following photo gallery contains graphic and shocking images of death and devastation in Iraq.

I encourage everyone to look at these images but warn you they are truly graphic.

Iraq: The Unseen War

The Beauty of 12

Usually I prefer working on a floor slightly closer to the ground, for an obvious number of reasons being NYC. But in this partiuclar building I prefer the 12th floor, mostly because most everyone else gets off the elevator on the 8th or 9th, and lately it's provided me a precious 3 or 4 floors of vanity time to groom myself in the large elevator mirror, with, I must say, the lighting of which is nothing less than fantastic.

It has been particularly important recently because I received my first expensive haircut in my effort to cultivate my New York hairdresser (it's NY, you have no choice but to go all out - I'm just waiting to see who long I can last until the credit card companies start calling...).

So far this guy, John Gabriel, is the guy. The cut has been wonderful and he amazed me with random techniques that probably did nothing but looked pretty fuckin' cool. The only problem was my determination to have him trim my eyebrows - in my attempt to look more like Liberto Rabal from Almodovar's Live Flesh I've chosen no longer to pluck my Ukranian unibrow but instead only trim in to look more like the hottie on the right.

Surprisingly, however, senior Gabriel was much more Brooklyn masculine than I expected and by the time the cut was over I was too shy to ask such a manly hairdresser to trim a poor gay's eyebrows - so I had Laura do it instead (thanks for that, they look great...).

The Hottie Next Door

After two weeks of having the three-bedroom apartment to myself, one roommate finally returned from Maine and a second subletor moved in to the room adjacent to mine.

I was humorously hoping and pondering how great it would be if a hot gay man happened to move in, and guess what, he did.

My sister is currently here staying with me and has been sleeping on the couch, so with any luck I'll be sharing his queen bed this evening and sis can take over my room. Wish luck for both of us.

Although I officially met this new roommate yesterday, he moved into the apartment several days ago, and between arrival and introduction I gathered whatever clues I could uncover about his orientation.

For one, he left us a note letting us know he had arrived and used his complete extended name (which I've forgotten) - who does that but gays?

Two, he had really nice, good quality luggage. (homo)

Three, I noticed his American Crew hair products. (flaming)

And four, when we finally did meet he was way too darkly and evenly tan.

Then, this morning in our first conversation he officially and perhaps conspicuously noted that he had found the sublet through his ex-boyfriend, making a point to let me know he was gay.

He is a new arrival to the city, now looking for an apartment. I told him I was off work at 5 and would graciously offer him some advice from my own experience - along with some beers, and maybe several shots of tequila...

The Devil Will Find Work

I've decided I can no longer be held to the confines of my own blog and have started venturing out to other blogs to post completely irrelevant and irreverent commentary.

You notice quickly that most of these blogs are small and frequented by and directed to a small group of friends, which makes my ravings even more entertaining (at least to me).

One blog I just found, Dancing in the Depths of Darkness (I bet she owns Bauhaus on vinyl), was discussing her monetary problems and a possible forced move to Vegas someone commented that she should simply take a Xanax - then backtracked with several annoying emoticons, to which I commented:

Who's kidding about the Xanax>? Take two, and find someone to have aggressive sex with - that should cheer you up right quick...Vegas will just give you a smoking habit and you'll find yourself in polyester.

Let's see what else I can find in my last 34 minutes of boredom at work...

Have You Any Dreams You'd Like to Sell?

Just saw today's most beautiful man - which here in NYC is a little late in the day, being close to 2pm.

He was tall, over 6', (that's like over 140 centimeters for the euros) had luscious wind-tossed blond hair, sensual blue eyes across a clear-as-perrier complexion.

Across his broad shoulders he confidently strode in a light navy button-down shirt, making his eyes pop, and on his legs we wore a darker shade of blue along pin-striped slacks down to, get this, his chocolate-brown shoes, which I swear were the same $500 pair of Ferragamo shoes I just fell in love with in this month's issue of Men's Health.
I almost leaned in to make sure they were Ferragamo but realized if I became certain they were I almost certainly would have passed out among the muggy heat - but thinking about that now perhaps he would have been forced to resuscitate me, then again to be honest he was so damn hot a defibrillator probably would have been more necessary, and that's just a little risky...

Living in the City

I've determined I can officially claim to live in NYC.

It's an apparent signifier when you can offer confident directions to lost tourists, but even more so yesterday afternoon when I was approached by just such a tourist while wandering in a somewhat unfamiliar neighborhood.

His destination though: Hooters; and amazingly enough, I knew exactly how to get there from where we were.

So yes, I think I officially live here now.

And as part of living here, I took part in a random cultural event last night (no, not a foam party). Laura (mentioned and modeled in Photo Essay 1: Rooftop Farewell) recommended an event at the Lincoln Center Out of Doors Celebrate Summer series, and we saw the Paul Taylor Dance Company - sadly from such a distance that the bulges in the men's tights were not as visible as one might require to be entertained at such an event.

You could still make out how hot they from as far back as we were, and it was even more obvious the way they tossed about some of the girls like extreme frisbee.

At intermission while Laura went to find us more booze I made conversation with a Colombian woman next to me. In an effort to practice my strained Spanish I spoke eagerly and enthusiastically with the woman for ten minutes, discussing how she was a small woman and needed to sit on her purse to see anything.

At one point I became confused, and repeated no entiendo, no entiendo, to which her adjacent son responded in English that the whole time I was (or thought I was) conversing with her about her height, she had actually only been commenting about my beautiful girlfriend (my firm grasp of the Spanish language...)

Laura and I ended the evening at Pete's Tavern, one of the oldest bars in NYC and famed to be the location where O Henry penned Gift of the Magi. I myself, ended up penning my phone number to the bottom of our check that I hope the hot waiter will call shortly.

He was, in Laura's words, dreamy, and to both our amazement while I wasn't looking, supposedly checking me out. So before departing I penned neatly at the bottom, 'For a good time:' and my phone number.

Cross your fingers...it might mean free calamari rings for when you come visit.

Bridget Jones Returns (Oh Cad!)

Bridget Jones creator Helen fielding has brought her troubled creation to the Independent of London, and while she will write regular Thursday columns on the turmoil of Ms. Bridget - it ain't free.

Here's a snippet though of a recent post:

Eggs left: 0 probably. Years left till can no longer have children: 0. Percentage by which likelihood of having children decreases daily: 500. Minutes spent thinking about Meera Syal: 4,000

Take a look at the new Bridget Jones column.

Tom Cruise & Katie Holmes: CandyShop

A lot of you have probably already seen this, but I couldn't resist forwarding it on.

Tom Cruise & Katie Holmes: CandyShop

I recommend turning the volume up but making sure no one of any significance is watching if you're at work.

I just sent in a resume and cover letter earlier today applying to become the Tom Cruise/Katie Holmes Specialist for Star. They turned me down for the Aniston position but asked me to keep in touch, so cross your fingers for me...

BUNDESDANCE 2005

I was just sent this link from a German friend.

BUNDESDANCE

While the page is entirely in German it's pretty easy to figure out how to press the buttons to make the silly Deutscheland politicos dance and take their tops off.

Sadly though, while they have five different sets of music to choose from, none of the selections include either Nena or Nina Hagen.

(That's Nena on the right, I had to crop out the 99 luft balloons because of space constraints...)

Favorite Song 8.17.05

Jim Yoshii Pile-Up: A Toast to the Happy Couple

Details about the band:

The Jim Yoshii Pile-Up are a five piece musical group. They live and record and play shows on the west coast of the United States and hope to one day play for you, wherever you may be. They think of you often and sometimes write love letters to you that they are too shy to send..

paul : guitar, voice, piano
ryan: drums, booking
noah: guitar
frankie: bass
ian: complaints

Check out their MySpace page and listen to some of their songs.

7s to Everything!

7s to everything from here on out!

My first official bitter entry from NYC.

I didn't get the apartment after all. I have to wait one more day until I find out about the other place, but I know I shouldn't have elevated my hopes so high with this place. 7s to everything.

Luckily I was near a Barnes & Noble and with head bowed as tears already welling (so dramatic, I love it) I rushed through stalled NY traffic across the street and inside.

I couldn't find the book I needed so I was forced to inquire with a clerk about its location, who was of course the most novice of store clerks and needed to employ the assistance of so many people that soon the entire store knew some fag up front was desperately seeking a copy of StarStruck.

They had it though; and before my lashes would allow such tears to unleash down my cheeks I ripped open to its first pages.

(PS-I love that since I'm feverishly typing everyone assumes I'm doing very important business-type work and always apologizes several times before and after interrupting my very important business-type work)

But I digress...

Gloriously Star awakens in a hotel, not realizing where she is, yet noticing that somehow she has found herself on top a dresser, with gun in hand, and wearing nothing but a pair of leather Gucci boots. (All this in half a page.)

My smile was immediately conspicuous and mood effusive and soon someone else had come and picked up the book.

(Nothing draws a crowd like a crowd - and speaking of crowds, it turns out at lunch today at B&N Frank Miller was present signing Sin City DVD's. Unfortunately for Frank and myself, my lunch was over, the line weaved tightly around the block, and I preferred the bare exploits of Pamela at this point.)

Leaning on the 9

No this is not going to be a commentary about J.Lo's debut album On The 6.

Instead I want to go back to the Jew from two postings ago that may soon become my roommate in one of two great apartments I once hoped to receive.

I'm beginning to have second thoughts, though, that perhaps living with this guy not the best idea.

He called last night to give me an update on our joint endeavor to secure the apartment, and in ending the message he left because I was apparently asleep, he stated quite simply 'sleep tight'. It was said in such an endearing voice though, that an unexpected thread of excitement hurried quickly from the pit of my stomach and escaped out through my eyes or my smile.

I can typically rationalize things like this away, and in my convoluted and fucked-up head full of static (Six Feet Under reference...) I can usually apply some logic to a situation. But then I caught myself.

As the message ended I instinctively went to press the 9, to save the message. My phone was high-fashion three years ago and is now more a malfunctioning antiquated relic I prefer to call vintage. The phone's technology is so old that it can only hold a certain number of messages, so I generally only begin saving messages when I've really fallen for someone.

Yet this morning, on my way to the L train, I started leaning on the 9.

I caught myself though, maybe that says something, and pressed the 7, for delete.

And maybe that's the insightful metaphor of the day. Maybe I don't live my life with enough 9s and out of fear of being hurt or dissappointed I live my life with too many 7s...

Fire Island Frollicking

I was finally prepared to bear down and tear through some employment applications this afternoon when an email arrived with this lovely picture.

You can't see him, but on the other end of the camera was hot man Joe whom we met on the fairy (sic) to Fire Island.

My friend Nate on the far right had successfully hooked-up with the hot Italian in the middle the night before at Better Burger in Chelsea turning our friendly island adventure into me as a third wheel. It only served to make me more aggresive, and successfully amongst my fliration I achieved having hot guy Joe take our picture and email it to me - two weeks later.

(Does this mean he madly loves me but is scared of moving too quickly?)

Fire Island is definitely a site to see, except that everything on the island costs so damn much that you have top be as old as the guy in the back of the picture to afford it - and most of them were.

Beautiful regardless, but you know it's a pretty bad sign when the only people you want to flirt with are the hired help, and I couldn't find cool man Joe anywhere...reminding me of when Abby and I were in South Spain and we (or I) chose our hotel in Bolonia based on the hotness of the staff...sigh.

The Fire Island beach was incredible and incredibly gay, with one area neatly monickered 'the woods' which one can imagine attracts what types...and it was also my first experience swimming in the Atlantic and as sacrifice I surrendered my Kenneth Cole sunglasses to a cheap ocean diety who has yet to provide me the hot trim I was meant to receive in return.

On a celebrity note, I had a late lunch with some friends on the island, one of which had gone out the previous night with a group of friends and even more extended friends to the Kinky concert, and one of the friends just happened to turn out to be Gael Garcia Bernal. You gotta love a city that puts my flesh anywhere in proximity to his.

A Roasted Star

This weekend's highlight consisted of the single-most glamorous diaphonous top worn by none other than the single-most glamorous Lady Miss Pamela Anderson during her Comedy Central Roast which aired last night and forced me to take two late-night trains from Flatbush just to arrive home before 1am.

All worth it though, definitely all worth it.

The event, not only a tribute to the ample talents and wonders of this nymphette, was also a dizzying showcase of odd celebrity with the lineup of roasters including such campy characters as Courtney Love, Lady Bunny, Dennis Rodman, and a glorious-yet-corpse-like Bea Arthur, who received a standing ovation and read aloud a couple of the more salacious passages from PamAn's latest book, StarStruck (one discussing the main character, Star's, discovery of anal sex...).

There's always something funny about watching an old hag on her death bed talk dirty.

Among those attending but not partaking of the roasting, Anna Nicole Smith was in the audience, and I swear at one point I saw Charo at a front table. The only person missing really from this comedic cabal was Paul Ruebens or Kathy Griffin.














Some highlights of the evening:

*The conspicuous sight of Pamela's nipples through her translucent top, which I must say she had placed in rather odd places once they put them back on (you can read all about this procedure in book one: Star; a copy of which is located at 1352 to be checked out care of Miss Michelle and Live 105).

*Host Jimmy Kimmel to Pamela: "With the publication of Pamela's second book she has now officially written more books than she's read."

*Comedian Nick DiPalmo: "If I was a baby seal and I had a choice between being clubbed to death or watching an episode of 'Stacked,' I'd be like, 'Somebody call J. Lo and let her know her mittens are ready."

*Host Kimmy Kimmel to Courtney Love after her repeated assertions that she had been sober for a year: "If you're not on drugs, you've got problems."

*Courtney: "Pamela is the kind of girl that you sleep with and can't wait to tell all your friends about it. I'm the kind of girl you tell none of your friends about and go see a doctor."

*Pamela regarding Courtney: "Wasn't Courtney funny. I knew she could do comedy, I just didn't know she could stand up."

There were also several touching moments, one coming awkwardly from Hugh Heffner, and several moments of small tribute to the efforts Pamela has made in her support of PETA.

All money received by Pamela for the taping of the show ($200,000) also went to support the organization.

Not-So-Bad Religion

One of my fave blogs EconLog had a great bit today about how the lead singer Greg Graffin of the punk band Bad Religion just completed his Ph.D at Cornell.

Some of the findings from his dissertation on how biologists reconcile evolutionary theory are fascinating, including research he conducted showing 79% of biologists don't believe in God. Probably expected, but still fascinating.

It's also funny to hear economics dorks talk about being punk music fans.

Click any of the links to check out what they said.

Shalom! Come Visit!

I shouldn't jinx myself, but it seems my protracted and grevious search for an apartment has nearly completed. I'm currently working off two offers, both of which are large enough to accommodate plenty of guests (hint, hint).

One place is in the single best location in Brooklyn in the core of Williamsburg, a single L train stop into the East Village. The second is slightly further out but completely refurnished and larger, and cheaper, its best advantage.

The most significant separation and selling point is the roof access.

There's something fantastic about a NY rooftop and the one in the more expensive apartment is stunning. The ability to watch the sunset atop your apartment, thirty feet above the ground, with a view of the East River, the nearby Russian Orthodox Church, and of course the ESB amid downtown Manahttan is entirely breathtaking.

The benefit of the cheaper apartment is the fact that I'd be living with a hot young Israeli boy - and when I say Israeli I mean moved here from Tel Aviv one month ago (Lamar wipe the drool from your chin...). He also has a close Israeli friend who put us in touch with the place who is also hot, who sadly has a boyfriend (and he's hot too...).

It would be great to live with another gay and hopefully in the near future have big hot gay Israeli parties and boat rides! (I'll leave out the expected jokes about being careful to protect your tuccus and anything relating to matzo, therefore I expect comments for this one...)

But honestly, it'll also be great to finally meet someone without going through JDate.

Both apartments are exceptionally welcoming, just what I was looking for.

I hope to see you all soon (and remember, the greater the distance you travel, the more I will love you).

Naughty Girls Need Love Too

This is where the blog gets complicated.

I want to be upfront and direct about the sensational pieces of my life in NY out of necessity to provide the most salacious details to my reading audience. All four of you.

I just hope the people I'm talking about never read this...

After partying late with Gil on Sunday night, then late again with Michelle both Monday and Tuesday, I figured the only logical thing for Wednesday: keep drinking. This time, however, by myself.

Wednesday nights at the Phoenix in the East Village (one of my two favorite bars here) is cheap beer night. If that wasn't reason enough for frequenting, it also attracts all the most attractive East Village boys and the place packs out by 11pm. In fact, when we left at 1am (notice the we...foreshadowing...) a line had formed.

The logic in going by myself was that it forced me to meet new people and hopefully make headway in making friends (not having someone with me also increased my chances of getting laid).

Like a cheap tamale, these things rarely unfold as planned.















I instantly met a couple great people, Bentley and Andrea, who were out getting trashed celebrating Bentley's 35th birthday. He was cute, and you know he wanted to get laid on his birthday, so the prospect presented itself quickly and the ringfinger was bare, which I learned from last week (another story) to check immediately.

Before commencing with my immoral motivations, though, I was interrupted by someone from San Francisco - they are everywhere here. He ended up being one of two that night, or three actually. This friend moved to NY about one week ago and while we had made plans earlier that day to hang out tonight, we both unexpectedly met up at this trashy east side bar a day early.

More interesting, he had a cute friend with him who is in NY for the summer for an internship. His friend thought I looked familiar. My internal dialogue recalled how we had met six months before at Moby Dick's through another friend, exchanged numbers before he left to South America for two weeks, and then proceeded to never call me after he got back to town.

"Yeah, you look familiar too," I said.

He was defintely cute though, and after two rounds of Pilsner-sized tequila shots, even cuter. The only impediment was the affections my friend was having with this boy. They were ex's, and in their drunken state of affairs had become quite nostalgic with their hands.

I didn't want to step on any toes, especially among friends, and especially because I don't have any, so I waited until my friend had to pee and made my move.

I knew I only had 3 minutes, maybe 4 tops.

I grinned. I blushed. I laughed at his bad joke. I looked demure. I grabbed him by the waist with both my hands and pulled his pelvis as close to mine as possible.

I looked into his eyes and smiled. I opened my mouth slightly and moved it seductively closer to his until the electricity was palpable. Only 2 and a half minutes to go.

He leaned in. He caressed my forearm nervously. He narrowed his eyes. He pulled a wry, mischevious smile and said, 'Let's make our goodnights and go our seperate ways. Then I'll meet you around the corner at the late-night Jewish deli where I'll be waiting with bagels and loxs for the most incredible and kosher breakfast I'll be making you after we spend tonight not sleeping.'

Sigh. Actually, no. Instead he tenderly kissed me on the cheek and said, 'I wish I met you when I first got here' (he's heading back to SF in one week).

Internal dialogue: Great, so close to getting laid and this guy wants a date, and perhaps then a snuggle on the couch after a romantic comedy starring a Cusack.

I saw my friend returning from the toilet. I grabbed cute boy's forearm and relocated my lips close to his again, squeezing his arm firmly with a passion, a dramatic intensity I probably gleaned from Demi Moore in Ghost (Molly, you in danger girl.), then backed away coyly and greeted my approaching friend.

Holiday in Crawford

Have vacation plans this month? You need to change them and travel instead to the politically picturesque Crawford, TX where opportunities for media attention about your given diatribe has never been more ripe.

As many of us know, President Bush has taken more vacation leave than any other President before him, at this point accumulating over 300 vacation days, whereas Clinton took a total of about 150 over eight years.

The consistently conservative Wall Street Journal printed a great editorial today discussing the administration's current public relations strategy encompassing Prairie Ranch, which has now been monickered White House West.

The administration has chosen the slow news season of August to showcase daily issues the President wishes to promote, while guiding news coverage away from less flattering issues (War in Iraq) - and the media, with little else to cover aside from Jen and Angelina, and a propensity to print any words that come out of the monkey's mouth, has gone even further and made headlines of his daily talking points.

Until Cindy Sheehan arrived.

Sheehan lost her son in Iraq and has been protesting around the country against W for months, but she never received the press coverage she achieved this past week outside Praries Ranch, where she became the only fascinating alternative to the droll ramblings of the President.

She swore to remain camped outside Prairie Ranch until the President meets with her. Accoridng to the WSJ they did actually meet previously, but Sheehan recalled the President as being callous (imagine that) and demands a second meeting to express her grief.

Articles on Sheehan have also stated that Fox News (of course) has chosen to snub any coverage of Sheehan.

So now is your opportunity. You have a message? Start your own public relations campaign, the media awaits you in on the ranch.

The Future Is Mine (Part Two)

(You should read Part One first.)

The Shout Out Louds show itself, did I mention this, was phenomenal, and you know I don't use that word lightly. The last time I saw them perform it was as a perfunctory opening act - employed to warm up the crowd and kill time before more people filled the hall, which they did with grace and power at the Great American Music Hall in San Francisco for The Dears a couple months back - great show, but The Dears sucked, so exhaustingly melodramatic, and you know that's saying something coming from a Sinead fan (and speaking of extreme melodrama, you have to click on the link, I just noticed she's now calling it the 'Healing Site', poor poor tragic soul).

With this performance the SOLs finally had the ability to cull together a set as a performance, using lighting and their set list to construct a complete show. (It also helped that everyone there had actually come to see them, so I wasn't the only fool hollering and gesticulating spastically).

Right from song one I was impressed by the SOLs decision to immediately dispense with the two songs that could be considered their most popular (if they had ever been played more than twice on the radio). The two songs anyone might know were simply played and discarded and the band moved on to their real performance, busting out third with "Never Ever", an amazing anthem and personal favorite buried at the end of the album they released in Scandinavia two years ago - no one would know it, which made the fact they would play such a song so great: they weren't trying to market their album, you couldn't buy that album in the US, - they were showcasing, and I thought, doing a damn good job of it.

What's also wonderful about such a small band and such a humble venue as the Mercury Lounge is before and after the show the band was able to casually mingle among the crowd, with few freaks like me to disturb them. There was no backstage, the band literally had to wade through the crowd to go on or off stage - which made for an interesting encore performance.

At one point I saw the lead singer simply standing at the bar talking to a nordic looking princess. I was too nervous to talk to him - I know, lame - but when he left I approached her and asked if they were going together. 'Going where?' she replied. They are going together it turns out, so I told her I was hoping he was gay. She said he gets that a lot - Scandinavian thing.

Now maybe if I just do that ten more times I'll become friends with the band somehow and they'll take me on tour with them and let me one time play the tambourine and sell t-shirts. I'd be really good at it if by any chance they end up reading this...I even have a marketing background - email me at this site, I'll send a resume and headshot immediately.

In replace of playing the few songs people might know the words to for their encore the lead singer simply returned to stage with the band's smoke-eyed diva of multiple instruments (keyboards, tambourine, xylophone, harmonica) and played a soft ballad that the other band members progressively added to as they returned to the stage, culminating in a minor-epic crescendo that resolved directly into the energized and playful My Friend With the Ink on His Fingertips and the band finished with its only sparse and epic song Seagull (9 minutes) ending the set on the electronic screechings of the band's signature seagulls.