Fire Island Fairy

Kristian...what are we goin's ta do do wit' you, gurl?

Tales of A Fourth Grade Nothing

In third grade, I was an ass-kissing model student with a greasy, unkempt mullet and an ear for Billy Joel's Storm Front. In fifth grade, I was a butt-ugly model student who was an easy target of ridicule and whose lips were growing five times faster than the rest of his head, which is super-cool if you're in a classic rock band or have an adoption fetish, but otherwise really sucks. Fourth grade, however, was something else entirely. It was what I'd later learn is called a watershed year.

It was the year where I gained a little independence and a smidge of an allowance, and began riding my bike the mile or so to Seeley and Kane's Cards and Comics. It began a sixteen-year (and counting) tradition of regularly checking in with Superman. For much of that year, I thought I toiled up and down the racks of that store in anonymity, until one day I plopped both Adventures of Superman #464 and Adventures of Superman Annual #2 in front of Chuck, to which he responded, "Hey! It's the Superman guy!" I beamed all the way through the lush zipatone pages of that annual, ecstatic that I was seen as a "regular". For a long time, it felt like the only "regular" thing about me.

It was also the year I became obsessed with watching Saturday Night Live,or at least trying to. making it to 11:30, let alone 1am, was no small feat for a nine and ten year-old, and sometimes guzzling liters of Coke was simply not enough. When I managed to catch it, though, this new idea of satirizing and subverting the culture and values of the sphere I lived in was dizzying. Slowly but surely, Wayne Campbell, Dennis Miller, and Dana Carvey's more Bush-than-Bush was changing the way I thought, the way I spoke, and the way I was.

Also on SNL was a sketch starring Jon Lovitz, who played a talk show host named Harvey Fierstein, in whom I found a terrifying recognition of myself. This Harvey was lonely, vaguely feminine, and doted on men. Blousy black clothes and dark jewfro aside, he was me. I didn't know there was anyone else in the world like me, and here he was on national television. And everyone was laughing at him. Not with. At.

Mr. DeLuca's class had a wide array of students. There was my best friend Ken, not only my intellectual competition but, unlike me, a natural athlete. There was Sherry, a laconic elfin creature who only spoke when permitted to expound upon her fixation, her weekend family getaway in Gowanda. And there was Bobby.

Shortly after New Year's, my mother gave me a journal. It was leather-bound, and the edges of the pages were lined with gold. A golden ribbon served as a bookmark. And in those pages, I began to recount and review the days of my life. It didn't matter to me that the journal was from two years prior, and that the dates and days of the week didn't match up., or that there was a space to write in for February 29th, a date that didn't exist in the current calendar year. I'd like to think that my nine year-old self cultivated his fertile imagination, and into the space designated for that spectre of a day scribbled details of high-flying heroics and unparallelled adventure. I hope I did.

As my journaling progressed, and the subject matter veered from the "Dark Knight Over Metropolis" storyline and the sketch where Fred Savage played the Church Lady's niece to more mature introspection. I introduced a rating system to grade my day. A white circle was a good day. Three of them made a great day. A black circle was bad; three of them was worse. That day in the locker room earned three black circles.

We were changing after gym class. Bobby's locker was one row away from me. He was everything I wasn't: stocky, strong, and athletic, with dark hair and big brown eyes. Impossibly masculine. Popular. Not handsome in the slightest; in fact, his features were rather simian. But he was a man. Even at ten, Bobby was a man. I couldn't stand him. And on this day in the locker room, he was barking about some rumor concerning Jordan Knight from the New Kids on the Block. Bobby said that he heard Jordan got alcohol poisoning and got his stomach pumped, where they found several ounces of sperm. Well, I was quite familiar with the first volume of the Snoopy encyclopedia, and knew what sperm was. With a racing heart and saucers for eyes, I said, "But that means...", and before I could finish, Bobby bellowed, "He sucks dick! He's a faggot!" I couldn't pay attention in class for the rest of the day. I had learned two things: what the word "faggot" meant, and that men like Harvey and (allegedly) Jordan didn't just lust after other men; they did something about it.

The pages of my journal became increasingly filled with talk about Bobby. Interesting, because Bobby and I weren't particularly close, or even friends at all. Yet I was obsessed with him, or, more specifically, with hating him. I didn't know where it came from; it was as if my enmity for him resided solely in my left hand, only unleashed when I put pen to paper. The quality of my days was now directly impacted by my interactions with Bobby. When I had to sit next to him during our drum lessons, it was a dark circle day. When he was out sick for a week with scarlet fever, those five days were peppered with triple white circles.

The dream was set at a class bonfire in the woods. My classmates and I were clad in flannel, denim, and down, and the flames cast a reddish-orange glow on our faces. The warmth from the fire was tangible, as was a different source of heat beside me. Bobby put his arms around me, and I nestled my head on his chest. He tousled my hair and held my hand. Our closeness was electric. It took effort not to smile. I realized that I hated Bobby so much because I really, really, really liked him. My preoccupation with penises was more than a curiosity. My attraction to men was more than physical. This was about more than sex. It was about love.

It was the kind of dream where, the next time I saw Bobby, I was sure he'd know I had it. It was too intense of a connection, and one to foreign to my conscious mind. He had to have felt it too. He didn't. And the damage had been done; I had been too rude and dismissive to him during our imagined feud that the chances of convincing him to tenderly cradle me beside a roaring fire were slim. The fact that he was aggressively heterosexual surely didn't help.

The last entry in my journal was a single question: "What if I'm like Harvey Fierstein?" I scribbled it out minutes later in case my mother ever read it. Years later, I would learn that Harvey Fierstein is a real person.

Flights of Faggotry: Project Runway Week Eleven

Okay, first of all: a one-sheet? With three descriptors? Ugh. I'm so glad that the world's fashion authorities are weaving the future of apparel with cheesy brainstormy bullshit exercises I learned in elementary school. What's next? The designers have to plot out their lines using mind maps? Or a cocktail dress made out of tangrams? Child, please.

-Uli: The second I saw the shot of her model crossing that midtown street from behind, I knew she was the winner. It was beautiful, it was bohemian, it was colorful, it was Uli as hell, but it was out of her comfort zone enough to prove that she can stretch.

-Jeffrey: I didn't think it was quite as horrible as the judges seemed to think, but it certainly was neither irreverent nor provocative (even though "provocation" was his stupid word; I mean, can we pick three of each type of word and go with it, rather than some half-thought through mash-up of adjectives and nouns? Am I anal?). What still bothers me the most about him and Laura is their steadfast refusal to let their work speak for itself, and their subsequent insistence on shitting on everyone else's work (though his crack about mothballs and chicken soup was funny, it's just not cool). I'd have booted him off around the third or fourth challenge on attitude alone.

-Laura: That dress was beautiful. It was also virtually indistinguishable from everything else she's done. I wonder if Laura's line will be called "The Dress". Or perhaps it will be called "Look At My Huge-Ass Exposed White Pregnant Belly". But hopefully she'll really just embrace her roots and call it "Clownpussy". Also, her model's impossibly-defined chest reminds me of Battle Damage He-Man.

-Michael: Gurl, what wuz you thinkin'? Uli was right on the money when she said his dress looked like an ad for an escort. Although his line, "I made a white girl look like she had an ass, that's how hot my dress was", alone should have spared him elimination.

Okay, this is where I make my confession: I peeked. I saw bits of the final four's lines in EW. And, though it pains to say it, it looks like Jeffrey should, far and away, be the winner of Project Runway. His line, from what little I saw, appeared to be a pretty appealing blend of the gothic rock 'n' roll stuff he's known for and the romantic undertones he was striving to bring to the surface this week. Michael's line was the most disappointing of the lot; what happened, Broseph? Laura and Uli's lines were exactly what I'd expect from them, and sadly not much more. Of course, they only showed, like, three pieces from each person. Maybe I'll change my mind. But probably not. I may just have to face the sad, sad fact that my least favorite designer may be the best designer. Which would actually be an appropriate and poetic tribute to my fashion retardation.

Next week: the reunion. If it's even close to as good as the Top Chef reunion was, I'll be a happy princess camper.

Uncle Mikey's Funnybook Round-Up - 9/27

Action Comics #843
Well, this ended the way we all kinda knew it would. I mean, what were the chances of Superman not making it through to the power core, y'know? I liked Nicieza and Busiek's rag-tag crew of heroes assisting Supes in defeating The Auctioneer, and I also kinda dug the use of the Auctioneer as a mouthpiece for the state of the comic industry, with his allusions to "collected editions" and whatnot. Pete Woods' art, though continuing with new, Chris Sprouse-y flavor, really shows its limitations here. Not using a straight edge ever is a novel and interesting approach, but the double-page spread of a complex spacecraft isn't served well by that technique. Instead, it sticks out on the page(s) like a sore, Dr. Katz-like thumb. I eagerly await next issue's debut of the Johns/Donner/Kubert team.

52: Week Twenty-One
Awww...our baby book is old enough to drink now, isn't she? The moderately engaging Infinity, Inc. debuts here, serving to highlight the viciousness of Lex Luthor and make a martyr out of Trajectory. The Teen Titans' appearance here is interesting, and semi-fits into what's going on in their book this week. I must say, though, that this book seems to be performing with increasingly diminished returns for me. I don't care about Nuklon. I care about...well, Superman. My hope is that the book's second half focuses more on the connectivity between the Crisis and the One Year Later storylines, and casts a wider net among more dynamic characters. Better art would help, too. Joe Bennett's work here is a real snore. Oh, and I missed those two-page origin stories this week. Sometimes, they're the best thing about the issue.

Justice League of America #2
After a balls-to-the-wall first issue, this sophomore issue almost couldn't help but be a letdown. The team still isn't together, and we see various scenes with handfuls of heroes, but not too much happens. Black Lightning gets closer. Green Lantern, Black Canary, and Arsenal get closer. Superman, Batman, and Wonder Woman get closer. But nobody really quite gets there, do they? Far from a failure, this book still is undoubtedly chock full of interesting set-up and subplot bits, but the only real payoff is on the last spread. Ed Benes, though his rendering style is still irresistable, doesn't really show any flash this time out with his layouts. With the exception of the scene with Vixen, the storytelling feels almost flattened. I will say this: I'm psyched about The Parasite. I love him.

Supergirl #10
I've been aware of the cover image for this issue for months, and was completely duped into thinking that this would establish a new direction for the series, with a secret identity and a status quo established. Not so. And though that's a disappointment, I think the story is the strongest we've seen in an issue of this book, and the abrupt abondoning of the new direction at the end is definitely a surprise. Even more compelling than the Kara-as-Lindsey-Lohan main plot is the flashbacks to Krypton, especially the haunting double-page spread at the end. I hope that, little by little, we get the answers about what these images mean and what they say about Kara. Churchill's art is still incredibly unappealing to me, but I can live with it. For now.

Teen Titans #39
Luckily, this book is starting to get somewhat interesting again. The Titans visit three ex-Titans in hopes of finding Raven and uncovering the traitor's identity. Particularly fun is Miss Martian, especially with her chilling epiphany at the end of the issue. I wish some development could have been made between Robin and Wonder Girl, but it's a small complaint. A larger complaint is about the uninspired artwork of Tony Daniel. He's toned down the more expressionistic tendencies of his style to create a more illustrative, natural look, but it also robs the artwork of any sense of movement or dynamic composition. Man, DC's having a hard time finding kick-ass artists, huh? I think they oughtta steal some from Marvel.

The Trials of Shazam! #2
I'm shocked. I like this book. I really kinda do. I'm as resistant to changes to the Marvel Family as they come, but I'm starting to come around. Maybe change is good. It's probably best to let the Big Red Cheese live on in Archive Editions, where he belongs and is at his best, rather than constantly try and fail to re-contextualize him while maintaining a classic approach. Winick and Porter's redesign of the Rock of Eternity and of the Seven Deadly Sins is striking, and it's nice to see that Freddy will be the focus of this book, with no mutterings of "CM2" to be heard. The wonky, angular quirks that have turned me off to Howard Porter's work in the past are softened here by his new, paint-like approach. Although I do want to see costumes and flying. C'mon, Judd! Give me some costumes and flying!

The Ultimates 2 #12
No matter how many Mark Millar-penned tales I read, I am continually amazed at how effortlessly he captures the awe and sheer beauty of super-powers, something his cohorts manning the Ultimate Baxter Building could learn a thing or two from. The scene with Quicksilver rescuing Hawkeye was thrilling to read and to look at. Cap and the gang overturn the coup on American soil, with Hulk kicking ass, The Wasp getting huge, Iron Man being wasted, and Thor returning and being all Nordic and hot and awesome. Hitch's work nearly manages to be worth the wait here, with many poster-worthy images scattered throughout the issue, not to mention expert action storytelling; Abdul's defeat was flawlessly brought to visual life. Oh, but does anyone else think he draws a weird-ass Spider-Man?

Ultimate Spider-Man #100
Kller boots, man! Bendis turns the Spider-Man mythos on its ear with style and panache, as the never-killed Richard Parker returns to Peter's life and explains his absence, all while the resurrected Gwen tries super-hard not to become Carnage and two mutated Peter clones duke it out over a captured Mary Jane. Holy shit. I can't believe I have to wait until next issue to find out what the hell is going on, and that's a sure sign of a kick-ass comic book. Bagley's work here, particularly his rendering of faces, is top-notch. I will be sad to see him go with issue #110, and cringe to think of who could possibly fill his speedy, dependable shoes. This issue also has really cool bonus material, including an extensive sketchbook and unused art gallery, as well as a handy synopsis of the series' first 99 issues.

Me and DVR Are Getting Married

I'm Lovin' It (Ba Da Ba Ba Ba):

-Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip - though it hits the one pitfall I feared it would (the show-within-a-show material that's supposed to be so brilliant isn't), this show is incredibly well-written and acted, and moves with the pace of a bullet train. It's occasionally downright exhilarating.

-Weeds - Tell me you guys are watching this. It's the most subversive show on TV, performed by the best cast on TV. Few shows surprise me the way this one does. From Justin Kirk getting fucked by a strap-on-wielding Hebrew school administrator to pre-teen Shane getting a handjob at an Asian massage parlor, you never know what's gonna happen next. Not to mention Mary Louise-Parker's completely unexpected and thrilling delivery of each line she's given. If you can't afford an acting class, watch this.

-The Office - No show on television is at once so hilarious and so revolting. During the season premiere's excruciatingly long gay kiss, I wanted to crawl out of my skin, all while screaming and laughing my ass off. That they can do both wildly broad and wacky comedy and still tug at my heartstrings with the Jim/Pam storyline is a true testament to the strength of this production team. I would kill someone to write for this show.

-The New Adventures of Old Christine - Something tells me this will be an unpopular pick, but I'm sorry. Though the writing isn't always crackerjack, and the occasional tonal shifts are downright jarring, I consistently laugh harder at this than any other show on TV, and for one reason: Julia Louis-Dreyfus. In the season finale, when she was outing herself as a masturbator to her son's third grade teacher, I could hardly breathe. This woman could blink out the phone book in morse code and I'd be on the floor.

I'm Likin' It (Bee Dee Dee Dee Dee)

-Heroes - Not too shabby. The cringe-worthy self-important opening placard, cheesy dialogue, and middling acting doesn't exactly scream megahit, but hell, it's about super-heroes. Plus, there's some pretty bad-ass gruesome makeup effects, a nice twist revealing the villain's other role, and that adorable Japanese guy. Oh, and next episode, that adorable cubbish Greg Grunberg shows up. I want to marry him a little.

-Help Me Help You - The pilot was pretty damn funny. This single-camera show features the Ted Danson of Cheers, rather than the one of Ink or Becker. We'll see.

-My Name is Earl - It's never my favorite thing in any given week, but it always makes me laugh. Jason Lee has finally found a role he doesn't suck at, Jaime Pressly's Emmy nomination was well-deserved, Ethan Supplee is deliciously retarded, and that Catalina is enough to make me straight. For like, a minute.

-Desperate Housewives - Bree's orgasm. Need I say more?

I'm Lookin' Forward To It (Buh Duh Duh Duh Duh)

30 Rock, Smallville, the second season of Top Chef, and that sitcom that starts in November that Rachael Harris is in. I'm telling you, people. TV is the new movies.

Rambo: Aaaargghhh Part II

Did I mention that I fucking hate my fucking piece of shit computer that sucks? Because it's true. I fucking hate it.

Vinny, can you come over and fix it? Pretty please?

I do floors.

Aaarghh

I fucking hate my computer. I would wish that my computer was dea, but I think it already is. Anyone want to buy me a new computer?

Seriously.

I do windows.

Uncle Mikey’s Funnybook Round-Up – 9/23

52: Week Twenty
This issue was off to a fantastic start. Supernova in the Batcave, checkin’ out Jason Todd’s duds and Luthor’s crazy-ass power glove; Steel’s return to super-heroism and the discovery of Luthor’s plans; Chris Batista’s tightest pencils on the series yet. Then they had to go into space and get all crazy and stupid with Lobo. Yuck. He bores me to tears, as does Starfire and Adam Strange. Animal Man is kinda cool though, and his stubble seems to be the only thing the Chris Batista renders with any flair in the latter three quarters of the book. Kevin Nowlan’s Adam Strange origin was nice to look at. Bring on Ralph, Skeets, and Supernova. Let Lobo go the way of Slo-Bo.

The Flash: The Fastest Man Alive #4
This book needs a regular artist, and pronto. Because y’know what? This issue was actually kinda cool. Ken Lashley’s work here oscillates wildly between old-schooly Ron Frenz linework and the unfocused, messy flash of Eric Battle. It’s just not working. Sal Velluto takes the penciling reigns on the last few pages, but that succeeds only in making the book more of a visual mish-mash. Bart seems to be embracing his calling a little more, and as a result is more likable and closer to the Kid Flash I know and love. I say get Geoff Johns back on this book and get, like, Stuart Immonen to draw it. That’d be sweet.

Superman #656
Well, well, well! “The Super Boy”, huh? The slow-but-sure leak of ret-conned tidbits begins here, folks. This book continues its hot streak for me here, as Supes faces off against Subjekt-17 and ponders the extent of Callie’s knowledge of his dual identity. Busiek’s device of Kal-El’s narration really lends a depth of character infrequently seen in Superman tales. Little bits, like Clark’s intention to learn Kazakh, seasons the story and adds texture. Carlos Pacheco is nicely settling into the book, providing stunning visuals and effectively capturing the regality of Superman in flight.

Ultimate Fantastic Four #34
Hm. I don’t know if I like the direction Carey and Ferry are taking this book. The whole thing just feels a little…weird and wonky. With such frenetic visuals and such other-worldly characters, it’s hard to picture anything having consequence or carrying weight. Even Gallowglass’ seeming decimation of 42nd Street doesn’t seem to be that big of a deal, because the established reality is so unreal and the stakes don’t feel high. I’m sure I’m just longing for the stellar work of the book’s previous creative team, but I wish that this new crew could at least rip a page or two out of their playbook.

Denouement

I’m sitting aft on the Marina Deck of the Zenith, wondering if I correctly used the word “aft”. Night has fallen, but I can still see the great wake created by the vessel as it careens toward the beckoning shores of New York. The sting of being one number away from jackpot bingo is fading, replaced by the sting of embarrassment at being stung by something so cruise shippy. I look over the deck and see a cluster of waffle-bathrobed passengers in Concierge Class, sipping champagne and toasting to another blissful voyage. I’ve decided that one of them is definitely gay, and not just really, really European as I had previously believed. A cool breeze blows, but warming my belly is a bowlful of tuna and capers pasta from the staggeringly disappointing buffet. I don’t think I like cruises. I can’t wait to be home.

Impressions of St. George, Bermuda

James and I in the stocks-type torture thingie thqat entirely sums up the colonial Williamsburg-y-ness of this place.

James strolling the streets of St. George, careful to avoid stepping into a puddle of quaintness.

Me and my bestest friend in the whole wide world, the Zenith.

I was still pretty far away.

Make No Waves

Last night, James and I got wasted at Splash. No, not New York’s Musical Mondays standby, but rather Hamilton, Bermuda’s Tuesday night dance club of choice. We were told that Splash was our greatest hope of finding a “mixed” crowd.

The dance floor rocked to the sounds of Justin Timberlake, Shakira, and others of their ilk as James and I put away vodka Red Bull after vodka Red Bull. We met three locals; Nelson, Fernando, and Nate at nearby Café Cairo and marveled at their tales of semi-closeted Bermudian life.

James and Nelson hit it off at Splash, though their affection could only be expressed with close proximity and the occasional quick touch or squeeze. A member of the cruise ship’s crew, who had been so sweet to us on board, now shot James disapproving looks from across the bar.

I think I understand how a gay man can live in Bermuda. There’s something to be said for the hushed vocabulary of coded language, furtive glances, and forbidden rendezvous. The allure of the taboo stimulates and scintillates the senses. For Nelson, Fernando, Nate, and the other handfuls of gay men in Hamilton, it seems to be enough.

I need more than that, I think.

Impressions of Hamilton, Bermuda 2: Red, White, and Blonde

These trees indicate that I'm not lying about having gone somewhere tropical.

One of many spectacular vistas of crystal waters. And as much as it would indicate otherwise, nobody in Bermuda is homeless.

Me preparing to show a wave who's boss.

A wave showing me who's boss.

James as a man.

James as a lady.

"Mustn't...look...fat..."

James and I, posing for our photographer, a German homosexual with an enormous pierced cock, which he risked arrest in sunny, scenic, homophobic Bermuda to show off. Note his shadow, and the shadow of his little partner, whose own pierced cock was nothing to sneeze at...or on, even.

Impressions of Hamilton, Bermuda

James and I eschewed a twenty-minute bus ride from our ship to the beaches in favor of a ninety-minute hike there on foot, to take in the sights and sounds of this strange new land.

Seen:

-Sparkling clean pastel homes, wider than tall, scattered on hillsides, overlooking bays. From certain viewpoints, the San Francisco of the Caribbean.

-A frightening lack of sidewalks along narrow, curvaceous roads. James’ near-collision with a man on a moped (the island’s chief means of transportation) made me flinch as I watched helplessly from behind.

-Our first contact with a Bermudian, doubling as the world’s creepiest man. Tall and lanky, with a mop of tawny hair, glasses that magnified the cross in his eyes, and an oversized tank top that sloughed off his skeletal frame and exposed the misplaced dark fur on his shoulders. Our dialogue:

CREEPY: Hello there!
US: Hey, how are you?
CREEPY: Coming from the beach?
JAMES: No, we’re going to the beach.
CREEPY: The beach is (pointing in the direction that we were clearly headed in) that way.
JAMES: Yeah. Thanks.
CREEPY: Do you know Rick from Wave Beach?
JAMES: No…
CREEPY (to James): You look just like him…
JAMES: Okay…well…we’ll be on the lookout for him.
CREEPY: If you see him, tell him I said hello. From me.
MICHAEL: Will do, dude.

Genius.

-A bitchy yoga studio receptionist who answers phones for a living but acts like the Queen of Egypt. Less than halfway through our exhausting trudge across the island’s southwest shore, James stopped at a yoga studio to see if they sold bottles of water. They didn’t. And we couldn’t have been told that in a less friendly way. As the venomous condescension sprayed out from between her two rows of candy corn teeth, I wondered why yoga ladies tended to be so…unenlightened. We’d find out later that enlightenment isn’t exactly Bermuda’s national pastime.

-The bluest water I’ve ever seen. Crisp, clear, crystal blue. Shadowless. Crashing onto various rocks jutting out of the cove like cymbals in a bombastic symphony. Beautiful and unforgettable.

-Gays. Leave it to James and I to sniff out Bermuda’s eight homogaysexyulls by going to a beach recommended by my straight co-worker. The gay beach. At first, we had no idea. Slowly but surely, though, men in speedos would disappear behind a nearby rock formation. Leave it to James and I to hop back behind there just to ask the cruisy Suzies where to go at night.

At Sea

Sleeping is a chore. Tossing. Turning. Yanking on sheets. Tugging on blankets. Occasionally cursing Neptune.

The culture of cruising, in the nautical sense, is strange to me. Five-course meals where you sit with strangers, trying desperately to find common ground between soup and salad. The fitness center where you struggle to maintain balance on the treadmill while the steady side-scroll of endless miles of brilliant blue churns your stomach. The daily bulletin, where you pit bingo versus karaoke for your nightly fix of scheduled, rigidly-timed fun. The legions of straight people, who can be overheard saying things like “That Jeff Foxworthy is a real sweetheart” as they wonder why such a broad young man it sitting at the bar, sipping martinis with another boy.

It’s the new cruising. Leather vests become life vests. The pool table has a buffet on it now. Instead of hard techno, we get easy listening. And surrounding us, rather than man-made monoliths, is the royalty of the sea and the majesty of the sky. Strange, yes. But not entirely unwelcome.

Daylight creeps closer with every missed wink. After the seventh toss and umpteenth turn, an epiphany. Rather than fight the rocking and lurching of this great vessel, relax into it. A mighty heave up, and a long and gentle glide down. Placed between the wings of a giant albatross, cutting through the dark and empty night.

I Love It When We're Cruising Together

James and I at Penn Station, preparing to embark on a seafaring voyage.

Sassy cruise ship ladies who looked at our passports, laughed at our loser jokes, likened us to movie stars, and just may become MySpace buddies with us.

Farewell, Ms. Liberty (if you're nasty).

...and lonely little red buoy, I'll miss you most of all!

James and I dressed for "casual night" at dinner, which, if you ask me, is still kinda dressy.

Away Message

Hi, you've reached the blog of Michael Hartney. I can't come to the blog right now, because for the next week I'll be in the middle of the God-blessed Atlantic. Rest assured, I'll still write every day, and will post when the opportunity arises. Just leave your name, e-mail address, cock size, and favorite jungle creature after the beep, and I'll holla back.

Beep.

Flights of Faggotry: Project Runway Week Ten

Well, that was something of a mindfuck, huh?

-My viewing companions were genuinely nervous that either Vincent or Angela would usurp a spot from one of the remaining designers. I, on the other hand, was confident that Angela would be her usual Gypsy Rosette Lee self and that Vincent would trot out the "Little Shop/Suddenly Seymour/Mean, Green, & Bad" megamix. Lo and behold, I was right as rain. Angela's model may have resembled Queen Elizabeth, but only from her cameo in George Michael's "Too Funky" video. And Vincent once again proved his knack for making an incompetent mess out of even the most elementary , uninspired design. Dah-doo.

-Laura's cocktail dress (by the way, did anyone find this challenge, no-scrap-left-behind policy or not, a little easy?) was really stunning. I just with that CP didn't feel the need to cut everyone else down in the process. She was totally out of line to call Angela out for merely winning a team challenge, valid or not. I mean, could she possibly feel threatened by Jean de Fleurchon?

-Michael, on the other hand, knows how to shut the fuck up, do his work, and still get ahead without being a week-old tube o' douche. His white dress was beautifully asymmentrical, the belt stunningly ornate, and the handbag a clever solution to the scrap dilemma. I'm calling a winner, and it's Michael Knight. I just hope his line isn't called Knight Rider.

-Uli, Michael Kors might have been onto something with his hilarious "hot whezzuh" comment. Aside from last week's gorgeous solid number, her flair for prints is proving more one-trick pony than workhorse. The judges seem to be sensing that.

-Ick. Jeffrey. Sucky attitude, sucky dress. "Hmmmm...do you know what would make this dress even cheaper looking? Whore leggings." I'm surprised he didn't respond to the white component of the challenge by just smearing the dress with cumstains. I was really hoping my prediction from last week would be wrong, and that Tuh-Toos McNeck would be auf'ed.

-So long, Kayne. You're a darling and a sweetheart. And despite decidedly tacky, leanings, a true talent. It's clear that, this week, you were eliminated based on previous challenges, because your dress, though flawed, was miles better than Jeffrey's. I will dearly miss you. The repeated shots of your man-boobs? Not as much.

If anyone goes next week (or is it two weeks from now?), I pray it's Jeffrey.

Uncle Mikey's Funnybook Round-Up - 9/13

The Escapists #3
At Midtown Comics, they gave me a ticket for Brian K. Vaughan's appearance at the store on October 13th. Part of me really, really wants to go and have him sign key issues of Ex Machina and Ultimate X-Men for me (and maybe even Superman/Batman #26). But part of me is scared that I will gush a little too much at him (and maybe even propose marriage). This issue doesn't exactly do much to curb my love for the man. It's sorta sad, really sweet, and contains the first of two bat-shit insane BKV two-page fantasy sequences this week. I am still digging the meta quality of the story, as well as the appeal and hopefulness of its characters. Jason Shawn Alexander (who hopefully neither married Britney Spears for a day nor starred in Bob Patterson) turns in truly beautiful "comic book" pages, and the juxtapostion of these images with Max and Case's chat is positively ethereal. I felt like I was reading an issue of Promethea. A really good issue of Promethea. I love this book.

Ex Machina #23
Here, we're treated to the second of BKV's baffling two-page fantasy sequences, this one seeming to tie in to both his apparent effect on animals and the eventual discovery of the source of his powers. If I watched Lost (which I hope to catch up on on DVD), I'd say it was Lost-esque. The plot thickens here in part three of "Smoke, Smoke", where the past and present tales begin to weave together, which causes Hundred to...well, kinda go nuts, apparently. Still wondering what January's scheme is, and her allusion to Kurt Cobain makes me feel like she wants to make Hundred really, really pay for Journal's death. Tony Harris continues to astound with his newly ink-washed artwork, although I will say this: this issue's cover is the first of the series that just doesn't work.

52: Week Nineteen
Congratulations, boys! I liked two issues in a row, now! Let's go for a hat trick, shall we? Well...I suppose that's not entirely true. I mean, the cosmic space scenes with Lobo and the gang bored me nearly to tears, and though I acknowledge that penciler Patrick Oliffe may be the strongest draftsman of anyone who's drawn the series thus far, I must say his work is achingly dull to me. However, the new Booster Gold storyline looks mighty intriguing. Mighty intriguing indeed. Skeets is a little shit, ain't he? Also, Cassie thinks Supernova is Connor resurrected. I think she's wrong, but if so, who is this motherfucker? I actually love not knowing. I hope I'm blown away at the final reveal. And when was the last time Brian Bolland drew actual panels of a comic book?!? Huge treat.

JLA Classified #27
Despite its retread of familiar waters, this issue has enough going for it to keep me interested. Chaykin's quick cuts and vignettes of each character's take on the sitch really keeps the story moving, and the persistence of the threat handled by J'onn and Arthur allow Plunkett and Nguyen to really shine with the artwork. My qualm is this: I can see Batman violating UN mandates. I can see Wonder Woman doing it. Kyle? Sure. Wally? Fuck yeah. Superman? Not really. I think he's learned his lesson on that kind of thing by now. I don't know...maybe I'm just a super-loser (as if there's any question), but I really think that with so strong a decree, Superman would stay out of it unless lives were immediately in danger. We'll see how this plays out, I suppose.

Ultimate X-Men #74
Despite having sort of spoiled the ending of this storyline in the Annual, Kirkman redeems himself with a really unsettling twist toward the end of the book that suggests we've far from seen the last of The Magician. I'm also a big fan of keeping books stuffed with continuous subplots, and this book's got a ton of 'em. The Nightcrawler/Colossus thing really is begging to be resolved (again, the Annual had better not be the final word on it), this Sabretooth thing is intriguing, and...Professor? What'choo doin', Boo? I think I noted this last issue, but while Scott Hanna's increased presence on the book as a finisher definitely adds an air of consistency that Tom Raney's work often lacks, it also never reaches the heights of Raney's most polished work. It leaves the artwork looking professional but unremarkable.

An Open Letter To People Missing Parts of Their Face

Dear people missing parts of your faces,

First of all, let me say that I, too, think it is an absolute tragedy that a birth defect/cancer/speedboat mishap took your nose/upper lip/eyeball from you. I mean, not being able to smell/kiss/get the full effect of 3-D movies has got to be really rough. Even being near a blooming rose/Mick Jagger/a movie theater showing The Ant Bully must be a challenge of your spirit and will.

And with that out of the way, for God's sake, stop freaking me out.

I'm sorry; I know, I know, I'm an insensitive asshole. But c'mon, guys. I don't mean to sound like Aunt Sassy, but I don't need to see that! If you read my blog (and/or have my blog read to you because you're, in fact, missing both eyeballs), you'll know that I recently had a run-in with a noseless gentleman that nearly resulted in me dropping Buffalo wings into his lap and screaming like...what's the term? Ah, yes. A lady. Today, on Sixth Avenue, the one of the Americas, I walked past another gentleman with glasses on. Glasses that magnified the gaping black hole in his left eye socket. Lisa Lopes herself would have either thrown a box of Trojans at him or darted away after the nearest waterfall. If she wasn't all dead and stuff.

It was simply the last straw. Folks, cover up. It's really that simple. People with missing, fucked up, and/or generally mutant ears can grow their hair out. Those without an upper lip would certainly benefit from a fake mustache, even the ladies. Our proboscis-free friends can reduce passer-by freak-outs by simply donning a face mask; with Michael Jackson's popularity through the roof and co-opting Asian culture so in this season, I almost wish I, too, only had nostril-esque holes on my creepy, flattened face. And I have three simple words for those missing eyeballs: eyepatch, eyepatch, eyepatch. The purpose is twofold: we don't have to see your dark, abyssmal ocular cavity, and it puts your sex appeal through the roof. There's this one guy I see sometimes at The Eagle who sports one, and frankly, the eyepatch is at least a percentage of the reason I want to diddle his fanny. Among other things, if he asks nicely and I'm drunk enough.

Some of you surely have this high-and-mighty opinion that this is the way God made you, and this is how you choose to live your life, and how dare I, a gay man, suggest that someone cover up the way they are. To that I say this: your analogy is flawed. After all, we gays don't walk the streets brandishing our exposed erect penises for everyone to see (except, of course, on Fire Island, the Folsom Street Fair, and, from what I hear, most of Greece). We conceal them. You can proudly strut down Sixth Avenue, the one of the Americas, with a t-shirt saying "Can You Believe How Cheekless I Am?", and I will cheer you on and rough up any who oppose you. As long as you're wearing a burka.

I hope you can see/not see, but at least understand/gather from your bastardized approximation of smell what I mean. Now if you'll excuse me, I've got to go habanero pepper picking to decorate my bedroom in Hell with.

Love you like a sister,
Michael Francis Hartney II

When I Couldn't Grow A Beard

Five years ago. Today.

I screeched into a parking space in the alley behind the salon. I knew I was about three minutes late. This wouldn't normally be a problem; after all, I'd still be there about a half hour before everybody else. But Doreen had taken to calling from her house at 8:45am sharp, just to make sure I was prompt in beginning my opening duties. Sure enough, as I scrambled into the salon to pick up the ringing phone, it was 8:48.

"Hello?"

"Hey, Mike."

"Hi, Do."

"Turn on the radio. Some plane just hit the World Trade Center."

Hm. That was interesting. I remembered a story about some tiny little propeller jammer hitting a building in Seattle or something a few years back, and breathed a sigh of relief that listening to news radio would provide a break from the god-awful adult contemporary drivel that Doreen insisted be piped into the cutting room floor.

Of course, that's when I learned, along with mostly everybody else, that this was no tiny propeller jammer. A few minutes later, it became crystal clear that this was no accident of any kind. Amidst the conflicting reports of other hijacked planes, I began to wonder, "How many more will crash? And where?"

Before even the first stylist made it into the shop, Sue walked in. Sue was one of Doreen's clients; loud, abrasive, and a tad obnoxious. She looked extremely distressed.

"Good morning, Sue. Is everything OK?"

"My brother works at the World Trade Center. I was on the phone with him, and then it just cut out. I don't know if he's alive or dead."

Before I could begin to express to her how sorry I was, she spoke again.

"So do you think Doreen can squeeze me in for a quick cut and highlight?"

I managed to get one of the TVs in the back working, despite Doreen's refusal to get cable. With the salon's portable phone in my hand to take any pertinent calls, I watched in horror as the first tower fell. As one of America's most recognizable symbols of capitalism and prosperity crumbled to dust, a silly, childish thought crossed my mind.

We could really use Superman right now.

I wished with all my heart that I could throw open those salon doors, hurl myself skyward, and, with the Empire State stretched out in front of my eyes, rocket toward Lower Manhattan and lift every godamned beam off of every godforsaken victim. I wished desperately that I could breach the hull of United 93, and burn the box-cutters right out of those villains' hands with nothing but my furious, furious eyes. I wished with every fiber of my being that I could extinguish the fire at the Pentagon with a mighty heave of my lungs. All of those lives. I wished I could save them.

"Hey Mike! Do you think at some point you could...oh, I don't know...work?"

Snapping out of my fantasy, and peeling my eyes away from the mayhem on the TV screen, I saw a disapproving Doreen, color brush in hand. She was about to give Sue her highlights. Apparently sitting behind a front desk, dusting shelves of conditioners, and making the occasional latte was more important than watching history in the making. Just as bouncy, multi-hued hair was more important than flesh and blood.

That evening, after waiting in line for hours at two different blood drives, I realized they'd never take my blood, even if I lied about being gay, which I was perfectly willing to do. I had just gotten over mono. I couldn't give New York my strength. I couldn't give the sky my fury. I couldn't give the capital my breath. And now, I couldn't even give Buffalo my blood.

I never found out what happened to Sue's brother. Hopefully, at some point, she did.

Five Things I'm A Little Bit on the Super-Psyched Side About

1. The new fall TV season. Peace out, movies. I will be glued to the tube until May. I keep having to tell myself, "It's not as pathetic when you're trying to work in television. Then it's more research than anything else." I'm almost beginning to buy it. In addition to finding out what's up with Clark on Smallville, where the Jim/Pam thing is going on The Office, and seeing if this season's SNL is a return to greatness or a further plunge into suckitude, I also get to watch the premieres of Heroes, Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip, and 30 Rock. If tonight's laugh-out-loud season premiere of The Simpsons is any indication, that dude's Emmy speech was right: this is the Golden Age of Television.

2. Getting my ass kicked by my personal trainer. Nick is a fucking little shit and a douchebag. And that's why I love him so much. I feel stronger, I have more energy, and I've been sleeping better. And this is with an erratic training schedule and a firm commitment to still eating like a pig. Imagine what'll happen when we really get down to business.

3. The Showcase Presents Superman trade paperbacks. For, like, dirt-cheap, you can get black-and-white phone book-sized reprint editions of Superman tales from the Silver Age of comics. Sure, there's a bunch of yarns in here I've read before in other best-of collections, but there's also a ton I've never read or seen before, like the one where Superman gets a lion's head, or when aliens manipulate him into creating a time capsule of his feats. Plus, seeing images from Wayne Boring, Al Plastino, Kurt Schaffenberger, and Curt Swan for the first time is always kind of a thrill.

4. The impending arrival of autumn. Don't let that Richard Gere movie fool you: autumn in New York is not a schmaltzy piece of crap. It's actually a lot of fun. My tree-lined street will soon be awash in yellow and orange, a peaceful calm will fill the nooks and crannies of the West Village, and I will once be able to break out my single favorite piece of clothing: the hoodie. Ah, life will be sweet.

5. My cruise to Bermuda! I still am in a semi-state of denial that this is actually happening. My guess is that it will be well worth turning down the audition for the Finnish commercial for. Yes, starting on Saturday, I will be a sun-soaked, sarong-slung lady. For weeks now, I've fretted about finding my passport. Today, I decided to suck it up and begin the search. Arbitrarily declaring that Sophie Ellis-Bextor would provide the best look-for-your-passport jams, I put her Shoot From the Hip into my CD player, kicked up the volume, and set off on what surely would be a hunt of safari-like proportions. Before she even began the first line of "Mixed-Up World", I stuck my hand into a shelf in my desk, pulled out a rectangular-shaped something, and there it was. Oh, well. Sophie can stay on. Love her.

Bizarro Planet

Suffice to say, the grease-soaked "eatery" where I work is not exactly a place to see and be seen. Cute boys, fashionistas, model-types, and those other things HX calls people who go to Beige are nowhere to be found in the "dining room" of my "restaurant". Instead, my fellow "servers" and I busy ourselves with fun games like "Count the Teeth". I'm still reeling from last week's incident where I ran a tray of "food" to a table for a man to "eat", only to discover the man was entirely missing a nose. I nearly dropped his plate of "Buffalo wings", and the dissonant tones of the A Clockwork Orange score rang in my head. Also, I'm pretty sure I waited on Gilbert Grape's mom the last time she was petite enough to leave the house.

Imagine Coca my surprise when a big, strapping hunk sat down at table #87 tonight. He had red hair, scruff, and blue eyes I wanted to swim in (and for those of you dying to say something snarky, he didn't look a damn thing like me). He also had a cheesy v-neck ribbed white t-shirt on, but I was willing to forgive. I could even overlook his girlfriend's frosted lip gloss. No, it wasn't until she poured ketchup all over her chicken Caesar that their trashiness really got to me. But who cared? There was a hot-ass guy sitting at my table. I started looking around on the floor for four-leaf clovers.

So Imagine Heap my surprise when, not five minutes later, a woof-rageous daddy-in-training sat down at table #89! He had a shaved head, a neatly-trimmed beard, and tuh-toos adorning his tree-trunk arms (again, looked nothing like me, thank, you, unless you ask Paul, who thought we could be twins, even though Jen G. vehemently disagreed). I could barely even speak to this one while also managing to stay upright. The chubby girlfriend sitting across from him was the only thing stopping me from proposing. I could not believe it: two insanely hot dudes, sitting right next to each other, that I was responsible for feeding. I glanced out the window to see if any pigs were soaring above Broadway.

And so you must simply Imagine Wilder Impersonator my surprise when, as I made my rounds on the floor, I spotted a hulking, inky Latino dude at table #35, being all sexy and hot and smoldering and Latin and stuff. And then, just across from him at table #71, a burly older daddy with two full sleeves of tuh-toos! Four! Four hot guys, all within feet of each other! Ah ah ah! I lifted the hatch in the break room that leads to hell to see if there were any thriving snowballs.

By the time that Shaved Head McTuh-toos handed me his check presenter and, of all things, winked at me (winked!), it was official: this day would be known from now on, to me and my co-workers, as Michael's Quadruple Boner Saturday.

Plus, I made fucking bank.

FYI, It's Way Easier To Use Super-Speed and Just Fly Fast, Like, Say, Even Around the World Than to Actually Find A Tiny Object That Could Be Anywhere on Earth



Still, kinda awesome, huh?

Uncle Mikey's Funnybook Round-Up - 9/7

I failed to mention yesterday that the one-day delay in comics shipping certainly didn't stop my clueless ass from showing up at an empty comic book store yesterday and exclaiming "Fuck!" Ah, Labor Day.

52: Week Eighteen
It seems like every time I'm ready to write off this series for being more interesting as a concept than actually being engaging content-wise, an issue like this shows up, with a true investigation of the various corners of the DCU and much more on-model with what this book could and should be. I am grumbling about the depiction of Booster's funeral; c'mon, guys. He might have been a dick toward the end, as Clark said in not-as-many words, but surely ex-members of the JLA would have been there. I just don't buy it. Of course, next week we'll have a new Booster, so it'll be a moot point, I s'pose. This journey that Ralph's on is very heartfelt and fascinating, and it was actually kinda nice to see the Shadowpact. Oh, and who is Terri Thirteen? She's not related to Traci Thirteen, is she? Oh, and of course, there's no better way to make an issue more interesting than by throwing in some drunken lez action.

Savage Dragon #128
Despite the recap page on the inside front cover, this thing is a giant clusterfuck from start to finish. Larsen himself admits it didn't turn out as well as he'd hope in the letters page, another reason I love this man to no end. In addition to introducing a whole slew of characters from Mark Millar and JG Jones' Wanted series, he also addresses subplots continuing from the last couple of years of Dragon tales, as well as a thread from the She-Dragon one shot, which I'm sure only six or seven people even read. Lots of stuff happens here; we find out the God Gun grants three wishes to each wielder, and that destroying the God Gun undoes all the wishes ever made with it, Savage World Angel goes off with Mister Glum, leaving the Angel who was stuck in Dimension X (has your brain taken a dump yet?) in the Savage World (does Dragon even notice?). We still have Universo, Mother Mayhem, and now Solar Man to deal with next issue, and frankly, I'd love an issue where Dragon just chills and tries to win back Jennifer. I mean, what's going on with them, huh? Oh, and the Superpatriot back-up is a lot of fun. Teenage cyborg Nazi ninjas indeed.

That's it for this week. My wallet's cookin' me a steak dinner in appreciation.

Flights of Faggotry: Project Runway Week Nine

Usually this is Funnybook Round-Up day and Thursday is Flights of Faggotry day, but Labor Day weekend has made quite a mess of things. So tomorrow, I will once again be an uncle, while today I remain a faggot.

Before the preview from next week's episode even finished, I got a text from my friend Tony, who said "Who does Uli have to fuck to win a fucking challenge?" Amen, sister. Uli's dress was beautiful. I think she took the concept of couture more to heart than anyone else. All of the handmade details were gorgeous, the color exquisite. She doesn't hop around the workroom like a fucking asshole and have neck tuh-toos and show off her loser preggo belly, all of which make positively captivating television, let me tell you. But she does the most consistently excellent work on the show, which is why she's a shoo-in for the top three. As is...

...Michael. Though too ambitious this time, I guess, Pumpkin. The egg-tossing frog surely didn't help much. It was really remarkable how much better the dress looked when he tucked in those boob flowers. I was, however, pleased as punch that we weren't treated to another "Look how the savage black man can think and assemble word fragments into sentences!" bit from Li'l Korsy. He was too busy being unimpressed this time. But from what I can remember, this is the first time he has come even close to elimination. And even he didn't come as close as...

...Laura. Yes, Clownpussy herself really put it in her mouth this time, didn't she? Maybe if you weren't so busy trashing the work of each and every one of your colleagues, you'd have time to make a dress that didn't make both your models look like frumpy French geese. If Kayne is a little too Elvis and Vincent is a legend in his own mind, what are you? The glorified soccer mom sister that Geena Davis is too embarassed to talk about? Not to mention the fact that I want to throttle her for the rotten way she treats...

...Kayne. Okay. Here we go. I thought Kayne's gown. Was. Gorgeous. You heard it. Fucking beautiful. I don't think it was too busy. It was ornate and detailed, but not busy. It fit like a glove, moved beautifully down the runway, and just plain ol' looked stunning. Danny was watching with me tonight, and said it looked like a dress Nicole Kidman would wear to the Oscars. Not a prom dress. So if it really is a matter of the taste level not being there, Nina Garcia, then Kayne is a loud, proud, tasteless cunt. And so am I, dammit. Speaking of tasteless...

...Jeffrey. I get it. I swear, I do. When I worked as a receptionist at Antonio Premenstrual Salon, I flipped through endless pages of drivel like Italian Vogue that, when not preoccupied with trendy frontal nudity, was filled with crazy dresses like the one he designed for this challenge. So I understand it. It's a dress designed to be worn on a runway...a piece of art...never to be worn by a sane human being ever. I also appreciate the fact that he managed to stretch out of his comfort zone a little, and still come up with something unmistakably his. I still, however, disgusted by his attitude, turned by his aesthetic, and nauseated by his sunglasses. Two challenge victories in a row make lamentably make him a contender for the top three though now, which certainly can't be said for...

...Vincent. I guess it's back to Skid Row and not somewhere that's green, huh, Seymour? He should count his lucky stars that he didn't get eliminated with the basket-head atrocity in the premiere. I mean, could this guy be more out of his fucking mind? Those bizarre epistles of love he showered Catherine Malandrino with made my skin crawl, not to mention his fugly dress with a big honking rosette on the back that would make Angela gag.

Have I mentioned that I'm mere weeks away from perfecting my Tim Gunn impression? Look out, Santino. I'm going to make it work.

Next on the auf'ing block? (sniff) Kayne.

The Next Big Thing

Guys, there is this actor out there right now who is totally blowing up. I've seen him in three, count them, three things in the last six months alone, each more high profile than the next. He's a big, beautiful black man with a body from hell, and though he's not exactly Olivier (or, let's face it, Pullman), he's still a prize-winner in my book. He seems to have only two criteria for taking work.

1. It must be gay. And not Alexander gay. Like, really gay.
2. It must suck harder than the suckiest thing that has ever sucked in the suck-filled history of suckitude.

As a result, I have learned two important lessons.

1. Don't go see really gay movies. They're sucky. And not in that Queer As Folk I-can't-decide-which-is-worse-the-acting-or-the-writing-but-there's-somthing-unmistakably-Melrose-y-about-it-and-besides-"spot-the-Canadian-day-player"-is-a-great-drinking-game sucky. Like, really sucky.
2. Don't see movies with this dude in it. Even the one where he wears a speedo so skimpy you can see that the head of his dick would look more appropriate in Philadelphia...and cracked.

Oh, and watch Weeds.

Sometimes It Hurts Being This Consorned Famous

In an effort to both silence the whiny folks who insist that I never put a link to my Spike TV commercials, currently airing, on this blog (which I totally did), as well as to have something to throw on here when I don't have a whole lot to say (which I totally don't), you can find everything your little heart desires HERE.

Apparently the Dairy Queen one has been on a lot lately. I'm actually particularly happy with that one. Yay! Fun things are good.

Stuff I Did Today With Bubba

1. The nasty.

2. Brunch with Danny, Nick (Danny's roommate, my friend, and my trainer (did I mention I have a trainer? Because I do. It's Nick.)), and Kimberly (who wants me to help her write a sitcom pilot (did I mention she was wearing an outfit that looked more suited for Whoopi Goldberg? Because she was. Like, Guinan Whoopi. )) at Vynl. Bubba and I both had biscuits and sausage gravy. Dee-lish.

3. Accidentally took the subway to Brooklyn.

4. Walked across the Brooklyn Bridge (a first for both of us), making #3 a happy accident.

5. Went to see Bodies, this crazy exhibit at the South Street Seaport. It uses real dead bodies to teach about anatomy and various systems in the body. It was unbelievable. Totally gross to see a real corpse with exposed innards, but still. Pretty unbelievable. The highlights: the vein and artery room, where the tissue is dissolved, leaving only the blood vessels, which have been injected with a glow-in-the-dark dye, that maintain the original shape of the body parts they were in; the fetus room, which sounds upsetting, and kind of is, but don't worry, because you can bypass the room, but you really shouldn't, because you'd be missing out on all kinds of crazy awesome shit; freaking out upon seeing one of the corpses, which looked exactly like Stewart, a cook at my restaurant; and, of course, seeing which dead guy had the biggest penis. Highly recommended. Oh, and there's some kiosk at the seaport that gives out $5 off vouchers. So do that too.

6. Took the PATH Train into Hoboken (another first for both of us) to have dinner with Bubba's ex-girlfriend and her new boyfriend, who creepily is a straight-ified dead ringer for Bubba. I had ribs, okra, and mac 'n' cheese. I know what you're thinking, between #2 and this, but I swear to God, I'm not black. I just wish I was.

7. Watched Skeeger's Caroline's DVD. Bubba chortled sporadically. I squirmed constantly.

8. The nastier.

Two-Fifths of a New Yorker

September 2nd, 2002.

I woke up to the sounds of torrential downpour and frantic breaths. I untangled myself from my musty seatbelt and cast my eyes toward the driver's seat. There sat Kevin, hunched over the steering wheel, his bug eyes even buggier, his breathing as labored and shallow as Joe Morton's seconds before his death in Terminator 2: Judgment Day (y'know...the one where Jessica Keller kicks ass...if you don't get it, don't ask). Did I mention he was going 85 miles per hour down a fairly steep decline during a thunderstorm in a gigantic moving truck?

Because he totally was.

I felt badly; we were supposed to evenly split the driving chores in the Budget truck for our 500 mile move from Buffalo to New York City. I knew things weren't going to go that way when, not a minute after pulling the truck out onto the street from the garage I picked it up at, I sideswiped a mail truck, completely knocking off the huge-ass side-view mirror. Multiply that by 5000 (generously suggesting I had even made it a tenth of a mile, which I didn't), and we have a small massacre on our hands. Taking a cue from my father, who was driving in front of me, and who burned rubber the second he had seen what I had done, I left the scene. After all, it was a federal vehicle, and I was sort of helping pay for it anyway.

Kevin and I had tried to get a few hours of sleep before leaving at our planned hour of midnight; it didn't happen. I couldn't sleep a wink. This was it. I was flying the coop. Leaving the nest. Regurgitating worms into my babies' mouths, and other gross bird analogies. The funny kid from the suburbs was going to try to make it as a funny man in the capital of the world. Not exactly spiritual Xanax.

At Syracuse, I pulled off the road in a panic. I knew I'd be tired for the drive. I didn't expect to be hallucinating. And unless the NYS I-90 was indeed being patrolled by the Hawkman villain The Shadow Thief and his family, that was exactly what was happening. Kevin was also too tired to drive. So we napped at a rest stop in Syracuse. The next thing I remember was waking up to Maniac Kevin.

I guess his thought was that the sooner we were at our new apartment, the sooner we could stop being on this horrendous roadtrip. I gently reminded Kevin that his scenario depended on the unlikely event that we'd make it to our new apartment alive. He slowed to a snail-like 80 miles an hour.

I had never seen our apartment. I had been to the city three weeks earlier for work, and to look for apartments with roomies Danny and Kevin, who had already been crashing with a friend of Danny's in Brooklyn. That weekend was full of dead ends, barbed wire, and shady back alleys. It wasn't entirely a failure; I did, after all, have a fling with a muscle-bound Cuban proctologist and make an appointment for Danny and Kevin to see another apartment, one I couldn't make because I was flying back to Buffalo. They called me seconds after seeing the place, and the two, who had been adversaries for over a month, finally agreed on something. They loved the apartment. So I agreed to take it, sight unseen. Mmmmm....muscle-bound Cuban proctologist...

We pulled onto our new street, which couldn't help but look gloomy in this less-than-stellar Labor Day weather. Luckily, Kevin managed to park right in front of our new house. Unluckily, he also managed to drop his cell phone into a huge-ass puddle of water as he was getting out of the truck. I beheld the edifice in which I had agreed to live in for the next twelve months; it was a row house, brick, with a flat roof and an ugly metal awning, which I later learned should, like, be on the flag for the Borough of Queens. I held fast to my optimism, though.

That's when our keys didn't fit into the lock. The doors wouldn't open. In a thunderstorm. Without a phone. We knew Danny would be showing up soon; we just had to wait for him, with the ugly metal awning as our sole source of shelter. Miraculously, Danny's key did indeed fit, and we headed upstairs to our second-floor apartment. I was excited. Home, sweet home, at last. Then we noticed something unusual.

The apartment wasn't moved out of.

Nope, our landlord's brother's shit was still there. My bedroom was still fully furnished with his bed, dresser, and ugly, smelly-ass clothes. There was nasty food in the fridge. It reeked of cigarette smoke. It was dirty. Not exactly the welcome wagon I expected. In a fury, Danny called the landlord, and in seconds his brother was taking shit out of the apartment, apologizing profusely and assuring us we would get our security deposit refunded.

With the space starting to sort of become ours, I stood in my room. There was ugly flowered wallpaper. One of my windows was broken. I looked out my window, onto the backyard of our downstairs neighbors and the yards of the people behind us. And I was overwhelmed. This sick feeling of unfamiliarity washed over me, and I had visions of the scene from Big where Tom Hanks tries to sleep his first night in his seedy motel room. I used Danny's phone to call my mother to tell her I'd gotten there safe, and how cute the apartment was, and how happy and excited I was. It occurred to me that, from now on, I'd be seeing her five or six times a year. If that.

I handed Danny his phone back, marched into the bathroom, locked the door, and just wept.

I stayed in that apartment for three years. I never changed the ugly flowered wallpaper. This is the beginning of my fifth year in this sleepless city. The home stretch of my five-year plan. We'll see, I guess.

If Only Those Room Key Straps Didn't Leave That Awful Mark...

Phil's in town this weekend. I've talked about him before, but for those of you who only started reading my blog when Fergie joined it, here's a recap. Big, beefy, furry teacher from Columbus. Sexy as hell. Sweet as pie. My brother, upon meeting him, said, "If two men could ever conceive, you'd have some tank-ass children." He meant that in a good way.

Phil's just exposition. And perhaps a way for me to gloat about getting some this weekend.

No, the real story tonight lies in Penn Station, the most beautiful place in the loveliest part of town. Amidst the daisies and gazebos lies the NJ Transit station, where I waited to take a train to Newark Airport to pick up my goateed prince. Separating the two corridors of the station is a glass case display featuring minature people and buildings, in an attempt to make New Jersey look cute and super-fun. As if we need a train station diorama to tell us that.

Every time I'm at the station I see it, and every time I curse myself for not bringing my digital camera and capturing the unintentional hilarity of it. Smack in the middle of the display is a little hut with boys and girls of all ages coming in and out of it, holding surfboards and clad in swimwear. The building's sign, in tall, bold lettering, says "Jersey Shore Bath House".

And because I'm fourteen years old, I giggle.

Tonight I had the pleasure of looking at the rear of the building, which informed me that the Jersey Shore Bath House sells pretzels, cookies, and ice cream. For excellent prices, might I add. Had I not had a much better offer flying in, I just might have tried to get my hands on Brainiac's shrinking ray and seen what all the fuss is about.

Because hey, cheap ice cream.