The Mystery Of The All-White Park

It's been a long time coming, but the article in the Sunday Times regarding the integration of the Stuyvesant Town Housing Project finally spurred me to relate my experience. If you haven't read the article, it's linked here, and it tells the story of the origin of the development in 1947. The bulk of the article relates what happened in 1949-1952 and the tenant led effort to integrate the project. An action that was strongly resisted by then-landords, Met-Life Insurance. The article in and of itself is a great piece of New York City history, but it was the end of the article that truly caught my eye. Officially, there is no racial profiling or discrimination taking place in the rental of vacant Stuy-Town units. But as you read into the last few paragraphs, it has not gone un-noticed by black residents of the project that their numbers are few and far between.

Which brings us to 4th of July, last summer. The Hellcat and I were still on speaking terms then. We found ourselves with the holiday off and no real plans. It was a sunny summer day and we decided to grab a makeshift picnic lunch and head for the East River waterfront. I knew that the East River/FDR drive would be closed off to vehicles eventually, but we weren't vehicles and it was hours and hours before the sun would go down and the fireworks were due to begin. After hitting a local supermarket for sandwiches, chips and soda we headed for the river. It was closed. Not the river but the promenade. Granted, the closing was currently being enforced by a single female cop, but this being New York, we expressed our disappointment, received a shrug of resigned sympathy in response and with that we turned back.

We decided to try and salvage our picnic and discussed at least finding a bench in Stuyvesant Park. More in an effort to hasten our arrival there we opted to cut through Stuyvesant Town. For those not native to New York, this housing development almost seems like it was dropped whole right on the huge area it encompasses. They have their own security force as well as NYPD. Caretakers and groundskeepers drive golf carts to and fro all day, cutting lawns and doing maintenance and removing garbage. As you can see by this sign at one entrance, bycicle riding and dog walking are prohibited.



So it was quite by accident that we arrived at the center of the entire complex, only to discover an unexpected oasis. There we disovered a beautiful and immaculately maintained fountain. Manicured lawns shaded by leafy oak trees. There was a fenced and gated soccer pitch with regulation grass for the children to play on. We passed basketball courts with intact nets, unused table tennis sets, a kids water park and seperate jungle gym. People were everywhere sprawled out on beach blankets and lawn chairs and park benches devoid of pigeon poop. Some had brought their own recliners. They read, they ate, they listened to music and dozed in the sun. It was idyllic. We eagerly found a shaded spot and set out our picnic provisions.

It would be here that I would report that we were set on by a security force and rousted out of the area. Quite the opposite. We weren't noticed at all. It wasn't until my hunger was satisfied and I sat about digesting my ham & swiss that I took a good look around.

"Have you noticed anything strange?" I asked The Hellcat.

"Not really, what?"

"There's a lot of people in this park."

"It's a holiday. Everyone's off."

"I know. But have you noticed? There's no black people here. Hell, I don't even see any brown people."

"Oh yeah," he said, looking around. "Oh wait, there's a black lady, over there."

And sure enough, off in the distance, across at the edge of the fountain area, was a middle aged black woman. Although it quickly became apparent that she was a health aide to an old white man.

And while on subsequent visits to the park I have spotted the occasional brown body, the observation of a black visitor is a decidedly rare and uncommon occurrence. Thus it came to pass that we dubbed the space The Whites Only Park. With our cell phone conversations going something like this:

"What's up?"

"What ya doin'?"

"Working on my tan."

"Where are you? I'm at home."

"I'm in The Whites Only Park."

"How is it?"

"Sunny and white."

"I'll be there in 5."

In Love With Boys

If I had to do it all over again, this is how I would come out to mom and dad:

I'm Perfect.

Just returned from a doctor visit. Got the results of my latest blood work. They did a full work up and not just viral load. You may or may not be happy to know that my cholesterol, liver function and blood sugar are all normal or as my doctor said, "really excellent." I weigh a whopping 148 lbs. and my blood pressure is textbook good. My TCell count is a robust 480 if anyone needs to borrow a couple of the little fuckers. And my viral load? That would be undetectable. My first time. According to my doctor, she expects it to stay that way for "a while". However long that is. But I've been such a model patient this last year that my bi-monthly visits have been extended to every three months, and as a bonus I was given a TB test today and I don't have to return to have it verified. They're trusting me to evaluate it in 48 hrs. and call in the results. Do I bill myself for this? I forgot to ask. Oh and by the way, I don't have syphilis. Of course, that was before the gangbang ...

Something ... Um ... Came Up (Part 2)

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A Job For Me

I could do this job. I'm extremely responsol.

Seeking Male Assistant to Massuer

---

Reply to: job-145294039@craigslist.org
Date: 2006-03-26, 2:12AM EST


Seeking Male assistant to massuer. to work a private Studio Therapyst'
during the evenings and weekends,

Only inquire serious people.

The task consists of practicing various modalities such as massage,
answering customer phon calls cheking appoitnmt, In/Out

No experience is required. we will provided training'
The candidate expect to be (25 years older) very good shape, muscular,
opended mind,honest, energic,seriuos. responsol and ambitious, golden opportunity.

For further consideration you are invited, to send the picture yourself and resumen. contac. cardonaclaudio@aol.com


Team work,

Go Fug Yourself

This made me laugh really hard. Enough that it's worth sharing.

Something ...Um ...Came Up.

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What The Fuck???

I've been following the coverage of Catholic Charities (HA!) and their decision to stop placing babies up for adoption in Boston altogether and in San Francisco making it official policy to stop placing adoptive children with same-sex couples. After being thoroughly disgusted and convinced that the smartest thing I ever did was see the truth about organized religion, now comes word that the chief administrative officer of Catholic Charities is an openly gay adoptive parent! And at least four other members of the board are openly gay as well. Am I the only one saying WTF???? Do these people have a defense at all about serving on this board? I wonder how Mr. Motola would feel if someone showed up at his door next week and said "hand over your kid, fag". This is outrageous.

Oh and supposedly tomorrow night, those wacky bastards over at South Park are putting the finishing touches on their latest salvo in their battle with the Scientologists. One of the most humorous humor-less "religions" out there. Did you know they enjoy tax-exempt status from our government. Hm? Didja?

I worked out like a fool the last couple of days. Yesterday I did a solid hour of cardio. 20 minutes on three machines with the only rest being the time it took to switch places. Today, I did 20 minutes of cardio followed by an hour of yoga. I earned that 1/2 pint of ice cream, fucker!

Changing The Subject For A Sec .....

I'm sure all you west coast natives would ho-hum about it, but over the weekend we had the long anticipated opening of the first New York City Trader Joe's. (Gag, what a horrid home page, btw) Now I admit, I'm as unfamiliar with the chain as anyone, but enough people were anticipating the prospect with such excitement I figured it was a big deal in the land of grocery shopping. Still, imagine my surprise when I wandered by the new store Sunday night and spotted a line, a line! outside the store running down 14th st. People were actually lined up on the sidewalk and it was freakin cold!

So yesterday I happened to be walking by close to 10 pm and couldn't resist popping in to check it out. It looked like a scene out of day of the locusts. I swear, most of the shelves were either disheveled, almost empty or picked clean. It reminded me of how the stores in Buffalo used to look when a blizzard would hit and the delivery trucks couldn't get through. After wandering around the store to get a feel for what they'll be eventually carrying when they re-stock I have to say, I was led to believe the store would be good for saving money. I didn't notice anything I looked at as being particularly cheap. At any rate, when I left the store I was further amused to see stacks and stacks of stock lined up on the sidewalk with groceries ready to go in after closing. I imagine it would take hours. If I'm out and about later tonight maybe I'll try and go snap a few pix of the carnage.

In the meantime, if anyone has any Trader Joe's secrets or hot tips on food I should try let me know.

When The Going Gets Tough ... redux

Had a pretty quiet weekend as The Hellcat and the boyfriend decamped to his place after a mini-meltdown by me. In a nutshell, despite my warnings that I wouldn't tolerate it, The Hellcat basically moved the boyfriend in to my apartment. When I last confronted him about the issue he tried to downplay it but this time, after The Hellcat returned from an overnight trip away, he wasn't back in the apartment 15 minutes before the boyfriend was at the door. As annoying as I found it I decided to be a nice gay and give them some space. I left the house to do some shopping, hit the gym and then grab my laptop and go out to a local diner that features free Wi-fi. All in all I was gone and gave over the apartment for almost five hours. Apparently, while I was gone they had cooked a steak dinner and ate to the music channel in the living room. I returned home and watched some TV in my room and did some reading. I think they went out for drinks sometime around 1 am. I went to sleep around 4 am which is par for the course, although this week I'm going to be adjusting my sleep times to get ready to go back to work. So you can imagine how annoyed I was to be woken up at 7:15 am to the two of them having really loud sex. Now by loud, you have to understand I am so not a light sleeper. And you have to understand that The Hellcat's bed is literally pushed up against my bedroom wall. So they were so loud that I had to scramble to pull some music up on my PC to cover it. It only partly worked and I was half awake till they finally came. I was annoyed as much as embarrassed. I don't begrudge them a sex life but I tried to give them some extended privacy just to avoid this from happening. It was the third time that week I've been in the next room while they went at it. Once last week I was having dinner. And the thing is, the boyfriend supposedly has his own place. I don't understand why they aren't splitting their time between the two. That seems a lot fairer. I would hazard a guess that whoever the boyfriend is living with doesn't appreciate having two gay men run around the apartment playing grab-ass and hanging all over each other all day either. I'm just the patsy who's been putting up with it. Until now.

And here's the other thing. I totally resent the fact that The Hellcat is forcing me to live and deal with someone who quite frankly I just don't like. That's right folks, it's the dirty little secret I've been keeping. I really, really don't like The Hellcat's boyfriend. I think he's an arrogant, smug, pink little pasty annoying fuck. A fact I can cover up if I need to take him in small doses. I can be civil. My facade starts to crumble as the days go by and he doesn't go home. Eventually I just want to push his face into a wall. And it speaks to how self-involved The Hellcat is that I'm sure he hasn't once stopped to consider that perhaps one or both of the other people he's living with may not think much of his chosen partner. I don't need to like anyone my friends date. But I do if they're going to be in my house for three days or sometimes longer, and I have to accommodate someone's bathroom/shower time, and share refrigerator space, and wait to cook dinner till the kitchen is free.

So I'm leaving. Being the leaseholder I could, I suppose force The Hellcat to go. But he's lived here for almost two years and he could put up a fight in court if he wanted. Besides, I don't have the stomach right now for a fight where the goal is to throw someone out. It's actually simpler, as well as healthier for me in the long run, if I go. As my irritation boiled over about the situation last week I informed The Hellcat that I was moving out as soon as possible, and I would prefer that he just not talk to me and leave me be. He responded by calling me crazy and bi-polar. Which is how he turns on you when he starts to realize he can't use you for housing or money or free dinners. His facade drops too. No matter. It's further incentive to get going. I have a meeting at the end of the week about that townhouse for rent. This afternoon I'll be phoning up some temp agencies that come highly recommended. The sooner I get to it the sooner I get out of this hell hole I helped create. Ah well, first day of spring is all about renewal, ain't it? Onward!

Yuk.

I don't particularly care for black cherry flavored yogurt. Now I know.

On tap for this afternoon:

Go to pharmacy on 8th Ave. where a prescription was mistakenly faxed and filled.
Go to pharmacy on 2nd Ave. to pick up re-fill of a prescription.
Go to gym on Park and do some cardio and maybe some shoulder work.
Go to comic book shop on St Mark's and pick up new releases.

Plans for tonight TBA. Seacrest, out!

Oh, and I'm sure you're all cheeky little monkeys and can find it on your own, but just in case, here's a page where you can download and save the South Park Scientology episode.

Bad News/Good News

Today I was going to begin attending an HIV+ support group through Body Positive that meets at the gay and lesbian community Center every Thursday. Unfortunately I'm such a dizzy fuck sometimes that I got the times wrong in my head and thought the meeting was at 8:00. At 7:28 I checked the time and location before heading out and discovered that the meeting started at 6:30 and ended at 8. D'oh! Oh well, they meet every Thursday so next week it is. The other problem is in anticipation of my fear of being in a room full of strangers I took half a Rivotril and now I'm STUPID high! Slumping over the keyboard high. I'm Paula Abdul high. I'm a fisting bottom high. I hate to waste it. Where does a chemically altered moderatly horny gay man go at 8 pm on a Thursday? Please advise.

More in the way of good news but it's a secret. I don't believe in jinxes but I'm just gonna whisper it anyway. I may have found a really promising lead for a brownstone in Murray Hill. I would have to share and only use half, but the owner travels a lot and I would have the place alone very often. Wish me luck, as this could lead to me scraping The Hellcat and The Ex and all their fuck-up frat boy rudeness off my sneakers like so much gum. Yay!

More later if there's time. I think I'll go to the grocery store wacked out on drugs and see what I come back with.

Oh, and I finally got around to updating my blogger profile. If you intend to stalk me you need to know these things so study up.

Yo, E-Bayotch

Here's the links to the first round of comics I put up for sale on E Bay. Did I mention that I was doing some research at an auction site the other day? Did I mention that a mint condition issue of a certain X-Men comic recently sold for $1950.00? Did I mention I have that comic in my collection? Anyway ...

Marvel Comics Night Thrasher #1-4 Complete Series
Marvels #2 Marvel comic mini-series.
DC Comics Millenium #1-8 Complete Series
Havok & Wolverine: Meltdown #1-4 Complete Series
DC Comics Ragman #1
DC Comics The Phantom Stranger #1-4 Complete Series
DC Comics Underworld #1-4 Complete Series
DC Comics Power of The Atom #1
LOT assorted Wonder Man includes issue #1
Mercy DC/Vertigo one-shot
Iron Man 30th Anniversary issue #290

Tim

Finding that last pack of pictures from my days at The Official All Star Café got me thinking of Tim. Tim was a waiter from the south that I worked with during another bartending job I had. We struck up a friendship that continued when he got himself hired after I did at the All Star. Sometime around 1998, Tim was killed. He used to rollerblade to and from work all the time. Tim practically lived on his blades. One Saturday afternoon in Queens, Tim was hit by a city bus, and died on the street. We had a memorial service a week or so later at the restaurant, and I decided Tim needed a proper eulogy. I'd never given one before but I have since. I wrote this for Tim and only did one rewrite.

Once again, I have to say goodbye to a friend.

You know, becoming an adult as I have in the age of AIDS, you find out real fast that good people die young. You would think that learning how to mourn a friend’s passing would get easier. You would think that the shock of having a vibrant, vital light of life suddenly turned out in the blink of an eye would be easier to take. You would be wrong.

One late night last week, I had made plans with Tim and a couple of other people to get up in the morning and go to the beach. It was already after 1 am and I knew at the time that there was no way I was going to have my rapidly aging white ass out of bed at 9 am to go to the beach, but I said yes anyway. I woke up about 12:30 the next day and saw my message light blinking. Sure enough, the little shit was up and ready to go. I didn’t really worry about it though. I figured that summer had just started. I had two whole months of beach plans to make. We can plan a trip to Fire Island. We’ve got all the time in the world. Leave it to my friend Tim to prove me wrong.

We have a skydiving trip coming up. Someone asked me if I planned on going this time. Without a moments hesitation I said no. You see, at an age when a lot of you were figuring out how to start repaying your college loans, I was facing the very real possibility of not seeing 30. And while lately the footsteps of death have thankfully begun to fade (Ed. Note: HA!), the result is it makes you completely aware of how random life can be. The simple act of walking out your front door can result in a fatal case of air conditioner to head disease. Leave it to my friend Tim to prove me right.

I met Tim several years ago, shortly after he moved to New York. He had a really bad haircut and was extremely quiet. About a week later he fixed the hair and was so. not. quiet….. Like so many people do, he left his friends and family behind to start over here and make a new life. Like so many people don’t, he was succeeding.

This can be an unforgiving city. Over the years I have watched Tim struggle to build a life for himself and Mark. On more than one occasion I was awestruck at just how strong he really was. On more than one occasion I thought, well that’s it, the poor thing is gonna crumble. And it never happened. I watched him when he got robbed, when he quit crappy jobs, when Mark drove him nuts. Hell, I watched him party all night on a twenty dollar bill and still go home with six dollars change, Mama! It was, at times, like watching a child build a castle on the beach, and every single time the waves came crashing in or some heartless kid came and kicked it over he would start again. Slowly, methodically, refilling the pail. In all the time I’ve known him, Tim never once told me he was giving up.

There are those that have said we have to accept this loss and take comfort in the fact that Tim is in a better place now. Well I do not accept this loss because Tim never accepted loss, only the struggle to win. I choose instead to celebrate a life too brief. And as to Tim being in a better place, I can tell you as sure as I’m standing here today, wherever that place is, extensive renovations have already begun.

To Tim’s family, who I’ve never met, I offer condolences.

To Mark, our prayers are with you. Please know that Tim’s life touched ours in a way that we had no choice but to gather and mark his passing. He mattered. He will be remembered.

Once again, I have to say goodbye to a friend. With Tim, there is only one way to do it right. I only need two words:
Bye, Mama.

P.S. Everyone please take a moment to send some good thoughts to my internet buddy RJ. He's hit a rough patch and could use some well wishes.

I Hate Fags

I was going to post about another subject entirely but then something else happened. I'm going to tell it, even though I may not come off looking so good, because it just happened and it's all too real. And I promised, warts and all.

I had posted an ad on Craig's sex section, as The Hellcat was out for the night and The Ex was going to bed. I was hanging at home and horny. Basically, I was offering a blowjob to a nice looking guy. More specifically, I was offering a "quick suck and swallow." As long time readers know my sexual appetites are pretty all over the map so a lot of times I will open the post page and then spend a few minutes deciding what exactly I'm in the mood for. Honestly, it hardly matters as I rarely get what I'm after but sometimes ... well, I guess it's happened enough that I keep at it. In a nutshell, I felt like sucking somebody off. I posted that and a couple of really clear face/jerk off pics. I do that cause as bold as I can be I'm still trying to avoid rejection so I prefer to not send headless pictures or try anything sneaky. It's me. I got a variety of responses from people that obviously hadn't read what I was looking for, and even a guy who claimed to be Russian. Part of his response: "i'm about allow you to make me bj..." I swear, you can't make this stuff up.

As I was working on something else a couple more e-mails came in. All my Craig's responses go directly to junk mail so I have to go get them. One of them got my attention immediately because of the title: (my gym)NYSC (My Branch) It was from one brentjhickey1110@yahoo.com And here's what I found inside:

On behalf of all the hot guys at
NYSC I##### P####, please stop
cruising us. If we're interested, we'll let you know.

I was stunned for a minute, then I read it again to make sure I understood it. Basically, whoever this guy was he was calling me old and ugly or at the very least "not hot" and my old ugliness at the gym upset him enough that he felt compelled to e-mail me about it. Full disclosure, whether or not you approve, I do have sex at my gym. I've always freely acknowledged that. Realistically, gay men are having sex at gyms all across the country. And I can only speak for myself. I try to avoid offending anyone. I've never followed anyone from room to room trying to have sex. I can tell when someone isn't in to me pretty easily and drop it immediately. It's New York. Another fag will be along shortly. I've certainly never touched anyone without an invitation. Let's face it, I've been an out gay man for over 20 years. I know how to pick up a guy in public. I got mad skillz yo. But here this little shit (and I'm just speculating) took it upon himself to e-mail me a nasty insult. Am I over-reacting or was this pretty mean?

So I did respond, basically calling him some nasty names and telling him to fuck off. He answered by calling me an ugly old troll. So there it was. I had never been called a troll before. I've never used the term either as I've always thought it was hateful. Even when I was young and beautiful. Of course, I responded even more immaturely, challenging him to call me this to my face so I could kick his ass. Of course, he responded by threatening the "gym cops" on me, and when that didn't work he started that lame nonesense about how I was going to get arrested and blah, blah bah. All the bullshit that repressed little hens cluck about when they run out of arguments that don't work. So we've reached another new milestone people. Some nasty faggot thinks I'm ugly and old, and doesn't mind telling me so. At least by e-mail.

P.S. Apparently, the hot Latin 27 yr. old with the 8" cut cock didn't think I was too repulsive either. Mission accomplished.

In Other News ... I told you recently about a book I read. Well, the author and his fish-titties have run afoul of those assholes at PETA, even though he retired his drag persona in 2000. Six years ago. Says the PETA nimrod: "It would be, for you, like living in a covered bathtub that's constantly moving, tossing you around as you defecate in it. It's filthy, painful and terrifying for these animals." Only not, cause they're fish, with tiny little fish brains and it's doubtful they "feel" any emotion or have any thought besides "eat" and "fuck". I swear, these PETA WHORES will say or do anything to get PETA in the papers.

I hate PETA, too.

For The Record ...

The Mighty Morphin Power Ranger did not morph into an amateur porn star. No one wishes this were true more than me. But it's not. Here's the straight scoop. Now if anyone can get me the phone number of the new Red Mystic Ranger I'd be very grateful indeed. I need a life. Very badly. HeHe "Magi staff" HeHe.




Mystic Force Red Ranger
Name:
Nick Russell

Ranger:
Red Ranger


Age:
17

Mystic Power:
Fire & Heat


Morpher:
Mystic Morpher

Weapons:
Magi Staff
Fire Boxer


Vehicles:
Mystic Speeder

Zords Forms:
Red Super Titan Zord


Nick is athletic , brave and headstrong, Like "Indiana Jones", Nick is fearless and a bit of a show-off. He's always the first to rush in a battle. But doesn't always use his head. However his keen instincts and courageous heart usually win the day. He also likes to restore classic motorcycles.

More Pictures From The Past

I was inspired by a marathon viewing of the TV show Neat that ran all night on HGTV. Do I watch some fucked up TV or what? Anyhow, the show is a wet dream for people (like me) who like to organize things and maximize small spaces. During the course of sorting a crate of old newspapers and journals I stumbled on another treasure trove (to me) of pictures as well. One series even comes with it's own little story. It was sometime in the late 90's and I was bartending at the now defunct sports bar chain and Planet Hollywood stepchild The Official All Star Cafe. While it was no Chelsea muscle bar, a surprising number of The Gays would always be found working there, although I was only one of two gay bartenders that ended up working during my tenure. But we were in the minority and as such, for the most part we had a tendency to huddle together. (Read: Get drunk after work.) Which is how we found ourselves planning a weekend getaway one summer to Fire Island.

Now I had been many times but if memory serves my other two partners in crime, both managers at the time, had never been. So I was leading the expedition and set about getting us rooms at the Ice Palace and dispensing advice about what to wear and how much cash to bring. ATM's hadn't made it out to Fire Island at this point.

By and large we had 3 1/2 lovely days marred by just the hint of scandale (spelling intentional). On the second drunken night of an admittedly drunken weekend we all retired (passed out) wherever we did, but most definitely alone. I was in a trundle bed while one of my managers was in the larger bed off to the side and a half foot up. Imagine my surprise when I awoke sometime between 4 am and an impending noon headache to his hand down my pants feeling up my half hard cock. Can you be sexually molested in your 30's? Does it count if you're both drunk and gay? I decided at the time to remove his hand from my penis, admonish him not to touch me and then roll over and go back to sleep. I never mentioned it again until now. Here's a picture of me and my molester. Look. I smoked then. And I'm really, really gay.



And here's a picture of me relaxing poolside. I'm probably deciding if a Bloody Mary or a Margarita would be better. Can you believe this whole weekend we were there I was worried about whether or not I was too fat for this bathing suit? What the hell is wrong with me?



And finally, here's a picture of a boy that I most happily allowed to touch, see and otherwise fondle my cock for as long as he wanted. For obvious reasons. God he was yummy.

Paris Is Burning

It may seem a little odd, but I've been a fan of Balls (HA!) and Ballroom culture ever since I was first exposed to it. That would be from the wonderful documentary Paris Is Burning, which I believe I saw at The Quad in 1990 when it came out. I was enthralled. It speaks to me of the ability of disenfranchised gays and lesbians to take what makes them "other" to the straight world and turn it into a celebration. Or in this case a ball. It shows how we can lose our connection to family, only to recreate and redefine family for ourselves. It's been showing off and on on LOGO so if you get the chance I highly recommend seeing it. Sadly, a lot of the people who were featured in the documentary are no longer alive. But Ballroom culture is still alive and Frank Leon Roberts has posted a photo essay of the Midwest Awards Ball. Men and women from all across the country attended. Take a few minutes to check out the pictures. -via rod 2.0

Speaking of Rod, who I've never met but hope to someday, I would like to commend him and his blog. In addition to his coverage of general interest news of gay and lesbian issues he's a great source for news affecting people of color. Most significantly for me he's done an outstanding job covering issues about HIV/AIDS, both here in the US and worldwide, as well as issues surrounding crystal meth and addiction/treatment. I highly recommend you checking him out and click on the health coverage to see what I mean. If you aren't reading him you really should be. Way better than other (nameless) blogs that cover the same movie every day or just re-post whatever a gay news feed spits out. Good job.

Hit The Reset Button

I decided to go ahead and unveil the new look even though it's not perfect. It's sort of in keeping with my own life right now. Different, much improved but still flawed. I'm happy that I'm finally able to more prominently link my internet buds on the main page. And I like that the title picture is one I took, and a pretty accurate reflection of what I think the blog has become, or is becoming, it's too soon to call.

Unfortunately for now, the archive links aren't working. I'm investigating and I've sent a help flare up to the Blog Powers That Be. They used to be very responsive before they got swallowed up by Google. We'll see.

I'm into my 3rd book this year and also just started a 4th. The former is Blackwood Farm, an effort by Anne Rice. I got to page 150 and the next page didn't make any sense at all. That's because that page is 183. 33 pages are missing from inside the book. Fortunately, because it's Rice it's probably 33 pages of descriptions of a room or a house or the smell of a garden that have absolutely nothing to do with the actual plot of the book so no matter. Indeed, page 184 feels like I haven't missed a thing.

I have more to tell you but it's unseasonably warm out and I'm going to get dressed and go play.

Update: Hurrah! The archives be fixed. Just some fucked up settings. Managed to dope it out without any help. Ow! I hurt my shoulder patting myself on the back. If I could kiss my own ass I'd never leave the house.

Eat Shit, Clown

I used to have a scanner hooked up to my system, but I didn't use it all that much and when it up and died at some point I didn't replace it. I decided I would need one again when I put my comic book collection up for sale. In conjunction with that I've been cleaning out closets and finding packets of photos. I couldn't be happier as I found some family photos I forgot I had. One is a shot of myself and my brother and both sisters as adults. I'm not sure exactly when it was but since my older sister has passed away it's about as precious to me as can be. I've been scanning all the photos into my hard drive as some of them have faded and I can make repairs to them in Photoshop. You don't need to remind me to back them up on a disk.

Most of the pictures were taken by me, and some of them are worthy of their own blog post so I'll be sharing some of them in the future. Here's one that was obviously not taken by me because it is me. Unfortunately, my memory is like Swiss cheese when it comes to my past. I have no idea when exactly this is or why I was clowning around. I'm almost positive this is from my younger days in Buffalo before moving to NYC. I barely remember ever having just a moustache in my cavalcade of facial hair, but I've run across some black and white shots of me that prove it's true. Still, you have to admit it's pretty funny.

Call For Help

I'm finished. I had my last therapy session today. The program I was enrolled in was limited. Half a year went by pretty fuckin fast. But I'm grateful to have had it. We talked a lot today about where I've come from as well as my plans for the future. She asked me what I was proud of about the experience. There was a lot to pick from. My mental and physical health has vastly improved. My energy level is back to full strength. I was very proud of the fact that I was totally honest with her and by extension myself. After the first few sessions I learned to trust someone and not edit what I said or how I sounded so that I would appear more normal or acceptable. I learned to face some of the parts of my life or my personality that were causing me to feel fear or pain. I'm far from done in that regard, but I no longer feel crippled by it.

I'm proud of how I've taken on responsibility for my health. As much as I hated going on the HIV meds, as much as it really hit home for me that I was ill, and may remain that way for the rest of my life, as much as I had to confront that part of me that was HIV+ in the abstract sense of it only, I kept plodding forward, sometimes encouraged by people in my everyday life, sometimes by readers I have never met, but I kept all my appointments, I gave all the blood, I drank the Kool-Aid and little by little, it did in fact get easier. And I did in fact get better.

There was one thing I got out of my therapy that I am the most proud of. It came out of one of my earlier sessions. I was really struggling through a very bad depression. I had just started on the medication, and to this day, I would swear that they fucked with my head a bit. I was in about as bad a shape as I had ever been emotionally. Still, or because of that, I kept my appointment. And as I started to talk about what I was feeling I began to cry. And the cries led to sobbing. And the floodgates opened and I confessed how badly I had been feeling and that I wasn't sure what to do or how to fix it, and was never more afraid or felt so alone. She asked me how long I had been feeling like this, and I replied several days.

"Well, why in the world didn't you call me?"

From the simplest of questions I was tossed a lifeline. You see, it hadn't occurred to me to call my therapist about my emotional crisis. I didn't know you could. In retrospect, that seems pretty obvious but not then, and not to me. I was unaccustomed to getting help. And I had absolutely no experience asking for it. And while I never did, outside of our regular sessions, ask for that help, I took comfort in knowing it was there. And I used the lesson when I needed medical help with something that turned out to be minor. I was in pain and I asked for help. I got help. It sounds so simple but asking for help is a skill, and at the ripe old age of 43, now 44, I just learned how. I guess the first step is admitting to yourself that you need it.

As far as the future, my therapist pointed me in the direction of some gay men's discussion groups. I've done those before and we both think it might be good for me to meet a new group of men. Conversing with a group of gay men clothed is another skill I need to re-learn. She has a private practice and expressed interest in seeing me there as well. My intent is to persue that as soon as I go back to work and have a steady income. As I said, I don't think I'm finished. In my opinion it's always helpful if not interesting and a little painful to pick up the box your life comes in and give it a good shake. You never know what might get dislodged when you do.

Clay? Clay? Is That You?

So I'm spending a mere three hours or so cruising Manhunt for coffee dates, when I get an inturruption of an instant message. Which most people seem to hate, but I really don't mind. I can always muster a "hello" and a "no" at least. As a matter of fact, I rather enjoy saying no to people who bust in on me asking for sex. But I'm a little twisted like that.

In any case, my would be suitor opened with a pithy and oh so sexy "Hey".

To which I responded, "What's up man?"

"Nice pix. You lookin'?"

While this fascinating conversation was going on I was busy filling in the search box on the main page to bring up his profile, as the browser I was working in thought it was a pop-up and blocked it. Before you tell me that I can set the browser to allow the pop-up I know that already, this way works fine and I'm too lazy to set it up. So by now I had pulled up his profile, and found that out of the six pictures he had posted, five of them were blocked and only the picture of his (I presume) hard cock was showing. Not that I presume it was hard, it was, but that I presume it was his. But you never know.

Now, aside from him being audacious enough to think I'll agree to sex with him without seeing what he actually looks like, I also see in his profile his HIV status, listed as negative. Which prompts me to end this dalliance with:

"Sorry man, I prefer to get together with HIV+ guys. Take care and good luck.

Now here's surprise one. I get an answer back almost immediately.

"No, I'm really HIV+."

"Say what?"

"I just say I'm neg because I have a very important position in the music industry and I have to be careful."

And that's when it hit me. How could it not given the recent news? Could it be? Was it my turn? Was I about to get GAikened? And more than that, as hard (really really hard) as it is to believe, The GAiken is supposedly a top. Was I about to endure an hour of bareback butt reaming from America's Next Top Idol Survivor? Do they make a Fleet enema for that? I was giddy enough with anticipation that I decided to continue for a bit.

"So what do you do when you get together with a guy? Tell him when he's naked?"

"No. I tell them before if it seems like he's interested."

I got the distinct impression this was a big fat lie. I decided to not even point out that the conversation might not take place at all if you went ahead and let the men know you're HIV+ in the first place. And I also decided to skip the part about how annoyed I would be if someone wasted my time getting into a conversation and e-mailing back and forth, only to reveal the truth down the road at some nebulous point. Instead I tried for a little bit of sympathy. In case, you know, it was The GAiken looking to bare fuck me and leave behind the trick towel, so I could get really, monstrously rich by selling The Enquirer the story of The GAiken spilling his HIV+ seed up my hole. And don't you think for a single second I wouldn't.

"Wow. That's got to be hard, having to keep having that conversation with every guy."

OK, so it was sympathy couched in a dig.

"Whatever. Do you want to hook up or not?"

Clearly, I've annoyed The (possible) GAiken.

"I don't think it would work out man, but thanks."

I had no intention of hooking up with a possibly positive liar. Besides, it occurred to me that the chances that The GAiken had any reason to be in Rutherford, New Jersey were pretty slim.

It's Why I'm Here

Children. I give you My Sexy City. Have fun. Porn star crush revealed later today or first thing tomorrow.

Former fans of The GAiken are suing his record label calling him a "defective product". Proof that fat women in Ohio can hire lawyers, too.

The Body.com has a fascinating article written by a guy trying (and failing) to end HIV transmission in NYC sex clubs.

Hey, I just finished reading I Am Not Myself These Days by Josh Kilmer-Purcell. He lived through the 90's as a drag queen named Aquadisiac who's claim to "fame" were her fish titties. It features back cover reviews by Clive Barker and recent victim of Oprah's wrath James Frey. It was a good read, like candy. I could have finished it in one night but chose to make it last a week. Didn't learn a thing except that not even the freakiest relationship can survive meth addiction. But I sorta already knew that. Go read it if you're looking for an entertaining diversion.

Sorry, I Need To Interrupt

I just saw this story covered on television. Five fucking years later and another group of assholes is protesting something. Just fucking pave over the whole site and be done with it. It's fucking ridiculous. This city needs to grow a set and put up some buildings and everyone needs to fucking shut the hell up about it.

There. I feel better.