All right, so I decided to go ahead and jump in to this Facebook pool. The Kool-Aid had a little bit of a bitter "almond-y" aftertaste but besides that it was ... *gak*.
Well as expected everyone I ever met is on and I spent about an hour or so adding friends and then friends of friends. More and more people that I hadn't counted on finding so quickly, most of them from Buffalo and my post High School years. Although finding my old music and voice teacher from my High School was an amazing surprise. Come to think of it, the old bastard hasn't returned my friend request. Hmm.
Needless to say I'll be spending a lot of my free time reading other people's pages and getting caught up. I haven't decided yet whether "From The Ashes" will be meeting up with Tom's Facebook page. That might be over-sharing, but you know how I love attention ....
Showing posts with label people. Show all posts
Showing posts with label people. Show all posts
Monday, March 15, 2010
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
In New York City At Night
There's a pretty heartbreaking piece about LGBT homeless youth that ran in The Indypendent several weeks ago. A social worker from Sylvia's Place, one of the few shelters available to LBGT homeless youth in NYC, took extreme exception to the bleak portrait painted of the organization and some client profiles. You can read the comments below the article to get his valid perspective. Still, there's no getting around the fact that conservative estimates are that there are close to 20,000 homeless queer youth in this country, and less than 250 beds nationwide to house them and help keep them safe. You can read the full story here.
"Across the room Damien Corallo slouched in a chair, looking grim. Somebody had stolen his iPod. “Things are always getting stolen here,” he said. I sat down next to him and, just as Collazo had said, once I got him talking, he did not want to stop. When he was a kid, his father was sent to jail and his mother sent him and his two siblings from San Juan, Puerto Rico, to New York City to live with his aunt. His brother was gay and Damien, who is transgender, had been dressing like a boy as long as he could remember.
“One day our aunt told us she didn’t want any faggots in the house. And we figured out that she had given our rights over to the state. So we left,” Corallo said. “I’ve lived in 32 group homes or foster homes. I’ve lived in shelters, halfway houses, safety houses. I’ve been into lock-up, stuck in residentials. I have been in every kind of home. I went to juvie for drugs. I used to inject drugs and snort coke. I was in for about a year. It was not friendly. It was a Missouri state jail and then I went to rehab.”
Corallo said he stayed in a group home on Long Island. Three years ago he moved to Sylvia’s, where he’s been ever since. On three occasions, he’s been beaten in what he described as “gay bashings.” He’s been called a faggot and a freak more times than he would like to remember. Somewhere along the line he contracted HIV, which has since turned into AIDS. He has attempted suicide more than once, and he relapsed, too — he’s got track marks up and down his arms and a chronic twitch. He is using crystal methamphetamines and heroin again. He said he wants to break the habit, but “I could never stay clean in this situation.” Corallo is 18 years old."
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
Work! (Not Full Time)
This week I'm employed at a very famous (if you're a golfer) PGA Tournament in New Jersey. Today I had to get up at 6AM (golfers do their thing mighty early) to catch the 8AM PATH to NJ. From there we were shuttled out (like bean pickers) to the golf course where we were issued uniform shirts and put to work.
I had a perfectly delightful (if horrifyingly early) day mostly popping sodas and ice tea cans to pour for parched golfers and their families as well as corporate spectators that came in to the clubhouse once the heat of the afternoon got to be too much. I was working with the wife of the club's GM, who ran the computer and tracked drinks and charges for private members and assorted corporate reps. It was actually a lovely morning and afternoon until she finally called it a day and went home. That's when the AGM for the club took over the room.
I loath her. Seriously. I usually get along with most people, and I generally like working for and with women. But this bitch be a CUNT. And her cuntiness is only covering up the fact that she is completely insecure and panics whenever there is the slightest amount of "busy" business or is afraid that she will look bad in front of her bosses. That's when she starts telling you to pour wine in to wine glasses and use the ice to make drinks colder. Not to mention the fact that she has always talked to me like I am gum that somehow got stuck to her coochie hair. And while I should just let it roll off my back, since I don't work there full time and it doesn't matter in the slightest, there's something about this bitch that makes the words "FUCK YOU" appear written across my forehead every time we get within two feet of each other. She knows it, and I know it, and not only can I not cover it up, I don't even make the attempt. Today I aggravated her so much that she sent me home four hours earlier than I was scheduled.
Which was fine because I had already worked a full eight hours and I was worried how long Riley would have to go without a walk. That and the fact that what I thought would be a highly profitable five day stint working for great tips has turned out to be tip money going in to some nebulous giant pool with no telling how much goes in or who's counting it or who's getting tipped out. That's assuming the agency that hired us in the first place doesn't skim all or part of the money right out from under us.
Illegal? Call a cop.
I had a perfectly delightful (if horrifyingly early) day mostly popping sodas and ice tea cans to pour for parched golfers and their families as well as corporate spectators that came in to the clubhouse once the heat of the afternoon got to be too much. I was working with the wife of the club's GM, who ran the computer and tracked drinks and charges for private members and assorted corporate reps. It was actually a lovely morning and afternoon until she finally called it a day and went home. That's when the AGM for the club took over the room.
I loath her. Seriously. I usually get along with most people, and I generally like working for and with women. But this bitch be a CUNT. And her cuntiness is only covering up the fact that she is completely insecure and panics whenever there is the slightest amount of "busy" business or is afraid that she will look bad in front of her bosses. That's when she starts telling you to pour wine in to wine glasses and use the ice to make drinks colder. Not to mention the fact that she has always talked to me like I am gum that somehow got stuck to her coochie hair. And while I should just let it roll off my back, since I don't work there full time and it doesn't matter in the slightest, there's something about this bitch that makes the words "FUCK YOU" appear written across my forehead every time we get within two feet of each other. She knows it, and I know it, and not only can I not cover it up, I don't even make the attempt. Today I aggravated her so much that she sent me home four hours earlier than I was scheduled.
Which was fine because I had already worked a full eight hours and I was worried how long Riley would have to go without a walk. That and the fact that what I thought would be a highly profitable five day stint working for great tips has turned out to be tip money going in to some nebulous giant pool with no telling how much goes in or who's counting it or who's getting tipped out. That's assuming the agency that hired us in the first place doesn't skim all or part of the money right out from under us.
Illegal? Call a cop.
Saturday, September 13, 2008
Sunday, March 02, 2008
My First Call!
Comes in from Tommy down in the Real Lower South, Louisiana. If you've always wondered what the man from the "Bricks On The Red" sounds like, now's your chance to hear his voice. I think he sounds kind of sexy. And I love being called "Hunny". Give a listen:
I'll record an outgoing message for you to hear sometime Sunday during my day off
I'll record an outgoing message for you to hear sometime Sunday during my day off
Saturday, January 14, 2006
Awwww ...
So yesterday The Hellcat and I put a traveling outfit on the dog and brought him down to the Petco at Union Square. Our mission: To meet The Dog Whisperer. I have no idea why I'm fascinated by this show but I do love it. In any case, the line wasn't too bad. About 40 minutes, and full of dog people eager to talk about, well, their dogs. We only got to say hello and get an autograph and snap a picture. But it did get me out of the house. In keeping with that theme, tonight I'm planning to attend a house party with The Ex and some others, followed by some bar hopping in the East Village. Should be interesting.
Monday, January 09, 2006
This Needs To Be Seen
Gene Shalit's uber-gay son leaps to his Dad's defense. I admit, I spied the review of Broke-fucking-back Mountain with raised eyebrows. But after re-reading it I just wasn't seeing the blatant homophobia others claimed. It seemed to me the man was being villified simply for having an unpopular opinion. One that our Gay Overloads deemed unacceptable.
The full text of Peter Shalit's letter to GLAAD follows: -via The Advocate
Dear Damon, and Neil,
Peter Shalit here—Gene Shalit's son. I have been a member-supporter of GLAAD for years. I assume you were not aware of that, but I am disappointed that you did not do a little background research on my dad, or try to contact me, or attempt to reach my dad through me, before issuing your press release this past week calling him homophobic because of his review of Brokeback Mountain. I did notice the "editor's note" which mentioned that he has a gay son, i.e. myself.
By way of background, I am a gay man, a physician, serving a mostly gay patient population in Seattle, and author of Living Well, the Gay Men's Essential Health Guide, which is a guide to gay health for gay men. I frequently comment to people that I can't imagine having another job that would immerse me in the gay community as much as the one I have. The gay community is my life.
I say this because it's important background for understanding that my dad has always been completely loving and supportive of me, my life, my partners, and my choices. He wrote a piece about me in 1997 for The Advocate (currently posted on their home page)—and agreed to have his picture on the cover of the magazine—because what the piece says is true about how he feels and how he has always acted.
I spoke with my dad yesterday about the issues with his review. He had no idea that his review of a movie, and his reaction to a particular character, would be seen as homophobia. Of course he is not homophobic. Actually the truth is the opposite. Agreed, he didn't particularly seem to like Brokeback Mountain, and he found the character of Jack unsympathetic. But his negative response to a particular character is not "defamation" and had nothing to do with the sexual orientation of the character. The interpretation-generalization of this as "homophobic" is unfortunate and incorrect. It is precisely because my Dad is not homophobic that he felt free to criticize the movie as he saw it, and not anticipate that he would be accused of homophobia for doing so.
(Incidentally, I loved the movie—and it sure isn't the first time I have disagreed with my dad about one of his reviews. I was sorry he didn't like it, but hey, these things happen. I have always felt that he was entitled to his opinion and I leave it at that.)
When I first saw your press release a few days ago my reaction was "goodness, this is silly" and I decided to sit tight and hope it would blow over. But it hasn't, judging by the e-mails I have received from friends, and the buzz I have seen online. People are concerned about these accusations about my dad, and some bloggers are talking about him as if he is an enemy of gay people. I decided to contact you because there could have been better ways to handle this situation, and I am hurt by your mischaracterization of my father, a man who does not have a molecule of hate in his being. It does not speak well for GLAAD, and it is not helping our community.
We are all really on the same side—you, my Dad, me, my family, our community. The gay community has enough enemies that we should not be attacking or alienating those who, such as my Dad, are part of our family and are our true friends. We may disagree with his opinion of a movie and his interpretation of a particular character, but that is his job as a critic to give his opinion. He may have had an unpopular opinion of a movie that is important to the gay community, but he defamed no one, and he is not a homophobe. It is you who have defamed a good man, by falsely accusing him of a repellent form of bigotry. It is ironic and sad that an organization whose mission is to combat defamation has committed such an act itself, an act which amounts to character assassination with so little consideration of the repercussions.
I am happy to discuss this further with you by e-mail, or you can feel free to phone me...
Sincerely, Peter Shalit
ALSO-
I don't watch any TV shows religiously right now, but I have caught and enjoyed Desperate Houswives (sorry, I couldn't resist). Luckily, I was watching last night. I was delighted and admittedly shocked at how matter-of-fact and in-your-face they treated what could have been seen as an explosive storyline. Well done. For an absolute blow-by-implied-blow re-cap, hop on over to Queer Day Magazine. I'll just re-print pix of the pretty boys.
The full text of Peter Shalit's letter to GLAAD follows: -via The Advocate
Dear Damon, and Neil,
Peter Shalit here—Gene Shalit's son. I have been a member-supporter of GLAAD for years. I assume you were not aware of that, but I am disappointed that you did not do a little background research on my dad, or try to contact me, or attempt to reach my dad through me, before issuing your press release this past week calling him homophobic because of his review of Brokeback Mountain. I did notice the "editor's note" which mentioned that he has a gay son, i.e. myself.
By way of background, I am a gay man, a physician, serving a mostly gay patient population in Seattle, and author of Living Well, the Gay Men's Essential Health Guide, which is a guide to gay health for gay men. I frequently comment to people that I can't imagine having another job that would immerse me in the gay community as much as the one I have. The gay community is my life.
I say this because it's important background for understanding that my dad has always been completely loving and supportive of me, my life, my partners, and my choices. He wrote a piece about me in 1997 for The Advocate (currently posted on their home page)—and agreed to have his picture on the cover of the magazine—because what the piece says is true about how he feels and how he has always acted.
I spoke with my dad yesterday about the issues with his review. He had no idea that his review of a movie, and his reaction to a particular character, would be seen as homophobia. Of course he is not homophobic. Actually the truth is the opposite. Agreed, he didn't particularly seem to like Brokeback Mountain, and he found the character of Jack unsympathetic. But his negative response to a particular character is not "defamation" and had nothing to do with the sexual orientation of the character. The interpretation-generalization of this as "homophobic" is unfortunate and incorrect. It is precisely because my Dad is not homophobic that he felt free to criticize the movie as he saw it, and not anticipate that he would be accused of homophobia for doing so.
(Incidentally, I loved the movie—and it sure isn't the first time I have disagreed with my dad about one of his reviews. I was sorry he didn't like it, but hey, these things happen. I have always felt that he was entitled to his opinion and I leave it at that.)
When I first saw your press release a few days ago my reaction was "goodness, this is silly" and I decided to sit tight and hope it would blow over. But it hasn't, judging by the e-mails I have received from friends, and the buzz I have seen online. People are concerned about these accusations about my dad, and some bloggers are talking about him as if he is an enemy of gay people. I decided to contact you because there could have been better ways to handle this situation, and I am hurt by your mischaracterization of my father, a man who does not have a molecule of hate in his being. It does not speak well for GLAAD, and it is not helping our community.
We are all really on the same side—you, my Dad, me, my family, our community. The gay community has enough enemies that we should not be attacking or alienating those who, such as my Dad, are part of our family and are our true friends. We may disagree with his opinion of a movie and his interpretation of a particular character, but that is his job as a critic to give his opinion. He may have had an unpopular opinion of a movie that is important to the gay community, but he defamed no one, and he is not a homophobe. It is you who have defamed a good man, by falsely accusing him of a repellent form of bigotry. It is ironic and sad that an organization whose mission is to combat defamation has committed such an act itself, an act which amounts to character assassination with so little consideration of the repercussions.
I am happy to discuss this further with you by e-mail, or you can feel free to phone me...
Sincerely, Peter Shalit
ALSO-
I don't watch any TV shows religiously right now, but I have caught and enjoyed Desperate Houswives (sorry, I couldn't resist). Luckily, I was watching last night. I was delighted and admittedly shocked at how matter-of-fact and in-your-face they treated what could have been seen as an explosive storyline. Well done. For an absolute blow-by-implied-blow re-cap, hop on over to Queer Day Magazine. I'll just re-print pix of the pretty boys.
Sunday, November 20, 2005
Mark The Passing
Six kinds of shit came raining down on some of my fellow blog-friends and acquaintances after I posted yesterday. I wasn't planning on writing much today but I feel like I need to say something.
News of the death of Texas blogger Angreeblkcub skittered around late yesterday. I only knew him from checking in from time to time and from following his comments and exploits over on Drink More. We traded a couple of good-natured comments a while back as well. His final post is a stunningly prophetic goodbye. Many of you who new him better than I are deeply saddened and at a loss. May the spirits claim him as their own, and may the days and weeks ahead help you all find comfort in his courageous, outrageous, life. If you have some time this week, go back in and read some of his archives and take a few minutes to mark his presence on this plane.
Also, my blog-buddy down in Ft. Lauderdale, R.J. is struggling with what appears to be the imminent loss of a friend as well as the death of a beloved pet and long-time companion. I've never had a pet to completely call my own but the animals I've helped take care of over the years I've always fallen in love with. I can only imagine how attached one must get after spending 18 yrs. with one. While that's a great run for a house pet, it's still incredibly sad to reach the end of that road. I've already sent my condolences and good wishes his way. I just wanted to acknowledge that I'm thinking of you, baby.
News of the death of Texas blogger Angreeblkcub skittered around late yesterday. I only knew him from checking in from time to time and from following his comments and exploits over on Drink More. We traded a couple of good-natured comments a while back as well. His final post is a stunningly prophetic goodbye. Many of you who new him better than I are deeply saddened and at a loss. May the spirits claim him as their own, and may the days and weeks ahead help you all find comfort in his courageous, outrageous, life. If you have some time this week, go back in and read some of his archives and take a few minutes to mark his presence on this plane.
Also, my blog-buddy down in Ft. Lauderdale, R.J. is struggling with what appears to be the imminent loss of a friend as well as the death of a beloved pet and long-time companion. I've never had a pet to completely call my own but the animals I've helped take care of over the years I've always fallen in love with. I can only imagine how attached one must get after spending 18 yrs. with one. While that's a great run for a house pet, it's still incredibly sad to reach the end of that road. I've already sent my condolences and good wishes his way. I just wanted to acknowledge that I'm thinking of you, baby.
Saturday, November 05, 2005
(More) Bits And Pieces - Weekend Edition
I had a chance during my Halloween non-celebration to clean up and update my links section. I took off some sites that are no longer blogging or that I simply lost interest in. Not to worry. For every blogger that got dropped I found another interesting (at least to me) contributor to the blogsphere to replace them. For now, you'll have to scroll waaaaay down to the end of my page if you want to follow these links. I'm blogging from work today, and not only am I using a Mac (which I've never used before two weeks ago) but I'm using Safari for a browser. It seems (as near as I can tell) that Safari doesn't support some Blogger features. Most significantly, there's no link button for me to provide you with an easy way to check out these sites. I'll update and add links (done!) from home in the morning. Anyway, here we go. Stop by and say hi, and tell 'em Tom sent ya.
BLURT - He's a self proclaimed urban punk/poz slut. All I know is he's dirty, provocative and funny. Three of my favorite qualities in a man.
ARTEMIS' NIGHTLIFE RAMBLINGS - She's a New York City drag celebutante and gal about town. We met because she was hosting a Wednesday night party for us that (through no fault of hers) never really got off the ground. The girl gets around so it's a good read.
BRAT BOY BULLETIN - Take a look at the generous amount of self-pictures young Ethan shares on his site. Must I explain?
HEAVEN - Memoirs of a boy of pleasure. Brandon Aguilar, porn actor, deep thinker, and the proverbial hooker with a heart of gold. Say what you will, his musings and his experiences make you stop and go hmmm.
And while we're gaily traipsing through the blog field, I'd be remiss if I didn't welcome back a re-launched VIVIDBLURRY. I like the new site design. It's simple and effective. Young Toby seems to have lost none of his snarky wit and willingness to offend from behind his protective fort of empty cases of box wine. However, I'm gonna miss the link to me he provided on his old front page. Not only was it a classic insult but it was good for about 50 hits a day. Ah well, time to pick a fight elsewhere.
Last night brought us a minor mishap in the GoGo Boy department. At some point later into the evening as I was performing my assigned task of "killjoy" and (as nicely as possible) breaking up couples and trios of hot boys (and not so hot dirty men) as they tried to not so subtly have sex in semi-public areas, I saw a commotion break out in the middle of the room. Upon further inspection I noticed a shapely pair of bare legs lying on the ground. Fortunately, they were attached to the aforementioned GoGo Boy. Unfortunately it appeared that he had fallen off his GoGo platform. How this happened was and still is a mystery. By the time I got there he was surrounded by ineffectual (drunken) assistance, and appeared to be unconscious, or at least dazed. After a minute or two he recovered enough to insist he was fine and resist coming down to the dressing room to see if he was OK. We prevailed, which was a good thing for upon closer inspection in the light it seemed that he had suffered a nasty (read: bloody) laceration to the back of his head. As everybody ran to fetch gloves and first aid kits, and then proceeded to twitter on about how he needed stitches and should go to the hospital, it was yours truly who actually set about cleaning up his bloody scalp and matted hair. As we all know by now I'm not in the least bit squeamish about such tasks. So while my injured Canadian Hottie kept insisting he could go out and finish his shift I dutifully managed to finally stanch (most of) the blood flow, while explaining how decidedly un-hot it would be if I allowed him to step back on the GoGo platform with a fresh open wound. He finally acquiesced, if for no other reason than by the time I got him reasonably patched up his shift was already over. He finally, if a little bit wobbly, saw fit to head for home. At my request, I received a text message from him this afternoon assuring me that he suffered no concussion and he was fine.
BLURT - He's a self proclaimed urban punk/poz slut. All I know is he's dirty, provocative and funny. Three of my favorite qualities in a man.
ARTEMIS' NIGHTLIFE RAMBLINGS - She's a New York City drag celebutante and gal about town. We met because she was hosting a Wednesday night party for us that (through no fault of hers) never really got off the ground. The girl gets around so it's a good read.
BRAT BOY BULLETIN - Take a look at the generous amount of self-pictures young Ethan shares on his site. Must I explain?
HEAVEN - Memoirs of a boy of pleasure. Brandon Aguilar, porn actor, deep thinker, and the proverbial hooker with a heart of gold. Say what you will, his musings and his experiences make you stop and go hmmm.
And while we're gaily traipsing through the blog field, I'd be remiss if I didn't welcome back a re-launched VIVIDBLURRY. I like the new site design. It's simple and effective. Young Toby seems to have lost none of his snarky wit and willingness to offend from behind his protective fort of empty cases of box wine. However, I'm gonna miss the link to me he provided on his old front page. Not only was it a classic insult but it was good for about 50 hits a day. Ah well, time to pick a fight elsewhere.
Last night brought us a minor mishap in the GoGo Boy department. At some point later into the evening as I was performing my assigned task of "killjoy" and (as nicely as possible) breaking up couples and trios of hot boys (and not so hot dirty men) as they tried to not so subtly have sex in semi-public areas, I saw a commotion break out in the middle of the room. Upon further inspection I noticed a shapely pair of bare legs lying on the ground. Fortunately, they were attached to the aforementioned GoGo Boy. Unfortunately it appeared that he had fallen off his GoGo platform. How this happened was and still is a mystery. By the time I got there he was surrounded by ineffectual (drunken) assistance, and appeared to be unconscious, or at least dazed. After a minute or two he recovered enough to insist he was fine and resist coming down to the dressing room to see if he was OK. We prevailed, which was a good thing for upon closer inspection in the light it seemed that he had suffered a nasty (read: bloody) laceration to the back of his head. As everybody ran to fetch gloves and first aid kits, and then proceeded to twitter on about how he needed stitches and should go to the hospital, it was yours truly who actually set about cleaning up his bloody scalp and matted hair. As we all know by now I'm not in the least bit squeamish about such tasks. So while my injured Canadian Hottie kept insisting he could go out and finish his shift I dutifully managed to finally stanch (most of) the blood flow, while explaining how decidedly un-hot it would be if I allowed him to step back on the GoGo platform with a fresh open wound. He finally acquiesced, if for no other reason than by the time I got him reasonably patched up his shift was already over. He finally, if a little bit wobbly, saw fit to head for home. At my request, I received a text message from him this afternoon assuring me that he suffered no concussion and he was fine.
Saturday, October 22, 2005
Oh, No She Didn't.
Careful dear, your ego is showing.
Oh, Aaron. I figured my last post would get a rise out of you. The fact that you took the bait so vehemently just makes it all the more laughable. Before you get your panties further in a bunch let me say that I am completely aware that you were treated most shabbily by, (in particular), the previous management. From what I understand it was clearly an unpleasant time in general around these parts. I am also fully aware that prior to my coming on board, you were the DJ on more than one relatively successful night. Some built from nothing. I guess what’s open to debate is whether your presence was cause or effect. Judging by your vitriolic response I assume you believe it was all you, you, you.
Nevertheless, I am dumbfounded by the absolute gall you display by attempting to tell me the blog equivalent of “shut up”. On my own space! Like it or not it’s the Wild West out here on The Internets, and particularly when it comes to my little corner of the blogsphere, and opinions being like assholes in that everyone’s got one, I’m allowed to have mine. Or be one. If anyone’s allowed to tell anyone else around here to shut up, it’s me.
As to me knowing the difference between DJ’s and promoters and the pettiness of challenging my background, I have no need to prove myself or respond to your whiny little challenge. I just spent the last year dealing with PROFFESSIONAL performers, stage managers, booking agents, road managers and publicists. The kind that routinely fill a room with in excess of 1,000 people. So excuse me if I’m non-plussed by some marginal local "talent" that manages to gather 75 fags in New York City on a Tuesday night.
However I will say this. I do, in fact, know the difference between a DJ and a promoter. I also know that in my experience, they share some marked similarities. Not the least of which is an over-developed sense of their own importance. In other words Nancy, get over yourself. In the grand scheme of things, neither one of us matters all that much.
Oh, Aaron. I figured my last post would get a rise out of you. The fact that you took the bait so vehemently just makes it all the more laughable. Before you get your panties further in a bunch let me say that I am completely aware that you were treated most shabbily by, (in particular), the previous management. From what I understand it was clearly an unpleasant time in general around these parts. I am also fully aware that prior to my coming on board, you were the DJ on more than one relatively successful night. Some built from nothing. I guess what’s open to debate is whether your presence was cause or effect. Judging by your vitriolic response I assume you believe it was all you, you, you.
Nevertheless, I am dumbfounded by the absolute gall you display by attempting to tell me the blog equivalent of “shut up”. On my own space! Like it or not it’s the Wild West out here on The Internets, and particularly when it comes to my little corner of the blogsphere, and opinions being like assholes in that everyone’s got one, I’m allowed to have mine. Or be one. If anyone’s allowed to tell anyone else around here to shut up, it’s me.
As to me knowing the difference between DJ’s and promoters and the pettiness of challenging my background, I have no need to prove myself or respond to your whiny little challenge. I just spent the last year dealing with PROFFESSIONAL performers, stage managers, booking agents, road managers and publicists. The kind that routinely fill a room with in excess of 1,000 people. So excuse me if I’m non-plussed by some marginal local "talent" that manages to gather 75 fags in New York City on a Tuesday night.
However I will say this. I do, in fact, know the difference between a DJ and a promoter. I also know that in my experience, they share some marked similarities. Not the least of which is an over-developed sense of their own importance. In other words Nancy, get over yourself. In the grand scheme of things, neither one of us matters all that much.
Friday, October 07, 2005
Oh What A Night.
And what a circus I'm presiding over. Thursday night on the Lower East Side. Drunk men, drag queens and Gay Jeopardy. Welcome to my new world. Rather than relate the tale in words I've chosen to edit most of it and give you pictures.
The night started un-eventfully enough with a couple of Go Go Boy auditions. And while this one was decidedly a Go Go Man and not a boy I'd probably hire him because he has a big dick and he wasn't afraid to prove it. Believe it or not (you bitches!) I declined.
After which, we moved into the Marquee and Gay jeopardy with Linda Simpson.
The actual game show bored the fuck out of me but included Linda Simpson as host (cranky schoolmarm) as well as Sultana, Duch and Taboo as contestants. I'm afraid of Taboo. But I love how Duch kept referring to Linda as simply "Simpson".
There were several Lower East Side celebutants in attendance. Case in point: Miss Violet Temper:
After the show, all the drag Queens did a number but only a couple truly stood out. Sorry, bitches!...
Duch worked her magic on the crowd ...
And so did Sultana. She worked!
Before, during and after some drunk men insisted on taking off their clothes and letting their cocks flop around in their boxers. For the most part I didn't care but then there was this man:
YUM!
All in all, Ms. Simpson does a pretty amazing job considering the meager (Read: no) budget she's given. The fact that she gets some amazing guests and people to come out and support her week after week speaks to that. Which is why it's a shame that it looks like Gay Jeopardy will be cancelled after next week. At least that's the story so far. I've spoken with the powers that be and all is not set in stone. There are variables. And in one scenario Gay Jeopardy featuring the highly entertaining Linda Simpson lives on. If not, next week is it. But you didn't hear any of that here. Stay tuned ...
The night started un-eventfully enough with a couple of Go Go Boy auditions. And while this one was decidedly a Go Go Man and not a boy I'd probably hire him because he has a big dick and he wasn't afraid to prove it. Believe it or not (you bitches!) I declined.
After which, we moved into the Marquee and Gay jeopardy with Linda Simpson.
The actual game show bored the fuck out of me but included Linda Simpson as host (cranky schoolmarm) as well as Sultana, Duch and Taboo as contestants. I'm afraid of Taboo. But I love how Duch kept referring to Linda as simply "Simpson".
There were several Lower East Side celebutants in attendance. Case in point: Miss Violet Temper:
After the show, all the drag Queens did a number but only a couple truly stood out. Sorry, bitches!...
Duch worked her magic on the crowd ...
And so did Sultana. She worked!
Before, during and after some drunk men insisted on taking off their clothes and letting their cocks flop around in their boxers. For the most part I didn't care but then there was this man:
YUM!
All in all, Ms. Simpson does a pretty amazing job considering the meager (Read: no) budget she's given. The fact that she gets some amazing guests and people to come out and support her week after week speaks to that. Which is why it's a shame that it looks like Gay Jeopardy will be cancelled after next week. At least that's the story so far. I've spoken with the powers that be and all is not set in stone. There are variables. And in one scenario Gay Jeopardy featuring the highly entertaining Linda Simpson lives on. If not, next week is it. But you didn't hear any of that here. Stay tuned ...
Tuesday, September 06, 2005
Late To The Party
Reporting from a week ago, but what the hell, I got pictures. Went to the closing party of High/Life/Low Life that began at The Slide but moved and then petered out suddenly at 6's and 8's in the lower East Side. I'd never even been to that club before and wandered about aimlessly trying to find it. Certainly, the sight of drag diva Sweetie standing out on the darkened corner served as a signpost I had found the right place.
The crowd was mixed and aimless. They weren't dancing so much as milling about. A show was promised and in the meantime, Mr. Nardicio and company hired an ice cream truck on the street corner. The only time serving it up soft is acceptable. I occupied my time stalking him for a while. He was the featured dancer in what I presume was the Low Life portion of the evening, although it was decidedly tame, he looked cute. The show finally began and while some of the performances were an acquired taste...
others turned it out. Not the least of which was drag star ShaBoomBoom*, featuring some Jody Whatley fierceness that brought the crowd to their feet.
Other "highlites" of the High Life included an underwhelming "performance" from the World Famous "BOB". It consisted of flashing titties to classical music. While the entertainment value is dubious, it makes good pictures.
Sweetie closed out the show with a hell of a number. Unfortunately, over a week has gone by and I've forgotten what it was.
What I heven't forgotten is that after that drag-a-palooza I had a hankering for some man and trundled on over to East Village mainstay The Cock.While the crowd itself bored me, the entertainment was decidedly more pleasing.
Say what you want about the bod but there's no denying, mmmm-mmmm I likes that face.
Monday, August 08, 2005
I Got Scooped
I hate that. But it was only because I've been really dedicated to enjoying the summer. I've been spending most of my days off at the beach or in the park. Still, for those of you that don't get a weekly copy of the local fag rag, I'll re-tell the story from my perspective and with my (better) pictures.
We were invited to local drag celebutante and well-connected clown-girl Rainblo's birthday party. The why of that needs to wait for the kicker at the end. But we (The Hellcat and I) dutifully picked through our Barbie Dream Fashions, both at a bit of a loss as to the appropriate thing to wear to an East Village Drag Restaurant and a party with Cazwell and Boy George. I settled on all black. I needn't have worried. The very last person who's outfit mattered in this place was mine. As evidenced by this shot of Tobell:
A few minutes after we arrived, The Hellcat ran back out the front door. He was hoping to run into a friend from California that he knew had been employed at the restaurant. We wondered aloud what boy-parts and girl-parts his friend had left, as when they parted she was halfway to the big snip. The reunion took place out on the sidewalk, where at least half the party had spilled out of the restaurant. Apparently, even edgy drag queens bow before the NYC anti-smoking edict. Left to my own devices I stayed out of the main room in back and hung out by the bar in front. I didn't need to wade into a wildly overdressed crowd of gender non-specific individuals just yet. Suddenly, one of the "real" girls hurried out to the sidewalk to fetch who I later learned was the bouncer/doorman/manager. I heard something about a fight, and so and so hit a guy. Shortly after rushing back to the show room they rushed out a little short guy and brought him to the bathroom. His face and white shirt was covered in blood. I know, it's like a theme with me. I walked past the open bathroom door. He was attempting to close a wound to the face that looked nasty but hardly life threatening. Moving further towards the show room, I passed at least two entertainers/drag queens walking by with bloody hands and clothing. After getting as close to the room and stage as I was able, they introduced HRH Princess Diandra. Who complained loud and long that she had some white boys blood all over her pretty blue outfit. It was surreal, but like all drag veterans, it was on with the show. By now, The Hellcat had rejoined me. After a couple of mediocre performances by people I've never heard of I started overhearing rumors that the police had been called and the show would have to be stopped. After much crosstalk between restaurant employees and on-stage performers, Tobell and co. tried to push on. Suddenly, we were instructed to leave the club via a back exit that led to a completely different bar next door. I love this town. About half a dozen party people followed. Waiting for what, I don't know. But we waited and had a drink. Finally, I thought we should go back and see what was happening. Most of the party guests had left. A few were outside. But they seemed determined to finish the show. You gotta love a drag queen with moxie. In any case, the real story that I managed to peice together was that somebody (the bloody short guy) was drunk and being aggresive with one of the drag queens. I heard he either stepped on or pushed her. Either way, she pulled out a blade and cut him. You heard me. The bitch cut him. Do not fuck with an East Village drag queen.
Back to the show, after much yelling and cajoling, the birthday girl was back at her table and the show continued. A very cute, shaggy haired boy sang. Badly. I'm quite confident he's much better when you're on drugs.
We were then "treated" to the rap stylings of a New Zealand "Feminem", as he was christened, and to another male performer who sucked so bad I didn't take his picture. Then Tobell intoduced her "Drag-child". (S)he calls herself Neon Music. Again, I'm confident that makes sense if you're on drugs:
Several other performances followed. Including a pretty good rendition of Christina Aguilera's "Beautiful" which I found funny and poignant given the environment.
Finally, the birthday girl(s) took the stage, (there was another birthday, but her drag name escapes me) as they thanked the performers and those in attendance:
By then, it was all over and it was all we could do to get out of there and head for a more civilized The Cock where The Hellcat strangely picked up a drunk man until he had him half-way home before changing his mind and dropping him. I guess he was still having trouble processing the facts. You see, about a week earlier he had gone out and met some tattoed East Village bottom boy. He brought him home and fucked him. Lo and behold it seems he was a "performance artist" of some renown, and he invited The Hellcat, and by extension me, to his birthday extravaganza. And this is how The Hellcat's tattooed bottom "boy" looks by night:
I vowed right then and there to never be jealous of The Hellcat and his sex life ever again.
We were invited to local drag celebutante and well-connected clown-girl Rainblo's birthday party. The why of that needs to wait for the kicker at the end. But we (The Hellcat and I) dutifully picked through our Barbie Dream Fashions, both at a bit of a loss as to the appropriate thing to wear to an East Village Drag Restaurant and a party with Cazwell and Boy George. I settled on all black. I needn't have worried. The very last person who's outfit mattered in this place was mine. As evidenced by this shot of Tobell:
A few minutes after we arrived, The Hellcat ran back out the front door. He was hoping to run into a friend from California that he knew had been employed at the restaurant. We wondered aloud what boy-parts and girl-parts his friend had left, as when they parted she was halfway to the big snip. The reunion took place out on the sidewalk, where at least half the party had spilled out of the restaurant. Apparently, even edgy drag queens bow before the NYC anti-smoking edict. Left to my own devices I stayed out of the main room in back and hung out by the bar in front. I didn't need to wade into a wildly overdressed crowd of gender non-specific individuals just yet. Suddenly, one of the "real" girls hurried out to the sidewalk to fetch who I later learned was the bouncer/doorman/manager. I heard something about a fight, and so and so hit a guy. Shortly after rushing back to the show room they rushed out a little short guy and brought him to the bathroom. His face and white shirt was covered in blood. I know, it's like a theme with me. I walked past the open bathroom door. He was attempting to close a wound to the face that looked nasty but hardly life threatening. Moving further towards the show room, I passed at least two entertainers/drag queens walking by with bloody hands and clothing. After getting as close to the room and stage as I was able, they introduced HRH Princess Diandra. Who complained loud and long that she had some white boys blood all over her pretty blue outfit. It was surreal, but like all drag veterans, it was on with the show. By now, The Hellcat had rejoined me. After a couple of mediocre performances by people I've never heard of I started overhearing rumors that the police had been called and the show would have to be stopped. After much crosstalk between restaurant employees and on-stage performers, Tobell and co. tried to push on. Suddenly, we were instructed to leave the club via a back exit that led to a completely different bar next door. I love this town. About half a dozen party people followed. Waiting for what, I don't know. But we waited and had a drink. Finally, I thought we should go back and see what was happening. Most of the party guests had left. A few were outside. But they seemed determined to finish the show. You gotta love a drag queen with moxie. In any case, the real story that I managed to peice together was that somebody (the bloody short guy) was drunk and being aggresive with one of the drag queens. I heard he either stepped on or pushed her. Either way, she pulled out a blade and cut him. You heard me. The bitch cut him. Do not fuck with an East Village drag queen.
Back to the show, after much yelling and cajoling, the birthday girl was back at her table and the show continued. A very cute, shaggy haired boy sang. Badly. I'm quite confident he's much better when you're on drugs.
We were then "treated" to the rap stylings of a New Zealand "Feminem", as he was christened, and to another male performer who sucked so bad I didn't take his picture. Then Tobell intoduced her "Drag-child". (S)he calls herself Neon Music. Again, I'm confident that makes sense if you're on drugs:
Several other performances followed. Including a pretty good rendition of Christina Aguilera's "Beautiful" which I found funny and poignant given the environment.
Finally, the birthday girl(s) took the stage, (there was another birthday, but her drag name escapes me) as they thanked the performers and those in attendance:
By then, it was all over and it was all we could do to get out of there and head for a more civilized The Cock where The Hellcat strangely picked up a drunk man until he had him half-way home before changing his mind and dropping him. I guess he was still having trouble processing the facts. You see, about a week earlier he had gone out and met some tattoed East Village bottom boy. He brought him home and fucked him. Lo and behold it seems he was a "performance artist" of some renown, and he invited The Hellcat, and by extension me, to his birthday extravaganza. And this is how The Hellcat's tattooed bottom "boy" looks by night:
I vowed right then and there to never be jealous of The Hellcat and his sex life ever again.
Wednesday, July 06, 2005
How did I spend my 4th of July weekend? The same way I spent every other holiday weekend. Working. I worked every day this weekend. As I write this, I'm about halfway through a double shift on Sunday. And yes, I've figured out a way to work and blog even in this hell hole. It involves my Palm and some nifty software called Documents To Go. I highly recommend it.
While I haven't been writin
Just when I thought things couldn't suck suckier than they do I found 800 dollars. Sweet!
The Hellcat had a houseguest for the last 10 days. She left today and didn't lift a finger the whole time she was here. Never did a dish. She also failed to leave behind some groceries or a bottle of wine or a houseplant as a way of saying thank you. Does anybody have any basic manners anymore?
It's now Monday on the Fourth. Happy
I had lunch with The Hellcat this afternoon. I decided to try to have a mature discussion with him regarding the houseguest incident. It was surprisingly satisfying to be able to have a mature discussion without waiting until I got all frustrated about a bunch of things and boil over all at once. He actually had a pretty good explanation for why the visit lasted so long. Longer than even he anticipated. He promised to be more precise in the future. He never did address my point that not thankin
P.S. This is hilarious.
Monday, May 09, 2005
Gah.
Hey remember when I complained I was busy? Between my brief but boozy appearance at the Blogger Invasion through my day running a box office that by all rights I shouldn't know how to do to the Mother's Day madness of this morning where we ran 3, count 'em 3, sold out brunch and shows with the Harlem Gospel Choir, I figure the light from busy won't reach me for about 30 years.
- I was told that this year's Blogapalooza wasn't on a par with last year. Considering I actually spoke with five people, however briefly and drunkenly, I would say on a social ineptitude level, I was much better than last year, when I spoke to no one. I was sorry I didn't manage to stumble across him. He was as nice as I figured he would be. He mentioned waiting for his boyfriend like 50 times. O.K. , 5 times. Lucky boyfriend. I spotted him but didn't say hello. He was brassy and boozy and seemed to be having a ball. He snapped a pic I hope he posts, considering I realized that as exhibitionistic as I can be about details of my life, there are almost no good pictures of me. On second thought, I hope he posts it if I look good. I don't think I embarrassed myself, but between being exhausted and nervous about being out with people, I ended up good and liquored up in the rain in Hell's Kitchen. I finally managed to catch a cab, get myself to bed and be up and at work by 10 am. Where I promptly saved the day and managed to put in a 12 hour shift. Maybe I'll tell you about it tomorrow. She's positively knackered.
Wednesday, May 04, 2005
Alzheimers. It's Not Just For Breakfast Anymore.
So I talked about attending the Blogger Invasion this weekend. I expressed how I wouldn't be available to make the premier soiree at Bayrage on Friday night. I had to work. I pathetically pleaded to be included in other weekend plans on Saturday or Sunday. I even left a message with the gracious organizers of the event, hoping to get some details of other events. He was nice enough to send me information about a BBQ planned for Saturday during the day. It was a lovely gesture. And totally pointless.
How I got it in to my head I'll never know. But it wasn't until my usual walk to the subway station this afternoon that it struck me. I'm not in fact working on Friday. I merely have to be at a weekly meeting at 4. So happily, I will in fact be attending. I vow to not repeat last year's cameo appearance where I sipped a soda off to the side and quietly slinked away without talking to anyone. I can't decide if I'll go as a horny top or as an aggressive hung bottom. See you there?
How I got it in to my head I'll never know. But it wasn't until my usual walk to the subway station this afternoon that it struck me. I'm not in fact working on Friday. I merely have to be at a weekly meeting at 4. So happily, I will in fact be attending. I vow to not repeat last year's cameo appearance where I sipped a soda off to the side and quietly slinked away without talking to anyone. I can't decide if I'll go as a horny top or as an aggressive hung bottom. See you there?
Saturday, April 16, 2005
Home From Work At 8 AM
We are not amused by this. I spilled a night(day) cap in my bed when I fell asleep sitting up. Oh well, the beauty of vodka is it dries cleanly. I followed a link provided by the lovely and talented Amnesia Sparkles (quite the accomplished artist, if I do say so myself) and found a great T-shirt I ordered. The irony appeals to me.
Elsewhere ... Jake Bronstein tears up the town as Mr. Sparklepants. Hilarious.
Elsewhere ... Jake Bronstein tears up the town as Mr. Sparklepants. Hilarious.
Monday, April 04, 2005
So last Tuesday ...
Yes, that's how far behind I am. Anyhoo, I had decided that in addition to working my fucking ass off, I was neglecting to tend to my (non-existent) personal life. I don't really have one. It's not that hard to understand. If your profession calls for spending hours and hours in a loud, dark, crowded nightclub, the last thing you would choose to do most days off is go to a loud, dark crowded nightclub. Even if that is where all the gays hang. So my boyfriend-less status is not that surprising. That and my raging alcoholism. And it's not like I'm looking for a boyfriend. After all, I'm a spinster aunt raising a middle aged man and a meth addicted 30 year old.
So while not "hunting" for a boyfriend, but feeling that I was being a bad gay by not participating in "the scene", I resolved to go out. I settled on attending the festivities at The Slide. It was the one year (two year, whatev...) anniversary of Earl's Weiner Shack. A weekly party featuring DJ Aaron Elvis. They had advertised a big dick contest and *ahem* while I had no plans to participate, I thought it would be fun and funny, and while I'm not a size-queen, any potential boyfriend doesn't need to be huge, but a hot cock is a must.
At any rate, I mentioned that I was planning on attending the party to The Hellcat during a workout at the gym. (He managed to scam another two-week free membership trial at the Mercer St. NYSC.) By the end of the workout, his interest peaked, The Hellcat dropped that he wanted to hit the night as well. OK, a part of me knew that would happen. A part of me wanted company. A part of me wanted The Hellcat to see I wasn't spending my day off making blog entries and cruising on-line for cock that never happens and cleaning the apartment because no one else will. A part of me knew that the potential was there for the night to end badly. Not to worry. It didn't. It was just....
Well first of all, the night was co-hosted by Scotty The Blue Bunny. People outside of New York City are collectively saying WTF?. My answer: I don't know. Apparently, a grown man has figured out a way to dress up in a furry blue bunny suit and make money off it. All I know is he frightened me. He was well over six feet tall. I was afraid of The Bunny.
The Hellcat was another matter. How do I explain what it's like being out with The Hellcat? He's like a walking gland. Depending on how much he's had to drink he's about the most aggressive individual I've ever been around. And I don't mean that in a bad way. I wish I could be that "Fuck it, you're hot". Not a go-go boy or a coat check employee is safe. He's a bartender (when able to work) as was I, and part of the job is a weakness for other bar employees. So stuff like this happens.
Understandable. But somehow, with the help of the Scary Bunny, The Hellcat found himself signed up for the show. As the guy who would spank The Bunny. As it turned out, there was no big dick contest, it was a Mr. Weiner Shack contest. I don't know if the big dick business was wishful thinking on my part, or a last-minute change. In any case, judging from the pictures from previous parties, I was still hopeful for some gratuitous nudity. But I have to say, on the surface, the "show" sucked. Although the $10 all you can drink open bar was a mitigating factor. The scary Bunny introduced a few "acts" that included a 50 yr. old man (in great shape) who's talent consisted of taking off his shirt. (P.S., The Hellcat didn't have sex with him, although he would have. Or at least he made it seem he would have. Which was enough to keep this man sniffing around for an hour or so.)
And then this mess, that seemed to have no defined talent beyond being messy.
But before that, The Hellcat was called to the stage to administer said spanking. It was kind of horrific in a funny/scary way.
Given the dearth of talent on the stage, and the utter lack of gratuitous nudity, will it come as any surprise that The Hellcat ended up winning the title of Mr Weiner Shack for the month of April? No, it wouldn't.
This only seemed to fuel the fire of both The Hellcat and the men at the bar. He ran from one end to the other jumping into the bathroom to grope an uncut cock, lifting up the shirt of a guy who was intrigued and a little stand-offish, sucking face and putting his hands down the pants of one coat-check boy while flirting with the other, as back-up, I guess. And I have to admit, when you have a 30-something horny man basically blatantly offering to eat a 20-something go-go boy's asshole, they tend to respond. I spent my time getting quietly liquored up, even though The Hellcat was being so outrageous he was actually getting me horny. I spied a very cute blond man looking a little drunk and totally needy. I was tempted to cut him from the herd, but to be perfectly honest, all I really wanted to do was grab my coat and get to bed. Alone. Eventually I did just that.
In a rare display of decorum, I will not reveal which Weiner Shack employee The Hellcat had sex with. Oh, and I drunkenly chatted up Aaron (the DJ), he was very nice. Say hello if you get the chance.
So while not "hunting" for a boyfriend, but feeling that I was being a bad gay by not participating in "the scene", I resolved to go out. I settled on attending the festivities at The Slide. It was the one year (two year, whatev...) anniversary of Earl's Weiner Shack. A weekly party featuring DJ Aaron Elvis. They had advertised a big dick contest and *ahem* while I had no plans to participate, I thought it would be fun and funny, and while I'm not a size-queen, any potential boyfriend doesn't need to be huge, but a hot cock is a must.
At any rate, I mentioned that I was planning on attending the party to The Hellcat during a workout at the gym. (He managed to scam another two-week free membership trial at the Mercer St. NYSC.) By the end of the workout, his interest peaked, The Hellcat dropped that he wanted to hit the night as well. OK, a part of me knew that would happen. A part of me wanted company. A part of me wanted The Hellcat to see I wasn't spending my day off making blog entries and cruising on-line for cock that never happens and cleaning the apartment because no one else will. A part of me knew that the potential was there for the night to end badly. Not to worry. It didn't. It was just....
Well first of all, the night was co-hosted by Scotty The Blue Bunny. People outside of New York City are collectively saying WTF?. My answer: I don't know. Apparently, a grown man has figured out a way to dress up in a furry blue bunny suit and make money off it. All I know is he frightened me. He was well over six feet tall. I was afraid of The Bunny.
The Hellcat was another matter. How do I explain what it's like being out with The Hellcat? He's like a walking gland. Depending on how much he's had to drink he's about the most aggressive individual I've ever been around. And I don't mean that in a bad way. I wish I could be that "Fuck it, you're hot". Not a go-go boy or a coat check employee is safe. He's a bartender (when able to work) as was I, and part of the job is a weakness for other bar employees. So stuff like this happens.
Understandable. But somehow, with the help of the Scary Bunny, The Hellcat found himself signed up for the show. As the guy who would spank The Bunny. As it turned out, there was no big dick contest, it was a Mr. Weiner Shack contest. I don't know if the big dick business was wishful thinking on my part, or a last-minute change. In any case, judging from the pictures from previous parties, I was still hopeful for some gratuitous nudity. But I have to say, on the surface, the "show" sucked. Although the $10 all you can drink open bar was a mitigating factor. The scary Bunny introduced a few "acts" that included a 50 yr. old man (in great shape) who's talent consisted of taking off his shirt. (P.S., The Hellcat didn't have sex with him, although he would have. Or at least he made it seem he would have. Which was enough to keep this man sniffing around for an hour or so.)
And then this mess, that seemed to have no defined talent beyond being messy.
But before that, The Hellcat was called to the stage to administer said spanking. It was kind of horrific in a funny/scary way.
Given the dearth of talent on the stage, and the utter lack of gratuitous nudity, will it come as any surprise that The Hellcat ended up winning the title of Mr Weiner Shack for the month of April? No, it wouldn't.
This only seemed to fuel the fire of both The Hellcat and the men at the bar. He ran from one end to the other jumping into the bathroom to grope an uncut cock, lifting up the shirt of a guy who was intrigued and a little stand-offish, sucking face and putting his hands down the pants of one coat-check boy while flirting with the other, as back-up, I guess. And I have to admit, when you have a 30-something horny man basically blatantly offering to eat a 20-something go-go boy's asshole, they tend to respond. I spent my time getting quietly liquored up, even though The Hellcat was being so outrageous he was actually getting me horny. I spied a very cute blond man looking a little drunk and totally needy. I was tempted to cut him from the herd, but to be perfectly honest, all I really wanted to do was grab my coat and get to bed. Alone. Eventually I did just that.
In a rare display of decorum, I will not reveal which Weiner Shack employee The Hellcat had sex with. Oh, and I drunkenly chatted up Aaron (the DJ), he was very nice. Say hello if you get the chance.
Friday, March 11, 2005
Stick An Icepick In My Eye, I Beg Of You
We did a room rental last night. Room rental is synonymous with potential disaster. It means the room and the show are technically not ours. The production and the house is being planned by an outside organization. As much as I bitch about work I have to say, these people know how to organize, plan and execute a show. From the beginning they told me they didn't want me changing the system so much as learning theirs. And they were right. Maybe someday I'll write out everything we/I have to do to mount (he he, he said mount) a show every day. It's exhausting. Frequently, with a room rental, they haven't taken in to account a key factor. They don't know how to mount a show, or run a door, or do a guest list, or handle security. These people came up with nightclub 101 textbook examples of how not to do an event. On any level. It was a clusterfuck of the highest order.
As an aside, there were some genuine celebrities on hand. Russel Simmons dropped by. The Game (who?) put in an appearance. As did Sean Combs. (I refuse to call him P. Diddy, once and for all that's fuckin' stupid. Period.) At one point, I was guarding a doorway between the nightclub (No Lucy, you can't be in the show) and the restaurant. I was supposed to prevent people from using it, as they clomped through the kitchen which is a safety issue and damned annoying. When I tried to stop a production wench from going through she informed me that she was taking Sean Combs through. Now, I was totally through at this point and feisty as hell. I had multiple instances of "don't you know who I am's" (sorry, DJ Hollywood, that name means absolutely not a fucking thing to me). But I have in fact heard of Sean Combs. So I let them through. And then 20, 30 (holy shit!) 50 no, make that 70 people marched through. I'm not kidding. Who the fuck travels with an entourage of 70+ people? I ran it down today and sure enough, he walked in with 70+ friends and was traveling with a party of over 70 people. The bodyguards I could see. The group of 10 or 15 "peeps" I could sorta see. The extra 55 people? That's retarded.
As an aside, there were some genuine celebrities on hand. Russel Simmons dropped by. The Game (who?) put in an appearance. As did Sean Combs. (I refuse to call him P. Diddy, once and for all that's fuckin' stupid. Period.) At one point, I was guarding a doorway between the nightclub (No Lucy, you can't be in the show) and the restaurant. I was supposed to prevent people from using it, as they clomped through the kitchen which is a safety issue and damned annoying. When I tried to stop a production wench from going through she informed me that she was taking Sean Combs through. Now, I was totally through at this point and feisty as hell. I had multiple instances of "don't you know who I am's" (sorry, DJ Hollywood, that name means absolutely not a fucking thing to me). But I have in fact heard of Sean Combs. So I let them through. And then 20, 30 (holy shit!) 50 no, make that 70 people marched through. I'm not kidding. Who the fuck travels with an entourage of 70+ people? I ran it down today and sure enough, he walked in with 70+ friends and was traveling with a party of over 70 people. The bodyguards I could see. The group of 10 or 15 "peeps" I could sorta see. The extra 55 people? That's retarded.
Friday, February 25, 2005
I'm A Little Bit Cunty, He's A Little Bit Rock And Roll
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