October 2003 Archives

One of the frills of living on my block is that I have not one but TWO ribbon stores. Oddly enough, the owners both know me by name - causing me endless guilt when I shop at one and blatantly ignore the other. Soon, I will be on my way to purchase a few yards of black ribbon which I will use to lace up the outside seam of my fur pants. Yes, that's right -- the Satyr costume is back in business. A marvel of the modern world, these pants are constructed out of fur, carpet thread, and grommets galore. Maximizing skin exposure, they are basically open up both sides - providing a steady run of bare flesh from my ankles all the way up to my torso - which by tonight will be slathered with gold body paint. Ah, I love Halloween.

Last night's book release bash at NuBlu left me in high spirits. After catching up with the gang and having my first drink of the week - I was treated to a surprise run-in with some of the Buddy cast. Among all of the mingling madness, I even got to meet some of the NYC blogging elite - 601am and Bravo. Hopefully, I'll run into them again at some swank event - not really having time to talk as I was heading off to ring in the holiday with a screening of The Nightmare Before Christmas. God I love that movie.

In other news, a have a new little halloween pumpkin ... i mean ... nephew. Born this morning, I have yet to see him. Can you guess his name...?

My mind is basically mush at this point, and I'm afraid that I keep acting stupid (saying stupid things, looking stupid, and just plain being stupid). I don't know how people put up with me. Of course, I could be making it all up - being that my brain is imbibed with tazo passion hot tea and beginning (I think) to swell in my head. Prove my propensity for stupidity wrong and tell me I've used the word 'imbibe' correctly ...

The only thing I can focus on at this point is the fact that Book of Ages 30 is now available at Amazon.

Now that season three of the BBC's Coupling is over, my new favorite TV activity is to watch the mediocre version of NBC's Coupling on Thursday night ... and then on Friday night watch the reruns of season one of the British version. It's usually a week off, but it's quite a fun game to see how, even though the shows are pretty much shot-for-shot, they dumbed down the US version. Not quite as sexy. Not quite as intelligent. Not quite as funny.

I live in an old tenement in the East Village. There are three other apartments on my floor. In the last month, all three of my neighbors have moved out. I can't help but think, 'Is it me?'

As the waiting room gradually emptied out after 2 hours, I had convinced myself that someone was conspiring against me. My name had been taken off the list. The receptionists were sitting behind their little frosted window laughing at me. I wasn't going to be seeing a doctor. I grabbed my hot-tea and started towards the exit ... with one hand on the door and one holding my throat-soothing-hot-tea, a nurse popped out from the back, said my name, grabbed me by my elbow, and quickly escorted me to my exam room: "Wait here for the Doctor". Forty-five minutes later as I sat alone in this tiny room, the conspiracy theory had resurfaced in my mind. Tea gone, I now had to use the WC ... urgently. However, I was convinced that they were watching me on closed circuit TV and that the second I left Exam Room 8 that they would send in the good Doctor who would of course think, "Oh, this room is empty, I'll just move on to my next patient". Luckily, I was able to sneak down the hallway to the WC quietly (think 007 style) and back before I was noticed. I must have passed the test, because no sooner had I returned to Exam Room 8 than the doorknob began to turn.

As I stood on the sidewalk outside the Doctor's office a few minutes later, I realized I had learned three important lessons:
1. The whole world is conspiring (quite successfully) against me
2. Doctor's offices without magazines in the waiting room are EVIL
3. If you forget to pay for your visit upon leaving, the receptionist will, indeed, chase you down the sidewalk and make you write her a check right then and there.

Headed down into Mr. Steele's territory for a pre-opening night party at 13 Little Devils .... and when I say pre-opening night - I MEAN PRE-opening night. Greeted with a long hallway decorated with drywall and fresh plaster, my expectations were low. But, after being inside for a bit (and downing a few of the shots that the bartender kept sliding my way), I gradually got used to the smell of wet paint and could begin to appreciate the decor. Blood red walls surrounded us as a huge sheet of plexi-glass lacerated the floor - exposing the floor joists and a hunky go-go 'construction worker' moving 2x4 on the floor below while flashing dance lights glinted off of his go-go boy work belt. Oh ... wait ... it actually WAS a construction worker. He was trying to finish up the job below as the party raged upstairs. Although there seemed to be something for everyone (a barstaff consisting of a gorgeous woman, a chelsea-boy, and a leather daddy; a DJ that, although bored, played pretty decent music; and most important to me: strong drinks), no one really knew what the hell was going on and just sat around looking uncomfortable.

Fleeing the scene, we jumped into a cab and headed up to the Park. Luckily for me (being sansID and all), we were recognized by the doorman and ushered inside. Even though I get a little sad everytime I think back to the days when we were allowed to dance in NY, I was able to pull myself together and relax into the rotation (drink at the bar; outside to patio; upstairs to the deck; down the back way to the bar; repeat; repeat; repeat). Ah ... the joys of a holiday weekend.

Birthday festivities at Hell equate to "Big Fun". With quite a diverse crowd, it's one of the few times that friends from different circles in my life have actually come together for one event. Not surprisingly, they all got along quite well - and I was able to relinquish my hosting duties to the powers-of-the-night. Noticeably missing from the crowd were Jonathan Van Gieson and his stylish wife - who incidentally now owe me a drink. You can see photos of the event by ... oh ... right. I forgot my camera.