The Other Guy

Mostly, I think of him,
the other guy,
who was the same age as I am now,
and so, presumably,
had been around enough to know, like I do,
that narcissism can be charming,
but only at first.

You said to me once,
after a date you described as "just fine,"
like most dates which are not terrible or wonderful,
but just fine, like most Chinese food delivered,
that "he didn't ask very many questions."
I knew then that your idea of friendship
was not conversation,
but talking and then not-talking.
It it still like that when I call you.
You talk while I wait.
I talk while you wait.
Then we hang up.

New Favorite Music!

-Hurricane, by Grace Jones
-Broken Hearts & Maladies, by The Aeroplanes
-Rearrange Beds, by An Horse
-Shop of Wild Dreams, by Jessica Lurie Ensemble
-Shake Away, by Lila Downs
-Todo Cambia, by Slovo
-Three Flights from Alto Nido, by Greg Laswell

Even Gayer Dishes

For dinner tonight, I'm making a roasted butternut squash risotto with grilled shrimp. I had a conversation with a friend of mine during the day about how bored we were with dinner lately. I texted him with my meal plan. He responded with only one word: gay. Surely there are gayer dishes than this one? Could anything be gayer than "Apricots and Blueberries in Lavender Broth," which I ate at Lutece, and which my mother decided was "the gayest dessert ever."

I wondered if I could come up with some even gayer dishes:

-Cornhole soufflé with Liza coulis.
-Ladyfingers sous-vide with gooseberry flambé.
-Bitterleaf brunoise on fiddlehead ficelle.
-Cock-au-Vin

And for your reference, in case you were wondering, here are some dishes that sound gay, but aren't:

-Bouillabaisse
-Steak Diane
-Meatballs
-Bag Balm (admittedly not a food.)
-Jerky

Baby Shower Essay, Unfinished

This, from an unfinished essay on a baby shower:

The rain begins slowly, easily, not yet changing the temperature of the air. The kind of rain that will either let up, or rain on and on all day. I uncrumple the directions, written on the back of a credit card application envelope, “Cab to Pier 25.” I’m carrying a box, inside are two Scripture Cakes that I baked earlier that morning. Scripture Cake, an easy recipe, requires that you recite Biblical verse as you add each ingredient−cream the butter while mouthing Judges 5:25: He asked water, and she gave him milk; she brought forth butter in a lordly dish. I figured that it would make a nice addition; New Yorkers like anything they deem to be home-spun. People will assume that since I’ve brought it, and I am originally from Tennessee, it must be a old-fashioned Southern recipe. But the cake actually originated in New England some time in the late 1920’s. The box is still warm on the bottom, and the rain begins to darken the cardboard top, one tiny spot at a time.

Still Alive

Still Alive, Part 1:

Skiing in Maine was fabulous. I did not die. Skiing is somewhat horrible in that for the first few hours that you are on the skis and in the snow, your body is refusing everything. You are convinced that you are going to begin falling down the mountain at uncontrollable speeds until you end up in a pile of broken bones and bloody ice hanging from your nostrils. Plus, you have all these clothes on that are puffy and weird and are too big for you. Or maybe all of this is just the amateur's response to skiing for the first time in about fifteen years.

We had a lovely house filled with lovely company, and I was so glad to have been asked. Cory even made Frito Pie.


Still Alive, Part 2:

My mother called today to see if I was still living. Over the weekend, due to who knows what, I came down with some kind of stomach virus, which sent me to the bathroom for about 36 hours in various states of "hmmm," "rush," and "emergency." I want to blog about the gory details, but something tells me that we all know them deep down somewhere already. I'm not sure I really have anything particularly revelatory or original about shitting your brains out and puking out of your nose. There, I said it.

Okay, fine, JUST THIS: after you have puked, and you blow your nose and everything, and you think you are ready to go back to bed, do one extra thing. Throw your head way back and snort around a bit. There is some kind of place back there, some kind of pocket, where the puke waits. And just when you get horizontal, it comes sloshing back into your throat, and you have to get up, spew it out, and try again. I'm just trying to save you a step.


Still Alive, Part 3:

My friend Marc, who lives in Paris, sent me a New Year's postcard with a gouache of a man who has hung himself from the top of the Christmas tree, which is bent over sideways. Underneath him is the fallen chair he has kicked over. Sort of morbid, but I thought it was hilarious. I laughed right there at the mailbox. I survived the holidaze, despite how much distaste I have for the season. The older I get, the more I'm able to just let it be what it is. I think I'm starting to realize that Christmas comes around every year, just like New Year's, and birthdays and Thanksgivings and so on. So if the fondue turns out not as thick as you wanted, eh, who cares? There's always next year. I think I'm finally starting to loosen up.

Best Gay Everything

Looking for something to warm up those cold January nights? Some of my work is included in these two anthologies, which are out there in bookstores waiting to be snatched up.

Best Gay Erotica 2009 features my story, "Mr. Laundry," about an unexpected encounter at a Queens laundromat.





Best Gay Romance 2009 includes an absolutely true essay about what happened one summer in Vermont many moons ago.

Some Handles

Walkie-talkies provide hours of fun. Some handles from the skiing weekend in Maine:

-Sugarbush
-Miss Pickles
-Sexpert
-Crabtrap
-Silver Fox
-Jesquire
-Puppet Master
-Tappy (unofficial)
-Chim-Pansy