(T)here Comes (Goes) The Weekend
Well, exciting Pride week came and went and there I was, staring down the shotgun barrel of summer.
Sounds ominous, I know.
For some reason, summer is my busiest of seasons at work. Witness my blog. Can you tell I haven't been here in a while? With good reason. I've had no life to blog about. I've been so busy at work, I've been blowing off the gym, except the days I have my trainer, which accounts for why I'm not losing weight. I'm just going to be fat, but with more muscles. Oh, well.
Anyway, you can imagine how thrilled I was at the prospect of an extended Fourth of July weekend. A full four days off. Yippee! Maybe I'd actually have something to blog about! The only issue was that between my work schedule and Tim's, we'd neglected to make any plans. Which sort of suited us, since we both needed to chill.
Friday night I arrived at Tim's house completely wound up. I'd had the day from hell and I was loaded for bear. Tim wisely fixed me a cold, crisp, clear Martini and then wisely fixed me another. By that point my leg had stopped vibrating from anger and frustration. We indulged in our yearly tradition of Christmas in July, even if it was the last day of June. What better way to cut through the heat and humidity, than with Jo Stafford winter collection, "Ski Trails". I know, we're either extremely eclectic, or definitely deranged. I was even awarded a third Martini. My man knows that desperate times call for desperate measures. Even jiggers. I had just enough life left in me to grab some dinner and collapse into bed.
After spending a couple of hours lolling around abed on Saturday morning, we heading into town to do some shopping for M.'s birthday. M.'s hit a bit of a rough patch. The house he's been renovating in Florida is taking much longer than he expected, and he's down there almost every weekend, on top of all the traveling he does for his job, as it is. He was in town a couple of weeks ago to go to Folsom St. East with me, but had to head right back out again. On the Sunday of Pride, he was in his garage doing chores, fell off a ladder and did such a number on his hand that he had to have three pins put in and he'll be in a cast until August, at least.
While we found nothing I liked enough to give him, we did spend an hour in J & R Music World where I picked up Joan Jett's newly released album "Sinner", the new release of the first American Humble Pie album called, oddly enough, "Humble Pie", and Teddy Pendergrass' first solo album. Did I say eclectic? Deranged? Demented! Joan is great, the record's totally dykey. I understand that this has actually been out for a couple of years in Japan, but I'm happy to have it now. "AC/DC", indeed! The Humble Pie album, which was released in '70, or '71 has been remastered to a fare-thee-well, sounding as if Steve Marriott and Peter Frampton (yes, the very same) were rocking out in my living room. And of course, I'd never played the Teddy LP for Tim, and I wanted him to hear "I Don't Love You Anymore" and of course, "The Whole Town's Laughing At Me". He was suitably impressed. Can anyone tell me the reasons why some much of what was recorded on the Philadelphia International label is no longer available? It's truly criminal.
I made us a couple of smooth Manhattans using Old Overholt Rye. Very smooth. Tim was suitably impressed. I, too, make a fine Manhattan. We headed out for dinner at an old haunt we like in the Village, peopled by folks who may very well actually be old haunts soon enough. It's God's waiting room on the west side. I won't mention the name, because you won't like it. We've been going for years, and we're younger than most of the clientele by at least two decades, if not more so. It's usually low key and relaxing, but that evening, some aged gigolo was reciting his sordid sexual history circa 1952. Boys, nothing has changed. There's few things more boring than being subjected to a rendition of somebody else's past peccadilloes. And it went on forever. The rest of the room, staff included, was reduced to such violent eyerolling I thought a retina might detach somewhere. I leaned over the table and recited "Liaisons" from "A Little Night Music" to Tim. Eclectic?
After a couple of rounds of grab-ass and a few beers at Ty's, we retired.
Sunday, Tim headed off to work and I worked out with the trainer. Ow. My Abs. After an hour with him, I foolishly put in another hour by myself, pretty much guaranteeing I would not be able to move that night or the next two days. I showered and headed off to the Dugout where I was greeted by Dr. Greg, Camacho, Joe, Aaron, Erik, David and others, of both blogging and non-blogging persuasions. Much merriment ensued. Tim took care of his patients, dispensing Long Island Trainwrecks and several of his special Manhattans. I took in the visiting eye candy, including a very attractive grouping apparently from D.C., judging from their t-shirts. When Tim got off we had a couple of drinks at Ty's, then heading home to collapse.
Monday was a quiet day for us, just some lunch and wandering around. Then Tim went home in anticipation of some big housekeeping chore he was planning for the following day, and I spent a quiet evening reading.
Tuesday, I too engaged in some household chores, then heading up in the stifling heat and humidity to Macy's to avail myself of the big seasonal sale. I needed stuff for work, which I tend to keep very basic. You know, black, dark blue, khaki, accompanied by varying shades of pale blue. The store was full of tourists stripping down to their skivvies in the aisles. It was not a pretty sight. I did what I came for and got the hell out. I walked home through the deserted streets of Chelsea, planning my evening.
I've lived in my apartment for 29 years now. I have seen enough fireworks to last a lifetime. Years ago, in the pre-Giuliani, pre-Dinkins era, the neighboring tenants would have firework wars, shooting rockets off their roof tops at each other. I'd come out on my terrace in the morning and find the detrius of the previous night's battle scattered about. For weeks before the Fourth of July, I could lay in my bed at night and watch the colorful explosions rising above the tenements of Chinatown and Little Italy. It was rather beautiful. Of course, this doesn't exist at all anymore. Just the big bombastic East River display that sets off car alarms and drives every dog in the neighborhood insane.
I had to get out of the house, and away from the crowds and the show.
I decided on a rare trip to the movies. I headed over to the Chelsea multiplex on 23rd Street, running into that other bartending Tim, who is 23 or so. He'd been to the Eagle and was quite happy to see me, jumping on me and throwing his legs around my waist. All I could think of was the core exercises, and how much they'd strengthened me, because I probably would have collapsed under the weight of all that attractive muscle.
I hit the theatre, choosing between A Prairie Home Companion and The Devil Wears Prada. A Meryl Streep double header. It was practically a Sophie's Choice decision, but Prairie Home won out. Robert Altman has been one of my very favorite directors since I was in film school back in 1972, and I knew this was probably his last outing. I was well rewarded. It was a remarkable elegy to a brilliant career. I was completely entranced for almost two hours, oblivious to the talkers and laughers and eaters that attend movies now, thinking they're in the comfort of their own living rooms.
I left the theatre and headed down Eighth Avenue, thinking I'd buy myself a nightcap or two. Young Tim did not appear to be bartending at the View, and I just didn't have the gumption to open the door at the Rawhide. I walk by Gym and thought, what the hell, entered and got a Wild Turkey and soda. An arm was waving at me, gesturing me over. It was Gregg, hanging out with Liam and Eric. My very own personal Three Little Pigs. They'd been to the Eagle as well. Apparently, I missed three different wet underwear contests. Quel domage. I guess a lot of boys were avoiding the masses that day.
After a couple of drinks, I accompanied Gregg onto the little smoking porch, which was populated by a group of short twenty-somethings who were speaking to each other in faux English accents. As the four of us squeezed in, one of the loudest children announced:
"I can hardly breathe out here, now that these Muscle Marys have arrived".
I looked around to see the muscular guys. There was no one behind me. I realized they were talking about us. Just as the familiar signs of anger started seeping into my brain, I laughed and turn the young man, thanking him, explaining that no one had ever called me that before. It was time to finish our drinks, hop in a cab and head over to Big Lug.
We were just about the only Big Lugs to be seen there. I guess the fireworks had scared all the boys away. But the music was rocking, and I had a couple of PBR's and talked to some nice boys from Texas. Fun.
So now it's the weekend again!
M. is coming into town for his birthday dinner. We're going to Keen's, because it's familiar. I'll have to cut his steak for him. We're going to hit some bars where he can stand in a corner and not have his cast jostled. He needs to get out!
I'll tell you all about soon.