Tag Archives: Weather Man

The Legend of Sleepy Hollow

Days Until Halloween: 342

I throw up when extremely angry.

This action is not often coterminous with this emotion, but they happened to coincide on an eventful week.

After making nice with Weather Man I was extremely excited for his visit over Halloween weekend. We had a good fight, which meant the only piece of the puzzle left to fill in was the make-up sex, which I’m pretty sure is the best part about getting in fights. 90% of the time I apologize is just for sex. You do the same thing. However, I had a few days left before Halloween on Friday. I still hadn’t put together my costume, as my friend’s veto-ed my idea to go as Tiger Woods for the millionth year in a row. And my suggestion of dressing as Seal and Heidi Klum was a no go, considering none of my accompanying friends were blondes and I didn’t feel like putting my face into an inferno. Plus I can’t sing.

My lovely work friend Tilly decided we should brainstorm a few costume ideas for the both of us as we downed a few beers with the rest of the work assistants. However, once we left worked and arrived at Publichouse we found a bar dressed up as a personality-less pit stop and waitresses already in costume as Stoli Girls. I don’t really like girls, but I’m a huge fan of stoli, so a few friendly jokes into the conversation and I found myself getting free shots from women wearing fur caps. Tilly was downing the wine and next thing I know I’m revealing terrible pieces of my past to coworkers who can barely stand up straight. In fact, the only people not teetering were the Stoli Girls, who got us all into this mess! Tricksy russian vodka women and their sneaky free liquor ways… While explaining to a coworkers exactly what amount of mushrooms constitutes “trafficking” I took a moment to turn around and check on Tilly, who was attacking our co-worker with her lips. Poor Brendan has been harboring a crush on Tilly for some time now, and he did his best to resist.

Brendan: Ummm, I’ve got to tell you that I’m not comfortable with this. I’ve only had two drinks and I’m pretty sure you won’t remember this.
Tilly: (Surly) Ummm, I’m pretty sure you’re cute.
Insecure Brendan: Um. Thanks, you’re cute, too.
Tilly: That means you’re comfortable with it, I won’t tell.

And that’s the last thing I really remember. The next morning I woke up wearing my shirt and tie on top of my recently purchased bedsheets and surrounded by McDonald’s bags (Oh, Burkeman, I know better…). That morning at work wasn’t as dreadful as expected, and I received my official invitation to join the Tuesday sales meetings, which means the management sees me as becoming a full on salesman within the next year! I was enthused, though groggy, along with the entire assistant task-force who was reeling from the night before, most of us not entirely sure if we embarassed ourselves or not. Accept for poor Tilly, who was completely unaware of her behavior. Lucky bitch. My McDonalds shame was unavoidable.

Burkeman: Do you remember making out with Brendan at the bar?
Tilly: …My eyes hurt.

That night I ransacked every second-hand store I could find in the city to find tiny women’s shorts and a white polo shirt (along with some sweat bands). After surviving another day at work I threw on my costume and met up with Weather Man, who had made his way to NYC for Halloween!

With my tennis raquet in hand the conversion was complete, I had officially become Arthur Ashe. Only with shorter shorts and sass. Arthur Ass, maybe. Whatever. Weather Man didn’t feel like putting together a cohesive costume, so when people asked why he was wearing a cape he would explain that he was Dracula. The next person who asked he would explain that he was a Cardinal. Then a Count. And so on. By the end of the night he was drunkenly telling people in Splash that he was versatile. The costume took a life of it’s own.

Weather Man and I went to watch the parade, which was the wonderfully debaucharous spectacle that I hoped it would be. People dressed as Batman and Robin were classic, Joker and Sarah Palin were unoriginal, robots were retro fun, and anything home-made was awesome. Although I’ll admit, the vampire with the upside down blow-up doll caught even me off guard. And the over-sized hairy ass (complete with hole, for viewing purposes) was in such poor taste that it was delicious. The crowds were epic, the night was reasonably warm, and the booze weren’t hard to find. Only once did a complete stranger touch me inappropriately. Victory.

With a sexy Spartan, a thong clad Gladiator, a glittery GI Joe, a versatile “dracula”, and one very realistic naughty school girl (who happened to be off the boat from Japan), I paraded my Arthur ass all the way through Manhattan as the tail end of the parade, sliding under the barrier to join my friends who had been marching for hours already. The waving crowds from the barrier cheered for costumes they enjoyed and the lights and sights all blurred together until I found myself inside an overrated dance club with a devil who’s pitch fork was a little too close. Fortunately I escaped my dance hell without a problem and the next thing I know it’s November first, I’m safe in my bed in Brooklyn, and I’ve shaken a hangover off with some hard earned make-up lovin’. I love Halloween!

That morning I sat in the living room, still wearing my sweatbands, chatting with Straight Boyfriend (who hadn’t shaken off his hangover after spending the evening as a Zombie Hunter a la Shaun of the Dead) and BYOB along with her Boy Du Jour, who had been watching movies all night. Our chats turned into long conversations and the next thing I know it’s late at night, we’ve watched Rosemary’s Baby and just started Shortbus. Early in the movie (when Jamie cums on his own face in the opening montage) my roommate’s started to realize this movie wasn’t the standard popcorn flick. And perhaps they realized that Weather Man, who bought me the movie, wasn’t the standard visiting boy. It’s strange how unimportant moments (like movie cum shots) help illuminate something deeper (like the depth of the relationship your roommate has with another human). I think that’s the point of art, to express things in unexpected ways. Sometime during Shortbus the graphic sex acted as a Jackson Pollock, and that evening BYOB actually went out of her way for the first time ever to admit that my life wasn’t as two dimensional as she had thought. I might not be a real person to her yet, but at least she sees me with 3-D goggles these days. She had even skipped a friend’s b-day party to watch movies with us.

The rest of the weekend was spent with Weather Man and Georgia Ann, touring Manhattan and eating brunch and buying scarves from roadside stands and whatnot. We saw the Christmas sights in Manhattan; the ice rink at Rockefeller Center, the site for the soon to arrive 3 story Christmass tree, the Radio City Music Hall (home of the Rockettes!), constructed our own adorable Build-A-Bears, and even tried on clothes at Saks 5th Avenue (the jacket I wanted was only 800 dollars… right). Saks was a bizarre experience, as I have spent enough time avoiding wealth in Brooklyn that the sight of $500 hats in Manhattan threw me off my game entirely. I cannot earn my sense of superiority until I own that jacket!

Monday night I was just getting used to be without Georgia Ann, Weather Man, and wealth when Straight Boyfriend and I got a strange phone call from BYOB. Or at least from her phone, apparently BYOB had gotten incredibly drunk and some complete stranger pulled her off the subway and walked her partway home. We rushed out of the apartment to collect the pieces (and stray chunks) of BYOB from the stranger, thanking her for being kind enough to bring our roommate back and for being extra nice by ensuring that a more rape-friendly stranger hadn’t plucked her off the subway.

In what shall now be known only as Vomicon ’08, BYOB barely made it into the apartment before spewing all over the bathroom: the sink, the tub, the floor, pretty much everyone except for the toilet. Hours later I was trying to clean up chunks of Wendy’s fries and pulling a nearly unconscious roommate out of the bathtub and dressing her for bed. The next morning she hadn’t cleaned up a thing (or regained consciousness) and I began to get increasingly irritated. What was this girls problem? She discounted my relationships as trivial and sexually based, talked exclusively about herself, ditched friends in exchange for passing relationships, and got so wasted on a Monday that she couldn’t get herself home (without giving second thought to how easily her safety could’ve been compromised). But now, not even an apology. My anger began to stir and as I turned on the shower water I started to brew.

Unfortunately so did the stew-like chunks of vomit that were collecting around my feet, and as the steam rose it brought the smell of hot re-heated up-chuck with it. I was so angry I had it up to my eyes, or at least up to my throat, as the smell of puke triggered my own gag reflex and sent me straight to the toilet to mimic BYOB’s early antics.

At least I made it into the toilet.

By the time I made it into work I was calm and collected, almost glad to be at work. I had somehow even beat all of my bosses into the office, which never happens! But I quickly realized I hadn’t beaten them into the office, they had beaten me into the board room- I missed my first ever sales meeting because I was busy heaving last nights dinner! FUCK!

A cup of coffee did nothing to calm my nerves and anger, so I grabbed an emergency cigarette (hidden in plain sight on my desk) and headed outside to watch my stress go up in smoke the way my morning had. Until I stepped out of the building with a Marlboro light in my mouth and see my manager, Hundo, outside as well. That’s when it becomes acheing clear that my secret smoking habit isn’t so secret in Manhattan. Vom.

[i gotta get my shit together, cuz i can’t live like this forever. i’ve come to far and i don’t want to fail. i’ve got a new computer and a bright future in sales]

A Tale of Two Cities

Days Since Leaving New York: 92

Pussy is a total turn off.

I think that’s been a fact in my life for years now, but never moreso than lately- when my roommate, BYOB, brought home a new cat to celebrate her new relationship with an old friend. I doubt the relationship will last, but the cat- that cunt will still be in my apartment for months. She’s super tiny and super cute, which makes it all the harder to hate her. When she was born there were a few berthing problems and as a result she has some scratches on her cornea which limit her vision…. we named her Leela.

leela-futurama So while the adorably near sighted mini-beast careens through my apartment and antogonizes the cat that we already had (Suki, an unassuming but shed-tastic cat), BYOB chooses to slather it with love whenever her boyfriend du jour is unavailable. The newest quagmire BYOB has waded into is with a friend of 5 years, and now that the relationship has gotten physical they’re both under the belief that it is likely a perfect emotional match as well. They’ve yet to date but they’re picking wedding dates. Not really, but they’re moving so fast before even discussing what they’re doing that even going on a date would feel cataclysmic. Not that it’s currently a problem, this new boy would first have to dump his current girlfriend to start dating BYOB. So they’re in limbo, too far into a relationship that has yet to start and stuck in a relationship that’s too inconvenient to end. Meanwhile, my greatest concern is that the cat still hasn’t mastered the litter box concept.

I ought to change her name to BYO-Boy Problems, because that is currently the only thing she is capable of discussing. If we’re not talking about her new pussy then we’re talking about who’s in her old one. Ugh. Fortunately I have a burgeoning work relationship to keep me afloat, a newly formed love affair with Tilly. Working with Tilly is exactly like working with a Chucky doll from Child’s Play- though she looks adorable, you can rest assured that 100% of the time she will do the completely inappropriate thing. I’m in love.

tilly Along with Tilly, I still have Weather Man and Georgia Ann to calm my nerves as I settle into the new home, which after these last few months is beginning to feel like a real home instead of a temporary hostel. I’ve finally purchased sheets, a light for my room, found a place to put my clothes, and  even reassembled my broken doorknob (kind of). After nearly six months in New York I have a home. Now all I need is a few boys to help wreck it.

And that’s exactly what happened. Only a few days before his anticipated arrival in New York I phoned Weather Man. Instead of a happy reconnection with someone how has become one of my best friends, I found myself hours into a drawn out argument with someone who has become one of my only ex’s. Not quite sure how that happened or when it happened, but as the conversation about emotions and betrayal and abandonment (and ultimately symantics) escalated, it was clear that this was not too friend’s merely feeling combatitive. After a year of watching Weather Man put himself together following a terrible break up I was fearful of watching him get his heart broken agian. To prevent his heart break at my own hands, I shut him out of mine completely. Try pulling at that thread in one conversation.

One cell phone battery and a large bowl of macaroni ‘n cheese later, we were better off for having gotten into the emotional slugfest. Strange how fights have to break out before I allow myself to say the most loving things. Being loving can mean doing harsh things, and sometimes harsh conversations actually provoke the most loving responses. It makes sense, boiling water yields soft macaroni, right? Maybe I’m just hungry for more of that mac n cheese…

Meanwhile, Georgia Ann and I celebrated the existence of my new sheets by fleeing them and heading into Manhattan to catch a Mirah concert. The Highline Ballroom looked sparce when we first arrived and listened to No Kids (a surprisingly fun batch of nerdy kids with electronic instruments and a River’s Cuomo fashion sense). By the time Mirah took the stage the place was packed with a strangely diverse group of hardcore lezzies and softcore indie kids, young and old, who just wanted to listen to her soft voice and a guitar. It was the best 15 dollars I’ve spent in the city to date.

dc After saying goodbye to Georgia Ann I got a call from a dear college friend who enthusiastically informed me that she had moved to DC, to the exact niehgborhood I had spent months living in. During the hour long ride home I thought about my conversation with Weather Man, about my goals for this city, and about whether or not my time in NYC is becoming a failure. In only three months in DC I had met a fantastic group of friends that I still care about, reluctantly gotten into the most serious relationship I’ve encountered in years, been offered an incredible first job, found a city that felt like home, and scored a posh apartment (albeit with a pedophile, but still, sliding glass doors).

After six months in New York I barely have bed sheets. I rent an apartment wedged between unfriendly ultra-convservatives and ESL Chinese families, a job in a cubicle next to a woman who believes Sarah Palin is a god, a close friend who cannot be trusted if a bottle of wine is within arms reach, a roommate who cannot stop talking about the ridiculous boy problems she creates, a fledgling casual dating relationship with a man who teaches special ed, and a city that still feels closed off in many ways. I thought I was saving Weather Man from hurt when I closed my emotions off to him, but perhaps when I turned my back on Washington DC I left a large part of my resiliency and charm behind me.

Of course the fifteen minute walk from the subway to the apartment was made in the rain late at night. Of course BYOB wanted to talk about her latest web-chatting catastrophe with the boy when I arrived home. And of course I found myself sitting in my room wondering if I was worse at finding my own way than the blind kitten curled up next to me. That bitch.

[i abdicated, now i’m just a prince without a land. my subjects all adored me but for this i had them banned]

Fight Club

Days back in Michigan: 5

My computer blew up. Ass.

Home is an extremely bizarre place. There are entire fields of grass for absolutely no reason. There are stars at night… STARS?!?! And you can hear crickets when you’re trying to sleep on the couch of your entirely uncomfortable living room couch (not to mention that the house is without air conditioning). It’s kinda nice, though.

Needless to say, I am back in Michigan for a week before heading back out to the city. In a few short days the new job begins. Exciting! Until then, baseball games and Dominicans and ice cream and Project Runway. In that order. It is a far cry from the life I grew to love in New York, which culminated with Burkeman (yay!) and Dude Mathews drunkenly hailing a cab to La Guardia at 5 am. Bars in New York close at 4, so staying up the extra hour at a diner was no problem. Finding my ID in my bags while drunk in line to pass security, that was a bigger problem. When I tripped and fell in the Detroit airport during my layover I realized perhaps I should’ve slept a little before arriving home. Nothing says “you fucked up” quite like eating shit in the middle of a magazine store in an airport. Note to self: drinking on a flight is great. Drinking for six hours and then catching a flight- not so great. On the upside, the crying baby next to me on the flight stood no chance against my binge-drinking coma. I slept like that baby should’ve. However, that only lasted a half hour before arriving home, where my family was mildly horrified that I reaked of Jameson and hadn’t bathed in a few days. New York turns scion into a slob.

There is one large change between home and the city that I’m not adjusting to very well, I admit- my computer. Its on the fritz and cannot be revived until I am back in Manhattan. Only problem, I might not be going back to Manhattan…

While walking home on a Sunday evening Straight Boyfriend (of the Harlem Harem, a group I recently elected to live with) ran into three large men on the street. Well, he didn’t run into them so much as their fists. Multiple times. The attack is believed to have been racially motivated, as Straight Boyfriend is a large white Alaskan dude in the middle of a largely Dominican section of Harlem, but his attackers weren’t Dominican.

Forunately the incident was stopped before it could become to brutal, but he does have some bruising on his face and a severely broken desire to remain in Harlem. Thus the Harlem Harem may soon become the Brooklyn Brigade. It will be a journey.

Oh, and Weather Man will be back in the city when I arrive on Saturday. AND I’m living with the Femme Fellows in Hoboken for the month of August. And work, the first day of the rest of my life, starts on Monday (same day as Drag Queen Bingo).

It’s about to get very interesting.

[we are adventuring, we are adventurers]

The Merchant of Venice

Day 59

There are approximately 13 million Jews worldwide. Most of them currently work in television.

I discovered these facts when walking down the street with my NYC accomplice JAP, a lovely LA girl with family money and challah to spare. 13 million is a staggeringly low number, it seems like there are more than that in New York alone, but she informed me of these statistics the other day as we strolled down 14th street and talked about how we were under-represented minorities in our fellowship. Only two Jews out of 30 students in a New York based media fellowship. Thats pretty surprising, come to think of it. Even more shocking, our fellowship only includes two gays… it’s television in New York! How is that possible? Under represented, certainly.

Now, exactly where all the homosexuals have disappeared to I’m not sure, but I’ve found all my Hebrew friends sitting right under my stubby-little-gentile nose. Of the 6 interns who work on my floor at *B& television network in Manhattan, 5 of them are jewish. FIVE! That’s a disproportionately large number considering there are only five of them left in the entire state of Wyoming. Turns out three of them all earned their internships through family connections with some higher-ups at the network. I’ve heard the Jews run Hollywood, but apparently they also run primetime television as well. The best part, none of them are even practicing Jews. Oye! So that’s why the descendents of David are underrepresented in my fellowship- they’re already working in television through family connections! Lucky schmucks. As an Irish Lutheran, I’ve got culture envy.

Not to worry, as the universe launched me some gay reinforcements in the form of my friend Weather Man, a former media professional who now dapples in internet technology. After a year of “friendship” and more than a few ups and downs, it seems as if the tectonic plates of our relationship have precariously balanced themselves for a brief time, allowing for a quake free weekend of boys’ nights out and the kind of conversation that can only be shared with a true friend. And anxiety. Lots of that.

Once before I was described as emotionally unavailable, which is funny because I’m perhaps the most available person in the world (except for my emotions). So as Weather Man began his torrent of “I love you”s and “I can’t stand being away”, I couldn’t help but think of anything besides being away. His loving grip became like a vice and I envisioned the concept of emotional claustraphobia, feeling your stomach and throat constrict- the more sweet his words were the more dizzy and overwhelmed I felt. What was supposed to be sweet and beautiful became dreaded and nauseating, which pretty much makes him the verbal equivalent of Janice Dickinson (eek!). But I have strong feelings for Weather Man… and I love Janice Dickinson… so what’s causing me to react to this intimacy the same way that guy reacted when he drank from the wrong cup in the old-school Indian Jones movie?

Word vomit.

That’s what makes me so queezy. I’m fine feeling these emotions for someone and perfectly comfortable knowing that he may feel something even stronger for me, but I just don’t need to hear about it constantly, bubbling out his lips like a fountain or raining down like the storm cells he used to forecast. If anything, I just prefer to talk about the warm front. Emotions aren’t scary, it’s the windy words that accompany them that make the thunder storm so noisy and frightening. But how do you tell someone that you cannot tolerate their emotional word vomit (hopefully not through a blog…  super eek)?

Fortunately many events that rescued me from the poems and soliloquies (moderate eek). Most notably the introduction of two of Weather Man’s close friends, who shall be dubbed Rick & Steve. They friendly and have settled in Manhattan as well. Unfortunately, they heard quite a bit about me (again, word vomit) before we met, so my introduction was followed with a knowing smile and a standard “Oh, you’re Burkeman” as if to say “so, you’re the face to the name I’ve been judging for the last year”. Greeeeat.

However, it’s hard to be the center of attention when you’re at a gay sports bar with a midget. Which I was. The friendly little person was a friend of Rick & Steve’s, and was a charming conversationalist even if he couldn’t see over the bar. The pint-sized pib-squeak of a homosexual may have been my saving grace, as engaging him in conversation kept me from being further judged by Weather Man’s friends (who’re still undecided if they should hate me and chase me with torches or love me and douse me with alcohol). I led them by example and doused myself with alcohol while chatting with the friendly little person, who turned out to be the most conversationally competent guy in the bar. By the end of the night Rick & Steve seemed to warm up to me and we even set a faux-dinner date for August when “life calms down” a bit.

Escaping the world of gay bars (which is uncommon for my time here in New York), I returned to the familiar territory of dive bars and met with my standard crew at McKenna’s for our LAST WEEKEND AS A GROUP. Tragic. McKenna’s low prices and stiff drinks quickly inspired the group to find a dance floor at Flannery’s… which just happened to be playing 80s music all night. By the time I got to Flannery’s the entire mess was on the dance floor and Take On Me was already in queue. Whatser Name was bopping around and on the prowl for boys, Times Square was doing the twist, Georgia Ann was going wild and shouting about calories, Stretch Armstrong was buying shots and the rest of the crew was breaking it down like the media nerds we are.

How could I resist?

Pouring myself into bed at 6 in the morning is always an exhausting experience, but with Weather Man in tow it was both physically and emotionally exhausting. It was hard to tell if the morning was going to bring word vomit or the real thing. That’s the danger of bingeing all weekend.

[there’s a gentleman who’s not so gentle cuz he’s too generous with his chit and his chat]

The Futurist

Day 52

For a few years now I’ve been involved in an abusive relationship, and in the last few months it’s gotten even worse. My boyfriend, Alcohol, let’s me pound on him all night, but in the morning he treats me like shit. It’s a vicious cycle that neither of us are mature enough to escape. I’m guilty of using him, he (literally) makes me sick. But what are we to do?

Fortunately he’s a great date to almost any occasion. Last week a friend’s girlfriend provided a free pass on the VIP list to a MLB All-Star viewing party at Webster Hall, where my new boyfriend was already awaiting me at an open bar. Considering Tuesday had been a Red Letter Day for me (an interview that turned into a tentative job offer) I celebrated with some Red Stripe. And rum and coke. And rum and coke. And rum and coke. And I lost track eventually, but it ended with rum and coke. Regardless, the evening was perfect- I got to watch some baseball (hot), some baseball players (hotter), and had my free reign over an open bar thanks to a shinny little badge (hottest). Plus, a few of my favorites were there, and I wound up chatting with my friend Bad for Your Organs Brooke- perhaps my closest friend in NYC and also the only other individual I know who’s as intimiately acquainted with the world of binge drinking. Anyway, BYOB and I started chatting and the night blurred past quicker than ever. We had a riot laughing about … I don’t even know, everything. I even got to chat with her roommate, the inevitable Straight Boyfriend that I don’t yet have. He’s great, Alaskan, and entirely easy to ply with drinks. BYOB and Straight Boyfriend share an apartment together in Harlem (thus now known as the Harlem Harem) and by the end of the night I escaped Webster Hall with a VIP pass to become the newest member of the Harlem Harem- BYOB and Straight Boyfriend are performing a hostile take-over and removing their third roommate, thus making the way for Burkeman! RIOT.

Within the course of 12 hours I was offered the perfect job and the perfect apartment, for a starter New Yorker. Needless to say, the next few hours were going to have to go down hill from there. And then some.

Vaguely hungover but entirely chipper at work, I got some good advice from Jersey Queen who suggested I play the field. Considering Jersey Queen has played both sides of every field at this point, I’ll take her word on it- at least when it comes to apartments.

In Brooklyn that night I met a nice guy named Borwen, who was less than amusing but incredibly kind. He offered me the apartment on the spot; I was forced to admit that I had actually committed to another place and was just checking this place out to play the field. And honestly, the two meth-heads on the stoop and the myriad of broken fire-hydrants on the 90+ degree hike to his place didn’t tempt me enough to stray from my Harem, even for 50 bucks less a month. Meh, we’re both hopeful we can still be friends….

That weekend I brushed off my apartmental infidelity and let some friends whisk me away to the trashy beach. Literally, garbage everywhere, beach. I lost my Coney Island virginity on a hot day in July with a bunch of girls and a live band that sucked, which probably isn’t too far off from where most people lose their virginity, anyway. The park was fantastic, Coney Island is perhaps the biggest what-the-fuck location of all time; literred with fat chicks, hot dog stands, economically priced french fries, and life guards who blow whistles and wear needlessly enticing swim-suits, it’s as if the park in Pinnochio (where all the boys became donkeys) was recreated in New York as a tourist attraction. PS- the Cyclone is over-priced and hazardous for your health. The Cyclone is disturbingly like anal sex-unnecessarily rought but if you ride it multiple times, it gets better.

My day soaking up the sun on Coney Island passed all too quickly, as has my time as a fellow at *B&, the major network that has been providing me work lately. The acceptance of a job at a major sales orginization has brought an onslaught of *B& employees out of the woodwork to wish me well (aka buy me lunch in attempts to build loyalty for when I’m hire-able in 8 years). It’s been a generous outpouring, and I’ll have no qualms about returning to the network in a few years, especially if I can get a few more free meals out of it. The president of national television sales took me out for lunch, bought me a margarita, and then told me his daughter was troubled. I’m not sure what that means, but I had a free margarita!

As exciting as beaches and guest lists and working-margarita-lunches with executives can be (more lunches in the next week, yay!), it is impossible to overlook how frighteningly straight these last few weeks have been. After nearly two months in (arguably) the gayest city in the nation, I’m still play-less. What’s that about? Not even a kiss. Ouch. I exchanged digits with Cute Clerk a while back, but after ignoring Facebook messages and never calling him, it’s clear I’m not about to redeem that one (oops). However, a friend from DC is traveling to the City this weekend, perhaps with intentions of changing this situation. After a year of being close “friends” it is clear this friend, Weather Man, and I are going nowhere very quickly. As my emotions subside, his begin to swell… typical. Which means while he’s traveling to NYC to drop the L-bomb, I’m bunkering down in my apartment in hopes of surviving the fall out.

Meanwhile, my feelings for our mutual friend, Great Scot, have taken a surprising turn into the “maybe” category. Of course all of this is further complicated by the fact that both of these men are significantly older than I am… extra typical. And the additional fact that Weather Man may have cancer, and that Great Scot is having brain surgeory in a few weeks, makes for a rather decent checklist of reasons I shouldn’t have gotten myself this deep in either of their lives. Crap.

Elsewhere, I’ve found myself debating crazy things with a few of my friends. Tonight at a brewery, Dude Mathews and I were discussing marriage and my belief that forever simply doesn’t exist. Only today exists, and a promise to try again tomorrow. However, my beliefs are about to be tested… if Great Scot fairs well through brain surgeory he hopes to stay in the US, which means finding his green card one way or another.

Turns out Massachusetts opened a whole new chapter on man-on-man immigration, and as a born-n-bred American, all of the sudden I have post-brain surgeory marriage to consider.

First things first- Weather Man has invited me to a dinner party with his friends. And it’s my last weekend with my fellow fellows here in NYC. Which means two things- drinking with gay men and drinking with straight friends. Fortunately my abusive relationship boyfriend will stay by my side all weekend, otherwise I’d have to take responsibility for the mistakes I’m about to make…

[danger! danger! high voltage]