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I’m here alone (unfortunately). I miss my boyfriend (terribly). The skies are clear (finally). It’s cold (moderately). The food is expensive and bland (typically). H&M is cheap and stylin’ (thankfully). There’s a dearth of public restrooms (sadly). The next several days are going to be busy (insanely). I get to see some of you tomorrow (luckily). I’ll be home soon.

* * *

P.S. So, on the way here yesterday, I’m travelling with my friend, Aaron, right? He’s a nice Polish boy, fairly goyische-looking.

Aaron gets stopped and searched not once, not twice, but three times–at check in, at the entrance to the concourse, and at the gate.

I’m the one who always causes a sensation when passing through the metal detector. I’m the one with the Lebanese father. I’m the one with a name strikingly similar to that guy with the plastique in his Keds. So, yo, what gives?

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The Minx suggested a venue for our petite soirée: the hitherto unexplored (by me) Holiday Cocktail Lounge. Apart from being on St. Marks, it seems well nigh perfect–it’s in the East Village, it’s not too gay, it’s not too straight, and most importantly, the drinks are supremely cheap. (Hey, I don’t ask for much.)

So, Saturday night, 8:00 – 9:30, at 75 St Marks Place. I’ll be the unkempt-looking one in the corner nursing a warm domestic beer. See you there…

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So it looks like I’ll be going to New York by myself. Not that it ultimately makes much difference–I mean, I’m gonna be so busy with work-related stuff, I wouldn’t have had much time to spend with the boyfriend anyway…

Still, I’d still like to have drinks with those of you in the tri-state area. I’m thinkin’ Saturday night, 8-ish, someplace quiet-ish, queer-ish, East-ish. Any suggestions on venues from those in the know? (FYI: G is not what I have in mind. In fact, it’s never what I have in mind.)

Unrelated though #1: The wonderful, horrible Leni Riefenstahl has a killer website.

Unrelated thought #2: Why are vomitoriums no longer a standard feature in homes for the wealthy debauchée?

Unrelated thought #3: In the past 24 hours, I have heard two people mispronounce the word “duodenum.”

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FOUR THINGS ON MY MIND

1. Julian Schnabel’s Before Night Falls: neither Jonno nor I had seen it before, but then yesterday, a very special Secret Santa dropped a copy in our mailbox… It’s a beautiful film, the colors are stunning, I’ve never wanted to visit Mexico before, but now I’m rarin’ to go. I was particularly pleased with the way Schnabel chose not to sentimentalize the ending–no music, no nothing. Even the “backstage” footage from the shoot is entertaining–provided you hit the mute button every time Schnabel opens his mouth. Note to Julian: just take your shirt off and let us watch you make art; no one wants to hear you blather on and on about it like some pedantic Midtown boor. Some people don’t even want to see you shirtless… But then, being the Ron Jeremy fan that I am (yes, he’s on Weakest Link tomorrow night), I don’t mind at all.

2. Family: I haven’t been home to visit them yet–not that that’s any surprise. Every year, it’s the same: I make plans to go home the day after Christmas, then I get bogged down with work or the house or projects or my car isn’t running properly and I can’t be bothered to visit the folks ’till summer. I’m a complete heel.

3. Numbers: I could be wrong, but I think I’m probably a much bigger tramp than my boyfriend is. I tried running a tally back in high school and I found myself well into the three-digits. Ouch. Who knows where I am now?

4. At times–in fact, quite often–Tony Kushner’s fingers produce beauty in the extreme.

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Well, I hope everyone had a happy and joyous one. We spent ours inside, watching movies and generally being quiet. Yes, it was pretty quiet–dull, even–but spent with friends. And besides, I’m not much of a New Year’s person anyway: the weather’s too cold, the streets are filled with yahoos, and I don’t like champagne (though I had a small portion last night, just to be polite).

Nothing else to say, really–between work, the house, and the play (a surprising hit), I’ve been so busy the past several weeks, I haven’t had much of a social life. And with three upcoming projects looming on the horizon, it doesn’t look like things are going to slow down ’till the end of the month. Just in time for Mardi Gras.

The good news: Jonno and I will be in NYC for a conference next weekend, so I’ll get to lay my bleary, bloodshot eyes on several of you. Jonno et al. are supposed to be working out the details of a Saturday night bar-crawl, since I’m no good at those sorts of things. Stay tuned.

The bad news: homos constitute some of the first fatalities of 2002, a group of three having been ceremoniously beheaded by one of America’s most important political allies. Happy friggin’ new year.

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It’s holiday time, which means another article written for the local homosexual newspaper. This one ain’t so bad, I think–‘cept the intro, which is ass-backward awkward. But hey, I wrote it in 30 minutes, what do you want from me?

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Yo, like, merry Christmas and all.

That’s all I’m sayin’. Merry Christmas.

Gentiles may now return to their regularly scheduled feeding frenzy.

…Oh, wait, one more thing: you missed a rollickin’ good time down at the Golden Lantern last night. The highlight? A big, showy opening number (well, as big and showy as things can get in a dark little homo watering hole like that), in which a half-cocked drag queen–who looked like nothing so much as an Edward Gorey victime with badly Toni Home Permed hair–lip-synched “Walkin’ in a Winter Wonderland” while seated in a motorized wheelchair, spinning in circles while a trio of fairies sprinkled the crowd with “snow” that felt suspiciously like chopped up bev-naps.

I know, I know. The EEK! factor was really high. But then, it always is…

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Help! Does the name Carol Peril mean anything to any of you?

My friend Zod introduced me to the wonders of Carol, a bona fide trailer park resident caught on tape for legions of North Carolina ravers to admire. Watching the video of Carol’s birthday celebration–at which she receives both Body Butter (her neighbor, Lucy, explains: “Aw, Carol, you rub that on your puss!”) and a sperm-scented candle–was a sight to behold, made all the more terrifying because it was totally, honest-to-Yahweh for real. It was kinda like Pink Flamingos meets Big Brother. Eek.

Anyway, Zod left town about two years ago, and being the nice guy that I am, I gave him back his copy of the tape. Now, however, I’m completely distraught, ’cause I never dubbed it and I can’t find Zod and I really really really want/need it. Like, now.

Anyone? …Anyone? …Bueller? …Bueller? …Bueller?

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After the show last night, I was talking to a friend who teaches English at a local high school. He was complaining about having to teach Arthur Miller’s The Crucible next spring. I nodded my head in sympathy: without question, it’s the most annoying piece of literature ever written.

Now, I’m not saying that the writing’s bad–hell, it’s Milton compared to something like All My Sons (in which Miller forces the lead character to speak the title of the goddamned play). No, it’s the setup that drives me crazy, particularly the maddening “mob mentality” that drives the piece. As an audience member, it’s unbearably frustrating to have to sit there and know the truth of the matter (since the writer’s handed it to us on a silver platter) while uninformed, witch-obsessed, somberly clad townsfolk run around the stage for two hours accusing everyone of sleeping with Satan. I can only assume Mr. Miller wanted to be absolutely, positively certain that we identified with his protagonists. Mission accomplished, Art.

In lieu of focusing directly on the play, I suggested to my friend that it might be more interesting to teach The Crucible as a kind of history lesson, devoting the bulk of classtime to the historical origins of the play–specifically, the McCarthy hearings. He could talk to his students about The Wooster Group’s performance of LSD: Just the High Points, which essentially deconstructed the play and the hearings and the counterculture of the 1950s…but then, the title alone could be enough to earn him a reprimand from the principal. …Well, maybe the class could talk about John Ashcroft and his recent McCarthy-esque pronouncements…. No, it’s not a great example of “group think,” but there’s plenty of fodder for discussion there.

Today, however, I’m greeted with something even more terrifying and bizarre and ripe for debate in my friend’s classroom: the UN has apparently decided that the child sex trade is “a form of terrorism.” Go ahead–you don’t believe me, read the damn thing. I defy you to fully explain how “child pornographers” can possibly be synonymous with “suicide bombers.” If they’re just being logically and semantically lazy, assuming that everyone who’s not in complete control of his own life is somehow being terrorized…well, that’s a can of worms they probably shouldn’t be opening–unless they want to go to the trouble of explaining the difference between their version of terrorism and, say, economic terrorism or cultural terrorism. Like McCarthy, they’re using “terrorist” as a convenient label to villify everyone and everything to which they object.

Ladies and gentlemen, let the terrorphilia begin….