Monthly Archives: April 2005
My question is: how the fuck do I do it? I’m using Blogger, so it can’t be that difficult, but somehow I’m managing not to understand. Can some generous soul please take pity on me and email me to explain?
You understand that I can no longer offer free sex, which has been my traditional incentive in the past, due to E.S.’s very cute jealous streak. But I can bake you a mean batch of brownies.
I think I’ve done it, and that it’s here.
Am I correct?
I just had an absolutely brilliant idea for a T-shirt I want to have made up.
It’s going to say, “I’m Not Pope Benedict XVI, But My Boyfriend Is.”
(If you don’t get the reference, go here.)
Yesterday I got a spray-on tan.
One would think that since, as a redhead, I have no melanin, getting even a fake tan would be low on my list of priorities, because one look at me and it would be obvious that either my tan or my hair was fake. One would be wrong. I have long felt incomplete and inadequate as a gay man because of my lack of anything resembling a tan line, and last week, spurred on by the fact that it was Spa Week, I finally decided that damn it, by hook or by crook I was going to get one.
To get my tan I went to a spa in the 70s between Park and Madison. Given the tony address I was expecting a very tony spa; I was shocked, therefore, when I opened the door and was immediately confronted with glittery stars pasted on the walls and a woman behind the counter in a hot pink jumpsuit. Furthermore, the entire place reeked of what I thought at first was second-rate air freshener but turned out in the end to be the tanning spray.
A Russian woman named Svetlana or Tatiana or Masha escorted me to the tanning room and gave me a disposable thong and shower cap to wear during the process. After I put them on–I looked like nothing so much as a porn actor in a scene set in a restaurant, before the action started–she came back in and began to spray me. I did my very best not to inhale the stuff, and after about fifteen minutes I was covered with tan moisture. The most fascinating thing about this was that by the end my chest and underarm hair was shiny, like copper wire.
Svetlana or Tatiana or Masha nodded approvingly and encouraged me to inspect my tan line. I did so, and I have to say I was thrilled. The whole thing looked subtle and healthy and natural–except of course for the no-melanin part–and I felt I should be modeling, if not in Playgirl, then at least in a J. Crew catalogue. I went out to get my jacket and bag from the pink-jumpsuited receptionist. “Don’t take a shower until tomorrow,” she warned me as she handed me my things. I was reluctant to obey her, as I still felt very sticky, but she assured me the sensation would go away in an hour. It did, and by the time I showed up at E.S.’s place, I was dry and lightly but attractively tanned.
The problem was that I was so attractively tanned that E.S. was compelled to do something about it.
I want to call the spa and suggest they modify their advisory. They really ought to say, “Don’t shower until tomorrow and also don’t have sex with your boyfriend before your fake tan dries completely because if you do you will end up with tan lines on your chest in the shape of semen stains.”
But, given the stars on the walls, I’m not sure they’d be up to it.
Sometimes I feel that if I went back in time and killed Ruth Wakefield, the inventor of the chocolate-chip cookie, before inspiration struck her, all of my problems would be solved.
Then I think about how unimaginably bleak life would be in that alternate present, and I change my mind.
Not that I gained five pounds over the weekend or anything.
So I’m being interviewed for a Boston paper in conjunction with the upcoming release of Gay Haiku, and one of the questions is “What’s the best thing about being gay in 2005?”.
All I can think of is America’s Next Top Model, especially given Tyra’s unprecedented explosion at Tiffany last week, but it seems to me that there’s got to be a better answer than that.
Okay, I’m taking the very unusual step–unusual for me, at least–of posting twice today.
Because I just watched last night’s American Idol.
Did anybody else notice, when Ryan Seacrest was interviewing Alex Trebek, the huge sign somebody was holding in the background that said “Roger [Hearts] Constantine”?
Even though I don’t particularly heart Constantine–all my love goes to the fabulous voted-off Nadia, even though she couldn’t really sing, and to Anthony Federov, even though he’s obviously a bottom–I still thought it was very sweet.
(For those of you who still have it TiVoed, the moment comes about 28 minutes in. Alex Trebek is looking pretty pasty. But what can you expect from a guy in his 50s who still lives with his mother?)
Every time I think there is no hope for the world, somebody like this comes along. (Those not conversant with the works of H.P. Lovecraft might not fully appreciate its brilliance, but it’s worth looking at all the same. Thanks to him for the link.)
If there are any of you out there who have yet to experience the magic that is Wing, New Zealand’s singer extraordinaire, you must go at once to her web site and let her transform your life. Particularly transcendent is her rendition of “I Want To Hold Your Hand.”
Angels and ministers of grace, defend us.