Oh, crap

After successfully escaping from the grips of the Hearst security guards, I make my way down to Restaurant Row to meet up with Eric. The rain still hasn't stopped and my bag continually rubs against my leg, making the demin soak through to my skin. If I didn't like swimming then, I have to get used to it now. The thing is I'm not floating, but sinking.

When I reach The Ritz, I spot Eric's back and see he is standing under the awning, making a call on his phone. We do the usual pleasantries, and then he tells me plans might change and we'll probably be going down the street to B. Smith. I don't care. I just want to get out of the rain.

We splosh our way towards 8th Avenue and arrive a the bar/restaurant. It's a nice place, reminiscent of a 90's-era facelift that was requires little touch-ups for the next decade. We meet up with Matt, one of Eric's friends (and fellow blogger). Brett and Mike show up, both damp, yet not soaked. We drink, we talk, we drink (happy hour, natch), we talk, then we have to leave to get something to eat.

Mike has to leave (I'll catch up with him later) and the rest of us to go Queen of Sheba, an Ethiopian restaurant that's a few minutes away. When we step through the doors, a moodily-lit place that hums with the voices of people trying to talk quietly while stuffing their faces with food.

We sit in the back and place our orders. They arrive in large platters, with a separate dish of bread to sop up the food. Being one who never ate Ethiopian food before, I follow the other's lead. When in New York...

It's all quite delicious, even though it all resembles the same thing. Lucky for me, presentation doesn't count; flavour is what's paramount. Also, lucky for me is that I didn't ask for my platter to be spicy. I purposely avoided anything with onions, because I know how my body reacts to them. Of course, it's not positively.

When the meal is done and it's time to say our goodbyes, Eric and Brett ask if I'd like a cab ride uptown since they're going that way. Being one who did not want to go underground at nighttime (and in the rain), I accept. I'd pay my way, because it's only fair. They'd be along for the ride, which is a plus.

The drive on Riverside Drive is a little stuffy because of the weather, and due to the fact we don't want to open our windows. The water might look pretty rolling down the glass, but it's not when it's splashing on your face. Even though that thought passes through my mind at a breakneck speed, we're at my stop. My co-conspirators have a few (40) more blocks to go. I wish them a good night (even though it's still rather early) and make my way to Mike's place.

After six flights of stairs and a jiggling of a set of keys into the door, I make my way inside where I meet Mary, Mike's temporary roommate. We chat for a bit, but I'm the one who's doing most of the talking. When Mike arrives, he joins in on the conversation until it's time for all of us to go to bed. I sleep relatively well, but when the sun comes up, I wish I could've gone back to the other night and avoided ordering my meal.

Even though my platter wasn't spicy in the least (in fact, it was "bland" for Ethiopian food), I was paying for it. Big time. Who knew a compact body could produce so much garbage? Apparently, it can. Time and time, again. The pain isn't excrutiating, but it isn't pleasant. By the time the cramping and wretching reaches the 20-minute point, I begin to curse the Gods. All of them. From every religion.

Fuck you all, you fucking fuckers!

My vacation sounds like it's going in the shitter from this day forward. I am not going to look forward to Saturday and Sunday. If I was clairvoyant, I wouldn't leave the loo. Unfortunately, I have to learn the hard way about how shitty my vacation will turn out. Oh, crap.

Sex in my city

Before I write about my ongoing NYC adventures, I have to mention I went to the Toronto premiere of Sex and the City with Kim Cattrall in attendance.

Having her there was enough to make her even more fabulous, simply because she was in the same room as me - I'm just that amazing. I can't help it.

Raindrops keep falling on my head

It hasn't stopped raining since I walked out of Port Authority. Even though it's a light spritz, it's still water falling from the sky. Unfortunately, even a light spritz can make puddles if it doesn't stop.

As I zig and zag between pedestrians, all I can think of is how happy I am that I wore warm clothing this time. Last year in NYC, I packed lightly and paid for it dearly. The long coat, sweater and jeans are keeping me warm - but not dry - in the rain.

Normally, when I arrive, I run around, taking pictures with my camera. Due to the weather, that isn't happening. Technically, I can take pictures, but it's hard with the rain pelting down on you and the wind blowing the rain in your face.

For the next hour, I find refuge in the Apple store on 59th and Fifth. Never have I been so happy to be in an Apple store. Personally, I think their products are lovely, but pricey (and always require replacing after 2 1/2 years).

I check my e-mail because I didn't bring my laptop with me and see I have 23 messages (no spam) from the time I left work the night before to this morning. What the fuck is up with that? It ususally takes me a full day to get that many messages.

As I go through my reader and scan through the porn, the store gets hotter and hotter. People start to smell, like steaming piles. It must be due to all the people who are escaping the rain. I find a message from Davis and I'm glad he's still up for meeting up. Too bad I have to find a way to kill another couple of hours.

Off I go to the Time Warner Centre, the multi-billion dollar complex located off Columbus Circle. By the time I get 1/2 way there, I'm soaked. Not only is it pouring, but the wind is blowing in all sorts of directions. If I was a menopausal woman, this would the perfect situation as I wouldn't require any Astroglide to keep my ladybits from drying out.

Time flies while I'm at Borders and reading magazines I never intend to buy. I want time to fly because I want to see Davis. Well, Davis and the Hearst Tower.

When I get to the security desk, a situation occurs that I'm not expecting: they have the wrong name. Actually, they have my name, but it's my alias. Davis didn't realize it when he gave them my professional name. Funny enough, all I have to say is 'facebook' with an eyebrow raise, and they let me through.

When I peel the 'visitor' sticker onto my soaked coat, I see him coming down the escalator. He's dressed in black. I'm dressed in mostly black. He looks great. I look like shit. For the next couple of hours, I'm constantly reminded why Davis is such a lovely guy. The man must have the patience of a sexually-frustrated nun as he lets me ramble on about multiple personalities and X-tube profiles. That, and took me on a tour of building (even though there is no official tour). Sadly, Oprah never appeared.

When it's time for me to leave, I ask where the loo is. Davis points me to a set of doors that leads to a series of beige hallways. He says he can show me the way, but I feel a little weird - I don't need the full tour. Because I'm a man with no sense of direction, I end up walking around a series of hallways and staircases, each one saying an alarm will go off if I open that specific set of doors. But, I don't care. It's still pouring outside and I don't want to leave.

Still, after 15 minutes of walking around the labyrinth, I give up and walk through a set of doors. They're clearly labelled an alarm will sound if they're opened. I don't care anymore. I slowly open them and I hear a piercing alarm. I turn around, look at the security camera, tip my hat down and walk out the door.

It's my punishment for overstaying too long indoors.

Not-so-great expectations

Whenever I go on a trip, I want to enjoy myself. True, there's a lot of planning that goes into it - travel, place to stay, itinerary, etc. - but I want to have fun. At least, that's what I hope for. And, it wasn't any different for my trip to NYC.

The first time I went, I had fun with a friend of mine, even though she felt like an anchor I schlepped around for three days. The second time, I enjoyed myself even more because I didn't have her with me and could do whatever I wanted to do. Would the third time be a charm? Not exactly.

There are a few things I wanted to do that I haven't done before - they include taking in a couple of sites, visiting a few spots, doing a little shopping, and meeting some people.

But, even with all of my plans, there was no guarentee they'd go as smoothly as the projections in my mind. I wanted them to, of course, but I didn't know if they would. This occurs when I set my sights too high (and when you're that high, there's a lot of land below to come crashing down on).

Like many things in my life, there's something/someone that I wanted to manhandle and maneouvre into something that would put a smile on my face whenever the memory flickered in my mind. But, not every ambitous project would result in a success. Sometimes they bomb. Hiroshima rings a bell.

And, let me say, there were a few bombs that blew up during my three-day stay in NYC.

Too big for my britches

For some reason, I've been noticing my undies aren't fitting right. I don't know if it's because the underwear are too small (doubtful), or my dick is too big (hopeful, but doubtful). It's a strange sensation, having it roll down your leg (something a woman will never experience unless she's a drag queen).

Sometimes I do have to tuck it underneath just because it won't fit anywhere else.

And I’m not even going to start with the chafing issue, because there's a bit of that going on, too.

When I was young, I used to tuck because I wore Y-fronts. There wasn't much to manoeuvre, so it wasn't an issue. When I grew in age, height, length, and girth, I began to wear boxer-briefs because they were comfortable and didn't require to be changed when pants were removed to walk around the house.

Not anymore.

Since I'm a realist at heart, I wish I could say it's because of puberty, even though I'd rather think it's because my dick is huge. Nah. I probably just have to buy bigger undies.

Bustle butt

When getting off the morning train, there’s the rush of people who walk through the station to get to their jobs. Most of them wear the same uniform of a black overcoat and pants/skirt underneath. There’s the occasional formal suit, but they’re normally hidden.

Today, I see something I haven’t seen in a while. There’s a young man who exited the same train as I did and he’s wearing a light grey suit, made of a shiny material. It resembles those you find at International Clothiers, a guido-friendly chain that caters to the bridge-and-tunnel crowd.

The issue isn’t the suit, per se, but the fact he hasn’t removed the stitches that holds the slits on either side of the double-vents on the backside of his jacket. What happens is a bustle butt; a poufing of the fabric that’s commonly seen on prom dresses from the 1980’s. Those stitches are there to keep the flaps flat while being transported from manufacturer to seller.

It’s just as bad as those who keep their “Made in Italy” labels on their sleeves. Those are made to be removed, like the ones on your mattress. If you don’t remove them, it’s just like walking around with the price tag dangling from the seams.

I don’t know what to make of it, but I do know next time I see him, I’m going to run after him with a pair of scissors, grab the back of his jacket and snip those threads. I hope he doesn’t think I’m coming on to him.

Living is equated with age

The more I talk to those who are younger than I am (by a couple of years), I get the very strong impression they feel like they’re entitled to everything while contributing nothing. They feel like they know it all and those who don’t agree with them are beneath them, at least on an intellectual scale.

When I was their age, I felt like I didn’t deserve anything because I was a still a kid. I was smart, but I wasn’t brilliant (that came later when MENSA contacted me). With time, I became more knowledgeable even though no one still owed me a thing – I had to work for it.

The issue is they think they’ve lived even though they’re still in their early 20’s. They haven’t lived at all. What sort of things could they have gone through at this point? They just got out of high school. As dramatic as high school can be for a teen, they can't even imagine what’s coming their way in the next decade of their life. High school will feel like cake; warm, chocolaty cake with thick, fondant icing.

True, some of them have gone through situations that resemble a Lifetime network MOTW starring a former 80’s television star, but that just means is they’ve had some hard knocks. They haven’t lived because they’re still getting things handed to them on a plate because they’re young. Adults don't respect them, they pity them because they know the shock that's coming.

Living is equated with age. The older they get, the wiser they are. They’re still young, and don’t know much.

And, even though I’ll always be older than them, I’ll always be smarter.

Company curfew

When visiting someone, inevitably you have to follow house rules. Some of those include what you do, how you talk, and where you sleep. For me, it sometimes includes all three.

“Ok, I’m going to bed,” says B.

“Good night,” I reply as I watch TV.

“No, I’m going to bed.”

“Yeah.”

“No,” B pauses, “if I’m going to bed, so are you.” I look over at B.

“It’s 10. I never go to bed at 10.” What am I 8 years old? I usually go to sleep around 11:30 anyway. It’s not my problem B is tired. I’m not.

B turns around and goes to bed in a snit. Great, I did it. I pissed B off. Knowing what I have to do, I try to smooth things out.

I don’t understand why you have to do what the hosts want. True, they offered you their home and hospitality, but they should also be flexible with the needs and wants of their guests. This ain’t Hitler’s house.

Still, by 10:30, the lights are out and I’m in bed, doing something I was going to do later on in the night, anyway. I don’t sleep well that night because I feel like if I get up to watch some TV, B will be even more pissed in the morning.

Meat on our bones

The hot water is turned on and I’m standing in front of the sink after shaving. A towel is around my waist since I’ve just had a shower, as well. By the time I’m about to clean up, a soft knock is heard at the door. It’s my sister and she wants to get ready before she goes to bed.

“Can I come in?” she asks after I open the door a crack.

“Yeah, I’m just finishing shaving. Do you need to use the bathroom?”

“Yeah, I want to get ready to go to bed.”

“That’s fine. I’m almost done.” I leave enough space for her to move between the door and me as she enters the bathroom.

While I lean forward, towards the mirror, my sister begins to inspect my back for any pokeys – the small corpuscles of protein that appear on my upper arms and back – to squeeze. After a couple of pinches of her nails, she leans back.

“It’s not fair,” she says.

“What isn’t fair?”

“I should have your body and you should have mine.”

“I didn’t choose my body.” Even though she’s female and I’m male, our body types are nothing alike. Whereas she’s curvy, I’m lean and lanky. The only things we have in common are broad shoulders which help make our waists appear narrower than they are.

“Still -”

“And, if I had two kids, I’d look just like you, so…” I let the rest of the sentence linger. I know what she’s getting at, and it isn’t about having us re-enact a scene from Freaky Friday.

She’s frustrated, and with good reason. After her first child, her body bounced back (with time), and she looked good. When the second baby arrived in the summer, her body hasn’t returned to the shape it was before.

Looking at famous faces in magazines doesn’t help, either. They’re shockingly skinny within weeks after delivering babies. Then again, they have nutritionists and personal trainers to help them out with their bodies, while nannies take care of the growing brood.

She’s not immune to the pressure to look good. More often than not, men are succumbing to the same pressures. Flip through any men’s magazine and it’s all about the arms, abs, and ass. If I lived in a cave, I’d let myself go, but since I live in an environment that expects me to look thin, that option isn’t available to me.

This society makes us believe that if we don’t look perfect, we aren’t perfect. Perfect is in the eye of the beholder, like beauty. In some cultures buff bodies are looked upon negatively because it’s assumed their owners can’t afford to eat.

If we could only love the body we’re given we’d be happier. Or we would be happier if we weren’t constantly reminded that we have to be thin. Either that, or we could move to a society that doesn’t mind a little extra meat on our bones.

Dirty talk makes me laugh

Whenever I hear dirty talk in the appropriate context, it makes sense and it helps in the arousal process. It does what it’s supposed to do and it does so effectively.

But, it doesn’t work for me.

From my experience, I find it to be hilarious. In fact, when I hear it, I begin to giggle and the giggle turns into a laugh. And, no one wants to laugh in these kinds of situations.

There could be several reasons for the hilarity:

1. The things being said are ridiculous.
2. The things being don't feel genuine.
3. The things being said sound like porn parody.
4. Their mouth should be busy doing something else.

I'm sure there are other things that are no-nos, but I can't think of them now because I'm too busy laughing.

Confusion in six lines

“So, no goodbye kiss?”

“No. I’m a good boy.”

“Really? Are you serious?”

“Are you heartbroken?”

“Well...”

“Don’t worry. You shouldn’t be.”

Note: This post is brought to you by WTF Wednesdays.

You're married?

For some reason, I have a habit of attracting the wrong kind of people - sometimes they’re crazy, sometimes they’re insane - but, the common denominator is me.

Putting all the nuttiness aside, one thing I’ve also noticed is the amount of married people who are compelled to play with my mind. The attraction is there, and so is the conversion. Everything is going smoothly until they refer to their wife/husband/spouse out of the blue.

Ummm... Why didn’t you mention them before? Did you think I’d know you’re married even when you don’t wear a ring of any kind? And, if you’re involved in some kind of “alternative” relationship, how the fuck am I supposed to know since you never mentioned you were married to begin with?

It’s not like I’ll stop liking them. A friendship is fine. Sometimes more happens beyond the realm of friendship. All I know is to get dressed and run out before the wife/husband/spouse gets home.

Just do me one favour and tell me from the start what your relationship status is. It would help me out so very much. Thank you.

Don't talk to me, I'm sleeping

The light comes through the top of the window and the small crack of the curtains, where the two side pants meet in the centre. Fuck. It’s morning. As much as I love staying in bed, I have to wake up. I’m not paid to sleep, but it’s hard to be alert at this ungodly hour.

Since my university days, my brain has been programmed to fall asleep around 2 a.m. and wake up at 10 a.m. It needs eight hours of sleep to function. Unfortunately, I need to wake up before 7 a.m. to be at work before 9 a.m. So, you can imagine how sleepy I am when I step past the threshold of the office.

While at work, I’m quiet for the first ½ hour even though I shouldn’t be. I have to interact with people. The words coming out of my mouth are mostly grunts. If someone asks me a question, I try to come up with a good response even though my brain is thinking about finding the nearest pillow so I can lay my head down and snooze for another hour.

And, I can't stand those people who are perky first thing in the morning. To paraphrase Dorothy Zbornack (a.k.a. Bea Arthur) in the Golden Girls, I just want to rub a grapefruit in their face. Hard. Really hard.

The only way I’m ever going to be a morning person is if my day starts around noon... and if I finish at 5 p.m.

Gold sparkles

I just found gold sparkles on my penis and have no idea how they got there.

Delusional

A delusion is a false belief or behaviour. It has little relevance in reality unless the person suffering from delusions is schizophrenic. So, why is it that so many non-schizophrenics are delusional?

There’s the person who can blot some paint onto a canvas and is an artist. There’s the person who carries a camera and is a photographer. There’s the person who performs and is an actor. There’s the person who belts out a few songs and is a singer.

Sadly, it’s all in their minds. This isn’t Field of Dreams - if they believe it, it will come. It probably won’t ever come.

For years I’ve been hearing people say they’re just as good as so-and-so, so they should even be better. It doesn’t work like that. You watch one reality show and you think you know it all, like ones that feature "models."

Aspiring models must fit a certain criteria. They won’t change criteria for you. Photogenic is imperative, but if you’re not tall and thin, it won’t happen. Yes, Kate Moss and Joseph Sayers have successful careers, but they’re two people in over six billion. Lighting never strikes twice in the modelling world.

Acting and singing can be more subjective. It’s a crapshoot whether or not the powers that be like you enough to sustain a career (Jessica Simpson rings a bell).

And, if you do have all the boxes checked off, there’s still no guarantee of success. Dreams don’t come to fruition isn’t through hard work, but with timing, connections, money/power, and luck (which is the most unquantifiable).

They shouldn’t give up. Ever. Dreams keep hope alive. And, the voices inside their heads keep the dreams turning into delusions.

And, don't even get me started on aspiring writers...