I'm coming up on 11
straight consecutive hours of meetings, with lots of follow-up to-do lists. That's more than a boy should have to endure ... epsecially in a foreign land. I should be typing minutes, but instead, I'll heading to a pub and quickly ordering seconds.
Me thirsty. Hope the tube's running.
June 29, 2004
It just sort of came out. Someone must have said it before (as nothing is
truly original), but at least last night, it was new to us.
Him: "You're shitting me."
Me: "I haven't eaten you yet."
Public Service Announcement: He is so not allowed to drink with straight people anymore. They fill his him bad ideas. His stealth shots last night were 3/4 pints of Guinness with a shot of Baileys dropped in. So.Not.Right. But I endured a long day and dutifully downed the deleterious draught. As did one of my new favorite drinking pals, Prince PEI.
So now, a few hours later, I'm sititng in the Terraces Lounge, eagerly awating a day spent in my office in the sky, trying not to stare at the Hellenic hottie sitting across from me, checking his email. Or maybe he's blogging about me??
Perhaps Mr. Beefy Bicepoplois is in the upstairs cabin with me.
"Hello, Brisitsh Airways? Yes, this is Bob in seat 62A on this morning's flight to London. I'd like to order the Loukaniko for breakfast. Yes, I'll have it for lunch as well. Cheers, thanks a lot."
I'm thinking that paper thin gray v-neck t-shirt he's wearing will never keep him warm enough. But that's what I'm here for. To make his flight all the more enjoyable.
I'm a giver like that, I shit you not.
June 28, 2004
Don't It Make You Proud?
But a quick recap since the last post:
Muscle bear sea tea was more bearish than muscled, but there was some unexpected flesh. The gym thing seems to be working. Pictures posted when I have time.
One mustn't gesticulate in the new diner on 15th/ & 8th. Or the cocktail waiters should be more careful. Oops.
Things you don't want to hear at ViewBar, "Oh my god, my bag's been sitting in a puddle of puke for the last 20 minutes."
When did the boys at Barracuda get so young? I found myself singing A Chorus Line ... "hello 12, hello 13, hello love."
XES might be cute. The line was too long to find out.
You can get effective work done on Pride Sunday even if you come home at 4 the night before.
Parade in Torono is just more fun. Must go back next year.
Return to Pier Dance was a success. Some people left too early, some people arrived too late, some people didn't go at all. You were missed.
I hate being one to say I told you so, but she was there.
Not one, but two sets of twins.
His friends are way fun.
The post-pier line in front of the Park was really hot. I can only imagine was it was like on the inside.
Turns out moderation can be fun.
But only in moderation.
Oh, and no cigarettes and I was in the office by 9am.
June 26, 2004
Perhaps I Should Start a RILF List
There are some hot runners. And I don't just mean 'cause it's hot and sticky outside.
I trotted my way thought the 5-mile Pride humidathon this morning, beating my goal by a little and seeing some lovely buttocks (covered), thighs and chests (mostly uncovered). Most inspirational. Nineteen weeks to the marathon.
Got several "love your t-shirt" comments, which was fun. Hung out with adorable new pal Stephen after the race, was chastised for not mentioning our charming introduction at bay-rage the other night, and found out he's being stalked on Friendster. I can't seem to find his profile, so I guess I'll have to stalk him elsewhere.
Speaking of stalking, would it be wrong to write down a runner's bib number and then look him up on the results page? I think it's better to have a name than to forever have to refer to him as "black racing shorts with ass of death." RILF indeed.
Tonight is muscle-bear (of which I am neither) sea tea, which promises to be a
load of fun fright pleasant evening on the river. I'm told the motto is "what happens on the Hudson stays on the Hudson." But I can be bought. I mean, for a price, I'll tell you what you want to know. Oh who am I kidding, buy me.
Tomorrow's the parade and an appearance at Pier Dance (where he and I will be, with our walkers). Too much work on Monday and then off to London on Tuesday.
15 days of no smoking, but back on the Ketel (but not too much). The induction took off about 5 or 6 pounds, which isn't a lot, but I keep getting comments that I look like I've lost more. As the Ho said, "you've lost your bloat." That's a good thing, right?
God know what will happen between now and tomorrow night. Good angel on the right shoulder keeps looking up from his desk, saying "focus on work, play a little, it'll all be fine. It's all about the moderation." Bad angel is dancing on my left shoulder with a pocket full of candy saying, "It all works out. Go have a blast."
As long as I don't have a cigarette and show up to work by 9am on Monday, I win.
Pray for me.
June 25, 2004
The newly bejewelled Barrage (or bay-rage, as I think I'm now prone to call it) launched last night with a "Do You Remember Your First Pearl Necklace" party. Free vodka, cute boys, lot of grins. Congrats to all the boys who made it happen. I hear Wednesdays are gonna be rock 'n' roll nights with him at the helm.
I might love the new cocktail waiter.
"Can I have a Ketel and soda?" I asked early on (this was before the free Svedka started flowing).
"What kind of soda?" So earnest, so fresh.
I told him just plain soda water ... maybe he knows it as club soda? He smiled and asked me to be gentle, it was his first night. Sweet.
He was a trooper, and took care of me all night long.
Later on, I asked my pal Soc, the new manager, where the cutie came from before this job.
"Directly from the womb."
I can't wait till he's legal.
Arnold says hasta la vista to California strays.
Poor potbellied pigs, they don't even get a day.
June 24, 2004
Wanna Be on TV?
Run Against Bush, a movement to defeat W in November, is filming an ad in Central Park on Tuesday, June 29. Meet at 6pm at Bethesda Fountain.
Lace 'em up and get going. It's for a healthier you and a healthier US.
June 23, 2004
Could It Have Been Gayer?
Last night’s show was a riot. Drag racing road kill, Funny Lady (you should’ve kept in the Roddy McDowell line), rednecks, super heroes, how not to look for lesbian love, a song about plowing (who knew he farmed?), and Gay Boyfriend. You each were amazing. What a great way to kick off Pride.
Thanks so much to Chris and Andy for letting me be a part of it. (Can I play again, please?) Thanks to everybody who came out … the audience totally rocked. It was good to see all the usual suspects (with a pretty lady in tow), and an added bonus to finally meet some new folks.
And so, without further ado, or any more links, here’s my “Tale of Extremely Gay Gayness” ...
Just what is a tale of extremely gay gayness? As I sat down to write this, NY1 was on in the background, but apparently Paul Lombardi had the day off, so no gay inspiration there. I switched to channel 636. For any of you who might be cable-challenged, that’s the Broadway channel. Perhaps a muse will sing to me.
Marin Mazee’s belting out “You Can Never Go Back to Before.” I sing along. That’s pretty gay. But I have to get this done, because Larry wants to go to Folsom Street East this afternoon. Showtunes and leather queens.
Now I just need some drag queens and Judy Garland to run into the apartment, and I’ll have a heapin’ helping of homoliciousness. Wait a sec … drag queens, running, Judy Garland …, I can hear the bells.
Ever since I met Larry (12 years ago last Sunday, for those of you keeping score), he talked about wanting to run a marathon. Okay, that’s an exaggeration. The first week was more about which drawer he kept his condoms and lube in, why was there so much RID in his bathroom closet, and why did he move here from Canada? But in fairly short order I learned he liked to run.
For years we would watch marathoners finish their 26.2 mile runs, and he’d say “Someday, that’ll be me.” I on the other hand, thought it was a lot of work for a silly medal and a space blanket.
Gradually, I started what it would be like to cross the finish line. The enthusiasm and energy from the marathon crowd was infectious and I began to think “why be in the audience when you can be part of the show?” Plus, I was growing weary of the annual “I’m going to do this one day, eh?”
Not long after that, we saw an ad for the “AIDS Marathon.” The deal was you raise money for AIDS charities and run the Marine Corps Marathon in DC.
We were in.
My fundraising goal was something like $4,000. If you raised that much, you got this totally cute jacket. It was grown-up version of what the high school jocks wore, or one of those kicky show jackets that the Broadway and soap opera people had. Which makes me wonder, when I was acting did I want the career or the couture?
Anyway, as much as I hate asking people for money, this was an excellent cause, and I *really* wanted that jacket. One night, I hit up my friend Steven (aka Connie Cat) for a donation. “Oh honey, Connie’s kitty is kaput, but I’ll put on a show for you.”
“June Bug and I are filling at East of Eighth. How about we make one night a benefit for your run?”
Birth of a fundraiser.
“You know what would be great?” Connie asked me a couple nights later.
“Michael Reidel getting hit by a bus?”
“Well yes, that. But I was thinking that you and Larry should do a number in the show. It’d be gorgeous.”
“Or frightening,” I said.
“Oh please. You’ll make more money.”
“Mmm, let me think about it.”
So I tell Larry about Connie’s plan, and ask him what he thinks.
“You mean do a song?”
“That’s the idea … unless you wanna do a scene from ‘Night Mother.”
*sigh* “Never mind.”
“Okay, let’s do it It’ll be fun.”
“Cool,” and I walk away thinking, “Oh my god, I’ve never done drag before, what will I wear, I’ll be so ugly, I’m too tall to be a girl, what color hair should I have?.”
Connie and June, like many of our city’s dragtastic divas, sing in their own voices. They rewrite lyrics to existing songs, and make them a little bit more … fun. For example, a couple years ago, they performed at my birthday party, reworked a song from Chicago, and came up with a tasty little gem called “All That Jizz.”
This was clearly not the path for Larry and me. We were going to go the old fashioned route and lip synch. It’s good enough for Britney …
But what to perform?. Picking your drag debut is a lot of work. Should there a theme? Maybe a song about running? “It Keeps You Running” Ack, that would be just tired. There had to be some campy duet that would work for us.
One night, Larry says to me, “What about Liza?”
“She’s a crazy woman. What about her?”
“We could do a Liza song.”
That could be clever, especially since we’d taken to calling Larry Liza years ago. Aside from the obvious “L” thing, Larry/Liza, there other parallels -- he’s never been shy of the vodka, he enjoys his occasional party, and he falls in love with gay men. It worked on so many levels.
I started rifling through the CDs and found what might be the perfect duet.
Judy Garland and Liza singing “Together”. Bonus, it’s from Gypsy, which is Larry’s favorite show.
His face lit up with that smile that’s usually reserved for his second bottle of Merlot and a Lifetime movie.
“I could be mama?”
Yes, baby … you can be mama.
Now we just had to learn the number. And get wigs and dresses, but that’s the easy part … please, we live in Chelsea and have drag queens for friends.
“So Larry, when are we going to rehearse?”
“Why do we need to rehearse?”
Because I want this to be good, and I don’t want to go up there and look like an idiot.
“Bob, we’re going to put on cheap dresses and bad wigs and lip synch to Judy and Liza. We’re going to look like idiots no matter what.”
“Well, self-fulfilling prophecies for $300. Will you at least learn the words?”
He said he’d try.
I did all I could. I got in touch with my inner Virgo. I typed up the lyrics and color coded them to show which part was which. I made a tape of the song for him to listen to and I studied my part. I thought about choreography, but decided not to press my luck.
About a week before the show, we met up with Connie and June. “I’m wondering when are we supposed to get ready? I was hoping to be out in the audience and enjoy the show, but don’t want to be dressed like a lady the whole time.”
“No no no girl,” Connie told me. “We’ve got it all worked out.”
They’d devised a cunning plan to get us backstage. Right before our number, they were going to sing a reworked “All I Need is the Girl” (also from Gypsy), the new song being “All We Need is Two Guys”.
“We’ll pull you two out of the audience, you do a quick change backstage and then come back out, all prettified. The reveal will be flawless.”
Larry looked skeptical. “What do I have to reveal?”
“That’s show biz talk honey,” June assured him. “Just come out and sparkle.”
At long last, it was the night of the benefit. The room was to capacity. We grabbed seats up front, so we had easy access to us for our surprise number. And we proceeded to drink vodka. Lots of it.
Way too soon, Tulsa’s big number began and all of a sudden my stomach was like the dark kitchen at the end of “Silence of the Lambs” – full of butterflies and really spooky. Fortunately, I only had to deal with the pre-show jitters for a couple minutes before June grabbed my hand, and had us up in front of the audience.
There was much applause and heckling, I mean cheering, and we were whisked backstage. We had about a minute and a half to make our transformation. Jeans pulled down, t-shirt ripped off … I hadn’t gotten naked that fast since … well, no, that’s another story. On goes the dress (a sophisticated frock, not too many sequins), wig pulled on, a little finger fluff of the bangs, and I squeeze into my size 12 pumps (which do not, I assure you, feel like a sneaker). Larry even had time to tie a little scarf around his neck. “Nice. Where’d you find that?” I whispered as we stepped out from behind the curtain.
I’m certain, as my mother used to promise me, that they were laughing with us, not at us. God, do we look that bad? No time to think about it, because the next words I hear are Connie telling the sound guy to “Press Play.”
5-6-7-8 … “Wherever we go, where ever we are …” I think I got most of the words right, but who knows? About halfway through, I looked at Larry and realized that all my rehearsal requests had been for naught.
Apparently, since we were drinking like fishes that night, he saw no problem in looking like one on stage. God bless him, he was lip synching his heart out, but I have no idea what he was mouthing. He looked like the Incredible Ms. Limpett – pursed lips opening and closing like little Nemo after a starvation diet.
People pulled out their checkbooks and dropped bills into our bucket. Even people we didn’t know. We pulled in about 3 grand that night. Not a bad haul for a couple of sloppy amateurs.
We didn’t stay in drag for the rest of the show, but Larry did take a shine to his scarf and wore it on his head the rest of the evening. “I’m a Russian peasant woman,” he told me, daintily sipping another round of vodka.
I’d so wanted it to be perfect … and perfect it was, in a gay sort of way. But we had done it, and just the song said (if one knew the lyrics), we had done it together. And we both ended up with the jackets.
June 22, 2004
After seeing a bunch of daddies (and some rather scary ones, at that) at Folsom Street East on Sunday, I thought I should give my biological papa a ring.
It was his day, after all.
The usual pleasantries were exchanged ... his golf game, my work travel, how's Lynette (his wife of 20 years on Sunday ... happy anniversary), how's Larry, blah blah blah.
We started talking about health and fitness, choletsterol levels, etc. Somehow we got on the subject of working out and he told me about a recent visit to his neighborhood YMCA.
"You know, men's bodies don't do much for me as a general rule, but this guy in the locker room the other day ... Bobby, he was just beautiful."
I wanted to say, "You know dad, the gay thing's genetic, and you do like the showtunes," but I bit my tongue.
He overheard some other guy talking to the body beautific, who upset becasue his body fat had gone up to 9 percent.
"Why don't you send him up here?" I asked my dad. "I have much better use for him than you do. It could be a nice little Pride present for me."
Hopefully he'll be with the doorman when I get home.
June 21, 2004
Please come see us all tomorrow night. You'll laugh, you'll cry, it's better than Cats. I hope.
Rumor has it it's going to be a good house, so get there by 7pm to get decent seats.
June 18, 2004
Where there's a Will ...
... there's a way.
Larry got a number for the marathon! Woo hoooooooo.
He's now running with Fred's Team, in suport of The Aubrey Fund for Pediatric Cancer Research. He needs to raise some money, so if you see fit, please make a donation. Any size, large or small, will be greatly appreciated.
We raised money to run the Marine Corps marathon several years ago. Between the two of us, we collected over $10,000 for the Whitman-Walker Clinic in DC.
Getting healthy and doing a little to give something back.
Not a bad thing, eh?
All Those Bubbles
Lighting may strike me while I type this, but going out and not drinking can be fun. I had a night full of virgin Ketel sodas with the usual suspects and more. I learned you can still feel up the drunk boys and they don't mind so much. I woke knowing who has my disappearing necklace (he's adorable) and there were no remnants of late-night diner food.
No drinking, no smoking, no fries with gravy to soak up the booze.
What's next? The priesthood? Nah, I don't like boys that young. Although ...
June 17, 2004
Now I Lay Me ...
Should you decide to take me in my sleep tonight, could I please come back as one of the dance belts worn by the boys in Movin' Out?
You sure do make some nice buttocks. But what kind of cruel joke is it to put them on straight men? Straight men who dance for a living?
You're a funny one, Big D.
All the best,
June 16, 2004
It Keeps You Running
The lottery results are in.
Sadly, Larry's number didn't get drawn, so we don't get to share the fun of long, boring training runs, race day excitement, peeing off the Veriand post-race crippledom. If anyvbody knows a way to get the double-secret post-lottery entry, I'm sure we can make it worth your while.
Despite the prospect of running solo and Larry's disappointment, I'm psyched. My goal this year is to beat 4:30. That's slicing a half-hour off my finishing time in Chicago 2002, or getting to just about a 10-minute mile marathon pace. In Chicago I ran an 11:13 pace. My last race time gives me a predicted 11:02 pace for the marathon.
Yikes. That's still taking a minute a mile off my current pace
Mama's got some training to do. But there's plenty of time to do it.
In the meantime, maybe I should press my luck and buy a real lottery ticket.
June 15, 2004
Now I'll Never Be Popular
She was probably some delinquent teenager’s mom. Middle-aged, not real tall, a little stout, her bright red hair (most likely applied in her own suburban bathroom) was quite the contrast to her summery Barney dress (as in purple dinosaur, not Simon Doonan).
“Pardon me, can I buy a cigarette from you?”. She looked like a middle-school art teacher randomly whisked from her Midwestern classroom and placed, sans smokes, on 45th Street.
“Absolutely not, but you’re more than welcome to have one,” I said, pulling the pack out of my front pocket. “Here, have two, I’m quitting tomorrow.
She thanked me and asked for a light, which I’d already taken out of the same pocket.
“So you’re really quitting tomorrow?” she said, exhaling that first long drag. You know, the really good one.
“Yep, I’m getting hypnotized.”
Unbenknownst to me, I'd just grown a second head.
“Oh, that’s yucky,” she said, shaking her head while taking another hit. “You be careful with that hypnosis, that’s scary stuff.”
“It’ll be fun,” I assured her. She thanked me again and was off, hopefully in search of L'oreal.
Maybe I was assuring myself. My shrink and I had been talking about me quitting for quite a few weeks. I kept saying “I’m quitting after I return from Europe, because it’s just rude not to smoke overseas.” He told me when I was really committed, we’d do hypnosis.
Last week, I’d reached Commitment Point (conveniently located just a mile or so past Hacking Meadows), and told him so. I went in a week ago, fully expecting to watch some magical swinging timepiece and come out of the session miraculously cured; or at least without the need to light up every time I walked outside of a building or saw someone with with a fag in his mouth. Or a Marlboro Light.
It was a regular session, going through the usual checklist: meds, sleep patterns, stress, etc. “Okay doc, let’s move on to the hypnosis. I’m done with the cigarettes. In fact, I’ve purposely oversmoked today to try to make myself sick of them. Just finished off the pack, so I’m ready to go.”
I was fired up to quit firing up.
“Oh,” he said, looking at his notes, “we haven’t done the pre-work. Let’s do that and then next time we’ll devote the full session to putting you under.”
Pre-work? Oh dear.
It was a series of questions and visualizations. Why do you want to quit? What are you afraid of if you don’t? What will you be like as a non-smoker?
I got to talking about lowering my cholesterol, my fears of the pain of heart attacks and open heart surgery. How both my grandfathers died fairly young of heart disease. How having a stroke would be the worst, because your brain still works, but you can’t make yourself function. How we watched Larry’s mom die of emphysema, and how horrible and irreparable it is.
We talked some more and then he said, “Let’s talk about your feelings about death. We haven’t really talked about death too much.”
I reminded him I was seeing him as a psychopharmacologist, and that I really just came for the pills, not the therapy. “Indulge me,” he said, tapping his prescription pad.
So we talked about death. My fears, my thoughts, what I wanted done with my remains. What Larry wanted done with his. Did I want to be buried with Larry or separately. Why?
Lots of things I don’t really think about. Lots of things I’ve never talked about. Maybe I should, or maybe I can continue to live in a healthy state of denial. I mean really, if I quit smoking I won’t have to worry about mortality. Right?
Anyway, the session ended and he seemed to have enough “pre-work” data in his head to do the hypnosis. We scheduled it for Friday morning.
All that talk of death and illness and the stress of visualizing it … well, it wasn’t so pleasant. I mean just ‘cause the nation was going into mourning, did that require me to start picking out a coffin of my own? Compound that with my unfulfilled desire to just be done with it and I was a jumble of nerves.
No hypnosis and no tranquilizer prescription. Just what was
I my insurance paying for?. Then I started wondering just what was he going to do on Friday. Make me all trance-out and then scare me with my own fears? If I wanted to shell out money for someone to be sadistic to me, there are way hotter options online. I’m just sayin’.
Too many questions. Too many unknowns. It was enough to make a boy want a cigarette. Or six. And so I bought another pack. What the hell, I still had two days now till hypnosi. Why quit before I had to?
Fast forward to Friday. I’d finished my new pack (waste not, want not). The hypnosis went well. It was pretty much just a guided visualization. I think I might have drifted off a couple times, but I stayed focused and played along like a good patient. I don’t know what I was expecting, but I left feeling that I wasn’t really hypnotized at all.
“Then it must have worked,” my sister told me over the weekend.
It’s been 5 days now. I’ve grabbed for a pack a couple times, even though I’m not holding. It’s kinda cool to catch yourself reaching into your pocket to pull a pack out and then realize that it’s purely out of habit. If they were there, sure, I’d be tempted to have one. But truth be told, I’m not missing them, and I’m a little surprised. I’ve got some Nicorette, just in case, but I’ve only had 3 pieces.
So maybe it did work, this hypnosis thing. Even though I don’t think I was hypnotized.
Nope, not hypnotized at all. Now, if I could hear a phone ring and not jump up, put on a purple smock, and sing “I’m a Little Teapot.”
June 14, 2004
Long Story Short
Got hypnotized on Friday to quit smoking.
Doc says not to drink for 2 weeks to help alleviate triggers. Two weeks sounds a bit extreme, so I decided I wouldn't drink till WYSIWYG, and may make an exception for Broadway Bares ... it's for charity after all.
Since I'm not drinking, I figured what the hell, might as well do South Beach too.
So ... no sugars, no vodka, no potato chips, no smokes, and if I close my burning eye for more than ten minutes, I get a nice little crunchy crust around it.
How was your Monday?
But I do now have some cute eye drops and a fetching new haircut. It's better to look good than feel good. Right?
June 9, 2004
I Think I Want One
(click on it)
June 8, 2004
Is It Sunday Yet?
June 7, 2004
Mrs. Huxtable won last night, citing that it takes "tremendous self-effort and amazing grace" to get to the awards podium. How graceful is it to tell a jillion people that you're the personification of grace? Tacky. Plastic and tacky. I haven't seen such an inauthentic speech since Eve won the Sarah Siddons award.
But wait, there might be a topper from broadway.com:
"I am? I didn't know that. I hadn't thought about it like that. One of the great things is that art transcends these things. I hadn't thought of it in terms of ethnicity. I don't know what to say." --A Raisin in the Sun star Phylicia Rashad on being told that she is the first African-American actress to win in the Best Actress in a Play category.
Mm hmmm, just like we believe Janet when she said she didn't plan the Super Bowl.
Okay, she was good (not as good as Audra) in Raisin. That said, I saw Swoozie the day before and ohmystars she was amazing. As was the justly honored Brían O'Byrne.
Take his advice — go see Frozen. It really is electrifying.
June 6, 2004
Pride in Just a Little While
Was shopping in Chelsea this afternoon and overheard one of the little birdies behind the wardrobe dysfunction say that, shhhh, Damita Jo herself would be performing at Pride this year.
You can go to peer, or you can go to dance.
Wet and Sloppy
"But it's so gray and damp," Larry said as he pulled the covers up under his chin. "Are you really going to go do this?"
With these encouraging words, I rallied myself out of the apartment this morning to head up to the Park, to run the NYRR Anniversary Run that I'd registered for a few weeks ago.
I walked outside into a drizzle, and found a taxi. "102nd and 5th please." Five minutes later it was a full-blown rain and I almost told the driver to turn around and take me home. But I bit my tongue and silently chanted the Nike slogan in my head, thinking that Jake probably got wetter and colder making The Day After Tomorrow than I was going to be over the next hour or so.
Yes, I really thought that.
The run itself was good. Certainly better than standing in the rain waitng for it to begin. It's always entertaining to go to these things solo and listen to conversations.
One really old man was talking about doing his first marathon last year, and walking into the Plaza hotel bar during the race and ordering a Beck's. "The guy at the bar saw my marathon bib and said the beer's on him. I should've ordered two."
And then there was the young lady standing near me, under a tree, waiting for the race to begin, bitching that the course was too short to get a real run it and that the pack wouldn't open up for a couple miles. She proclaimed that she was going to start at least 5 minutes after the gun, so that "the riff raff could clear out" and she could actually run.
I'm not fast. I guess I'm part of the riff raff. I hope someone tripped her.
So now the endolphins are swimming through my body, I've had a workout on a weekend and it's not even noon, and I'm motivated to run more and run faster. I'm in the lottery for this year's marathon. We'll know in a couple weeks if I'm in or out. I'm definitely going to get my 9 races in this year to qualify for 2005. Think of all the t-shirts I'll get. And all the cute runners I'll get to look at in the warmer, and hopefully drier, runs ahead.
Although, cute and wet does have its merits.
June 4, 2004
Is that a Wand in Your Pants?
I'm unreasonably excited about seeing the new Harry Potter tonight. I'm especially looking forward to seeing what direction Alfonso Cuarón takes with the kids.
I understand there's this really hot scene where, in an homage to Y tu Mamá También, Harry and Ron are in the locker room after Quidditch practice, talking about Hermoine and casting wizardus erectus spells on each other.
June 3, 2004
This Little Piggy Went to Market
I finally jumped on the Fresh Direct bandwagon the other day. Last night, my food arrived. Six boxes and one bag of assorted frozen and canned foods, some dairy products, and some very fine looking meat (no, not the delivery
boy man, although ...) including pork chops, tuna, salmon, steaks, and chicken (again, not the delivery guy). Not to mention the giant economy size bag of Fresh Step.
It's a great service. Prices were reasonable. I could never have carried it all home and the delivery charge from the local D'ags would have been huge. Not to mention the hassle of dealing with those
biotches lovely ladies at the check out counter.
Our fridge, freezer, and cupboards are now chock full of good stuff.
And with all that fresh food last night ... yup, we ordered in Patsy's pizza.
man boy was cute too.
June 2, 2004
Would Swoozie Swoon?
Just sashayed over to Circle in the Square to get tickets Saturday's matinee of Frozen. It's so amazing outside that I wished I could just take the afternoon off and run through the Park.
Realizing that I still had work to do, I switched gears, listened to my inner heart-attack victim and decided I wanted a a cigarette and a Cuban sandwich. Ended up with a bag of carrots, a couple apples, and the new EW with Jake Gyllenoverexposed on it.
Now I think I should just go home and get all wet. Like Jake.
June 1, 2004
How Gay is So Gay?
And, bonus ... it's now a new and imporved BYOB (bring your own Bob?) event. I'll have Ketel, thanks.