October 12, 2005

Soupy Cakes

Rainy fucking birthday. Bryce's family nearly spun in a tizzy as they thought he had pink eye and that his sister on her most special-est of days, her wedding, would catch it were it not for the quick thinking of yours truly and the adept diagnosis of one cutesy gay optometrist in Chelsea bottom. Chelsea bottom is what I'm calling lower Chelsea (8th avenue and 15th, 16th streets, thereabouts).

So everyone at Bryce's workplace proceeded to work him into a hypochondriac's hysteria regarding his bloodshot eye on Tuesday prior to his departure to the aforementioned nuptials. For fuck's sake, I look at those blood shot eyes every night before he carnally climbs on board the Gayest Neil Express. I certainly don't suspect pink eye as he fumblingly slurs his baby-talk admonitions. I suspect Maker's Mark but never pink eye. Nonetheless the madness led him to the highly amusing conclusion that he should call his mother and spread the panic outside his office.

I suggested that at least the infection would match their likely horrid gowns. He was not amused. Well fuck his pink eye, fuck the wedding and fuck the emergency room. Why was all this happening on my 31st birthday? My special-est day!

The last thing I cared for was squatting in St. Vincent's emergency room with whatever rabble should emerge from the streets drugged and drunk, likely, as my dear Bryce sought an ocular opinion from some first year, two-bit, third world medical student. I watch "ER" thank you. I know what goes on in an emergency room. Unfortunately, love has a peculiar way of making you swallow all that rage and bury it deep inside. I'd persevere and birthday plans or no, my darling would discover what had plagued his eyeball and his mommy would stop freaking the fiz-uck out over her (gay) son arriving to contaminate the entire wedding party. Yes, I had zero patience, but Bryce would not be patient zero. Ah, thank you.

So there we were in Chelsea bottom and I spied with my sterile eyes an eyeglass store! "Bryce! Let's go!" I grabbed him. Actually I didn't touch him for fear of infection and barreled my way towards the door and slammed roughly into the glass. The door was securely locked. A petite Asian man buzzed us inside and I humbly swallowed my bluster and que(e)ried, dramatically, if there was a doctor in the house! No there wasn't! There was, however, a doctor on the sidewalk... smoking.

The optometrist glided into his shop and with a sunny countenance, I related our tale. The doctor smirked as I warned of little flower girls with puss oozing eyes ruining Bryce's sister's special-est day. He quickly shuffled Bryce into his exam room, and I took to viewing the overpriced eyewear in the trendy Chelsea bottom store. That's when the tattooed daddy and his leather boy knocked on the door.

The petite Asian man buzzed them in. Tattooed daddy was a fireplug of a man with menacing ink marks running up and down his muscular arms (steroid gym muscle though, not actual muscle. There is a difference.) He was incredibly short and wore a strange, curly haircut. He looked like an Oompa Loompa who'd wandered off the set of HBO's retired prison serial "OZ".

His boy was awfully woofy though; mid-twenties wearing a thermal shirt and a trucker's cap. "He wants a pair of glasses that look like he's not wearing glasses. Like glasses, but not glasses, ya know?" He spoke for the older man who sort of grunted as the petite Asian fitted him with pair after pair of glasses-but-not-glasses-but-not-the-glasses daddy wanted. I heard the term "turtle shell" more in those seven minutes than the entire span of my thirty one years.

Very quickly my amusement dissipated as obviously my birthday-but-not-my-birthday was going nowhere.
"HURRY THE FUCK UP!" I screamed… in my mind. As though blessed with telepathy my boyfriend appeared from the doctor's office and told me he had a severe case of scratchio-itis or some other bullshit infection that cost him fifty dollars. Mystery solved, we headed out that treacherous door and into the early evening of Chelsea bottom. (I really hope Chelsea bottom catches on.)

At this point please enjoy a cigarette or a smart cocktail. My dear dandy friend Etienne will most certainly scold me for such a meandering diary entry, but please be warned dearest reader that such was the ambiance of the evening. My birthday was all big talk, a tiny bit of conflict and no real action, like two bottoms fighting over a bottle of poppers. Well finally we made our way to my favorite sushi spot, A Taste of Tokyo, at 6th Ave. and 13th street; the wasabi shumai are delightful.

Sapporo and too much sashimi later, Bryce and I stumbled into the street only to find my wonderful friend Ahmad speaking to two Eurofags both sporting hideously dyed hair.
"Ahmad! It's so good to see you. Ahmad, you remember Bryce? It's my birthday! Bryce had pink eye, but he doesn't now! We ate sushi! Ahmad do you like Sapporo? Happy National Coming Out Day, Ahmad!" I tried hugging them all, but the Italian one refused to look me in the eye (perhaps he saw Bryce's first? No matter.) Ahmad then asked with a sincere, bemused, naive tone, "What? Do you stay in your house all the time?"

How sooooo very old-world! He and his friends had never heard of National Coming Out Day. In retrospect an entire day devoted to Coming Out stinks of those tacky holidays that feel simply incongruous regardless of how many sentimental cards Hallmark stocks for the occasion. Such "holidays" as Administrative Professionals Day, Earth Day and Talk Like A Pirate Day all fall into this dubious category.

Nonetheless, I wished the snooty Italian a vigorous Happy Coming Out Day, said farewell to Ahmad and proceeded to the subway where Bryce told me my friend's name wasn't Ahmad and that his Italian friend was straight. Big talk had finally come to a destination and that was snuggly squeezed next to my foot back inside the very mouth from which it had wandered. And thus I kicked off my 31st year. Happy National Coming Out Day.

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