Ghost Writer

With so many fans now, thanks to Joe.My.God's sterling endorsement of my kitten billboard, I am certain to crack under the pressure of power blogging. I don't know how such luminaries do it, day after day, month after month!

My bar graph spiked. I was overjoyed and utterly terrified! I wept at my typewriter last night. I sat and stared at the keys. A chill wind blew in through my open window. My scented candle flickered. I saw a shadow dart up the wall. It was then a key clicked and black ink struck the paper:

N

And more.

E

And more. My hands were on my lap and the keys were moving!

I L :

And even more!!

T H I S I S T H E G H O S T O F B L O G G E R S P A S T !

I screamed!!! The words typed themselves! I gulped my Makers and soda and shrieked again as the keys moved themselves again.

W H A T A R E Y O U G O I N G T O W R I T E A B O U T T O N I G H T ?

I screamed again and rolled away from my desk. Still the keys continued clicking rhythmically, like a funeral drum!

P E R H A P S Y O U C O U L D W R I T E A B O U T A C H I L D H O O D M E M O R Y ?

I howled in terror and threw myself to the floor in a fetal position!

O H R E M E M B E R W H E N Y O U R L I T T L E B R O T H E R F E L L O U T O F T H E C A R ? T H A T W A S S C A I R Y A N D S T I L L F U N N Y .

I pulled at my hair and wept. My typewriter was possessed by a malevolent entity! Oh gloom and doom? How did this horror creep into my world?!

Y O U S A W A T R A N S E X U A L O N T H E T R A I N B E F O R E R U G B Y . T H O S E A R E A L W A Y S F U N S T O R I E S .

No! I gathered myself from my sobbing pile and clawed my way into the kitchen. I opened a drawer and frantically found a butcher knife!

H O W A B O U T L A S T N I G H T W H E N Y O U C R O S S E D T H E S T R E E T W H E N A Y O U N G M A N O F A D I F F E R E N T R A C E W A S A P P R O A C H I N G Y O U ? W A S T H A T D U E T O A N A C T U A L S A F E T Y C O N C E R N O R P E R H A P S S O M E S O R T O F I N T E R N A L I Z E D S T E R E O T Y P E ?

Tears continued to fall down my cheeks as I grasped the butcher knife firmly by the handle ... and began to slice onions for a lovely avocado and apricot salad. And still the typewriter clicked away independent of me. It was getting kind of annoying by now actually.

O H ! I G O T I T L O L ! Y O U S H O U L D W R I T E A B O U T H O W Y O U S O M E T I M E S F E E L A L I T T L E C O N N E C T E D A T T H E H I P I N Y O U R R E L A T I O N S H I P W I T H B R Y C E . I M S U R E H E W O U L D N T M I N D . H E H A S E X P R E S S E D T H E S A M E T O Y O U .

I nibbled my salad and reviewed Ghost Blogger of the Past’s last suggestion. “Oh whatever Casper. Do you think I’d bring up crap like that on this public forum? There’s enough lesbian jokes and what not about our relationship. I don’t need to give Foxy anymore fodder.”

N O N E E D T O G E T U G L Y . W E A R E B R A I N S T O R M I N G H E R E .

“Ok. Sorry. Hey by the way, you misspelled scary up above. There’s no I in it. And all caps is really hard to read.”

D O Y O U H A V E A N Y I D E A H O W F U C K I N G H A R D I T I S T O B L O G F R O M B E Y O N D T H E G R A V E ?

“Geez. Sorry! You’re a real jerk.”

F O R G E T T H I S . T H E R E A R E S O M A N Y O T H E R B L O G G E R S W H O D E S E R V E M Y H E L P M O R E T H A N Y O U .

“Hey! I said I’m sorry Ghost Blogger of the Past. Cut me some slack. I’m drunk and all I have for dinner is salad.”

O K .

“So what is Heaven like?”

Y O U A S S U M E T O O M U C H M O R T A L .

I flipped channels from my desk watching the television in the living room. “Oh, so you’re in Hell I guess?”

F O R E T E R N I T Y .

“That sucks. So this is your punishment? Helping bloggers come up with creative ideas for posts?” I finished my salad and put the bowl in the sink for Bryce to wash, “So what’s Satan look like?”

R E D G U Y H O R N S G O A T S F E E T .

“That’s not very creative.”

G U E S S N O T .

L I S T E N M A Y B E I S H O U L D G O . I G O T S O M E O T H E R B L O G S T O W R I T E . . .

“Oh, ok. I guess. Well, thanks Ghost Blogger of the Past. Maybe I’ll use some of your ideas. I was going to write about a gorilla that dresses like Marilyn Monroe and helps me prevent the assassination of JFK.

T H A T S O U N D S R E A L L Y D U M B .

“Goodbye. Thanks again.”

And that was it. True story.

Secretary of Offense

My personal assistant Daphne is the surliest young woman I’ve ever met. She’s brash, hard-headed and rude. Nonetheless, she gets me what I want, when I want it. Therefore, I’m grateful of her service, even if it comes hand-in-hand with “yeah, whatever, stupid sissy.”

Hooray for National Secretary's Day! I so love a made up holiday, none more so than National Secretary's Day.

This holiday, started in 1952. is an opportunity for a boss to impress his help with gift certificates to Applebee’s or wilted bouquets of perfumed petunias or imported truffles. However, as advised by my deceased secretary, Annabelle, chocolates are never a welcomed gift, not so much due to the calories, but because of the unspoken assumption that the recipient must share her coveted chocolates with the other secretaries; the pitied ones with stingy bosses who weren’t so lucky and received nothing.

Therefore in selecting a suitable gift for my petulant assistant I immediately ruled out all edibles, say a giant, frosted cookie or a platter of hot wings with celery. I considered a gift card; perhaps an iTunes prepaid card or a gift certificate for an electronics store? Unfortunately, Daphne’s barbaric bluster stomps well into her use of modern day wireless devices. She often strikes me as a Luddite in the way she mangles the Blackberry I bought her. She has no computer skills, therefore a gift of such technology seemed an ill decision.

Perhaps jewelry? No. This too would be a bad choice for crude Daphne. I don’t even believe the girl has pierced ears (much less anything else). The only sparkle ever to grace her scowl was on the High Holy Day of the Feynastra del Cuombo (it’s a fairy thing). I traipsed into my PR firm and blessed Daphne with a fist full of silver glitter. Little did I know Daphne has a rare mental illness in which she scratches herself violently should things touch her skin! I tried to wash her down with my Fresca to no avail. Daphne refused to get my dry cleaning for an entire week. Nor did she appreciate (completely with good intentions) my mummy jokes.

Q: How do you know King Tut is afraid?
A: He cries for his mummy!

With gemstones and food marked off my list, I was at a loss considering what a modern-day city gal would want for National Secretary’s Day. That is until I watched the Style Network and it occurred to me. I would buy her a makeover at one of New York’s finest salons!

I asked Daphne to compile a list of New York’s finest salons. I stressed New York’s finest salons when I asked her. I also winked at her. I think she knew what I was up to because she rolled her eyes and replied, “ugh.”

I visited several Salons yesterday. I’ve never felt so buffed and scrubbed. After six hours of commuting from pedicure to facial to aura cleansing, I decided that the Pilo Arts Day Spa and Salon (in Brooklyn) was the nicest choice for my quirky secretary. And so I bought a full day’s treatment for her and presented it this morning. And can you believe her response?

Daphne yelled at me, “Administrative Professional’s Day was yesterday you ninny!” I was aghast! I looked down the line of secretary's desks and sure enough, all of them were covered with flowers and jewelry and hot wings, and there on Daphne’s desk was an assortment of scavenged sweets and a plucked rose from a generous colleague's radiant bouquet.

I felt absolutely terrible. I immediately gave Daphne the day off to enjoy her spa treatment, after asking her to pick up a few groceries for my dinner this evening.

Who are you?

I am Sahara Sunsabre. I am a 49th level warrior-priestess and leader of the Falcon Guild in the nation of Fylledria. I am the fairest of races, the Fire Elves. My people have defended these enchanted forests from the vile Serpentes Hoardes for three millennia. I vow to personally slay their wicked leader, Ssslitheron by my own mystikal blade. I’m so hot. I’m totally stacked too. I love my bikini plate mail armor. And I have some killer combos. I have nineteen costume-mods too. More than anyone I know. One with purple hair going all the way down my back. Been busy grinding out a new sword enchantment. Not fighting many Ssserpents today.

I am Tyler Sneed. I’m 35 and divorced. I’m dating, well seeing, a girl named Mandy. She’s pretty nice. I think on Sunday we’re gonna go on a movie date, something romantic. I also have a daughter, her name is Princess Diana. Everyone always asks, “You named her after Princess Di? That’s so nice.” Duh. Yes, she’s named after a Princess Diana, but not the British one. Geez. My Princess Diana is Amazonian. She’s named after Wonder Woman. Duh! She’s in my bedroom eating her breakfast. I went to Mickey D’s this morning and then played some Sword Quest Online. I play a sweet elf chick. Hopefully I can upgrade her sword this morning. I have this blog about her and make little web movies starring Sahara killing stuff. I get ok hits, nothing big. Whatelse? Oh, yeah, I totally want to see that new horror film about the little girl with no mouth on Sunday. I think Mandy will like it. What’s it called?

I am "Princess" Diana Sneed and I am nine and a half. Why thank you all for coming to my breakfast. Miss Betsy Wetsy don’t spill your tea. And Mr. Beary Tuggins, you seem beary cross this morning. Would you like some of my hashbrown Mr. Beary Tuggins? Ding-Dong! Why everyone, we have another guest arriving. Hello Frogshow, welcome to my tea party. Would you like juice? I wish daddy would come for tea. Frogshow, you brought biscuits! How delightful.

I am Beary Tuggins and it’s a beary stupid frickin day! I’m trapped at this beary stupid tea party with her royal dimwit and the bladder-challenged Betsy and (lucky me) Mr. Show Business Frog himself managed to get here late and he’s got cookies. How beary thoughtful of him. Show-off. Jesus! Every single day we have a frckin’ tea party. Why can’t we go to the park or maybe even a ride in the car? She takes Betsy everywhere and all I hear about is how beary beautiful everything is and how bad she’s got to take a pee. I’m sick of this! I’m feeling beary, beary anxious. I want to rip my stuffing out. But that wouldn’t be beary polite for such a social gathering I suppose. Man I need a cigarette, but I’d probably go up in flames. “Made in America” my fuzzy ass! Maybe I should start drinking rum.

I am Jiang Li Ju. I am 68. I am staying at a hospice in Tsim Sha Tsui in Hong Kong. I will die here. My son, Jan, is 36. He is a successful businessman, perhaps too successful to visit his dying mother. I am hopeful, however, that he will see it fit to come to this area of the city. I know he is ashamed. Cough. Cough. I ring for the nurse, but she won’t stop by. She’s too busy with the others. So many workers. Cough. All of us are infected, our lungs mainly, by the chemicals rinsed through the fibers. Funny. The chemical to make the toys safe for the American children is what made us so ill. My name means River Chrysanthemum. My mother told me when she was expecting me, her family visited the pandas, along the Pearl River. There were Chrysanthemums in bloom. It was spring. The thought of Pandas, any bears actually, makes me cry now.

You don’t know who I am? You obviously don’t follow fashion. I’m Jan. I'm 26 and I’m the hottest new designer to hit the Hong Kong runways. I’ve had all the top models in my couture, Kiki, Elyse, Sun-Ji, everyone who is it on the HK scene. My styles are tight. So my new line, like, imagine Elves. Elfen warrior girls with big hair and thigh high boots and big collars and puffy sleeves. That’s it. Colors everywhere. Flatten the trim on the boots! Attitude and magic and, wow I’m overcome by my vision. The show is in fifteen minutes and everything is total chaos. You get up there and make sure the spot is ready! I’m excited. My muse? She’s huge here and some fatso doesn’t even realize it, Sahara Sunsabre. Her angles, her lines and her poses, she’s incredible. I want to weep she’s so beautiful. Digital is now the only influence of the world of the material. Jan is at the forefront of the revolution. I said bigger hair!

Meow

Poulet Tart sur le Pot

At Issue: Bears!

At long last, H/X magazine has tossed us bears a bone. The first ever bear issue. In addition to my weekly astrology column, in this issue you'll find my charmingly critical review of New York City's best bear bars. But you'll have to get a copy and read it yourself, because the website only hosts their feature articles.

Also included is a preview of the quickly approaching Bingham Cup. In one month this city will be jam packed with gay ruggers from around the world. I expect all of you to root for the Gotham Knights. You can have your pick of our competition once the tournament is done.

Also, check out Bryce and I. We're listed #3 in the top ten of Manhattan's influential "power bears". Just kidding.

Yay! Now that I have hairy man-flesh on my site, maybe I'll start getting hits. Hairy Manflesh is the best name ever for a bear porn star.

And so there is no confusion, that is not me on the cover. Stop asking!

Cinematic Arrest

I refuse to see Mission Impossible 3. Why? Cause of him. But not because of Philip Seymour Hoffman, who is playing the movie's villain and certainly not because of J.J. Abrams who is the director. Abrams is also set to direct the next Star Trek installment which will focus on Kirk and Spock at Starfleet Academy. I hope they make out. I hope Nnenna from America's Next Top Model plays young Uhura. I hope Joss Whedon casts Kate Beckinsale as young Wonder Woman. Who will play young Gayest Neil in my 2009 film biography, Myth, Mirth and Murder: the Legend of a Dandy? (Title pending actual homicide.)

Yikes! Uhmm? Sheesh. Woof. No. Sure.

Back to MI:3. I'm bummed out that these quality entertainers are attached to his movie. I'd watch Phillip Seymour Hoffman read a grocery list, nude. I've been of fan of J.J. Abrams since Sydney slapped on her first wig, even though Alias has lost my dedicated viewing, I've found a new J.J. addiction in the series Lost. Matthew Fox's nickname is (alledgedly) "pendulum" on the set. Drooooooooooooool.

Speaking of Alias, the stop animation series Robot Chicken did a hilarioius parody of the spy thriller with a short bit titled Whalias. In it Sydney Bristow is a killer whale wearing an evening gown and purple wig. Just like the series, she's a kung-fu fighting super spy. Killer whale indeed.

I love links.

So yeah, I'm boycotting Mission Impossible 3. Hand me a giant pacifier, I'm done.

Gay Family, Part Two

Jesus Christ ambled slowly from the darkness of his sepulcher into the blinding light of the daytime sky. The women who had been there to anoint his corpse fell to their knees and began to weep and pray to God. Jesus took teetering steps in his worn, leather Hushpuppies. More villagers came running up the dusty hill to meet their Savior; and quickly dropped in prayer, speechless. Why would no one meet Jesus’ benevolent gaze? Oh. He was dressed like a little schoolboy in a blue and white cap, matching rugby tie, Sunday whites and short shorts with woolen socks pulled up to his knees. Wow. Jesus felt like such a royal asshole.

As did I, at a scant twenty-one years of age, in my petit ecolier ensemble, stepping from the darkness of that White House holding cell and into the orange glare of late afternoon, Easter 1995, liberated from the Secret Service and my four day “adoption” by bossy Ernesto and emotional Chance, my two gay “dads”.

“Hey little guy, maybe we’ll meet the President. You’d like that, huh? I brought your favorite baseball. Maybe he’ll sign it and… where’s my Sharpie? Ernie did you bring the Sharpie?” Chance began searching frantically through the pockets of his vest and the glove box. His voice pitched higher and higher as he couldn’t find the permanent marker.

“I don’t have your damn pen. Clinton won’t be there anyways. It’s just an Easter egg hunt.” Ernesto had a knack for cutting to the chase and crushing all optimism.

“Roll. It’s an Easter egg roll. And Clinton will too be there. He’s going to welcome all us gay families as an example of his administration’s promise to celebrate America’s diversity. It’s going to be so beautiful.” Chance bit his knuckle and gazed out the minivan's shaded window smiling … and … actually he held it together. His eyes got watery, but he didn’t cry.

I sat in the backseat tediously leafing through a colorful edition of “The Little Train that Could” and munching on animal crackers. Occasionally I coughed on Ernesto’s cloying cigar smoke. I wanted to ask are we there yet?, but didn’t wish to encourage the familial façade any further. After the egg roll I’d be heading home on the first Greyhound I could find. Well, once I was out of my little schoolboy uniform.

“Ok. We’re here.” The minivan veered to the left and sidled adjacent to a Secret Service checkpoint. Ernesto placed a colorful egg placard on our dashboard and we followed a winding concrete drive toward the south lawn of the White House. Already the guest parking was jammed with minivans and families. Tiny girls in frilly pink dresses and little boys dressed in corduroy and bow ties were already lining up for the annual Easter event.

Great. Not only was I dressed like a loser, I wasn’t even wearing the correct “drag”. This whole outing was doomed from the start.

“Neil, did you put sunscreen on? Let’s get the camera. Oh, did we bring the frozen water bottles?” The three of us gathered our belongings and began walking towards the iconic front lawn, towards the other families, when four imposing men in black suits and matching sunglasses stepped in our path. Twisting white ear buds gave away their identity.

“I’m sorry gentlemen, may I help you.” A mustached agent delivered his question as a statement, not a question.

“Yes. We’re a GAY family and we’re here for the annual Eas—“

Chance had no time to cry, much less finish his reply as all three of us were grabbed by our elbows and quickly, discretely, pulled out of sight and into a Secret Service holding stockade. As we were lead away, I could see agents searching the minivan. One of them placed a Sharpie into a plastic baggie and handed it to his colleague.

The hours passed. One by one we were taken into a separate area for an interrogation. Turns out the Secret Service believed we were radicals there to disrupt the proceedings and make a political statement. Little did they know Ernesto and Chance didn’t have the wherewithal to plan a picnic, much less take down the White House on the day of Christ’s resurrection.

And so we sat in silence; silence punctuated by fits of hysterical sobbing. With no cigars, Ernesto became jittery. It’s amazing the secrets you learn about people when held for questions by the Secret Service. Turns out Ernie had some shady international connections and was facing possible deportation. Chance had $800 in delinquent parking tickets and was facing a night in jail. With no fathers, falsely adopted, but otherwise vindicated of being a political activist, I was free to go.

The mustached agent held the reinforced glass door open for me to leave. I stood to exit, then paused. I turned back towards my “dads”. For four days, regardless of what the White House (or America) may think, we were a family; a family like any other, with good times and bad.

A wave of memories washed over me: Chance monogramming a dinner bib with G.N., Ernesto scolding me because his black boots weren’t polished brightly enough, the first time Chance cried over nothing and I thought it was kind of weird, the amusing way Ernesto berated Chance that he was lucky he had him because Chance was a basket-case and couldn’t get anyone else.

Ernesto had an uncommon softness in his eyes as he stared at me. Chance wept quietly and avoided my gaze. I bit my lip. I wouldn’t cry. They deserved better than that.

“Will you guys mail me my shit?” And I left. For fourteen hours, in short shorts and stockings I rode the bus home and replayed the day’s events in my mind. As the bus rolled into Athens, safely home, I vowed to never again speak of that bizarre long weekend.

I’m not certain why I've broken my silence. Perhaps a recent paternal rumbling of my own has sparked my springtime nostalgia. Paternal rumbling, you ask? Yes dear readers. Yes, indeed.

Bryce and I have decided... We’re adopting a kitten.

Gay Family. Part One

I skipped to the train this morning filled with a peculiar optimism. Have I finally shaken off my funk as of late? Along the route I inhaled the floral fragrances of the lovely trees decorated with fresh white bouquets on every limb. I strolled beneath the branches and refused to break into my customary dash, even as the C train’s rumble could be heard approaching down the block.

No treacherous cavern of metal gates and greasy, morning commuters would dare steal my enchanted state. I was lost in a moment of open air, of the day's first rays of sunshine, of white cherry blossoms and a long forgotten memory of my two gay “dads”, Easter 1995, and being arrested at the White House.

During this time, Easter 1995, I was being raised as a kept “boy” by a Maryland couple, Ernesto and Chance. Ernesto was a swarthy, Mediterranean muscle man. He was 41 and had been partnered with Chance, 34, for three years. I had responded to their online ad seeking to adopt an adult “son”. Well being twenty one and a struggling Haiku student, I thought the world was full of possibility. I'd hop a bus to Maryland. Get to know these guys, move in and begin classes at the Maya Angelou Poet's Academy, recently opened following her moving words during Clinton's innaguration.

I hopped on a bus to Maryland. Met them at a lovely lesbian, organic coffee shop in Takoma Park, The Nut Grinder. We chatted for fifteen minutes, and they adopted me right there. I moved in with them the same day.

The situation was awkward from the very beginning. Chance, who enjoyed the role of good “dad”, wanted to spoil me, lavish me with clothing, cd’s and fitness magazines. Ernesto (strict “dad”) would have nothing of the sort. I was to wear a little white t-shirt and rugby shorts and cut cigars for him. Ernesto also demanded I say "please, sir" following any request. He was a partner at his lobbying firm and was accustomed to having his requests met, always. So annoying.

Sleeping in my race car bed, I’d pull my stuffed dinosaurs around my head to block the piteous sobbing of poor Chance as my two “fathers” argued regarding the proper way to raise me.

“You spoil him!” Ernesto would bellow, his thickly accented voice echoing through the walls of their (our?) suburban townhouse.

“But he’s my son too!” Chance would cry and cry. He was kind of a pussy, I guess. I journaled my feelings that night. My hairy feet hung over the front bumper of that tiny racing car bed while my emotions poured into my worn diary:

One father’s Ernest pain
Took a Chance on springtime sighs
Shadows stab my heart!

Well, after our third day as fathers and son, I began to seriously reconsider this whole “moving 600 miles away to be the "son" of two emotionally unbalanced leather daddies” thing. This epiphany arrived as Chance was making chocolate chip, banana pancakes with whipped cream and chocolate sauce and Ernesto said I only be allowed to have cream of fucking wheat; not even with cinnamon!

I furiously pouted as I clipped Ernesto another cigar.

Mind you, dear readers, I understood the situation into which I had willingly placed myself. Also, I absolutely was not some sort of sex slave. Such base behavior was never expected, or asked, of me. I had my bus ticket home, and planned on using it should the bizarre familial situation grow any more hostile.

Haiku was my muse. My obligations were to her, not the paternal affections of two middle-aged sissies. I ate the cruel cream of wheat and asked to be dismissed to my room. Please, sir.

An hour later Ernesto and Chance came to my room. I looked up from my Magic the Gathering trading cards. Chance’s puffy green eyes indicated he’d been crying, again. Ernesto held a single, foil wrapped, chocolate egg.

“My son, tomorrow we are treating you to a very special day.” Ernesto handed me the peace offering.

“Can you guess what we’re doing, little guy?” Chance, the ever eager parent, dropped to one knee so we were at eye level. I imagined shoving that chocolate orb into his ridiculous, smiling face. But I couldn't bear to hear him cry anymore.

“I don’t know. Can I just, like, read? ... Please, sir.” I cut my eyes up at Ernesto.

Ernesto gruffly admonished me, “Don’t talk to your father that way!”

This sucked. “I don’t know. Going to the zoo? See a movie? It’s Easter, what’s going to be open?”

Chance began crying tears of joy. “We’re going to the White House Easter Egg Roll. And we’re doing it as a gay family!”

Oh shit.

To be continued…

New Links!

Finally, some house cleaning on this dusty, digital diary. I've added links to a few of my newest (favoritest) daily reads:

• An introspective wordsmith and lovely photographer
• A rival rugger and fellow Dungeons and Dragons geek
• A scruffy Ohioan who loves goat cheese and dislikes suicide bombers
• A public school teacher for whom I'd gladly earn extra credit
• A runty rascal who is definately bigger than he looks
  and
• A Vietnamese trannie, prostitute

Me love all you blogs long time!

Hip-nosis

“Dude. Sweet. Dude. Sweet.” I was lulled from my comatose state by the words. I was laying on my jungle green sofa. The window was open and a cool breeze gently carried the words to my ear. “Dude. Sweet.” What was this mysterious message ceasing my reverie, pulling me gently from the lethargic realm of Morpheus and Hypnos?

Too tired to move, I tipped my head back, viewing the adjacent building’s rooftop, but upside down. “Dude. Sweet.” A terrible sight assaulted my senses. Was I still dreaming? I gasped and rolled off the sofa, landing on my knees. The pain confirmed me of my wakened state. “Dude. Sweet.” A crappy chalk mural had been drawn on a brick section of the adjacent apartment’s rooftop ledge. “Dude. Sweet!” And the entire rooftop was suddenly infested with Hipsters!

NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!

As though I were in the fourth circle of Hell, or Williamsburg, a dozen of the hippest Hipsters you’ve ever seen idled aimlessly on the rooftop directly across from our apartment’s living room window. “Dude. That mural is going to be totally sweet.” One of the Hipsters, a bushy headed youth lackadaisically offered. His friend, a wallet chain wearing artist furiously pouring his skill into the magenta brick, didn’t reply. He focused on his illustration while a girl, the only one, squatted at the edge of the roof, braiding daisies into her greasy locks of dark hair.

Two of the Hipsters stood close together. Both decked out in snow caps and Members Only jackets. They passed between them something which I suspected to be marijuana. I put on my shoes and told Bryce I was going to our roof!

I went to the refrigerator and got a beer . . . then I went to the roof!!

On my opposing rooftop, I imagined I was Jane Goodall. Me and the clan of Hipsters, we’d lounge together in the green jungle canopy. Lanky Skyler, lookin “phat” in his Masters of the Universe ripped hoodie and vintage Converse sneaks would lay across my khaki clad thighs and look deeply into my eyes, seeking some form of communication. Behind me, precocious Juniper, the clan's only female, would braid flowers into a wreath to place on my stubbly dome. I’d protect these cherished darlings from the harsh realities of the world; the horrible world apart from Urban Outfitters and the L train.

One day I'd meekly offer “Sweet... Dude...” and the Hipsters would madly clap their hands with glee! Communication! We are more alike than either of us ever realized. But no. Instead I hid behind a stucco concrete fixture and spied on the wee creatures as they frolicked unwittingly for my amusement.

By now the artist had ended his commission. It honestly isn’t very sweet, dude. I wish I had a photo. Perhaps I’ll take one for my report. Either boredom or (apparently) lack of artistic merit doomed the project from the onset. All that remains is a crude white chalk outline of a cubic face with a few stray strokes for hair and a grimace. Hmm? Were they drawing me?

As a dandy, I strive to find beauty in all art. Perhaps if I looked at that sketch with the eyes of a scientist, not an artist? For example, what do anthropologists see in the rudimentary cave drawings of the Neanderthal? I used science where art had failed me ... and found beauty, astounding beauty infact! It was childlike in its simplicity, stunningly so.

I continued to sit there, entranced in a "hip"notic state, until I realized just how boring these Hipsters were. I was hoping they'd break dance or hop on po-go sticks, something, anything painfully retro-tastic.

Alas, no such luck.

Without the drawing to entertain them, most returned inside their building via a tiny stairwell shack. Leaving only "Juniper" and the two Marijuana guys. And when the three of them failed to start making out (again, no such luck), I chugged my beer and descended back into my own apartment, back to my green sofa, and back into my dreams.

Exhausted

I am exhausted. Rugby is exhausting. Work is exhausting. Prophesizing the lives of New York’s gay community is exhausting. Being in a committed relationship is exhausting. Going out with friends is exhausting. Playing online computer games is exhausting. Watching television on dvd is exhausting. And now, my only solace sleep, too, is exhausting.

When did sleep become so exhausting? I wake up in the mornings and I feel as though I’ve been beaten with a baseball bat. I blame my lethargy on Benjamin Franklin. He who suggested the turkey as our national bird is also the culprit who suggested we drag our asses out of bed earlier to take advantage of the sun’s premature spring and summer peek-a-boo.

This is precisely why I have thick velvet curtains covering every window in my home. The sun doesn’t rise until five p.m. as far as I’m concerned Mr. Franklin! Nonetheless, the doldrums of day to day life (see above) force me to awaken with the rest of humanity, and thus I am demolished, utterly exhausted, and the culprits are both my lack of sleep and the restless sleeping accomplished, hand in hand.

I’ve been bereft of a muse this entire week. No theme, no thread, nothing with which to paint the meta-web vibrant hues for your amusement. If only there was a reality television show I could talk about, alas Top Model has transformed into such an overblown farce, I'm exhausting thinking of Tyra's ego. I need a new fix.

No... perhaps I need so commit myself to a weekend clinic. Nervous exhaustion was so chic during the era of the Hollywood starlet. Our society simply has no time for exhaustion.

The truth is this dandy needs a vacation. A vacation far, far away. A vacation with no one around (save my cuddly, see above). No noise, no cars, no crowds of commuters; everyone trying so hard not to notice one another only inches away.

I’ve lived in New York coming up on five years and for the first time, I’m experiencing choking claustrophobia on the subways. Yes, I do ride the subways. A recent financial crisis has resulted in my personal driver going the way of my personal chef, butler and masseuse: to the welfare office begging for government cheese.

So with no driver, how do I pass the time on the subway?

I find it easiest to pour myself into a book when trapped in those tin cans of death. I am not of the iPod crowd, mind you. I’m deafly afraid those little white buds will result in the loss of my delicate hearing. However, a book sufficiently passes the time amongst les misérables, and nothing raises eyebrows like a sensational title, be it “Death Cults” or “The Joys of Gay Sex”.

Even if I find both subjects utterly, utterly exhausting.