Kidnapping. I was terrified of being kidnapped as a tot. There I'd be, little Gayest Neil of age 3 or 4, looking fabulous in light brown cords and sporting (at the time) a delightful fall of big, blong ringlets. My coal miner mother would turn her back on me at the new Riverbend Mall to buy an Orange Julius, and thats when the kidnappers would strike!
Before I could whisper "Lindbergh Baby", I'd be whisked away to a third world country where toddlers with blond curls and blue eyes fetch more money than the local lil'uns.
Surprisingly, I'm not very needy. (Also: Bryce's bithday was yesterday. I bought him a record player that records MP3's. I love Bryce so much. Have I mentioned Bryce. His blog is here. He mentions me sometimes too. Well, sort of...)
So, it was with obvious reservations that I set out to kidnap Neil Patrick Harris at Rockefellar Center while he taped Celebrity Jeopardy.
That's the problem with kidnapping a celebrity (or anyone I supponse), what do you do with the person once the nefarious deed is done?
It reminds me of this terrific 3-way Bryce and I enjoyed several nights ago. The seduction went off without a hitch. Thank you GHB. But the morning after, once our cubby conquest woke up and decided he'd attend brunch with us, egads, what to do with that extra body?
I had no plan for the morning after with Neil Patrick Harris, much less the ride/kidnapping into Brooklyn. I had no real plans to kidnap him, aside from a sack ala Borat style. Of course I had no sack, I was just getting out from work.
I had no ticket to the taping either. I had nothing. So I'm back to square one. Still the #2 gayest Neil in the world and that damn cubby won't stop calling me. Says it was the best night of sleep in his life. Hah, he should see the photos!