Nadal Nuptial Nadir

First I heard about this little coxcomb's wedding plans via my Columbia University friend Dewey. Dewey is a total spaz-bot and any "wild" or "outrageous" thing he hears sets him all a twitter. Kevin Nadal is marrying himself tomorrow in a lavish $6000 wedding in Samantha's old loft on "Sex in the City". He also got the idea from "Sex in the City".

Bllllleeeeccchhhhh!! Tap. Tap. Tap.
Lo, the sound of partially digested strawberry yogurt as I frantically hen peck this entry on my suddenly Pepto pink keyboard.

Kevin Nadal is marrying himself. He has a bridal registry. He has vows. He has an open bar, but only appetizers. I was going to ignore addressing it until he appeared in Salon in the Life section. It's a disgusting, yet thoroughly entertaining, example of a rich kid/performance artist who has too much money to spend. I'm all pissy. I wish I'd come up with the idea first, or rather stole it from "Sex and the City" first. If you think his self-love ends at his wedding, you're wrong. He's also performing his one man performance art at the wedding for his guests. GAH! This turd makes me appear downright unassuming. I hate him even more!

Eye rolling subdued, I do (cringingly) admire Mr. Nadal's gall. I do not admire his hat. Congratulations to the lucky bride, err groom, err broom.

He's lucky he can afford a wedding to himself. For the rest of us dandies who can't afford such extravagances (appetizers only? gah!), I find that a $35 pinot, a bucket of chicken, friends and a sunny afternoon in Prospect Park make for a much merrier marriage to oneself. Although I would, granted, fake my own kidnapping, ride a bus to Albuquerque, shave my head, create a national media sensation and offer a meek apology for the whole affair, but alas, such is the way in love and self-marriage.

Dinner with Terri

I sat at the small bedside table, tastefully appointed with a chocoloate velvet tablecloth. A single setting of porceline china and a fine crystal wine glass were lit by the dimmed lights of the hospice room and a tall red candle on the table.

I suddenly realized my dinner guest had already arrived. Languidly lounging on the other side of the table was Terri. How gauche of me. I must work on my punctuality. Well, this is where she is stored. I guess my punctuality was a mute point. Ah, thank you.

Terri looked fantastic; she was all skin and bones. "Girlfriend, you've lost some weight!" I complimented as her head rolled to the right. I swirled a lovely burgundy on my tongue before accepting the bottle from Dolores, one of many of Terri's very expensive care staff.

"Terri. It's been too long. What have you been up to?" Terri's head rolled back to the left. "Oh, stop. I'm going to choke on my wine." Terri was always a cut-up. And indeed she was making a fashion statement tonight. Her simple flowered bed dress (at formal dinner nontheless) certainly upstaged my coture smoking jacket, leather pants and saffron shirt ensemble. Terri's knack for simplistic style was well known among our social circles.

I continued to chit-chat with her for several minutes. She'd gurgle or her eyes would roll. We discussed how hoochie Paris has gotten lately. How thin Mary Kate is. I assured Terri the (lack of) weight looks great on her, but not MK. I asked her if she's seen that new show where they swap wives. "Terri, you'd be such a hoot on that show! You should totally try out." Her head rolled to the right and she stared at me blankly.

Finally our dinner arrived. I had a medium-rare filet mignon with mustard, caper sauce; petite green beans sauteed in garlic butter; mashed sweet potatoes with a pecan-raisin chutney, and for dessert, chocolate mint mousse. And the bottle of wine was nearly gone by the third course. I savored every bite, practically singing with each gourmet morsel.

Terri was to have protein goo force-pumped down a tube, but she's not eating right now.

Terri is such a nut with her weirdo diets. Well finally the night came to an end. I was indeed more than a little tipsy and the flighty prattle of the early evening took a darker tone as the candle burned into nothing and the shadows in the corners of that tiny hospice room became deeper, more ominous.

It was then I could hear the zealous prayers from outside the building. I sensed the dark, ironic thoughts of those bearers of the "culture of life" promising death to those who dare oppose them.

And why are we so worked up over Terri's tragic situation? I saw visions of Hades, Nirvana, Heaven, Olympus and Limbo. I heard the murmurs of ancient mummification rituals; priests giving theirs lives to serve their kings for all eternity. Crowds cheered at public executions and the screams of young girls burned as witches filled my mind. Boyhood friends gasped at bootlegged snuff films, then rewound to watch the splatter over and over and over. We mourned, yet secretly relished, the visceral internet beheadings, and celebrity murders cover magazine racks as families buy their groceries; the chalk outline transcended to mundane, urban art. My eyes grew wide like the dilated eyes of a child watching that slow motion procession as the family car passes a highway tragedy. All the blood, broken glass and a child's shoe left among the twisted, still smoking wreckage. My eyes snapped shut and I heard a pleading woman's voice crying, "Humanity is a culture of death! Don't they see? Why don't they know?"

I inhaled sharply and opened my eyes. I had nodded off. Terri still lay there. Her head rolled to the left and she smiled blankly, peacefully, staring into the dark, sepulchral room. I wished Terri goodnight and folding my napkin across the table, quietly left to the muffled chorus of "God Bless America" from outside the window.

The Breakfast Club

I toiled the entire morning composing my guest list. How dare they be late?

Extra Crispy Bacon had indeed come late to my party! The greek doorman announced their arrival with a gusto as he left my side to assist other guests at the delightful Palace du Petit Dejeuner.

As host, I simply regarded the crunchy pig fat with scornful, withering disdain.

Having already mingled with always charming Rye Toast, elegantly dressed in a gown of royal purple, and having already danced with the delightful Over Easy Eggs, conjoined sisters who are such gossips, invariably spilling their golden secrets with each spin, I was simply disinterested in what the slender, Southern gentlemen had to offer. Even though they are my favorite guests. Hmph. They'd have to beg for my approval.

How dare they be tardy! Perhaps it wasn't their fault. They were held up in line, even though I clearly added them to the guest list. Regardless, my time was best spent smoking with Mexican Hashbrown, an acrid hombre with whom I soon grew hotly complacent. Across the crowded room Extra Crispy Bacon eyed me, almost pleadingly for my affections. I couldn't stay angry any further.

"Gentlemen, welcome to my party."

"What?" My boyfriend Bryce looked up from his newspaper and the clattering silverware and hustle of the Long Island City Cafe deflated my elegant breakfast ball. Outside the window, the 7 train rumbled overhead on a gray March morning.

"Oh. . . I was dancing with my breakfast." I smiled and delicately nibbled my bacon.

"May I have the next dance?" And I'm reminded why I like this guy so much.

Exertainment Exile!

There is nothing entertaining about video games that make me sweat. Ew, gross!

Why would anyone want to sweat while playing a video game? I'll admit there were many a time in 1987 while furiously pumping quarters into Gauntlet, "Valkyrie needs food, badly!" my forehead did shine with the briefest glistening of perspiration, but today's video games make you move your body in ways unknown to my generation of video game aficionados!

Take for example the granddaddy-san of the “exergaming” craze, "Dance Dance Revolution". This game is a work out! I nearly twisted my ankle as flashing indicators and a little pixilated pixie told me where to step and how to turn.

For those in the dark, or not in Japan, "Dance Dance Revolution" is a dancing video game where you score points by correctly mimicking the dancing child on the screen. All you do is climb onto a colorful platform and bust a move. It sounds simple right? Wowsa, was I shocked when the only thing I nearly busted was my corduroy-clad ass. It didn't help my concentration that six year olds began to jeer me as I grooved and jumped. I nearly spilled my martini for crying out loud!

From dancing the next logical step is sports themed movement games, or "exergaming" as it's been branded by the devilish PR demons selling to this new niche market of gamers who apparently like to huff and puff while playing their video games.

The only “huffing” and “puffing” I do while playing video games leaves me as coordinated as a sponge. I’m lucky if I have the agility to turn the television off, much less play real time tennis against a digital opponent.
How about nachos? Yeah man, I’ll eat nachos with a digital foe, but tennis? Fuck that.

These “exertainment” warlocks gathered for a four-day coven at the International Consumer Electronics Show were a sweaty tent of moist consumers danced up a nice array of armpit circles.

DID YOU KNOW AMERICA IS FAT?

Yeah, believe it or not, apparently we are a nation of nacho-eating couch potatoes. So the solution is to marry the video game with the equivalent of an aerobic work out. Yuck! Even if my Sega Genesis had had such a game like “Dance Dance Revolution”, at the age of 14 I didn’t want to dance. I wanted to slay goblins and devilish PR warlocks and find treasure and eat nachos.

These sweaty games aren’t limited to dance; there is one for golf too. Golf? GOLF?! I don’t know how a golf “exergame” is going to solve our nation’s obesity problem; but as far as fun factor goes I’d certainly prefer jeering children and a twisted ankle over two hours of tedious, living room golf any day.

All this exertainment technology scares the shit out of me. The next logical step is holo-deck technology, and anyone who has seen any episode of “Star Trek: The Next Generation” knows that you stay the fuck out of the holo-deck!

Just hand me a pile of quarters. I like my arcade games old school. “Gay man needs martini, badly!”

Whine Wine

I swayed as I walked from my favorite Upper West Side wine bar, Bouquet. An early evening tasting party of Australian reds had left me as wasted as a wallabee. I was sashaying down the avenue humming Men At Work when my gay sixth sense began to buzz.

Something wasn’t right!

I found myself standing in front of a massive glass window showcasing a floor of designer sofas and couches. My drunken eyes trailed over the rich fabrics and plush materials when, with a gasp, I saw an upturned wine glass laying on a caramel colored leather settee. It’s blood red contents spilled from the glass and rested in a puddle across the beautiful chair.

Without hesitation I turned and ran around the corner towards the door of the furniture store. I had to let the owners know what some foolish, wine-swilling, sofa shopping buffoon had done to their showroom.

I threw the doors open and lunged at the counter. The owner, an Indian man in his fifties, looked up at me startled.

“Your chair! In the back! Hurry. Someone has spilled red wine on it!!” I pointed my hand towards the rear of the store and motioned to a sales girl to go look.

The look on the man’s face was equal parts sympathy and amusement. He moved his eyes away from mine and faced the blond salesgirl who began smirking and covered her mouth with her hand.

“What?” I was confused. “You need to clean up the wine. I’m serious. Someone totally spilled wine on your…”

Frustrated, I began to search the room for answers as to why they weren’t rushing back to clean up the mess. There were no customers around. They weren’t busy. My eyes trailed away from the cash register and towards the other chairs and sofas at the front of the store.

On one white, snowy loveseat a plastic coffee mug was over turned, plastic brown coffee spilled harmlessly onto the pallid fabric. Next to it a fake glass of coca-cola laid on its side with plastic ice cubes and soda pop covering a lemon yellow hassock.

My tipsy brain took a little time to process the beverage betrayal I was witnessing, but once it settled in I felt myself blush the color of the spilled fake red wine in the back of the store.

I looked up to the store owner and the sales girl and they both burst out into hysterical laughter as I realized my blunder. They bid me an overly enthusiastic “Thank you”, and I left the store humbled at simply trying to save their sofa.

The fake Merlot mocked me as I trudged past the showroom window.

Crab Grass

I’ve had the symptoms for a while now. I guess it was more denial (and my own personal shame) that kept me from seeing a doctor sooner. But I finally went and although the news was bad, getting a diagnosis feels as though a weight has been lifted off my shoulders.

I don’t know where I got it. If I’d been more careful perhaps none of this would have happened. But what good is speculation now anyways? I move on from here. Acceptance is a major phase when dealing with any illness and I’ve finally accepted mine.

Apparently my entire stomach is infested with body lice. For two entire weeks I’ve been itching my furry belly raw, reassuring myself eventually my weird rash will go away.

For two weeks I’ve scratched my stomach through my work shirts, my t-shirts, my bed linens, in the shower, at the movies, out having a drink, and while riding the subway. The whole time I was content in my denial that the little white flakes caught in my fingernails were dead skin cells and not vermin. Little white skin cells with legs and little beady eyes.

Lousy (lou' ze) adj. 1. Infested with lice.

“Body lice?” Dr. Levine, my nebbish general practitioner, asked me if I had any exposure to anyone with body lice. I quietly answered “No. Not that I’m aware of.”

He then asked if I had any contact with children. I loudly cringed “No! Oh God, absolutely not!”

Nonetheless, he confirmed that I had body lice. He was taken aback (or rather he took a step back) when I suggested that perhaps they weren’t body lice, but instead goose mites that had set up a new world colony on my forested belly, “Because, you see, I play rugby and the field we play on is usually covered in goose feces and discarded feathers from where the geese lay during the day. And I bet the geese had parasitic mites that could have jumped onto me and thus my problem.”

Dr. Levine, without the need for my erudite second opinion, restated “Gayest Neil you have body lice, that’ll be five hundred dollars.”

Following my checkup, during my weekly trim, Enrique, my Latino stylist, tossed in his two pesos.

“Maybe jew have dee crabs, non?” He had just finished trimming my goatee down to a hip, East village moustache. I scratched my belly through the vinyl blouse and replied, “Egads Enrique. Why do you say that?”

“Ah meen come on Meester Gayest Neil. With a moustache so sleazy you haf to haf zee crabs!” He was right. Little giggling Enrique had cut me one hell of a sleazy moustache, but the crabs were so 1997.

I was much younger and living in Washington D.C. Having never experienced our nation’s capital I was determined to go to a gay sex club, fuck the Smithsonian and fuck me! So I found a tawdry gay rag and flipping through the back came across an ad listing an “All Male Party” located not too far from where I was living. Scandal!

I went to the club, if you can call it that. It was someone’s filthy home with battered wood encased televisions in each of the rooms showing amateur porn while a variety of men (with sleazy moustaches) sat around jerking off. One moustache tried to fondle me, but I wouldn’t let it near me. Instead I demurely sat on a stained sofa and proceeded to catch a sleazy case of crabs while masturbating, alone.

If only my present vermin were goose mites creating a suburban sprawl on my stomach, then I’d have one hell of a story. Instead I’m stuck with run of the mill body lice with no porno sofa or diseased goose to show for it. Oh, and I have a nasty head cold.

Finally, at the drug store I emptied my blue basket and Patrice, my salesgirl, caught her breath as she scanned body lice ointment and an economy jug of NyQuil. She glanced at my sleazy moustache as I failed to discretely scratch myself. I caught her smirk as she slid my change to me.

Feeling judged, I resorted to what I do best. I lied. “These are for my dear children thank-you-very-much-madam!” Pouting, my moustache, my head cold, my body lice and me stormed away into the brisk October evening; lousy salesgirl.

Born Again

“You are warm. You are wet. You are safe.” Dr. DeAndrea, my regressive birth coach, recites her mantra over and over as I lay curled in a ball, naked and coated in Vaseline, on the floor of her regressive birth studio.

“Birth is a jarring, emotionally scarring experience. When we are thrust from the womb-tomb into the blinding light of the material world, we as adult-infants suffer psychological trauma far more severe than anything tossed at us on a daily basis.”

Dr. DeAndrea’s “Re-Birth Cleansing” has helped me come to terms with the horrors I experienced three decades ago when my very own mother unthinkingly expunged me from her/my uterus.

DeDe DeAndrea is a stern, stout lady in her late fifties. She’s a certified midwife and holds a doctorate in fine arts. I met DeDe at a writer’s conference in Salt Lake City, Utah. She was promoting her childbirth handbook “Crown… of Thorns!”

She held an open table discussion relating our phobias to our own subconscious birth trials. I discovered my own fear of deadlines is very likely due to the 28 hour labor I put my mother through thirty years ago. She is quick to point out however that my mother put me through the 28 hour labor, not vice versa. Little did I know there was so much more to discover.

Dr. DeAndrea always speaks in a demanding tone, even when whispering to you during the insemination phase of your regression as you roleplay a sperm and ovum meeting and creating the unique fetus-you.

“Swim little one. Your little tail is wagging. You see the cherished land. You see the egg. Swim and push. Push little one. Push with all your might! Ah…sanctuary.”

Her unique methodology is to then in subsequent visits recreate your gestation and eventually the birth experience at least once, sometimes two or three times. The multiple times are crucial because there are tiny details that often patients miss the first time down the canal.

“Only by delivering the subconscious memories of our traumatic birthday into the conscious reality can we attack our fears and successfully abort them.”

“You are warm. You are wet. You are safe.” It was my third time being born in Dr. DeAndrea’s studio. “You hear a woman’s voice in the darkness. He’s crowning doctor!”

I was prone on the floor and DeDe put a tight elastic band around the top of my wet head. The elastic was so tight it felt as though it were cutting through my scalp. She pulled the elastic down my face, over my throat. I was choking, then stretched it around my shoulders, arms, chest, waist, genitals, hips and finally my legs. She encouraged me to cry like an infant. And I did!

She splashed me with pig’s blood before dousing me with ice cold water to simulate my eruption into the world. “It’s a boy doctor!” She roughly grabbed my ankles and slapped me smartly on the buttocks. I cried in pain and euphoric tears flowed down my cheeks.

I suddenly remembered my obstetrician declared me a girl before noticing my tiny infant’s penis hidden behind the remains of my severed umbilicus.

Over coffee I sat with Dr. DeAndrea and we discussed the ramifications being labeled a girl could mean for me as an infant-adult. Although I likely didn’t know what “girl” meant only three seconds onto the planet, DeDe assures me that such a gender gaffe could influence everything from my sexual identity to what brand of cereal I eat in the morning. Being successfully regressed, I have even assisted her in a handful of re-birth cleansings where additional people were needed.

Owen is an obese young man in his early twenties. He’s bald and covered with pale flab. He looks much like an infant to this day. He feels his mother’s over eating during her expectancy is what led to his morbid obesity. Dr. DeAndrea agrees.

I met Owen as he lay on the floor of her studio. He was comfortably in his womb-tomb so I made certain not to make any sudden noises. He lay there like all of Dr. DeAndrea’s patients, naked and slicked with Vaseline, but as his problem dealt with his overeating he had a plastic hose leading from his suckling mouth to wide rimmed funnel in my hands. My job was simple, dumb jars of applesauce into the funnel until Owen couldn’t eat anymore. I had no idea my volunteering would be so hectic.

I simply couldn’t keep up with baby Owen’s ravenous appetite! Del Monte stock went up as I dumbed jar after jar of applesauce down into the twisting, vacuum tube. Owen grunted and suckled at the hose like a feral fetus.

“Is baby hungry? Is baby hungry? Is baby hungry?”

Dr. DeAndrea’s mantra intoned over and over. Owen would grunt yes and continue feeding at the applesauce trough as it slid down the chute and into his mouth, onto his face and all over the floor where he wallowed in greedy anticipation.

When the whole ordeal was done I was exhausted. Owen and Dr. DeAndrea retired to her viewing room to watch videotapes of the experience and discuss. I was left alone to mop the applesauce slicked floor.

I slid the mop across the wooden studio floor I caught a glimpse of myself in the shiny reflection. There I was, newly thirty, sporting a sleazy Tom Selleck moustache having just finished force feeding a naked fat man applesauce through a tube. I thought back on all the bizarre things I’ve done in my adult life. Did that tiny, gender gaffed baby have any idea such weird-o things would be part of his journey?

What a truly lucky kid.

I put away the mop and beneath Owen’s crying in the next room I quietly let myself out into the delightful traumas of the material world.

Fucking Elephant

I was at my favorite martini lounge, Reynard’s, enjoying a cocktail when a handsome man approached me. We made casual eye contact and he shyly complimented me on my shoes. I invited him to the barstool next to mine. He had a sophisticated aura and delicately sniffed and swished his Cabernet before accepting an entire glass. He was suave. He gave me his hand and introduced himself as “Karl”.

Karl wasn’t from these parts. He lived in Nebraska. I asked him, “Are you here for the convention.”

“Yes. I’m a Republican delegate.”

“Funny.” I replied. “I hate Republicans.” Karl laughed and ordered us another round. Karl had smoldering eyes and chose his words wisely. He said so much without saying anything at all.

“Are you also gay?”

“Yes.”

“How can you be so pompous and deceitful as to stab the gay community in the back?” I sparred.

“Why do you need to fuck in the streets, dress like women and beg America to accept you?” He suddenly returned.

And right there on the barstool at Reynard’s I fell in love with Karl. The humid August night was no match for the frigid, playful conversation. Within four hours I had called Karl a “Bastard” nineteen times and spilled two drinks. He had jokingly threatened to shoot me. (He carried a handgun when not at the convention. He was a member of the RNA and had his permits in his luggage.)

At the night’s end he picked up the entire bill and left exactly a 15% tip. Out of disgust, I left an extra one hundred dollar gratuity. He invited me to his hotel room and I accepted.

Our love making was as rough and loud as a donkey mounting an elephant. Nasty, phreaky sex. Karl sexed like his very life depended on it! He loved talking dirty. His careful intellectualism was replaced with the reckless vulgarity of a sailor. He would fly into one act of pleasure and five seconds later start kissing and pinching something else. A diabetic child with a chocolate box couldn’t have tried to consume so much so quickly. “Karl! Karl, Karl, Karl what are you doing?”

“Unngh more, more, more. Don’t stop pig fucker, oh don’t stop! Come on, I’m your bitch! Your nasty, spunk hungry whore, fuck, man slut. Now! Fuck, fuck NOW!!” Karl was out of control. He furiously dry-humped by back while I sat there holding my ears.

“Karl, stop it!” I slapped at him and he ceased. “Why are you acting like this?”

He rolled onto his belly and stared at me with those sincere, smoldering eyes. He paused before saying, “It’s my first time with such a handsome man.”

Oh my. I knew he was right. But there was something deeper he was hiding.

“Karl, is this your first time... ever…”

“Yes…”

Karl and I made love, and he didn’t talk. Our forbidden lust was replaced with a kind of delicate desire. Our souls entwined and I gave Karl a tremendous gift. I was his first. As I fell asleep in his arms I felt such pride. I had done good. Karl, suave, naive Republican, had felt the forbidden love of another man.

The next morning I woke up alone. Karl had checked out, stolen my wallet, my watch, my rings and had written on a note: Bush 4 More!!

Also, a nasty rash developed yesterday. Karl the virgin has given me an STD.

I hate Log Cabin Republicans! They are NOT to be fucking trusted. They are the bane of homosexuals. Oooh, I’m so angry, and so scratchy. Now don’t get me wrong. I didn’t always hate gay Republicans. For instance I’m certain Abraham Lincoln wouldn’t have lied to me. Abraham Lincoln was a gay Republican.

Yes he was gay! Most people didn’t know that for four years he shared a bed a fellow man, Joshua Fry Speed. Historical stuff says they “kissed and kissed” and Abe’s boyfriend likened him as a “school girl.” It’s all right HERE.

This morning, sitting in the free clinic, I daydreamed about our sixteenth president. Abraham Lincoln sounds like a romantic, a gentleman. He’s so tall. I bet he was really endowed. Abraham Lincoln would have held me that night and never let go. He would have turned his back on our maniacal president, instead of supporting him. Abraham Lincoln wouldn’t have given me an STD.

Abbie, as I would have called him, would have done the right thing. He’d have pulled a McGreevy and brought man-love into the public centuries ago. Forgotten during that little era called Reconstruction, gay marriage would have flourished.

I’d have been sitting there instead of Mary Todd. I would have seen Booth sneaking up behind my man and I would have karate chopped his hand, disarming him. Abe would have lived. Abraham Lincoln and I would be little old men sitting side by side in the Lincoln memorial. Congratulations Karl, you’ve absconded with my Louis Vuitton wallet and any lingering trust for gay Republicans. You also stole my heart. For that I will never forget you.

Gaysissi Neilicus

I ran today, and I wasn’t even chased. I ran under my own accord. I ran several blocks before slowing, short of breath. I strolled into a stagger then into an amble. Wheezing, my amble became a saunter which slid to mosey until falling into a toddle followed by a hunched, gasping stop.

I was a diagram illustrating the devolution of Man.

I prayed a line of volunteers would encourage me to push onward. Just punch through the exhaustion. My exertion rewarded with an ice-cold martini from the trays of cocktails held by the cheering mob. No such luck.

I jogged to the park near my apartment. A neon orange jungle gym sang with dangling children. I don’t know which was louder: the children, the paint or my panting. Two very young, black sisters played claps. Kneeling, I lowered myself to the highest bar and attempted a chin-up. I failed. They stopped clapping and stared at me with stunned silence.

Mother appeared by her daughters. Still I hung there, my flabby arms exposed to the family. She handed me the door key I’d dropped.

“You lost this.” Her tone was “get away from my children, weirdo”. I climbed up from my knees and a little Indian boy proceeded to perform fifty chin ups. He counted each one with an Olympic zeal. “Show off”, I thought.

Like a decathlete, I dashed from the park at top speed before ducking behind the bushes out of general view. I panted laboriously while hiding behind the shrubbery. I removed my t-shirt and moved from the vicinity of Hamilton Park until the telltale rhythmic clapping grew louder and closer. As loud as my thumping heart the little girl’s clapping was again upon me.

Around the corner were the two little girls, once again. Motionless, silent, they stared at me with those cautious eyes. Not to frighten them, I reassuringly gestured towards them, out of breath. The mother found me, yet again, wheezing, topless, skulking behind a bush grabbing for her little girls, and promptly dialed three numbers on her cell phone.

I ran this time with a little more motivation. At home I plowed through a box of cold Popeye’s chicken, three tortillas and a quart of chocolate milk. Crumbled Nutter-Butters over raspberry sorbet finished the pig-out. I justified the chicken as ok with my Atkins. The tortillas I didn’t cover with cheese. The chocolate milk at least wasn’t Coca-Cola, and the cookies were crumbled over fat-free sorbet. Anyways, I “worked out” tonight.

How lucky the ancient Romans had it when eating disorders were cosmopolitan. Stuffed, I could have lounged in my luxurious vomitorium. Ticking my gizzard with an exotic peacock feather, I’d expunge my body of the ill-humoured ingestion. I’d retire to my gladiator pit where strapping warriors would massage one another in olive oil before flexing for my amusement.

Lucky Ancient Romans, those hunky men. I could have a body like that if only I pushed myself. Narcissism is a better motivator than even 911.

Drastic steps must be taken. I’ve decided to start playing rugby. Oh sure, I know nothing about the game. I’ve never really enjoyed contact sports, but I relate to the adrenaline fueled macho passion that only barreling into a mound of screaming brutes can satiate. Fear of cauliflower ears, torn ligaments, black eyes, broken fingers, shattered knees all feed my rugby/gladiator/fight club anticipation. I’m a man and I need the full body contact of a rough and tumble English blood sport where my only padding is a chewed up mouthguard.

Also the men on the gay rugby league are really, really, really hot. So macho fulfillment, really sexy blokes and with strenuous hard work and sacrifice I’ll get into shape, the choice seems simple, right?

Roman Philosopher Cicereo detailed in 41 BC, “Lost in fantasy, the eccentric Roman Senator Gaysissi Neilicus relaxed in his vomitorium. He imagined a road divided and saw images before him. In one an obese monstrosity cheerfully devoured oriental food, in the other a muscular Adonis flexed his muscles. The first path was delightful sloth. The second path represented beauty and health gained through hard work. Gaysissi Neilicus chose the first path and sent his messenger out for peacock feathers.”

Puzzling Friendship

Puzzle-master, Will Shortz, was on NPR Sunday morning quizzing this inept New Jersey woman about Beatles’ song titles. The Jersey broad was stumped, she didn’t know “Ob-La-Di, Ob-La-Da”, from “Eleanor Rigby”. Mr. Shortz passively mocked her ignorance and shoved his didactic dagger deeper, letting her final on-air puzzle cover a harder more eclectic subject: zoo animals. His Machiavellian scheme had an unplanned effect however, as it didn’t humble the poor lady, only proved how very, very stupid she was.

You don’t deserve refined society if you can’t guess a zoo animal
that starts with “o”.

Call me elitist; do I care? It’s one thing to puzzle, it’s an absolute abomination to puzzle poorly. As a child I was an ardent reader of Games Magazine. My well-read readers - not you poseurs who browse my column for celebrity gossip - know that Games Magazine is the place for puzzles and queries of all sorts: Picture Puzzles, Word Games, Fill In The ____’s and more!

I once so loved puzzles. That was before Mrs. Ramona Kringlsy.

Every month Games Magazine would arrive at my childhood home. I’d sort through piles of brown wrapped journals to find it hidden at the bottom of our post box. I’d dash to my room and spend hours completing the entire magazine. I’d start from the front puzzle and work to the rear, answering everyone along the way. I entered dozens of national puzzles with the childhood dream of winning a Games Magazine limited edition logo tote bag. Sadly, the tote bag never arrived. No brainteaser status symbol to carry my G.I. Joe Trapper Keeper.

Happily my spirits were raised in sixth grade when Games Magazine hosted Find a Pen- Puzzle-Pal. You would send a letter about yourself and a sample puzzle, and the puzzle experts at Games Magazine, maybe Will Shortz, would match you to a Pen-Puzzle-Pal of similar interests and puzzle proficiency.

I don’t know what I was thinking. Nowadays if I wanted to trade letters and play mind games, I’d date online, but at the time, I desperately needed validation of my acumen:

Dear Games Magazine,

Greetings Games Magazine! I’m Gay Neil. I’m twelve years old and I LOVE Puzzle. Please review my puzzle and pair me with a perfect pal! Thank you Games Magazine!

My puzzle: Billy and Eric both live in Chelsea, New York. Billy notices Eric at the club and thinks Eric is a hottie. Sizzling hot! But Eric doesn’t own his own condo. He rents his. Tres gauche! Billy’s boyfriend (some say sugar-daddy), Guy, wanting to appease Billy’s ravenous sexual appetite, invites Eric over for a hot three-way. They fuck in the rooftop jacuzzi. It was Eric’s first time as bottom and he absolutely loved it! Unbeknownst to Guy, his fag-hag Margarite, works at the same Banana Republic with Eric. She also buys cocaine from him! Will sugar-daddy Guy end up buying home wrecker Eric his condo?

You can see I was a very metropolitan sixth grader. Well in two weeks I got my first Pen-Puzzle-Pal envelope from a Mrs. Ramona Kringsly in Pattuski, Wisconsin. She addressed me as Mr. Gay Neil, and used Renaissance artist stamps. Inside was a meticulously scripted letter:

Dear Mr. Gay Neil,

I’m so alone. My husband of sixty-two years, my cherished Ernie died 23 years ago, this week. An utter stranger shot him in the face. They never found who did it. It was such a traumatic injury we had to hold a closed casket funeral. But, I had to see my cherished Ernie one last time. I asked the coroner to see him. His face looked like ground beef. I can’t remember what my cherished Ernie really looked like. I see him dead in my dreams every night.

My two children, Rebecca and Jules, refuse to speak to me. I haven’t heard from my darling Jules in sixteen years. Rebecca hasn’t called for nineteen. I don’t go outside. A lady comes in and cleans on Thursdays. I think she’s a black lady. I have crippling arthritis and at times life seems too hard to bear.

Yours respectably, Mrs. Ramona Kringsly

Mrs. Kringsly and I shared a Pen-Puzzle-Pal friendship for close to 7 months. I continued to write puzzles and she continued to rehash her drama. I simply couldn’t bear witness to her misery any further:

Dearest Ramona,

I simply can’t bear witness to your misery any further. I am here to play puzzler not psychiatrist!

A puzzle: An old lady has one friend who writes her wonderful puzzles, but she refuses to answer them. When her only friend ceases to acknowledge her, how many days will it take for her to kill herself?

Love and kisses, Gay Neil

Well, the final letter I received from Ramona featured the flags of Africa as the stamp. It was a short letter:

Dear Mr. Gay Neil.

By the time you read this letter, I am already dead.

Kindest Regards, Mrs. Ramona Kringsly.

Indeed, Ramona was dead. Her horrible children tried to sue me for causing her suicide with my macabre letter. I was found innocent as the letter in question referred to an unnamed lady, not Ramona directly.

Fuck you Will Shortz! I should be the puzzle-master!

Today, I rarely do puzzles. The whole incident soured the taste the sweet anagrams once left in my mouth. Nonetheless, I still expect quality ability from those who call themselves puzzlers. It’s why I’ve emailed NPR for the ignorant zoo lady’s address in New Jersey. I have a new Pen-Puzzle-Pal in mind.

Summer Slacks

My brain needs a summer makeover! It’s 86 degrees outside yet I’m still wearing corduroy slacks and a turtleneck down to the coffee shop. Why do I so cling to the winter? Like a nut frozen in the snow, slowly thawing in the light of the creeping summer. Only summer has already crept and the nut is burnt.

Nonetheless, I refuse to feel the warmth. My friends, the trees stripped bare, their skeletal limbs shivering in the frozen wind, now dance adorned with gaudy emerald leaves and flamboyant birds merrily chirping in the sun. Children in sandals and shorts wield water guns and the weapons of summer (so long as you’re not in Iraq. Children carry more significant pistols there).

Summer means exposing your skin, taking off your hat, kicking back with a Dos Equis and falling asleep in a beach chair on a sweltering afternoon. I don’t find any of that pleasing. Summer makes me sticky in hard to reach places.

While suffering the summer sun on a park bench in Parma, I couldn’t help but notice a swarthy gang of Italian men playing soccer. They sweated in the sun, their hairy pectorals glistening beneath their natural fur vests. They screamed joyously, “Goaaalll!!” and my study-abroad hormones moaned as the game ended. The players began toweling themselves off.

One youth took a seat near me on the grass and began making eyes in my direction. He was a meaty lad. Dark eyes, cappuccino colored skin, tussled hair. He made eyes at me and I couldn’t help but make eyes back.

“Gaydar activated. We have a positive reading, Captain.”

Holy Moses, I was being cruised by an Italian soccer player! I told myself to play it cool. How exactly do I go from being sweaty and annoyed on a summer afternoon to making hot love with a swarthy Italian?

OH, THE OBSTACLES IN THIS TREACHOROUS LIFE I LEAD!

Well, we made eyes for several minutes until the young man sidled over next to me. He only spoke Italian and I English. Our linguistic abilities foiled, I turned to my drawing pad and attempted to converse as a caveman: drawing.

Oh, the drawings I drew! Simplistic in their design and meaning. We were determined to make out. Thinking back on the tryst, I can’t believe I was ever so spontaneous. Nowadays, I reconsider everything to great length: from dating to ordering take-out. Who was this summer bunny making out with a complete stranger in a public park in Italy, after having never said a single word to him? only having drawn two mustached mouths and spittle drops.

Oh, how summer once drew me into her golden grasp! It’s awfully bright outside. Perhaps I will peel off the turtleneck and put on my sandals. I’ll tip toe to the corner store for a Mountain Dew. Perhaps I should check the terror alert and make certain we’re safe today. Are we ever safe from gun-toting Iraqi children?

Perhaps I’ll order sushi and request Mountain Dew along with. Perhaps I’ll order Italian… Come this winter I’ll sit in my apartment and lament the cold and snow. I’ll imagine sitting on a park bench French kissing an Italian stranger on a hot summer’s day.

Locks of Love

Enrique, my stylist, has a severe cocaine problem. I know because he constantly tweaks and rubs his nose. Also, he disappears to the bathroom every five seconds, leaving me there exposed in his torture chair with (God-forbid) my mid-coif melon exposed to the world.

I honestly do not know why I spend thousands of dollars on hair styling, scalp massage, eyebrow waxing, coloring and organic avocuava facials only so this little Puerto Rican princess can snort my cash up his goddamned nose!

You’re asking what’s avocuava, aren’t you? Well, one afternoon, little Enrique comes flitting back to the chair as chatty as a chihuahua, “Oh Meester Gayest Neil. In my island country of Puerto Rico my grand mami-Gorda teach me a wahnderful facial scrup made from exotic guava and wahnderful avocado. You like to try, si?”

“Stop snorting and start scrubbing!” I declared. That little Mexican mixed an amazing facial scrub. What? Puerto Rico? Oh, for fuck’s sake. Brown is Black is White is Red. Puerto Rico? Mexico? Canada? Holland? China? We’re all global citizens. We’re the world’s children. Back to my story, I asked Enrique what he calls his facial scrub and he replied, “This is my Mami Gorda’s Guava and Avocado Facial Scrub.”

I CAN’T FIT A CHIMICHANGA IN MY MOUTH... MUCH LESS THAT!

“You’ll never sell it with a name that long, my dear. You need something catchy. You need something fresh. Let’s see. I GOT IT! Avocuava. Call it Avocuava Facial Scrub.”

“But Meester Gayest Neil? What of me grand-Mami Gorda?”

“You love her but drop her, Enrique. Your scrub needs something nouveau, something the hipsters will snag right up. And slap ‘organic’ on that name! Organic sells.”

And right there, Enrique’s Organic Avocuava Facial Scrub was born. Bless little Enrique’s heart. The little fucker cannot say the word avocuava, but he sells the shit out of it.

Enough discussion of Enrique’s business acumen. This morning he still hadn’t returned from the bathroom.

“Enrique!” I screamed once, twice, three times and finally he comes spinning into the room. And he’s been crying.

“Oh Meester Gayest Neil. I do not know English to say theese.” He begins crying again. “But my dear seester and my in-law brother and my bambino nephew Enrique Junior were in a cahr crash and have died!!” At this point Enrique collapsed into a heap on the floor.

I didn’t know what to do. My haircut wasn’t finished. Should I get up? Should I say something? Well, he continued to wail on the floor and after what must have been ten minutes of this awkwardness, I finally left the chair, took the plastic sheet off and moved towards poor, sobbing Enrique.

His face was contorted in an expression of grief, anger and bewilderment. I carefully reached out to him. His shaking hand stretched towards mine.

“Enrique, you didn’t finish my hair, but I’ll pay you anyways. And here’s an extra something.” I slipped him cash for my haircut and stood. He dropped the money and convulsed, wailing louder than before.

“Now don’t you get used to those big tips!” I joked, but he only cried more profusely. I quietly showed myself out and, a newspaper over my head, made my way to the nearest Great Clips where a barbarian maiden with the nametag “Jackie” mangled my head and nearly cut my ear off. The entire time, I couldn’t get Enrique out of my mind.

On the walk home, I held my head high. I imagined Enrique’s pain. I related on some level as my shorn locks were much like Enrique’s dead family. I too had experienced loss. What if his sister had spent a little more time pounding homemade tortillas or little Enrique Junior had spent a little more time writing back to his Christian Children’s Fund sponsor here in America? Fate too crippled my stylist, which in turn sent me to Great Clips. Who knows what happened to “Jackie”.

It’s the butterfly effect. Ah…maybe butterflect? Fectutter?

Regardless, Enrique Santiago Martinez is in my thoughts tonight. This afternoon, when I returned to my 2800-square foot loft in Chelsea, I opened the salon window. It was magic hour; the golden sunlight was shining in a beautiful shaft cutting through a cloud.

I drew my hand back through my shorn scalp, brought it in front of me and blew towards the sunshine. A shimmering cloud of miniscule shaved hairs sparkled like pixies, floated and danced to the street below. I squinted into the light. I saw Enrique’s family.

And they were safe.

Beantown Queen

Hello delegates, respected politicians and fellow Democrats! It is my honor speaking here at the 2004 Democratic National Convention. On behalf of all gay, lesbian, bisexual, transgendered, and pre-opt transgendered Americans, I want to thank you for having me, Gayest Neil, here as our national representative. And thank you, Boston!

I love your baked beans, tea parties and those beautiful Irish boys.

Sure, he’ll let you suck him off behind the trashcans, but don’t say you love him or he’ll punch you in the larynx. Boston’s kind of like that: “Come spend your money, but we’re locking you freaks behind razor wire.”

When I stepped out of my limo, I noticed the snipers on the rooftop. I turned to Deidre, my volunteer contact and asked, “What are those dreadful guns there for? I’m faint of bullets.”

Fast as a firecracker she replied “They’re tranquilizer darts, sir. Just in case Ted Kennedy takes to the streets after Happy Hour.”

Isn’t she wonderful? Applause for Deidre. Teddy, you lush, I’m just ribbing you! Jello-shots, my suite, 2:00am? Perfect!

And isn’t that what this whole damned affair is about? People of different religions, backgrounds and colors: a rainbow tray of green, blue, red, yellow, pink jello-shots. We’re all wobbling side by side in this great big country.

Sure, the vast moderate Democrats can’t understand a word I’m saying right now. They only see me waving my hands and wearing a woman’s hat. They wish the gays would just shut up and stop weighing down the party, stop scaring away the moderate Republicans.

YOU NEED OUR VOTES

We gays wish you Democrats would accept our lifestyle. We’re supporting a political party that’s not going to give us equal rights! In fact, you are openly committed against giving us the right to marry, simply even giving us the word “married”. We’ll be secondary citizens under you! Yet we accept it.

When I was a little boy, my grandfather told me a Southern bedtime story about a little country mouse. She was out gathering food for her little baby mice: soft corn, sweet berries and crunchy pecans. Suddenly she heard a rattler shaking his tail. She ran away but saw a red-tailed hawk blocking her way. Either die a fast death by venomous fangs or get ripped to bloody shreds by red-hawk talons?

Well, she chose the rattler and as the poison killed her she thought about her babies starving to death. I had nightmares for six months.

That’s the situation we gays are in. Shot in the knee or the head? But ours is a symbiotic relationship, because the alternative is a political agenda neither of us, the Democrats or the Gays, could live with. But we’re not here to vilify the villains. We’re here to celebrate our heroes. Ladies and gentlemen, let’s here it for Barbara Streisand! Oh Babs, you are one Liberal, crazy yenta. Garcon, turn down the lights and cue the music… thank you…

People,
People who need people,
Are the luckiest people in the world
We're children, needing other children
And yet letting a grown-up pride
Hide all the need inside
Acting more like children than children
Lovers are very special people
They're the luckiest people in the world
With one person one very special person
A feeling deep in your soul
Says you were half now you're whole
No more hunger and thirst
But first be a person who needs people
People who need people
Are the luckiest people in the world
With one person one very special person
No more hunger and thirst
But first be a person who needs people
People who need people
Are the luckiest people in the world...

Thank you everyone. Oh stop! We are the luckiest people in the world because that very special person is John Kerry.

He may not be as pretty as John Edwards or as lefty as Howard Dean. Madonna didn’t support him like she did Wesley Clark. And he’s not as kick-ass as Hillary Clinton. Oops, my mistake. (Hillary didn’t run this year. Too bad sugar, you missed your window.)

He’s a little bit of each of those Jello-shots churned together. Texas Lone Star. Georgia Peach Schnapps. California Cabernet. Wisconsin Pabst Blue Ribbon. He’s all of America and he makes us all feel damn good. Maybe a little too much of a good thing makes us sick. We might blackout and wake up with a headache, but moderation is key, be it alcoholism or politics - usually both.

As a gay man second and an American first, I, Gayest Neil support John Kerry as President of the United States. And I know queer America feels the same. Garcon?

People,
People who need people,
Are the luckiest people in the world...

Thank you and goodnight Boston!

Ascot Peril

Gayest Neil said he would rework a plan for a $25 billion reserve fashion fund after a bipartisan coalition of senators on Thursday deplored it as an effort to get "a blank check" without congressional oversight into his funky, sometimes irreverent wardrobe.

In a frequently testy hearing, even reliable Democratic allies balked at Gayest Neil's unusual proposal to let him allocate the money to help finance vintage hats and "those cool shoulder things...you know, with the red flowers" for the coming months without the approval of Congress.

"Our forefathers would have scorned such arrogance as has been demonstrated by this request," said Sen. Robert Byrd, a West Virginia Democrat. "I'm going to support this $25 billion, but we're going to put limitations on it.."

Democratic presidential hopeful John Kerry, a Massachusetts senator, said in a statement he would back the additional money despite voting against a previous supplemental bill for Gayest Neil. "The situation with his fashion has deteriorated far beyond what the administration or Friday night's patron's at Chi-Chi's Drag Cabaret had anticipated. The money is urgently needed. Gayest Neil deserves a new pair of shoes!" Added Kerry, "Chunky platform shoes."

Gayest Neil late on Wednesday sent Congress his formal request for the $25 billion fund. He says he needs the moneys until Congress acts on a larger supplemental bill next year.

BIGGER BILL EXPECTED

An anonymous Washington outsider said the emergency bill "will certainly be much larger than $25 billion," which would push the cost next year well above the $50 billion originally projected for Neil's sinful living and disposable income.

Under his plan, the reserve funds could be shifted among accounts without congressional approval, which lawmakers said would give Gayest Neil complete control over the money, cutting Congress out of its constitutional role of overseeing National Queer Expenditures (NQE).

The Senate will debate the issue next week when it takes up a $422 billion bill for Gayest Neil's tragic Amsterdam trip last winter.

Congress has so far sent Gayest Neil about $160 billion for turquoise jewelry and a lavish e-bay shopping spree for Madonna and Barbara Streisand memorabilia.

Until last week when he suddenly asked for the additional $25 billion, Gayest Neil had insisted he would not seek more money for fashion until next year, which would have put off debate on the issue until after early June's Gay Pride Parade.

"If those old men think I'm not gonna have a new outfit for Pride they are ignorant."

Added Gayest Neil, "They bitched and bitched about all this legal stuff and about running out of money for schools and paving highways, blah blah blah. Well guess what? I don't drive. I don't have kids! Mercy, I couldn't believe how dykey Hillary is looking these days. Wear some pastels girlfriend!"

With Gayest Neil putting the monthly cost of hair plugs and indoor tanning at nearly $5 billion, Democrats questioned why the gay did not simply ask for a full supplemental spending bill instead of the reserve fund.

"There is no reason not to be direct on this issue and to acknowledge what the costs are of such beauty," said Sweet Cherry Sucret, Gayest Neil's favorite drag queen and press spokeswoman. "This is the very definition of a blank check. What? Oh shit I done fucked up. I mean, this is the very definition of controlled, responsible spending."

Gayest Neil responded, "Whatever, I'll see what I can rework. It's not like I'm spending it all on me. I'd probably buy stuff for the guys I sleep with too."

Ain't the Marryin' Type

Excellent! The first line of my new column begins with a catchy title. Rule #1 of great writing: humor columns should always catch the reader with a startling title or, even better, a catch phrase. Perhaps I'll start these mother-fuckers with 'HEEEEEEY GURL!' or 'THE BITCH IS BACK!' or 'THREE SNAPS FOR SELF-DERISION!'

Capital letters work well too.

Fink didn't give me any instructions regarding this bullshit assignment, other than "Type what you want and I'll post it." I guess having a homosexual around gives this website some liberal credibility.

Now he needs a black man, a jew and a cripple. Well, shit don't matter where it goes. What matters is where that shit ends up. I only hope this fucking free ride ends with some massive tragedy.

Perhaps I'll find myself, three years from now, the ripe old age of 32, not really trying too hard to overcome my nasty addiction to prescription diet pills and Nyquil, on the dirty, pee stained floor of some highway rest stop in Any-Shithole-town, USA. I'll throw my hands to heavens and I'll scream, "Why??! DEAR GOD, WHY!??!?!"

Fuckin' God.

I'll shove my head in the crusted, stinking toilet bowl, churl my entire breakfast of two grilled cheese sandwiches, greasy pork rinds and five Jack and Cokes, daintily wipe any remaining bits and stagger, (with dignity), to my '97 Volvo, crank that bitch up and make my way to the next Barnes and Noble at the Mall of Any-Shit-Hole-Town, USA for my very own National Fink Tank Collected Essays book signing tour, of which I'll see no goddamned royalties!

"Thanks for nothing Fink, you greedy bastard!!"

At the mall, following a depressing Starbuck's coffee klatch with the scariest gay people on the planet: Midwestern gay people. The kind of fucking queers who actually buy the overpriced, forehead moisturizer as seen on 'Queer Eye'. The kind of disconnected fags who live in a cornfield and consider themselves 'urban', 'hip', 'chic' and 'fabulous'. I hate the word fabulous.

A grossly obese person will slump to my book signing table and gush, "Oh Gayest Neil, your wit and self-hatred made me realize how fabulous my life really is!" I'll glare at him, smile, peel the whitening strip from my chompers and press it into his moisturized forehead.

"Yeah, you are fabulous."

The following morning my bloated body will be found, having perished from carbon monoxide poisoning in the mall's basement garage. Stiff and stinking, with my weenie exposed, having died masturbating to 'Daddy Magazine' and a half eaten Big Mac. My fans will never know which I found the more erotic.

It's a suitable demise, but a girl can only dream.

So my prophecy foretold, the first thing I want to get straight: Apart from my sometimes ironic self-disgust, I am not homophobic and although Fink tells me he hates anyone who puts things up their asses, I believe deep down inside (or rather deep up inside) that he's not homophobic either.

I'm a champion for my people, however much I tend to dismiss and belly ache about them. In the following weeks you'll come to taste a salty, milky, egg-white gulp of what it's like to be a gay man living in these here United States of America, equal and protected by God for life, liberty and the pursuit of horniness. A gay man told by both societies to conform or get out, but refuses to do either!

I'm a gay man on the brink of 30, marching towards the age when gay men start wearing ascots, tossing martinis and guest starring on the 'Match Game'. A gay man with little regard for stupid people, other than my friend, Fink. A gay man with big regard for porn, much like Fink. A man like you, only he's gay! You want a queer catch phrase America?

How's about "Ain't the Marryin' Type!"?