Anonymous Cabbie

Cab drivers should be quiet. I have enough trouble making small talk with the people I’m forced to talk to, I don’t want to waste my energy on people I can avoid talking to. Some cab drivers keep quiet. But this morning I ran into the most annoying, chatty cab driver in human history.

But first some background. I’ve been working 50-60 hours per week for 2 months. My allergies kicked in 3 weeks ago, and I wake up every morning with my breathing passages fully blocked and my eyes raw to the point of bleeding. I’m fat, I’m tired, and I’ve been drinking way too much. Shockingly, I seem to have developed gallstones. For the uninitiated, those are little rocks in your gall bladder, which is attached to (you guessed it) your liver. Apparently they can live quite happily in the gall bladder, but occasionally one decides to take a trip down the bile duct and into your digestive tract. This feels like someone sticking piece of rough, rusty rebar into your right side, and wiggling it vigorously. For 3 to 7 days straight. This happened to me the beginning of February for the first time. It was agony like nothing I had ever experienced. It came back on Wednesday, and this time was even worse.

This morning, I had an appointment for an ultrasound. Hopefully they would diagnose gallstones, give me a shot of whiskey (for the pain, you see), and then thankfully rip the gall bladder out of my body using whatever instrument came to hand. I was willing to beg them for this. I was not in a good mood.

My appointment was for 7:30 am. Meaning I got up at 6:30 am and immediately took the magic pills that make the pain retreat to just the other side of the room. Then, because the pills take 30 minutes to work and I was running late, I showered and got dressed. In so much pain that I was sweating, dizzy, and breathing shallowly. Plus, the jeans I wanted weren’t clean, I was low on cash for the taxi, and I was ashamed to wake up Carlos and make him tie my shoes (I’m not kidding). I was not a happy camper.

I ordered a cab, and it was waiting when I got downstairs. I breathed a silent prayer of thanks for that one little blessing, and maneuvered my pain-wracked body into the backseat. I told the drive where to take me. And he started talking.

I don’t know where Anonymous Cabbie was from, but he had that annoying, affected Yale drawl used by people like Bill Buckley (William F. Buckley, Jr., the founder of National Review) use to show they went to Yale. Or in this guy’s case, to pretend that they went to Yale. If you're not familiar with Bill, he’s smart: he can use the word “hendecasyllabic” in casual conversation to describe his casual conversation. He may have a pretentious accent and an elitist vocabulary, but he’s got the intellect to back them up. Anonymous Cabbie did not. Anonymous Cabbie was Bill Buckley’s younger, 100 I.Q. brother. The two things Anonymous Cabbie had going for him were his Yalie drawl and his apparently inability to stop talking. And I didn’t find either one charming.

Anonymous Cabbie talked about the weather. The hospitals. How he’d been saying for years they should tear down these old building and put up new ones. I heard about how “Father” knew everyone, “Father” couldn’t get in or out of church or walk down the street without engaging in a couple dozen conversations. “He didn’t have a rolodex, you see,” Anonymous Cabbie said, “but Father certainly knew EVERYONE. I kid you not.”

In the meantime, his driving would have frightened Dale Earnhardt, even before he hit the wall. I sat in the back of that cab for 20 of the longest blocks of my life, listening to that idiot prattle on while I clung to whatever was handy to keep my oh-so-tender side from being slammed into the doorhandle. I wanted to suffer in silence. I didn’t want to hear him prattle. I didn't care who "Father" knew or didn't know, in fact I would have happily throttled them all. I just wanted blissful quiet so I could sit as still as possible and try not to feel the pain. Never in my adult life have I so wished I could just die.

Finally, it was over. I handed him my debit card (remember, I was low on cash) and he said “Oh, well I’ll have to get out my supplies.” And then he went on, at length, how he had to be careful to punch in the right number into the computer and how they didn’t make imprinters like they used to. And it’s a good thing, because right then I was ready for a good old fashioned murder-suicide by imprinter. If he’d had one of the old metal ones, I would have hit him upside the head and dashed all 100 of his I.Q. points right out his left ear.

After the ultrasound, the nurse asked if I’d driven. “No,” I said, “I can’t drive on my pain medication.”

“Oh, that’s good,” she said. “Can I call you a cab?”

I went pale and said, “I think I’ll take the bus.”

"This blog sucks!" --Carl Reiner

The weekend was oddly uneventful, so I have just a few tidbits for you to consider:

*Matty, Paul, and Curtis continued their sex tour of LA Saturday and Sunday. Whatever they did Saturday night left the three of them incommunicado until noon on Monday. I heard rumblings (ok, got texts from Paul) about getting a street hustler for Curtis’s Birthday. All I can say is I’m sure a good time was had by all, now bring on the antibiotics!

*Timmy just discovered the blog. He commented that he has pics of Motorbike Mike’s cup from the spaghetti feed last Sunday, so I’ll try to get those posted. Apparently my promotional efforts haven’t been working; he just checked it out despite 8 months of emails. Maybe I’ll have some bumper stickers made up.

*Last night, after a bruising day of drinking with the Mexican Mafia, I went to Timberline. And there I danced with Brian Trouble, bumped into half the tricks I’ve every slept with, and ran into my supervisor (with her husband) in a short black skirt and a leather coat dancing to Push It (Push it Real Good). It was the most random night I’ve ever had at Timberline, and that’s saying something. The upside was I had forgotten how cute some of those boys from my past were. It’s a good thing Carlos doesn’t ever read these entries.

*Also at Timberline last night: Mike Meola and Ben were out together, and most assuredly not getting ready to sleep with each other. Ben was busy living up to his nickname, Bento, by hitting on this buff, beefy quasi-Asian guy. And Mike was just staggering around, pretending that in the morning he’d be able to remember who to deny sleeping with.

* I’ve found my new favorite website, www.savetoby.com. You’ve probably seen it, it’s about a cute little rabbit named Toby. And Toby is going to be dinner unless people donate $50K to Toby’s owner by June 30. It may be cheesy, but the guy has accumulated $18K. During one 24 hour period, he made $1400. I’m going to adapt the concept, only it will be killpaul.com. When I receive $100K in donations I will get Seth and Paul in a room, and on a live webcast tell Seth what Paul has been saying about him. Donate early, donate often!

*JPK’s blog seems to be defunct. His last entry, dated two weeks ago, just says that he’ll be back. Someone left a comment reading: “This blog sucks!” It's signed, oddly, Carl Reiner. Well that was one of the blog's charms, and now it seems to have followed Jason into oblivion. At least it gave me a good title for this entry.

And that’s it. I’ll try to have some adventures tonight, or remember some part of the weekend that’s fun and interesting. Until then, go donate to save Toby!

The Phone, the Met, and Matty's Sex Tour of LA

The phone is back! Apparently it fell out of my pocket in Joey’s car Thursday night on the way from Changes to R Place. He found it Friday after work. I barely remembered being in Joey’s car, but I’m eternally in his debt for finding it. I went and picked it up last night and feel whole again.

And here’s how my Friday night went: I knocked off work at 5 pm and met up with the newbies from work at the Metropolitan Grill. Predictably it was packed, but we managed to grab a table and got to know each other over a couple of rounds. After the newbies left to go home, I moved over to the bar where I had a heated discussion with a co-worker and his friend about politics. My two beers turned into 5, and my departure from 7 pm until 9 pm. Yes, I sat at the Met for 4 hours drinking beer and arguing about President Bush. But on the upside, I got a great job lead for Carlos.

When I got home, Carlitos was watching Amor Real and eating Chinese takeout. Woodsy was on the phone in the livingroom, and told me Joey had found my phone. So I explained to Carlos I had to get it, then ran up to Wallingford to pick up the phone. And since I was in the neighborhood, stopped in at Changes for a quick beer with Seth. Seth graciously bought me a shot of Tuaca, but I just couldn't drink it. After my beer I had a couple of waters, and then said my good-byes and left him chatting with the regulars. Robert was there with his SMOKIN' boyfriend, but he's having a spat with Seth, so they kept their distance.

Meanwhile, Matty’s sex tour of LA continues. Thursday night he went to a Chi Chi LaRue's private party at the Abbey. Apparently, it was full of porn stars wearing baggy jeans that were falling off their asses. And since that didn't get them enough attention, they were flashing their junk to anyone who would look. Paul flew down for the event, and was in abosolute heaven. Matty was happy because Blake from Manhunt was bartending shirtless. And he was speedy. At making drinks.

Then last night, after I got home and was sleeping the sleep of the innocent, I got a text from Matty saying, “I’m going to a bath house.” The sex tour of LA continues, I can’t wait to hear about this.

The Loser

James wants to know why he gets so messy. He said he feels like a loser. I can relate. Last night I met up with Freddy Lou and Woodsy at Rock Bottom for the Bachelor Fireman Auction, benefiting the Washington Burn Foundation. It was also the night Rock Bottom was introducing a new beer, Fire Chief Ale. Alas, the firemen cancelled. Which was just as well, it would be hard to explain to Carlitos that I’d paid money to have a date with a hunky young fireman. But the good news was that they gave away free pints of the beer. It was ok beer, but being free made it taste great. Woodsy, Freddy Lou and I pined away for the firemen over free beer, and then headed up to Changes.

Freddy took his donor-cycle, and Woodsy and I resolved to take the bus. We started walking down to 3rd to catch the 16 to Wallingford when a cab went by. That’s all it took, I waved him down and we split the fare. It was much better than the bus.

At this point I had 3 strong beers under my belt and had only eaten a small lunch. No breakfast. As a rule I don’t skip meals, so I was starving at Rock Bottom. Until I got that third beer in me, then the hunger retreated to the back of my mind and I just wanted to drink. Not a good sign.

Seth was at work, and Jeff was there for his birthday with his boyfriend, Gaysian Jeff. It was also trivia night at Changes, so we had plenty to keep us busy. Woodsy and I won a round of trivia, good for $24, and we met a random guy who did a tarot reading for each of us. Mine was chillingly accurate.

Since it was Jeff’s birthday, we had to do shots. Plenty of shots. And in between, Seth kept my beer glass full. I had been planning to get some food at some point in the evening, but by the time we did a third round of Tuaca shots, I had forgotten about food. In fact, I had forgotten about everything. I ended up staggering around Changes talking to people randomly and slamming beers like there was no tomorrow. And while I was staggering around, apparently I set down my phone somewhere and forgot it.

At some point, and I couldn’t tell you when, Joey and Woodsy and Ben and I all piled into Joey’s car, and went to R Place. I was there long enough to stagger upstairs and survey the crowd before I stumbled back downstairs and headed home to Carlitos. Amazingly, I’m not hungover today, but I’m really missing my phone.

A Cautionary Tale

Here’s a cautionary tale we would all do well to heed. It involves a friend of mine who lives in New York City, someone that we’ll call “Pomeida.” The night in question would be a Wednesday. And the generalities could happen to any of us, but the particulars are Pomeida’s alone.

Wednesday night, as usual, Pomeida went to the gym after work. He hurried through his routine, then rushed home to change so he would be on time for the Young Professional’s Networking Event at Splash. It’s a good place to meet cute guys, and they always have an open bar. Pomeida had had a busy day, so he’d missed lunch. Unfortunately, by the time he decided which tight t-shirt to wear, he was running late. He skipped dinner and headed right to Splash.

The best thing about the networking event was the open bar. Pomeida took thorough advantage of the free vodka-sodas while he did a couple of loops looking for pretty faces. Deciding it was hopeless, he started calling friends. Turns out a couple of them were at Phoenix for $1 beer night. Dollar beers and proximity to NYU means lots of cute college boys. Pomeida pounded a final couple of vodka-sodas and cabbed over to Phoenix.

Phoenix was packed. The boys were cute. Pomeida’s friends Kenny and Toby were there, and feeling no pain. Without a second though Pomeida switched over to $1 beers, thinking “liquor before beer, you’re in the clear.” Even when the beer in question was skunky Pabst. Pomeida hung his shirt off his belt and went out to dance with the cute college boys. He continued to double-fist cheap Pabst. The boys got cuter as Pomeida got drunker.

It’s at this point that things became fuzzy for Pomeida. He was grinding on some 19 year old with a good fake and a bad GPA when Toby came over to chat. “Let’s go to the Cock,” Toby said. The Cock is a raunchy leather bar, and it’s Toby’s favorite spot in New York. Pomeida doesn’t go to the Cock very often, but tonight it sounded like a great idea. He gave the 19 year old a deep kiss and slipped him his number, then grabbed a cab with Toby and Kenny and headed for the Cock.

The Cock was rockin’. Pomeida wasn’t sure what time it was (he’d left his watch at home) but it was late and the boys were having fun. Toby disappeared into the backroom, and Kenny settled down on a barstool. Pomeida shed his shirt and coat and left them with Kenny while he grabbed a drink and went to make the rounds. The boys at the Cock were cute and very friendly, and it took him quite a while and a few drinks to make a loop through the bar. When he finally got back to Kenny, Pomeida noticed his shirt and coat were gone.

“Where’s my shirt,” Pomeida asked Kenny.

“I think it’s gone,” Kenny said. Pomeida looked at Kenny. Kenny was even more gone than the shirt and coat.

At this point, Pomeida realized his wallet, keys, and phone were all in the coat. And that he had no shirt. And that his apartment was on the other side of Manhattan. And worst of all, he didn’t have replacement insurance on the phone. The insurance company had dropped him after the third time he lost his phone at Coyote Ugly. Ugh.

In a panic, Pomeida grabbed the first thing he could see. It looked like some kind of fur coat. He threw it under his arm, ran out of the Cock and down the block. A few hundred yards down the street he put on the coat. Turned out it was a ladies’ half coat, made out of rabbit. It ended at the bottom of his ribcage. Pomeida realized he had no money, no credit cards, and so no way to pay for a cab. And that his apartment was halfway across the island. With a sigh he started the walk home, in sweat-stained pants, no shirt, and half a fur coat. Good thing he had gone to the gym and didn’t eat that day, because all of New York was going to be treated to the sight of his bare midriff.

When Pomeida finally got to his building, the doorman gave him a shocked look and moved to block the door. A drunk, shirtless homo in half a fur coat at 3 am is not warmly welcomed by the staff anywhere. But then the doorman recognized Pomeida, and with a grin asked him about his night. Pomeida snarled something incoherent, staggered through the revolving door, and went upstairs to pound on the door until his roommates let him in.

Pomeida survived his Wednesday night, but just barely. The doorman is still recovering.

The Spaghetti Feed Fistfight

What’s a gay dinner party without a good fistfight? Thanks to my friends, I will never have to find out.

The latest round of dinner-party fisticuffs occurred on Sunday, courtesy of Seth, Freddy Lou, and a fifth of Black Velvet. Now I know most homos don’t like physical violence: you can get your veneers knocked out or your face marked up. And black eyes tend to stretch that delicate skin around the eyes. It’s very aging, and who wants to age? We mostly limit ourselves to some slapping or yelling; in fact we rarely even throw a drink (unless it’s water or something non-alcoholic).

But Seth is an exception. Girl grew up on a ranch raising quarter horses and pounding on her little brother. Sure, she can flame out and singe your eyebrows at 50 paces, but she also has no problem taking a swing and knocking every one of those $500 incisors down your throat. And get a fifth of Black Velvet in her and the girl gets PUNCHY. You can see where this is going.

Sunday at about noon, Seth, Tim, Chris (Tim’s new boyfriend), Chad Brown, Jonathan (Chad’s friend from Olympia) and I met up for breakfast (Bloodies) at CC’s. After a bit Freddy Lou showed up from softball practice (still wearing his cup, I might add) and we drifted down to Full Circle and switched to BV and Coke. The jukebox was broken, so we were stuck watching Poltergeist III and gossiping. And drinking a phenomenal amount of alcohol. Woodsy showed up, and for some reason brought the nice lady who lives down the hall from us. They both had spent the day marinating in a barrel of rum, and were feeling absolutely no pain. The nice lady from down the hall is switching careers from accounting to interior design, and she sketched out a plan on a napkin to remodel my bathroom. It would be gorgeous, and it would cost me about $30K. Let me tell you, I’m saving that napkin for when I win the lottery.

Seth had planned a spaghetti feed for that night, and everyone was getting hungry. We decided to go get supplies and meet up at Seth's in an hour. I ran home and grabbed Carlos and a couple bottles of wine, and we arrived as Seth was finishing the sauce. Perfect timing.

Seth may be able to sing along with Whitney while he shoes and gelds a horse, but his real talent is cooking. The spaghetti was amazing. We settled down in the living room with full plates and full wine glasses, and turned on Harry Potter. After 2 platefuls and 4 glasses of wine, most of us were drowsily leaning on boyfriends and dreading the trip home. Seth was energetic as ever, and somehow things got started with Freddy Lou.

Now I'd been drinking for quite awhile, so I’m not exactly clear on what happened. They were snarling at each other in the kitchen (they fight like fifth graders with a mutual crush), and then Tim and Jonathon went in to see what was going on. There was some yelling and a crash or two, so I decided to go see what the commotion was about. And there they were: Seth and Freddy Lou doing the push/shove/shoulder punch thing you remember from high school, while a drunk Tim and a REALLY drunk Jonathon tried to pull them apart. They stumbled around a bit, yelling and hitting and pulling, Well, it’s all fun and games until someone knocks over the wine bottle. Which they did, but fortunately it wasn’t full.

Miniature was there too, frozen in the doorway. Thinking of the blog, I said “Ryan, quick take a picture with your phone” He looked at me blankly for a second, then whipped it out and tried to get a pic. But it was too late. Seth and Freddy Lou were finally pried apart and you, Gentle Reader, were thus deprived of a picture of the Spaghetti Feed Fistfight. But don’t worry, I’ll be faster next time.