I didn’t know it until tonight, but apparently a woman comes by on trash night. An older gal in a thin blue plaid dress, that matches her thinning blue hair. She sifted through my building’s trash as I wandered to the corner to buy one more pack of cigarettes. She sifted and picked out the white plastic bag I’d tied only a few hours earlier, praying it would hold its cargo strong up the two flights. Glass bottles, the sum total of my consumption in the last few months, tied up, and dropped for her to find on a dark warm Sunday night. She curled them up into her hands and dropped them into her metal carrier, heading on down the street, to pull off the detritus of other’s parties and evenings alone with the game. I tried not to look on the corner, as her slumped shadow faded out of the glow of one street light, plodding into the next, a cold and quiet gift from my summer cleaning jostling about in her cart.

She’ll return them to Key Food for one-thirty-five.

They have those machines now.

Fare thee well recycling lady. May the leftovers of a hipster poker night find you on the next block. If only they offered a little more for imported beer at those recycling centers.

I have noticed a trend by hanging out in the East Village, SoHo, and West Village in the past few years that in order to be seen or recognized or get a mere chance of talking it up with a hottie down the street, you need to be well-equipped. If not, you are doomed to cold glances and upward noses. Fear not, I think I’ve got this shit locked down.

In order to be regarded or mistaken for a celebrity, people go through many different phases. Currently, it’s the phase, as I see it, of misfortune. Sure, you’re paying $2,000 for your studio apartment that forces you to invent different ways of storing your shoes and hats. Yeah, you may make upwards of a 6-figure-salary working for an investment bank, but that’s not going to get you anywhere. It’s your ability to look depressed, out-of-luck, and annoyed at the world that will get you recognized.
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“Why do you walk so much, John?”

Here’s why:

Duffy’s in midtown made it a point to introduce their new model employee. Oddly enough, though, the black mannequin itself didn’t appear in the windows, just a collection of white female mannequins. Maybe he was still training. Still it’s nice to see a company so proud of their minority team members. Even if it is a bit sketchy that they bought him.
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Well, as the resident homo, I feel like I should at least mention Pride. That’s right: in case you didn’t already know, this weekend is Pride Weekend here in NYC, folks. So go out and be proud!

So far, I have to say that the distinction of Chris Trent’s favorite Pride issue of any area publication goes to the Village Voice. I wasn’t sure anything could top the New Yorker’s Bush/Cheney Brokeback-themed cover from a few months ago, but this takes it a huge step further. And while I am far from turned off by the image of two men kissing, this particular depiction has even my stomach turning. Brilliant.

Anyway, pick up a Voice if you’re looking for stuff to do this weekend. Or, you could always check out HX or Next, also great for local listings. There’s the parade on Sunday of course, and a host of crazy, over-the-top, and frequently expensive parties and events going on all weekend long. Definitely something for everyone.

Me, I’ll be going the low-key route this year: races, barbecues, and brunches with friends, and just generally being thankful that while we have a long fucking way to go in terms of tolerance and civil rights in this country, there’s also a lot to celebrate. Expecially in a city like NYC.

[image by Alex Ross, from villagevoice.com]

Be careful this July 4th because Mayor Bloomberg is enforcing the “No Fireworks” policy around the city. If you get caught transporting fireworks in your car, they have the right to take it away. It’s pretty ridiculous, but this year they are also rewarding $1,000 to folks who successfully rat out their sparkler-lighting neighbors and buddies.

How long will the man hold us down? How long?!

As part of Gay Pride Week, last night Caroline’s on Broadway hosted an almost all gay (except for, randomly, the SAHM at the beginning) line-up of new comics, including a friend of mine.

I’ll admit I didn’t stay for the whole show. With a start-time of 9:30 it was a late night for me so as soon as my friend was done, I got up to go. Right before I left, a group of guys rose to leave as well. I thought maybe they were friends of my friend, or had the same plan I did, or they just had to be somewhere. Then a woman’s voice called out from back:

“Leaving so soon? Don’t you want to see the rest of the show? What’s the matter? Can’t you handle it?”

Everyone froze. Keep in mind all this went down right after my friend’s act, which was the raunchiest so far. I won’t go into too much detail but let’s just say it referenced dildos, a boy toy named Tobey, and a camcorder. Maybe the woman was referring to the supposedly offended, suppsedly straight guys who had just left, but I was the one left with the aftermath.

Everyone stared at me as I slinked out of the room. I was mortified. You don’t understand! I wanted to shout. I’m not homophobic! I just took 5 pictures of my friend – I gave feedback on that dildo joke! I’M THE HAG!

I didn’t say anything. I just tried to leave as quickly as possible, only afterwards realizing in my haste that I had forgotten to pay my waitress. At first the host was going to make me go back into the room to do so, but I couldn’t do it. “I don’t want to interrupt the next performance,” I said. Thank goodness he was able to wave my waitress over.

Of course I shouldn’t care what people think. I was there to support my friend. But it was still pretty humiliating to be called out as an uptight homophobe – or at least to catch the tail end of such a call out – in a roomful of queers, smackdab in the middle of Pride Week.

Raspberry-flavored German beer: $6.
Giant plate of french fries: $6.
Finally meeting Art Lowe: priceless.

L-R: Dana, Anna, John-Boy, Chris, Melissa, Art.

A few other photos from last night’s blogger gathering (as well as previous meetups) are here.

Just got back from the NYC Metroblogging Beer Garden Extravaganza and I am happy to report that Art Lowe does indeed exist! However, since Michael Orell was not present there is still some weight to the theory that they might secretly be the same person. Hmmm….

Expect to see more pics from the rest of the crew soon, but here’s the best from my batch.

I can’t remember what Anna was saying here, but I bet it had something to do with either blowjobs, Showgirls, or the Holocaust. Either way, it was hysterical.

I have no idea what is going on here. I think Anna and I are plotting doing something very, very evil to Michael.

Here’s Melissa, Chris and Art looking at photos Melissa took on her camera

It’s better when they put down the camera and get to posing

I should really take my own advice.

Here we’re even more meta as we see Lisa checking out another pic of the whole group she took.

Here’s Anna and I with the crazy bamboo in the background, all Children of the Corn style.

Most of us were Drinking the Kindl Berliner Weisse with either the Raspberry or Woodruff (green) syrup. Here’s a nice shot of four colored beers accentuated by Melissa’s breasts. Come on, you know you want to see that!
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Reader’s Digest announces New York City as the Politest City in the world. I know, I know, its hard to believe. But someone else said it, not us residents.

Check out the entire article, and see how your city scored.

Another detailed article here

[ Hat Tip: Prabhu ]

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Went with a friend to see Hitchcock’s The Birds in Bryant Park last night. Such a great movie (despite some of its now dated silliness), and such a nice environment to watch it in. It was especially perfect when, during the scene of the big attack on the town, the wind picked up and leaves began to blow off the surrounding trees and flap down into the crowd. Thanks Mother Nature! See, even she loves Hitchcock. Not to mention that while the skies remained threatening all night, and a few errant raindrops did make themselves known at various points of the evening, the weather ultimately held and a good time was had by all.

The highlight of the night, however, was the constant parade of buttcracks on display all around us. Such a wide variety of shapes and sizes! I can’t say for sure, but given his predilection for smokin’ femmes fatales, I would bet that Alfred Hitchcock appreciated a nice buttcrack every now and then. So in his honor, I snapped a few pictures of some of the finest examples most prominently displayed in our immediate vicinity. Please note that these photos have been deliberately closely cropped, to protect the identities of the bootylicious.
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