London Calling (and Paris, and Seoul, and ....) : One Gay Travel Guy's Thoughts

So, if there is one thing you could ever know about me - besides being a gay, funny, who loves to run but is also a breathtakingly smart, beautiful, and amazing best friend to all - is that I also LOVE to travel.

When I was born, I lived one street across from my dad's parents. You could literally hop a fence and be over at Grandma's and Grandpa's house. So, right from the beginning, I wasn't exactly sprouting wings.

When I was 2, my family made an "Oregon Trail" type of journey. (You only get this reference if you used computer in the 80s and frankly I feel sorry if anyone missed out on this game. Danny has yellow fever?! Again?! Up, Danny died now. Crap.)

This trek of epic proportions still kept us in the same town I was born in, but this time we were one suburb over. No one got yellow fever. Because, basically, it's less than a ten minute drive. It was arduous. And this time, instead of being 1 street away from grandparents, we were 6 streets over from my other set of grandparents.

In my 2 short years on Earth, the lesson I learned was: you can run, but you can't hide.

And that was true until I was 13. My Dad saved and saved and squirreled money and even robbed a bank (he didn't rob a bank), all so we could have the trip of a lifetime. We took a cruise to the Bahamas and then went to Disney World. It was amazing.

Who knew ocean water could be clear? We were from Massachusetts. The only ocean I had ever seen was at Cape Cod. And that stuff was cold and dark and I truly think seaweed monsters live in the tide and will eat you if given the chance. Seriously, so much seaweed. This water I could see my feet in. Let's swim forever!

The food! I can have HOW MUCH ice cream?

Above anything, I just remember feeling far away. We wrote postcards and really felt out of the country. At least I did. We were told about Bahamian culture and took a tour of the island and learned something. It just felt like my motley family and I were explorers. It was invigorating.

Later, when we did go to Disney, I was floored by Epcot. I understand to the non-American that the idea of Epcot with its bastardized versions of countries could seem trite. I challenge you on this, though. Where else can you get exposure for the first time to countries as diverse as Morocco when you are 13 and living in Springfield, Massachusetts. This was 1992, folks. This guy hadn't even tried sushi yet! That wouldn't come until the year 2000. Y2K indeed!

Where I grew up is perfectly lovely, but I wouldn't say it's the epicenter of culture and world wide diversity. It's not a London, a New York, or another major city where so many walks of life cross. It just isn't. And to be honest - there are only a handful of places in the world where you can get that true exposure to vast diversity. So, Springfield was no Epcot.

I treasured for years and years my silk fan with my name written in Chinese - from Epcot China. Though, I do remember being kinda tired by the time we got to China. It was literally around the world at Epcot - quite possibly the last country or second to last we saw that day. My feet and lack of passport was tired, but it sparked something within me. I knew right then and there that I would grow up and travel.

I kept a journal when I was in high school. (What's a journal you ask? Well, it's like an iPad, but you use a pen and paper and there's no internet yet. What's a pen you ask? Sigh.)

In my journal, I wrote a wish list for things I wanted to do when I grew up. I'm not yet grown up, so I still have time, but astonishingly - I did some of the things on that list. Of the list of 16 things, only one was travel related - but it was number one on the list.

"Go on a gondola in Italy."

/

Does this gondola make my butt look too big?

And I did - in March 2009.

And it was awesome.

I think we could buy a bottle of wine and drink it on the gondola. The gondoliers supplied the plastic cups. In this picture, it looks like I am double fisting. I am not. I am holding the cup so my friend Erin could take a picture of me. I did imbibe pretty nicely that last day in Venice, though.

It was magical, but in a sense, it was just so-so. I had blown it up in my head that riding a gondola would be this "Oregon Trail" style journey, but like all things, it was just something to do.

The earth did not stop. Mine did for a moment, but then it started spinning right back up again. Like all things do.

So, it only emboldened me to see more. Do more. And I have.

A year later, I visited Vancouver and Whistler, right after the Winter Olympics. And took a train down to Seattle because why not? When will I ever go to Seattle and I'm close by, right?

I started seeing more of our beautiful country after Seattle because we should see the 50 states we live in - even the ones that don't vote for gay rights. (Though, not to single anyone out here, but I'm not too fond of you, Arkansas.)

I explored Las Vegas, and the Hoover Dam. I'm a nerd. I like educational things - even on my vapid vacations. Pool time, drinks, and a museum? Check, check, check.

I went to Miami and drove - by myself - to Key West. Beautiful. Again - did 2 museums in Key West alone. Hello, President Truman and Mister Hemingway!

Glamour shot on the California coast line, near Malibu. Maybe. 

I took a Thelma and Louise style road trip with my good friend, Stephanie (the talent behind the amazing web site: http://stupideasypaleo.com/).  She bravely drove us up and down Southern California: San Diego, Palm Springs, Temecula, Santa Barbara (we call her "St. Babs) and then Los Angeles. 

And I saw the tar pits! (yes, you read that right. Not one star - but lots of tar for this guy in L.A.)

Back to being international, I've been to Bermuda this year. Since I've already seen the Bahamas, I'm probably just one more island away from my Beach Boys Island Club Membership.

It comes with a tee shirt!

(No, it doesn't.)

I have seen Seoul and Hong Kong twice this year for work. And while you're working away, you can still get a sense of the people and the culture, and it's really breathtaking in its own way. Just going to Asia, though, you feel like it isn't much different from home. Most cities just aren't. They still have subways. They have taxis. They have all the chain retail shops you know or have heard of. Restaurants are all basically the same.

So, it's with this hindsight of traveling, that I can say this: when you go to all these places and see what is exciting and different, it is also just so normal, too. The things you see are just there. They happen. Landmarks like the Space Needle or the Hollywood Walk of Fame are fantastic to see and experience, but then it becomes your past and it's a memory just like all your other memories. To travel is just as special as someone's amazing birthday party. In your heart, it's really no different.

It is also true you become a more enlightened person when you travel, but I am still that boy with a journal. I still have a list of things to do. It never goes away just because you saw this place or that.

Having said all that, I have an upcoming trip - a 12 day journey. This one really is like an Oregon Trail. Stephanie and I will be doing another Thelma and Louise style road trip, though, we will narrowly avoid any cliffs or canyons (I hope). I am making a one day stop over in Amsterdam (due to a long layover) and will enjoy a canal cruise and the Van Gogh Museum and lots of coffee - but probably from a Starbucks and not from any of the famous coffee shops.

From Amsterdam, I will fly and meet Stephanie in Glasglow, Scotland. After that, it is just days filled with seeing Scotland, London, Paris, and Versailles. I will have done 4 countries in 12 days. It blows my mind when I think of the scope of all I will see and too. I am beyond excited.

I have joy because I have come a long way since that baby across the street from Grandpa. I have seen literally the world in a sense, but yet, only a small part of it.

I encourage you to travel, even if it's just to a part of your state you've never seen. Or maybe even just Epcot. Who knows what it might spark?

Our Sunday Morning Chats

Every Sunday morning, I call my parents. It is our agreed upon time to talk once a week. They can call me during the week, but only if it's something serious. This rule was lovingly enacted to prevent my mother from calling me during the week to ask if I still used Degree deodorant - "because it's on sale this week." (This is just an example. Other examples include: "what was your friend's name who went to that school in Boston?" and "when do you come home again?")

I know. I'm cursed with terribly loving parents. Life is rough.

The Sunday chats, as they are known, have grown increasingly important over the years. Some weeks, I leave more concerned about my parents' fate than ever before. (They clearly need a babysitter over there.) Some weeks, I leave more refreshed and feel more loved than I ever have before.

The Sunday chats are what you could call a 'good with the bad' kind of thing. For example, it depends on how we all slept the night before. It could be real rough if one of us gets on the phone before he has his coffee (Ahem, me. Ahem, Dad.) It could also be less than fun if someone is sick, feels a sickness coming on, or saw someone at work sneeze. But, having said that, it can also be totally funny when the jokes get cracking. (This week's best joke: My mother was worried about me taking a sightseeing bike tour, saying I hadn't been on a bike in quite some time. I asked her is she had ever heard the saying, 'it's like riding a bicycle," much to my mother's quiet laugh. I know what you're thinking. The jokes get pretty wild!)

These chats started some time around when I had moved to the Washington D.C. area back in 2002. They would happen in frequently as I worked in retail and had a constantly changing work schedule. Eventually, in 2006, I found office work in New York and the chats found their regular home on Sunday mornings. This would be the time my parents where news would be shared, concerns over each other voiced, and always ending with the same question: "So, what are you doing today?"

After at least 7 years of steady chats, I started to reflect upon them. I wish I had recorded some of them. I wish I recorded all of them. It's a diary entry in the purest form: simple dialogue.

My parents are, in a sense, my friends. They know most things about me (mostly because I am a terrible liar.) They know my fears, they know my goals and they know my passions - all because I share them. Unabashedly.

Often, though, the calls digress into their petulant son pushing them to change. A few years back, I won the battle for one of them to get a debit card, which Mom now loves. ("It's saved me so much because I don't have to ordering new checks!," Mom recently said.) Granted, they only got the Debit card/ATM card because they were going to Ireland and I told them they wouldn't have to get traveler's checks. ATMs would give them cash at the daily exchange rate. And they wouldn't have to worry about losing any checks. My logic made sense, I guess. (Greg - 1. Parents - 8,954)

Sometimes, I feel like the chats have a reverse effect that way. The child parents the parent. Not in any real sense, but there have been times where I have definitely enlightened them. Dad will tell me about his dinner the night before and I will stress the importance of adding green vegetables to his plate. There's always a lot of soups and potatoes in these stories. (Dad loves to tell me about when he eats out for dinner. The man likes a restaurant and likes to talk about it. Is that so wrong?)

In a way, I am grateful to have this kind of relationship with the two folks who raised me. It's more conversational and easy. I feel I have truly gotten to know my parents as the people they are, rather than the people I think they are. Some of my friends don't have this kind of relationship with their parents and it makes me feel sad. To be my age and not have an open dialogue with my parents would feel like a missed opportunity.

I still regard them as my parents. I don't call up and say,"Hey Bruce, how's it hanging?" (Mostly because I will never use the expression "how's it hanging" ever in my life time.) Instead, these chats just show how natural they truly are. It always felt wrong to me when parents break down the difference between child and parent. There's a reason why someone is the adult. The "cool" parents when you are young weren't necessarily "good" parents. I don't remember ever really respecting those who let their kids drink "because they were going to do it any way."We had alcoholics in my family so I knew my parents were only trying to protect me. They were the adults in the situation.

Even though we are now all adults, there are things I still learn from them and will continue to do. And, like I said, it's reciprocal. What started as an obligation for a kid in his early 20s to call home and check in turned into a fun and weekly event. I still limit it to once a week. Why ruin a good thing? Besides, Mom now has email to ask me if I still use Degree deodorant.

Dance, Monkey! Dance!

Some days, it's hard to be perky.

Some days, it's hard to be the person others want you to be.

On those occasions, you just want to throw on the baggiest of tee shirts and your ill-fitting sweatpants and call it a day. But, you can't. Because you need a job. And because it's summer right now. (They don't call 'em sweatpants for nothing!)

So, you force a smile and you put a pep in your step. And it sucks royally.

But, you manage. Because that's what you are supposed to do.

I don't, as a general rule, like to do any of that. I usually am a "say what you feel" type. And it often gets me and my big mouth in trouble. (Look for my new book out this Fall: How to Lose Friends and Alienate People .  .  .  Part Three.)

But, I find that I am able to be genuinely happy a lot of the time because I am always honest with my feelings and what I say. I often don't censor or filter, unless needed. I strive to never say anything hurtful, but if asked how I'm feeling I don't lie and say, "GREAT!"

Having said all of this, I still have those days where I wish I could curl into a big blanket that provides the warmest of hugs. I sincerely think if everyone had a pair of strong arms at home that gave the world's best hugs, there would be less crime, wars, drugs, plagues, and overall frowny faces. People would just be happier with a hug.

It's why we sleep in beds. All that bedding. Multiple pillows. It's a giant, foamy, mattressy hug. "Mattressy" being a word and all.

Unlike my other blog posts, this would be the time where I say I digress and "but my point is."

Today, though, I am not sure I have a point. Just sharing my thoughts. We all gotta dance.

She Works Hard for the Money, said Donna Summer. So hard for it, honey. And that is what brings me to title of this post: "Dance, Monkey! Dance!" Ms. Summer may have the point, after all. People work hard. People trudge along and do errands. And tasks. And meetings. And appointments. And responsibilities. And it's all just . . .  

While we don't have a gun pointed at our feet, the world does spin because people do things they (quite possibly) do not want to do.

And what if we all did what we wanted to do and stopped being dancing monkeys?

What if you just baked all day? Every day? And you shared that with people? And that was your life's work?

That could be pretty neat, right?

It's just a thought. And it's a thought that makes me want to wrap myself up in a duvet and give myself a mattressy hug tonight.

Girls Just Wanna Have Fun

We all know the song. We all know the lyrics. And the prolific Ms. Lauper would agree.

Some boys take a beautiful girl

And hide her away from the rest of the world

I want to be the one to walk in the sun

Oh girls they want to have fun

Oh girls just want to have fun

And - for me - it's so true.

I recently had a stay-cation in NYC over the July 4th week and I really loved it. I didn't do too much that was overly fancy or special. I went to the beach a lot (yep - Coney Island)! I went every day from Thursday through Sunday. And by being "the one to walk in the sun," I got myself a nice tan.

Earlier in the week, the weather was muggy and hot, but cloudy and rainy and stormy. And grey. Not pretty weather to do things.

Goofy Hydration Deprived Self Pic.

So, I went to the New York Transit Museum by myself, where I took photos of myself in different train cars through the years.

You can see the goofy self-pic. The museum, in a former subway station, is now a historical site. As such, they will not air condition the parts that were once the actual station. The only air conditioned portions of the museum was in the way back, and was basically a movie room and one exhibit.  The rest of the place was pure Summer heat. Needless to say, my face is the result of losing 10 lbs. of sweat. Just look at how skinny my arms look?

(Consequently, I recommend everyone go to this museum in the blissful month of October.)

On any vacation, I like to do something a little vapid - like sun, shopping, drinky-poos. But, I always like to do smart things: educational, historical and special. So, I learned about New York traveling. I've been traveling in style since 1979, but could New York say the same?

Well, I watched a Grand Central short film that inspired me that New York could. However, I will still never forgive the City for demolishing the former Pennsylvania Station and building Madison Square Garden in its place. Look up the photos of Penn Station in the early 1900s and look at pictures of what it looks like in its modern form. Your jaw will drop at the disparity.

My little trip inspired me.

Do things. Little things. Fun things.

Everyone's life can be amazing. Every day can be filled with something special. You just have to find it.

Some days, I splurge . . . on a drink at Starbucks. That is my special thing that day. Wa-hoo! And it cost less than 5 bucks. But for that brief few moments  - where you take that chance to just breathe and smile, talk and laugh, and sip on a drink with a friend - can be absolute magic.

Some days, I do truly splurge on a theater ticket. I am going this Friday to see a new Broadway show called "Date Night." I was going to "Date Night" by myself. I will let the irony sit in for a second.

I can wait.

Now, I have a married couple going with me, too. A married, heterosexual couple. They bought their tickets later, so I will still be sitting alone. At "Date Night."

But, it's fun. And I didn't actually splurge (code: spend much). I got the ticket on sale at Living Social, with an extra 20% off coupon code. Did I mention I used ebates.com to get some cash back?

http://www.ebates.com/rf.do?referrerid=M5W50P93x%2FIypJry1Er1Xg%3D%3D

Online shopping is awesome!!

I digress. My point is: I strive to enjoy my life every single day. A few years ago, I made this pledge to myself to find joy every, single day. And most days, I do.

The trick is, though, that you have to remind yourself to do it.

On a particularly stressful work day, I ran out of the office to go to a gallery I had seen on the Today show. For the cost of ZERO dollars, I looked at some paintings of Snoopy by Tom Everhart. And they were awesome, and suddenly - so was my day.

It's just about finding your simple pleasures. Some people find their happiness in food, in drugs, in drink. And while I do like my win-o, I challenge people to find the joy in a beach trip, in a museum, in a an afternoon with an iced coffee with a friend. Or in my case, in all 3. But, don't forget about "Date Night."

Because "Date Night" with my straight homies is gonna be awesome!

Dear George Clooney,

I heard today that you are single. 

I heard that you were dumped. 

The thought alone makes me tingle. 

So, date me please. I'm starting to feel rather pumped.  

Now, I know what you are thinking. The above poem isn't the most eloquent of mine, but I think it has a certain quality.

You see, George, I know that life hasn't been easy for you. You had to really work it to make it to where you are today. You had to act in movies like Batman and Robin. That place in Italy wasn't going to pay for itself.

So, naturally, you had to date all these young little ladies. You needed some arm candy to take to the awards shows. I get it. Plus, it has been good PR for you to seem so elusive. It definitely helped you exude that romantic leading man quality in films like One Fine Day. 

But, it's your time now. You can stop wasting it with those other women.

Two of them have been on Dancing with the Stars, for god's sakes!

It's time to shake things up. Get a little classy. Get a little brave.

Start dating me.

I've been right here this whole time.

And I absolutely love Italy.

Better still, I have ZERO interest in being on Dancing with the Stars. I can't dance. Plus, I would be too competitive and probably step on Cloris Leachman's feet if she started stealing my spotlight.

Just think about it.

You've given this whole mysterious, can't-tie-me-down image a good run. Now, it's time for something new. It's not like I am asking you to make another Ocean's Twelve or anything. That would be crazy.

Do something easy. Just date a dude.

The time is now.

I'm here waiting by the phone. . . call me! (sigh!)

I'm a Coney Island Baby

Some New Yorkers like the glitz of a fancy pool at the Gansevoort Hotel. Some may even like the splash of a chair at the Soho House. At these posh pools in the city, you get sun, shade, and supermodel bodies. The staff will bring you drinks while you're stirred or perhaps shaken among the rich and richer.

As for me, I prefer the quick jaunt on the glamorous F line train - all the way to the beach. Coney Island's beach, to be specific.

Sure, I have no wait staff bringing me drinks. Instead, I bring a thermos of wine. Because I'm classy like that. And frankly speaking, I wouldn't have it any other way.

My legs: the other white meat. 

Sure, there are no supermodel bodies. Well . . . occasionally there are some fit studs walking around. But, I definitely feel like the hottest guy on the beach some time. I have no six pack and neither do they. So, I feel pretty confident on my beach days. In fact, I feel downright sexy.

I mean: just look at my picture! Definitely the hottest legs this side of the Mississippi, am I right? Well, that's all me, baby. And those Coney Island legs aren't just for show!

No! Those gams are also used to walk the fabulous boardwalk. It's like a step into the past in some ways. There is a carnival element - complete with an amusement park, an actual freak show, and even a vintage wooden roller coaster, the Cyclone, which is now a national landmark!

There are nods to the Vintage old-timey Coney Island everywhere. It's just a feeling in the air.

There are Nathan's Hot Dogs. There is a minor league baseball team called . . . you guessed it: the Brooklyn Cyclones!

Sandy? Your name should be more like Grabby!

Here is a photo of myself with their mascot, Sandy the Seagull.

And yes, you'd be right. I am pretty sure he was flirting with me, too.

Don't let the semi-calm look on my face deceive you.
I was scared for me bleepin' life! 

And, I would be remiss if I didn't mention the Wonder Wheel: the world's scariest ride ever. If you happen to be afraid of heights. Which I am. As evidenced, by this picture of me on the ride. You can get a swinging bird cage if you prefer, or a non-swinging. I chose a non-swinging and proceeded to death grip the bench as if that helped alleviate the problem of being suspended in air. No doubt, I have very sharp survival skills.

It's pretty, right? Don't be fooled. You can see Texas from the top of it. 

Needless to say, Coney Island is all very fun. There is literally WONDER to it all, and not just in its Wheels.

The people spectating sport alone is worth the adventure. I won't show pictures as that would be mean, but there are characters on this boardwalk, let's just say that.

Last summer, I fondly named my Eastern European middle aged bartender, Surly. She was surly towards all of her customers in a way but, I believe that with time, she came to tolerate me and my love of her frozen alcoholic drinks. Alas, the bar where she worked, Cha Cha's, was a victim to her Hurricane Sandy last year and it has since closed for good as a result. It had been a Coney Island staple and now, like so many others before, it is a Coney Island legend of the past and not the present.

And while I have found one establishment on the boardwalk serving frozen margaritas, the loss of Cha Cha's has taught me that this is an area to cherish. There is magic here. There is beach. There is baseball. There is booze. What isn't to love and hold on to for dear life? Imagine yourself on the Wonder Wheel with me and grab on.

So, my friends - the others can have their Hamptons or what have them. As for me, I'm just a Coney Island baby.


Who wouldn't be, I ask you, after seeing a view like this?

Almost 1 Year Anniversary

As I am one day away from I Am So Gay (and so are you for reading this)'s one year anniversary, I am literally filled with thoughts and emotions.

For me, starting this blog was a gigantic, huge first step.

Many years ago, I called my Aunt Ellen to wish her my support, as she had just found out she had breast cancer. It was a mixed conversation. Here she was - facing a serious health battle, which in just a few, short years would take her life - and she ended up giving me yet another gift and her loving support. While we spoke of many things (how she was feeling, what the next steps were, etc.), she cared way more about me and how I was doing. Can you believe the depth of that heart? It's unfathomable. I am too vain and self involved. I would be worrying all about me and my health, if I had been in her shoes. But, my aunt was seemingly always selfless.

What she told me that day has stayed with me forever. I can even remember where I was when she said just four simple words to me. They were meant as a suggestion, but the way she said was more like a direction. And it froze me in my steps.

Unable to move, and not sure how to reply, my aunt told me what my heart had told me for years. She told me, "you should be writing."

How did she know? It's because she knew me. With that, you would think I would have started writing right away. But I didn't. I didn't write for almost the better half of a decade later.

It took all those years since her diagnosis. I moved cities in that time. She saw me take a big step, just a different one - moving from DC to NYC for a job in the fashion world. She never got to see me write in my post college years. I did write privately. They were mostly scribbles on a pad, a journal, a post-it: anywhere when a phrase or thought popped in my head. But, they weren't formed. They weren't this.

Now, I can be a decisive, swift person. In theory.

Actually, I am often afraid or cautious. When I do make a decision, it usually has been well thought out, as I have debated it 18 billion times in my head, out loud, and with friends.

The idea for this blog wasn't simply thought out in a day. I knew I wanted to do humor. I want to make you laugh. I also wanted to maybe inspire some of you just a bit. The rest of what inspired this blog took time and now I feel like it's going in some kind of a direction, one in which is not quite there yet.

I'm not quite there with what I have and want to say to everyone, but I hope we're having fun on the journey. And that's what this is for me. I am writing about my journey finally.

In this blog - and even in today's story - you will see my look at my past. This past, though, is what has shaped my present and is what will push my future. I am writing about my life in my 30s. In New York. As a gay male. As a single male. As a hopefully funny male. And these are the bumps along the way.

I will always continue to write for those who maybe don't know that being gay is OK. Because it is.

When I write, I am writing to the 17 year old Greg, so I can tell him that everything will turn out OK. That life will have its bumps and we all find our way, even if it isn't always perfect. I hope I am reaching a few others who are young and in doubt. We all grow up. Gay, straight, or super curvy, we all grow up. Things pass. People change. You will always be great.

When I write, I try to make myself laugh. And if I don't, I know it isn't my best blog. They can't all be:

 http://iamsogayblog.blogspot.com/2013/04/reese-witherspoon-is-brunette-world-is.html

OR

http://iamsogayblog.blogspot.com/2012/11/hiding-in-soup-aisle-isnt-easy-but.html

But, in the end, I write because I am hoping to learn something and maybe we will learn it together.

I write because I am single and I want people to know that it is also OK. It isn't the end. What has started as a happy accident of bad dating choices has turned into a deliberate series of conscious choices to remain single. I could have settled down years ago, but I chose my own path. (Not that anyone offered me a ring or anything. Because if jewelry was involved, I totally . . . probably . . . would have chosen the bling.)

Looking back, I hope I make Auntie (yes, I called her auntie) Ellen laugh. I really hope that she's above me - or maybe looking next to me - and that she is laughing with me. She is in on the joke.

For her last Christmas, I had bought a box of Christmas cards that had classic Christmas sayings, but there was an obvious double meaning. Auntie Ellen got the card that said simply, "Merry And Gay." Or something like that. But that was all it said on the outside. No cutesy Santa or Snowman. Just a big ol' gay Christmas card (with something sweet written by me on the inside). And I know it brought her a few laughs over and over as she looked at it, across the sea of traditional Christmas cards to see 1 BIG GAY ONE.

So, I don't know what the future holds for this blog, but I know this: I will keep writing. It's been the best thing for me personally. This is my passion. And making others laugh is also my passion. I like to crack a joke. Some will be zingers, some will be losers, but hopefully we will keep laughing together for many more years to come.

Thanks for reading and being apart of this first year - this journey.
Keep smiling.

Thanks,
Greg


 

Please Don't Touch Me With Your Hair

Please don't touch me with your hair.

I mean, I'm sure you washed it.

Actually, now that I am thinking of it: how do I know that? It's just an assumption. A hope. A belief in your general sense of duty that you clean yourself (head included) daily. But, from what I am told about women, they don't wash their hair every day. Something about how it's shinier if they don't. And also there's a preference to wash hair in the evening because it takes so long to dry or something. Which means if you washed it last night, it's been on your dirty pillow all night.

And I've seen the Dateline NBC when they used the black light to show us what is on hotel pillows, so I can only assume that your pillow is likely worse than the good folks at Marriott.

So, I am going to take it back. I don't think that you have washed your hair. I am not THAT trusting of an individual and frankly speaking, you're a little casual with your hair flipping.

Here I am: reading my book my book on the subway (like a smart and responsible individual caring about the environment by using mass transit) and I get whacked in the face with your hair, which has been God-knows-where!

Where is a transit cop when you need one?

I feel violated.

Bonjour! Some say I have perfect hair, mon ami!

I am a self aware individual. I have size 11 feet and if I step on a person's foot on the train, I apologize sincerely. But you - YOU - just whack innocents with your Rapunzel-like hair day in/day out and laugh it off with your friends. 

Since this is a democracy, you get to grow your hair to whichever catastrophic level length you choose, while I keep my hair nice and trim. Some have even said my hair is perfect. "What a nice hair cut, Greg!," they exclaim. 

You might get the same praise if you go a little more to the shorn side. 

And I'm sorry for so personally attacking you. Because you aren't the only one who is committing this crime. It really has gone to epidemic levels. 

Why - I can remember just last week when I was on my way to a nice Saturday night dinner with some friends and I got a mouthful of hair. I was casually minding myself at the bar and waiting for my friends and - BAM - violated by someone long haired. A girl, no more than 25, threw her hair up in the air to look flirty (and let's face it: trampy) to her male companion and whacked me right in the face. Evidently, not only are "long hairs" completely unaware of the tight social spaces we face in large, metropolitan areas like Brooklyn, but also the very split ends of their hair are so dead they cannot tell when they hit people. 

It's a cause for concern! 

I've thought about alerting local authorities, the media or perhaps a support group, but in the end, it's me  - a "short hair" - against a "long hair" world.

Just don't mind the person with a face mask on a subway. He isn't a criminal. He is just simply avoiding the "real" criminals out there. 

Dude (Looks Like A Lady)

So, I am just gonna start off this whole story with the truth that I somehow got a subscription to Ladies' Home Journal.

I know what you must be thinking. It was what I was thinking! 

"But, you're not a lady, Greg!" And you'd be right! 

Technically, I am not a Lady. I am a Male. And while I don't subscribe to Cars and Gears Monthly or Gym Weights Weekly, I would like to state that I don't exactly have the same agenda as the good editors' of Ladies' Home Journal. 

I like to run. I drink wine. I travel, go to museums, read, watch movies, and I have lots of other run of the mill, non-gender specific interests. And even though I can bake a mean batch of Triple Chocolate Chip cookies, I didn't get the recipe from a female driven magazine. I got it where I get everything in life: the internet. 

(Seriously, this internet thing = awesome! I can shop from home? Done! I can watch old episodes of TV on my lap top? OK!) 

But, let me take you back a few steps. 

I came home from a long day at work and was actually a little sleepy. It happens. So, when I was sorting through the mail, I assumed that the copy of LADIES' Home Journal, was actually for my female neighbor who lives across the hall. Silly mail man! 

I mean - mail carrier!!! Mail Carrier. Postal Employee. I'm so sorry. I shouldn't assume it was a man who delivered this magazine. Although, I'm pretty sure it is a man because he lives around the corner from me and while I was on a run one night I saw him outside his house smoking in his postal uniform. Which I'm pretty sure is illegal. Actually, I'm not that sure, but it really, really surprised me.

Any-who, my neighbor politely returned the magazine back to me, which - to this day - is still a source of huge embarrassment. It is one thing to say: I think this is your mail. It's another thing when it's your mail in the first place and that mail is actually Ladies' Home Journal. 

So, that was fun! After I walked away from my neighbor and feeling ashamed, I began to feel supremely confused. Which isn't hard for me to feel when I'm tired. 

Tina. Expletive. Fey.

I put the magazine down on my kitchen table and walked away. I left the room for a minute and when I came back, this is what I saw: 

TINA. LADY HOME JOURNAL LOVIN.' FEY.

My idol!

Dressed up like J. Lo. 

With the caption: "Look Better At Any Age."

I was horrified. 

And I stil am horrified. 

In the bottom corner was what I can only assume is her signature. Her autograph! Tina?! You signed this? You are better than this. 

I mean: she will wear a paper bag and still be beautiful to me. And she is beautiful here. But, it is not her. It's not her style. 

It's not even her earrings.

And don't get me started on ... wait, why is she squatting!? And in those shoes?

This meant war. Ladies' Home Journal took my idol and made her out to be some hot-to-trot soccer mom looking to score some pills. And I wasn't going to take this lying down. 

I wanted to call them up and give 'em H - E - Double Hockey sticks! Take this, Ladies Home Journal. You may have gotten to Tina, but I won't let you take Amy Poehler and Mindy Kaling. You can't ruin Jenny Lawson or Rachel Dratch. God help them! What if they had already gotten to Mom?! 

Come to think of it: This is totally something Mom could have masterminded. And by masterminded, I mean "accidentally checked the box for Ladies' Home Journal instead of Entertainment Weekly. 

Regardless, this had to end. I had to find out how did I get this subscription and I had to cancel it to teach them a lesson. 

After a long wait time, I spoke with a phone operator who did not act the LEAST bit surprised that a male like me got a subscription or Ladies' Home Journal. 

I tried a joke. "Come on, right? I mean how many guys get this magazine? Didn't anyone raise an eyebrow when they sent this to me?" The operator didn't reply. 

After a long, awkward pause, I said, "Well, I didn't sign up for Ladies' Home Journal and I want to make sure that I am not being charged for this and I would like to cancel it." 

She explained that this was set up by a third party as a promotional vehicle, that I had a year subscription for free and I could cancel it if I wanted to, but not through her. I would have to call the third party agency. 

The whole thing exhausted me. 

So, I gave up. Sorry Mindy. Sorry Amy. I hope you will still love me. 

It's June now, according to Ladies' Home Journal. And I have met Alison Sweeney, who hosts The Biggest Loser, which is a TV show I actually love. So, it's not all bad. Plus, there are tips on looking better at any age, which - frankly speaking - I don't have the luxury to avoid. We all need to look better. 

But, just don't call me Lady! 

**************************

Writer's Note: - here's a fun drinking game! Re-read this story and take a shot every time I say Ladies' Home Journal. Good luck! 

By the way, don't do that. You'd be crazy to do it. I say Ladies' Home Journal like a thousand times in this story. Seriously, don't do it. Just get a subscription to Ladies' Home Journal instead. They totally need the readers just as much as I do. Ladies' Home Journal and I both want you - alive and healthy. And sober. And laughing. 

Ladies' Home Journal. 

(I had to say it one more time. Sorry.)

I Apologize . . . For Not Wearing Better Shoes Tonight

I know. I'm sorry.

Flip Flops? What was I thinking?

Here we are: 2 stylish friends out on the town on Saturday night and I'm that guy.

But, side note: I'm in pain. I just ran a half marathon this morning and I needed to be in these flip flops.

Most Awesome Advertisement . . . Ever

Darth Vader called and said, "Luke, it's your destiny." I tried to correct him and say my name is Greg, but, well . . . you can argue with that guy. This is the dude who cut off his son's hand with a light saber, so I wasn't about to get all sassy on a phone call.

So, I wore the flip flops. (And they are Cole Haan flip flops, too! I think name dropping the brand helps here when wearing flip flops out to dinner on a Saturday night in Manhattan.)

And despite the pain I was in: I even tried to compensate by wearing a banging outfit, if I say so myself. (See how I'm such a martyr for you and for fashion?)

Tight white skinny jeans (I know, I'm a slave to trends) and a bright colored stripey sweater from J. Crew. I look all very preppy chic. J. Crew might be calling me to go to Cape Cod right this second to be in some pictures for them for the catalog.

And might I add: I can fit into these skinny jeans because I just ran the aforementioned half marathon today! So, the flip flops were a trade off for skinny jeans if you think about it. Which would you rather I wear: baggy jeans or skinny jeans? Um... yeah, skinny jeans! That's what I thought.

I also accessorized the outfit tonight, as best I could in my fractured state. I brought a super cute tote bag and my Mindy Kaling book, and a blue checkered umbrella, because the sky tonight just looks like it's itching for some rain.

And wow do you have a good memory! Yes, I am re-reading Mindy Kaling's amazing book (for the 3rd time). It's almost as if you really, really love this blog. Good for you!

What? You didn't remember. Ugh, I am so disappointed in you.  I still love you.

Here's your homework, though:
http://iamsogayblog.blogspot.com/2012/06/am-i-naked-in-this-blog-or-am-i-just.html

Getting back on track: Mindy Kaling's book in my cute shoulder tote possibly makes me the coolest guy in the East Village tonight. Sure, their outfits all look cheap and cost millions of dollars. Sure, there is a Great Gatsby party going on in the other room with guys LITERALLY in tuxedos. (This is true. They ordered drinks in small little glasses, fancy dresses, the works. And they were obnoxious and oblivious to the other patrons enjoying dinner around them. But, more importantly, I still can't believe those jerks in tuxes had to show me up like that.)

And sure, I am wearing flip flops.

But, you're my friend and you like me. So, maybe I am just the coolest guy in the room because of that fact alone.

You were so great that you didn't even notice that I was wearing flip flops. Until I brought it up like an idiot. You were just impressed that I was able to rally the rest of my body into going from Brooklyn into Manhattan and was able to walk. Because you're cool like that.

They're crazy awesome, right?

But, next time we hang, I will be rocking shoes. I promise. Unless we hang out at the beach. Or any time in August.

Otherwise, I may just one-up those loud (incredibly loud) Gatsby fools with my array of awesome shoes. And then the world can breathe a sigh of relief. Because my Grey and Pink Cole Haan shoes (name dropping) will always trump those guys.

Love,
Greg

I love my Mom (and so do you for reading this.)

I am sure we can all agree that our Moms are the best. Everyone loves their Mom, right? (Well, maybe not the little girl from Mommie Dearest. She probably celebrates Mother's Day in a  . . . different way.) 

And, while I do love screaming, "CHRISTINA! HAND ME THE AX!," to anyone I meet, I am no exception to the mother-loving phenomenon. I love my Mom. 

  

I could list a lot of reasons why or how she is better than your Mom, but why brag? I mean, really? Why rub it in your face how clearly awesome my Mom is and yours is truly sub par?

Oh, OK. I will. 

1. My Mom wrote notes in my lunchbox as a kid. Oh your Mom did that too? Did she always make the same Fluffernutter sandwich for you? Nope, didn't think so. 

Nowadays, Mom would get hauled off to County Jail for endangering school children with peanut allergies, but back in the 80s, we just called it lunch time. And it was awesome and I always knew it was packed with love. 

2. My Mom saved me from falling out of the car after seeing the movie, E.T. the Extra-Terrestrial. To preface, I am a person who has always been deeply moved by the arts. Films especially. And at the tender age of three, I was no different. (Spoiler alert: E.T. goes home. And an adorable, curly haired child in Massachusetts was devastated.) I identified with Henry Thomas and wanted to ride my bike in the sky with E.T. Or maybe I just wanted to eat Reese's Pieces, the hippest candy of 1982.

In any event, I had to be dragged out of the theater immediately, as my loud cries must have been disturbing other patrons. I must have been "making a real scene" or perhaps (as my acting coach calls it) I was simply "in the moment." 

In response to my display of raw talent, Mom and Dad threw me in the car and Dad immediately sped off. Either seat belts weren't invented then or my parents had a real lack of foresight there, but the result was that my door popped wide open and a sobbing mess known as ME was sliding right out of the car, as my Dad was making a left turn. And Mom, ever so quick and nimble (like a Ninja!) swung from the front seat and grabbed me with one arm and got me back in the car. 

Nowadays, Mom AND Dad probably would be hauled off to the State Penitentiary, but back in the 80s, we were just appreciative that Mom's cat-like reflexes saved my life! Did your mom save your life like that? Hmm.... I didn't think so! 

3. My Mom doesn't swear. And we all know that your mother swears like a truck driver. And a sailor. On shore leave. 

Seriously, though, MY Mom doesn't curse. One time - only just a few years ago -while driving home with her, another driver swerved in front of us in a dangerous way. He cut in front of us, and it caused us to abruptly slam on the brakes on a crowded road. It could have been a real pile up. 

My mother, with all her grit and determination, hung onto her steering wheel as if she was commanding a mighty battleship. She slowly uttered, "Youuuuuuu .... Jerk!" 

I said, "Good, Mom! I'm glad you let that out. Let him have it." We later laughed over that. 

Clearly, the man learned his lesson. Don't mess with Mom. (This is a woman who could have been in jail twice now, so you really don't want to give her road rage to boot.) 

4. My Mom just likes simple things. Your Mom also might like the small stuff, but my Mom does it with a twist. 

She likes a deal at Kohl's. (I mean: who doesn't really? You get the Kohl's Cash and life is pretty thrilling. Am I right? In the sense of my mother, I feel this is the closest she will ever get to stealing. When she gets a small appliance for $6 bucks, Mom is transported to her version of Las Vegas. 

Mom also likes the 2 for $20 meals at Applebees. Eatin' good in the neighborhood. Literally. It's like 6 blocks from their house. I counted. And with the money she saved on dinner, it affords her a raspberry margarita. Tequila and Mom = winning combination, am I right?

She gets really excited when her TV show is going to be on. It's like a treat. But, man, can she get upset when the TV networks program one good show against another show that she also watches. She has to choose. CBS' The Good Wife vs. ABC's Revenge really was hard for all of us to get over. I try to explain the internet, or on demand TV watching, but I might as well as be speaking in Mandarin, because we all know she won't be going to the internet to watch TV, like your mother probably does. (Your mother probably also does online banking, which is clearly dangerous and should be avoided at all costs.) 

 

Lastly, Mom would be really, really, really happy if I sent her cards on her birthdays or Mother's Day. The woman loves a good card. I think Hallmark would have folded years ago if it weren't for my Mom. (She is the largest customer for the dancing and singing snowman they sell each year. God help us, if they do not produce a Snowball who wishes you a Merry Kwanzaa. She will lose her hat.)  

I'd like to say I sent her a card this year, but I didn't. In addition to 2 phone calls this weekend (I rock), she also gets this lovely blog post devoted exclusively to her. Son of the Year 2013, I say! 

5. My Mom is just really nice. Your mother probably is, but mostly just pretends to be nice to people. My mom is the real deal. 

I never have heard people say, "Oh, that woman's your mother?! Well, she's a real bee....hive." 

Most people almost always first remark how I look like her. (It's true. Dark hair and eyes, pale skin, same nose. And we both are age-defying, so whatever. I'll take it.) 

They also always state plainly how nice she is. To which, I always say something funny back. 

"You don't live with her."

"She beats me when you're not looking. I can show you the bruises!"

"She's stealing from your office, you know?" 

"Really? She always says just the opposite about you!" 

"When she's sober!" 

I have a million comebacks. But no one believes me. Because my Mom actually is pretty darn nice. A woman who doesn't curse would give that impression. It's hopeless for us. I've tried to set the world straight. If they only knew her diabolical plans....

6. My Mom still worries about me. 

Now, many of you would probably say, "WITH GOOD REASON." And you'd be wrong, "friends."

My Mom is just a classic worrier. Maybe she watched too many episodes of Dark Shadows as a kid, but she's always thinking something dark and deadly is lurking around the corner. Maybe she's right. But, leave it to Mom to tell me today, " I hope it doesn't rain" about a half marathon I will be running in SIX days. Who thinks of that? Even my iPhone worries about weather that is only FIVE days away. 

My mom outworries technology. Can your Mom do that? Again, didn't think so!   

7. Last, but not least, My Mom is MY Mom. She gave birth to me, for God's sakes! Without meds!!!! 

Evidently, there were TV shows about how hospital drugs used during birth in the 70s were giving defects to babies. Counter productive if you ask me, and Mom agreed with me. So she did it all "military-tough" like. I picture Mom surviving Guantanamo pretty well. 

Dad said she didn't even scream. 

Mom's simple reply, "What's the point? It was still going to hurt." 

Did I mention that I was also ... three weeks late? (Classic Me to be late to my own birthday!)

On the date of my birth, Mom weighed something around 700 lbs. It was a real hardship for her. I was supposed to be a belated April birthday present to her. Instead, I ended up being an early Mother's Day present. (You're welcome!) 

So, Samuel L. Jackson would undoubtedly call my Mom a "bad-ache mother-lover." (That's what he says, right?)

The thing is: my mom is pretty selfless. She sacrificed a lot during my childhood and always liked doing the Mom stuff. 

I like seeing her do things for herself now. Treating herself when the occasion seems fitting to her. Keep doing it, Mom. You deserve it. 

I love you, Mom (and so do you for reading this.) 

From Thirty Four, With Love

On Saturday, May 4th, 2013, I turned "Thirty-Four." Which totally wasn't scary. I mean it can be. Age is tricky that way. But, this year wasn't scary for some reason. I can't explain it, but I was all very zen and low key about turning another year.

"Thirty-Four" seems pretty chill so far. I kicked off my year a bit earlier than ever.

Even though I was born in May, I decided to call April my "birthday month" -  or if any coworkers asked why I was getting so many shoes delivered to the office, I would answer simply that it was all pre-birthday presents. (In my defense, I believe it was only 2 pairs of shoes. And a pair of sandals. And a belt. And some new underwear. And some drugstore.com stuff. Hey, we all need shampoo, am I right here?)

As I said last year, you have to treat yourself.

http://iamsogayblog.blogspot.com/2012/06/so-i-turned-33-alone-and-i-survived-and.html

Last year, I splurged on The Book of Mormon. And while I didn't get a picture of myself with a celeb as cute as Andrew Rannells (am I right, ladies and gents?) like last year, I did have a pretty great day/weekend/month regardless. 

This year, I decided to just start having fun. I was going to celebrate myself. I was going to smile. A lot. 
I like to think I nailed it. 

Besides the shopping, I treated myself to Broadway, which increasingly over the past year I have regarded as ice cream that I must allow myself to eat from time to time. It's a treat that one MUST totally take part in. Imagine life with no toppings? Personally, I've always liked the toppings the most. 

I saw Lucky Guy with Tom Hanks (written by my heroine, Nora Ephron). I was in the second to last row of the cheapest of cheap seats, but I felt like I was at a real scene. Something to be seen, you know? 

I saw Nathan Lane in The Nance. How could I write a blog called I Am So Gay and not seen Nathan Lane in a show about a gay vaudeville actor? Sacrilege, right? Well, I saw it and it was awesome. I wonder what it was to see The Producers . . .

I saw Vanessa Williams, Cuba Gooding, Jr. and - best of all - Cicely Tyson in The Trip To Bountiful, a show where the audience  (I KID YOU NOT) spontaneously bursts into song with Ms. Tyson. I cried at one point. I missed my Grandmother, maybe. I missed a time gone by. I admired the spunk of the character. I went on the journey with her. 

I saw The Big Knife with Bobby Cannavale (HOT guy from Will and Grace. He was Will's boyfriend. Just Google it already!)

And when I saw my most recent show, I totally imagined I was Liz Lemon while watching Alec Baldwin in Orphans from Orchestra, Row G. It was Jack! LIVE! Awesome!

The thing about my month or so of splurging was taking part into things that have been in NYC for a long time and I never really took part in. And that just seemed like a shame. In the end, my seats might not have always been as Grrrrreat as G, but I dove into the adventure. The thrill of getting a ticket and seeing a Broadway show. To go to Broadway . . . well, there is just nothing like it. Even in the cheap seats, life can be a thrill. (Remember that!) 

Now, you might be thinking to yourself: "OK, Greg Broadway and shoes. Really?" 

Well, I did even more. I celebrated time. I celebrated time with others. And  I liked the quality time and laughs with special people the most. 

I am very fortunate. I know A LOT of great special people. And they are all over the place. Some I couldn't see for my birthday/weekend/month. But the handful of truly good people I did see, made "Thirty-Four" tick right along. 

I'd say with most of all of my friends, we giggle when we get together. And when we haven't seen each other in months, or even a year, we can still pick up like no time has gone by. That's truth. That's beauty. 

Well, last Wednesday, I had Pre-Birthday Dinner #1. I smile just thinking about that dinner. Friends cooked in my kitchen. I got really good hugs that night and drank too much wine. Smiles. 

I had Pre-Birthday Dinner #2 on Friday, and this time it was a surprise dinner. Four of my oldest DC friends popped out of nowhere while Drake, Delilah and I were having drinks on the Potomac River. I was in my beloved Georgetown at a restaurant I had loved when I lived there. Could it get better? Life is ice cream with the toppings. That night, I had ALL the toppings. 

On my actual birthday, I slept in, but still early enough to hear my parents call me at 8:23 am (when I was actually born) so they could sing to me. Cheesy and awesome. Who else gets that every year? I eat it up. 

Drake, Delilah and I went outlet shopping and then onto wineries. The combination of sunshine, 40% off everything at the J. Crew Factory Store, and delicious cheese and wine is a level of fun known only to the gods. Just try to argue with me on this! 

It was a long day. And it was a great day. I wasn't able to beat The Charles Sasser Challenge of 5 wineries in one day. We did four on May 4th, so I think I'm still impressive and very cool (numerically speaking, at the very least).

Relaxing, travelling, shopping, nature, wine, eating, laughing, smiling, sunshine, friends. 

Ice Cream with the toppings. 

On a final note, I want to say to you, Mr "Thirty-Four," a few of my hopes: 

I hope I cherish you. 
I hope I own this year. 
I hope I make the moments count. 

I hope for health. Mine and others. Because life is so very, very short.

I hope if I see something I want, I do it or buy it (within reason) because I never want to regret it. 

I hope a boy is really awesome to me this year and vice versa. 

I hope I run. I hope I laugh. I hope. 

I hope I come out ahead on my way to "Thirty-Five."

I hope I eat lots and lots of toppings. :)








  

I Totally Need to Learn More About Music (or I need to re-think my conversations with friends)

It occurred to me last night while out with friends that I have good taste in music. I just don't hear a lot of it or remember much of it.

For instance, I liked a song that was playing. I didn't tell anyone about it. I was too busy looking good, saying funny things, and being all around awesome. But, deep down, I told myself that I liked the song that was playing.

And, as conversations go, we were having a good one. We were (of course) talking about Jeremy Irons (because who isn't these days?) and somehow the topic derailed to the movie he was in where he played creepy twin gynecologists (because . . . yeah, I can't explain this one, either).

Aaany-who, none of us could remember the name of the film, which was especially odd for me because I am totally the person you want on your Trivial Pursuit team. I remember all the movies and co-stars and directors and even the years in which they were made. It's kind of strange.

While the direction of the conversation changed, one of my friends used new-fangled technology called a phone and "googled" to find the name of the film. I had mentally moved on completely, focusing back onto the song that was playing, while others kept talking.

She said (out of NO-where, might I add), "it's Dead Ringers,"and laid her phone on the table.

I replied, much to everyone's laughter at the table, "Oh! Is that the name of this band?"

So, yeah . . . I don't know a ton about music. Oops.

In my defense, I grew up with an eclectic choice of music in my life. My Dad listened to BIG D 103 and I grew up on what I call "do-wop-shooby-doo."

Because I'm 90% certain there is a song where that is the main chorus.

It was also what I call a "Beatles/Beach Boys childhood." And that's actually pretty great. To this day, I like the Supremes (anything Motown actually), the Mamas and the Papas (Cass Eliot had the world's most beautiful voice), and yes - the Beatles.

Patsy Cline. Lesley Gore. The Monkees. Chubby Checker. These are all the people that come to mind.

In high school, I listened to Bob Dylan and the Doors, and I think this made Dad extremely happy.

My Mom, on the other hand, listened to WMAS 94.7, which I believe proudly declared themselves "soft rock."

Dan Fogelberg. Crystal Gayle. Taylor Dayne.

Taylor Dayne's actually not that bad, and "Black Velvet," a song about Elvis by Alannah Myles, is actually pretty good. They played that one over and over, I tell ya'. 

But, in the end, I grew up with a mixed bag of music to listen to in the 1980s and they didn't really involve Duran Duran, the Bangles, or anyone or anything you would ever associate to with the 1980s. It wasn't until the 90s when I had even heard of Duran Duran when they did their "comeback" album. "Where did they come back from?," I wondered. "Was England mean to them?" 

I did know about Madonna in the late 80s, so it wasn't a total loss. (I mean - come on!! I'm gay. OF COURSE, I knew about Madonna in the late 80s. And Dad totally bought me Like A Prayer for my birthday. It was all pretty great.)

Otherwise, it's been a crash course in music that other people know and care about. And that's ok. Thanks to Pandora, I get plugged into some of the current tunes out there. Amazon also does a good job at keeping me informed of the latest hits. I even have been able to introduce new music to Drake and Delilah, my friends in DC who know and own way too music. In a dictator-led country, they would be the first to be spied on. I am pretty sure their music tastes aren't subversive to governments, but it just seems pretty excessive, right? When you have external memory drives and the biggest gig iPhone, and STILL FILL THEM UP, it's pretty evident that the secret police will be on their way to your house. 

I really have no place to judge people on the amount of music, but I actually judged someone last night on their music taste. She-who-shall-not-be named (Suzanne) was swaying back and forth (in her chair, might I add) to a Coldplay song. I looked over at her and she immediately asked if she should be swaying to this song. I proudly said, "No, you shouldn't. Who do you think you are, Gwyneth? OK, Apple, go back to your Coldplay." 

I am pretty sure I am going to Hell for that comment. 

By the end of the night, at a respectable 11 p.m., I got onto the subway and waited for the G train, which stands for the "God help me" train. (If you have ever lived in NYC, you will know what I mean.)

Usually, the train is filled with degenerates at this hour and you hope for the best that everyone smells like they have showered today, because the whole train and platform and people are pretty grimy. 

I suddenly heard this awkward looking woman singing "Ave Maria" while playing on a really big violin, which some musicians may correct me and say it was a bass. But it was a really big violin. (I think.) 

She was not stylishly dressed, wore glasses, and she was overweight, and yet she had all the strangers around me - including myself - stopped in our tracks. The song was beautiful. She was beautiful. 

The train across the platform came and she stopped, and she began a new song when it left the station. It was a beautiful end to the evening and, coincidentally, was also one of my Grandma's favorite songs.

Maybe I know a little about music if I was able to catch all of that.  

In the meantime, I have totally decided to patent, and intellectual property and LEGAL WORD everything around the name Dead Ringers. Because that's totally the name of my new band. I won't know what kind of music we are playing, but I will probably like it. 

Reese Witherspoon is a Brunette??? (the world is over, people)

I'm sorry. I have an issue with you, Reese Witherspoon, and the recent problem I saw in the news.

I can handle the whole "you-got-arrested" thing.

I can even understand when I heard that you asked the arresting officer, "Do you know my name?" I have to admit that I would probably do that, too. If I looked as cute as you and somehow managed to become pretty wealthy as well as landing myself a shiny Oscar, I would walk up to total strangers every single day and scream my name and hand out copies of the latest Entertainment Weekly with my face on it. (My mother would probably join me in said activity.)

You name dropped. You got arrested. It happens. I can get over these facts.

I can NOT, however, get over the fact that you now have brown hair.

I have brown hair. Brown hair is great.

But on you? It's bad. SO BAD.

You were in a movie called Legally Blonde, for crying out loud. Which is hilarious now for two reasons: 1) You were arrested - therein needing legal assistance and 2) you weren't blonde!

But, the most troubling thing is: you just don't look good as a brunette.

I'm sorry! I'm saying this with all the support and love of your toughest girlfriend. Well . . . maybe not your toughest. You were arrested and all, and I have no idea the kinds of "ladies" that are in the Georgia prison system.

But, I am saying this with the sincerest form of love. I have always thought that you were beautiful.

You were down right, cute-as-a-button. Other people can have their Sandra Bullocks. Their Julia Roberts. I'd list other romantic comedy actresses who also won Oscars, but I think this is where the club ends: with you three. (And no, I'm not including people like Diane Keaton because let's face it - no one is like Diane Keaton and no one ever will be. Unless I can get that cloning thing started up again and we will be starting with her. This reminds me: expect a whole blog someday on Diane Keaton. Or a national holiday where we all have to dress up like her. It will be awwwww-some!!!)

I digress. The fact is: I like you. A lot. I watched the film Water for Elephants because I really, really liked the book and - sure, why not! - because of you. Robert Pattinson made me want to scratch out my eyes and ears because bad actors shouldn't be in movies, but I hung in there and watched the movie because of you!

You just seem so nice. And upbeat. And I like that. I want to hang out with that kind of person.

You make unwatchable films: watchable. And yes, I am sadly talking about Legally Blonde 2. And Vanity Fair. And How Do You Know?

And How do I know? Because I watched them all - because of you!

Having said all of this: you can get arrested 100 more times and I will still go see another blah movie like This Means War (as long as you get that adorable Tom Hardy and Chris Pine back).

I will still think of you as a good person, to be honest. I really think in the echelons of the Lindsay Lohans out there in Hollywood, you are probably the Mother Teresa of the acting community.

So, I think the lesson really is this: go back to blonde. It's your calling. It's your destiny. It's also: your best look. And looking best is well . . . best. Right?

If you need any tips: I did a whole blog on my beauty secrets - and well, I think you will really appreciate how I manage to make myself look good. (http://iamsogayblog.blogspot.com/2013/03/my-beauty-regimen-dont-laugh.html)

But, I'm also a natural brunette. And lets just say it. It sure ain't easy bein' me.