Crazy Fingers

This is the ill-fated post that Blogger wouldn’t let me publish.

That’s my cousin Greg. He’s the guy on the right. The other guy is Ben, who Greg was dating over the summer.

Greg and I went to RUB for dinner with my friend Andy, who was originally a friend of Brian’s and a member of Urban Outings, and who now works for my brother. Kevin and Paul joined us at RUB, then Andy went home and Greg and I went to four bars. I went over and settled in at Brian’s. He came home to me after spending the evening with his family.

We worked out together on Saturday, then Brian went off for brunch with friends and dinner with his mom. I went to lunch with Kevin (at The Dish), then home to get some clothes, then to the gym to do cardio, then to a couple of parties with Kevin. The second party was at Allen Roskoff’s place. Brian and his friend Steven met us there, then Brian, Steven, Kevin and I went to Diner 24. We ate grilled cheese and macaroni and cheese and jalapeno poppers. Our waiter was cute, and straight (we asked). Cute straight waiters are common in Chelsea, but lordy, do they know how to work it! Steven was into the waiter, and every time he said something about he, he walked by.

Allen’s party was interesting. Let me drop some names of the people who were there. My favorite Queer Eye Guy Kyan Douglas. Mark Green. Corey Johnson. Al Sharpton. Anthony Weiner. Doris Cohen. Scott Stringer. Tom Duane. And lots of other politicos, apologies if I forgot anyone. I was good, and did not say the word schnorer. But who did trim Allen’s tree?

It’s also notable that I got into an argument with a Log Cabin Republican at Allen’s party. The last time I encountered a gay republican in New York was at the Eagle over a year ago — some guy running for city council. We did have a gay, republican city council candidate this year (Patrick Murphy), but I’m not sure if that’s who I met at the eagle that time. In any case, the guy I met at Allen’s party was Patrick Murphy’s press secretary. Hey! What’s the difference between a Jewish Nazi and a gay Republican?

Today, Brian and I went to look at an apartment on 11th Street. It was fabulous and lofty and bright, but there was not enough segmented space so Brian and I will avoid tripping over each other. The owner’s realtor was cute (he came on his skateboard and looked hot when he skateboarded away from us after we told him we weren’t interested) (Brian thought he was dirty and needed to take a shower, and that he was a bitchy East-Village Queen, but the skateboard was a good accessory) and he recognized “Up on Cripple Creek” when I started singing it under my breath. Our realtor was a half hour late, and the cute realtor kept muttering somethign about “Sunday morning” and “he’s so unprofessional.”

We had breakfast at French Roast then hung out at Brian’s place.

I left and went to Patagonia to replace the black hat I lost last night (it was essential to replace it ASAP because Brian says I look like a cute elf when I wear it, and I get laid) then to the gym. Back to Brian’s via Whole Foods, then more hanging out. Brian is reading over my shoulder and interjecting as I write this.

We’re about to go to bed.

It’s not looking good for the place on 15th Street, but we remain hopeful. I will accept a job offer tomorrow, so more about that.