Friday, June 23, 2006

My Gaydar Is Not 20/20

This is the story I read at Tuesday's WYSIWYG...

In late September 2004, a friend of mine at ABC-TV called after he forwarded me a press release about to go up on ABC's site, looking for participants in an episode of 20/20, the Peabody Award winning one-time benchmark of investigative journalism, now currently producing landmark feature stories like "What You Don't Know About Licking Postage Stamps And How It May Be Slowly Killing You".

The 20/20 notice read: "Can you tell if a man is gay just by looking at him? 20/20 is looking for both gay and straight men to take part in a test to see if "gaydar" Â? the ability to tell if a man is gay just by looking at him Â? really works."

Seeing his name on my caller-ID, I answered the phone with, "Are you thinking what I'm thinking?"

"That no infotainment news program could possibly unravel the complex erotic mystery of sweaty man-on-man lovin'?"

"Well, that and how getting on the show could be a fun story for my blog."

He cackled, "Oh, they'd never pick you. Where's the big "reveal"? Honey, even the people watching other channels would know you're gay. Actually, I'm not even sure they'd have to have their TV on at all. Actually...."

I hung up on him and went back to my computer. Less than an hour later I got a reply from Frank, a producer on 20/20, inviting me to come to a production meeting where I'd be evaluated for inclusion in the show. At that meeting, the premise of the show was explained. Ten men of undisclosed sexual orientation would be put in a room with up to 100 "testers", also volunteers recruited over the internet. Each tester would have a minute or so to ask each man any question at all, with the flaming topics of sex and relationships being off limits.

From their brief interviews with the ten men, the testers would then score the men on a scale of 1-5 of probable gayness. Naturally, I wanted to point out that "gaydar", as I'd always understood it, wasn't based so much in specific answers to certain questions, as much as it was based on an elusive, indefinable, sort of instinctual feeling that Raul over in accounting probably has the complete Supremes discography at home, proudly displayed on two shelves marked "Original" and Post-Diana". Nevertheless, in the interest of contributing to 20/20's important and valuable work in the field of Entirely Conjectural Science, I eagerly joined the ranks of the Men Who Might Like Liza.

On the morning of the taping, I found myself in a huge ethical dilemma over my outfit. Should I try to butch up? Cargo pants and my Mets t-shirt? Wasn't that a rather profound expression of internalized homophobia? Trying to pass, even in this unusual situation? Or maybe I should wear what I'd normally wear as I skipped about Manhattan with my fellow Men Who Sing The Girl's Part Of Duets. Did I dare appear on national TV wearing an over-tight t-shirt with raggedy 501's? Wasn't that sadly stereotypical? But was I actually interested in fooling anybody into thinking I was straight? Would that be something to be proud of? But wearing something faggy, just to make a statement? What that something to be proud of? Should I call GLAAD and see what they say? Moments before my head would have exploded in blaze of circular logic, I realized that the only items of clothing that I hadn't yet assigned a Rank Of Homo Identity were lying on the floor, the outfit I'd worn to work the previous day. So I put on my jeans and flannel shirt and headed to ABC. Flannel was ok, right? I mean, the show wasn't called "Spot The Lesbian".

When I arrived at the ABC studios near Lincoln Center, we first gathered in a lounge to sign our release forms. There was no way to tell which of us were the subjects and which were the testers. I immediately recognized one of the guys filling out a form. It was the same guy who'd grabbed my elbow from behind one night at the Roxy and shouted in my ear, "Christopher, I don't know what kind of fucked up mind game you think you're playing, but Michael is outside crying his eyes out. Get your coat, we're leaving!" I had turned around so the guy could see that I wasn't Christopher, but he was already stalking towards the door. Three minutes he was back, and grabbed my elbow again, "You know what, Christopher. Fine! You can just get your own fucking ride back to Philly!" And without turning around, I shouted "FINE!" That's when my friend Mike came over, "What was THAT all about"? I said, "I don't know, but if you meet a guy named Christopher, he probably needs a ride."

After our forms were collected, we, the Men Who Might Know Colors, were lined up along the wall of a studio with our first name and a number hanging from our neck. I was #3. To my left, #2 seemed affably bland and free of any erotic appeal, the sort whose absence at the office might not be noticed until a few weeks after he quit. But to my right, #4.....ooh #4 virtually shimmered in a golden halo of barely restrained fabulousness, which threatened to explode in a glitter rainbow at any moment.

The testers entered the room in large numbers and I immediately realized that that oor interrogators were at least 80% comprised of fag hags, both varieties, office and nightclub. So much for the blind discipline of science. The testers held back at first, casting on me an eye likely trained from the loge seats at Westminster, appraising my carriage, my dress, my grooming. A hand check for intact testicles seemed a distinct possibility and something I'd gladly have endured to win Best Of 'Mo.

My first question came. "Where are you from?" I was born in North Carolina. Disappointment. "Did you live there until you moved to NY?" No, I moved here from San Francisco. "THANK YOU". Damn. OK, she clocked me. Why did it bother me? My next question: "What was your major in college?" Communications. Yeah, figure THAT out.

The testers began to instinctively organize into packs, the way feral cats do. Small groups moved along the line together, each group with a spokesman asking the same question. #2 was asked "Can you describe the contents of your refridgerator?" He shrugged, "I dunno. I guess, milk. Cheese. Oh, and some venison I got at a hunt upstate." The testers practically quivered with satisfaction. #2 was definitely not one of the Men Who Wear Clamdiggers. Now me, same question. In my fridge right now, I've got Budweiser in the can and a jar of Grey Poupon. The testers frowned. Inconclusive. Of course, I was totally lying. I also had poppers. At least #4 brought them some joy with his answer, "Well, I've got some fresh radicchio...."

A trio of smirking admins landed in front of me. "Tell us your opinion of Cher". Well, I have never seen her in concert but I've liked her in a couple of movies. Technically true, but still an outrageous lie of omission for not mentioning owning her complete discography, proudly displayed on two shelves marked "With Sonny" and "Greatly Improved".

Then my friend from the Roxy arrived. He stepped over with his clipboard. "Wow, you look so much like a guy I know." It took all my strength not to say, "Would his name be....Christopher?" With Roxy Boy were two Homosexual Prada Nazis, fresh from the Fashion Institute's College Of Withering Appraisals. In short order they learned that I lived alone, that I'd arrived from San Francisco, that I worked in the media. Their victory was imminent, they could taste it. With fangs bared in anticipation, they hissed, "What neighborhood do you live in?" The Upper East Side. Hah! Defeat, snatched from their meth-clenched jaws of victory, one unasked question away from learning that before the Upper East Side, I'd lived in Hells Kitchen, Chelsea AND the West Village.

The testers retreated to compile their scores. We, the Men Who Might Own Tap Shoes, were led onto the stage of an auditorium for the actual broadcast portion of the show. The host, John Stossel and his mustache arrived. With the casual but ruthless efficiency of a broadcast veteran, Stossel ordered that all of the gay men move to the five chairs on the right of the stage, the straight ones to the other side. I didn't have to move, as I had already instinctively chosen the gay side of the stage. All of the others had to move and I felt rather superior about that.

The result were announced in the jumbled order of chairs. #4 beamed and offered a clap of congratulations to the 92% of the testors who judged him to be Spectacularly Gay. Then me. John Stossel referred to his index card and announced his surprise that 78% of the testers judged me to be a Man Who Watches Lifetime. Stossel cocked his head and said, "Well, I guess my gaydar just didn't go off on Joe. I look at him and I see...just a regular, macho guy."

Stossel extended his microphone to a woman in the front row. "What about you? What was your very first impression when you saw Joe?"

"Village People."

If you watched the show, you probably remember that the director cut to me for what may be one of the most pained reaction shots in broadcasting history. The audience was beside itself. Stossel continued to work the joke, but this time going to the Prada Nazis, who were not about to let me triumph again. Stossel repeated his question about their first impression of me and whether I'd set off their gaydar.

Prada Nazi #1 grabbed the microphone eagerly, "Oh, please! Look at him! Of course we knew. He's like a total Castro Clone with that haircut. I mean come on, Levi's, a flannel shirt and combat boots? He's right out of the '80s!"

I sat there on the gay side of the stage in my Eddie Bauer shirt, Wrangler Relaxed Fit Jeans and sensible low-cut Sketchers as our entire nation of millions, (including, I found out the next day, my mother) nodded in agreement at how poorly I represented my tribe. We, the Men Who Start Rumors. We, the men who now know the bar where the Prada Nazis hang out. We, the men who know that the right lie about bizarre sexual habits and horribly malformed cocks can cause ruin, ridicule, and a tragic reliance on porn. Our gaydar may not be 20/20, but our revenge will arrive with pinpoint accuracy.
.

The Helpful Homo Says:

THIS is Grand Central Station.
And THIS is Grand Central Terminal.


Now let us not speak of your confusion again.

Thursday, June 22, 2006

Thursday, 06-22-06, 12:57PM

Maybe I should post a webcam link to the view from behind my desk. I've been sitting here for five years and I never get tired of the view.

Open Thread Thursday

Confess it. Go ahead, you'll feel better.

.

Labels:


Wednesday, June 21, 2006

Find A Place With Celebrations And Songs

This Sunday in NYC there will be more ma$$ive big ticket dance parties than you can shake a glowstick at. Once the fireworks over the Pier Dance fade into the Hudson, I'll be nudging my boys towards Souvenirs, at the East Village's Element, one of the more swank venues in Manhattan, where I will close my Pride weekend blissing out to legendary Saint veteran DJ Michael Fierman. How this party is being pulled off at $20 a head, when the others are all north of $50 (far north, in one case), I have no idea, but I could sure use some dancefloor therapy. 'Cause all we need is world full of dreams. Forgotten feelings come back in streams. Come join us. Don't hesitate. Just be yourself. Be free. Let's be free.

Press The Pride

Pick up a copy of this week's NY Press, their annual Pride edition, which includes coverage of last week's LGBT anti-violence march, an interview with NYC Council Chairperson (and out lesbian) Christine Quinn, and a fascinating look at the lives of gay New Yorkers who have arrived here to escape persecution in their home countries. You'll also find another short story from me, in which I riff on plumbers and drag kings and bears. Oh my.

Wizzy Wuz Wunderful

My apologies for two days of radio silence, but I haven't been feeling well since leaving the street fair on Sunday. Perhaps standing in the sun with a beer cup in my hand for 8 hours is something I shouldn't be doing anymore. Hopefully next year I'll plan to arrive later and leave earlier. Yeah, right.

Last night's WYSIWYG was great fun, with a terrific roster of performers including two pals of mine making their stage debut: my favorite lez-blogger, Curly McDimple, and the sexily scruffy Rod Townsend, both of whom were very well received. Thanks go out to Chris, Andy and Dan for consistently putting on one of the most fun events in town. Chris will be posting reviews of last night's show here, as they come in. And big hugs to so many of my friends in the audience for showing up and supporting me, you are beautiful in every single way.

Yesterday began with a fever, chills and an achy neck. I took the day off from work and tried to conserve energy for the show, but at 6PM with my energy meter still tapping into the red zone, I decided to try the unique combo of Dayquil and Red Bull, hoping to both dampen my symptoms and still give me some fuel for the stage. I arrived at the venue feeling weirdly speedy, this is why I am not friends with the Bull. I think I did just OK with my story, tripping on my tongue a half-dozen times as the fever began to resume control shortly before I stepped up to the microphone.

After the show, I met some JMG readers, whom I thank for attending and their very kind words. And a special shout-out goes to the visiting hot Ozzie, Seymour! When I mentioned to a trio of my friends that I thought I was still sick from the street fair, they looked at me blankly. "But the fair was TWO days ago!" Ah, youth. I explained to them that one day THEY will be middle-aged too. Apologies to all for skipping out on the after-party so early, especially Dagon, on his last night in NYC.

UPDATE: Read Wizzy reviews from Greg Walloch, Curly McDimple, Someone In A Tree
Jon Collins, The Publishing Spot , The Sheila Variations, Cliff Claven.

.

Monday, June 19, 2006

Weather Hot, Leather Lite

For yesterday's leather street fair, I surveyed my closet for something from my sadly dwindling supply of perv-wear. Chaps? Yeah, right. My chaps are still lying collapsed in a pile of helpless mocking leather-laughter* after my having tried them on before the Black Party. My chain harness? Um, I'm totally not into sharply-defined man-boobs, and I so don't want to meet anybody who is! I briefly considered my decade-old black Folsom Street Fair wife-beater, once an almost weekly stalwart of my leather bar whoredrobe, but I decided that there was no freekin' way I could hold my stomach in all day. And with the temperature in the mid-90's, even my most super-slutty 501's would be pretty unbearable after an hour or so of standing in the sun.

I finally decided to pay only passing mention to the theme of the day with my "Pig Wrestling" t-shirt. Otherwise, I was in standard Sunday beer-bust attire: cargo shorts and sneakers. About an hour into the fair, I noticed another guy wearing the "Pig Wrestling" t-shirt. That's to be expected. An hour later, I noticed another guy with my shirt. Then another one. And of course, my friends noticed them too, and took entirely unreasonable delight in pointing them out to me. Eh, it's not like I walked out of the showroom with Dolce trailing behind, promising that I'd be the only Pig Wrestler at the leather-debutante ball.

Still, when the Farmboyz began insisting that I pose for pictures with my brothers-in-ringer-tee, that was a bit much. The first of my tee-twins that I posed with was a very short, very young Latino guy, who was very improbably named Spike. Spike wrapped his arm around me and said "Hang your cock out like I am!" Not having been proactive enough to have pre-bored a cock-hole in the crotch of my shorts, I declined. The picture that Father Tony took of Spike and me is not appropriate for JMG, since I'm only X-rated for naughty words. The unknown handsome man pictured here was very amused by Father Tony's photo request, agreeing to pose once when told that he'd just won Hottest Pig Wrestler At The Fair. I think the expression on my face is the same one usually made by the First Runner-Up at Miss Teen USA.

*Chaps actually made of that weird naugaboo Nasty Pig material, not leather.

*******

Musical highlight of the day, heard on the Eagle roofdeck around 8PM: Yoko Ono's spooky classic, Walking On Thin Ice, which was famously recorded by Yoko and John Lennon on the evening of his murder in 1980. You gave me my life, like a gush of wind in my hair. Yoko released the single a month later and it only reached #58 on the Billboard singles chart, yet over the decades Walking On Thin Ice has turned into a critic's favorite and a must-have for both Beatles collectors and dance enthusiasts, two groups that surely have no other common ground, Silly Love Songs notwithstanding. Download Walking On Thin Ice (free). Purchase Yoko Ono: Walking On Thin Ice, here.


HomoQuotable - Kevin Aviance

"You can't keep a good queen down! " - Kevin Aviance, speaking through a wired jaw at Saturday's NYC Gay & Lesbian Anti-Violence Project's march against gay bashing.

Top Ten Conservative Idiots

My favorite weekly feature over at Democratic Underground, is their Top Ten Conservative Idiots list. Our ignoble leader often holds down the top spot and sometimes he is listed several times within the same Top Ten for multiple blunders within the reporting period. I'm especially amused by the little cartoon icon story tags, my favorite of which is "batshit crazy".

Sunday, June 18, 2006

Zoology

Yesterday, I continued my outer borough explorations, accompanying wildly popular celebrity blogger Aaron to the Bronx Zoo. Aaron and I met up at 70th & Madison, near my apartment, to catch the express bus to the zoo, which strangely picks up passengers at the very corner that houses the Prada, Gucci, and Cartier flagship showrooms. Has anybody in that neighborhood ever been on a bus in their lives?

It was oddly tranquil waiting there in the pre-opening quiet, at the corner of Bling and Billionaire, hardly a soul on the sidewalks, other than the occasional socialite drifting down from her penthouse to walk her super-hybrid designer dog. Apparently, you don't need great reading comprehension skills to become insanely wealthy, judging by the "Truffels" lost and found poster we found taped to a pole. Do not question the amount of the reward, people. By the way, "havanese" is a relatively new breed, created when you mate a Pekinese and a Tickle Me Elmo. Or so I'm told.

Minutes after 9am, a cab squealed to the curb, discharging an impossibly muscular cute young man, who gave us a knowing smile before rushing to insert his key to roll up the gate of the shop adjacent to Prada. I was dying to hear the story of what made him late for work, but Aaron discouraged me from making any gestures through the display window.

The Bronx Zoo was pretty much as I left it as a six-year boy. The exhibits are generally holding up well, although there is a faint but pervasive sense of decay throughout. Aaron was a little bit freaked out by the faces of the marmosets, which reminded me very much of the troll doll that sliced up Karen Black in Trilogy Of Terror. Myself, I was hoping to see one of those all-male giraffe orgies, but I guess they weren't feeling the DJ.

The most interesting part of the visit was in the "Congo" section of the park, watching an Arab man smugly point out to his female companion that there was only one male for the nine female gorillas. "You cannot deny the way of nature!"

By the way, I'm with Ogden Nash. The Bronx? No thonx.
.