thinkin’ of a master plan

I’m a horrible self-promoter. I’m far too passive to survive for long here, at least in present shape. All the big fish in their little ponds move to New York. I knew this going in. But as summer plans A and B fall through, I’m realizing that I held a glimmer of hope that I could rely on my old subtle charms instead of plunging into the shark tank. I was wrong. I’d like to think I’ve come out of my shell a bit here (hell, I fought a man for a cab the other day) but I have work to do.

Thankfully I have the umbrella boy to bust my chops. He opens the window, lets in some fresh air, then cracks a joke or two till I have to pretend I’m not smiling. He drives me home and sings along with the radio. He knows every frickin’ song. Except for one. I reach over and twist up the volume. I know every word. I settle low in the passenger seat like the playa I am, tossing rhymes at him till he misses the turn.

- Rakim, check this out..

-Yo

-You go to your girl’s house
and I’ll go to mine
’cause my girl is definitely mad
’cause it took us too long to do this album

-Yo, I hear what you’re saying,
so let’s just pump the music up
and count our money

-Yo, well check this out…
Yo, Eli! Turn the bass down
and just let the beat keep on rockin’
and we outta here

Of course it occurred to me almost immediately that most people would view a 2500-word book review on a blog as more of a punishment than anything else. I’ve always been a bit block-headed when it comes to internet-suitable content, sitting around worrying about the “literary heft” of my sentences while taking nips from a 2-liter bottle of Diet Coke.

A high percentage of the emails and voicemails I received on my birthday mentioned a hope that I would be spending it with “someone special.” If I still lived in California, I could take it as a sign that the universe would soon be sending me a boyfriend, but I live in New York now. If I said that out loud I’d be pushed in front of a cab.

I’ve been single now for four years. Columbia University and the Upper West Side have not proven to be fertile hunting grounds. The most exciting exchanges I have are with the deep-voiced latino boy from Queens who works the salad bar counter at Milano Market and who surprised me last week by reciting my usual order from memory and calling me “buddy”. My knees weakened, he handed me the salad, and I wandered in a daze through the warm afternoon sun towards home. Did I tell you that there are white blossoms in the trees along Broadway?

Classes ended this week. I’ve celebrated by spending time with “24: Season 2″ on DVD, the plate-loaded squat press, and Q-Tip’s voice on “I Left My Wallet in El Segundo.” My two summer goals:

1. Write 100 pages of my book.
2. Look fucking hot by page 35.

That’s it. Anything else is gravy on the dog food.

GB:NYC2 crash-landed in Manhattan Friday night. I don’t really know what that means, except that a bunch of rowdy gay bloggers stormed Barrage in Hell’s Kitchen, digital cameras and name tags in hand. I tried to avoid both, at least for awhile. But let me back up.

I needed, like a shot of whiskey, a little reinforcement first, so Norman, Rob, Ted and I met up at the 34th Street Lowe’s for a 7:30 showing of “House of Wax.” Rob and I are self-confessed horror flick groupies. Ted and Norman were just humoring us. We were handed a survey upon arrival, which we perused from our retina-scarring third row seats:

Question 6: Which of the following were important to you in deciding to come see this film? (X as many as apply):
-I am a fan of Elisha Cuthbert
-I am a fan of Chad Michael Murray
-It looked dramatic
-It looked action-packed
-I want to see Paris Hilton die

“House of Wax” gets my thumbs up, particularly if you can snag a showing at a theater featuring audience participation. Even the guy with the speech impediment behind us got in on the action, though I’d be hard-pressed to tell you exactly what he said when Paris met her most indelicate end.

(sidenote: The Mormons just knocked on my door. Who the fuck lets Mormons into an apartment building on the Upper West Side?)

As for the Barrage, well, it was a lovely blur. The bar was very red. Walked in at 9:30 pm and left at 1:30 a.m., shredding my wallflower self-perception along the way. Two bloggers called me their blog-daddy. Usually I’ve been the boy, so that was new. Jimbo put his hand up my shirt. Someone else’s shirt caught fire. I asked Adam to “talk New York to me.” Saw some familiar faces, like Chris, Glenn, Joe, Homer, Eddie, and Eric.

And met new ones like our cruise director Mark, Myke, Chris, Scott, Jeff, and Chris.

Someone handed me a cell phone and, over the bar noise, I yelled at poor Sam back in San Francisco.

I’m sure I’m forgetting others at the moment. I’m really horrible at blogger party recaps, as you can see. There were many people I wanted to meet, and didn’t, and many people I wanted to talk with longer, and couldn’t. When you spend nine months surrounded in your studio apartment with the ghosts of Virginia Woolf and Ralph Waldo Emerson, real-life parties can be a tad overwhelming. And refreshing.

A little over four years ago I rented “Trick.” It was near the end of my relationship, and the movie got me excited. Tori Spelling played a tap-dancing musical-theater freak. More importantly, it reminded me of that feeling when you first meet someone that you, like, want to get to know better. The musician and the go-go boy spend the entire movie trying to find a place to trick, until finally, in the early morning hours, they decide to wait. The musician walks the go-go boy to his subway station and they kiss. It’s a giddy kind of feeling, the shine’s on, the other boy is little more than a blank state, a cluster of movements, words, mannerisms. It could go any number of ways. That night, after the bar, I kissed someone at the 50th Street station. It was raining. He held the umbrella. There were people around and I was nervous. He said, “Don’t look.” So I didn’t.