Manhattan Offender

And the Brand Played On: The Pines Party

I'm on the train, texting my editor at Gawker.  "OMG.  Geh on train with Chanel tat on neck!"  He replies that he wants a picture.  I reply that I only have my phone-cam, which sucks.  Later I realize that indeed my camera is packed.  I wait for the person, who frankly said little and contributed little to the article, to file out in front of me and snap a pic.  Blurry!  Another.  Blurrier!  One last chance.  And ... the flash goes off.  My prey doesn't notice but everyone behind me is looking at me in fear.

This week's article explores The Pines Party, without actually needing to throw away the $150 needed to attend.  A bookend piece it looks at some thoughts before the event and the recovery period afterward.  And it has the picture mentioned above.  Enjoy.

Nardicio's Great Gay American Road Trip

Following is a piece written for Gawker that never ran because of a video problem.  It's regarding the premiere of Danial Nardicio's newest project. 

The premiere for Nardicio’s Great Gay American Roadtrip is at a venue that I’m not shameful enough to say I’d never heard of.  The Bijou, also known as Club 82, is a sex club that has survived the ages somehow, and a perfect venue for the premiere, filled with drag queens, go-go boys, and fags with their hags.

My Plus One and I arrive when the event was to begin at 6:30 to find the crew inside milling about, putting together gift bags, putting up posters, and generally wringing hands.  The host, Daniel Nardicio, spots me and plants a big kiss on my cheek letting me know that there are technical difficulties.  Almost immediately, all the on-time arrivers are ushered back up the stairs of the basement sex club to mill around on the street. 

As seven approaches, the crowd outside has grown to over one hundred of downtown’s dirty people.  Eventually, the crowd starts to spill into the nearby East 4 Street Bar, providing the regularly straight crowd some quality time with go-go boys wearing only  bags from a nearby deli as underwear.

Every fifteen minutes or so comes the announcement that someone has been sent somewhere to find some cable or connector or cord and that once connected the show will begin.  During this time, Christian Sumner explains the glitter on his face as remnants from the previous nights Dazzle Dancers show at the Deitch Projects.  Perppermint Gummybear tries to piece together some time we spent in Cherry Grove that I can’t remember either.  And my Plus One complains about every person that knows him and is not saying hello.

The crowd eventually tumbles back down the stairs to the sex club.  (The permeating smell of poppers seems to be fainter now than it was on my original entry.) My suggestion to Plus One that we take a few moments in one of the peep booths is met with his suggestion that we find our seats.  As the event is now over one and a half hours late, there is little time to scan the crowd more, although Beth Greenfield from Time Out is sitting behind me and says, “Oh, yeah.  I know you,” in a manner that sort of scares me.

But she’s the least of my worries, as, after the movie begins, cast member Gio from Black Peter Group finds a seat directly in front of me, the bunny ears of his headdress conjoin with the red feathers erupting from the crown of the drag queen on his lap to block my view of the screen.  Both are chugging Jagermeister, at one point slinging it backward and staining my Playgirl.com sleeveless tee from its position in my goodybag.  At various times throughout the movie, the drag queen gives Gio head in the seat, and later, a vicious (really) slap fight breaks out between Gio and a gal-pal of his.

Once Gio moves to the floor with his crew, the screen is no longer obscured and the film is, to my honest surprise, quite good.  Some great moments include the above mentioned Gio pissing himself in his sleep, a pornstar with a gigantic dick that is the primpiest queen on the bus, and Dina Marie Deliscious’ expadades as a Lot Lizard at a New Jersey rest stop.  The film’s best line comes from drag queen Bianca Del Rio who requests, “Daniel.  I need about fifteen minutes in a bathroom to give some unsuspecting individual AIDS.”

Around ten, the assembled group is at The Cock for the afterparty.  The open bar seems determined to use all the Christiana Vodka donated, as Plus One and I are shaking from our multiple vodkas with a splash of soda.  My memory fades out, but apparently we got more video footage there. 

Somehow we end the night getting kicked out of a dive bar in Kensington for playing with the Mr. Limpy faux penises that were in our gift bags.  From there we stumble to Plus One’s place and I get the sex I requested so many hours previous. 

You can catch the video on Daniel's D-List page.  It's a fun watch.

Related:  The MO Interview:  Daniel Nardicio

Add vice

Something arrogant inside of me makes me think I give good advice.  Advice that is cold and logical and not emotion-driven, but at the same time compassionate to the person asking.  In a world where Doctor Phil gives weight-loss advice and Oprah gives love advice and Kimora Lee Simmons gives fashion advice, surely there is a place for me.

My advice column would be an Add Vice column.  (And yes, addvice.com is already taken.)  Ignoring typical mores and social norms.  Telling people in relationships where the other half is a coke-head to get that other half some crystal.  Telling someone that suspects that they are a sex addict that in reality they are just bored.  Telling women to treat their men like gay men do.

There's probably some $10K Mediabistro class on starting up an advice column, but I'm short that by about $11K.  But the world, quite certainly, needs me. 

To build up a portfolio, I'll just put it out there.  Ask me.  Send questions to AddVice AT manhattanoffender DOT com.  All questions will be answered.

Reason #45773 to hate Jessica Simpson

They don't come in size 14. 

Bitch.

Sandalous behavior

In the off chance you had a foot fetish that involved me, hopefully the picture herewith has put such thoughts to an end.  Although the stitches are more than three weeks removed, the scar tissue from my toe injury persists.  Previously, the nerve-packed excess skin covered one half of the big claw.  Now in remission, it still hurts like a mutha.

Because of this, I have not worn shoes since July 3rd.  While on Fire Island, I was dependent on the sandals of a housemate.  Back in the city, a very fashionable pair of Paul Smith's have become a constant accessory.  (A trip to Juno, increasing my sandalage to two pair.)

I've often noticed women on rainy days wearing open-toed shoes and thought, "What was she thinking?"  In my new reality on a rainy day not only am I in sandals, but I also accessorize with a lovely plastic bag, taped around my ankle.  Isn't karma lovely?

Thursday brings a final trip to my gay doctor to remove any remaining dead skin.  When asked last week if it was going to hurt, he answered with a long scientific explanation of how the tips of the fingers and toes not only are packed with nerves, but, being the nerve endings, tend to overcommunicate to the brain.  And then he advised me to take a Percocet or two beforehand.

Once the toe has healed, please continue the disinterest in foot fetishes that involve me.  Because that's disgusting.

Barberous/barberic

My barber shop is on Park Avenue South in the twenties.  My haircut (a number two attachment to the clippers all around with natural back and blended sideburns) is easily achieved, but still, my standards are high.  There is an older barber at my barbershop that I avoid like the plague as he lacks the detail orientation required.  Little flyaways must be noticed and dealt with.

On my last visit, there was a new younger barber.  As my regular guy was busy, I climbed into the new guys chair.  His level of detail is excellent.  What could be a five minute haircut is approaching twenty.  Little details about him become apparent.  The tufty soft black hair on his arms.  The soft brown of his eyes.  His smooth tan skin.  Suddenly my imagination has him naked and noticing every time he presses against me.

In a slight (very, mind you) rapture, he's finished with the hair and gained my trust from his work.  He had asked to trim the beard  earlier, but I had refused as I like to do my own (or let this one certain friend do it when we're both naked).  But again he asks and this time, caught up in my little fantasy-world, I allow it and am so deep in my own "special place" that little attention is paid.

He finishes, and I open my eyes.  To find a beard that has been trimmed up to the jawline.  Like that of a Puerto Rican bike messenger.  Like that of guys that have weak jawlines and need their beards to create a stronger appearance.  All my appointments that week flash into my head:  that sort-of date with the super-hottie, Daniel Nardicio's movie premiere, my regular meetings with this one new guy.  The damage is done though and nothing can be done to fix it save removing it all, something unimaginable.

My beard grows quickly and, in fact, The Line is no longer visible.  But word to the wise:  trust no one with a cutting implement aimed at your throat.

Where the hell have you been?

Yes, that's my eye.  Pretty isn't it?  It was the final event of the last couple of weeks out on Teh Island.  Going back in time, we can see how this culminated.

June 29:  Leave for Fire Island, but miss the train with my friends on it, so I travel alone.  The train runs late, and the ferry isn't held back, so my arrival is two hours after Favorite Housemate and our lady-guest Little Flower.

July 1:  Little Flower is out of money and leaves our company in the Glow Lounge.  Time is spent in the Glow Lounge, wondering, "Why leather furniture?" and more importantly, "Why Glow Lounge if nothing is glowing other than those with a lack of understanding of sunblock?"  We go to the remodeled Pavilion and stand in horror at the soullessness of the White Box.  Then we head to Lina's party at Sip 'N Twirl, which is, by far the best party on the island.  The deck is filled with fashion and art fags, surrounding Little Flower, who suddenly has new best friends buying her drinks.

July 2:  Lina's party was a little too good, resulting in me missing the 6 a.m. ferry and thus arriving at the office late.  Not a good thing when about to take ten days off.  Some things are switched out and Sybil is dropped at the cat-sitter before going to sleep in my own apartment for one night.

July 3:  Work a half day, with a visit by the dealer to the office.  Sketchy.  Arrive to the house to assorted good times.  Somehow at night's end manage to slice open my big toe.  Favorite Housemate and a friend decide that coffee will fix the injury and pack the wound with it.

July 4:  Wake up in abject pain.  Begin to scream.  And scream.  And scream.  The house awakened I am half-carried to the Cherry Grove doctor.  This week's doctor is Olga who is patient and tolerant of my pain.  She informs FH that coffee is not a good idea in the future.  As stitches are applied, she informs me that drinking and cocaine are not good ideas for the wound, but the weed is fine.  And she prescribes Augmentin and Percocet.  But it's Invasion Day, and despite everything, I must attend.  FH is in a leather mini-dress, blonde wig and heels and pushes me in my wheelchair from bar to bar in the Grove.  It is assumed that the chair is just a prop until people notice the blood coming from my freshly bandaged foot.  At some point I realize that many, many pictures of me are being taken.  (And I'm self-medicated to the extreme.)  At some other point I realize that I'm on the ferry, en route to the Pines.

July 5 - 9:  Largely uneventful, yet fun.  FH is still my favorite housemate despite my various pains.

July 10:  We have a little party with Broadway people.  Theatre Homos are not my usual set.  All are very pleasant and fun, but, it most be noted, none seem to be well-hung.  Is theatre diametrically opposed to girth and length?

July 11:  Host one of the theatre ladies (there were both fags and hags at the party) for the night, and go for drinks before her departure.  Continue drinking with FH after her departure.  Become separated, and while sitting in a cheap white plastic lawn chair at the Ice Palace, feel the chair collapse under me.  I fall onto my face, blackening my eye and busting my lip.  Two kind strangers walk me the entire way home.

July 12:  Wake up to face the face, feeling miserable.  Begin the cleaning of the house.  Depart on the ferry with Favorite Housemate, speaking to Bartender Friend.  Looking me over, noting my injuries from head to toe, BF notes, "You should find another vacation spot hon.  This doesn't seem to agree with you."

The above is really just an inkling.  Actually a fun week was had.  More to come.