Seriously. Some random's blanket is totally abutting mine. Like, ack, random. And his Zip-Loc of sunblocks is partially in my space, too.
Location: Christopher Street Pier
It's Thursday and thus time for that Gawker thing. The only clue this week is some video shot over the weekend. Of salsa dancers. White, middle-aged salsa dancers. A link to the post will come when available is now here.
Contemporary philosopher Madonna started her epic poem, Vogue, with the line, "What are you looking at?" Despite the dangling preposition, the line was appropriate during a walk down Christopher Street. All eyes were to the sky, encouraging my upward gaze.
Nothing was seen other than a vast and vivid clear blue sky. Being unattracted to any of the people looking up, it was a choice to rather figure out the puzzle by osmosis rather than extract an answer from a Stonewall patron. So more visual clues were sought.
Distraught looking ladies and a man with a bird. Well, there are distraught looking ladies everywhere in our fair borough. And a surprising number of men with birds. But it's the combination thereof that was the important clue. Why would distraught ladies be chatting up Harvey Birdman? Again, my gaze was directed upward.
There it was. A little blotch of color hidden in the trees. Suddenly all the clues came together.
A distraught lady lost her bird. As distraught ladies love company, she called her friend, who knew Harvey Birdman. Thinking that maybe the bird was lonely, they brought out the other bird. They forgot, however, that birds are inherently racist and the bird in the tree was all, "I ain't coming down to hang with no white-ass bird."
Or at least that's my interpretation of it.
And this of course begs the question, "What happened to the bird?. No clue. To which the reader is reminded: this isn't Gothamist. On Gothamist, they would give you details down to the bird's favorite brand of suet. If you really want that, maybe read Metropolitan Diary. But if you're just reading this and going, "Heh, Harvey Birdman," you're in the right place. And I'm glad you're here.
So you're sitting on the Christopher Street pier, surrounded by shirtless men and reading the Jackie Curtis biography, Superstar in a Housedress. As you're reading of the groundbreaking drag genius you look up and towering above you are two drag superstars in matching outfits. They reach down to you and hand you a little packet, say "Be safe, handsome," and walk along to the next guy. You've been done by a DIVA.
The Drag Initiative to Vanquish AIDS (DIVAs) works pride events, individual bar and club nights, and numerous other venues on both coasts handing out free condoms and providing information to any and all takers.
With AIDSWalk coming this weekend, this is a just a reminder to support these initiatives. Until there is a cure there is only knowledge.
To learn more and support these pier queens go here!
Drop the attitude and give Christopher Street some props.
As expected, there is fun to be found on Christopher Street. Some of it not even that scary. Some of it even kind of fabulous. Take a photo stroll down the gayest street ever.
As of tonight, around nine o'clock, Manhattan Offender is entering a jaded period, every weekend the same things. All of my weekend plans (or should I say what has been planned for me) are unoriginal and uninspired. I can understand the occasional side trip to a dive, the rare respite to places a little down-market from where you consider yourself in the social stratosphere, but to repeatedly dip me into the unholy baptism of the common is to drown me with disdain. Sure, it's easy to be a beautiful flower in a field of cow dung, but I want to be a beautiful flower in a field of beautiful flowers by damn!
That being said, Offender's worst weekend ever (just in case someone wants to come down the slippery slide of suckitude with me, or even better, rescue me, I need to meet new people, or maybe just take five seconds and call some people, which of course requires time, but my time is tied up with this long stream of horrid events):
Lemonades will be made of these lemons. The day will be rued when I have no impressive itinerary item for my weekend. Court will be held; Judge Offender will be in session. If all else fails, I can just go to the Pines leaving this suddenly sucky summer of spiritless similitude in my wake.
