You're Not One of Those Proud Fags...

...except on Gay Pride. On that day you tend to be very proud. But when you're fumbling around on Connexion looking at all the boys who are typically much more physically available then they are mentally, you decide to send a quick note to a really hot architect that says, "i just read/watched the fountainhead so i'm all about architects. especially ones that are hotter than howard roark and mike brady combined." You're quite shocked when you get an immediate response, but you feel more like an ostrich who wants to bury his head in the sand when you read the email, "hey, we've met. we went to grey gardens together. remember?" Although it was years ago, you certainly remember the night you met. A guy you were dating took you and some of his friends to Grey Gardens for Christmas. And the hot Howard Roark-Brady was one of the friends. And as if it wasn't bad enough that you just hit on the friend, you have also been called out for not remembering him! Come to think of it, you also forgot him once on the street when he said hello and had to explain who he was. Oy. But instead of making a big deal about it, you just swallow your pride and apologize profusely before quickly signing off so you can go kill yourself.

But before you get a chance to log off you receive another email. Luckily it's from someone you've never met (or at least hope you've never met), and he's connected to you through your old boss. He actually comments on something you wrote in your profile, which means he actually read your profile, which means he can actually read. But none of this is important because the guy is GORGEOUS! He's got an amazing profile and a great job. His profile seems smart and witty, and he seems to be just your type. There's only one little teensy-weensy problem. The guy lives in West Hollywood.

You quickly wind up breaking not just one, but most all of your cardinal dating rules: Don't pursue a boy who doesn't live in New York, Don't have too much communication with a boy you've never met, Don't trust an online profile with a professional headshot, and Don't trust an online profile of a boy who blatantly ignores posting his height or weight. But you quickly find yourself caught up in a very intense, frenzied email exchange with what you imagine might be a wee 'ho from WeHo. The good news is that you have plans to be in LA in less than a month, the other good news is that he's looking to relocate and NYC is his first choice.

After a day of silly back and forth emails you find yourself hoping that the WeeHo does move to New York. And even though you know it's a ridiculous thing to hope, the fact that this false hope has somehow seemed to squash your recent obsession with being dissed and dismissed by Blonde Beard on the street last week. All of Blonde Beard's bullshit suddenly fades away, so you let yourself get lost in the WeeHo fantasy.

The emails graduate to text messages, and the text messages graduate to picture messages. In one form or another, the two of you are in constant e-contact all week long. You like that he challenges you to be funny. Although you have confidence in your writing in regards to your communication, you are actually terrified to talk to him. You are a bit phone phobic. You are especially phobic of talking to strangers on the phone. And you're worried that all of the time and energy you've poured into your pretend relationship with the WeeHo could disappear in one awkward phone call. So you put it off.

So one night when you are watching "Becoming Jane" (yes, you are that gay), you immediately pause it when a email pops through from the WeeHo asking you how you like Fall, which seems like a bizarre question until you realize that the WeeHo is asking about a song that he has sent along as, ironically enough, an attachment. You respond:

so funny. when you asked about fall i thought you meant "how do i like autumn?" i was like, bitch, don't go ending my summer a week early! but i am listening to it right now and i like the lyrics. falling is exactly what i strive to do in life. easier said than done.

speaking of which... this is a weird experience for me. i have lots of rules about this online dating thing, and one of my biggies is "don't put too much effort into anybody before you meet in person." the funny thing is that i want to put effort into this. i'm enjoying it. and i can't even meet you! damn, i want to meet you. it's like my own little sleepless in seattle. i should put that in my netflix queue, although i remember it bugging me when i first saw it.

you asked if you were saying too much? not at all. you're saying all the right things actually. and you don't seem guarded. at all. although most of the time i come off as completely unguarded (without an edit button), i am actually quite guarded in certain respects. i learned the hard way, though, that it's not worth being in a relationship with someone who can't break your heart. now i'm busy looking for a guy who can break my heart, but won't.

luckily, after a few years of dating in nyc, my heart has gotten a few callouses. that's a good thing. my hands, however, are still silky smooth. palmolive. seriously, why am i saying all this? it's crazy, right? i should know better, yes? because it should scare you away, no? this conversation is probably the gay equivalent of a 39 year old woman discussing babies on a first date! oh whatever. i'm not scared to put it out there. i want to fall. and i want to fall hard. and it would be nice if someone like kimberly locke would catch me. the problem is that i haven't fallen. after my breakup, i thought i'd fall into another relationship in two seconds. well it's been four years, and, although i've dated a few good guys, good just doesn't cut it. i had good. really good. this time i'm looking for great. so mostly i haven't fallen. tripped a few times, but i've always caught myself. my big worry now is, have i gotten too old and jaded to fall? or will i just abandon ship before i get a chance to fall because something silly spooked me? or maybe i'm just too picky because, unlike that 39 year old woman who is just looking for a sperm donor, perhaps i really know what i want and am willing to wait?

all i really know is that i want to meet you before i write another ridiculous email like this.

And then the WeeHo quickly responds:

I'm a fan of Autumn. You know we don't get that here. I miss it. I always come back east for a dose of autumn and a white christmas.

Speaking of which, yes, this is weird. I get that. I've given up on many of my rules, however. Well, except that I still keep the seat down on the toilet (I don't want my Chi to go down the tubes), I don't leave dishes in the sink (God forbid I don't make it back home, that something should happen and my mother comes to gather my belongings and she finds dirty dishes in sink. She put on my headstone, "Here rests my son, the slob"), and of course, no white after labor day (Patty Hearst was so wrong. She deserved what she got).

Anyway, where was I...oh, yeah...falling is good. And you're not crazy (although you would be if you added Sleepless to your Netflix list, I'm just saying). I remember what it feels like to fall. I'm convinced that it is more my willingness to fall at times the people I meet. I could have "tripped" a few times, but I figured I'd hold out for the free fall. I worry that I may have squandered a few good trips, though. I wonder if a trip could have lead to a fall. Then I think, "Nope. Just wait for the fall."

Is it crazy to put the effort into a series of emails someone all the way across the country who just happens to photograph well ;) Everything starts somewhere. Obviously, the places I've started before have yielded nothing. And yes, I want to meet you too. Although that is completely out of the question at the moment. I have huge zit on my forehead and that would make a terrible first impression.

Also, I want to be much more prolific than I am being right now, but I have to get to my Cirque workout class (excited) and did want to get back to you first (I hate feeling rushed)

So, to quickly recap:

- You enjoy guilty pop too
- Summer still has a week left, although no more white this season
- You're not crazy, nor am I, at least not for this.
- Meeting is not an option at the moment.
- You have a phone phobia
- I have a loaner car

And when you finish reading his email you actually find yourself saying aloud (even though you're completely alone), "This is the man that I’m…” and then just like that, you stop. You don't allow yourself to finish the sentence.

For some unknown reason, you keep putting yourself out there for this stranger across the country. And you keep waiting for the moment where he disappears because you've said too much. But for some other unknown reason, the WeeHo keeps coming back for more of your sappy shenanigans. You feel absolutely fantastic when you return to "Becoming Jane." And as the movie continues, you feel like you, too, are somehow Becoming Jane. Somehow living your life as a freelance writer (emphasis on the free) seems preferable to living your life with a man that doesn't make you Fall. But does this make you Proud? Or merely Prejudiced about falling for the right Mr. Darcy? Anyway...

You're Not One of Those Fags Who Swallows His Problems With Copious Amounts of Food...

...but alcohol is a different story. So when Rice Queen #2 offers you a sip from a pint of his Knob Creek on the train to Fire Guyland, you graciously accept. You are really all fucked up over your recent Blonde Beard sighting and can't help running through your unexpected reunion with a fine-toothed beard trimmer. And you think you've narrowed down his adverse reaction into two distinct, yet very different scenarios. Your first theory is that the man hates you. As in detests. After all, he couldn't wait to get away from you, nor could he bear even the most minimal of conversations. This leaves you wondering whether Blonde Beard found out about your Blah-Blah-Blog? And if this is the case then you can't change that because you have no control over it. Although you'd feel terrible if he hates you, what's done is done and you're not going to change his mind about you.

On the other hand, Blonde Beard's bizarre reaction might quite simply be just that; bizarre. After all, he was freakishly awkward in social situations. You experienced that uncomfortable side of him first hand after dragging him to a party at your Gal Pal's. And if he was merely just so scared by the shadow of a past relationship, then his unpleasant reaction was all about him, not you. At least you tried to be nice. Fuck that! You were nice! You were actually happy to see him! Whatever. You're over it. Even though you're not. But you will be. And with that you take another healthy, warm gulp of Knob Creek.

It's pouring when the Fairy Ferry finally arrives, so you and the rest of the Kinsey 8 race to the house and, surprise-surprise, start making cocktails. You skip Low Tea because of the inclement weather, but definitely make it to High Tea. After that it's all a bit hazy, but you have vague memories of dinner that may have or may not have been followed by a strip show. Starring you. Regardless, you'll surely be able to trace back your drunken steps soon enough in the form of unfortunate Facebook tags.

The next day is nice enough for both you and your hangover to lie out on the beach. However, the big excitement of the day (perhaps the month? Make that the year!) happens at Low Tea. You wander in with your Kinsey 8 housemates and begin an immediate Fruit Loop when who do you spy with your little eye? None other than your Internet Crush! He's standing right there, ten feet from you, all alone, with a drink in his hand (of course)! Although you now share a writing gig with him and have been working together all summer, you've never actually met in the flesh. And for some unknown, alcohol-fueled reason, you decide to out yourself. So you just stand there. And stare. Kind of similar to when you guilted Blonde Beard into grunting a few lame words at you on the sidewalk earlier this week. But unlike Blonde Beard, your Internet Crush does not try to skulk away when he catches his stalker's eye. It takes him a minute, but eventually he puts it together and the two of you giggle like a gaggle of girls.

You have a lot of fun talking in person and when you notice that both of your drinks are empty you offer to go get refills. It doesn't take much arm-twisting, and, of course, Ms. Four Letter Word wants a Thirteen Letter Drink, which happens to be the most expensive drink on the Island. But you are more than happy to aid and abet his drunk and disorderliness with a Planters Punch. However the bar line is endless and it takes you a while before you return with the cocktails. Only your Internet Crush is nowhere to be found. Somehow, even though you are double-fisted, you are able to text him without spilling a drop and the two of you ping back and forth trying to find each other, until, eventually, you just give up and finish both cocktails. Which, of course, is a big mistake.

Both High Tea and dinner are both blurs, as is Slip N' Hurl. But apparently the night ends up with you psychoanalyzing your friend Half-Share during a lovely midnight stroll into the Meatrack. You're starving so you make a pit-stop at Half-Share's house and pick up a delicious family sized bag of Tostitos - Hint O' Lime. You're ravenous and can't bear to part with the tasty tortillas, so you end up dragging the bag into the Meatrack with you. You munch your way through the moonlit woods as you pass by men munching on 'mo mussy. You are as fascinated as you are hungry, and the two of your meander down dark paths, passing half-naked men who appear out of nowhere and then slither by. It's so dark that you can't make out any faces, but even though you're as drunk as a skunk, even though your beer goggles are on tight, nobody looks all that pretty.

At one point, you and Half-Share wander up a path and stumble upon a whole group of boys who are wide-eyed witnesses to a public blow-job. You, of course, plop yourself down as if you're at the local drive in and dig deep into your crinkly bag for a big handful of Hint O' Lime. You're busy chewing your tortilla chip cud when the guy who's getting blown turns to the impromptu crowd and looks right at you when he says, "Honestly, I really can’t do this with an audience." You stop chewing the copious amount of chips that you've shoved in your mouth, roll up your half eaten bag, and slink away with Half-Share as you giggle your way out of the Meatrack. Anyway...

You're Not One of Those Political Fags...

...but you will definitely be yelling your homo head off outside the Mormon Temple on Wednesday evening. You're looking forward to join the other angry boys in protesting the passing of Prop H8 which bans same-sex marriage in California, effectively reversing a State Supreme Court ruling which legalized same-sex marriage in the Golden State.

The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints was, by far, the biggest financer of California's heinous and hateful Proposition 8. The Mormon Church begged their members to donate money to Prop 8, ultimately pouring 20 million dollars into the campaign. And don't think their attacks on us will end there. Right now the Mormon Church is plotting to bring their money and influence to bear against the LGBT community everywhere in this country, including New York where they are trying to prevent marriage equality.

Speak out against H8 and discrimination by telling the Mormon Church what you think! Let your lisp be heard! Stop the Mormon Church from taking away your inalienable gay rights!

New York Manhattan Mormon Temple
125 Columbus Ave (at 65th Street)
New York, NY

See you Wednesday, November 12th at 6pm!

And if you have yet to see what Keith Olbermann has to say on the issue, it's definitely worth taking six minutes out of your busy day:

You're Not One of Those Fags Who Gets Fancy Haircuts...

...hell, you're so cheap you'd probably buy a Flowbie. On eBay, no less. But you are very happy with your $14 haircuts at the Neighborhood Barbers. Unfortunately, it's neither in your neighborhood, nor anywhere close to it. Although you are cheap, you're not actually insane and you wouldn't trust your 'do with just anyone who has a pair of scissors. But you are definitely willing to commute for an exceptional barber who is exceptionally cheap and was written up in the New York Times Style Magazine for cutting John Bartlett, Narcisco Rodriguez and David LaChappelle's famous heads. If Eric Scissorhands is good enough for them, then he's good enough for you. However, never in a million years would you have ever assumed that you'd offer up your gay locks to be coiffed by some straight barber. But stranger things have happened. Anyway.

Although you're usually rather happy with his cuts, today Eric Scissorhands does an exceptional job, and afterwards, even though it's raining, you find yourself floating up First Avenue on your way to work. For some reason you're in an excellent mood, and you're not sure why, because typically you are the type of guy who keeps his eye on the sidewalk rather than on the eyes of those strangers sharing it with you, but for some reason, even though he is huddled beneath a sea of black umbrellas, you look up and lock eyes. Although he looks completely different--he is wearing glasses and has a clean-shaved face--you can't help but recognize the new and improved mug of the boy you fell in love with earlier this year. The boy who subsequently broke your heart. The boy you call Blonde Beard.

You instinctively smile. He does not. And then you wait for your heart to drop and be replaced with butterflies, moths, and bats. Oh my! But none of these critters bother to show up to give you a bout of gay ageda. You're a bit shocked by your lack of reaction, actually. Are you over him? And if you are, then why are you still thinking him five months after your three month relationship ended? You've even thought about contacting him lately. But now the gay gods have dropped Blonde Beard right into your lap. Almost like a rain drop. However, all of this crap races through your head in less than a nanosecond, and as he approaches you say, "Hey." Kind of just like that. No exclamation point. No question mark. Just a simple period that you punctuate with a hearfelt smile. Blonde Beard says, "Hey," looks away, and attempts to continue his Mary way down First Avenue.

You are in such shock that you literally stop in your footsteps and turn toward him as he attempts to make his gay getaway. Then you say, pointedly, "How are you?" in a manner that commands him to stop and acknowledge the simple moment that he has just made exponentially more awkward than it ever had to be. Blonde Beard says, "Good." But then he literally turns away from you and begins to walk away. Although you are literally dying inside, you make one last attempt to normalize this de-humanizing encounter, and you call after him, "What are you up to?" For the first time you notice that Blonde Beard is standing next to a woman who is almost as visibly confused by the bizarre situation as you are, and Blonde Beard informs you, "Just going to lunch with my co-worker. How about you?" Although you are happy to have finally received a question from this man you were in love with, your mouth answers with a simple, "Just headed to work," even though the expression on your face says, "Do you really hate me so much that you can't bear to cobble together an entire sentence for me?" And with that, Blonde Beard just turns around and walks away.

You just stand there. You actually laugh aloud, but not because you think the situation is at all funny. Your jaw is agape. You are wounded. The only thing in tact at this point is your hair. At least your hair looked good. You'll always have that. Anyway...

You're Not One of Those Fags Who Dwell in the Past...

...although your blog definitely does. However, you've been doing your very best to catch up to real time lately, but now you need to slow down for a bit so you don't gloss over some of the more ridiculous things that have recently happened. Like when you met Rice Queen and Rice Queen #2 at Star Lounge, for Josh Wood's Friday Night party at the Chelsea Hotel . Since lately you've been hemorrhaging money over ridiculous and frivolous things like furniture, your budget doesn't have much left over for the more important necessities, like booze and dates. So you guzzle down a bottle of Two Buck Chuck over a lovely, yet lonely dinner of left-overs before racing to Chelsea in order to compete heavily in the Bar Rush event during the coveted free vodka hour.

You, of course, are very competitive in this particular event and during the last few, precious minutes of the open bar, you make your way through the frenzy and decide to utilize the coveted, yet time-tested technique of double-fisting vodkas in order to ease you into the cool-down period. After that, however, everything gets a bit hazy. You remember having fun with your friends and the swarm of Gaysian boys who surround them like some impenetrable Gay Wall of China. You remember running into the Indian Guy that you may or may not have made out with on Fire Guyland, however you really have no idea if you may or may not have also made out with him at the Star Lounge.

The next thing you know, Blackout Barbie is waking up. At noon. And one thing's for damn sure, she ain't in Ken's bed. The "trick" is apparently on you, because you ain't Indian Guy's bed either. Your head is pounding as you inspect your surroundings as you attempt to piece together disparate memories of last night's events. Luckily the Naked Guy in your arms is actually even cuter than Indian Guy, and somehow it feels nice and comfortable holding him. You have a vague memory of sitting in some diner you can't remember while munching on a big-ass delicious burger with crispy fries across from the Naked Guy who's name you also cannot remember. You suddenly remember talking to him about his Berlin t-shirt, and about how he just returned from a trip there. But when Naked Guy starts yapping about that hysterical thing you allegedly said while you were ordering drinks in Barracuda, you find yourself laughing along cautiously, almost as if you're not hearing this humorous joke for the very first time. Meanwhile, when the hell did you go to Barracuda?

Even though you feel like shit, the two of you lie around in bed, making out and yapping about nothing for hours. This is mostly because you are terrified to get out of bed and face the day, but partly because you love feeling Naked Guy's naked body. It's beautiful. Yet much, much too young for you. Although you're super turned on, every time it gets a little bit hot and heavy, Naked Guy starts to talk. And talk. And talk. Mostly about himself. Which would actually be interesting if your heads (both above and below your shoulders) weren't pounding for different kinds of attention. Once your downstairs head realizes that there ain't no head gonna happen, you reluctantly get out of bed in order to take care of the head above your shoulders.

You're putting on your pants when Naked Guy points out a picture of his mother who is literally wearing a broach that says, "Jesus Loves You." That's when you notice the cross dangling around Naked Guy's neck and you immediately point to it while shaking your index finger all about while you ask in your best Karen Walker imitation, "What's up with that necklace thingie dangling around your neck, honey?" Naked Guy laughs and explains that he is rather religious and asks if you have a problem with it. You joke, "I have a bigger problem with jewelry on my men than I do with religion. And I haven't had any problems with religion ever since I gave up going to church for Lent."

Before you leave, Naked Jesus Guy gets up to write down his number on an envelope for you. Only before he writes it down, he decides to read the letter inside. It's from his best friend, and for some unknown reason, Naked Jesus Guy decides to recite it to you and your hangover. Although you're in too much pain to pay much attention, you are certainly struck by one sentence in particular that says, "I thank the Lord for bringing us together." All of this is just a bit too much for your hungover heathen ass to process, and suddenly, now that you are standing, you feel more than a bit woozy. You finger some toothpaste around your morning mouth before saying goodbye and escaping to the insanely bright, unbelievably unsympathetic, blinding afternoon sunlight.

It takes you a moment before you realize where you are. Let's face it, it really wouldn't surprise you if you were in Hackensack. But you're not. Although right about now you find yourself wishing that you had woken up in New Jersey, because you literally feel ill when you notice that you're smack in the middle of Blonde Beard's block. Looking over at his apartment building. Actually, you've been thinking about him a lot lately. Like a crazy amount. Like when you wake up alone in your bed (most) every morning. Like when you pass by one of the many restaurants you had some romantic meal in. Like so much that you've even been considering getting in touch with him lately. Just to see what the hell happened. Just to see if perhaps he's got regrets, too. After all, it's not like you fall in love everyday. But unfortunately, it's not like you've fallen out of love so quickly either. And here you are. In the West Village. Feeling like shit. Suddenly feeling pathetic and lonely as you begin your walk of shame over to the West 4th Street subway station. It's hot. And muggy. And extremely humid. And the weather is the least oppressive thing bombarding you while you stand on the same platform where your relationship with Blonde Beard ended. Will you ever get over him? And more importantly, why on earth are you more into him now than you have been for months? Why is the memory of Blonde Beard getting stronger instead of fading away? You are flooded with fond memories from the past that do nothing but make you want to cry while you wait for the F train. Anyway...

You're Not One of Those Log Cabin Republican Fags...

...but you have been known to enjoy Log Cabin on your pancakes when you're out of pure maple syrup from the blue state of Vermont.

Speaking of the Green Mountain State where your Snow Bird Republican parents reside half the year, you're extremely proud of them for voting for Obama via absentee ballot in Florida! Woo-hoo!

And if you happen to be one of those California Tops then be sure to get off your Bottoms and go out and vote No on Prop Hate! The lines aren't that bad. You only had to wait for fifteen minutes. But you did get in a fight with a pushy old lady who tried to butt in front of you. Oh back off, you know that bitch was gonna vote for McCain! Anyway...

FIND YOUR LOCAL POLLING PLACE AT: maps.google.com/vote

FAG FORWARD! You're Not One of Those Dirty Fags...

...but your apartment has become one giant mess of boxes filled with old crap you need to get rid of and new boxes filled with Ikea crap that you need to put together. But after finishing your work, you decide to blow off all the boxes and wander around your new 'hood to check out the dirty gay bars in Jackson Heights.

Being a very organized and very thirsty boy, you, of course, create a list of all the local gay watering holes. Although you've always heard that Jackson Heights was very gay, you're kind of shocked at how many bars are within stumbling distance. Although a far cry from Chelsea or Hellsea, you're rather pleased to realize that you now live in the fabuloso Latin Gay Ghetto of Jacksea. Your first stop is at a place called The Music Box, which is literally less than a block away from your new home. The drag show is a bit tragic and since you took français you only understand the 'lish half of the Spanglish performance. As usual, the bartender is cute (luckily there are some things in this gay world that you can count on regardless of language barriers) and is nice enough to go over your list. He crosses out a few of the bars and sends you directly to Friends Tavern, assuring you that it'll be busy on a Thursday night.

Friends is packed and the boys are Latin and the music is Latin and the language is Latin and you are not. Honestly you feel like you are very, very far away from home, like somewhere in South America, even though you live just a few blocks away. In fact you feel so out of place that you decide to go home after you finish your beer. But that's when some hot, shirtless, Latin guy in his early thirties introduces himself. Although nobody else seems very interested in hable inglés to your cracker ass, this Latin Potato Queen is a different story. He's actually extremely sexy, and the next thing you know you are kissing him. Hey, it happens. Unfortunately he's an extremely bad kisser (talk about the kiss of death), so after two or three hours of terrible kisses you decide you must go home. But the Latin Potato Queen doesn't want you to go yet. He obviously wants more kissing lessons. And he obviously needs them. But you are tired and when you look at your watch you want to die because somehow it is now 3am. He makes you give him your number and when you go home you make yourself a frozen burrito (wonder where you got that craving...) and the Latin Potato Queen calls you make sure you got home safe. Which is kind of sweet. Anyway.

That weekend while you're hanging pictures on your bare walls, you get a text from Rice Queen telling you to meet him at Pieces which sounds a little tragic since it's usually full of Bridge & Tunnel types, but let's face it, you are now officially a Bridge & Tunnel type! So you go to Pieces (pun intended) and the place is absolutely packed! The music is great and since your inner-Elaine needs a lot of space to dance, you quickly gravitate toward the empty stage. Soon after that the GoGo boys start to encourage you to join them on the pool table, but little do they know that how much dancing space Elaine needs... It's not long before those GoGo boys are GoneGone boys and some straight girl is trying to put money down your pants. Of course you are happy for the cash, but this girl makes you work for it by taking off your shirt before she agrees to pay up. You're a bit shy, but it's hot and you are having a blast so what the hell. When you wake up in the morning you have enough money shoved down your tightie-whities to pay for brunch . Anyway.

During your third or possibly seventh trip to the Gayest Place on Earth (Brooklyn Ikea), you realize that you are definitely being checked out by an Asian guy. You're a bit surprised when he actually walks up to you and says, "Excuse me," but you are in absolute shock when he asks, "I'm sorry to bug you but I just wanted to tell you that I love your blog." You are floored to a state of muteness, kind of like Cindy Brady when she was on that TV quiz show: "Baton Rouge, Cindy! Baton Rouge!" And then the guy asks, "You are Andy Towle from Towleroad, right?" You just smile with relief and inform him that, no, you are not Andy Towle. But this is the second time that some stranger has thought you were him. Weird.

Later that night, while you're putting together Ikea crap, you get a call from a Private Caller, and even though those unknown calls terrify you, you end up answering it because you are expecting a call from an old high school friend. Unfortunately you are wrong, and you are more than a little freaked out when the man identifies himself as an L.A.P.D. narcotics detective. The nice D.E.A. agent asks if you might happen know a guy who just happens to have the same exact name as The Ex. Your jaw drops as you curiously inform him, "Yes," while images of The Ex being arrested in a South Central crack den dance through your head. But the officer informs you that he has located The Ex's stolen computer during a recent drug bust and he's trying to get in touch with him. Then he asks if The Ex works in the entertainment industry? You tell him, "Yes, he does. Why?" The Detective says, "I was just wondering because there are lots of famous people in his address book. Like Lisa Kudrow and Danny Devito..." So you say, "And you decided to call me?" Obviously not a gay cop! Anyway.

A few nights later you and your BFF end up at The Eagle where they make you take off your Polo shirt before letting your preppy ass up to the roof deck, which is packed like leather sardines. Since it's not your typical crowd of boys, you are a bit surprised to hear your name called from across the thick crowd. You look up and see an old buddy who used to be one of your straight supportive friends in college, but is now a big ol' fag DJ whose daily whereabouts actually get written up in HX and Next. He's standing on a platform as he motions you over to join him, so, of course, you do. It's not until you get up on the platform that you can actually see what exactly is riveting the crowd of Bears. Basically there's one guy with a whip and another guy getting whipped. Only the guy getting whipped is bleeding profusely and although you really want to call 911, you just stand there and watch until you start to throw up in your mouth a little. Anyway.

Somehow you get your new apartment all put together well enough to throw your BFF a goodbye party before he moves to Rome. So you spend the day running around buying liquor and party cheese and cheap munchies at Trader Joes. The first guest to your early cocktail party arrives over two hours late and by midnight your little, early-ish party is far from over. The Karaoke Nazi takes over DJ duties and every time you turn down the stereo so your 87 year old neighbor won't call the police (please God let her be hard of hearing), someone else turns it up. Louder. The party is fun and at some drunken point during the night you decide to make a toast to your BFF. You tell the story about how you met three years ago volunteering at the Gay & Lesbian Center and how knowing him has changed your life for the better. You wrap up your drunken diatribe by blah-blah-blahing about how you love him very much and you don't know what you are going to do in NYC without your partner in crime. That's when your BFF comes over and gives you a hug and the two of you begin to sob, holding each other while you blubber uncontrollably in the middle of your drunken party.

Around 2:30am when everybody finally leaves, you decide to leave your messy apartment too, and race over to Club Atlantis to meet the Latin Potato Queen who has been texting you all night long. You're kind of hoping for a hook up, but when you get there he's really drunk and immediately attacks you with his bad kisses. And he's wearing this tragic pair of shorts which you which can only describe as lederhosen. However, when the Latin Potato Queen asks if you'd like a drink, you, of course, say, "Yes," and the two of you head up to the bar. But when the bartender comes over the Latin Potato Queen looks at you and says, "I only have ten dollars," and proceeds to put his money back into his pocket as if you are now somehow supposed to pay for the round of drinks that he offered. So you look at the bartender and say, "I'll have one Bud Lite," and pay for it with a ten.

You gulp down the beer and somehow escape but not before a few more tragic kisses are jackhammered into your mouth. When you get home your feet literally get stuck on the sticky floor just as you pass the red wine stain on your brand new white rug. You abandon the shoes and ignore the filth and all the uneaten food and half-empty cups as you climb into your bed and dream about being dirty in bed rather than sleeping in it. Anyway...