This reminds me, of course, of someone I once dated.  Someone with a very peculiar and distinctive voice who always, always identified himself with his first, last, and middle names when calling me despite the fact that I lived alone and whose mother still did most of his grocery shopping.  Unlike my most recent crush, this man actually loved law school, and after three years of practicing law, very much wished that he could still be in it.  So maybe there’s a happy medium between loving law school and loathing it, and here’s hoping that L’il Tim finds it.  I’ll also be hoping that he finds the shelf of sale denim at the Scoop location in the west village, where just last week, women’s GoldSign jeans were tagged at $39 in just his size. (There’s a reason I call him L’il Tim, and it’s not just because of the bling and the jail time.)

So today, I look a bit like a candy cane.  A tired candy cane, of course, but a candy cane nonetheless.  My skin and the sun do not get along, and so after watching this woman:

play tennis for a couple of hours, I found that my arms looked like beets and my knees had huge red stripes across them.  Thankfully, I was far enough from the court that I couldn’t see her face and was therefore only really subjected to her mannish body from afar, but that was enough to keep me up all night long. (Actually, I kept waking up because I couldn’t stand the feeling of fabric next to my raw-red skin, but just look at that face for a moment and tell me you wouldn’t have nightmares about it, too.)

Unfortunately, Kim Clijsters was only responsible for one of my sleepless nights this weekend.  Friday was also a complete blank, and for reasons I can’t understand.  There were no crazed latins with cameraphones, no East Coast law students with huge grins, and no wicked sunburn.  I didn’t leave the apartment at all, and yet I still couldn’t dream a little dream to save my life.

Later this week, after a few more attempts at sleep, I’ll fill all of you in on my latest TV guilty pleasure and will have thoughts about the upcoming Project Runway drama.  If I’m completely honest, I’m actually hoping it’s not Angela, just because she gives me an easy someone to hate.  Any thoughts?

And despite the extreme heat, obscene travel delays, and constant rainstorms while I was there, it’s fair to say that the vacation itself was useful.  If being grateful for constant clamminess and dirty streets wasn’t a sign that I really needed a break from California, I’m not sure what would be.  Of course, I think I’m being punished for leaving because it’s now even hotter here than it was in New York.  In the scarily true words of my turban-clad Indian shuttle driver this morning, “I thought I ditched this shitty weather when I left my whole family in Fresno.”

Anyway, despite feeling I’m trapped in Phoenix(but without all of the bad sideburns and concrete buildings), I’m glad to be back.  Or glad that I went.  Maybe both, even.  And without turning this blog into a shameless exploration of my own issues, (because I have a therapist for that, and she actually provides comments) I’ll simply say that I was very, very depressed before I left.  I don’t think 5 days in a sauna cured me of that, but it’s likely that I hot rock bottom at some point on Friday, at which point I shut down my computer for a full 48 hours for the first time in years.  So, after flying home this morning next to a screaming child and sorting through 400 messages of spam, here are some high- and low- lights of the trip.
Best purchase:  Cargo pants from Scoop.  I’m not sure what it means that I’ve given in to the cargo, but it happened.  And I think I’m happy about it, despite hearing from friends that when paired with my arms, the pants make me look like a bit of a thug.
Best moment:  When the iTunes Music Store finally posted last week’s episode of Project Runway.  p.s. –  I’m still having trouble believing that Tara Conner was born in 1986.

Biggest “What have I been thinking?” moment: When, after dinner with some of my friends, former neighbor confessed that all of the affection at the table made him uncomfortable.  I could never date someone like that — I am, after all, a man who has been known to hug salespeople.  On the very first purchase.

Worst wardrobe choice: New Heschung loafers during a downpour on a walk across the city.  I’m still paying for this one.

Oddest coincidence: Sitting next to someone from my freshman dorm on the flight to NY.

Biggest surprise:  Actually seeing the college friend who always cancels on me, and has consequently not been seen for 3 years. I suspect this one sighting is supposed to pacify me until one of us manages to get married.

Worst mistake:  Sleeping through a friend’s birthday dinner.   I’ve been averaging no better than 3 hours of sleep a night for more than a week, and so when I passed out Sunday evening in the middle of a conversation, my hosts simply let me sleep.  While this helpedme become a little bit more coherent, I’m not sure how likely it is I’ll be forgiven.

And speaking of sleep, I should attempt some of that now.  Because tomorrow I have to be really productive.

I’m not really sure what it’s from exactly, except that perhaps my body is rebelling against all of the recent activity that seems so unlike me.  I’m about to take a vacation for the first time in more than a year, I’m not really involved with my television in the way that I usually am(though this is still much to discuss), and I’ve been thinking much, much more than I usually do.  All of this should be enough to put me off balance, I suppose, but I think the cherry on the top of this Monday is that I “went out” this weekend for the first time in ages, and despite not drinking and not doing anything else particularly damaging(I never do that anyway) I literally haven’t been able to sleep since.  And trust me, I’ve tried.  But instead of sleeping, I just lie in bed feeling like I have a fever, suffering some semi-permanent dehydration, and wondering why, exactly, it feels like my entire body is buzzing.  If all of the bottles of water hadn’t been sealed on Friday, I’d swear someone slipped me something.

Going out anywhere gay is something that, in the past, has never been remotely enjoyable, but I tried a different bar and a different neighborhood this time, and like so many things lately, this turned out to be a completely new experience for me.  I had a few surprisingly good conversations, decided that gay men here aren’t all vile, and, in a truly absurd moment, was asked to pose for the cover of “100% Beef” magazine by their head photographer.  Seriously.  I thought it was a joke too, but no.  And no, I’m not going to do it.  I don’t even take my shirt off at the beach…  I’m definitely not going to do it for a magazine cover.  Unfortunately, this incident gave me the nickname “Porn Star” for the rest of the night, and was a bit of a problem when later, I met a man who managed to get my attention in more ways than one.
Since I don’t drink, I don’t dance, and I don’t sleep after doing it, going out for me has to involve some greater purpose.  Anything with this sort of price tag really needs to be worth i(not that I’m sure anything makes this kind of headache “worth it”).  On this particular trip, I met a guy who does indeed seem worth it in some sense, though he currently doesn’t live here.  And yes, this one was also a law student, but a very different make and model.  One that actually likes law.  And likes San Francisco.  And will be here permanently just as soon as he wraps things up in New Haven.  I had no idea I could like Yale that much.
This whole process of finding someone new to date, or at least someone I want to date, reminds me in many ways of dealing with the new season of Project Runway.  I mean, I’ve been given an entire new cast of prospects, and now I have to figure out if I think they’re attractive, if I believe they’re talented, and if I like their personalities enough to actually want to them around week after week after week. My initial personal favorite is Robert Best, but I think that’s just because I like a man who’s not afraid to undo a few buttons on his shirt.  He also does this thing with his upper lip that reminds me of Lisa Marie Presley, a woman who has managed to hurt me oh-so-good on more than one occasion.

But after my short-lived Nick fascination from last season, I’m unwilling to have back-to-back favorites from West Hollywood.  Also, Robert wasn’t in a single frame of footage from the clips of what’s happening this season on the show, and if I’ve learned anything lately, it’s that I’m not trying to get attached to someone who’s not going to be around. (Well, i’ve also learned that cameraphones have now made all activities in gay dance clubs potentially unwise.)

So then whom?  I can’t really pick a favorite from just one garment, and for the moment I’m not nearly so focused on the designs as I am actual staying power, so for this week, at least, I’m going with Laura Bennett.  The clown red lipstick on white skin throws me off, and I get that same sort of frightened drag queen vibe out of her that I get out of Rene Russo at times…

But there’s also part of me that thinks in her high-waisted dresses and tight chignon, that she’s a little bit Maureen O’Hara in her prime.  Frankly, it might just be because with her taste in clothing and five kids, one of them is bound to be gay, which is possibly a trophy among the rich and well-heeled architects of Manhattan.

Speaking of which, I’ll be there for the rest of the week.  I’ll attempt to post at least once.  Maybe twice.  But with no TV and no sleep, who knows what you’ll actually get out of me.

Does anyone else have an early PR favorite?

I know all of you are expecting a Project Runway post, and I promise to deliver one, but in the meantime, here’s a little something to chew on.  I make no claim about its authenticity, and I didn’t find it on my own, but it’s still precious.  And so I’m sharing.

So one of my summer obsessions has been watching Kathy Griffin: My Life On The D-List, and if I’m honest, even though I find her a bit hard to look at (or maybe because of that) I think I’d be willing to live in Kathy’s house and help her plan parties and buy furniture.  I mean, with Matt now officially being her ex-husband, she could probably use a large, non-threatening man around the house.  I’m unlikely to steal large sums of money, I’m likely much better than a curling iron, I wouldn’t be threatened by her relationships with the other gays, and frankly, I have a lot more hair than he did.  Actually, this could be a very good arrangement for me if I think about it;  I’d have access to a personal assistant, plenty of barely-famous people to talk to, and a much, much better dating life than the one I currently have.

Speaking of which, I had a date this weekend that I truly wish I could forget.  Normally when I say something like that it’s because the date itself went horrifically wrong in some way that has left me scarred and damaged and will haunt me in dreams and daymares for years to come.  Case in point:  Just last summer, in a move that was a bit out of character, I agreed to have lunch with a man who was, at least according to his profile, somewhat old than I might normally date.  I was just inside the range of his Half Plus Seven, but it was still a close call.  Anyway, I drove up to meet him for lunch, fully expecting to find a respectable, attractive ex-marine in his mid-forties with all of his teeth and a stocky but decent body.  This, however, is not what greeted me at the door.

It should be noted that for some reason I really needed to use the bathroom by the time I got to his place, and the house itself was hidden in some maze of cul-de-sacs with not a hint of commerce or public facility in site.  I don’t normally share such details, but desperate times call for desperate measures, and you might otherwise wonder why I didn’t just get back in my car and leave after what I saw at the door.

So again, even though I should have been tipped off by the Cadillac El Dorado in the driveway that something wasn’t right, I simply wasn’t prepared when the guy who opened the door was at least ten years older and probably seventy pounds heavier than what I expected.  And what I really, really couldn’t have been prepared for was that he was wearing combat boots, camouflage pants, and a black mesh tank top stretched tautly over the bulging belly that was begging for air.  If this is what he was planning to wear to lunch, I was pretty sure I didn’t even want to know where he thought we’d be eating.

Clearly at this point I knew this was a bad idea.  Not only was he fat and old and dressed for boot camp, but there was also a heavy beard and thick moustache that had not been included in any of the pictures I’d already seen.  It was like staring at Santa…  if he and his reindeer were headed to Iraq.

Unfortunately, I really, really needed to use the bathroom, and despite knowing I’d have to make 10 or 15 minutes of small talk before remembering that I had somewhere else to be, at that moment I needed to get past the former drill sargeant and make my way into his latrine.  He just stood there and looked at me with his hand propped up on the doorframe, almost daring me to walk into his exposed and hairy armpit.  And then he grinned wickedly, scratched his belly with the other hand,a nd invited me in.

I don’t know..  maybe I hesitated too long or had the wrong look on my face when I looked at his armpit.  Maybe my need to use the loo translated in some strange way that I didn’t intend.  Or maybe he was really just that perverse and twisted.  Regardless, I was completely stunned and paralyzed when he suddenly reached forward with one meaty paw, grabbed the back of my head, and smoothly and swiftly shoved it into what would forever after be known to me as the Pit of Despair.  Not one was his armpit furry, I quickly discovered, but it was also both ripe and wet.

“You like that?  You like that, boy?” he asked as I choked and jerked away as quickly as possible.  Needless to say, I did not.

I left his place as fast as I possibly could, wiping part of the pit stain off of my face with a garage rag from my trunk and praying desperately that somewhere in his suburban maze I’d find an oasis where I might empty my bladder and wash my face at the same time, but it was not to be.  Instead, I raced the entire way home, legs practically crossed, and screaming into my cell phone to anyone who would listen that I had never needed a shower so badly in my life.

And this, of course, is the sort of date that I’d very much like to forget.

Alas, Sunday was not this sort of date… it was a kinder, gentler sort of date where so many things added up nicely save the most important piece.  And while it was nice to be reminded that the world is not without nice guys, it was also frustrating to meet one and know with certainty that he was not the one for me. I wish him luck without sarcasm, because I think he deserves it.

In other news, Project Runway officially starts tonight.  I think I could have a mild crush on one of this season’s designers, but I need a few episodes to see whether or not this could be true.

And speaking of crushes, ex-neighbor and former crush told me tonight that he is definitely staying in New York for the next year.  I watched the last cycle of Project Runway with him, so it looks like this season is going to feel a little bit empty.  I should probably work on finding someone to fill his seat.

Since I can’t seem to get many of you to actually leave comments on here, I’m taking desperate measures… I’m posting a picture of myself. Thankfully, this is a self I have long since outgrown and barely recognize, but if this doesn’t get more than a total of two comments, I may give up and shut the blog down forever. Seriously, people, I know these are just my ramblings but they still take more time to write than they do to read, so in the words of the hopefully mortal Steve Harvey, show some love. And leave some comments. Also, phone calls explaining that you couldn’t comment because you read the postings on your smartphone or PDA will not be accepted. That’s really not the sort of PDA I’m looking for here. That’s right, people… I want is for you to reach out and touch me right here on the blog.
So it turns out that the guy threatening to excavate my mind has decided he doesn’t have the tools required for the dig. Last night, I got a long and oddly worded explanation of how really, anything that happened between us was bound to be too intense because of our personalities, and that he doesn’t have a “facility for my sense of humor” which was apparently too dark for him. I can’t believe anyone would ever think that I have a dark sense of humor.

This however, is the least of my problems on the romantic front. Just when I think I’ve met some reasonable option… just when I think there’s a guy who actually lives here who smell good, treats people well, and appreciates my need to watch America’s Next Top Model, and just when I’m about to go to New York to visit him because he’s there for the summer, he informs me, just last night, that he is seriously considering dropping out of law school and not returning to CA. Despite spending most of my time preparing for eventual catastrophes and thinking about all of the things in my life that could go wrong, this particular bit of cosmic injustice is not one that had ever crossed my mind. Maybe this means there’s some bit of optimist in me after all. Clearly, I’m going to have to work on changing that. Yes, I’m still seeing him in two weeks, but this trip is now clearly not offering the sort of resolution for which I might have hoped. My friends insist that I should just assume he’s coming back, but if you met any of the other people who actually attend that law school, you wouldn’t blame him for drinking heavily and considering a semi-permanent relocation to the bowels of Maine.
In other news, I will also soon be relocating, though the move is likely to take me no farther than an adjacent area code. And I’ll be living with a woman no less, after years of flying solo. Thankfully, she has excellent taste in television, but this is not likely to do anything good for my street cred as a homosexual. I think I might actually need to work on that. As things stand now, I completely skipped Pride, am only making it to the gym three times a week, and have gone out to a gay bar exactly once in 2006 and didn’t speak to a soul while I was there. There were myriad catcalls for me to take off my shirt from college boys who know not what they ask, and more than one trio of gays tried to rope me in and round out their numbers, but I remained impervious and mute whenever and wherever possible.

Believe it or not, I’m actually very shy around strangers. Or completely disinterested. Or both. I think maybe it has a bit to do with my childhood, of which I’m providing a glimpse below. I mean, if you grew up looking like this kid, you’d be cautious about what fools you let step on your island too.

***Hawaiian, age 12, with his first show pig, Luau, a Duroc-Hampshire triple cross gilt. Hawaiian, kicking it in a wheelchair, is sporting some bad shoes, terrible glasses, white jeans, and a smile. If this picture doesn’t deserve a comment, I don’t know what in the hell does.***

And yes, my friends, I have been properly punished. To begin with, Just My Luck had a terrible script. Truly terrible. Like, almost as bad as Simply Irresistible, which I’ll still watch on cable but almost abandoned in the theater. And then I had to see my mother. And then I got a wicked sunburn. And then, of course, because it is my job to amuse you, I sprained my ankle on the first day of hip hop class.

What? Hawaiian-style hip hop? Doesn’t that sound like an accident waiting to happen? Isn’t Hawaiian a big 30-year old white guy who’s guilty of watching So You Think You Can Dance and who could be accused of having a mild obsession with any and all dance movies, but who never, ever dances himself? Doesn’t this sound like the sort of trainwreck destined to haunt and humor onlookers for a lifetime? Well, yes, it does. And it was. And somewhere, right now, a 17-year old girl who dances like her mother is watching, is sitting in a campus dorm with other kids here for a summer program, telling a story that probably once again has the punchline “and believe it or not, he was completely horizontal in midair.”

So yes, I have been shown the error of my ways, and I really, truly promise not to fall off the wagon (or the dance floor) in quite the same way ever again. I may have said something similar once before, but this time I have scar tissue and shame to remind me of my trespass. Once things get a bit more visually appealing around here, I’ll be as a faithful to this blog as a chastised husband. (Which, I’m only guessing, means you’ll be getting action at least 2 or 3 times a week.)

In fact, just to keep myself honest, here are a few things that might surface on the waters of this page sometime soon:

1.)I have a date this week with some guy who keeps threatening to do things like “excavate my mind.” I don’t know why I do this to myself. I really don’t. I already know he doesn’t belong in my sandbox, but it could still be worth the story.
2.)I’m going to NYC in a couple of weeks. And while there, I’m planning to tell my current crush that he is, in fact, my current crush. I don’t know what to expect from this, and again, I don’t know why I do this to myself, but there’s always that chance that it might also be worth the story.

3.)The latest cycle of Project Runway is hitting Bravo. I’m not sure if I’m ready to invest heavily in another cycle of this show so soon after the last one, but I do miss Tim and Michael and Nina and Heidi, so let’s hope they also give us something to talk about.

In other news, I saw both the new Superman movie and The Devil Wears Prada this week. I’m my dream world, I’d like to meld the two into one superhappy gay film called Superman Wears Prada where the man of Steel saves a runway show and all of fashion from the evil Patternmaker with Shears of Doom. At the end of the movie, Meryl Streep gives a final smile of approval as the superhero ditches the dowdy Lois Lane for Alessandra Ambrosio, and the superhero and supermodel then live happily ever after.

Alas, this did not happen, so let me break the two of them down for you quickly, diva v. dragonslayer, by examining someof the more crucial elements of each, um, film.

Best Signature hair: Meryl’s frosty and overpowering wave easily trumped Superman’s missing curly forelock. Winner: Devil

Most Dowdy Reporter: Even in her worst Contempo clashmere sweater, Anne Hathaway isn’t an unattractive as a very unfeminine Kate Bostworth playing Lois Lane. The odd shape of her forehead in profile aside, Kate’s mane doesn’t see a brush during the entire movie, and it desperately needs one. Worst-frocked Frau award: Superman

Best wardrobe: Normally, I’m going to side with the movie that has the tall guy in a codpiece on this one, but I just can’t this time. Not only does the Devil go through a dozen or so split-second costume changes, including accessories, but she also trumps the champ when it comes to his most signature item of clothing by outcaping him at least 15:1, andnot all of hers are red and rubbery. Winner: The Devil in a (sometimes) blue (but usually black) dress.

Best sidekick: Though I still think Parker Posey could have used a few more lines in Superman, I know she’s about to put the Oh in Ohio for me in a couple of weeks, and I just wasn’t up for the Devil giving me yet another artsy gay character with no satisfying personal life, so he has to throw himself into his work. Yes, being the chief stylist at a fashion magazine probably has some perks, but they don’t really compare to being the most favorite mistress of the genius villian. Winner: Everything’s coming up Posey.
And finally, (just to break the tie)…

Best cameo: Maybe I’m tired of reading about all of the people who appear in the Superman movie in homage to roles they played in early tellings of the Man of Steel tale. I think I’m supposed to be glad that they’re all still alive to keep acting. The Devil trumps, this, however, by having Valentino play himself in the movie. This was clearly the most amazing feat in recent cinematic history because in order to make it happen, Valentino had to either be brought back from the dead, or rescued from Fantasy Island.

Believe it or not, I actually enjoyed both movies. Seriously. I mean, it was tough in a way because one movie made it hard for me to care about the romance, while the other didn’t even want to give me a romance to care about, but I survived. And I’m ok with it. Maybe I’m not supposed to get my summer dose of romance in the cineplex this year. As long as there are no cameras watching or villians to stop, maybe some bit of it is waiting in New York. I’ll know soon enough, I guess. In the meantime I’ll keep hoping I wake up with the ability to fly. Because really, with a sprained ankle and the current absurd price of airline tickets, what more could I ask for?

Besides, I bet it’s a really good workout.

And such was the case last weekend. While the rest of the country was enjoying a three day weekend, I was reminding myself that if you were to stick me in a crowd of gay men, one of these things is most certainly not like the others. I should have been smart and stuck to the Law and Order:CI marathon on USA. I could have played it safe and watched some sort of collection of shows about grilling on the FoodNetwork. Hell, I could fallen asleep outside and spent all of Monday night nursing a wicked sunburn, and that still would have been better than what I actually ended up doing to myself.

So just to give a bit of background, it’s probably wise to break down the gays for the rest of you a bit. To assign categories. To clear up some mystery. To let you all know that no matter how bad you think straight dating is, at least your bars aren’t segregated by criteria like body fat percentage, price of your jeans, and the presence or lack of chest hair. Needless to say, stepping into the wrong bar in the wrong bit of denim at the wrong point between waxings could be really traumatic for a gay man, which is why I tend to not go out at all.

Anyway, let’s take a look at some of the categories with broad strokes. It’s actually possible that you can cross over a couple of categories, but this is rare. It happens, though, and I’ll have to discuss this in a bit.

So, in alphabetical order….

Bears — Bears, really, are the lesbians of the gay community. They don’t really care about big they get. They don’t do anything to manage their body hair, and they seem to mostly be attracted to men in the same shape that they are. Your typical bear eats a lot of dairy, has a lot of bear friends, and wears very cheap clothing. There’s also usually some facial hair and often a baseball cap.(Are you getting the similarity to lesbians yet?) Bears prefer watching sports to playing them because the playing is bad for their knees, and their bars tend to have names like The Dugout, The Eagle, or something ending in “Saloon.” The bear, like the lesbian, likes a sense of community, and can therefore be found on websites like Bear411.
Chubs — chubs are like bears, but without the body hair or at least the facial hair. It’s really that simple. Without the body hair to fetishize, chubs aren’t usually into each other, and therefore have to rely on a special category of gay men to get action. These men don’t have a specific physical type except that they aren’t big, and are known as Chasers. Chasers can often be spotted attending events like Planet Big. (Please check that link at your own risk, but I really hope you do check it. Because it’s just that wrong.)

Cubs — Pretty much as you might expect, Cubs are just younger and smaller versions of bears. They can usually see their toes if they look straight down. Not always, but usually. They have round heads, short beards. A muscular cub is know as a Musclecub just as a muscular furry bearded guy is typically a Musclebear. Musclebears and Musclecubs can also be…

Gym Queens — Prefer the local Gold’s to the local bar. These men tend to also like each other, but more than that, like men who like them. Their online profiles tend to list activities of interest like “muscle worship” and wrestling. Their online haunts are places like BigMuscle and HardBuddies.
Hipsters — thin, young, Puma-wearing, critical, self-impressed, pseudo-intellectuals. Almost always smokers. Not interested in even socializing with anyone else who isn’t also a hipster and hasn’t also toyed with ideas of communism or immersed themselves in excessive amounts of social theory.
Jocks — If Jake Gyllenhaal were a gay, this would be his category. Jocks are usually wearing something fairly athletic and will happily don a pookah shell necklace regardless of the occasion or their age. If Wentworth Miller came out, this could also be his category, but he’d also be considered a…

Prep — men who usually think they have great educations and carefully selected wardrobes. They’re unfailingly Brat Packish, travel in groups, prefer hard alcohol to beer, and annoy me. I once dated one of these who honestly wore a smoking jacket to bed and had to drink Bailey’s and milk every night before he could go to sleep. And before you ask, he was only 33. Yes, I know. And that’s why I’m not dating him any longer.

Twinks — under 23, under 150 pounds, and more hairless that an Olympic swimmer. Needless tosay, I have nothing in common with the Twinks.
Now, this list is by no means exhaustive. There are Otters(bears without body fat), Leathermen, the outdoorsy granola guys who are sort of hipsters, but are more likely to be high than anything else, and there are men like Hawaiian, who is essentially none of the above. I’m probably some odd blend of musclecub and prep with some tired old straight man thrown in to temper things, but I don’t have a round head, I avoid dairy and I definitely don’t travel in a pack, so that keeps me firmly out of either of those other categories. Of course, when it comes to discussing all of the different gay categories, it’s impossible to forget the most iconic of all gay stereotypes, the Circuit Boy.
Circuit Boys are a special kind of gay — they aren’t necessarily cookie cutter in appearance(though they’re almost always Gym Queens), but they are essentially uniformly identical when it comes to behavior. They usually date each other, take vacations that involve large circuit parties like Southern Decadence or Atlantis cruises, and have no problem with going out on Sunday night to drink, dance and do a little X before work on Monday. Circuit boys essentially look like porn stars, party like rock stars, and spend money like former child TV stars, so I was really, really surprised when was of these most odd creatures decided that he was absolutely, undeterredly, most definitely interested in me.

I thought it was a bit of a joke at first. Though I’m a reasonably good looking guy, there isn’t a single shirtless picture of me anywhere in existence, I don’t really drink, I definitely don’t think doing a line is a great way to make new friends, and being on a gay cruise ship is pretty much my idea of hell. I know I should have run the other way the very first time he said “My friends all laugh at Six Feet Under, but I really don’t understand dysfunction at all.” And I’m sure the fact that he has a boxing trainer, a personal trainer, a housekeeper, a cardio coach, and was desperately trying to lose 5 more pounds from his already chiseled midsection before the height of pool party season should have clued me in to what lay in store, but I was being fairly dense about that as well. I mean, let’s be honest — I was both flattered and fascinated. And I’m not sure which of those emotions is more rare for me, so I had to see where things would go.

Anyway, fully expecting to spend Monday night working on a personal project and watching some kind of marathon, I was completely surprised to get a “hey, I’m flying up to see you tomorrow” phone call on Sunday night. (Yes, he lives in West Hollywood, and no, we hadn’t actually met in person yet.) I couldn’t exactly say no to this offer. I didn’t have any other real plans, I didn’t have an easy way out of it, and, frankly, I didn’t entirely want out of it. I was curious. I was interested. I was bored.

To call the night a disaster would be, well, an understatement on my part. To be very clear about something I think I’ve mentioned before, I do not like small men. And yes, I know there was a date with a pocket gay, but that was an experiment. I knew he was small before meeting. I knew that. But this one was supposed to be bigger. I had a very clear weight promise of 185. And I’m telling you now, there’s no way in hell this man was 185. And even if he were 185, that wouldn’t really make up for the fact that as he was getting ready for bed, he looked at me and said “Yes, before you ask, I do wear girls’ socks because my feet are that small.”

The truly sad thing about that comment was that after a full two hours at dinner where he didn’t ask me a single question, this was the most self-aware thing he managed to say all evening. Clearly, this date would not have been a sleepover if a flight hadn’t been involved and if he hadn’t been leaving again at 5 the next morning. Oddly, nearly everything he said actually sounded like a question because of the upward drift at the end of the delivery, so dinner consisted me asking questions and of him giving me answers like “So I was on a gay cheerleading squad?” and then silently watching him conduct an internal debate aloud(with many, many changes in frontrunner) about what was truly his most favorite episode of Sex and the City. By the time he passed out and started snoring, I was more than ready to sit outside and call a friend, and ask myself (and her) why I would ever, ever do such a thing to myself. I needed something to remind me to not let this ever happen again.

And I got that reminder the next morning while he took a shower and I stared at my wall, waiting for 5:25 to roll around so that he could leave and I could go back to sleep. You see, I keep pretty big soap in my shower. It’s Nancy Boy, actually. The tea rose scent. And it’s lovely. And I somehow knew that he wouldn’t be able to resist it. But the bar is big and his hands… well, his hands sort of go with the feet. So over and over, I heard a big and whopping thud! that told me each and every time he dropped the soap.

I started laughing out loud by the fourth time, and it happened so many more times in the next five minutes that by the time he was dressed and ready to leave, I couldn’t quit smiling. “I wasn’t sure if you enjoyed yourself last night, but yeah, I’m really glad I came up, too,” he said, completely mistaking my amusement for interest.

I didn’t really have to words to say what I really wanted to at that moment, so instead I let him and his Tumi luggage, his Dior necklace, his True Religion jeans, and his girl socks leave without saying much else. And then I took the soap out of the shower. It’s so dented that it looks like I tried to carve it into something. I think I”m going to save it, and the next time I’m tempted to do something like say yes to a short circuit boy, I should have to rethink my final answer and wash my mouth out with soap.

I think I’ve been living with some sort of long-term hangover lately. It’s hard to describe, really, but if I were to attempt to capture the sensation for the rest of you, it’s almost like my eyes have been taped open, and I’ve been forced to stare at a picture of

for far too long. Despit my love of hard women, I find no comfort in staring at Missi. She just hurts. And this, to me, is what separates her from my all time favorite hurts-so-good scarlet starlet, Miss Nicolette Sheridan. I’m still having trouble believing that Nicolette has recorded a duet with Michael Bolton for his next album, but given what happened with the American Idol results this year and considering that I’ve actually started listening to an Ashlee Simson song, I think I’ve accepted that in the world of popular music, truly anything is possible.
And as for the whole Idol thing, there seems to be a lot of confusion about how Taylor Hicks actually managed to win this year. Despite my crush’s insistence that it is simply proof that democracy can never be anything but vulgar, let me just say that Taylor Hicks won because there are a lot of 40 year-old women out there with no comfort but cats and processed food who thought of him as the working woman’s George Clooney and all imagined that they could be his First. And seriously, before anyone protests, let me just say that any man who dances like that and is under the age of 55 absolutely has to be a virgin. The dancing was the tell that these women used to identify his special circumstance. And therefore the dancing — not the singing — is the real reason that Taylor won. I know this because I grew up around women who voted for him. In fact, one of them even went with me to my prom.

Yes, that’s right. She went with me to my prom. And for those of you who don’t remember the story or for those of you who are new to the Hawaiian terrain, let me provide you with a quick retelling of the tale.

So it probably comes as no surprise that I was not popular in high school. I mean, it’s hard to be popular when you’re the chubby, short, bespectacled gay kid who’s good at everything but throwing a football and making friends. And it doesn’t really help if you’ve already read everything assigned in your sophomore English class, and therefore entertain yourself by reading the complete Danielle Steel while everyone else struggles through Beowulf. (Old English is apparently very hard if you still haven’t mastered the new stuff.) In fact, it’s probably fair to say that this strategy is guaranteed to alienate absolutely everyone in the classroom… except, of course, for the 24-year-old substitute teacher who is envious of your reading material and sees in you the spark of great and total gayness.

This woman would, over time, lead me down a path of homosexual cultural high points littered with Streisand albums and Steel Magnolias, illuminated by tales of her three different ex-fiances named Matt, Troy, and Troy who taught her through their chastity and lizard-stamped loafers how to spot a gay in nascent stages. She would take me to color guard competitions, to chick flicks, and to touring performances of broadway plays all despite my mother’s deep but silent disapproval. She insisted that she looked like Jodie Foster, but despite her experimentation with prescription diet drugs and regular colonics, the extra fifty pounds of shame she carried around since college always made her look a lot more like

Wynonna Judd.

By my senior year of high school, she was my best friend in the world, and because of her perpetual high pony tail and her small upper lip, I called her The Samurai.

I had never planned to go to my Junior prom despite having actually planned it, but The Samurai insisted that I do so. It was something not to be missed, she said over and over again. A prom was a memory that would last forever. And indeed it was. Because I took The Samurai’s younger sister as my date, and both my family and hers were horrified when The Samurai herself jumped into the limo with us at the last possible moment. It seemed she’d planned to catch up on a few taped episodes of Days of Our Lives while the two of us in formal clothing went to dinner and the dance. Alas, the limo driver refused to drive the car while I wasn’t in it, opting instead stand outside of the car itself and smoke, so when my date and I returned to the car, all we found was a driver who reeked of unfiltered Camels, and a very miffed and angry Samurai.

So what does this have to do with American Idol, you might be asking yourself, and how could I possibly know that The Samurai voted for Taylor despite having not talked to her in roughly a decade? Well, when the Samurai was at her most lonely, she’d always reach for something low and raspy. Some Bruce Springsteen. Some Joe Cocker. Some Van Morrison. The Michael Bolton cover of “Drift Away.” Something that she could tell herself was, for better or worse, the sound of a straight man wooing his prey. And even if Taylor sounded more disabled than straight while shouting “soulpatrol!” and spazzing out next to Ryan Seacrest, his dance moves were nothing if not completely heterosexual.

If I know anything about Samurai, it’s that she’s still single, still looking, and still watching things like American Idol. This is a woman, after all, who saw every single episode of Star Search. And Solid Gold. (And Felicity, though I think that filled some very different emotional needs for her.) And I also know, from personal experience, that she’s capable of speed dialing at an amazing rate. Faster than her phone can do it, in fact. And I know she’s not alone. I have an aunt who was probably dialing right along with her. Another Springsteen fan. Another spinster. Another woman who feels abandoned by her increasingly gay TV who’s holding out for a hero, even if the white knight in this case already has a full head of gray hair and couldn’t ride a horse to save his life and looks constipated while singing. These women were the heart of the Soul Patrol. These women are the reason that the new American Idol looks like Jay Leno and dances like a blind man.

So I can’t say that I’m happy about Taylor, but Danielle won America’s Next Top Model and Harold is the new Top Chef, so something is still right with the world. Oh… and I just had one of those long late night conversations with someone unexpectedly sweet and totally uncomplicated. He said it was fantastic and like being in high school all over again. I’ll agree with him that it was fantastic, but if that conversation reminded him of high school, I can pretty much gaurantee that his teenage years were absolutely nothing at all like mine.

So for those who’ve been paying attention to the lack of updates around here, it’s probably pretty clear that Hawaiian has had a bad case of page fright recently.

And I’m not exactly sure what’s behind it.  Maybe it’s the growing headache I’ve had for the past three weeks.  Maybe it’s the morning sunlight that pours in through the cracks between my white blinds and bounces off of my white walls and reflects back from the white sheets and reminds me that truly, at the end of the day, I really am living in an institution.  Maybe it’s because my car wouldn’t start today for absolutely no discernible reason.  Maybe it’s because Kimberly didn’t participate in the Real Housewives reunion show or because I had to deal with too much Nicole Jamrose on Nashville Star or too much Taylor on American Idol.  Maybe I’m not eating enough fiber or drinking enough beer.  Or maybe I’m just a little bit sad that my current infatuation is leaving at the end of this week and will be gone for most of the summer, which means three entire months without that which has become my new favorite thing.  I know, I know…  there are phones, webcams, instant messages, email, and a host of other ways to reach out and touch someone between San Francisco and New York, but he and I seem to work best when separated by no more than arm’s length.  After all, he was only three feet away when I recently said that I adore him, and he, in his wide-eyed, wide-browed, Dr. Suess character sort of way, looked at me and said with not an ounce of guile, “But why?”

Why indeed.

Anyway, for the rest of you who need to spend some time this Sunday convincing your mother that she is indeed someone that you adore, I wish you good luck and a reminder that while last-minute flowers might cost a small fortune, an online gift certificate might be just what you need to say “I love you” on time and with great efficiency.  And if you’re not really in the mood to celebrate Mother’s Day this year, spend some time with MTV and see if they serve up a few episodes of Yo Momma or Date My Mom.  If that doesn’t make you appreciate your own mother a bit more, maybe she really doesn’t deserve the holiday.

Favorite joke from a recent episode of Yo Momma?

“Yo Momma’s so bald, she took a shower and got brainwashed.”

You know, if my receding hairline doesn’t slow down sometime soon, one day might kids might end up hearing a similar joke about me.