Don't Cry for Me New York City

The Wheels on the Bus

2011-08-23T23:03:00.011-04:00

Last summer, a few friends from my running group and I decided to defy Father Time, turn back the clock and act like little kids for a day. In light of our tight budgets, a trip to Disney World was out of the question so we racked our brains for an economical alternative.

A few conditions –

1. We wanted to act like little kids by partaking in death-defying rides and consuming copious amounts of funnel cakes without being judged for eating our feelings, but we still wanted to drink like 20-somethings (even though I, being the eldest in the group – shudder — was not and am not in my twenties).

2. None of us wanted to be surrounded by actual little kids while drinking like 20-somethings.

The solution? Gay Day at Six Flags Great Adventure in New Jersey—sort of a poor man’s Disney World. A very, very poor man.

As someone who has had to coordinate group travel as part of a job, I was only too happy when my friend SG volunteered to plan the transportation. While I love SG dearly, this would be the last time I relinquish control of anything ever again.

Since we signed up late for the event, the only group transportation SG could find was something called the “Sober Bus.” We agreed that having to stay alcohol free for the hour long bus ride wasn’t the end of the world, and, in any event, we could always enjoy an adult beverage prior to our boarding. Certainly, others would do the same, no?

The day to celebrate our inner child finally came, and in advance of joining the Sober Bus we thought there would be nothing wrong with grabbing lunch, drinking a few pitchers of sangria (each) and letting the buzz of the last days of summer (read: alcohol) wash over us.

Just then SG noticed an e-mail sent by the bus coordinator. It read:

“Just as a reminder: Although our bus is substance free, Six Flags is not. If you feel yourself slipping today, feel free to get back on the bus and call your sponsor. Have a great day! xoxox”

The realization that we were stepping onto a 12-step bus settled in. I quickly started giving directives.

“Look guys,” I said. “Let’s be respectful, sit in the back of the bus and not cause a scene. Also, eat a mint…all of you!”

While the Listerine Breath Strips might have concealed the sangria on our breaths (but probably didn’t), I could not hide the lovely affliction known as “Asian Flush” unless I had a mask handy or convinced people that I had just gone face tanning. I decided the only thing I could do was get on the bus, head bowed Geisha-style, and stare out the window for 60 minutes. No one would bother me, right?

We sullenly got on the bus like members in a chain gang and made our way to the back. Based on the raucous environment and friendly exchanges between the other bus members, we realized that everyone on the bus knew each other from 12-step meetings.

My plan to fly under the radar was thwarted in about 30 seconds when I felt a tap on my shoulder and a cheerfully manic voice.

“Hi! I’m Timothy! I don’t recognize you from the meetings. How long have you been in CMA?”

Now, being a classical music nerd, the only CMA I knew of was Chamber Music America, but even in my confused and inebriated state I realized we were not talking about the same nonprofit organizations.

I panicked. I looked to my friends to help me justify our presence, but they quickly denied me by looking out their respective windows while snickering.

“Uh…” I stammered. “My name is Jonah…we…I…heard about this bus online…and…thought I would feel…more COMFORTABLE in THIS environment.”

Timothy gave me a look that smacked of “I hear you, my brother,” placed a palm on my shoulder and said, “I see. Well, I look forward to seeing much more of you in the future.”

Just then, the bus coordinator announced that everyone’s name had been thrown into a drawing, and a few lucky riders would be receiving gift bags in just a few short moments.

Now, as many of my friends know, I enter any and all free contests. My borderline obsession with give-a-ways has garnered me a free trip to Atlantic City, two free airline tickets to anywhere in the United States, a 12 ounce Jamba Juice, a box set of The Sopranos among other fabulous tax free prizes. This was one situation where I wanted to lose big.

“Is there a Jonah on the bus? Come on up and claim your prize!!!”

My self-assigned sponsor was elated and yelled, “He’s back here!” while pointing and jumping up and down.

The uber-manic energy on the bus alarmed me as I snaked my way down the tiny aisle towards my gift bag. One man slapped my behind. One man picked me up and spun me around. Only then did I notice that many of the men were missing teeth and had high densities of tattoos. Curious, I thought…

I sheepishly took my gift bag, thanked the bus coordinator and made my way back to my seat. More of the same – behind slapping. Yelling. More missing teeth. What was going on? And the gift bag? It was filled to the brim with tons of candy, coffee and a Hello Kitty keychain.

I recounted this tale to a friend a few days after the trip. Being more familiar with the 12-step world, he alerted me to the fact that the CMA bus was not for recovering alcoholics or people who enjoyed Mozart string quartets.

“Jonah,” my friend chided. “CMA is Crystal Meth Anonymous. Everyone there thought you were recovering from a Meth addiction.”

I suddenly felt stupid for bragging about how many numbers I got that day. No one was trying to pick me up. They were trying to save me!

Coming Soon…

You Are Not from Austria and Other Tales of Travel

Part Two: 30 is the New 80 or Let's Get Physical

2010-12-23T01:13:00.015-05:00

continued from Part One: 30 is the New 80 or Let's Get Physical

Seeing the task “Personal Training Session #1” in my Outlook Calendar was as surreal to me as the actual thought of going. What was I thinking? My last attempt at prolonged physical activity - not including a handful of lessons in ballet, tap and Pilates - dated as far back as little league baseball where my exasperated coach told me for the hundredth time that no, the team t-shirts did not in fact come in any smaller sizes or brighter colors.

I was greeted at my first session by the amazingly beautiful personal trainer Troy. Although he sounded like Early Man on the phone, his toothy grin and perfect physique made me think I had been too hasty in my earlier judgment of him. Maybe he just wasn’t a phone-talker, and, truth be told, sometimes cute is enough.

Troy informed that the first order of business was to determine my body fat percentage as he dutifully tied a contraption to my right bicep, pressed a button and told me to stand still. Embarrassingly, and, more to the point - sadly - the absence of any real “bicep” enabled the machine to fall to the floor, break into two and emit an annoyed, mechanical groan.

I stood there for a moment in disbelief. While I fully expected to embarrass myself at some point during the training process, I 1) didn’t expect it to happen within the first five minutes of my arrival; and 2) thought it would involve lifting something, anything.

Troy looked at me blankly as I asked hopefully, “Well, I guess that happens a lot, right?”

“Uh, actually it doesn’t, and that machine costs a lot.”

We were off to a good start.

Troy wisely decided to jump into the gym and initiated me to a whole new level of pain with an excruciating circuit training routine. I hardly had time to think as he barked orders at me, until his final set of instructions:

“Now lay on the floor, grab my ankles and throw your legs over your head while I shove them towards the floor! Do it! Do it now!”

I paused. My face turned red; I paused again.

“I’m sorry…I didn’t…could you please repeat that? What did you say after the lay on the floor part?” I stammered.

Troy - dear, sweet Troy - was oblivious to the sudden rush of heat to my face and said, politely this time, “Just, like, lay on the floor, hold my ankles and throw your legs over your head.”

“Ok, that’s what I thought you said. Just making sure…”

I found it odd that as we were in the middle of such an intense work out, during which I could barely breathe, Troy insisted on making superficial small talk.

“So, like, did you work today?”

“I…work…[wheeze]…most…[cough]…days.”

“Cool, like, what do you do?”

“I…[ugh]…am a….fund…raiser…for an [gasp]…opera…com…pany.”

“Wow. That’s totally different. Is that, like, hard?”

“Yes. But…[groan]…not as hard…as…talking to you…right…[grunt]…now. Please stop. I’m dying.”

Next stop: abs

Troy decided that I had endured enough circuit training torture for one day and brought me to two sharply inclined chairs found in a weight room filled with the local Italian meatheads. The theory was that while I performed sit-ups at an aggressive angle, Troy would throw a pink medicine ball at my head that I would in turn catch and throw back. This theoretical cycle would last for 100 repetitions a session, and, after three weeks, I would emerge from the gym with perfect abs. The theory assumed a modicum of upper body strength and hand-eye coordination not currently found in my repertoire of skills, and after literally dropping the ball countless times and throwing it to a phantom trainer positioned immediately to the left or right of Troy, we both burst into a raucous laughter that echoed throughout the weight room. The meatheads stared at the two giggling abs-masters like we were crop circles, which prompted me to ask Troy, “Am I ruining your reputation around here? Is being seen with me bad for your business?” Then Troy did the unthinkable and said, while winking, “Nah, dude. I don’t care what anyone says about me.” I instantly stopped caring that he probably couldn’t read. I had found my soul mate.

I only lasted for three more private sessions before I decided to join a running group in the city instead. When Troy asked why I was quitting, I made up some lame excuse about needing more time to find myself and determine my own fitness goals. In a weird way, it felt like a break up. In actuality, I just couldn’t justify the expense. $100 an hour seemed like a lot to pay to constantly humiliate myself in public, especially since I regularly find more frugal ways to do it. While I never did find out my body fat percentage or figure out how to throw a pink medicine ball around a crowded room, I will always fondly remember my brief relationship with Troy, circuit training and the awkward glances from the Italian meatheads in the weight room. Those memories are priceless.

Coming soon…

He Runs Hard for his Money

Part One: 30 is the New 80 or Let's Get Physical

2010-03-03T23:22:00.012-05:00

On the eve of my 30^th birthday I received a myriad of comical cards from friends and family attempting to scare me out of my third decade of life. I accepted the jokes about old age, hair loss, and the inevitable decline of the human body, but one package actually succeeded in alerting me to my imminent physical decay.

An informational brochure from Pinelawn Memorial Properties – whose emblem is a dove breaking through the ground with the words “let’s face it now” tattooed on its puffed up chest – appeared in my mailbox and asked me probing questions I hadn’t thought of as a newly anointed 30-year old:

Do you need a will?

What does survivor do with will [sic]?

How about lawyers’ fees?

What 6 phone calls must be made?

Thinking this must have been prompted by any number of my friends who posses a dark/sick sense of humor, I confronted the most obvious suspects. To my surprise, none of them claimed responsibility for the well-timed arrival of my first memorial site offer. Although I was tempted by its promises of “permanent mausoleum maintenance” and “absolutely no carrying charges” (both of which seemed like they would be hard to enforce if I was, in fact, dead) I threw the packet away and chalked it up to a premature sales pitch.

The months following the landmark birthday were marred by a rocky emotional landscape that prompted me to reclaim the buoyancy of my twenties by joining a gym and, for the first time, getting a personal trainer. I chose the ever-plentiful New York Sports Club due to its proximity to both work and home so I would have little excuse not to go, and, more importantly, because the one at home is located directly above a McDonald's - a place I often go to reward myself for any number of occasions, like going to the gym for example.

I was assigned a personal trainer who could not have been more beautiful or more stupid. His first voice message was a fluid, well-rehearsed introduction that went something like this:

Personal Trainer (to be spoken with a Brooklyn accent in a halting manner as to suggest a lack of mastery over the English language): “Uh…hey…I’m calling from…like…New York Sports Club…yeah…I, uh, wanted to like…you know…find out what your fitness goals are. So...what are you fitness goals? Cuz...I could, like...show you how to do different...stuff. Callmebacksoonthanks!”

Fitness goals? Couldn’t I go to one place in my life and not have goals? I specifically asked for someone who could tolerate my dry sense of humor and lack of upper-body strength!

I quickly decided I had made a terrible mistake in signing up for personal training but, ever the good student, I showed up early to meet my new task-master for our first session. Let the indignities begin!

Coming Soon…

Part Two: 30 is the New 80 or Let’s Get Physical

What’s in a Name?

Part Two: Man on Fire (Island) or A Bump in the Road

2009-08-30T21:59:00.022-04:00

continued from Part One: Man on Fire (Island)

As we disembarked from the ferry, I immediately felt duped. A chorus of pro-Pine apostles had assured me that although Fire Island deserved some of its sordid reputation for being the gay cliche, the beautiful "natural scenery" would make it worth the visit. Having lived in the Midwest and Virginia, I assumed "nature" would include some greenery and trees. Instead, I found myself staring at Chelsea - where I work everyday - transplanted onto the beach. No bother - I wasn't there to assess the Pines, I was going to a BBQ with good friends to have a good time.

As we made our way down Nautilus Walk I was astonished at how unfinished the boardwalk seemed. Surely these uneven and splintered planks of wood would impose bodily harm on all those unsuspecting (and drunk) boys with well-manicured toes and flip flops from Barneys! Had I not been wearing a rugged pair of fashionable Tevas, I too might have joined the ranks of the fallen.

When I arrived at the front door of Broadway Boy's house the requisite dance music was loudly playing, but oddly no one seemed to be home. I entered the front door and saw that some people had gathered inside the bedroom and had their backs turned to the main entrance.

"Surprise!" I yelled.

Clearly, I had surprised them because after a couple of muffled expletives they turned around to greet me with glowing pairs of bloodshot eyes, hyperactive smiles and runny noses.

"NICE TO MEET YOU!" they yelled enthusiastically.

I suppose it could have been considered a warm gesture - if I hadn't already known all of them.

"Why don't I give you guys a moment?" I asked/said awkwardly.

My boyfriend and I humbly took the strawberry rhubarb pie we had brought to the laundry room sadly realizing that our $40-dessert was not going to be the most stimulating (or expensive) item on the day's menu.

Excluding the initial bump in the road, the day progressed as we expected and included entertaining stories, show tune sing-alongs and inappropriate jokes. Finally, after the majority of the food had been cleared away, I announced that I was going to go and get the most amazing dessert anyone had ever tasted.

I excitedly made my way back to the laundry room only to discover a familiar scene: two men with their backs turned to the door, hunched over and, well, enjoying their dessert through their noses rather than their mouths. Unfortunately, my beautiful pie was being used as the serving platter.

"Are you doing coke off my pie?!" I yelled/asked ready to throw a hagstorm.

In search of a clean, dry surface, these two men had indeed used my delightful pastry as a mirror. With no attempt at an explanation, they sheepishly handed me my pie and quietly walked out of the room.

Not being able to distinguish between the sugar and the guests' last minute garnish, I only presented pieces that I felt were safe. One of the perpetrators sullenly approached me.

"I feel weird," he began. "I don't want you to think I'm a total coke-head. I never do coke. You believe me, right? I don't do coke." His manic insistence was both annoying and sad.

"Well," I sighed, "you've done it at least twice in your life, and I doubt that today was both your first and last day. It doesn't really matter what I think of you, does it? It's not like I'm ever going to see you again." With that, he recoiled and rejoined the party.

As I began to leave, one man with whom I had had a decent conversation approached me while reaching for something in his pocket, "Hey, before you leave - do you bump?"

"No!" I fumed. "Am I the only one here that doesn't do that?"

He stared at me oddly and then pulled out his iPhone.

"Um, it's a new app that I thought you might have," he said quietly. "I thought we were going to exchange work information so I could learn more about your organization."

I apologized and excused myself for not being quite up to speed.

Coming Soon...

What's in Name?

30 is the New 80

Part One: Man on Fire (Island)

2009-07-02T00:38:00.034-04:00

Not unlike women, gay men are often subjected to unrealistic expectations with regards to their lifestyle, particularly those who live in New York.

Do you have a high paying job?

Is your body fit enough for the cover of [insert gay magazine]?

Is your gym membership at least $200 a month?

Do you regularly frequent Fire Island with 80 of your closest friends?

While these shallow benchmarks of personal accomplishment are ultimately meaningless, the constant reminders of great gay expectations are perpetually thrust in your face on the street, in ads, at the clubs and all over the neighborhood in which I work. This doesn't help my psyche much when all I want to do after work is go home, eat ice cream and put on a t-shirt and my drawstring pajama bottoms (or, what I refer to as my "lesbian pants").

As I clearly do not run with New York's gay elite, I was happy to accept a recent invitation from a producer friend (Broadway Boy) to the gayest of all meccas, The Pines at Fire Island. While its sheen has worn thin over the past decades and is considered cliche by some, its symbolism for debauchery and good times remains strong. When invited, my instinct was to perform a mental eye-roll, but I was persuaded to go when I heard that lots of free food was being offered. I figured it was worth the car, two trains and ferry it would take to get there.

What to bring? Not owning a cute pair of swim trunks (another of my gay failings) that would show off my well-defined chest or rippling abs, I settled on my one pair of running shorts that sexily dangles to my knees. Next, some sunscreen with an SPF of 50 (only because I couldn't find a stronger one) and my H&M duffel bag with the makeshift paperclip clasp that replaced the zipper that broke immediately upon purchase. The only ammunition that would enable me to stand tall and proud was my much cooler and much cuter boyfriend. Perhaps his tattoos would distract judgmental eyes from my paper plate full of gratis hot dogs and potato salad.

While waiting for the ferry, the last leg of the journey, I was amused by the decidedly different cultures represented by the two lines - the line to The Pines and the line to Cherry Grove. On the Cherry Grove side, strollers, Birkenstocks and picnic baskets reigned supreme. On my side, boys with perpetual pouts and deconstructed poses, Prada and manbags with the capacity to hold a single fake ID represented the lot. I was in the wrong line.

Coming Soon...

Part Two: Man on Fire (Island)

What's in a Name?

30 is the New 80

Part Two: A Model Proposal

2009-03-19T22:58:00.019-04:00

(continued from Part One: A Model Proposal)

His apartment was one of those New York dreams that included a high tech security eye scanner as well as an elevator that bore no resemblance to the makeshift mine shaft in my own apartment in Brooklyn. The incredibly smooth and silent ride to the fifth, and final, floor made me think that maybe it wasn't normal that my elevator groaned in protest when more than one person needed a ride.

The elevator dropped me off right in the center of, to date, the most amazing loft I have ever seen. Exotic art from countless travels, furniture that didn't come from IKEA or Target and ancient instruments that I've only seen played in museums or MTA subway stops adorned his TriBeCa palace.

"Nice, isn't it?" bragged Mr. Brush Stroke.

Trying not to sound like a country bumpkin on his first visit to the "big city," I summoned a silent nod.

"Come here," he continued, "I want to show you my Asian book collection."

Mr. Brush Stroke led me to an enormous room filled with old-looking books, and like a heat-seeking missile his hand was guided to a collection of essays about misconceptions about Asian cultures. The cover was illustrated with a caricature of a Japanese man that looked as authentic as Mickey Rooney's lovingly-crafted portrayal of Mr. Yunioshi in Breakfast at Tiffany's.

"Do you know much about your heritage?" he asked.

"Not really," I said, "My mom is a Russian Jew and my dad is from Texas, so I'm hardly the authoritative voice for all things Asian."

"Well," he continued, "this book explores why people hate and mistrust the Japanese."

"Is this why you brought me here?" I asked, starting to get annoyed.

"One theory," he interrupted, "is that people find the shape of your eyes mistrustful. See? You have no eyelids. Some people think that you aren't opening your eyes all the way; it's like you are hiding something. Isn't that interesting? Would you like to borrow the book?"

I agreed to borrow the book and report back to him as long as we ended our discussion about why the world hates me and my people.

"Now, the real reason I invited you here was to show you some of my artwork. Come with me."

By then I had realized that we wouldn't be talking about any of the artists I represented, and that the trip was a total loss. What was the harm in looking at a little modern art? He was a successful painter. I was hoping the most distasteful thing I'd be seeing that day was the anti-Asian book in my hand.

Mr. Brush Stroke took me down a windy staircase that led to a workspace that was larger than my bedroom.

"The series that I'm about to show you was inspired by a photograph I saw of soldiers dying in a field during the civil war," he said solemnly.

Now, I do not claim to know anything about modern art, but the lack of any discernible shapes or recognizable forms reminded me of a paint-by-numbers kit I purchased from a liturgical gift shop as a child i.e. full of heart, but not full of fine detail. All of the paintings did include one clear image - a dying man in a state of, well, "excitement."

Mr. Brush Stroke then said to me,"I would like you to model for one of my paintings. I will pay you professional wages, of course. You have the perfect figure for this work."

I balked. "Oh...," I stammered, "I didn't realize Asian Americans played a significant role in the civil war. Besides, I think I may have given you the wrong impression. I have an annoyingly showy bravado, but I'm actually not that comfortable with..."

Mr. Brush Stroke took a step closer. "I can make you immortal," he whispered.

Inside I thought, "That's really gross," but outside I said, "That's really nice. But...I'm going to have to pass."

"Am I making you uncomfortable?" he asked innocently.

"Yes. Very much so."

I found my way out of his apartment and back onto the safe streets of New York. A few weeks later I received a phone call from Mr. Brush Stroke asking me for his book back. He said I was free to drop it by the apartment, but I opted to put it in the mail instead. I never did read it, but to this day I don't really trust people without eyelids.

Coming Soon...

The Shirt off My Back

Part One: A Model Proposal

2009-01-04T17:42:00.022-05:00

Considering how long it takes to become an official "New Yorker," - 10 years is the popular standard - it seems alarming that anyone who achieved such a hard-earned status would then feel compelled to leave. However, an article recently published in an authoritative New York business journal profiled several families and their dissatisfaction with - and ultimately their happy exodus from - New York. These families possessed a staggering amount of assets (think: MTV's "Sweet 16" type birthday parties for their five-year olds) and were at the top of their corporate game. Their reasoning was simple: no one feels rich in New York.

Although general access to wealth varies widely from one community to the next, everyone in New York has significant monetary considerations in coping with the cost of living. In the middle-class neighborhood in which I live, heated conversations can be overheard at the Duane Reade regarding the convoluted 10-step rebate process on Charmin toilet paper and Tide. Riveting. On the other end of the spectrum, in Manhattan I recently consoled a friend who made the sad realization that cutbacks in 2009 will include the postponement of his pond and chandelier installation in his second home in the country.

"We all have to make sacrifices, don't we?" he asked sadly (and without a hint of irony).

In my mind the soundtrack to Gone with the Wind played as I said sympathetically, "Dem worries sho' is heavy sir, but we be all right." Instead, I just concurred.

To grapple with the outrageous expense of the city, many people call themselves a free-lance [insert occupation] or pick up odd jobs on the side. Actor, singer, model, medical-testing specialist, sperm/egg donor - anything to make an extra buck. When I first moved to New York, a van full of Orthodox Jews pulled up to my bus stop in Brooklyn and asked me if I needed work that day. Although I was embarrassed to be mistaken for a migrant-worker, I would be lying if I said I haughtily rejected their query. "Would the job involve Chinatown and sewing labels on fake Gucci bags?" I asked. The van full of Jews drove away in a hurry the minute they realized that I had a strong command of the English language.

When I made the move from Boston, I brought with me what I then considered a healthy savings that would firmly launch my new life in New York. The one-two punch of an apartment search, storage bills, a low-paying job, no health insurance and all the usual temptations depleted my puny cushion in about three minutes.

Serendipitously, at the same time that my savings reached a negative balance, I met a well-respected artist at a business gathering. Seemingly interested in the work I represented, he suggested we meet for lunch on a future date to seriously "talk art." I was elated.

As I hurriedly made my way down the streets of TriBeCa to meet for the lunch, my cell phone rang. Mr. Brush Stroke said he was running late and asked if I would meet him at his apartment before we went out. Annoyed and already sensing where this conversation was headed I asked, "Isn't noon a little early to be slipping me a Ruffie-cocktail straight up? Why can't we just meet at the restaurant?"

Mr. Brush Stroke laughed and insisted that we would only be there for a minute and that his intentions were pure. "Do you always assume the worst about people? Besides," he said, "there are some new paintings I would like to show you."

Having endured a subway assault and a rock to the head that year [see Part Four: When Animals Attack!], I figured perhaps some negativity had taken hold of me and that I was unfairly jumping to conclusions. "Fine," I said, "but only for a minute..."

Coming Soon...

Part Two: A Model Proposal

Part Three: Bottoms Up!

2008-12-02T23:32:00.010-05:00

(continued from Part Two: Bottoms Up!)

A fastidious proctor entered the room and explained the itinerary for the evening. Rather than proceed with traditional speed dating protocol, the Gay Center had devised a new mechanism that would surely assist us all in finding suitable matches based on shared interests [read No Gay Left Behind]. Each participant received a number tag - not to be confused with a name tag - and a blank Scantron sheet. The procedure was simple: each man was to stand up with a microphone for one minute and essentially "sell himself" to the crowd. After all 60 participants made their pitch, a mingling session would follow where we - the cattle - could follow up with anyone that had piqued our interest. Finally, we were to fill in the Scantron sheet and run it through the magical match machine. If your picks were also interested in you, a match was recorded on a ticker and a date was to be scheduled after the event. Needless to say, I was simultaneously mortified and humiliated. Not only was I reduced to a number, but the drafting process did not ensure one decent conversation. Flashbacks of being picked last (or not at all) during elementary school gym class hurtled out of my subconscious - the only difference being now I have better shoes and cherish being skinny.

As part and parcel to my New York luck thus far, the proctor randomly chose the man next to me to begin the evening. He nervously revealed a premeditated sales pitch from his pocket which read as follows:

"Um, hi. I'm number 108. I've been taking care of my sick mom for, like, two years. She's dead now. I think it's time for me to get back into the real world again and start dating. Thanks."

Then it was my turn, and I was stumped. I'm not afraid of public speaking, but I had envisioned myself attempting to deliver a funny story or two. After the aforementioned eulogy the room had turned both somber and fidgety. I clutched the microphone and proceeded onward.

"Hi guys. I'm lot number 0-2-7. [minimal laughter] I just survived my first year in New York which included a tornado, bedbugs, an assault on the subway, a boss that gave me an orange for a Christmas bonus and a cancer scare. [silence] Also, a man in my neighborhood mistook me for a laundromat attendant and tried to get me to make change for a dollar while I was drying my clothes. [random gasps] I suppose if I can survive that I can survive a few more shi**y dates with you guys. Because, ultimately, that's why we are here, right? To have some more shi**y dates. Thanks."

After a bit of hoopin' and hollerin' (not to mention a scattering of "You go girl!") order resumed.

The mingling session proved to be as forced as everything else in the evening, and finally, the moment of truth came. I made my draft picks, and four matches were returned. In sum:

Match #1: A 37 year old chiropractor who, on our first date, told me that most of my personality and life's trajectory could be explained through astrology.

Match #2: A 27 year old English teacher who, after our second date, stated that we we both wanted the same things, he was very attracted, and he couldn't wait to see me again. He never returned any of my phone calls after that date.

Match #3: A 39 year old interior decorator who, after my follow up phone call two days after the mixer said, "Jonah? Hmmm....wait, tell me again where we met?" I replied, "It's not important," and hung up.

Match #4: A 33 year old lawyer who was kind and very thoughtful. We just didn't click romantically.

I suppose it could have been worse; about half of the room did not end up with any matches that evening. Although it does raise the question: which is worse - 4 fruitless dates or none?

Coming Soon...

The Love for Three Oranges

The Shirt Off My Back

Part Two: Bottoms Up!

2008-11-06T22:15:00.010-05:00

(continued from Part One: Bottoms Up!)

All men might have been created equal, but all dating Web sites certainly were not. Consider the following:

My heterosexual single friends have a vast array of dating Web sites at their disposal ranging from the flowery "eHarmony.com" to the whimsical "LavaLife.com," not to mention the equal-opportunity "Deaf SinglesConnection.com," the religiously conscious "Catholic Singles.com," "Big Church.com," "JDate.com" and the downright scary (and possibly illegal) "My ForeignBride.com."

My gay brethren, on the other hand, are limited to a virtual prix fixe which includes the primal "Manhunt.com," the overly-inclusive "Gay.com" and the just plain gross "SilverDaddy Search.com." For those looking for a relationship that neither includes hunting (something my tribe generally has little predilection for) or a benefactor old enough to be my father's father but who promises to get Sallie Mae off my back once and for all, the choices can be somewhat discouraging.

My most recent dating tool of choice was the Web site Match.com which offers its services to both camps, straight and gay. The last man who wrote took the time to thoughtfully cut and paste his profile into his first message. It was as well crafted as a telegram and read as follows:

"Hi there. Looking for an asian/oriental guy 18 to 50. Should be thin, smooth, preferably wearing glasses. I like bald/shaved guys, butch or feminine. A passion for classical music and even ballet. Maybe a professional musician." Stop.

Am I Asian/Oriental? Check.

Am I between 18 and 50? Check.

Am I thin, smooth and preferably wearing glasses? Check.

Am I bald/shaved, butch or feminine? Check.

Do I have a passion for classical music and EVEN ballet? Check.

Was I, at one time, a professional musician? Check.

Although I fit all of my potential suitor's discriminating criteria, I got the feeling his net was cast a little too wide to make me feel even remotely special.

In an effort to find another modus operandi for a successful outing, I attended a singles mixer held in Chelsea. It was marketed as "Professionals' Night" although there was no definition of what constituted a "professional." For all I knew, it could have been a hooker conference, but my optimism remained steadfast. I must admit that I did not do my due diligence prior to my arrival and assumed the evening was the typical speed dating set up. I was wrong.

I was led to a dimly lit room that had as much ambiance and warmth as an abandoned warehouse, a fact I found ironic considering it was organized by the minority group that most readily self-identifies as the epitome of style and taste i.e. Chelsea gays. Each attendee was handed a number and a Scantron sheet for later use. The room slowly filled to about 60 men who nervously averted eye contact and, with feigned laughter, insisted that this was their first time there. Judging by the prepared note cards I spotted in several men's hands, I guessed I might be among singles mixers junkies.

Coming Soon...

Part Three: Bottoms Up!

The Shirt Off My Back

The Love for Three Oranges

Part One: Bottoms Up!

2008-10-26T22:54:00.015-04:00

East Village, 2007:

A wise woman once said that a first date is equivalent to a job interview with cocktails. This cynical outlook has certainly proved true for me as I have navigated the perilous, ridiculous and often disheartening dating scene in New York. I have often joked that I am a trash-magnet, and to be sure, I have lived up to my name (in most cases - not all).

My first New York date was filled with anticipation. I met a fashion designer for a well-respected men's line through a well-meaning friend who apparently thinks the only criteria for two men to make an emotional connection is homosexuality. While this qualifier is certainly crucial, it is, alone, rarely enough to establish a meaningful, long-lasting [read: longer than 24 hours] relationship.

We met at a loud Thai restaurant that seemed to be the domain of NYU students on a strict budget. He was 5'9'', Asian, thin and about 30. I am 5'10'', Asian, thin and 29.

He greeted me warmly not with a "nice to meet you" but rather a "Oh good, you're hot." I nervously laughed and said, "Well, that's a little self-congratulatory isn't it? We look like we could be brothers!" He did not laugh and stared at me quizzically- and we were off!

The dinner was the typical first-date question and answer session. Where are you from? How long have you been out? Are you close to your family? Where do you live (i.e. how much money do you make)?

I should have anticipated it, but naturally as a designer he wanted me to voice my opinions about which designers were important in today's fashion market. Now, I enjoy Project Runway as much as the next gay, but as long as the clothes look decent and fit well, I don't really care about labels. I explained to him that there are designers that I think of as incredible artists, and whom I could never afford, and there are designers I enjoy because they look expensive but are, in fact, not. Fashionista seemed unmoved and bored by my response. I then asked, "Well, then, who do you like?"

Fashionista responded with a definitive, "I only wear Prada, Gucci or Dolce."

At this point I was so annoyed at this [expletive] that I got on my sassy horse and advised,"You know, you might want to think twice about saying something like that on a first date unless you think the guy is easily impressed. You like nice clothes? Well, that makes you as unique as 95% of the gay population."

A cold silence ensued for about five minutes as we quietly focused on our Pad Thai. Finally, in an effort to mitigate the awkwardness, Fashionista asked, "So...are you a top or bottom?"

In an even tone I said, "You know, I don't think it's going to be an issue for us."

Fashionista unflinchingly pressed on, "...because I'm only a top. Will that be a problem?"

In a less even tone, I said, "It has been my experience that those who insist on their predominance as a top are, in fact, the world's biggest bottoms. I'm done, are you?"

We exited the restaurant in two completely different states of mind. I chalked it up to a wasted evening, but Fashionista seemed to think it was a successful first outing. He asked if I wanted to come back home with him as his apartment was conveniently located nearby. I declined the offer, and he aggressively demanded an explanation.

"...because I'd rather do laundry," I offered. "I have to wash my Prada, Gucci or Dolce."

The evening ended with me folding non-designer socks, but Fashionista called four times the following week insisting we meet for drinks. Maybe I should have told him I shop at Target?

Coming Soon...

Part Two: Bottoms Up!

The Shirt Off My Back

Part Four: When Animals Attack!

2008-10-26T00:21:00.014-04:00

Pictured Above: Culprit #3 - Homo sapiens

(continued from Part Three: When Animals Attack!)

Brooklyn, 2008:

Every parent is supposed to teach their children to be wary of strangers. It is one of the first lessons my parents taught me, and yet, having grown up in the Midwest, the rule seems contradictory to the generally affable public culture. Strangers are known to smile, greet or even hold a door open for a fellow human being.

In New York, however, a stranger who smiles at or dares to talk to you is deemed one of two things: insane or a pervert. Quite possibly an insane pervert - particularly on the subway. I hate this aspect of New York, but sometimes there are good reasons to avoid human interaction. I learned this the hard way.

I was riding the subway home late one evening with my friend Opera Buff when a middle aged man sat next to me and started unabashedly staring at us. He moved uncomfortably close to my face and started spewing forth a flood of homophobic declarations. I turned directly to him and firmly made it clear he was to get lost. His bloodshot eyes darted around the nearly empty car, and then, quite unexpectedly, he moved a few seats from us - apparently lost in his own thoughts.

I foolishly turned away from him and picked up my conversation. Suddenly, I felt a sharp blow to my temple; my new friend had taken the opportunity to strike the side of my head when I wasn't looking, and his ring cut the area right below the ear canal. Like any coward, the man fled the car the minute the train came to a stop. As I blindly searched the floor of the subway for my glasses, the other passengers continued listening to their iPods, reading their magazines or purposely ignoring the event at hand. Strangers 2, Jonah 0.

My friend and I got off at the next stop and proceeded to report the incident to the Metro attendant. After I asked to file the appropriate paperwork, the attendant gazed dully at me and asked, "Well, what do you want me to do about it? Call the police? I have no idea how long it would take for them to get here." Strangers 3, Jonah 0.

The next morning it was clear that my hearing was impaired in my left ear. Sound was barely audible, and I knew I had to go to the hospital. I had no health insurance at the time, but I had read about some hospitals that would let me pay on a sliding scale. I found the name of one on a scrap piece of paper and walked to the nearest car service in my neighborhood. After telling the driver the address, his ears perked up. He had no interest in going to that neighborhood and told me to get out of the car. I offered to pay extra and made the case that I needed to get to the ER immediately. "Sorry," he said. Strangers 4, Jonah 0.

I finally made it to the ER where my good friend Connie was waiting for me. He distracted me from the horrid surroundings by bringing me food and letting me help him prepare for an upcoming audition by drilling him on his text. His song was in Polish, and I'm sure I was of no assistance. He insisted that I was - not because it was true, but because it was kind.

After the first four hours of waiting, my friend WT joined me in the ER while I got my CAT scan and financial paperwork in order. After 10 hours in the hospital, I was told that the bruising to the ear canal would heal. The hospital staff, completely overworked and under-paid, sympathetically offered their services for a nominal $30. Things were looking up.

A few days later, my cousin met Daniel O'Donnell (New York State Assembly Member and Rosie O'Donnell's brother) at Indiana University's Law School. Mr. O'Donnell is an outspoken advocate of gay rights and took great interest in my story - particularly to the MTA attendant's cold response. He assisted me in filing my case with the New York City Crime Victim's Board, and a few months later I received an apology from New York City Transit President, Howard H. Roberts, Jr. as well as a notification from the hospital that my bill would be waived.

I guess strangers aren't so bad after all.

Coming Soon...

Bottoms Up!

The Shirt Off My Back

Part Three: When Animals Attack!

2008-09-29T21:16:00.013-04:00

(continued from Part Two: When Animals Attack!)

Pictured Above: Culprit #2 - Cimex lectularius

Cimex lectularius:

"Good night. Sleep tight. Don't let the bedbugs bite!"

I vaguely remember the time when that little lilting rhyme was a precursor for a good night's sleep as a child. Now, as an adult who has had to cope with three rounds of the nasty and persistent vermin, the rhyme could more accurately be described as a futile dream.

Having battled mosquitoes the size of small birds for 17 years in the suburbs of Minnesota, I was accustomed to the seasonal presence of bug bites. Itchy red welts were as part and parcel of the summer landscape as allergies, lemonade stands and parent-induced sports.

When a few bug bites turned up on my arm shortly after my move to New York, it seemed natural, then, that summer here might also be accompanied by a few harmless welts. It was only after a rather restless night that I turned on my bedside lamp to witness a small, brown dot running across my comforter. After inspecting my bed and finding nothing, I assumed it was some sort of spider and went back to sleep.

In the morning light, however, tell-tale groupings of bedbug bites were visible on my back. As I would later learn, bedbugs tend to bite in a series of three and leave equidistant marks affectionately named by pest-controllers as "breakfast, lunch and dinner."

First came denial. I knew that bedbugs were running rampant in New York; an opera singer I met at a summer music program sued a famous hotel chain after suffering from over 150 bites over the course of a few days. Yet I found nothing in my apartment to signify an infestation. To be safe, I carefully gathered up my bed clothes and prepared to take them to the laundromat. After lifting my mattress pad, a group of brown dots scattered in different directions.

I immediately called my landlord who implied that I "might be dirty" but nevertheless arranged for a team of exterminators to remedy the situation. The pest control team warned me that one of the many charms of bedbugs is their ability to live without food for over a year.

In an effort to arm my bedroom against the onslaught of new bedbugs, I was told that rubber sheets would be needed to outfit my frame and mattress for an indefinite amount of time.

Dutifully following orders, I visited a nearby Target where the only rubber sheets available were in the Child Care aisle. Written in bold lettering, the sheets were labeled: BECAUSE ACCIDENTS HAPPEN!

Not wanting to be pegged as a dirty immigrant with a bladder control problem, I searched in vain for something to purchase that would distract the check-out attendant. A scented candle, perhaps? Then I would just be a dirty immigrant with a bladder control problem and bad taste. Never before had I wanted a self-check-out counter so badly!

I settled on thank you cards so, at the very least, I would be deemed a bed-wetter with manners. The cashier noticeably smirked, gave me a sympathetic sigh and sent me on my way.

Now having endured two additional rounds of bedbug attacks, I have resigned myself to a life of vacuuming my apartment every day, rotating my clothes and bed linens through the freezer for two week periods, storing my towels in plastic bags and, to make matters worse, disinviting potential suitors up to my apartment. When probed for a reason, all I can do is - like my landlord - imply that, "I might be dirty."

Coming Soon...

Part Four (Finale): When Animals Attack!

Bottoms Up

The Shirt off my Back

Part Two: When Animals Attack!

2008-09-16T22:48:00.009-04:00

(continued from Part One: When Animals Attack!)

After quickly deciding that rabies wasn't for me, I paid a visit to a nearby clinic. A nurse greeted me warmly upon my arrival, and while she took my vitals she inquired about the nature of my appointment.

"Well, I had a rough weekend," I began. "I was bitten by this crazy dog a day ago, and..."

The nurse nearly dropped her clipboard. She looked at me gravely and asked, "Why didn't you go to the ER right away to begin the vaccination process? Oh god. I don't know what we can do for you here."

I didn't realize that it was common knowledge that following a dog attack you were supposed to drop everything and run to the ER, but now I felt a little stupid in addition to being scared about the whole attack-on-the-central-nervous-system thing.

The nurse hurried out of the exam room and brought a doctor back with her who informed me that I was wasting time "just sitting there," and I needed to get to the ER right away.

"I just hope it's not too late," the nurse offered helpfully.

The clinic called a personal car for me, paid for the fare and sent me on my way for a full examination at the nearest hospital. After a brief conversation with a different - and much nicer - nurse, we decided the best course of action was to begin the five step vaccination process. The new nurse informed me that the first set of injections would have to be directly entered into the wound, and given the location of the bite (on my right knee) she expected that it would be painful. Very painful. So painful, in fact, that she said they would stop when, "I just couldn't take it anymore."

Following her prologue of terror, a needle the size of a small medieval sword was prepared by an assistant and filled with a syrup-like liquid.

"I just can't take it anymore," I joked.

No reaction.

The nurse continued and begin a series of seven shots directly into my knee. To calm my nerves, I replayed the death scene from Old Yeller repeatedly in my head. He had it coming, I gleefully thought.

The nurse then spoke to me in tone that is generally reserved for defenseless children, "Now, you are probably going to be scared of dogs for a while."

"Are you kidding me?" I shot back in a (for lack of a better adjective) bitchy tone. "If I ever see that dog again I'm going to ship it right back to my home country. Do you know what they do to dogs there? EAT THEM!"

My rather sudden and rabid countenance shocked the nurse into silence.

"Sorry," I apologized. "It's the rabies talking."

Coming Soon...

Part Three: When Animals Attack!

Bottoms Up

The Shirt Off My Back

Part One: When Animals Attack!

2008-09-14T01:35:00.022-04:00

Pictured above: Culprit #1 - Canis lupus familiaris

In a city as crowded as New York, everyone and everything fights for space. Social abrasions regularly occur on the subway (see Part Two: Chinese, Japanese, Dirty Knees), sidewalks, pharmacy and sometimes even in your very own apartment.

While New York has given me great opportunities, it has simultaneously given me more than my fair share of bumps, bruises, bites and scars from a variety of sources, big and small, animal and human.

Canis lupus familiaris:

Three weeks ago I tarted myself up for a night out on the town with my friend Anxious Agent. I had received free tickets to closing night of the Mostly Mozart Festival at Lincoln Center and was feeling quite ashamed of myself for having indulged in a few days of self-pity contemplating my recent luck in New York. Some dead-end dating combined with a stressful week had put me in a foul mood, and yet here I was about to see some of the finest musicians in the world for free. Brighten up! I told myself.

As I rounded the corner from my apartment a pleasant looking dog calmly plodded over to greet me. Its leash was dragging behind, and his/her owner was not quite 50 feet away tending to what seemed to be another docile creature.

"Hello there!" I smiled, bending over to pet his/her head.

The dog returned my sunny disposition with a piercing bark and a swift bite to the knee. And then another. And then another. Doubled over in pain, I fell to the ground while Cujo made a snack of my newly dry-cleaned pants.

A passerby jumped out of his car to offer his assistance and batted Cujo away while cursing in Spanish. The owner hastily scooped up her little beast and merely offered a sympathetic frown as the three of us collectively gazed at my bloody leg.

"Are you ok?" she yawned.

"Well, not entirely," I replied.

"What do you want me to do?" she asked in monotone.

Spanish Samaritan came to my defense and lectured the owner on the responsibilities of owning a pet, how lucky it was that I was not a small, defenseless child (I didn't feel lucky) and claimed that he had seen this very dog attack another person not 5 minutes prior to my encounter. I realized that I should get the address of the owner, but the wound needed to be cleaned up, and I was not in the mood to listen to the two of them hash it out. I quietly limped away while the two of them screamed at each other.

After doing a bit of self-diagnosing via the Internet, I came to learn the horrible truth about potentially contracting rabies. In the beginning stages, the symptoms merely seem like any other nagging virus: headaches, fevers etc. This is followed by violent movements and the inability to swallow water. Finally, after a brief coma, death occurs due to respiratory insufficiency. And I was worried about my pants?

Coming Soon...

Part Two: When Animals Attack!

Bottoms Up!

The Shirt off My Back

Dancing with the Stars

2008-09-07T01:32:00.000-04:00

"What are you doing, right now?"

Nervous energy emanated from the manically crazed faces of two of my co-workers. While their heightened state was both alarming and intriguing, I was pushing a deadline and could not be distracted.

"Can we talk later this afternoon? I've got this..."

"Richard Simmons is giving away free cranberry juice at Penn Station!" interrupted Arty, unable to contain herself.

Pause.

"Let me get my bag," I said simultaneously vacating my desk.

My friends Arty and Soap Star have self-diagnosed obsessions with D-list celebrities. I have never been one to follow the tracks of the tabloid elite, but I was thirsty and low on cash.

Since moving to New York, I have enjoyed eating lunch next to Tyra Banks, standing in line at at Whole Foods with Anderson Cooper and criticizing mediocre folk tunes sung by Timothy Robbins. Celebrities are naturally woven into the social fabric of the city and can, if you are not paying close attention, blend seamlessly into the crowds. I imagine that most of them crave this anonymity and enjoy the ability to avoid the spotlight, if even for a fleeting moment.

Most of them are not Richard Simmons.

Arty and Soap Star breathlessly briefed me on the three block journey to Penn Station. Apparently, Ocean Spray was promoting a new drink that blends green tea extract and cranberry juice, and who better than the guru of aerobics/sequins to promote it? Our expectations were low. Surely, the crowds of onlookers, fans and photographers would prevent us from seeing anything but the signature glimmer of one of his famous tank tops.

As it turned out, the throngs of observers we imagined were just that - imagined. When we arrived at the free oasis, there was a pitiful display of people. Mr. Simmons may have been the king of Sweatin' to the Oldies, but he was clearly failing as a publicist.

Delighted to see some more warm bodies, Richard Simmons minced his way over to us. The sheer strangeness of the moment overcame us, and we reacted with inexplicable fervor.

"Richard, we love you!" Arty and I howled in unison.

"And I love you!" Richard Simmons echoed. "Come dance with me! Come DANCE with me!"

Richard Simmons promptly led us to an open area where back up dancers dressed in utilitarian Ocean Spray fatigues welcomed us with open arms. With a single, well timed flick of the wrist and a squeal to the tech crew, Richard Simmons summoned an orchestra of sound filling Penn Station with disco music for all.

"When I drink it, I want to fly!" laughed Richard Simmons. "I. Want. To. FLY!"

After we collected our free cranberry juice, my co-workers and I began the journey back to the office. We were thrilled to have been able to confirm that Richard Simmons was as crazy as the media had portrayed him. Sadly, the only form of documentation we had managed to conjure up was a blurry photo and a video message to Arty's parents for their anniversary.

Or so we thought.

Within hours of the dance break, entertainment blogs, Web sites and streaming videos recounted our tale, and the next morning on page one of AM New York the picture you see in this story appeared.

Richard, we love you.

Coming Soon...

When Animals Attack!

Bottoms Up

The Shirt Off My Back

Part Two: Chinese, Japanese, Dirty Knees...

2008-08-28T20:56:00.001-04:00

Picture it...

Chelsea: In the valley of six-pack abs, big biceps and little dogs, my physique rarely catches the eye. At an average height of 5 feet 10 inches tall and an even more modest weight of 130 pounds (after devouring a large meal), I don't expect to be noticed by the warm-hearted-I-love-you-for-your-personality-type Chelsea boys. No pity needed here - I just tend to get hit on in less trendy places including park benches, Duane Reade toiletry isles and ticket counters at the Fung Wah bus station in Chinatown.

It came as no small surprise then that while recently shopping in a hip furniture store, an archetypal Chelsea boy went out of his way to introduce himself. Bulging biceps, shaved head and chiuaua in tow, CB made a concerted effort to let me know he had spotted me the moment I entered the store. After a riveting conversation concerning throw pillows and candelabras, CB cut to the chase:

"You know, I have a great place on Fire Island with lots of extra space. Have you ever been? You should definitely visit me sometime," stated CB.

"Sure, I go all the time. Maybe we go on different weekends," I nonchalantly lied.

Unfazed, CB continued, "I've actually been looking for a houseboy for quite some time."

At this point, I wrongfully assumed that CB was making his move with an attempted witticism. Not incredibly funny and a little offensive, I thought, but I'll play along.

"A houseboy? Hmm...what's the going rate for one of those nowadays? Will I have to do a traditional fan dance? I'll need some time to prepare; my kimono is at the dry cleaners, and my rickshaw needs a tune up," I grinned. Certainly my cunning two-drink-minimum of a response would earn at least a phone number.

CB stared at me blankly. "Um, you would just stay in the extra bedroom. Can you cook traditional Asian meals? I have this Chinese guy now, but he doesn't like to cook, and I really like Pad Thai."

Now it was my turn to stare blankly. Here I thought I had achieved some sort of gay coup by attracting a man beyond my normal grasp. In reality, CB was having a meltdown because his Chinese houseboy wasn't in the mood to prepare a traditional Thai tasting menu. His method of mitigation? Hire a Korean/Japanese man from the Midwest whose culinary roots include casseroles and jello-molds.

"I just realized you weren't flirting with me," I said flatly.

"Sorry about that. I'm into hairy guys."

Sorry indeed, I thought. No Pad Thai for you!

*Midtown via Boston: I have always secretly admired people with the audacity to walk up to a stranger and declare their attraction through a clever pick up line. It's not an approach that would work for me, but there's something laudable about those people who are willing to unabashedly put themselves out there. Then, there are some pick up lines that are better left unsaid.

I was sitting on the orange line when a heavy set man with fist-sized studded earrings and a rhinestone belt outlining the initial "T" entered the train and made a direct bee-line for me. I saw him coming, but what was about to be said could not have been predicted. Mr. T proceeded to position himself within inches of my face while licking his lips.

"May I help you?" I asked icily.

In an undulating prosody that could only be described as rapping, Mr. T cooed, "I had to say hi cuz you was lookin' all beautiful and [expletive]! S'up sweet n' sour?"

Audible gasps and nervous laughter emerged from surrounding subway riders. It may have been the first time in my life that I was truly speechless. In vain I racked my brain for a witty retort, but the most I could muster in my emotional hag-storm was, "Has that actually worked for you in the past? What happens now? Am I supposed to come home with you?"

Mr. T recoiled from my gay rage and hulked his way to another seat on the subway. Apparently, I had just survived my first drive-by insulting.

*Admittedly, this horror of a story did not occur in New York, but it was on subway ride to a bus to New York. I've bent the rules just this once, and future stories will only be New York-centric.

Coming Soon...

Dancing with the Stars

When Animals Attack

Bottoms Up!

The Shirt Off My Back

Part One: Chinese, Japanese, Dirty Knees...

2008-08-28T00:08:00.000-04:00

A recent study conducted at the University of Minnesota found that Americans and certain Asian cultures respond in dramatically different ways to compliments. In sum, Americans accepted compliments with satisfaction and often exuberance while an Asian's response was marked with discomfort, avoidance or no response at all. I am not one of those Asians.

I am not ashamed to admit that I relish a pat on the back for a fabulous outfit, a job well done or a witty [read bitchy] comment. However, there are certain compliments that can have a jarring effect despite the intended, albeit misguided, good will. Case in point:

"Your English is really great. How long have you been studying?"

"You were really funny in that movie Harold and Kumar Go to White Castle."

"You sang so beautifully for a moment I forgot you were Asian."

"You have beautiful skin. What island are you from?" [My response was, "Ellis Island." There was no laughter.]

"Asian guys are hot. Do you have AOL Instant Messenger? My screen name is RiceSearch80."

These are unedited compliments that I have received, and, much like the majority of my Asian brethren examined in the labs of the Twin Cities, my reactions included discomfort, avoidance or no response at all.

I was raised in a small, homogeneous suburb of Minneapolis, and our family stuck out because, against the pale backdrop of the Norwegian and Swedish masses, we looked like a U.N. version of the Waltons. My mother is an Irish Russian Jew [read tight-fisted], my sister and older brother were born in Seoul, my younger brother was biological to my parents and has cerebral palsy and my dad is from Texas. My background is Korean and Japanese, and we attended religious services at both Messianic Jewish and Evangelical Christian churches. We have single-handedly kept Hallmark Cards in business despite the current flailing economic environment.

In Kindergarten a fellow classmate asked me if I was black. I said I did not know (for I truly was unsure), and for the remainder of the day I appropriated the identity of an African-American telling all of my friends that I was proud to be black. I went home to confirm my racial heritage with my mother who told me that Asian skin was considered yellow and that I should try to not be so stupid. I promptly rectified my misinformation the next day by telling all whom I encountered that I was in fact yellow, not black. This news proved to be so disruptive that I was removed from class for causing a disturbance.

I always imagined that if I were to ever break free from the Midwest and live in an ethnically diverse city, I would be spared from the ridiculous questions that haunted my childhood. I was wrong. As I have discovered, a single subway ride in New York produces more social abrasions than an entire lifetime in the Midwest. Part Two to Follow...

Coming Soon:

Part Two: Chinese, Japanese, Dirty Knees...

Dancing with the Stars

When Animals Attack

Bottoms Up!

Don't Cry for Me New York City

2008-08-25T22:16:00.000-04:00

The Big Apple.

The City that Never Sleeps.

The Melting Pot.

Call it whatever you want, but I will always think of New York City as, "I hate you, don't leave me!"

June 25, 2008 marked my one year anniversary in this fair city. Friends, co-workers and native New Yorkers all warned me that the first year would be the hardest.

"It gets easier, trust me!" exclaimed one friend.

"You'll just get used to the smell of urine in the morning," said another.

"$15 is reasonable for a gin and tonic," chirped another.

Having happily lived in San Francisco, Minneapolis, Appleton, Washington D.C. and Boston, I thought I would be immune from believing that Manhattan was the one and only city in which to be happy. However, after arriving, I too was seduced by the opportunities that seemed endless, the excitement around every corner and the vibrancy of my new home.

The seduction came to an abrupt halt. In just a little over a year the following occurred:

1. A tornado landed two blocks from my apartment (i.e. bad);

2. A rock was thrown at my head (i.e. very bad);

3. I met Anderson Cooper getting a salad at Whole Foods (i.e. very hot);

4. I was given a single tangerine for a Christmas bonus (i.e. very humiliating);

5. Bedbugs invaded my apartment not once, but twice (i.e. very itchy);

6. A mentally challenged man pleasured himself to me on the subway (i.e. very unnerving);

7. I was assaulted on the subway and suffered temporary hearing loss (i.e. very emotional);

8. I was mistaken for a Chinese laundromat attendant and houseboy (i.e. very racist);

9. I danced with Richard Simmons in Penn Station for a bottle of free cranberry juice and ended up on page one of AM New York (i.e. very gay); and

10. A dog attacked me and forced me to undergo a series of 12 rabies shots (i.e. very painful).

After entertaining (and frightening) my friends with these stories for the last year, *My Straight Wife, Wolf Trampe and Connie suggested I create a blog to share these experiences. In the next few months I will recount all the aforementioned stories and more in an effort to both entertain others and keep myself sane. Happy reading!

Stay tuned for next week's entry:

"Chinese, Japanese, Dirty Knees..."

*All names will be concealed through the use of annoyingly cute nicknames. Sorry.