lord, jim

Saturday night the BF and I had some of our Chelsea boys over for cocktails.
Though the locals warned us that it was a bad idea, we ended up at Heaven for their weekly Gay College Party. Suffice it to say that Heaven is not a place on earth, Belinda Carlisle be damned.
Now, I have nothing against hapless twinks who have an appetite for top 40s faggot pop. In the right circumstance, said twinks can be plenty of fun. (See: Sunday nights at Avalon, where even I've been known to scream the words to Ciara once or twice.) But this crowd was, as one of the Chelsea elite said, "all bridges and tunnels." Again, which is fine — if they're cute. Which, they weren't.
Our night took a turn for the worst when former American Idol contestant Jim Verraros took the stage. He suffered through a couple of numbers and then co-hosted a sort of mini-Idol contest, with four audience members singing impromtu acappella snippets of songs of their choice.
And this is when I started to really feel old. Because of the four singers, I knew two of the songs. One was Christina Aguilera. The other (I'm pretty sure) was R. Kelly. The other two? No fucking clue. Except, everyone else in the club knew all the words. It was a twink sing-along, and the BF and I stood there silently. (Our friends had long since left us. Losers.)
After the contest we left, too, walking back to our apartment and wondering where the fun guys go, the ones who are old enough to know better but not yet too old to just sit home and watch "Family Guy" reruns on a Saturday night.

Sunday the BF and I caught a matinee of March of the Penguins. Loved loved loved it. I nearly cried. No kidding. For a National Geographic doc, it's awfully touching.

Which may just prove the point that we're getting old. We both agreed that we prefer penguins to chicken.