moma vs. homo

So Saturday was just crazy. My bf and I started our day at MoMA, finally getting around to checking out the new Yoshio Taniguchi building that everyone's going nuts over, and ended our day in a very different setting, the sleazy Eastside queer bar called Boysroom.
Here's a look at what those two venues have in common.
1. High cover charges. It's $20 to get into MoMA, and $10 for Boysroom. Both were fun, but not worth the admission costs.
2. Too many f-ing people. At one point at the bar I was trying to claw my way to the bathroom (the, um, boys room, I guess) and the throngs of pushy faggots refused to budge. It felt like Oz in New Orleans, which is a lot more fun when you can't feel your feet. MoMA's crowds were less pushy, but they also weren't half as high.
3. Long ass lines. Especially at the coat check. Sheesh.
4. Shock value. I found Boysroom refreshing for its very in-your-face attitude and refusal to conform to any squeaky clean Chelsea standards. I suppose that, in their day, some of the artists whose work now hangs in MoMA might have appreciated that underground vibe, even if their creations have now been appropriated by the mainstream.
5. Young, cute German boys. Maybe it was all in my head, but a few hot Huns were spotted at both places.
The similarities end there.
One thing MoMA definitely lacked was the cheeky (butt cheeky, that is), pornographic narration of Cazwell, who hosts Boysroom's Go-Go Idol contest every Saturday. Come to think of it, he's sort of like a work of modern art himself. I don't quite get it, but I'm glad to know it's out there.

today's ick list

1. Whitney Houston rushed to the hospital after puking on a plane.
2. The Pope's tracheotomy. (Sorry, but I feel no sympathy for him after these comments.)
3. Shots of fat Dean Cain on "Stars Without Makeup" tonight on Fox.
4. The fact that I'm sitting at home watching "Stars Without Makeup."
Ick indeed.

dykes are the new fags?

Full confession: I'd never seen "The L Word" until I happened to catch the start of its second season on Showtime the other night. For the first 20 minutes of the show, I was completely lost. Who slept with who, and who cares?
But then, at about the midpoint, something clicked. I was struck by a blinding light of Sapphic Love, apparently, because I adored the second half.
Judging from this one episode, "TLW" seems to have all the depth and character development that "Queer As Folk" always sorely lacked. Sure, it's total soap opera. So what? When Kit walked in and caught her F2M friend's boobs hanging out, I was hooked.
The episode also featured a bizarre cameo from Arianna Huffington, who said to butch (and sexy) Shane, "I hear that dykes are the fags."
Um, what?
Maybe she has point. "TLW" seems to be getting a heap of positive buzz, with some folks comparing it to "Sex and the City" -- the gayest non-gay TV show ever.
My one regret: I tuned in too late to catch much of hottie Eric Mabius, who's leaving the show. At least there's plenty of him to be seen elsewhere.

tell 'em linda sent ya

Shortly before moving to the city, I read a fascinating item in the New Yorker about Caleb Smith, a man on a mission to walk every street in Manhattan. Smith noted: "[T]he island’s cuisine falls into two categories: Chinese Mexican, or Asian-owned restaurants that serve tacos ... and Mexican Chinese, or Hispanic-owned restaurants serving fried rice."
Tonight we had our first taste of the former category. Sort of.
We happened into La Chinita Linda after another lengthy process of elimination, which entails me suggesting places to eat and my boyfriend shooting each of them down.
The sign outside promised both Cuban and Chinese food, prompting Brian's joke that maybe Linda had been some hispanic chick who'd gotten knocked up in Beijing.
Inside, I was scared. The place had all the ambience of a greyhound bus station. A sad-eyed man sat near the front counter; we couldn't tell if he was waiting on takeout or contemplating suicide. One large wall featured an enormous, poorly painted mural of the WTC -- the second such display we'd spotted in a restaurant this week. I'm sorry, folks, but thoughts of 9/11 do not want to make me tip more.
Even still, the food was good. Actually, it was great. Huge portions. Lots of flavor. We'll definitely go back.
And, the best thing: Unlike Caleb Smith, we only had to walk half a block for it.

blowin' in the wind

We made our second and final visit to see The Gates today in Central Park. On our first trip last weekend, my camera's battery died after my first shot. This time around, the whole excursion was meticulously documented.
To be honest, I'm still trying to formulate a coherent opinion about the artwork itself. I do appreciate the scope of the project, and I refuse to criticize it the way some surly locals have.
At the same time, did they have to choose safety-cone orange? I'm partial to the idea of a lovely marigold yellow myself.

pass me a paper towel, please

About this time last year, you might have read about the Brawny Man's makeover. The paper towel's rugged cover guy, with that sporty handlebar mustache, lumberjack denim shirt and Luke-Duke hairdo, looked a little like a lost member of the Village People -- or the star of a Falcon Video.
The new Brawny Dude is, well, cleaner, more guy-next-door, very Republican.
Well, having been forced to pay close attention to one new Brawny ad during my last couple of theater visits, I'll have to say the company has replaced a porn-esque icon with full-on porn, or something awfully close.
The new Brawny ad we keep seeing features a guy who dozes off while watching a paper towel ad and lands in a soft-lit dream sequence with the B-Man himself. The dream starts with some white stuff splattered across the guy's face, which the husky Brawny Man wipes off tenderly with a paper towel. Turns out it's cake icing (um, yeah), and the towering cartoon BM lifts the hapless, half-naked dreamer up off the floor and forces him to squeeze more icing onto a birthday cake. It's a freaky little ad that teems with homoerotic subtext.
The latest Brawny Man may no longer be a lumberjack, but I'm guessing he lives in a Log Cabin.

have you tried ... walking?

I always thought Julia Cameron would be taller. And thinner. And brunette-r. She was, however, just as neurotic as I'd expected.

Brian and I ventured over to see Julia speak tonight at the neighborhood B&N, ostensibly reading from her new book, "The Sound of Paper" (which, you have to admit, is one helluva name). As expected, she ended up spending most of the hour talking about her One Big Book, "The Artist's Way." I'm not here to knock it. That book changed my life. More than once.

At the same time, I was a little disappointed that Julia kept going back over a lot of the same things "TAW" spells out: ie, Morning Pages. And for half the questions asked, she'd respond with a plea for the querant to either a) write their Morning Pages, or b) try a little walking.

For New Yorkers, the latter comes across as horrible advice. I haven't even lived here three weeks, and I can tell you already, it's all about walking. I haven't walked so much in my life. Ever. Total.

Still, I liked her point that NY is a city of adventures. And, she said, walking your dog doesn't count.

So yes, I bought the book. How does paper sound again?

And yes, I've tried walking.