grandma, is that you?

This is just so wrong.

clouds in my coffee

Dear New York City:
What the fuck is your fucking problem?
I've just returned from my weekly walk to the bank. My hands are blue and numb. My nose is running. My ears frozen. It's goddamned 50 degrees today and blowing rain. Again.
50! Do you hear me? 50! As in, "Book 'em, Dano." Five-Oh.
In case you didn't notice, it's May. Damn near June. This weekend is Memorial Day, which for the rest of the sane world means hot dogs cooked on an outdoor grill, box-cut swimsuits and sand in your ass crack. Here, apparently, it means another weekend huddled in my apartment for warmth, ordering Thai take-out and watching "Deadwood" On Demand.
Now, I've been reasonable so far. I knew NYC wasn't a tropical paradise when I moved here, but I've sucked it up and dealt with it. Even when it rained buckets on my birthday weekend. Thanks a lot for that, by the way.
Then, a couple weeks back, you made me think that things had changed. The sun broke through the haze. All along 8th Avenue, folks were smiling and happy. Mohawked gay boys held hands outside the Big Cup. Throngs of foul-mouthed teenagers gathered in clumps along 16th Street. They were happy. We all were smiling. We were so stupid.
Not so today. Chelsea is a gray and wet wasteland. The folks who are out on the street look like a people who have been conquered in war. I can imagine that Parisians looked like this when Nazi tanks rolled down the Champs-Elysee. Disgusted. Despirited. But mostly, pissed off.
Even the Starbucks on 19th Street is oddly despondent today. I ducked in there out of the whipping wind, my Banana Republic umbrella thrashing so hard that I was afraid the metal hook would gouge an eye out. My favorite barista, a small tall Brooklynite who normally grins at me, was stationed outside, talking on her cell phone and frowning. Strains of marimba Muzak could not lift the mood of the coffeeshop. I ordered my usual iced coffee just as an act of defiance.

It's not supposed to be like this. What did we do to deserve this?

flying home

Perhaps I should change the name of this blog.
Friday night, I finally walked to Salvation.
It's a gay disco just a few blocks from Jerry's place — though not our first stop on a lengthy tour of Barcelona nightlife. First was Sweet, which was sedate but trendy; then Z:eltas, a be-seen boom-chica-boom cruise bar; then Café Dietrich, which was smokey and retro. Finally, Salvation, a subterranean dance club with a lite-circuit vibe and a muy popular dark room. Not that I'd ever venture into any den of sin.

Overall Barcelona did not disappoint, though the city had a very different energy than I expected. After Madrid and Sevilla, Barcelona felt somehow more modern, more Western. It seems to be a city very much in cahoots with cars, which was a little annoying in places. I did love the broad tree-lined streets and youthful atmosphere. There were points of the city that reminded me much of New York -- if only we had trees here. And less trash.

Unfortunately, our Travel Drama had one, er, two last flare ups before the end. Our plane flight to Madrid was somehow booked on the wrong day (ahem), which meant we had to scramble to find a train on Saturday morning. Once in Madrid, our hotel reservation made the day before had been lost. I'm actually a little glad it was, because we landed back in one of the Petit Palace Hotels, with their shower heads to die for.

Now I'm back in NYC, not jet-lagged at all but also having a hard time getting back into the swing of non-vacation life. The images that stick in my mind, oddly enough, are mostly from Sevilla — a city that wasn't even on our original itinerary.
Life is funny that way. You have this vision in your head of the way things are supposed to go, they way a trip or a city should be, but the reality of the experience turns out to be nothing like your fantasy.

And then there are moments, like when we had discovered the underground reaches of the Alcazar or at last climbed to the highest tower of the Sagrada Familia, that the reality suddenly and decisively exceeds the fantasy, making you forget what you had expected in the first place. It's instances like that when travel becomes unquestionably worth the trauma. It might only be four, maybe five, minutes of a nine-day trip, but those few minutes are surely worth it.

train in vain

A word of advice: If you're planning a trip to Espana anytime soon, and plan to travel between two or more cities, book your train tix in advance. Because they sell out.
The BF and I made this unhappy discovery Monday night when we tried to leave Madrid for Barcelona. Seems it was a holiday weekend here, which meant we were S.O.L.
Ever the spontaneous guys that we are (stop it -- I am!) we decided to hop a train to Sevilla instead. It was on our list of possible places to see anyway, and we thought we'd go there, grab a hotel room (thanks to JP, that part was easy), do the tourist stuff during the day, then hop on a sleeper train to Barcelona that night.
Wrong again.
All those trains were booked solid as well. For two days.
And so, the BF bravely volunteered to drive us -- that's right, drive -- from Sevilla to Barcelona.
Which is about a 10-hour drive.
Many adventures were had along the way, none of which I'll force you, gentle reader, to suffer through. The good news is that we are at last in Barcelona.
JP's lovely apartment feels about like heaven right now.

a series of events

Buenos dias from Madrid.
Day two of our Spanish adventure. Things so far are going great. I have taken about 6,000 photos but can´t post from this, the hotel computer, so how about a list instead?

1. The flight over was uneventful, though also very rocky in a places. The movie, as described by the Spanish flight attendant, was "Lee-mony Sneekits." Ha.
2. Took in a bullfight last night. Savage or sublime? Not sure yet. The bull didn´t seem to enjoy it, but the BF sure did.
3. Love love love our hotel, the High Tech Arenal. We have a stunning attic-window view of the city. Neat.
4. Cerveza. It´s what´s for dinner. (And breakfast, and lunch.)
5. Everything starts so late here. Seems folks don´t get up and active until the afternoon, then eat dinner at like 9 or 10. Lucky bastards.
6. Got kicked out of the Reina Sofia. Sadly, one of the places that doesn´t start late.
7. Sitting in a cafe near the Palacio Real, a street musician started to play "Georgia on my Mind." Damnit, Atlanta is such an attention whore.
8. No nightlife for us so for. Tonight we hit the Chueca and hopefully fulfill the BF´s longtime fantasy of seeing an uncut cock.
9. Did I mention cerveza?

More to come. Stay tuned.

the fantasia menace?

I can't believe I've let so much time pass between posts.
The weekend was insane. A whole crew of ATL guys were in town, which meant the BF and I were out drinking three four nights in a row. Good times were had by all, but I'm also relieved that such weekends only happen sporadically.

Monday, I was worn out and a little hung over, but had to rally. I'd scored us tickets to see the NY Pops' 22nd Anniversary Gala (kind of an odd number to celebrate, I suppose) at Carnegie Hall. Now, I've wanted for years to see a show at Carnegie, and the space did not disappoint. Neither did the performance, though I'll have to say this was perhaps the most schizophrenic night of music I have ever experienced.
Liz Smith, the 300-year-old gossip columnist, was mistress of ceremonies, telling bad jokes in a blue-sequined blouse. Skitch Henderson, the Pops' conductor, berated the audience and flat out insulted the first performers, a guitar duo playing big-band music.
Next was a married singing duo who kinda sucked, followed by the lovely and talented Sutton Foster. Her "Little Women" co-star Maureen McGovern came out later, and both of them delivered Broadway-worthy performances of standards. Even better was cutie Jason Danieley, who sang "If Ever I Should Leave You" and made me swoon.

After Broadway overload, the second half of the program shifted gears and started out with a tribute to Clive Davis. Yeah, the record producer. I couldn't figure out what in the hell he had to do with NY Pops, but I do know the orchestral medley of his greatest hits felt like being trapped in Muzak Hell. (The BF later said he liked that part of the show. Oh well.)
Then came the reason I'd purchased tickets. Heather Headley, perhaps the most under-appreciated voice in years, came out and she rocked my life. First was her song "I Wish I Wasn't," which was just OK, then, in an odd choice, sang "One Moment in Time."
Now, I never saw Whitney perform live, and given her love of crack rock, I probably never will. But after last night, I don't think I have to. Heather took that song and she owned it. She lived it. It was like Whitney Houston brought back to life.

Continuing the Soulful Black Girl segment of the program, next came Fantasia. I'm sort of a latecomer to the whole "Idol" craze (and a reluctant one at that), but I'll have to say this chick can sang. She did the Aretha Franklin arrangement of "Bridge Over Troubled Water," and perfectly channeled the Queen of Soul (well, but about 250 lbs. lighter). The crowd went wild. Then they left. I guess Fantasia was the reason most folks were there.
For the few (mostly bluehaired) audience members remaining, Broadway granny Michele Lee came out and did some exquisitely terrible song from "Seesaw." She looked and acted every bit like an "SNL" skit making fun of stars from her generation. It was painful.
Next, Broadway great-granny Kitty Carlisle Hart hobbled out and squeaked her way through a number. But by then, folks were restless and eager to leave. The night ended with Walter Cronkite (!) conducting the orchestra for a riveting rendition of "The Stars and Stripes Forever." Two words: Freak-y.

As we were leaving the concert hall, I thought about the recent NY Times article lamenting that "American Idol" is killing Broadway. It seemed to oddly contrast a comment Clive Davis had made about how radio was dying and "Idol" appears to be the main way Americans are staying plugged into popular music.
Or perhaps it's not a contrast at all. The Pops Gala, despite its idiosyncrasies, actually showed a remarkable continuum between the likes of Kitty Carlisle, who is 95 years old, to Fantasia, who is not even 21. Yes, the times have changed and so have tastes. Such is life.
I have a feeling that someday my story about seeing Fantasia sing at Carnegie Hall will seem as legendary and distant as Skitch's tales of playing in the band with Frank Sinatra.

when emily met jacob

Warning: Do not go to this site.
It's a Java-based graph of baby name trends from the past century. Turns out that "Tray" never made it into the top 1,000, but that "Trey" saw a dramatic increase from the '70s through today.
Sounds dull? Just try it. I swear, you'll be quickly hooked.