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5 entries from June 2006

My poor, sexually confused balcony.

From right: Robert, Jane, and a botanical Stonewall Tavern.

I don't like to find meaning where there is none. But my balcony has turned into a sexual metaphor.

It started last autumn. Yours Truly was tripping back from upstate and stopped at a roadside market in the hamlet of Tuxedo. Leashed to cities for most of the last decade, the sheer abundance of countrified produce and plantable greenery went to my head. Pumpkins! Corn-on-the cob! Maple candy! And something I really fancied: a holly bush in a pot.

As a good atheist, a bough or two of holly seemed an agreeably pagan symbol with which to celebrate that most notorious of Christian holidays. As I signed the credit card slip, the hunky nurseryman asked me, "Do you have a male bush?"

"I beg your pardon?" I stuttered, unable to say what I really meant, which was why, do  you prefer your men shaved, big boy?
 
"You know, this is a female plant. If you want it to bear fruit, you'll need a male plant, too. The males are over yonder" he continued, pointing at some scraggly little beasts in burlap sacks on the far side of the yard. "If we keep them too close, the she-devils just grow like crazy, and we can't sell 'em. Do you need a male?"

Who doesn't?

Soon, the newlywed hollies had turned my balcony into their little Manhattan love nest, rather like Robert Redford and Jane Fonda in Barefoot in the Park.

Along comes spring, and these herbal fornicators start rutting like rabbits. Jane Fonda was aglow with fresh leaves and green berries, waiting to ripen for the winter. Robert Redford, meanwhile, a typical married male, went to seed, spilling his pollen into the wind promiscuously.

Jane behaved like a typical married female, too. She was getting F-A-T. A little unevenly, I might add, with large boughs extending over the street through the railing, and precious little greenery facing inward where it could be enjoyed.

So, I rotated Jane 180 degrees. Big mistake.

It seems female holly bushes have an issue, literally, with sexual orientation. After taking root, they orient themselves to their source of pollen, a sensible policy if you're planted in the ground. When it comes to sex with the hubby, well, females don't expect the earth to move, do they? If you move her, she becomes sexually confused.

So, where Jane once turned her pistils to the comforting touch of Robert's stamen, she now finds--oh, the irony!--a bunch of pansies. Sick, self-pollenating inverts!

Jane may be holly, but she's pining. Pining for her Robert, unaware that her love sits steadfast by her side. And as so many straight women learn, pansies may be colourful and interesting, but they'll leave you sexually frustrated.

Robert doesn't seem too upset though. His stamen remain robust and in well-oiled working order, filled to the brim with pollen. The heartless bastard is masturbating.

Alas, it doesn't look good for our newlyweds. I turned Jane again, but she's wasting away. I fear Robert Redford and Jane Fonda may soon become Ryan O'Neal and Ali McGraw. One thing for sure. I ain't messing with the second wife.

Do the fish ever bite?

Fish Stick meets Deep Throat.

A fag hag spends so much time with gay men that she can't find a straight one. What do you call the opposite: a straight male who spends so much time with lesbians that he never manages to bake his own sausage? According to a lesbian colleague of mine, he's a fish stick.

(Say that fast ten times)

If there's ultimately a romantic pointlessness to fag haggery, surely the same applies to the fish stick. Many hags secretly long to hubbify their fags, but soon rue their folly. Can the fish stick really angle for a promotion to fish dick?

Nature wires men differently. I guess. The idea of two women in a naked embrace puts many men on a rocket to Planet Bone.

In fact, this was one of the clinchers that helped me decide, finally, that I must be gay. The inevitable girl-on-girl bits of straight porn proved a snooze factor. Er, how is this relevant to me?

My straight male friends told me I missed the point. "It's like a speedometer that goes up to 250" one said, "I may never get there, but it excites me just to think about it. "

OK, you fish sticks. Do you ever get near the bearded clam? Tell me what makes you bream with delight. Do you dance with two women to the tune of Salmon Chanted Evening? Do imagine them whaling in ecstacy? Do you just wax your dolphin, or has it ever taken a plunge? What's the relationship between a fish and her stick?

Or are you all (as the box tells us) just a bunch of minced pollock at heart? This bottom feeder wants to know.

Harrod's Food Hall, September 1987. Ladies, contain your excitement!


And the same to you, asshole!


A recent MSNBC poll conducted in New York asked:

"How do you think the UN should react to North Korea's apparent nuke test?"

The results:

Quickly and decisively 70%

Slowly and carefully 30%

Ladies and gents, you'll be pleased to know that I'm in the minority on this one. I voted for slowly and carefully. (Apparently, China agrees.)

The quick, decisive New Yorkers are getting on my nerves.

Anger, panic, neurosis, hysteria. This rules life in America. Or, at least, my patch of Midtown.

Someone sent me an email this morning at nine. I replied at six. I apologised for taking so long.

Why? His note was nothing more that a random act of email violence. Dammit! Look at me!

Do something. And then something else. And then you can do some more. You can't just sit around and do nothing! (Even when nothing is, patently, the best thing to do.)

Writers who live in New York astonish me. The city shows so little sympathy for moments of reflection.

When friends visit in New York, we often rent a car to head upstate (more blogging about that later.)

Though many guests want to drive the Jeep Grand Cherokee, the Pontiac Grand Prix, or the Mercury Grand Marquis (ain't life grand?) from the depot, I insist on taking the wheel out of Manhattan.

Because the first time someone blows his horn at you for no good reason apart from fuck you, you're in front of me, many are a little disturbed. I was, at first.

You have to explain to them. New Yorkers are honking at themselves, really. They hate themselves. I have never lived in a city that fuels so much self-loathing. Just visit an Equinox gym.

I stumbled across this ad on a bus shelter the other day. "How very New York," I thought. "Only in Manhattan does a big ego make you interesting."

Many have said that in spite of their brusque manner, New Yorkers have big hearts. As far as I can see, only on their shopping bags. Between the "I" and the "NY".

One can find isolated pockets of love and peace in the city. But they're strictly quarantined. If New Yorkers were just nicer to each other, they wouldn't need day spas. Or alcohol. Or Aruba. Or horns.