Temp Love Part IV-A New hope

Dick and Bennett are at the spa this weekend so we have a temp house manager. Well, she’s not so much a house manager as she is a goddess. Think a young Ingrid Bergman on a good day. I know, I know, you think I probably acted like an idiot or said something stupid when she introduced herself to me. Well you couldn’t be more wrong. She introduced herself and I said, without hesitation, “Will you marry me?”

Jesus Christ, I don’t know what came over me. Something about her just...anyway, I think I covered myself ok. I told her I was just wondering if theater managers could marry people like ship captains. She said no but she would go down with the ship...I think. I kind of blacked out after “go down”. All I know for sure is I’m devoted to my her. I have entirely forgotten about Miss...Miss Something, I don’t remember. “Ingrid” is my reason for living. I think I may even ask her out. Yeah, that’s what the kids today do, right? Fall hopelessly in love then ask her out. I’m going to do it. The next time I see her which will be in a couple hours at the evening show.

Temp Love Part V-The Wuss Strikes Back

All right not the next time I see her, but definitely one of the next times I see her. Tomorrow. Tomorrow will be the perfect time to do it. Did you know her nose crinkles in the cutest way when she says “No refunds”? Of course you didn’t. That was rhetorical. Sorry, I tend to get rhetorical when I’m in love.

Temp Love Part VI - The Wrath Of Sweety

You didn’t think I would do it, did you? Admit it, you didn’t think I would ask her out for a drink. Well you couldn’t be more wrong. I mean, I guess you could be more wrong because technically you’re right.

As I was deciding on the perfect approach (”Do you drink?”, “Are you a big drinker?”, “Drink much?”, “Thirsty?”) “Ingrid” came over and asked me to dinner. I assume I said yes because the next thing I know I’m sitting across a fondue pot from that beautiful face.

We were having the greatest conversation about... something or other. I wasn’t paying very close attention. I was too busy deciding on names for our kids. Then during dessert she said the last thing I wanted to hear. “I’m married”? , no. “I’m gay”? No, but I appreciate the thought. No, she said, “...so I didn’t bother to talk to Sweety I just reported the ushers to the office”. At that moment I knew we had no future but at least we’ll always have fondue.

When we said good night she said she had a great time and would love to do it again. Poor girl. All I could muster was “here’s looking at you, kid.”

I just left a message for Sweety about how well the evening went and what a wonderful person “Ingrid” is. It’s the least I could do. I hope it helps.

Temp Love Part ING

I just heard from “Ingrid”. She’s been transferred to a new theater, in Branson. It could have been much worse. At least she’s still in the hemisphere. I’d like to think my call to Sweety had something to do with that. It’s kind of sad. I wish I could’ve done more but on the bright side at least this time I was left voluntarily. Not that this is about me, it isn’t, although I am the only one here.

Hi everybody from the new Facebook group and welcome. Glad to have you on board. If you'd like to know about me and what exactly goes on behind this bar and in this theater just scroll down to the bottom post "Welcome To My World" and start from there. I look forward to our blogger/bloggee relationship. Enjoy.

Of Mice And Dick

What’s old and deteriorating and infested with vermin? If you said Larry King you’d be hilarious but wrong. The answer is about half of all Broadway theaters including, of course, mine. Hot and cold running mice (Word to the wise, double check those theater Raisinets before eating).

We have an unspoken agreement with these mice. They stay out of the theater (for the most part) and we don’t crawl around in the walls (for the most part). Anyway, there are always some rogue mice who decide to give theater a try but they usually scurry back into the walls pretty quickly and considering some of the shows on Broadway I can’t blame them (Once, during a particularly awful show, I saw a mouse run out of the theater, out the front doors and right into traffic).

Lately we have been plagued more than usual by mice. Probably a combination of local construction and the Liza hole. It’s gotten so bad that Sweety told Dick that if he didn’t do something about it she would. I’m not really sure if having one of her nephews punch each mouse in its throat would be practical but at least it got Dick to do something. He sent around a memo prohibiting the staff from bringing cheese into the theater.

Surprisingly that didn’t work and today the whole situation came to a head, literally.

I was watching the tap number and, before you ask, yes, it was just coincidental that Miss Ex is featured in that number. Anyway, as it ended and Miss Ex dropped into a split (she is very flexible) to the usual polite applause a mouse jumped out of her wig and ran across the stage. I think the only thing that kept her from fainting was the thunderous ovation the mouse got.

Thanks to that ovation the producers toyed with the idea of making the mouse in the wig permanent until they found out what a trained mouse costs. So they settled for the cheaper and more satisfying option of ripping Dick a new one which they did with gusto after the show.

When I left Dick was mumbling something about getting Sweety to “take care” of the producers but it looks like the upshot of the whole day is that we’re going to have our Liza hole filled and we’ll be able to bring cheese to work again and, really, who could ask for more than that?

Even Naked Cowgirls Get The Blues

There’s a nut who hangs around Times Square...well, that’s not fair, there are a lot of nuts hanging around TImes Square. Not the cute Damon Runyan type but the loud, grotesque “put me on a reality show” type. But I’m talking about one specific nut. He wears a cowboy hat, boots, and tighty whiteys and in what can only be described as a cosmic coincidence he calls himself “The Naked Cowboy”. He wanders around Times Square playing guitar and passing the hat asking for spare attention. He’s done everything tourist attracting novelty acts do, up to and including running for mayor (just like Mike Bloomberg). He must be reasonably successful because he has imitators, well imitator...”The Naked Cowgirl”. She’s got the hat, boots and tighty whiteys and what she lacks in a top she makes up for in age. She is well north of seventy. Sorry about the image, but you guys only have to imagine it. For us Times Square regulars it’s kind of like Dorian Gray being forced to live in his attic.

Anyway, as I was serpentining around the knots of tourists staring at the giant Sesame Street characters and angry, threatening religious fanatics (and believe me it’s not easy to tell the difference) I noticed the white cowboy hat and off key covers of “Coldplay” that meant I was nearing “The Naked Cowgirl”. So I girded my loins and just hoped she was thoughtful enough to do something about hers. Happily, I couldn’t tell because I was blinded by the reflection off the little mirrors on her nipples which was odd because her nipples are usually down around her waist and covered by the guitar. As my eyes adjusted to the light I saw a beautiful twenty something blond woman in the naked cowgirl outfit singing the...well, let’s face it, it doesn’t matter what she was singing...but she was surrounded by desperate tourists (mostly male, mostly drooling) trying to get her to aim her bouncing breasts at their camera phones like stock traders trying to sell during a crash.

It suddenly seemed so simple. A twenty something topless cowgirl. It improves Times Square more than all the “Applebee’s” and “Red Lobsters” put together. Rudy Giuliani must be kicking himself for not thinking of it if he’s not too busy thinking of how to take credit for it.

On the way back from the bank (I just happened to take the same route) I saw that white hat again but the gawkers were different, less intense, more condescendingly jovial. You guessed it. The regular naked cowgirl was back. I desperately searched for a beautiful twenty-something topless woman, something I have some experience at but nothing. She was gone. Was she ever really there? Am I seeing things? Well, if I am seeing things I guess I could do worse than beautiful, topless blonds.

A Perfect Little Family

A little family came up to the bar tonight. Not a family of midgets, although that would’ve been awesome. I just mean a husband, wife(who I’ll call John and Jane), and two kids about 4 and 6 (who I’ll call 4 and 6). They were adorable and so were the kids. The whole family was so cute they looked they jumped out of a catalogue for perfectly cute family products.

Trudy fell in love with the kids. She spent the next half hour ”oohing and ahhing”. She said they were so cute they made her ovaries hurt. I don’t know if it was a contact high or what, but I’ve got to admit...my testicles were aching a little. Trudy said that when she’s a little older that’s exactly what she wants. Well, I am a little older and that could’ve (should’ve?) been me.

I immediately began regretting every decision I’ve ever made in my life. As I got up to regretting what I had for breakfast (Come on, the only thing adults should use Fruity Pebbles for is as a drag name.), I opened my office door to find John sitting at my desk breathing irregularly. Before I had the chance to ask what he had for breakfast, he shot out of the chair and from under the desk I heard someone complain about having her teeth ripped out of her head. It was Maggie. You remember... Maggie, Sweety’s grand-niece and paid sex enthusiast who I have a store credit with? Well, she was working at the theater tonight and also ushering. John mumbled something about not being able to find his seat as he hurried out of the office tucking and zipping.

Being an ethical person, Maggie decided to return half his money since she only finished half the job. Being a theater person, she decided to return it to his wife. I have a lot to learn about theater from her.

Anyway, I don’t know if Jane had a clue when Maggie returned the money, but I do know that Jane handed it right over to me for her 4th glass of wine and intermission was only half over.

You know, regrets are a waste of time. What’s wrong with being single? Why is devoting your life to playwrighting a bad thing? Why can’t I have Fruity Pebbles for breakfast? Do credits with hookers expire?

Welcome Back Blogger

Hi everyone. I'm back. It's been awhile but there've been a lot of reasons for my absence from cyberland. Well three actually. First, August. August is vacation month...not for me but for Bennett's shrink and I always seem to end up filling in. It keeps me occupied mostly thinking that the $165 he charges is a bargain. There's a lot of whining and tears and Bennett gets upset sometimes too.

The second reason for my absence was September. You know how sometimes if you hear a song over and over you can't get it out of your head? Well, it's the same after a month of hearing about Bennett and his breast feeding experiences. His mother is lucky she never got involved in that whole thing.

The third reason was October. Nothing interesting happened in October. I know what some of you are thinking...I've set the bar for interesting pretty low already. Wow, I've really missed you guys but anyway, October didn't even clear my already low bar.

So why am I back now? Because something interesting finally happened. I had an idea (which, in itself, is interesting). Why can't blogs be used by people to post the completely mundane, meaningless nonsense that happens to them on a daily basis? I can't believe no one has thought of that before. It's brilliant. So from now on if nothing interesting happens to me you'll be the first to hear about it. Maybe it'll catch on. Imagine an entire blogosphere filled with crap. It's really a great time to be alive.

She Asked Me

Remember that stuff in my last post about using a blog to tell the world about all the meaningless crap that happens in your life? Well, that’ll have to wait cause when I got into work this evening there was a note tacked to my door. I assumed that either the theater was being foreclosed on or Martin Luther stopped by with 95 complaints about the show. Turns out it was nothing so mundane. The note said, “Please, please, please come to my dressing room after the show tonight. It’s very important. I really need you. Miss Ex” (and no, she didn’t actually sign it “Miss Ex”. We’re still on a first name basis).

I knew she would come to her senses and want me back but it left me with a difficult choice. On the one hand I could swallow my pride and say “thank you, thank you, thank you”, or be a man about it and say, “abso-fucking-lutely”.

When I got to her dressing room she was in an indescribably sexy dress. It was...it had...she looked...see, can’t describe it. She desperately needed (italics not mine) me to be her escort to some LGBT thing she was asked to be a presenter at. Most fabulous something, something of the year. I don’t know, I wasn’t really paying attention I was too busy deciding where we should go for our honeymoon. After I decided on the Canadian side of Niagara Falls (great kitsch value and cheap prescriptions) I heard her say something about asking every other guy she knows, gay, straight, friends, relatives. No one was available, even her cousin Marty who is all of those things wrapped up in one. She even tried J-Date. No luck, which I can’t believe. She is every Jewish boy’s dream. Believe me, Mel Gibson would really hate her.

So with no other options she decided to ask me. We’re going the day after tomorrow so I assume I said “abso-fucking-lutely” or “thank you, thank you, thank you” or knowing me, both.

Now I can’t stop thinking about her in that dress thinking of me as a last resort. I don’t know whether to be aroused or offended...well, OK aroused is winning right now but in about two minutes (not including clean up) I get the feeling I'll be pretty offended.

What To Wear? What To Wear?

There’s only one problem with going to this Drag awards banquet with Miss Ex and no, it’s not the enormous can of emotional worms it opens. I happen to like emotional worms and I’m also partial to enormous cans. The problem is what to wear. The closest thing I have to a suit is an Evel Knievel jump suit I wore to a party once. Word of advice: double check the invitation. Not all brises are costume brises.

So, this afternoon I went to see Bennett. Bennett is the gay Tim Gunn...sorry, the super gay Tim Gunn and he is the neighborhood go-to guy for wardrobe. See, he keeps a souvenir from all his sex partners so he has a huge inventory. Of course, it’s mostly Euro-banana hammocks but he does have the prom dress from a girl he went to high school with as well as the tux her date wore. I wanted to wear the tux. I look great in powder blue if I do say so myself but Bennett said “no” with a look that added “you tasteless peasant”. He offered me a choice between a black suit from the mortician he dated during his Goth phase or the sparkly black tux that belonged to Peter Allen who he dated during his hyper-fabulous phase (Bennett’s not Peter’s).

The choice was simple, a no-brainer, really. I will be wearing the one that smells faintly of formaldehyde and dead lilies. That’s right, I’m going in Peter Allen’s tux.

I figure throwing myself into the spirit of the event might score me some points with Miss Ex...not that I’m doing any of this for that reason. I’m doing this for the kids...or rather the drag queens...or the kids of drag queens. Anyway, I’m ready. Bring on the red carpet.

We Did It

We did it...we did it...WE DID IT. That’s right three, count ‘em three times(the title doesn’t count). I even started on number 4 when I saw her note. I know what you’re thinking, “Uh oh, a note” but this time is different. It said, “Have dance class then shrink. Lock up when you leave.” Not exactly a love poem but, believe me, if you read it naked it can be pretty damn hot.

Anyway, before all that stuff the night wasn’t looking too promising even though I was looking very Peter Allen. The event was at a cabaret space above a bowling alley in Brooklyn and the only red carpet in sight was on the 6’4” tranny in the 6’2” mini skirt. I had to sit through an hour and a half of Lizas and Chers and a surprising number of Kaye Ballards before Miss Ex finally gave her award for best solo male/female duet. That’s when things took off. She did a great job then she sang “It’s Raining Men” with a giant Diana Ross with huge knuckles (it turns out it wasn’t the real Diana Ross) and brought down the house. Three Joan Collins’s were carrying her around the room like she was the winning coach of a very fabulous Super Bowl. I haven’t seen Miss Ex so happy since...well, never. She couldn’t stop talking about it even while we were doing it. Luckily I always liked when she talked dirty during sex.

All this leaves me with one problem, though. I may have to come up with a new pseudonym for Miss Ex. What do you think of Mrs. Ex?

The Victory Lap

So this morning after I finished measuring Miss Ex’s apartment to see how my stuff would fit I headed to Starbuck’s and who should I happen to run into after 3 hours and 3 double shot espressos, but Bennett. I didn’t have to tell him about last night, he knew when he saw I was still in the Peter Allen tux. As I was about to start my victory lap Bennett told me about the time the love of his life (for that month) was nominated for an off-off-off-Broadway award {Ed. note-the Ooobies?}. He won, was the star of the night and made love to Bennett in a way “that made him glad to be a man” (after they got home, I assume). The next day while Bennett was online registering with Williams-Sonoma a delivery guy shows up with a muffin basket from Mr. Oooobie. The note said “I appreciate you being there for the best night of my life. Nothing will top it until I win the Tony.” It turns out he was

Mr. Ooobie’s victory lap. (FYI: Mr. Ooobie is now tending bar in the theater across the street from us.)

Bennett was killing me with this story. I started shaking and sweating. I was afraid I was going to pass out. I mean 3 double shot espressos really go through a guy.

When I got to the theater I felt great and I had almost gotten Bennett’s story out of my head when I saw...you guessed it...a note on my office door. It said, “thank you. I wish every night could be like last night except I want to win the awards instead of presenting them...blah...blah...blah...career...blah...blah...blah focus etc...etc...I think you can guess who the note was from. Oh, on the bright side there was a gift card to a local bakery. I hear they have great muffins.