The Hierarchy of Homos

Okay, so a lot of people have written me about my refernce to my the "Hierarchy of Homos."  I alternate between calling it that and "The Homo Food Chain," depending on my mood.  Anyway, herewith you can find my thoughts on the dating patterns and social strata of gay men, based on my mindset when I did it, which was sometime in the summer after my big financial disaster and right before I went to Philadelphia to do The Pavilion.  As you can imagine, I wasn't in the best of mental places, so I didn't rate myself too highly up the food chain...

So, for your reading pleasure, from top to bottom, my totally unscientific evaluation of my lot in life:  The Hierarchy of Homos, or The Weakest Link in the Dating Food Chain.

The Olympic God:  You've seen 'em.  They're beautiful, they've got negative body fat, and it requires little or no effort to maintain.  But they do it anyway, 'cuz they know they're at the top, and they don't wanna end up at the bottom of the heap.  Would not be caught dead dating below the level of C-You/C-Me.  And that, my friends, would be slumming.

Body Rock:  The classic Chelsea Gym Rat.  Buff, hard, wrorking it.  They know they're a clone, and not only are they not horrified by their sameness, they celebrate it.  And they look down on you for not being smart enough to know that sameness is good,  They rest secure in the knowledge that you want to be like them, but never will be.  They've earned the right to laugh at you.

C-You/C-Me:  Yeah, they work out at the gym, and it's paying off.  And you know why they're working out at the gym?  'Cuz they want to be able to date Body Rockers, and think that someday, if they work hard enough, they might even become Olympic Gods.  But for now, they're getting off on the fact that you're watching, and you want them.

The Fit Boy:  There are two categories of Fit Boy.  The first doesn't really have to work at it.  He's naturally lean and athletic, and really can't be bothered to go to the gym... maybe he works out at home, but maybe not; he's got more important things to do.  The other is the Fit Boy who works out, but only 'cuz it makes him feel good.  He's gonna get laid no matter what, 'cuz it's not about his body, it's about how good he feels about himself.  He's only in the middle of the food chain 'cuz his beauty is casual and careless... sometimes, in the middle of a horrific work out, even the Olympic Gods wish they could be this effortless.

Too Kool For Skool:  Usually waif-like, usually sporting a soul patch, and usually naturually skinny and boyish.  Most often, an art student or musician of some sort.  A real East Village type.  These boys are too busy raving and designing the next haute couture to be bothered to dally with the rest of the little people.  They disdain all the muscles as gross and unnatural.  Actually, they kinda reside outside the Hierarchy - in a space their own.  The Fit Boys are busy looking up the food chain, and the Average Joes (see below) are too busy lusting after the Fit Boys and wishing they could be Fit Boys, or too busy working at making the leap up to the next category.

The Average Joe:  The regular guys - the ones who, for whatevever reason (laziness, distraction, lack of time or self esteem) can't make themselves go to the gym with any regularity.  They wish they could, but they just can't.  And they're suffering for it.  But it's all about the ennui.  The suffering may be painful, but not as painful as the effort involved in re-shaping their bodies and grabbing at their dreams.

LazyBoy:  Just can't get out of the recliner.  Seriously intimidated by the whole gym environment, and hopelessly in love with the boys waaaay up the food chain and waaaaay out of their league.  But able, fortunately, to still have someone to look down on:

The Fat Guys:  They're the one thing that every gay media image has taught us to despise:  Fat.  Regardless of whether or not they've learned to love themselves, they have to accept the scorn of just about everyone else.  They're entirely too used to hearing the line, "You're a great guy, you're just not my type."  Just about the only chance they have of hooking up is with others from their level of the hierarchy, though this rarely stops (some of) them from shooting for the stars.

The Mess:  Though not necessarily a fat guy, is most likely one.  More importantly, though, these guys are mentally unstable, owing to some factor most often associated with childhood.  Easily identifyable as the profoundly sad individuals in gay chat rooms who continually repeat a post offering their (entirely too) detailed self-description, and what they're willing to do for just about anyone who comes down the pike.  In weaker moments, even the more noble of the fellows further up the food chain are tempted to make fun of them.

So there you have it.  I don't know how you feel about it, but it doesn't seem as funny to me as it did when I first came up with it - although it still seems to me to be pretty insightful.  And because I know you're gonna ask, and to save myself the e-mails:  When I developed the hierarchy, I placed myself squarely in the LazyBoy category.  I'll leave it up to you to figure out where I'd put myself on the scale these days.  But I can tell you this much:  I'm movin' on up.

Remember how I was talking about Michael Smith, they guy I met at the Mountain Playhouse party?  Well, at the risk of getting myself in trouble and because so many people wanted to know: Olympic God, baby.  That man breathes rarified air I shall never taste.

Hierarchy of Homos

Okay, so a lot of people have written me about my refernce to my the "Hierarchy of Homos." I alternate between calling it that and "The Homo Food Chain," depending on my mood. Anyway, herewith you can find my thoughts on the dating patterns and social strata of gay men, based on my mindset when I did it, which was sometime in the summer after my big financial disaster and right before I went to Philadelphia to do The Pavilion. As you can imagine, I wasn't in the best of mental places, so I didn't rate myself too highly up the food chain...

The Hierarchy of Homos, or The Weakest Link in the Dating Food Chain.

The Olympic God: You've seen 'em. They're beautiful, they've got negative body fat, and it requires little or no effort to maintain. But they do it anyway, 'cuz they know they're at the top, and they don't wanna end up at the bottom of the heap. Would not be caught dead dating below the level of C-You/C-Me. And that, my friends, would be slumming.

Body Rock: The classic Chelsea Gym Rat. Buff, hard, wrorking it. They know they're a clone, and not only are they not horrified by their sameness, they celebrate it. And they look down on you for not being smart enough to know that sameness is good, They rest secure in the knowledge that you want to be like them, but never will be. They've earned the right to laugh at you.

C-You/C-Me: Yeah, they work out at the gym, and it's paying off. And you know why they're working out at the gym? 'Cuz they want to be able to date Body Rockers, and think that someday, if they work hard enough, they might even become Olympic Gods. But for now, they're getting off on the fact that you're watching, and you want them.

The Fit Boy: There are two categories of Fit Boy. The first doesn't really have to work at it. He's naturally lean and athletic, and really can't be bothered to go to the gym... maybe he works out at home, but maybe not; he's got more important things to do. The other is the Fit Boy who works out, but only 'cuz it makes him feel good. He's gonna get laid no matter what, 'cuz it's not about his body, it's about how good he feels about himself. He's only in the middle of the food chain 'cuz his beauty is casual and careless... sometimes, in the middle of a horrific work out, even the Olympic Gods wish they could be this effortless.

Too Kool For Skool: Usually waif-like, usually sporting a soul patch, and usually naturually skinny and boyish. Most often, an art student or musician of some sort. A real East Village type. These boys are too busy raving and designing the next haute couture to be bothered to dally with the rest of the little people. They disdain all the muscles as gross and unnatural. Actually, they kinda reside outside the Hierarchy - in a space their own. The Fit Boys are busy looking up the food chain, and the Average Joes (see below) are too busy lusting after the Fit Boys and wishing they could be Fit Boys, or too busy working at making the leap up to the next category.

The Average Joe: The regular guys - the ones who, for whatevever reason (laziness, distraction, lack of time or self esteem) can't make themselves go to the gym with any regularity. They wish they could, but they just can't. And they're suffering for it. But it's all about the ennui. The suffering may be painful, but not as painful as the effort involved in re-shaping their bodies and grabbing at their dreams.

LazyBoy: Just can't get out of the recliner. Seriously intimidated by the whole gym environment, and hopelessly in love with the boys waaaay up the food chain and waaaaay out of their league. But able, fortunately, to still have someone to look down on:

The Fat Guys: They're the one thing that every gay media image has taught us to despise: Fat. Regardless of whether or not they've learned to love themselves, they have to accept the scorn of just about everyone else. They're entirely too used to hearing the line, "You're a great guy, you're just not my type." Just about the only chance they have of hooking up is with others from their level of the hierarchy, though this rarely stops (some of) them from shooting for the stars.

The Mess: Though not necessarily a fat guy, is most likely one. More importantly, though, these guys are mentally unstable, owing to some factor most often associated with childhood. Easily identifyable as the profoundly sad individuals in gay chat rooms who continually repeat a post offering their (entirely too) detailed self-description, and what they're willing to do for just about anyone who comes down the pike. In weaker moments, even the more noble of the fellows further up the food chain are tempted to make fun of them.



So there you have it. I don't know how you feel about it, but it doesn't seem as funny to me as it did when I first came up with it - although it still seems to me to be pretty insightful. And because I know you're gonna ask, and to save myself the e-mails: When I developed the hierarchy, I placed myself squarely in the LazyBoy category. I'll leave it up to you to figure out where I'd put myself on the scale these days. But I can tell you this much: I'm movin' on up.

Remember how I was talking about Michael Smith, they guy I met at the Mountain Playhouse party? Well, at the risk of getting myself in trouble and because so many people wanted to know: Olympic God, baby. That man breathes rarified air I shall never taste.

A Reunion

Whew.  This week has been a bit trying.  Mostly (actually, almost exclusively) because of this allergy-post-nasal-drip-turned-into-a-nasty-head-cold thing that I've been suffering through.  I'm one of those people who doesn't get sick very often, so when I do, I tend to be a bit of a crybaby about it.  I said as much to one of the women at work the other day and she replied, "Sounds like pretty much all men to me."

See, we have more in common with our straight brethren than they'd like to admit.

Last night I went to a little party at the Bull Moose Saloon on 44th Street; it was a gathering of people who've worked at the Mountain Playhouse in Jennerstown, PA - where some of you might remember I did Picasso at the Lapin Agile way back in 1999.  Before I did it at the Arden, in Philadelphia, that is.

Anyway, it was a wonderful chance to get together with friends I see semi-regularly but not enough (like Doug Rees and Janet Dickinson) but those that I don't see nearly enough, like Biff Baron and Nick Ruggeri and Susan Jacks.  And it's been an age since I've seen Teresa Marafino - the producer at the playhouse.

So it was wonderful to see all those folks, and I can't tell you how delightful it is when I see them to see how genuinely excited they are to see me, and to catch up.  Which kind of makes what I was feeling during the party a little strange.  I had a recurrence of a very old phenomena - one that I haven't noticed in quite some time; one that hearkens back to the days before therapy, when I (at least in theory) made progress toward being more interested in what I thought of me than what others thought of me.

I was sitting at the table, listening to several different conversations going on around me, and suddenly realized that I wasn't involved in any of them - that I didn't, in fact, know the people involved well enough or have enough of a personal history with them to have any sort of salient contribution to make.  And suddenly I recognized a very old feeling - the feeling of being utterly and completely alone in a crowd of people.

I was really taken aback; because I haven't felt that way in quite a long time - and it's something I've always equated with the darkest times of my clinical depression.  On those rare occasions when friends would drag me to parties, I'd find myself off in a corner, watching everyone around me having fun.  This was, of course, back in the days before I realized (a) not all those people are having all the fun they seem to be, and (b) I'm responsible for my own damn fun & can't be afraid to engage other people for fear they're somehow going to judge me inferior.

It was a nice lesson in how far someone can grow over the years; and too, a nice lesson in not letting yourself backslide when you're feeling down, or feeling sorry for yourself.

It's true, though, that - even emotionally - you can never go back.  I'm never going to feel alone in a crowd in quite the same way I did before my eyes were opened and my outlook on the world changed.


So you wanna know what the big disappointment of the night was?  My goddamn camera, that's what.  I took it with me, 'cuz I'd fallen out of the habit lately of having it with me on social outings... more than one longtime reader has noted the paucity of photos in the online journal lately.

I took the camera and snapped a LOT of shots during the evening, but almost all of them came out blurry - owing mainly to the lack of light and the pre-set focal length on most digital cameras.  I've said it before and I'll say it again:  I am so not a great photographer, but I sure have outgrown the piece of trash I'm using now.

Anyone out there with $2.5K to spend on a charity case needs to give it to me, so I can get my dream camera:  The Nikon D-100K package.  In case you're wondering why the extra money... I need lenses.  This thing works with SLR lenses, and consequently - like most regular high-end film cameras - the price only includes the body.  You gotta buy the lenses you want separately.  Someone please make me rich.

Anyway, for what they're worth, here are some of the more salvageable shots of the evening:

Here's Biff Baron, who I miss most acutely (oddly) when I'm with him.  I think I tend, like most people, to get caught up in the grind of day-to-day life, and only realize how much I really fucking enjoy Biff when he's right there with me... does that make any sort of sense whatsoever?  Most likely not.  How to describe it?  Well, it's like this - I worked all day today (and, truth be told, for most of last week, and the week before and who knows how many weeks before that) without thinking about Biff; but last night, just being in the same room with him made me smile.  And every time I flip back through this journal, and think about the day back in December of 2002 when I forced Kevin & Kirsten Lageman to stand around in the cold while I snapped off shots of my one of my favorite buildings in New York, I'm reminded that it was Biff, of all the people in my life who actually read this journal, who knew what that building was, and was able to tell me the background on it.  He sent me an e-mail not long after that entry appeared, and I've been meaning to share it for some time:

 Just wanted to say Hi and tell you (if you didn't know) that the building on 72nd & Broadway you refer to in your 12/7 missive is the Ansonia Hotel. Famous for being an old "theatrical" hotel. It had studios and a theater in it when I lived on 82nd and was THE place for auditions. It is also where "The Sunshine Boys" is set (one of the old vaudeville comics still lived there). It is also the infamous location of "Plato's Retreat" - a "swingers" club in the 70's.

It pays, my friends, to have friends with encyclopedic knowledge of your home.

Speaking of encyclopedic knowledge, here's quick picture of Doug Rees (in the middle) along with Janet Dickinson and her friend Michael Smith, whom I met for the first time last night.  At the risk of sounding like a complete freak, this man is maybe the most handsome person I've ever met in person.  This picture doesn't even begin to do him justice, but it was the only one of the evening that turned out.

I confess:  My old voyeuristic tendency to snap photos of people who don't know I'm doing it almost began to reassert itself in Michael's presence, but I managed to contain myself.  I thought, "Why not just paste Stalker Freak on your forehead and get it over with?"  That brought me back to my senses.  After he'd left and I was saying my own goodbyes, I remarked to Janet that he was a really good looking guy - way too good-looking for me.  In response to her question, "What makes you think that?!?" I told her, "Remind me some time to show you my Hierarchy of Homos."  I'm going to dig that out in the next couple of days and post it here.

One of the perks of the Mountain Playhouse reunion parties each year is the chance to see folks like Guy Stroman, who often directs there.  I enjoy Guy a lot - I think he's a very talented director - but I often get the impression he doesn't know exactly what to say to me, since he's never been able to hire me (actually - maybe he didn't want to hire me, who knows?).  But he's never been anything but really nice to me, and he's got so many great stories from his years in the business that I just love to sorta hang around on the periphery of his conversations, just to listen in.

To Guy's right is Susan Jacks.  I have a bit of a bone to pic with her.  Every time I aim a camera at her, she makes a face at me.  Someday, when I have a better camera (and more skill!) I'm going to force her to let me take a serious portrait, 'cuz I just love her face.  Next to Susan, as you know, is the delightful and talented Janet Dickinson.  Sings like an angel, folks; funny like Lucille Ball.

Here's the last of the photos that even kinda turned out:  This one is of Mountain Playhouse's Box Office Manager, Lori Berkey (left) and the delightful Amy Barker, one of Janet's friends and yes, a Mountain Playhouse acting veteran.  Amy gave me three chances to get a picture that captured her beauty correctly, and I muffed all three.

You know what I really regret?  Sitting across the table from Amy was Kathy Gilmore, another of Janet's really good friends who's been kind enough to include me in their revels since my arrival in the city.  I had a couple of chances to shoot her, too, and blew them as well!!!  I hate me.

So all in all, I guess the big lessons of the night were two-fold.  First, I'm never really alone in a crowd - in fact, I've come to believe that I'm never ever really alone - in a Buddhist sort of way.  Second, I've got to get a new fucking camera before I throw this one against a wall!

In Which I Feel Like Crap

Feeling a little crapola today.  I've come down with some sort of nasty head cold, which is really kicking my ass.  Very achy and sore.  I stayed in bed for an extra couple of hours this morning to try to feel better, and my boss made me leave early because i sounded so bad (badly?).

So I came home and crawled into bed, and took the opportunity to update the picture page with vacation photos. You should check it out.  Oh, yeah:  I also put in a new installment of the "NY FIles," so there's that as well.

Now I'm off to bed to try and get some sleep!

Yikes

Thank God I don't have to work in the morning!

It's now about 4:30 a.m., and the Blizzard of 2003 has fallen on the city like a hammer hitting an anvil!  It's struck so hard, in fact, that apparently the snow plows can't keep up with it.  Some jackass just got stuck in a drift on Flatbush, just below my window, and is making such an awful racket spinning his wheels in an effort to get out that he woke me up.  He needs a new muffler.

Even Truckstop and Max are annoyed at this guy.  Truckstop is sitting on my window sill watching the action, and Max has his head buried under my blankets.  These two are a hoot.

It's not immediately obvious from the phot above, in which it looks like Max has every intention of eating the kitten, but these guys are fast friends.  Max is incredibly patient with the kitten, who's often to be found gnoshing on his ears or his tail.

The other thing that's apparent from the photo above: My entrance hallway needs to be mopped something awful.  Oh, and that green paint on the walls looks like shit.

It's actually really early Monday morning - close to 1 a.m., I guess.  New York is being hit with what's already being called "Blizzard 2003."  I'm not sure if these predictions are right or not, but apparently we could get as much as 1 - 2 feet in the city.  That's saying something.  Usually, even when the areas around the city get slammed, the concentration of concrete and people tends to lessen the impact in the city itself.  Not so, this time, apparently.

This has been a bit of a disappointing weekend, all around.  I spent Valentines Day with the Lagemans and their friends the Burnetts, along with Ms. Shannon Brown and their friend Phil, whose wife Julie was off somewhere in the wilds of Virginia filming a student film.

It was wonderful, of course, to have any opportunity to hang out with this crowd, but it was hard to be one of the few single people - and the only gay man - at a Valentines party.  You'd think I'd be used to being single, after nearly two years of it;  I used to revel in my singleness back in the days before Gavan.  Someone told me a while back that it takes as long to get over a relationship as you were in it.... which means that apparently it's going to take me 4½ years to get over Gavan.  Man, that sucks.

So, that was my Valentines Day.  Feeling like the 11th wheel at a party full of breeders.  Kevin and Kirsten Lageman, god love 'em, fall over themselves to cheer me up about it, but there are just times when I let my own self-pity reign and just wallow in it like a pig in mud.  Valentines Day "alone" is definitely one of those times.

Don't think that I'm not sick of it, either.  I don't find my own self pity very charming, and I'm not really in the habit of displaying it for everyone to see, but there are times - like Valentines Day - when the lonliness is a palpable ache, and I can feel it like other emotions.  Once, in an acting class, a teacher pointed out to me that all emotions feel the same way, which makes it easier for an actor to use one emotion to simulate others.  Where, he asked, do you feel real, unmitigated joy?  The answer, for most people, is right in the bundle of nerves at your solar plexus.  Fear?  Anger?  Same place.  And when I allow myself to really wallow in self pity, that's where I feel the heartache.

The weekend wasn't much better.  I spent Saturday running errands and lounging around the apartment, and today I had dinner with Nathan, who's a bit of torture himself.  I could, sadly, totally fall for Nate, except for the pesky fact that he's not attracted to me and wants nothing that even remotely resembles a relationship.  So I get to torture myself by hanging out with him and having to endure his telling me what a catch I am.  My only response to that, of course, is, "Then why the fuck do I have so many first dates?!?"

As a capper to what has otherwise been a completely lovely weekend (do you smell the sarcasm there?), I had an online conversation with this guy, Richard, whom I'd met for dinner before and had enjoyed.  We were doing a little online flirting and the topic of the woman who'd sued McDonalds when she spilled hot coffee on herself came up.  We clearly were on opposite sides of this argument - him believing that McDonalds was totally at fault, and me believing that people should accept responsibility for the risks they take (i.e., drinking hot coffee in a car).  I apparently misunderstood that his rather ardent defense of the lady involved and vilification of McDonalds wasn't just the usually slightly ironic and wry tone we usually take in our online chats; but boy, was I wrong about that.  After he insisted that the lady had 3rd degree burns and required skin grafts and that McDonalds had served the coffee way too hot, and that all this had happened in a parked car, my reply - hewing to my belief that she had assumed responsibility by ordering hot coffee at a drive-through and should be appropriately careful - was simply, "I'm just not buying it, sorry."

Suddenly, out of nowhere, he sent "night" and signed off.  Maybe I have old fashioned standards of chat etiquette, but to me, that's the online equivalent of hanging up on someone.  As far as I'm concerned, there's just no need for that shit.  Apparently, though, Richard feels that there's just no need for people who won't be swayed by his arguments!

In Which I Overshare Inappropriately

Okay, I'm so pissed off, I could spit!

I took my fucking laptop to this local computer repair place nearly a month ago, hoping they could do something about the fact that my computer screen was just cutting out and going blank.  I assumed it was some sort of loose connection (or at least I hoped that was the case).

Well, I've had the worst experience of customer service I've ever had in my life, and if I'm honest, at least a little part (the tiniest, tiniest, tiniest part) of the blame has to go on me.

So I took it to S&S Computer Services just up the block from me - on January 18 - and explained the problem. The guy there told me they'd just had a similar problem with another laptop (an IBM), and that my problem was probably a faulty LCD Converter... that would explain why there were images on my screen, but they just weren't bright enough to see.  It's a good thing I came to them, the guy tells me, because they could find the part and replace it, but if I'd gone to an "authorized" Compaq service center, they'd have insisted that I replace the entire screen.

Well, happy that I'm going to save a little money, I leave the laptop with these guys and go on my way, reassured by the guy's assertion that he's gonna track down the part and let me know how much it'll cost.

A week goes by, and I don't hear from them.  I'm busy with work, I'm going to my exercise classes at night, I get caught up in planning and getting ready for vacation, so I try not to think about it.  Here's where some (the tiniest part) of the blame falls on me.  I let most of a second week go by before I skip out of work early and troop over to the place so I can get there before closing and ask for a progress report.  The guy there tells me they've opened it up and tried just reattaching the LCD Converter in the hope that it had just been jarred loose, but that hasn't worked, and they're going to have to order it and install a new one.

Fine, I say, when will this be done?  The guy pulls out his pen and says, I'll track down the part on Monday and call you no later than Tuesday.  This, mind you, will be the Tuesday after I leave for vacation.  Grand.

So off I go on vacation.  I'm having fun, I'm road-tripping, when suddenly I realize that it's Thursday and not only have I not heard from these schmucks, but the phone number I copied down from the awning over their shop is out of service!  So now I've got to wait 'til I get back to New York before I can find out what the fuck's going on!

I get back and, of course, have to work all week, so I can't get to them during business hours.  It's not until today that I finally march over there and ask what's going on.  The guy who runs the place happens to be there - a guy who seems nice enough, but is clearly some sort of salesman (read: operator), and he tells me that they were wrong; the LCD Converter's not going to do the trick, 'cuz they're just too hard to get, so I'm going to have to spend $600-$700 on a new screen!

I nearly went postal, especially when I asked why no one had called me to tell me that and he shrugged and looked pretty damn unconcerned.  At that point I asked him how much I owed him for the labor of looking at the thing, and ponied up the $75 for that labor ($75 an hour for labor!!!!).  He told me he'd check on the price of the screen and either e-mail me or call me on Tuesday.  I laughed out loud.  I told him I'd be taking my computer with me so I could do some catching up on the things I'd been letting go for a month.  When he brought the computer out, it had a months worth of dust on it.  The mother fuckers may have opened it up to look at it on January 19 or so, but it had been sitting on a shelf since then, untouched.

I told the guy not to bother and came home.  Now it's a month later, and I'm no closer to having a working screen.  Now I've got it hooked up to an old monitor that belongs to the guys from whom I'm subletting my apartment, and it looks like I might just as well find a Compaq Service Center and let them do the work.  It'll probably cost me an arm and a leg, but it'll at least be done speedily and by people who won't let the freaking thing collect dust on a shelf!

AAAARRRRGH!

Catching Up

Whew! I'm bushed!  I didn't get home until late last night, and had to work first thing this morning!

The trip was the greatest! I flew from New York to Durham on the morning of February 2, and saw Jay's production of THE SHAPE OF THINGS that afternoon. Then we hung around for the rest of the evening, and I stayed at his house Monday night.

On Monday morning, we got up and dropped his car off for inspection, then we went and I sat in as he taught his acting classes at Duke University. We finally got on the road at about 3 p.m., and spent most of the first day crossing North Caroline and Tennessee. We made it as far as Jackson, TN, before deciding to call it a night. All in all, we did about 650 miles the first day.

On Tuesday, we got up at 7 a.m. and got on the road right away, continuing west on I-40. It was a short 1½ hour trip to Memphis, where we hung out at Graceland for about an hour before we hit the road again. Sadly, the mansion was closed that day, so we couldn't get inside and take the tour, which I'd have loved - but we got some great photographs of the mansion and the "memorial garden" where Elvis, his mom & dad and grandma are all buried. It's frankly pretty creepy and a bit underwhelming, when all is said and done. I do have to say this about Graceland: I thought the pool would be bigger.

After finishing with Graceland, we got back on the road and headed west, again on I-40. We almost immediately crossed into Arkansas. I thought Arkansas was gonna be a scary place, but it was actually really pretty, and what people we met were really nice. We skipped around Little Rock and kept heading west, and just out of Fort Smith we turned north on our only real side trip from the Interstate: We went up to Fayetteville, AR to see Jay's brother. THAT was wild. Jay's brother Steve is a total hippy with a scraggy beard, a wife who's 9 years younger, and a two little girls - Penelope and Zolabell. Fayetteville, it turns out, is a bit of a hippie town, which was the LAST thing I expected. That area of the country is really beautiful, though.

Anyway, we were bound and determined to reach the desert, so after having a lovely dinner with Steve and his family, we hit the road again for some more driving before giving up for the night. We managed to make it about 30 miles west of Oklahoma City before stopping for the night.

Wednesday morning, we hit the road again and plowed westward across the rest of Oklahoma and into the panhandle of Texas. At Amarillo, we finally got off the Interstate 40, after having traveled over 1400 miles on it... in a little over 1½ days! We took State Route 60 south west away from Amarillo, and crossed into New Mexico at a little town called Clovis. We headed west on 60 till we got to a little town called Vaughn, where we took Route 54 south to a town called Carrizozo. From Carrizozo, we went north west a few miles to this amazing landmark called The Valley of Fires, where we got lots of great pictures. Hopefully, I'll get them posted soon.

The trip south along 54 was, I think, some of my favorite vistas of the whole journey. The Chupadera Mesa, and the mountains looming to the south of Carrizozo were just amazingly beautiful. If ever I'm independently wealthy, I think I'd consider living in the area.

Anyway, as dusk was falling on Wednesday, we finished our photo expedition in the Valley of Fire and headed south east through the Capitan Mountains into Roswell. There was no way I could visit the state without seeing the home of my alien friends. We got into town too late to wander around taking photos, so we got our hotel and ate a nice meal, then sacked out.

Thursday morning, we got up and wandered around Roswell, taking snapshots. It was too early to actually get into any of the freaky alien attractions, and we didn't feel like wasting the time waiting for them to open, 'cuz we'd hoped to make it into southern Texas by nightfall, and that would involve some long, hard driving. So we headed south from Roswell on Route 285 passing through Carlsbad (had to miss the Caverns!) until we crossed back into Texas again.

This part of west Texas was actually a little depressing. Lots of really tiny towns with no industry or commerce to speak of... Just lots of old people looking like they'd all been deserted by the young folks. The most depressing town in the world is Orla, Texas. I slept through it, but according to Jay, it looked like Beirut with 5 pueblo-like outhouses that had been bombed out.

Eventually, we made it to Ft. Stockton, Texas, where we joined up with Interstate 10 headed east. We took that till we passed the town of Junction, and then got onto Rt. 290, which we took to Austin. Austin was very cool, and I think I'd actually like to go and spend some time there, exploring the gay scene, which is apparently pretty big, and the theater scene, which isn't huge, but is supposed to be pretty hip. Maybe someday.

We stayed east of Austin that night, pretty exhausted at having driven so hard.

Friday morning, we drove from Austin and spent most of the day getting to Baton Rouge, which was pretty, but a bit dead. We got some nice photos of the historic downtown area, and had an amazing meal at a place Jay's friend (who's from the area) recommended.

Saturday was fun, 'cuz we spent the morning wandering the French Quarter of New Orleans, taking photos and soaking in the atmosphere. Yet another place I might live if I were fabulously wealthy.

From New Orleans, we drove across the Gulf area of Louisiana and into Alabama, passing through Mobile and Montgomery as we headed north east into Georgia. We stayed Saturday night in Atlanta with Jay's cousin, Chris (the night of the NBA All Star Game AND the Playa's Ball - a yearly gathering, I shit you not, of the city's pimps, who apparently deck themselves out in their "finest").

Sunday morning, we got back on the road, and made it back to Durham by about 3 p.m., just in time for my flight back to New York City, which, it turns out, was canceled. US Airways put me on a Continental flight to Newark (Ugh!), and by the time I caught the airport shuttle to the train station, took the train into Manhattan, and then the subway home (of course, as it was a weekend night, there was construction work on the 2 line, so it skipped my stop, took me four stops out of my way, and then I had to wait almost a half hour to get a subway train going BACK to my stop), it was nearly 1 a.m. by the time I got home.

I have to say, though, it was an incredibly enjoyable vacation, and I couldn't have been luckier than to have Jay along.  He's so fucking smart and so well read, and has such incredibly strong opinions about all the things that interest me, that we never lacked for conversation, which is saying something, considering that we did 4,057 miles and 11 states in six days, and never ran out of shit to talk about.

This experience has, in fact, changed my mind about road trips.  I used to hate them, but now I suspect that they're all about who you're with and why you're doing them.  I plan to put that to the test sometime this summer, if I can.  I'm gonna rent a convertible and take two weeks to do south eastern Canada and the Pacific Northwest in the US!

For now, though, it's back to the daily grind.  I'll work on downloading and posting those pictures soon!

Happy Brithday, Tiny!

Happy Birthday to Kevin Lageman!  We all surprised him this evening at Virgil's BBQ on 42nd Street, near Times Square.  A wonderful time was had by all!  I'd write more, but I haven't packed yet, and I gotta get my ass on a flight to Durham tomorrow morning at 9 a.m.!

Hope you enjoyed it, Tiny!