Without the Brown Bag

As often as I am at my local bar, which is, shall we say, not infrequently, he must be there even more often. I see him whenever I am there.

He's one of those old timers. Been going there forever. I imagine he's seen the place change owners over the years. And he rocks that same barstool day by day and year by year. He owns that stool. Should he leave it for a minute to take a leak and come back to find it occupied, he spares no one's feelings to get it back, and he'll hover and wait patiently, though almost indignantly, until he is reinstalled to his rightful place.

The bartenders indulge him. I don't know what his limit is. And I can't say what condition he arrives in, but by the time I get there, he is sitting propped up on a stool at the bar. Usually he's sleeping, despite the loud Latin music. Or he seems to be sleeping, his head cocked to the side and chin thrust downward onto his chest. In front of him is a bundle of newspaper, a glass of red wine, and a glass mug of something resembling water. Someone once told me it was something stronger.

I never see him sipping the wine, but it goes by and by. He gets refills a couple of times a night, speaking only to the bartender.

He was thin as a younger man but is now filling out in his middle age, with short neat hair and round glasses. I once imagined he was an accountant or a lawyer. But his voice, deep and gruff like a truck driver's, doesn't seem to match his frame. Someone once told me he's a doorman in one of the more posh buildings nearby, but the only uniform I've seen him wear is an oversize gray sweatshirt and some baggy khaki pants.

He is harmless and inert. He inhabits his own world, and he occupies it grandly, passing an entire night without interacting with a soul, but he is as undeniable a presence as the pool table. He is a complete stranger, but as familiar as the cashier at the grocery store.

And for all his apparent alcoholism, who among us is better than he is? Our only advantage is that we are more animated, and we're not there alone. But how often have I see that cash register inexplicably flash "Good Morning, Good Morning, Good Morning..." over and over and over, ad infinitum? How many times have I seen that single LED clock above the door click over past 3 a.m.? How often have I sat at that bar and not said a word?

So we don't judge him, because it's too much like looking at ourselves. Why do you think there are so many mirrors in a bar? We just leave him be. Who knows the circumstance and the moment of weakness that could deliver any one of us to where he is now. I don't know his name. And I feel no need to sentimentally "give" him one. We just wonder out loud about him like we're observing a passive zoo animal or objectively analyzing a piece of art. I don't think he hears us.

This sentence is worth 38 points.

In a city as big and old and famous as New York, there's a landmark on nearly every corner. Someone was born here. Someone died here. Some drag queens started a social movement here. Someone recorded a watershed album here in the '60s. Here's a cafe from Sex in the City. Everyone's got a story about some point of pride in their neighborhood.

Just recently, I learned that the birthplace of Scrabble is the Community Methodist Church in my neighborhood. To commemorate the fact, the street sign on the corner of 35th Avenue and 81st Street, where the church is located, has been made to look like it's composed of Scrabble tiles. It's a bit esoteric, like nerd humor, but I think a subtle nod to a great invention is more clever than a boring old plaque.

Faith in Gay Humanity: Safe for Now

The recent finale of "Make Me a Supermodel," or rather more specifically, the fact that Ronnie did not win, has bolstered my faith in gay humanity.

You know the homos were coming out in droves to watch those boys love themselves week after week. And week after week, polished, hairless gay hero Ronnie Kroell, glowing like a like a spring pig scrubbed in buttermilk, was snatched from the jaws of death.

Ronnie is hot, but not supermodel hot, whatever that is. And he's nice. And he's one of those people we hate who will be successful at everything he does. Yet there can be no other explanation than an army of gay well-wishers with cramped thumbs and light hearts sending text messages from far and wide to vote him back on the next week.

I was one of those gays. No matter the options, honestly, shirtless boys will win out every time.

His not winning was one of the few things that gave that show any credibility. I have a hard time feeling sorry for really beautiful people. I have a hard time believing that it's so hard to walk down a cat walk. But after watching the show, I am willing to concede that there is in fact a skill to modeling. Not a terribly complicated skill, but a skill nonetheless that clearly comes more naturally to some than others.

So, now I can believe that the contestant with the most — a-hem ... skill won. As long as Holly avoids talking to her clients, I think she has a long and successful career ahead of her.

Bulimia is so '87

There is a boutique in my neighborhood that sells a Colombian line of jeans called Anorexy.

There is nothing more to say about that.

Breakfast Yet?

How is it acceptable to crack open a chicken egg, shake out the snot inside, whip it up and fry it? What historical accident led to this? I could understand if someone decided that an egg on its own was something to be squished and swallowed raw. It's practically a liquid. Lord knows I've swallowed worse. But to whip it up, cook it, flip it? Seriously?

Don't get me wrong: A cooked egg is a step in the right direction. But I just don't see what possessed someone to try so hard.

And why chicken eggs? I find the thought of caviar revolting, let alone the odor. Let alone the texture. And what makes a chicken egg any better? You go to the store to buy eggs. Chicken eggs. You order a three-egg omelette. Three chicken eggs. Why not turkey eggs? Pheasant eggs? Turtle eggs?

Ugh. Egg. Even the word sort of oozes. Buy they are sort of marvelous, aren't they? Butter. Tarragon. Cream cheese. Chives. Salt and pepper. On toast.

With bacon.

Mmmmm...

Xenaphilia

Since a friend of ours asked us to watch her cat Xena for her, I have felt like I'm cheating on my cat. Xena is really a standard, black, short-hair domestic cat. Nothing special. A dime a dozen. But like any ordinary mistress, she is completely enchanting.

Her eyes are gorgeous — smoldering dark amber coals against night-colored fur. My cat is colored like a holstein.

Xena is thin and sleek, nearly weightless. She moves like a shadow. Mukau is obese and graceless; grunting comically with every leap of her corpulence.

I fed Xena a quarter of a can of cat food and gave her a bowl half full of dry food yesterday, and this morning the canned was gone and the dry was hardly touched. This morning, when I fed Mukau half of her normal serving of dry food, she wolfed it down, turned toward the oriental rug and vomited it all back up. Each nugget was intact. She had not even bothered to chew.

And yet, Mukau is very soft and warm. She is large enough to wrap herself around you, and it's lovely when she does. She is sweet and quiet. She sleeps with me, on top of the covers, in the valley between my knees. Sometimes if she catches me on my back, she'll crawl onto my chest and wheeze softly into my face until I fall asleep. And though she is just using me for ambient body heat, she certainly does a lot of it and seems to enjoy it. She is good company.

I guess the grass is always Xena on the other side, right? But I'll take Mukau. My dalliance with Xena ends tomorrow. Suppose Mukau can smell another cat on me. And suppose she forgives me. If she can forgive me, I think I owe her the generosity of my full attention. Funny that she's the house cat, and I'm the one to stray.

What Hands Can Do

Pretty!