As I stood waiting to buy a Metro card this morning, some tragic natural disaster in a pink moo moo - some tsunami with bangs - tried to swoop in and cut me off in line (as if I wouldn’t have noticed her dainty hurricane ass coming in from the south.) I impetuously squawked two octaves above my normal range, “O-ho no, Sweetie! I don’t think soooo!” I mean..??? When did I become that bitchy gay? Apparently today. It felt kind of liberating and kind of like I’d just puked in my mouth a little. She was certainly horrified, so that worked to my advantage. And to add fire to my flames, the other day – and I can’t believe I’m admitting this on national television – the other day I said “fierce"...and for the first time in my life really meant it. Now, to my credit I must say that I’ve gone nine years out of the closet and six years living in New York (a good chunk of which were spent working in Chelsea on a daily basis) without that ever happening. But I guess my time has come. I guess I’m finally becoming a typical Gay. Soon little kids will start calling me "ma’am". Then it’s all downhill.
Today must also be a high allergen day, because once on the platform I became privy to a rehearsal by the New York Phlegmharmonic Orchestra, featuring Sneezy Old Lady Leather Face on horns, Scary Unspecified-Ethnicity Sneezing Man on percussion, and Jappy Whiny Sneezy Nose-Blower Girl on my nerves. As if not obnoxious enough, this morning’s concert was conducted by the little Mexican woman (can I say “little Mexican”?) who made it her personal duty to follow each and every snotty eruption with a “God bless you”, racing to the aid of anyone who required one. She went on blessing people for about forty sneezes. “Go’blase joo!...Go’blase joo!...Go'blase joo!” I mean, who the hell are you, Lady? The Pope?? Let it be!
I don’t know why of all the laws of etiquette, this one seems universally the most crucial. Perhaps it's the religious aspect. People will spit in your food, kick you in the balls, and sleep with your husband without so much as a Please, Thank-You, or Excuse Me. But heaven forbid someone go unblessed after a sneeze and everybody freaks! And then there’s that awkward confusion when some spastic fires off like ten in a row and no one’s ever quite sure how to handle it. They feel schmucky doing so much blessing, but at the same time know that if they neglect to entirely, this person might very well be sent instantly to the fiery pits of Hell with a handful of Kleenex. (And who needs that on his conscience all day?) Please, Everyone - It is not required of you to reply to every single sneeze! It only adds to the embarrassment of the sneezee, and just further disrupts all surrounding parties. As a general rule: One “Go’blase joo” is sufficient; three is generous; anything above six is an exorcism.
In theatre news: Paul Rudnick's show, The New Century, recently opened at Lincoln Center. I saw it a few nights ago and really enjoyed. It's comprised fundamentally of three monologues (some of which have been staged before) which tell the stories of three different gay men and their female support systems. By the end, all the characters fatefully connect to form an unlikely support system for each other. It's quite hilarious and touching, though at times Rudnick tends to push the envelope just a liiiitle further than perhaps is necessary. (In fact, at times he FEDEXes the envelope cross-country, 2nd Day air.) Linda Lavin is a genius, and reason enough to catch this. Peter Bartlett and Jayne Houdyshell are also wonderful. Mike Doyle (Law & Order, Oz) is adorable - and more importantly, completely, full-frontally nude at the end of Act One. Go'blase joo.
And on the dating front, after being persuaded by a dear friend (and notorious bad influence), I have officially made an appointment for a consultation with the Gay Millionaires Club. Yes...Yes, that's right. If you couldn't guess, this is a matchmaking service for wealthy gays, and the [impoverished] young cuties who would like to date them. Luckily, it's absolutely free for the latter. So I figured, what's to lose but my dignity? (And that's been long gone since the 80's.) They've accepted my application and headshots, and I'm all set up. You see, there is a standard of living which I absolutely require, and which is not being met at this time. However, I am a woman of less-than-considerable means, and I'll be damned if I'm gonna work hard to achieve it myself! I'm no fool. So I've torn the drapes down off the windows, fashioned a cute new blouse and matching man-purse to wear to the GMC headquarters, and as God is my witness, by this time next week I am going to land myself a gen-u-ine gay millionaire! And by this time next week, I know one of you lucky gay millionaires out there is gonna land yourself a first-class financial burden! (If not, I should at least have a few good stories to tell...Maybe even a new mink.)
Now listen, I know all this might make me sound like some shallow, money-hungry, gold digging tramp who's less interested in finding a suitable mate than he is a handsome bank account to afford him an extravagant lifestyle and material things..............................................