Rebel Prince

A couple weeks ago, Subarna and I have dinner at Mon Ami Gabi, and it’s time for the debauchery to begin. I’ve already had a glass of wine, but then I decide to have an amaretto too. That stuff is intense. The fumes alone are enough to send one reeling. Suitably buzzing, we walk to the gas station and buy a pack of Marlboro Lights–the Rebel Prince readership gasps to learn that its author does enjoy a smoke now and then–and wander along Woodmont Avenue. Lots of people out and about. Subarna and I are smoking, sitting on the bench at the street corner like a couple of hoodlums.

A woman–an attractive one, at that–comes up and asks for a cigarette, and even gives me a quarter for one. (Subarna was to remark later that I’m like, a dealer now.) The woman says, “Yeah, I’m trying to quit.”

I say, “I hear ya,” in a disaffected, world-weary voice, as if I’ve been down that road and back again, yes, ma’am. When in fact, just one cigarette is usually enough to render me stupefied. I keep a straight face, but on the inside I’m laughing at my put-upon insouciance.

“It’s like my boyfriend won’t even kiss me anymore,” she says.

In hindsight I figure there are only two appropriate responses to this, depending on one’s, shall we say, outlook: “Honey, I’ll kiss you” or “Can I get his number, then?” Neither comes to me at the moment. I give a sympathetic “aww.”

With the transaction complete and pleasantries exchanged, the woman walks about five paces away, towards the crosswalk. But she does a one-eighty and comes back to us. We’d all suddenly realized she needs a light, which I am glad to provide. The gas station didn’t have lighters, just matchbooks. I feel very old-school, as I strike a match and hold the flame to her, careful to shield it from the breeze.

“Got it?”

“Yeah, thanks.”

“Mm hm,” I say, basking in some kind of perversely altruistic afterglow, but knowing all I’ve done is keep alive a stranger’s vice. I shrug it off and take a drag, momentarily wondering about the non-kissing boyfriend. The woman crosses the street and turns the corner and is gone.

Yeah, I know, there’s been a lack of new entries. We’re getting swamped at work, which has left me little energy for writing. Oh, and yeah, good old procrastination is doing its part as well. (Thank you, Ellen Degeneres.) But not to worry, I’ve also been a busy little boy away from work this past week, and will soon regale the loyal reader with tales of urban dolce vita, including several sparkling restaurant reviews, a children’s symphony concert that awakens my heretofore dormant aversion to mime, and a particular evening during which I, buzzing in a sea of shirtless men and tequila shots, proceed to shake my groove thing.

By the way, happy birthday to Rufus Wainwright. The big three-oh!

Interesting article on Broadway ticket pricing in today’s Times. Also, a rundown of several ways to buy a ticket.

One of the too many e-mail newsletters that I subscribe to is a weekly Times column on advertising. Tucked into the latest edition is an ad from American Airlines’ frequent-flyer program, targeting potential marketing partners:

Bend Customers to Your Will
Just offer AAdvantage® miles and consumers buy. Like clockwork. They spend more and they spend more often. They can’t help themselves. That’s why our programs are some of the most powerful marketing tools available. See for yourself at www.aadvantage.com.

Yikes. And their marketing website has a whole traveling hypnotist-show feel. Creepy. I know I’m being naïve about the business of luring consumers, but this copy makes it sound like they forgot we were still in the room.

What? Interior-design cutie Nate Berkus was on Monday’s Oprah, and I missed it?! I knew I shouldn’t have deleted the Oprah season pass off my TiVo. I guess I’ll catch the late-night rerun next week. So, no wonder my website’s been getting a surge of referrals from Google searches on his name (and whether he’s gay or not). Despite my wishful thinking, who knows. He’s very metrosexual.

Also, some more Queer Eye buzz: the Chron‘s Tim Goodman calls it “heartwarming” and “fun,” while Tom Shales at the Post senses a “patronizing mentality” at work. Honestly, I think it would be just as interesting without the whole gay/straight concept. But less marketable, perhaps? (As a queer, style-television enthusiast, I guess I’m already in the target demographic anyway.) Oh well, you gotta have a gimmick, right?

Goodman also pans Boy Meets Boy, which I have to agree with. I mean, why not have a gay dating show without the big, cruel twist? Wouldn’t that be ground-breaking?

The Times‘ John Sellers spends a day getting made over by the Queer Eye for the Straight Guy‘s Fab Five:

[T]he show as a whole, suggests that something has changed not just in Bravo’s programming department (which is bringing out an increasingly gay-friendly lineup) but in the culture at large. Television has long featured straight male characters making jokes about gay men, or teasing each other about acting gay, or just generally reveling in their babe-watching, couch-potato-ing heterosexuality. Not infrequently, these characters have even been played by gay men.

Now the same medium features guys like Butch and Adam laboring intensely to look more gay. And all across America, straight guys will watch the show, and from their stained, sagging couches, where they sit in their boxers drinking Budweiser from a can, they’ll see people’s lives transformed by queerness, and they’ll think, “Dude, maybe someday that could be me.”

Full article here. Sure, the show’s premise plays on stereotypes of both gay and straight men, but oh well, I’ll give it a chance. Queer Eye premieres on Bravo this Tuesday with two episodes, starting at 10 p.m.

Speaking of queer Bravo, I caught most of the Gay Weddings marathon this afternoon. I found it rather compelling: not only watching all the preparation–by turns fabulous and troublesome–but also hearing how each couple’s families felt about the wedding. So yeah, I’m kind of tired. I mean, I’ve virtually been to four weddings (and hopefully no funerals)–can you tell I’ve been waiting to use that line?–so it’s off to bed for me. Good night.

It’s been a very lazy weekend, but I did manage to get out this evening. I grabbed my New Yorker and went to Cafe Luna–half-price pizza on Sunday nights!–and had a great dinner on the patio. With the tasty pizza, constant people-watching, and cute Duncan Sheik-like waiter, I can’t say I was concentrating much on the reading.

Ever eavesdrop on conversations you wish you could jump into? Usually we wish people would just shut up, but once in a while you find some actually interesting people, like the group of women at the table next to mine.

“Are you familiar with the National Gallery?” one asked.

“No,” one other replied. I wanted to chime in, “Hey, I am!” But I didn’t. They continued to discuss the merits of various museums: the Met, Guggenheim, British Museum, and so on.

It’s like the time when, on an Amtrak train to New York City, the woman seated in the row behind me struck up a conversation with a guy across the aisle from her. She was a grandmother who’d returned to college to get a degree, and he was a college student as well, around my age. Then the man sitting between them got into the conversation too; he was an American history professor whose current research focused on indentured servitude. It was like, an intellectually sparkling dinner party right there. At the train stations approaching Manhattan, we started seeing billboards for Broadway shows, and my fellow passengers’ conversation turned to musicals. “Have you seen Mamma Mia? How about Les Miz? I’ve seen it like, five times,” the younger man said.

So, of course, I wanted to turn around, pop my head over the seatback, and be like, “Sorry, I couldn’t help but overhearing…” But anyway.

After dinner tonight, I walked up 17th Street. The weather was fantastic, and mmm, all the boys were out and about. I love it. I didn’t exactly launch into “Musetta’s Waltz,” but with all the sidewalk cafes filled with people, when you walk down the street, you can’t help but feel all peacock-y. You start doing that “I’m too sexy” walk, where all the world’s a runway, and all the men and women merely models. (I’ve been watching Fashiontrance on the Style Channel.) Sashay, chanté… work it, girl! Or uhh, maybe that’s just me.

So here I am back at home, getting settled for a new episode of Sex and the City. Fabulous. By the way, I’m reminded that when I started with Movable Type a while ago, one of the entry categories I came up with was “queer.” But now I’m thinking, wouldn’t that just be the entire journal? Heh.

Here are a couple of photos I took while at Stanford a couple of weeks ago. The first is from inside the foyer of Memorial Church, and the second is at the Rodin Sculpture Garden. Not bad if I do say so myself. (Click photos for full size.)

If you find yourself in the area, check out the visitors’ guide on the Stanford website for more info on campus sights.