Well, it's official. Our humpy next-door neighbor, Marc, who is going to P-town this summer to work at The Ranch as a houseboy and a go-go dancer at Purgatory, has rented out his condo for an obscene amount of dough. Word is, we'll be getting a straight boy pilot as our new neighbor. Curt spent about an hour after hearing the news - and the amount Marc is renting his place for - walking around just saying, "Wow." Got his ol' money-making motors revving. The problem is, we don't want to leave Boston, so if we rented our place where would we go? Maybe it's best to just revel in the fact that we're living in the South End for peanuts compared to the people who have started renting there in recent years. We'll miss Marc though. This means that out of six units in the building, we are the only fags left. That's pretty bizarre, and a little sad. Where have all the gay boys gone?

. . . And then there's the South End Gay Boy Mafia, usually seen in packs of threes and fours, wearing tight white T-shirts and looking tastefully annoyed. You can see them at spots like To Go, a cafe that brews the best coffee in the neighborhood, and Metropolis, a tiny bistro that does such good things with fresh fish and vegetables that I accidentally decided to move to Boston after eating there. Then there's the surprising Anchovies, a restaurant and bar that at first glance seems like it should have been tucked away in some alley in North End but landed on South End's historic Columbus Avenue. When I'm sitting at the bar at Anchovies, eating mushroom rigatoni, salad and a glass of red (all for about $10), chatting with the bartender (who's actually quite friendly) and watching the Sox lose yet again, somehow the realization that five feet of snow will be dumped on this town any minute now just doesn't seem so bad . . . Yup, it's a few years old, but this Salon.com article is all still true (and having eaten at Anchovies just last night, it's hard to imagine how the South End would survive without it).

Now don't get me wrong, I used to really like Emeril Lagasse. I loved watching his show on the Food Network. I even tried some of his recipes (and one of Curt's favorite dishes, Shrimp Etouffe, comes directly from his Louisiana Real and Rustic Cookbook). Sure, he's not as cute as Bobby Flay, but still, Emeril has a certain undeniable magnetism. It's easy for me to understand his wide spread appeal. However, it's all started to go a bit wrong. I can deal with his cookware, his many restaurants, spices and salad dressings, but now a primetime sitcom on NBC this fall? At a certain point, you start loosing a bit of your integrity by branching too far. Mr. Lagasse, you're a chef, not an actor. Your appeal is starting to ware a little thin, and it's getting hard to take you seriously as anything. Bam!

I was reading the Arts section of the Sunday Boston Globe yesterday when I turned the page and saw that it's coming to town in August. I spilled my coffee, gasped, wet my pants, and uttered an urgent "Oh oh!" in Curt's direction (well, perhaps I overly dramatize a bit). He took one look at the page and said "Oh oh," too. He knows I won't be able to resist. Dame Edna and now this in one year. Has Boston ever had it so good?

Last week was tough. On Friday, we both came home stressed and ready to let off a little steam, so I suggested that we take a nice long walk over to the Machine, play a little pool, and have some beers. The walk did the trick - we felt more relaxed from that alone - then the first order of business for the cute Machine bartender was to mix up two fruity shots and open two nice cool ones for us. Aaaaaahhhhh! After a few games of pool (and a few more beers) the place started getting more crowded. Upstairs in the Ramrod was the first annual Ms. Boston Leather contest, so we decided we were bored with pool and went up to check out the goings-on. Admittedly, it's was a bit strange to see so many women in the 'Rod, fully dragged-out in leather, latex and fetish gear (and a few in practically nothing at all), but hey - we support our sistah's. And besides, some of them had brought along their cute gay boy buddies. We wandered into the back once the contest began and were delighted to find local celebrity bartender Lolly working it for the ladies. We planted ourselves on two stools where we had a view of the stage (and the very mixed and equally entertaining crowd) and took advantage of the momentary slow-paced bar to ask Lolly for two of her concoctions. We watched her pour 7 kinds of liquor, two kinds of sorbets, and who knows what-all else into a blender. She dished it all out into glass mugs and then topped them with whipped cream, sprinkles and candy. Yum! If I hadn't personally witnessed her pouring all that liquor in it, I would have never believed it (I also would never have believed that I'd ever be drinking something like that in the Ramrod, where I have witnessed guys peeing on each other). I'd noticed earlier from posters that a new Mr. New England Leather (or maybe it was Mr. Boston Leather) had recently been picked, and his name was "Mutt". Kind of a sexy dude. As we were sitting, drinking our pink-ish/purple-ish, candy covered beverages, I was a little startled to find Mutt, live-and-in-person, standing with a friend nearby and cruising the hell out of me (Curt: "He LOVES you!"). Ah well, not Curt's type. I wasn't meant to hook with Mutt. So, we finished off with one more beer at the front bar, then hopped in a cab for the Paradise - where we watched three hot boys (each equally as delicious as Lolly's concoctions) shake their money-makers until we were sick of beers and boys and were ready for home.

There were different versions of how the "monkey-man" looked. Two portrait sketches, based on the creature's victims, suggested it was human. One showed a swarthy broad-faced bearded man with a flat nose, thick lips and a piercing stare. The other, which could hardly have been more different, portrayed a narrow-faced man with a receding hairline, a scrappy moustache and dark glasses. However, some residents said the creature was "as small as a cat" and had metallic hands, while a few others claimed it was a monkey who could turn into a cat. I think I've been cruised by this dude at the Ramrod here in Boston.

We had a great dinner last night at Casa Romero with Rob and Wendy. Met at one of our local favorites, Baja (where everyone knows our names), then wandered over to the restaurant just off Gloucester Street in the Back Bay. Drank yummy margaritas, sangria and beers, and ate lots of authentic Mexican. Casa Romero is sort of hidden down a Back Bay ally. You almost need to be taken there the first time - it's not a place you're likely to just stumble on. It's tiny and intimate, and not much is pre-made so it takes a while to get your food. We were hungry so we went through two baskets of chips and salsa and three appetizers before we finally got our main course. We all got nicely buzzed and full. Lovely.

Two random thoughts: My favorite part of DVD's are the director's commentary tracks. I wish they'd all have them. I have no idea how many people read this Blog. I wish I was a little more technically savy, so I'd have a "real" web site and be able to make it look cool (and be able to get stats on how many hits I'm getting). But I'm not, and I don't, and I don't think that's the point of Blogging anyway.

French Film's 'God' Takes Swipe at Hollywood The contrast between Godard and the Hollywood giants could not be greater and when asked what he thought about Steven Spielberg, director of such box office hits as ``Jurassic Park'' and ``Schindler's List,'' the Frenchman gave a slight shrug. ``I don't know him personally. I don't think his films are very good,'' he said, adding that he would be happy to dissect one of his (Spielberg's) movies scene-by-scene if a cinema could be freed up. He was particularly severe about the Holocaust drama ''Schindler's List,'' based on a novel by Thomas Keneally. ``It is strange, he had no idea about (the Holocaust) so he went and looked elsewhere (for inspiration). When we don't have an idea about something, we look first of all within ourselves,'' he said, puffing on a cigar. Wow, pretty harsh words from the 70 year-old director Jean-Luc Godard about Steven Spielberg. It's one thing to say that you don't like Spielberg as a filmmaker (I'm sure Spielberg wouldn't be too bothered by that, having no doubt grown used to criticism long ago) but to say that the man had no idea about the Holocaust. I mean, considering how strongly Spielberg feels about the subject, and how much money and effort he's put into the Survivors of the Shoah Visual History Foundation, that's gotta hurt.

Leave Boston at 3pm Friday, pull into P-town at 6pm (a few traffic problems). Martini's and gimlets at Greg's Porchside Bar. Dinner at Ross' Grill. Relax, shower, and change. The Vault until midnight. Back to the Porchside Bar until we can't stand it no more. Breakfast at the hotel, shopping all morning, lunch. Nap, T-Dance at the Boatslip (very potent planters punch's and margarita's), back to the room for showers and to change. Dinner at 11 Carver Street. Go back to the room, exhausted and stuffed, and in bed at about 9pm (windows open, and the breeze filling the room). Sleep like logs. Up early on Sunday. Cold and a few sprinkles in the air. Breakfast at the Post Office Cafe, back to the room to finish packing. Out of P-town about 10am. Stop and buy a gas grill. Speed home, unpack, do laundry and assemble grill. Run to get propane tank filled. Buy steaks, potatoes for baking, sweet corn, cole slaw. Initiate our new grill. Spend the rest of the evening watching WHAT LIES BENEATH. Scary. Curt watches most of movie through his fingers, hands covering face. Curt goes to bed, and I watch half the movie again listening to the director's commentary track.

Light Blue - Right Light Blue - Left Navy Blue - Left Red - Left Dark Red - Left Gold - Left Beige - Left Plus many, many more!. Although I must admit, I stay mostly on the left. Thanks to Jonno's site for the link.

My Thursday nights just aren't going to be the same anymore without my big 'ol hunk of Texas meat to drool over.

Chris and I were together for 12 years, had two cats and a dog, went through college together, and bought a condo together. I've always been very pleased that even after we broke up (almost 7 years ago) we still genuinely liked each other. In fact, we are still in contact usually several times a week. He's got a new boyfriend now that he lives with and (as is evident if you're a reader of this Blog) so do I. We're still close enough that we still even exchange Christmas and birthday presents. This past Christmas, I had a devil of a time finding a gift for him. Chris is the knick-knack and gadget king. He's got tons of "stuff", and makes a decent living so is able to run out and buy whatever new electronic toy he wants when ever he wants it. His standard response to my usual plea's for present ideas is always "You know me, you know what I like!", which always just results me me resorting to more "stuff". This year, I decided I didn't want to contribute to his already expansive collection of books, CD's, shirts and picture frames. I wanted something different. I had originally hoped to hire an illustrator to do a pen and ink drawing of the exterior of our house (where he still lives), but the person I was going to hire fell through. I did some last-minute searching for another artist, but that proved to be harder than I expected (you would think living in Boston's South End I'd be able to find oodles of starving artists who would do something on commission, but no). Soon it turned from Winter to Spring, and now here it is May, and still I haven't given him anything. That's being rectified this weekend. When Curt and I were in Provincetown the weekend of April 21 to celebrate his birthday, it occurred to me that a perfect present for Chris would be to pay for a room for him and take him with us next time we went down. Since it's still pre-season and we would be staying at the Gifford House, a two-night stay was in the right price range. So the reservations have been made, the bags are (almost) packed, and the weather looks good for a fun weekend in Provincetown with Chris and Kevin. Chris hasn't been down there in years, which is unbelievable to me because he loves Provincetown as much as I do. We used to travel there together several times a year. Consequently, lots has changed since he's been there. Since the "great fire", the Crown and Anchor has been rebuilt, but the Vault has moved to the other side of the parking lot, and the nightclub (where many a fond memory was made in my younger days) has been rebuilt and "improved". Next door, Whalers Warf is now several levels high and is jarringly out of keeping with the rest of the "old and kind of trashed" feel of the rest of Commercial street (I've made Chris promise not to step foot in there without me - I can't wait to see his reaction). Hopefully we will all go to my favorite new Provincetown restaurant, Ross' Grill, we'll hit our first T-dance of the year at the Boatslip on Saturday, we'll flock to the A-House each night to dance, and after the clubs close we'll eat God-awful pizza - drunk and cruising the crowd - in front of Spiritus Oh, how I love P-town.

Work has been too damn busy lately. We're in the middle of working with Siebel and Lawson to design and implement new business "solutions". Of course, I'm one of the key players from our organization in all this. Lately I've been having a few 5pm to 7pm meetings (the only time everyone is available) and Curt has been feeling quite put out by it, and a little suspicious I think. It's hard for him to believe I'd actually have meetings at 5pm at night - not so hard for him to believe that what I'm really doing is getting some booty on the side. So last night I had my boss call him to prove to him we were all still here. Okay, so now I guess he believes I'm working. He's also been hinting lately (well, no so much hinting as just outright saying) that I'm not cooking enough dinners (which is my job in the house - his is cleaning and laundry and literally taking care of everything else, so it's an arrangement that is quite agreeable to me). I therefore made it a point to make a batch of chili last night when I returned home which should last a few days. Tonight, I'll make chicken and pesto pasta. What I keep trying to explain to him though, is that it's hard to make dinners when he's on a low-carb diet and I'm on a low-fat one. I mean, it's quite perplexing to figure out what to make. What does that leave? So inevitably one of us has to sacrifice our diet at dinner time. It's a price we'll have to pay however, for the sake of cohabitation bliss. Curt really got to me the other day when he said, "I love when you cook and we have dinner together - it makes things so homey". How can I resist that?

My three favorite characters from Star Trek: The Next Generation are all represented as action figures on my desk at work: Jean-Luc Picard, Dr. Crusher, and yes I admit it, Deanna Troi.

Dang! The Darude CD isn't available until tomorrow. Had to ask for it at HMV, Strawberry's, and Sam Goodie's before anyone told me that. I guess I'll just order it from Amazon.

Who is Ville Virtanen and why does he have my attention? He's the one-man writer/producer behind Darude. Loved his first single "Sandstorm" (a Napster find, I must admit) and then when "Feel the Beat" came out I was happy that the first single hadn't been a fluke. This guy knows how to write catchy-as-hell dance tracks. He's got an album out now called Before The Storm and I fully intend to run out this morning as soon as the stores open up and buy it (you see record companies, Napster downloading can translate into record sales). I haven't been this excited by a new dance artist since Kristine W., and I'm totally bumming that Boston isn't on Darude's U.S. tour schedule. Oh, and did I mention, the dude is fuckin cute!

I realize, of course, that lately I've been writing a great deal about my physical maladies. Allergies, bruised ribs, hypochondria in the board room. I run the risk of giving the impression that I'm a physical mess. I'm not. In fact, I'm a quite healthy and happy soon-to-be 36 year old in decent physical shape who has never even spent a night in a hospital. I'm just prone to really weird things. Not a year goes by that something wacky doesn't happen with me. They come and go and I'm none the worse for it. So please, don't get the wrong impression, okay? In real life I'm actually quite a stud (ha!).

Ouch, boy does my rib(s?) hurt. Anyone ever bruised a rib before? Anyone know how long it hurts? As you may remember, I slipped and crashed into the side of the bathroom sink last week. I was slowly healing and feeling better, until yesterday when we met Rob, Wendy and Eve at the Sail Loft for bloody mary's and nibblies (steamed mussels and fried calamari. Yum!). After a few hours of laid back, giggly conversation there, we headed out to do a little shopping and tourist watching in Faneuil Hall. During the walk from the waterfront, it was evident that somehow I'd really aggrivated the problem. As the day wore on (beers outside at the Salty Dog, and then finally a nice unsensible meal of blueberry beer and nacho's at Boston Beer Works new Canal street location) it got so that it was even bothering me with every step I took when walking. Sadly, it's very possible this was the most physical activity I'd had since hurting myself. I'd run on the treadmill once last week (and was fine) but that probably didn't produce the same range-of-motion that a full day of walking, talking, laughing and carrying on did. After a solid 8 hours of sleep last night, I've woken up today to quite a tender side. I will give it another week and if it still is bothering me I will probably call my doctor. Heal, damn it! Heal!

It's been a long time since I've posted a picture of us. So, just in case you can't remember what we look like, here we are in Provincetown a few weeks ago . . .

Now let me see, which one do I want?

Last year, I went to a nightclub, met a cute boy who was working there as a bartender, imbibed in some recreational materials which he offered me, and felt like I was going to die (you'd think that by my age, I'd know better than to accept party materials from people I don't really know). Basically, it was a case of mistaken identity. I thought I was doing something I could handle, but it was actually something I'd never had before nor ever cared much for trying. It looked basically the same, though. Before I learned it wasn't what I thought, I'd already had a fair amount. Lesson learned. Three days later, my heart is still racing, I felt weird all over, and - hypochondriac that I am - I was convinced my heart is not beating correctly. I'm sure I'm minutes from collapsing in a cold, lifeless heap. The boyfriend (who of course knew the whole story - I'm honest with him) takes me to the emergency room. They check my vitals. Normal. They hook me up to an EKG. Other than my usual heart murmur, normal. They give me a stern talking to about recreational drugs and send me home. Secure in the knowledge there's no basis on which to fear imminent death, I quickly forget I'm not feeling well and go on with life. I forget about the whole incident. Okay, now CUT TO: YESTERDAY. I am in an all-morning meeting. I've felt weird all morning. I get hot, then cold, then hot, then cold. My arms feel numb, I feel like I'm going to pass out. I get up from the meeting and run to the bathroom to look at myself in the mirror - convinced I will see my skin's gone pale and grey. Normal. I return to the meeting, convinced I will keel over dead at any moment. As the day progresses though, I start feeling a little better and chalk it all up to my allergies. Just some weird allergic reaction. I have them every year, and every year I tell myself, "remember NEXT year how awful your allergies always make you feel so you don't freak out again!" Then, I remember last time I felt this bad, was when I had to go to the emergency room . . . hey, wait a minute! When was that? I check my calendar for last year. It was April 29th. Within one week on the calendar of when I felt bad THIS year. So, I'm thinking maybe last year I felt horrible not because of the things I put in my system, but because of some weird new allergy that's started with me. Felt like I was going to die last year at this time, felt like I was going to die this year. Coincidence? Putting on my calendar for next year:

Week of May 1st. Might feel like you're dying - you're not.

Well, it's over. Survivor II: The Australian Outback finally wound up last night with Tina being the winner. Somehow I got sucked into it this time, having only been marginally interested in the first season. I missed only one episode of Colby, Kel (oh Kel, we hardly knew ye!) and the rest of the kangaroo gang. Colby was the favorite in our house week after week (for obvious superficial reasons). Man, did that man look cute emaciated! But at the end it was Tina we were rooting for. Who couldn't love her? When it came down to Colby and Tina, we were happy. No matter who won, we'd be pleased as punch. For some reason I find it extremely satisfying (worthy of gloating, almost) that Survivor has now been won by (in season one) a gay man and (now) a 40 year old woman. It seems that heterosexual males with large ego's need not apply.

LOS ANGELES (Reuters) - Playboy founder Hugh Hefner has decided to invite the neighbors over more often to meet the bunnies in the hopes they will quit complaining. Neighbors of the swinging 75-year-old have been complaining to authorities about the seemingly endless round of parties at Hefner's opulent 31-room Playboy Mansion, counting 22 big parties at the mansion over a three-month period last year. You de man, Hugh!

I completely agree with everyone's favorite Blogger guru on this one. I've heard unconfirmed reports about Mr. Cruise since I was in college. When he was here in Boston making The Firm, word spread around town that he was at Chaps incognito a couple of times. Now, I don't know if the man is straight, gay or bi-sexual. What I do know is that people have been reporting that they've slept with him in the gay press for years. Articles refering to his occasional forays into the world of dick-sucking aren't anything new. So, why suddenly does this one bother him so much? If it's not true, what's the big deal?

The bad news? I didn't win The Big Game lottery. The good news? No one else did, either! Friday's drawing: $90 Million ($48.0 Million estimated preliminary cash option).

By the way, it's 90 degrees in Boston right now. Whoo-hoo! Winter is finally behind us!

There is a TV show that I can recollect from my extreme youth, that I remember as being very, very cool. Way too cool for it's time. It was called UFO and it was made in England by the same people who later would produce Space 1999. I remember very little about UFO. I remember the cool ships, the funky costumes, the FABULOUS wigs on the female space station crew. I bet I haven't seen this show since I was 8 years old, but I still occassionally think about it. Images flash through my mind. I recently did a little digging through the internet to find out some information about it, and discovered I could buy VHS tapes through Amazon.com. I'd prefer to get it on DVD, but I may just break down and order at least one volume on VHS. So, when is somebody going to wake up and realize that this has enormous potential as a feature film franchise? Hello. It's Mission Impossible and The X-Files rolled into one. Cool space ships, aliens, futuristic cars, bring in Jean-Paul Gaultier to design the comtumes. Give it a hip soundtrack and a funky director. Instant fabulousness!!!

I think Richard (AKA Sturtle) has written a very sweet reminder for anyone who is lucky enough to be in a relationship. It's true that after a while, you become desensatized to the very things about your partner that attracted you so much to begin with. For me, it's Curt's humor, his laid back nature, his laugh, his independence. Like Richard, I too have looked at my partner as he slept, and paused for a moment to remember how lucky I am. And if what I felt when I did that was any indication, then I must be the luckiest man in the world.

My four favorite tracks at the moment . . . Is It Love? Chili Hi Fly I Can Feel The Beat Darude Are You Satisfied Victor Calderone Featuring Deborah Cooper Days Go By Dirty Vegas And, I've noticed that Groovejet (If This Ain't Love) by DJ Spiller is back on the Billboard dance charts. What's the deal with that? It's rare to see a dance song (as great as it may be) return to the chart after leaving it. Still, it IS a great song.