twenty-something

The Black Lab Waiting for Us at Home

Today, on my way to work, on the nine mile drive that can take, like this morning did, well over an hour to complete, there was a big, blue SUV in front of me for a few fleeting moments, an SUV with a bumper sticker slogan that stuck with me all day. "Wag More, Bark Less," it read.

Wag More. Bark Less.

Brilliant.

I spend a lot of time barking -- at my alarm clock, then at other cars or the PC I'm forced to use at work, sometimes at my family, sometimes over boys and often over bills. This adult stuff -- too much barking, man. Sometimes I get stressed out over how stressed out I am.

But there was this moment last weekend... I found myself in a random park in Arlington overlooking the city of Boston. Whiffleball bat in hand, new madras shoes on feet, foolish smile on my face, I was swinging away at pitches from my best friend and laughing my ass off.

Moments like these are fleeting. I don't remember the last time I'd had that much fun or been that happy. That's wagging, man.

I gotta start wagging more.

I Long For This Mirrored Perspective

There's something about the new Death Cab for Cutie song that I can't get enough of. At eight minutes and thirty-five seconds, "I Will Possess Your Heart" is an unlikely single -- it's length a definite turn-off, especially since Ben Gibbard's vocals don't come in until 4:35, well over half-way through the track. But like the lyrics instruct, you gotta spend some time, love, you gotta spend some time with the song. Luckily, I have a hellish commute and I added the track to my spring driving playlist, forcing me to listen and quickly fall in love.

It opens straight out of 1994, like a lost alternarock song that would've been at home on alt radio with the titans of fourteen years ago -- Nirvana, Smashing Pumpkins, Pearl Jam, Live. I would've listened to and loved this early in high school and that fact surprisingly doesn't hurt the song, it makes it. Retro fits Death Cab well (and I'd much rather be reminded of '94 than '04, as the band usually evokes thoughts of the dearly departed The O.C. for me).

]]> And those lyrics? There aren't many, and they aren't complicated. But after a four-and-a-half minute investment into the song, you're hit with this:

How I wish you could see the potential, the potential of you and me
It's like a book elegantly bound, but in a language that you can't read - just yet

Brilliant! Gives me goosebumps everytime. I'd suffer through sixteen minutes of an repetative instrumental just for that line. But there's no suffering here. I adore this song.

Narrow Stairs comes out next month, after a string of new releases by a trinity of my favorite pop artists (Madonna, Gavin DeGraw, and Jason Mraz), but with each listen of "I Will Possess Your Heart." I get more excited for the "curveball" the band promises from the disc. I've found Death Cab's other albums largely dull aside from a few choice songs, but I'm wondering if Stairs will be the album to rock my summer.

Such is Life

When he suggested brunch in the South End, I should have said no.

Brunch? South End?

Nothing against any of it, but that's just not me.

But I said yes. Because he was hot. And funny. So he got a pass, though mostly for being hot.

]]> When he sent a text at 12:28 - two minutes before our appointed meeting time - to say he'd be late, I responded from ourside out appointed meeting place with calm "no worries" when, really, that's kind of a big deal. Late on a first date? Not cool.

But he got another pass. Because, you know... hot.

When he showed up, about twenty minutes late, he was wearing a black leather jacket. Not my style, but certainly not a deal-breaker. He looked good in it. Hot, even. So I told myself not to judge, even though I already had.

The brunch place he'd chosen was absolutely packed at that point on a Sunday. There was a long wait and he'd have none of it. He was hungover and starving, he said. So we rushed to a place I suggested -- one I'd walked by twice while waiting for him to show up, one that had no line. Our pace, set entirely by him, was brisk, and the conversation skipped from brief topic to brief topic. He seemed like some important mid-level executive you see on TV, bouncing like a pinball from meeting to meeting, who was doing me a favor by fitting me into his very busy schedule for a quick lunch.

Another pass. Why not? Even if his behavior wasn't attractive, he sure was.

At the second restaurant, he went right for the host stand, possibly cutting a couple that appeared to be waiting for attention, and put his name in. He meant business. We were seated quickly, in the bar-lounge area, and given menus. He quickly decided on what he wanted to eat while I still hadn't decided if I wanted coffee yet. He looked around impatiently for our waitress and instructed me to do the same.

I didn't take any of this to be outright rudeness to me or disinterest -- it just seemed like his personality. His emails, his phone calls, everything about him seemed short and rushed. I didn't take any of it too personal. First dates are strange beasts, and I try my best to remain patient, even when the other party is doing his best to get on my nerves.

He flagged down the first employee he could and stated that we hadn't been served yet. She looked right at me in that instant, her eyes speaking volumes, but her polite voice saying something completely different. She remained polite and promised we'd be served right away. I was embarrassed and tried, with my eyes, to express a bunch of things back to her, mainly that I was sorry.

My date's fast-paced mania was like oil to my laid-back vinegar. If there's one thing that's a deal-breaker for me -- besides smoking -- it's being rude or impatient with wait staff.

And yet I granted him yet another pass.

He was pleased that we were, indeed, served swiftly. He downed his coffee quickly and finished his food in less than half the time I took. I honestly didn't think that crab cakes could be devoured so quickly outside of the professional eating circuit.

Surpringly, during the meal, despite his marathon pace, some real conversation sparked between chewing and things got a bit better. I relaxed and he, at times, seemed to as well. We got to a point where I thought, "maybe we do have something in common," when he interjected a comment about needing to hit the gym immediately to work off the Hollandaise from his breakfast. As I gazed over my half-eaten western omelet at his ectomorphic frame, I knew deep within my endomorphic soul that we were just built differently, inside and out.

I forced myself to finish my meal a lot faster than I would've preferred. He flagged over the waitress for the check, commented to me that he seriously had to go and get to the gym, and then headed to the bathroom. When he returned, I handed him some cash and he quickly dispatched with the bill. Brunch in the South End was over.

Moments later, we shook hands and exchanged formalities as we parted ways on the street. He surprised me when he said to call him. I instinctively said I would. In hindsight, it was just another formality, but in the moment it seemed genuine. Even though my gut told me to hop in my Volvo and high-tail it out of the South End without a second glance, the insecure teenage girl deep inside me emerged and forced me to pause. A hot guy might be interested in me? It doesn't matter if I'm interested in him. I have to act like an idiot and see where this goes!

I did hop in my car and hit the highway, but for the first time since meeting him, I wondered if there might b a second date. Ordinarily, I wouldn't have given our first another thought. I'd have cut my loses and moved on. But that teenager inside me started to doodle in her Lisa Frank notebook and obsess about the phone call I'd promised to make.

I knew that, under the hood, he wasn't my kind of guy. I didn't think he was a bad person by any means, but he just wasn't the guy for me. But like every shiny, pretty car that you know you can't afford, you kind of want a test drive. If I was a Volvo wagon, then he was an Audi convertible -- or some other really desirable, fancy car that gays in the South End like to drive. I haven't the faintest idea what's the "it" car at the moment, but whatever it is - that was him.

I reported back to my friends that the date was mediocre, that I wasn't particularly interested in the guy and I think the feeling was mutual. But he got my blood boiling, I admitted, in good and bad ways. Which is never a good thing - or, I suppose, a bad thing, either.

One friend suggested that my laid-back energy could be the ying to his high-energy, frantic yang, that we might balance each other out. I wasn't quite sure about that, but I did remember that when my grandmother mixes oil and vinegar for salad dressing, it's downright damn delicious...

I supposed that a spark, any spark, even a tiny one made of physical-attraction-mixed-with-minor-disgust, was better than the apathy I felt after most first dates. My blood hadn't boiled in months, so perhaps that was better than nothing. What was the harm in another test drive?

So I compromised with my inner teen. I wrote an email rather than call, and I went by the book, through the motions. "Had a good time. How 'bout that snow? Dinner and a movie?" The whole nine yards and various other clichés.

Not long after, I got a brief response from him.

"I have to say that I didn't feel romantic chemistry. Such is life."

Man.

He was honest and classy, which is all you can really ask for in the dating world, and short and sweet, just like the rest of him. We weren't a match, and we both knew it. He just made the call sooner than I was willing to. No worries. No hard feelings. And in the end, I felt respected rather than hurt, and I appreciated him for calling a spade a spade.

But rejected by a guy who was rude to a waitress without just cause? That's a new low, even for me and the foolish teenager inside me.

Bedfellows

I'm tired of sleeping alone. It may be over 60 degrees in Boston today, but the nights are still cold and my bed, while big and comfy, usually just feels big. I don't necessarily want to have hot, dirty sex before sleeping -- although I certainly wouldn't say no -- but, damn it, I want somebody, and not just anybody, for some afterglow, cuddling, spooning, snoring, and lots of morning breath. (Don't get any ideas -- I'm not kinky about it, I just find it intimately and endearingly human.)

]]> Last night, restless, I reflected upon who I've shared my bed with over the past few years (and let's be clear -- we are talking strictly sleeping here, not necessarily sex). From 2001 to mid-2006, I only slept with two men -- my two boyfriends this decade. Single for the first time in years, my moves to New York and then Boston yielded some strange bedfellows. In the later half of 2006, there were four: the Actor (after a few months of correspondence, only one night was spent *ahem* "star"-fucking, my first week in Manhattan); the Future Friend (one drunk and sloppy night was spent with the boy from the Phoenix, who has gone on to become a good friend here in Boston); the Rugby Player (two too-drunk and sloppy nights spent with a friend-of-Future Friend's, one of which was so infamously and embarrassingly bad you have to know me well in real life to get the whole scoop); and the Republican (a handful of nights were spent at my Harvard man's apartment, sleep apnea and all). Last year, I found four new men in my bed over night at some point: the Mr. Nice Guy (two nights were spent with my great-on-paper short-term boyfriend, once in his twin -- yes, twin -- bed); the Recovering Alcoholic (too many nights were spent with this one last summer, before *ahem* he went back to his boyfriend); the Doctor (more out of necessity than desire, this one slept it off after a party at my place); and the Hot Flake (I shared a bed twice with the one I really liked but couldn't make it work with). Am I forgetting anybody?

Ten men this decade, eight in the last two years. As a single guy, I'm averaging quarterly sleepovers -- and about two to three nights per man -- and I'm not digging it. Well, that batting average I'm ok with -- I think it's neither too slutty nor too pathetic -- but I think it's the single part that's becoming the issue.

See, I don't want to sleep with everybody. I'd rather it be just one guy. And I don't want to sleep with just anybody. He has to be worth it. I'm done wasting my time and potential, settling for less than I want. I don't want to start something I can't (or won't want to) finish -- you know, in a good way. Relationships have been like writing for me in the last few years, all fits and starts, and I'm over that.

I only want to sleep with one guy in '08 -- I just don't know who he is yet. I'm craving a mundane, monogamous, non-platonic sleeping arrangement with a sexy guy who makes me laugh.

Damn it. I think I want a boyfriend.

Epilogue of a Blog

Ah, 2007. We hardly knew ye.

Another year, come and gone, and I can't find the words, cliché or not, to commemorate the passing of another 365 days. It's not that 2007 wasn't a formative or momentous year. It went by quickly, sure -- but it was important and worthy of remarks. It's just that I seriously can't find the words.

I suppose in a year when I could only muster a mere sixteen public and unsubstantial blog posts (and few bits of other writings that weren't published here), it's to be expected. The quantity and quality of my writing suffered in '07 (and - who am I kidding? - the latter half of 2006). Suffered? Hardly. My writing practically died. I'm out of practice. I'm lazy. I'm largely uninspired. I've had writer's block so crippling that I don't know that I can even call myself a writer anymore.

Am I finally, finally out of words?

]]> A few months ago, I thought I was. Of course I thought about writing. Every day. On the T. While composing some mundane email at work. During Sox games. While reading, hanging out with friends, or watching television. Before bed. I had some ideas, some inspiration, but I could hardly bring myself to put anything down, with pen and paper or keyboard, not to work or finish on an old story, not to start a new one. Not even to write a blog post.

In November, I began a piece called "Epilogue of a Blog," which was to be my final post on this website. Rather than keep the site hanging on a MySpace forward, I was going to pull the plug. But the only words I could commit to screen were these two lines:

"This storyline is complete, this character arc is finished. Twenty-Something (the blog) is over."

But in trying to write its obituary, I realized that there was still life in this here blog, in me as a blogger and as a writer. I am, at 27, still very much a twenty-something and to pull the plug on this site would be like pulling the plug on the next three years of fumbling towards... whatever it is I am fumbling towards. Though I'll be quite ready to embrace the milestone in 2010 -- I'm not a thirty-something yet.

I got the first part right, though. This blog had a very distinct storyline, and it is over. It's been over, for over a year. It ended the moment I got in my aunt's packed-to-the-gills Suburban with all my worldly possessions and started the drive to New York City. Twenty-Something (the blog) was all about a lovesick and lonely gay boy living in Vermont, clinging to a three-and-a-half year relationship with a bad boyfriend, trying to build a new life in an old place he didn't have any distance from, all the while dreaming about starting over in Boston. That's clearly not my life anymore, clearly not me, but it was very much what the identity of 20sum was tied to. Couple that with the end of the blogosphere as I knew it (R.I.P. almost all of the sites I used to know and love)...

Logging into Movable Type to begin an entry reminded me of all the posts I had made about Matt or my life in Vermont and, good or bad, that was a life I had left behind. That, I finally realized, was why I didn't write about my adventures in Manhattan, my move to Boston, or the many experiences I've had in the last year-and-a-half. Since my move, I've been living too much to write -- while in Vermont, I was writing too much to live.

Wow. That was dramatic.

*ahem*

I do hope to find a balance in the new year. I need to push myself to write and to live, to get inspired and to not fall into complacency. Like always, I want to pull it apart and put it back together. I need to rediscover and redefine myself as a twenty-something, happy in Boston and fumbling towards... whatever.

So I have three real resolutions for 2007, and they much are the same as they are every year.

To live better. To love better. And to write (perchance to blog) more.

2007 - you were... a year. And you are over. Just like the years I spent in Burlington after graduation, the years I spent in college, and all the years before that. You were a year of baseball and beer, whiskey and weddings, bad boys and nice guys...

And 2008 is a brand new year.

What is my storyline now?

O Tannenbaum

Season's Greetings from this twenty-something in Boston.

"How Much Have You Changed in Ten Years?"

Here's a dumb little MySpace forward thingee that I actually found interesting, especially as I prepare to turn 27 later this week...

]]> ---------------**TEN YEARS AGO: June 1997**---------------

* How old were you?
16 going on 17

* Where did you go to school?
Rutland High School

* Where did you work?
Hannaford Supermarket

* Where did you live?
Rutland Town, Vermont -- with my parents, siblings, and grandmother

* Who were your best friends?
I was between them in June of '97...

* Where did you hang out?
I really don't remember

* Were you single or taken?
Single, and just coming out -- watch out, world!

* Who was your crush?
Who wasn't my crush? But I think I was pining for with my old best friend

* Had your heart been broken?
Not really

* Did you wear glasses?
Yes

* How many tattoos did you have?
None

* How many piercings did you have?
None, really -- though I did have my ears pierced twice in high school, I didn't commit to either attempt

* What car did you drive?
My mama's very old Honda Accord

* Had you been to a real party?
Nope

* Did you drink? Smoke?
No and no

* Who was your favorite band?
Dave Matthews Band

* What was your favorite movie?
Metropolis

* What was your AIM screen name?
Attius

---------------**FOUR YEARS AGO: June 2003**---------------

* How old were you?
22 going on 23

* Where did you go to school?
UVM -- actually, I had just graduated

* Where did you work?
Caregroup Homecare in Belmont, MA

* Where did you live?
Malden, MA -- with Danielle

* Who were your best friends?
Danielle and Greg

* Where did you hang out?
51 Bartlett Street, Hugh O'Neil's

* Were you single or taken?
Taken -- God, I was with Matt back then

* Who was your crush?
I had two -- one was my boyfriend and one wasn't

* Had your heart been broken?
Yeah

* Did you wear glasses?
Yes

* How many tattoos did you have?
None

* How many piercings did you have?
None

* What car did you drive?
A red 1991 VW Jetta -- aka "Scarlett," aka "Jesus Car"

* Had you been to a real party?
Oh yes.

* Did you drink? Smoke?
Yes and no

* Who was your favorite band?
Guster

* What was your favorite movie?
Moulin Rouge

* What was your AIM screen name?
crash0628

---------------**TODAY: June 2007**---------------

* How old are you?
26 going on 27

* Where do you go to school?
Emerson (grad classes this fall)

* Where do you work?
MIT

* Where do you live?
Malden, MA -- with Danielle

* Who are your best friends?
Danielle and Greg

* Do you talk to your old friends?
Some

* Where do you hang out?
51 Bartlett Street, Roadhouse, The Tavern, Fenway

* Are you single or taken?
Single

* Who is your crush?
Don't really have a strong one at the moment

* Has your heart been broken?
Yup

* Do you wear glasses?
Contacts

* How many tattoos do you have?
One

* How many piercings do you have?
Still none

* What car do you drive?
A silver 2002 Volvo V70 -- yes, a station wagon -- aka "Soccer Dad Car"

* Have you been to a real party?
Hell yes

* Do you drink? Smoke?
Yes and no

* Who is your favorite band?
Guster or Snow Patrol

* What is your favorite movie?
Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind

* What is your AIM screen name?
crash0628

Newsies

Every morning, as I approach my new native T stop, Oak Grove, I am filled with a sense of dread. When I enter, I will be faced with two options -- Metro or BostonNOW, two of Beantown's free commuter paper offerings -- and a very high-stakes choice.

There are other options, of course -- the Phoenix, Improper Bostonian -- but these are the free dailies, and these are the papers that hire people, real live people, to push the latest issue in your face. And therein lies the choice.

]]> The Metro has hired a young man as their rep, and NOW has employed a middle-aged woman. Neither is particularly attractive, which clearly would make the choice easy, but both are friendly -- with their patrons and with each other -- friendlier than any other paper distributor I've encountered on the T, and that makes the choice harder. I sense a respectful rivalry between the two, and even a bit of workplace friendship, as they are often conversing and smiling. I like to think of them going out for a drink together after work and talking about the work day, but then I realize that their work day probably ends with the morning commute, and the thought of them in a bar with their leftover papers at 10:30a.m. is fairly sad.

Let's pretend they go to Dunkin Donuts together instead. That's better.

So how, how, does one choose their preferred free daily? I've considered taking neither, as I rarely read anything on my Red Line commute from Dorchester when I first moved here simply because there wasn't a person handing them out there, but more recently I picked up the habit. I do like feeling somewhat briefed on current events and mainstream celebrity gossip each morning. Plus, to take nothing when someone is standing there, in a silly vest, offering it up just seems rude. My mama taught me better than that.

Let's examine the papers themselves. Neither has much journalistic credibility, and I say that with a tiny shred of credibility myself (I studied Journalism at URI for exactly one year). Neither has much depth. But low expectations can sometimes breed surprises -- I've been impressed by both paper's coverage of gay rights and gay marriage in particular, and their op-eds are often top notch. BostonNOW is the new kid on the block, and I like their style. They incorporate blogging and blogger's opinions into the issue -- which sometimes seems brilliant and othertimes seems lazy -- which I'm partial to, obviously. But the Metro has a bit more polish and cred, plus it has a staple. NOW is just a pain to fold over without that damn staple.

If not for the human element, I would choose the Metro based on the staple alone -- but people's feelings and livelihoods are on the line here, so it's not a simple choice. My solution? I've resigned myself to alternating papers-pushers each day, unless one, by proximity, is a closer and more obvious choice. I'll read through until Malden Center, or Wellington if the issue is particularly compelling, and then I'll fold it up, place it in my bag for later recycling, and I'll take out my book to read until Downtown Crossing. (Yes, the Orange Line has proved more conducive to subway reading, and I'm almost finished with my first read, Jonathan Ames' perverted, touching, and sometimes brilliant "I Love You More Than You Know.") I'll break one person's heart a day, but the next day I'll make it up to them -- or so goes the thought process of a silly, self-centered, unseasoned commuter who seriously thinks about these things and actually thinks that they matter to these people doing their job.

Today I grabbed a Metro for the second day in a row, mostly because the NOW woman was sitting and out of reach (and, more imporantly, eye contact). I still felt bad, though, and I felt even worse when I saw the headline: City sees 30th murder of '07 (in Dorchester, of course). But then I felt an odd connection to a community, to a city, and the headline made me feel connected to the urban greatness, warts and all, that is Boston, even though I've moved to the semi-suburbs where the paper-pushers are genuinely friendly.

And it made me that much more grateful that I don't live in Dorchester anymore.

Card Holder

I simply do not know how to meet people in real life.

Michiganian Transplant at Malden Stop & Shop? - m4m - 27

]]>

Reply to: pers-351254564@craigslist.org
Date: 2007-06-13, 11:59AM EDT

On Tuesday evening (6/12), around 5:30, I saw you a couple times at the Malden Stop & Shop, most notably in the frozen food section. We made a bit eye contact, but I was eager to get out of the Store -- plus, I'm just bad at that sort of thing.

Then I got in line and you got behind me. Odd, I thought, because the lines around us were shorter.

I asked the cashier how to get a Stop & Shop card, and if she had one I could use for this transaction. You quickly and kindly offered me yours, but she'd already scanned one.

Then you asked if I was new to town, and I said sort of. I've been in Boston since September, but I'd just moved to Malden on Saturday.

You're new too, you said. From Michigan.

Then the cashier started to flirt with you about the "poor deer" on your shirt and killed the mood. The transaction was soon over, and when I turned to you to say some awkward good-bye, you were looking the other way. Rather than linger, I took off.

While I was in line at the customer service desk (to get my card, like a good Malden citizen), I tried to catch your eye contact again without seeming like a psychopath, but no dice. I spent the rest of the night kicking myself for missing the opportunity to connect with a cool guy.

YOU: Masculine, tall, blonde, ruddy, burly white guy. Deer t-shirt. Cute as hell. Twenty-something, I'd guess. Stop & Shop card holder.

ME: Masculine, tall, reddish-brown, pale, white, kind of burly myself. Goatee. Grey Gap t-shirt, shorts. Bought a mess of Lean Cuisine dinners because the sale was too good.

On the off chance that you'll read this -- want to get to know the area together? You seem like a nice guy. Let's get coffee or a drink sometime.

Location: Malden
it's NOT ok to contact this poster with services or other commercial interests

PostingID: 351254564

Truly pathetic. Plus I can't even keep a Missed Connection post short and sweet!

But on the brightside -- even with a bad back/neck ache, I can become smitten with a boy at the supermarket. And that's something, right?

One Year Later

Ah, symmetry.

Hard to believe that, one year ago, I was counting down the days before I left Vermont to move in with my best friend in Manhattan. One year ago, I was four days away from that big move. One year later, I'm four days away from another big move -- this one to a newly-renovated-but-very-familiar apartment five minutes north of downtown Boston with my other best friend. Yes, after three months living on E. 14th Street, a block from Union Square, I'm fully settled in Red Sox Nation and ready -- not just ready, wicked psyched -- for my next move to, technically, the 'burbs.

Is this where I would have foreseen myself when I left the Green Mountains for the Big City last year? Not a chance. My life's not particularly glamorous and it's far from perfect, but I'm a heck of a lot happier than I've been in a long time. And that, ultimately, is why I left Vermont -- which, for the record, I miss desperately, but I was desperately unhappy there. Those three months in New York and the last nine months here in Boston have been exactly what I needed, full of those things that my old life was so devoid of -- experience, excitement, mistakes, old friends and new blood -- and missing the things that took so much energy -- drama, stress, Duncan. And after a year of moving around, of new people and places, of practically non-stop dating, a year of good-byes and hellos and more good-byes, I am ready to settle down. To stop and smell the summer. To stop jumping and finally let myself fall.

Am I satisfied yet? Hell no. But I'm living a happier, healthier life here, one virtually free of oppressive blood drives, Chicken Charlie's, and a certain bad ex-boyfriend, and that's worth celebrating.

]]> Even with all the excitement of moving around and living in cities, it's funny that the new life I love is a heck of a lot more ordinary than the one I had back north. There's no grand, dramatic love affair here. No haunted apartment on North Street. I'm not hanging out with Dane Cook, Gavin DeGraw, or Wanda Sykes in my new job. I've lived in a nice, but overpriced, apartment with a -- I'll be polite -- quirky roommate for nine months. I work a vaguely dissatisfying job for a fairly mediocre monthly paycheck. Heck, now I'm a child of divorce. I'm terribly average and I love it terribly.

Life here is just simple. I have friends. We hang out. We have a blast. The end. Being gay isn't a big deal. I work with a bunch of other gay guys and there's actually a dating pool here (well, in Boston, not at work). Being gay takes virtually no effort here, where it was almost a chore in Vermont. It's still hard to make connections -- real connections -- and there's certainly still some loneliness. But I never feel alone here, which was a regular occurrence just a year ago.

This simplicity has helped me define who I am, and this experience has helped me define who I want to be with. The verdict? I'm just a man who wants to fall in love, get married, buy a house, get a dog, have some kids. I want to drink good beer on the porch and grill every night in the summer. I want to spend every damn day I can at Fenway Park. And I want to be with someone who can appreciate these simple pleasures, too. Yes, being surrounded by a real gay community has turned me into a straight man -- who knew?

The Alternative Routes sing, "would you love, could you love to be ordinary?" And I do. I totally do. I thought I left Vermont for a life less ordinary, but all I wanted -- and needed, really -- was more normalcy in this decidedly unfabulous little twenty-something life.

So bring on the 'burbs. Bring on Year Two.

I Don't Mind Singing

Danielle and I saw Josh Kelley at The Paradise here in Boston last Friday.

Though we were in the midst of the St. Paddy's Day nor'easter (which cancelled my NYC trip the following day) and Yelli's knee was in a brace, the show was fantastic. Josh was great, as were his opening acts (but where was Jennifer Paige?!).

By Any Other Name

[Inspired by Ryan]

Your Real Name: Patrick

Your Gangsta Name (1st 4 letters plus izzle): Patrizzle

Your Detective Name (fave color + fave animal): Blue Monkey

Your Soap Opera Name (middle name + childhood street): William Woodstock

Your Star Wars Name (last 3 letters of your last name + first 2 letters of your first name + first 3 letters of Mom's maiden name): Ondpathar

Your Superhero Name (2nd fave color + fave drink): Red Red Death

Your Witness Protection Name (Grandma/Grandpa's first name + Jones): John Jones

Your Goth Name (Black + name of one of your pets): Black Molly

Your American Idol Name (fav car and sea food): Jetta Calamari

Your Movie Star Name (sibling's middle name + mother's maiden name): Clark Harvey

Your Alter Ego (name of one your childhood pets + popular brand of clothes when you were young): Schmedley Levi

Your Lawyer Name (fav actor's last name + fav hard liquor): Owen Absolut

Your Hip Hop Name (fav candy + fruit): Jelly Belly Pear

REVIVAL Starts This Week

New Yorkers -- Check out Revival, a "new old play" by Greg Turner (of Tea fame), beginning this week as part of the Frigid New York festival. Get more info at donotdisturbtheatre.com.

I read the play over Christmas and I loved it. There's a diva character that's just fantastic and the play is extra-fun because of her -- as the tagline says, "The leading lady always gets her way." You know I'm a fan of Greg's work because, c'mon, he's my best friend and happens to be a brilliant writer. And, of course, this is a damn good play.

(And how about that design work? That's by yours truly.)

Greg tells nytheatre.com:

I wrote this play after hearing about a play that was being revived on Broadway for the first time after thirty years. The playwright had, according to legend, written the play about his first failed marriage. Well this got wheels in my head turning… what if a playwright wrote about his leading lady? And what if she went on to become a huge star and left him behind and they never met again until the Broadway revival thirty years later? And that right there is what Revival is.

So when we bill Revival as "a new old play" what we're really saying is that it's a play within a play and the play within the play is the revival of a fictional play. That sounds confusing, I know, but trust me it's not confusing on the stage. It's clever and charming. It's certainly the charmingest thing I've ever written… I mean there will still be beautiful young people making out in their underwear, but that only adds to the charm of it all, right?

It would be trite to say that Revival will be a breath of fresh air in this "crazy mixed-up world" and I don't know if that's the case or not. And Revival won't help people decide what they want to do with their lives or which candidate they should vote for in the next election. But Revival will make people laugh and have a good time. People will definitely relate to the characters in the show. And I did mention that there will be beautiful people making out in their underwear.

I'll be there next Saturday because I love Greg's stuff.

But you? You should go whenever you can because everybody loves a diva (and hot making-out-in-undies stage scenes).

Aqua Teen Terror Force

This is not a bomb, but it's now an eBay auction.

Yesterday, Boston was gripped by fear because of an ad campaign for the Cartoon Network show, Aqua Teen Hunger Force, worried that light-up cartoon characters were actually the work of terrorists. Me? My office had a little buzz and we saw a couple helicopters circling, but mainly I was afraid the Red Line would be shut down or backed up by the time I left for home. (It wasn't.)

Hey Boston -- over-react much? Clearly Beantown is unlikely to ever be the target of an attack, be it by Mooninites or terrorists.

Quite a Catch

Because, clearly, I would rather see any kind of cinematic trash than watch anything on any critic's "Best Of" list this awards season, I saw Jennifer Gardner's new rom-com, Catch and Release last night. 'Twas a cute movie and a fun little date night with a certain hot blonde. I'm discovering that I really like movies without any kind of pretention -- and this movie certainly wasn't putting on any airs. It was what it was, and I thought it was fun.

Worth the price of admission alone is Sam Jaeger (above, and right), perhaps the most perfect man I've ever seen. He's a decent actor and the epitome of my archetypical type. His performance isn't anything that extraordinary, but he does a good job as an unrequited everyman. Plus, he's so damn handsome it hurts. Add to the fact that his character a rugged, sensitive outdoorsy man in Boulder, and I'm hooked.

(Insert fisherman joke here.)

Sam Jaeger (how hot is that name?) -- will you marry me?

And since I'm clearly delusional, we can totally have a threeway ceremony with George and Callie and Burke and Christina.