Tag: gay
One Photo
Sometimes people contact me online. This guy Lex and I have been emailing back and forth. He’s offered to draw me an action shot. I’m excited. This is the prototype. Enjoy it, Jerks.
TuesDATE
Sometimes people ask me on dates. They see me on the internet. Maybe they think I’m the answer to their life problems, or loneliness. Invariably I prove them wrong.
Him: Sorry. You made me wait for longer than I thought I would have to, in that bank.
Me: Sorry I asked you to meet me there. I had to open up a business account.
Him: Why?
Me: My accountant told me to. I don’t know. You look so cute.
Him: Ugh. I feel gross. I haven’t showered and I drank last night.
Me: Did you drink a lot?
Him: Yes. My friend talked me into staying out later than I wanted to. I was out until 3. I feel queasy.
Me: Didn’t you have to be at work at 8:30? You’re hungover.
Him: No, I just didn’t sleep a lot.
Me: And you feel queasy.
Him: Yeah.
Me: And you drank a lot.
Him: Yeah.
Me: That’s a hangover.
Him: NO. I told you I’m NOT hungover. I just didn’t sleep and had to go to work only a few hours after drinking a lot.
Me: Yeah. That’s called a hangover.
Him: You’re so judgmental.
Me: Oh. No. Sorry… I don’t mean to seem like I’m judging. I’m not saying, “Oh, you’re hung over, you should be ashamed – how dare you show up for a date with me with a hangover.” It’s not judging. It’s perceiving. I’m just labeling the condition. More like, “Oh, that’s just a hangover.”
Him: Wow. You’re so much fun.
Me: Oh yes. Nothing but. I’m. So. Much. Fun.
(long pause)
Me: Hey. I’m cooking a whole lot of food. Do you still want me to make you lunch? Late lunch?
Him: I think I already told you I feel queasy, but sure. I’ll see what happens.
Me: I’m a good cook. You’ll feel hungry after a minute.
Him: Can we listen to Gaga?
Me: What?
Him: When we get to your house. Can we listen to Gaga?
(loooooooong pause)
Me: Sure.
…
I love Gaga.
(surprise ending: I don’t love Gaga.)
Emergency.
There was an emergency. Blood was spilled and well… mistakes were made. I’m being dramatic, but still –
This is Enrico D. Wey. He’s a friend of mine. Stop looking at me like that. I don’t beat him.
I DON’T!
I should, maybe. But I don’t. I couldn’t, really. I’m not like that.
STOP. Don’t look at me like that. I DIDN’T DO THAT TO HIM. I PLAYED NURSE AND THEN MADE HIM DINNER. I swear.
Oh jesus. That’s not helping. He’s looking at me like he’s totally suspicious of me. But you have to understand, that’s because he doesn’t quite like me . Don’t get me wrong. I think he thinks I’m cute and all, and maybe slightly amusing (MAYBE). But I think he also finds me pretty annoying.
Or… hm. That’s too strong, maybe.
Let’s just say he doesn’t find me NEARLY as charming as I think I am.
And that DRIVES ME CRAZY.
Because he’s wrong. I am charming.
What?
I didn’t rough him up, jerk. Now you’re just saying it to annoy me.
Stop it. Listen:
I asked him over when he mentioned he was rehearsing in the neighborhood. I was planning on cooking dinner anyhow. I made a rather poor imitation of Korean food. I had some kim chi lying around and I tried to make a Bi Bim Bop stone bowl affect with my cast iron skillet. And then I roasted some sprouts, because it’s late February now, and they’ll be totally out of season soon.
Then I asked him if he’d make some blueberry quick bread.
He said okay.
That doesn’t mean he actually likes me as a person, I pointed out. He was quick to agree.
I’m glad we settled that.
Enrico is an interesting case. I’ve been following (online stalking) his career for a few years now and I’m always impressed with the stuff I turn up about him. Seems like every six months he succeeds in a different arena. I’m not kidding. He’s a technical director. He also has a name for himself as a choreographer. Sometimes I’ll ichat him and he’ll be in some far-off land, on an artist’s fellowship at some university or theater.
He’s modest, and he won’t tell you what a great career he’s having, but he’s having one.
Oh. Yeah. He’s also a puppeteer.
His most recent gig has been with this Broadway show at Lincoln Center – War Horse.
That’s right. He’s doing puppetry and acting in a Broadway show. Pretty cool, eh?
I think it’s pretty cool. Yes. You’re right – I buried the lead.
What? Shut up. I didn’t cause that scrape.
Anyway. As I was saying. I love to internet stalk this guy. I’ve been at it off and on for a few years I guess? I like to meet people online and chat with them for months or years before I actually meet them. It weeds out the loonies and crystal meth addicts.
Isn’t he good looking? So handsome, right?
This is the first time I’ve ever annoyed someone into hanging out with me. I whined and whined until he finally consented.
Oh, is that surprising? I should have mentioned before now that I have zero pride.
I have very little pride. Also, I’m lying about having very little pride. I’m way too proud.
Anyway. He came over and I dressed his wound from rehearsal. Then I made us dinner. He made some quick bread. It had canned blueberry pie filling and dark chocolate chips. He’s a nice guy, as it turns out. He’s funny and sardonic, and he takes a while to warm up to you.
I think I may have won him over. I may have moved myself, incrementally, in his head. from one category to another. By the time he left he was treating me less like a “creepy weirdo” and more like a “benign weirdo.” Score.
What can I say. When you’re charming you’re charming.
Now I suppose it’s back to Googling him every so often and harassing him on ichat.
Enjoy the internet stalking, Jerks.
SaturDATE
Sometimes people ask me on dates. They see me on the internet and they think that I’m the answer to their life problems, or loneliness. Or maybe they think I am cute. Invariably, I prove them wrong…
Him: Hi. Thank you for meeting with me.
Me: Hi. You’re really attractive. So cute in your pics online, and in person.
Him: Haha. Nice compliment. But you are comedy. Your job is to be charming.
Me: That’s right. I’m a comic. My job’s a little more complicated, but yes, it helps to be charming.
Him: I prefer behind the camera instead.
Me: Yes. You said you were a photographer. How do you like that?
(silence – as if I hadn’t asked a direct question that required a response)
Me: In any case. You’re really cute. I mean it. You have great eyes. Hazel. I’ve never seen an Asian guy with such vibrant Hazel eyes.
Him: You such a charmer! They are just contacts, silly.
Me: Well, you have great eyes.
Him: You have good eyes. I didn’t know they were blue from online.
Me: They’re grey. They change color depending on what I wear. I’m wearing a blue sweater, is why they’re so blue.
Him: Haha. I’m not fooled so easily.
Me: What?
Him: Your eyes are clearly blue, not grey.
(pause)
Me: Well that’s the point. They change… Yeah. You’re right. They’re blue… Do you want some coffee?
Him: No. I don’t drink coffee.
Me: Tea?
Him: No. No tea.
Me: You asked me to coffee.
Him: You like coffee don’t you? Order coffee.
Me: You want anything? Water?
Him: I don’t need your money.
Me: I wish the reverse were true.
Him: What?
Me: It’s just a joke. I was making fun of myself for being poor.
Him: I’m sure you can afford a cup of coffee.
Me: You’re right. I can.
(surprise ending: this date did not end in a makeout session)
Enjoy the SaturDATE, Jerks!
Chocolate Banana Cream ETC.
I think it’s getting there. I made another banana cream pie the other day. It was delicious. I’m getting better at this one.
I made it for my friend Chris – who is not really a good friend, considering that he never came over to get it. He offered to help me with the HTML code for PIEFOLK. I made the pie for him, as a thank you. He stood me up. And as of yet, he hasn’t explained why. Weird guy.
I’m tired of friends acting weird.
Maybe it’s February talking. Then very dead of winter. People start acting… strange. Affection starved, but in a sluggish, lethargic way.
It’s not so much that the late winter brings out ugly behavior, but that layer of New York-y inconsiderateness might be a little denser this time of year.
Keep in mind – I’m just complaining – and I don’t really even have too too much to complain about. There are people around me that really care for me, and I’m grateful. I also have the respect of some very talented, very brilliant colleagues in the comedy world. I’m lucky. But I’m tired of people acting weird, in that February sort of way.
Yes. I get the irony.
I’m a grown-ass man who hangs out with neighborhood gays, baking, scantily clad, at all hours of the night. So where do I get off calling anything weird? I get off right here. It’s my damn blog, after all.
Here’s a list of weird stuff that bugs me:
*Social awkwardness (of the non-charming variety)
*Not returning (or at least acknowledging) compliments
*Trying to impress me by being mean to a retail employee
*Trying to use backhanded compliments confuse me when you flirt ( that only works on people with low self esteem, dummy).
*Those gauge ear-rings that stretch your ears out, Africa style.
*Unkindness
*Information hoarding
*Deep eye-contact that feels nice until you break it and say ‘WHAT?’ in a tone of voice that sounds like an indictment.
*People that get a macho kick out of being a ‘top only.’
*Olde Timey handlebar mustaches.
*People that put up walls with their sense of humor (except for me and my hilarous friends)
*A&E’s Intervention
Anyway. Knock it off, Winter. Stop making everyone (myself included) act so weird. I mean, except for the weirdness we exhibit normally, on a summer’s day, after a nice picnic in the park, where me and my weird date wear gay looking speedos, and sing songs with our ukuleles. After eating blueberry pie, and catcalling a nearby soccer practice. I want that kind of weird back.
I want to feel warm, and languid and odd. Like a Rufus Wainwright song recorded in a sauna.
I guess that feeling’s not so far off.
I’ll power through.
Please do the same.
Oh.
And.
Enjoy the pie, Jerks.
TuesDATE
Sometimes people ask me on dates. They see me on the internet and they think that I’m the answer to their life problems, or loneliness. Or maybe they think I am cute. Invariably, I prove them wrong.
Him: Wanna get some food?
Me: Sure. There’s lots of restaurants around here. What are you in the mood for?
Him: I don’t care. You pick.
Me: Hm… there’s high end Mexican up the street at Mesa Coyoacan .
Him: You should know better than to ask someone for Mexican food on a gay date.
Me: Why? Oh. EW.
Him: But yeah, I don’t care…
Me: There’s a seafood restaurant called Sel De Mer….
Him: Ew. NO. I never trust them to have fresh ingredients. Gross.
Me: That’s kind of their thing. The menu is mostly specials that they bought at the fish market that day.
Him: I’m not sure if I trust that. Try again.
Me: There’s a French place called Fanny. It’s cash only.
Him: I never carry cash. (gives me a knowing glance, as if I’m supposed to know what that means)
Me: Well, I would buy dinner, but I am poor.
Him: All that pie.
Me: Huh?
Him: You’re spending too much money on pie. Not enough on your living expenses.
Me: Hold up… Financial advice?? That’s SECOND date material, Mister.
Him: HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA. I don’t get it.
Me: There’s an Asian fusion place up the street called Sakura.
Him: Yeah. I’ve read your blog. We get it. You like ‘Asian food‘. (long pause where I don’t laugh)
Me: I’m not that hungry, actually.
Him: Wanna make out?
Me: No.
Enjoy the TuesDATE, Jerks!
photo by Erwin Caluya
Cupid Arrives
What’s wrong with you?
Put your tongue back in your mouth. That’s just Robbie Fowler.
Hm? What? He’s gorgeous?
I’ll let him know you said so. Now focus:
So, first of all – congrats are in order. Robbie’s boyfriend James proposed to him. They’re getting married!
But, they’re getting married in New York, since that’s where they solidified their love. Which means they’re waiting for it to be legal. But they’re engaged!
They will be married, some day. Soon as you kind straight folk start voting the right way.
Listen up:
Robbie is a popular New York actor. He does theater and television. Which is not to say you shouldn’t cast him in your movie. You totally should. He photographs well.
Robbie wanted to make a red berry pie, for Valentine’s day. He brought over raspberries, strawberries and blackberries. Good call, Fowler! It made a kick ass pie. We didn’t put very much sugar in it, because we wanted it to taste sharp and tart. We spiked the crust with a little powdered ginger.
I sat down with Fowler to chat while the pie was baking:
PF: What do you do for a living?
RF: I act… swiffer my apartment… take care of my puppy….
I’m an uncle… for a living…
PF: How’s being engaged?
RF: We both have rings and we walk around a little taller, I guess? We would like to get married in our home state, so we’ll wait… It affects me a lot.
PF: How did you learn how to bake pie?
RF: I learned from my grandmother. Ernestine Nowlan. My mother’s mother. She was hilarious. Taught me how to make a pie crust. She was an actress when she was younger and she played Polly Darton in a Kansas musical review. She was 75 or 76 when I was born. They would take me to get haircuts – my grandparents. And to theater camp.
PF: Can you talk about the pie you selected?
RF: 
Sweet, messy, juicy – just like Valentine’s Day.
PF: Tell me an odd story about auditioning?
RF: I went in for a show, right after moving here. The audition was run by a reputable company – I sang my face off – belted those high B (flats). The choreographer was yelling sass at us the whole time. I went home, felt good about it, logged onto the Facebook, and I get a message from the director.
He found me, but my info is not at all on my resume. He didn’t care to talk about my audition at all – he was just like ‘oh, what were those tattoos?’
Finally I had to ask – hey, did I make the cast of the show?
PF: DID you?
RF: Oh. Yeah, I did. It was a lot of fun.
PF: Do you have any advice for other young actors?
RF: Take it as it comes. If you need to take a break, do it. Take care of yourself before you take care of your career. You have to stay sane. If you need to take a pottery class take a fucking pottery class. Bake a pie.
I couldn’t have said it better myself. Thanks, Fowler.
Guys, I hope you’re happy this Valentines day. Whether you’re together or alone, I hope you’re having fun.
I love you. Jerks.
SaturDATE!!!
Sometimes I meet people online.
Sometimes they like me enough to ask me out on dates. They think I’m the answer to their problems and lonliness, a lot of the time. I have a tendency, inadvertently, to prove them wrong:
Him: You are dressed really sharply! I can tell you’re successful just from how your dressed.
Me: Ha. Actually, I’m very poor. I just take good care of my clothes and have a credit card.
Him: Oh, man. It must really suck to be poor, emotionally.
Me: You don’t have time to worry about that, when you’re poor.
Him: What do you mean?
Me: You’re too busy doing laundry and dishes all the time to pity yourself. Plus you lose weight from being hungry. It’s great for your self esteem, actually.
Him: It’s getting late…
Enjoy the SATUR-DATE, Jerks!
PIEFOLK 
