My Silent Life

As my dear readers know I live the same life George Clooney’s character does in Up In The Air. Except instead of being in a plane, I’m in the back of a yellow cab. I spend many an hour back there, contemplating my fate, tapping the “off” button on the TaxiTV screen over and over and over again.

So imagine my interest in a recent report from the New York Times that alleges hacks here in the Big Apple have been ripping off riders for two years. Their methods were relatively straightforward - hit the button for rate 4 (used for far-flung destinations and meant to be triggered only after crossing the border into Westchester County, for example) rather than rate 1 (Standard City Rate). Rate 4 is higher, of course, and thus those who were fleeced paid an average of $4 to $5 more than they should have.

Unsurprisingly, the taxi driver’s union, New York Taxi Workers Alliance, has come out behind the drivers. Their statement basically says, “hey, this is like 3/4th of all the hacks on the road doing this. Surely that’s gotta be a mistake. 3/4th of all cab drivers aren’t thieves! Big misunderstanding you guys, those buttons, darn, they sure are close together. And the same color too! And small, so small. Yikes! Where are my glasses? Wait, I knew they were around here someplace…”

Right. Except they’re guilty as sin.

To determine the veracity of the New York Taxi Workers Alliance’s statement, I went through my taxi receipts from January 2009 to the present. Such a task is made easy and somewhat pleasant when all one needs to do is flick through a bunch of sorted images on a screen. Shawna has everything scanned and classified so the whole task took me no time at all. In my quick sample, I found that not one of my receipts indicated that I had been charged on a rate 4 fare. Doesn’t that seem unlikely to you? 35,558 out of the city’s roughly 48,000 drivers had applied the higher rate over the last two years and yet leafing through hundreds of my own receipts I could find not even one instance of overcharging.

How could this be possible? It should be obvious but on the off-chance it isn’t, here’s my theory: the hacks only ripped off the out-of-towners. When a New Yorker hops in and barks (not me of course, I’m sweet as molasses pie) an intersection followed by a preferred route (No! Grand does NOT go through! Take Delancey!) I suspect they figure they’d probably best charge the going rate. But when they get a fare that’s clearly an out-of-towner, or a stumbling drunkard, or the Swiss Family Robinson… well, that’s another story.

And even though tourists and visitors and such keep our metropolitan’s economy moving, I’ve got to admit I started caring a lot less when I figured out they were the ones getting ripped off.

And now, if you’ll excuse me, I must try to hail a cab before I’m late for dinner.

xx

-B

Here in the Big Apple the weather is gorgeous for the first time in 2010 and the denizens of our fine, fine metropolis are collectively overjoyed at our good fortune. How are we celebrating? By wearing clothing inappropriate to the season, of course. The hipsters are rocking tshirts and jeans and sporting oversized Ray-Ban aviators to protect their (dilated) pupils from harm. Some guy was smoking in front of my building wearing shorts. Shorts. Really? You shouldn’t wear shorts in the city in my opinion. No one wants to see your pastey legs. But if you must, save ‘em for the 100 degree days. Today does not qualify friends.

The most common fashion-related seasonal anticipation we see here in the city, though, is undoubtedly dudes wearing suits with no topcoat. Check out this dude, sans topcoat, on the uptown 6.

He is into it! Loving this liberating weather. He’s even drinking a Red Bull so that his senses may prove even more ready to fully appreciate the tweaked-out fabulousness of the season.

Really though, it ain’t that warm. You still need a coat. A light one, sure, but bare appendages are going to get chilly. Remember the adage -Question: What is a sweater? Answer: Something you put on when your mother is cold.

At least our warm-snap has freed us from red carpet related weather envy. LA may not have much on NYC, but that climate-controlled deal they’ve figured out over there is pretty sweet. Maybe Bloomie could get us some of that? Eh?

Speaking of the carpet, did you watch the Oscars? On the red carpet Matt Damon praised the skill of my homeboy Rich – hawt! And the show started well with NPH doing a fun and sparkly number and Alec Bladwin and Steve Martin delivering an immensely funny two man standup routine. But after that, things started to drag. Despite some cuts to the live program, it still feels about six and a half hours long. Partially, its the speeches. Its not just that they are sometimes overly long, its also that they are often dull as dishwater. I propose a solution to this problem. Under the new Billy system you would win your Oscar. But if your speech sucked, we’d all text in and then it would be revoked. Instantly. Then, no matter what, it would automatically be awarded to Meryl Streep.

I think this would encourage those nominees to think long and hard about what they were going to say before they got up there and started profusely thanking their legal team. Instead, maybe we get some tap numbers. Or stripteases. Or fellas makin’ it rain with Benjamins. That sort of thing.
Who is with me on this? Bueller? Bueller? Bueller?

Xx
-B

Sorry for the gap between entries my dears. I’ve been hard at work on a little piece de theatre in addition to all my other responsibilities. Its been terribly, terribly difficult. You know the feeling.

Let’s make up for lost time, shall we? First, the MTA is still a mess. That hasn’t changed. Express trains run local, local trains run express, and there remains an expectation that a station stop in Manhattan that is not being serviced in one direction should very reasonably be assumed to be reached from the other direction – via Brooklyn. Um, no.

Thank goodness for cabs. Recently I’ve been thinking a lot about cabs, principally because since the downfall of a once-functional mass transit system I’ve spent oh so many hours riding in the backseat of one. The other day I nearly went through the partition when my cab stopped short on the way to the theatre. That’s bad. I was reminded (and I shall, like a good Samaritan – ha – remind you) of the importance of wearing one’s seatbelt in cabs. Native New Yorkers don’t believe in wearing seatbelts in cabs. We strap ourselves in like astronauts preparing for a launch when in transit around the Hamptons or (especially) whilst overseas. But here in our hometown, with mad drivers swerving this way and that, we are perfectly content to click away on our BlackBerrys with little cognizance of the perils just outside that flimsy door. That should change.

Since we have those frightful TaxiTVs now, perhaps its time for a renaissance of celebrity reminders. Are you, dear reader, too new of an arrival to remember Joan Rivers screaming, “Pick my nipple up off the floor and for God’s sake put on your seatbelt!” (or something like that – I may be paraphrasing slightly) You are? Well it wasn’t the most beloved of all our transit initiatives. It turns out those riding in cabs don’t want to be screamed at by New Yorkers – famous or not. Who’da thunk it?

Xx
-B

I am currently hard at work on a workshop production of Three Sisters (I’m playing Solyony). Eve Best is directing and its fun and weird. We do a lot of improv-ing and physical work which culminated last week with the cast recreating the fire scene from the play by running up and down the stairs of the semi-demolished warehouse in which we are rehearsing yelling chestnuts like, “How can this be happening?!” and “Oh my God, quick, grab this bucket!” or, “Everyone get out right now! Its a fire!!” Shockingly, the Chinese day-laborers working on the surrounding floors were more than a little concerned at our impromptu decision to spend the afternoon sprinting and screaming. Someone convinced someone else not to call the Fire Department and then we all went to drink Crystal Light and talk about our feelings.

In the evenings I take meetings with people about projects. These meetings generally involve alcohol (because they are in the evenings) and thus are fun. Sometimes I even take notes.

But most importantly I had a festive and feisty weekend. Did you watch the superbowl? There were a few acts and this stage show in between some of ‘em. The guy singing was old or not old, can’t remember, and I really enjoyed it I think. Alcohol may have been involved.

The night before I went to a wig party for my dear friend Nicole’s bday. Here’s what some of the shenanigans looked like:

See how that strand of hair is carefully draped across my big wrinkle line? That’s not on purpose!

I also went to an old haunt this weekend with Brian: Art Bar. I hadn’t been there in five years and the second we sat down our order was being taken by the very same waitress who used to serve us 17 times a week when we were young(er) and poor(er). She was still robotically chipper and so I ordered some quesadillas and a bunch of cocktails. Yum!

I went to some brunches too, including one at my friend Eli’s apartment where several people unknown to me commented on how much they just adored my house parties. Cue lines like, “Oh hi YOU! How are YOU sweetie? Fabulous to see YOU!” as I quickly reach for another drink. It reminded me of a time I sat down for a drink with some friends months ago when a stranger leaned over to me and recounted how I had changed his life with my advice during his “dark, dark period.” Huh? Apparently when I am wasted I acquire a sense of empathy (not to mention listening skills) totally foreign to me in my sober hours.

So, how did you spend your weekend?

xx

-B

So my dears, you may be wondering where I have been these couple of weeks. The answer? ASPEN! Yep, while you dedicated professionals were being dedicated to your professions, I was off skiing (badly) in ASPEN. That’s the place where celebrities slip and fall on icy streets and the snow is made of real, genuine, 100% gold plate. Its just like QVC, only better.

Lets chat about some things I did whilst there, shall we?

First, I did some skiing. Stop laughing, its true. I swished down the mountain with all the grace of a gazelle fleeing a hungry sabre-toothed tiger. I also lifted ceremonial glasses of alcohol to my cold, parched lips after each run …errr…day. That contributed to a bit of tom foolery in various locales such as Ajax Tavern, Revel, and room 66 at The Little Nell.

I made some new friends and didn’t alienate my old ones. So that was good. I also spent one million dollars. That was less good. My American Express card actually gasped, hiccuped, and then sizzled to its early quietus. A crowd of hushed onlookers gathered to experience its spectacular demise. It was a sight to behold, lemme tell ya!

Here are some pics of me in action:

Drinking at the Nell...in the hall

With Zoe in the street

Out on the town - Zoe looks HAWT!

At Ajax Tavern

As you can see, a good time was had by all. And due to a snow flurry that didn’t materialize, my flight home was cancelled forcing me to stay put until Sunday. Thanks Momma Nature!

xx

-B

This is just a quick entry to suggest you take a look at Mr. Phillip Corbett’s “Loose Connections.” Today’s article is stuffed with some of the most common mistakes I encounter on a daily basis.

xx

-B

On Sunday I saw the closing night performance of Alter Boyz. I had never seen it before – making me one of one person in the audience who was a newbie. Some patrons gleefully admitted to me that they had seen the show 40 plus times. Wowza.

The show was adorable but I can’t really remember anything that happened. The gay character was kind of sweet and the kids all worked their mics to the point that even in the second row of a theatre that seats maybe 200 people I wasn’t entirely convinced they weren’t lip syncing. The after party was, as always, the highlight of the evening. How could one not have fun with free pitchers of Bud Light and buffalo wings at Hooters? A former cast mate of mine who shall remain nameless showed up seemingly a wee bit less than sober and kicked in a banister. Whoops! Violence at Hooters! After polishing off my pitcher and starting on a 2nd it was time to depart. I cabbed my way to the ol’ Homestead and was asleep by 1.

Yesterday, I saw Stiffelio at the MET and spent the majority of the evening chatting about Verdi’s “Stiffy.” It was a’ight but the intermissions were endless and thus the program ran 25 minutes longer than anticipated. Luckily I made the last downtown F before it ceased to function at midnight (well actually it was an E train running over the V but who can nitpick?). The F runs so infrequently at night that I now find myself planning to get back to my neighborhood no later than midnight or risk being stranded and cab-less. This makes me feel like I live in London but not in a good way. If there are two things NYC has got on London they are transit and food. The first has deteriorated to the point where the MTA is now hiring consultants from London’s tube system to help prevent ours from perishing. But the second is still kickin’ it.

And with that easy, breezy, beautiful (Covergirl) segue let me remind you that NYC Restaurant Week is nearly upon us - it begins Jan 25th. Log onto your handy dandy OpenTable account now and see if you can’t snag one of those few remaining resos at Bond St, Nobu Next Door, LeCirque, or someplace you actually want to eat (like perhaps The Harrison). JKLOL you hoity-toity joints – I love y’all, each and every one of you. Don’t seat me next to the kitchen…please.

Happy dining my fellow foodies.

xx

-B

Have you read this article in the Times?

http://www.nytimes.com/2009/12/30/us/30privacy.html?_r=1&emc=eta1

Its about these new-fangled scanning machines that will make us safe. Which is awesome! Except that there are some privacy concerns yadda yadda. These aren’t so real…until you consider my little anecdote.

A couple of years ago I was going through an airport I recall to be Heathrow in Moscow and encountered one of these full-body scanning machines. It whirled around me and I exited the other side feeling more than a little Star Trek Voyager. Behind me the next person to be scanned was a tall, swarthy type. Exceedingly handsome, in a beautiful hand-finished button down shirt and calf captoes. I went to collect my items from the conveyor belt and there, in front of me, was my handsome Heathrow-mate Sheremetyevo-mate. Buck naked. Not live and in person, of course. Rather, on a screen being ignored by a security guard intent on finishing his conversation with another employee. I, however, was not ignoring the screen. My mouth must have fallen agape – I could see literally everything in a manner that suggested a picture of a man wearing invisible clothes. Where his underwear made an impression on his unmentionables that impression was revealed on the monitor. But, of course, the underwear was not visible – only the privates it was meant to coddle.

So yea, these monitors are going to be in some distant room, and no one will be identified, and magically people’s faces will be blurred out. Except that doesn’t and won’t happen. What will is someone will get a iPhone picture of a screen filled with Megan Fox’s naked body on her way to an international flight and post it on Gawker and that’ll be the end of this multi-zillion dollar program.

Until then my suggestion is to muscle in front of someone really hot on line for security and spend a long time tying your shoes within eyeshot of that screen.

xx

-B

Well it was a white Christmas here on the East Coast. Though it didn’t snow, we had plenty on the ground to ensure some chilly Christmas realness.

Sure, I went to midnight mass and sang my little lungs out and – certainly – I boozed it up at various functions hosted by family and friends. But let us not forget the true meaning of Christmas, the reason we celebrate this holiday season: gifts. What did you get? The new Nene Leakes biography? Some slightly used candles? Something naughty and unmentionable in polite society? I hope all three.

But enough about you, let’s talk about he who matters most: Jasper. It was the little man’s first Christmas and boy did he enjoy it. He got stuffed animals and chew toys and pictures of himself, beautifully framed. He visited with hundreds…no, thousands of admirers. And anyone who could hear the soft pitter pat of his silky soft paws as he marched near was warmed and gladdened. Although I think he did poop under someone’s piano at one point.

Boxing Day was Hangover Day, as usual, and filled with a long, languid luncheon with mom and sis. We exchanged the perfunctory gifts and I received a fierce hoodie. Also, the Earth flooded. The highways were awash with momma nature’s tears (she cries ’cause you drink) and as a result only people with 4 wheel drive survived. Thank goodness for my gas guzzling Bonfire of the Vanities 2009-esque whip!

Well, the holidays are now over (thank goodness) and we have only to survive Bacchus’ cruelest joke, New Years Eve, before we can make a collective return to normalcy. I suggest building a fort or underground shelter filled with frankincense and mirth and Baker’s bourbon and staying in there until everyone has returned to Bayonne. Trust me, you’ll be one happy camper to have missed the vomitorium that is NYC on NYE.

xx

-B

So its the holiday season. What did you get and give for the season of a thousand dangerously flickering candles and/or the birth of our savior Ol’ Saint Nick?

Personally, I took a less-is-more approach to the holidays this year. Nobody got anything. You get a big kiss and a sip of whatever I’m drinking. Tada. Nor did I expect to receive very much this year. The economy is in the toilette and no matter how much (or little) that has affected you, it seems in rather poor taste indeed to buy a diamond broach fashioned to resemble an extended middle finger. Such things are simply not done…this year. Shelve your toilette (secondary definition, natch) until next year.

Nor am I writing lengthy cards detailing how thrilled I am to know you. You get this blog, and isn’t that treat enough?

I have a fabulously decorated Christmas tree and a dog with a half dozen down and cashmere and fleece coats of all shapes and sizes, not one of which he will walk in once his paws hit the pavement. Sigh. So pretty much, that’s my vision of the Holidays. Something pretty that smells good and something handsome that smells good…after his bath. What more could a man want or need?

For those of you inclined to get into the spirit of the season, the last gasp of 2009 is a mere 5 days away. Why not write a big, fat, bedazzled, tax-deductible check to the Gay Center in the West Village with my YES SAT Prep and College Counseling program listed as the recipient in the memo line? I promise not to embezzle your contribution to fuel my lavish, $8 bottle of champagne kinda lifestyle.

No matter what you choose to do this holiday season, try not to murder any weaving tourists or misplaced ukulele players and you’ll come out on top.

Xx
-B