Vajayjay Found His Passport

Our Canadian lost his passport yesterday after six cocktails at the J.R.'s (we're showing him the sights, of course). After an aborted (and expensive) recovery mission last night, we returned to the scene to find, in the sewer grate, no less, Canada's passport. Can anyone pull a few strings to get him on his return flight to Seattle?

NPR's Ari Shapiro has totally been giving me the sex eye.

Here in DC, you often run into marginally famous people. There's George Stephanopoulos, who frequents Teaism and the Washington Sports Club. There's Christoper Hitchens, who a friend tells me was spotted one morning drinking coffee and Frangelica in front of his house while his wife brought their car around to pick him up. Andrew Sullivan (ick!) goes to my gym. Then there's Bob Mould, of course. Throw in some ex-members of Fugazi and Barney Frank and you have DC's celebrity scene. (A woman who works with Dallas did see Nicole Ritchie and the singer of Good Charlotte on M Street in Georgetown once, though.)

Lately, I've been seeing a lot of another DC non-celebrity: NPR Justice Correspondent (?) Ari Shapiro. He's pictured above. I think he wants me.

Yes, Ari, I saw you checking me out while pretending to be on your Blackberry that one afternoon I ran into you in the Hart elevators. And, yeah, I noticed you did the gay "wait three seconds and turn around" thing the other day when I saw you walking your bike up 14th. I was flattered but I don't think your husband would have appreciated it very much. (Note: If anyone wants to see pictures from Ari Shapiro's gay wedding in California, I know someone who found the album online somewhere.)

I think Ari must think I'm a Jew. I say that because the last time a reasonably attractive guy was checking me out it was an Israeli guy who was eyeing me across the table at Bar Rouge. He told me he wanted to nail what he thought was my Jewish ass like he nailed the ass of his superior officer when he was in the Israeli embassy. This guy (we'll call him Izzy, mostly because I forgot his name) was rooming with my friend Michael and working at AIPAC but had to leave the country because he made fun of Dick Cheney on CNN. I am not making this up. Izzy and I never worked out. It all ended with a bizarre series of incidents that involved warm vodka, Michael passing out on my roof, and a missing Palestinian flag.

So, I'm not Jewish, Ari, but you can just say hello next time.

Humpty Dumpty is Back Together Again

Well folks, I'm still alive. And today, at around 1:30 this afternoon, I finally pieced my life back together.

That's when I spoke with a lovely woman named Karen. She's from the Hertz counter in Portland (Maine) where I apparently left my murse. So my auxiliary wallet, iPod and house keys are on their way home, courtesy of FedEx. On Monday I'll be complete.

But let me tell you about my Tuesday.

You last heard from me on Monday, when I was headed home to die. Before picking up any kitchen utensils, however, I checked my VM. Fucking phone rang several times before kicking over to VM. That bastard had charged the battery!

Some quick sleuthing with a lovely Verizon customer rep uncovered several calls beginning at 8 p.m., 20 minutes after leaving the airport on the B30. If he was using my phone, perhaps he'd consider returning my camera equipment. A heated missive from Parker's phone elicited the following:

yea we was at bwi and found it at the bus stop. It was sitting there for like 30 minutes.i didn't know who thhe owner was so i took it. i was going to sell it buut i said i will wait and see if the owner will contact me and i see u did so .wat are u offering. [sic]

We went back-and-forth for an hour. I offered $500 cash as a reward, no questions asked. He countered with $1000 and a threat to pawn if I didn't match his demands. Deal. We agreed to meet at 10 a.m. the following morning at the same place he found my Domke bag. I plotted every bank within a three-mile radius of the airport.

Meanwhile, I'm shitting my pants. Is this dude gonna shoot me? Will he take me for a ride, demand the money, stab me and roll me out of the car? I needed help.

With former housemate and deecee-er Madam at my side, we soldiered up to BWI at 7 a.m. An incredulous Airport Police officer listened to my story [some dude wants 1000 bux for the return of my lost bag and he's meeting me in two hours]. He allowed me inside where I briefed a uniformed officer, presented a transcript of our txt conversation from the night before and completed a witness statement. Madam waited outside.

A plainclothes detective joined us and suggested I send a txt to my pen pal to make sure he planned on showing up. Then we waited. At 10:30 he had the courtesy to say he was running late . . . 11:15.

At 10:45, the detective parked himself on a bench in the international departures lobby. I walked out 10 minutes later. Good thing Baltimore is no international gateway.

I'm nearly pissing my pants at this point. In the lobby I stake out my neighbors: three flyers on benches, some maintenance workers in one corner and several people waiting outside for the light rail. No Domke in sight.

Parked near the exit, in view of the bus shelter, I leaned up against the window railing and nervously waited. Shuttle busses whizzed by. Every loitering bus rider elicited a suspicious stare. No one carried my Domke.

And then a buzz. "I'll be there in 5."

"I'm in a black hoodie," I replied.

Looking out the window, I noticed a man stepping off the Howard County 17 bus carrying what looked like my Domke. He looked up and down the driveway, plopped the bag on the shelter bench, covered it with a jacket and sat down next to it. Was that it? I couldn't be sure. But should I walk out and meet him?

When I turned for a clue from the detective, I noticed a big, light skinned, thuggish looking boy walking straight towards me.

"Black hoodie?" he asked after staring blankly at me and leaning up against the window railing.

"Yeah, that's me." I said.

"You really should be more careful with your stuff. And you better be glad it was me that took it, cuz no one else would be here today to give it back."

"I know," I said, glancing off to the side, hearing the nervousness in my voice. "I was having a rough day and I just wanted to get home."

He paused before responding. "I'll go get your bag."

With that he left the lobby, crossed the shuttle bus lane and picked up his friend's bag—what I had assumed earlier was my Domke.

As soon as he emerged from the doorway vestibule, I stuttered "yup . . . yeah, that's my bag." And with that, his face froze and it took me a second to hear the urgent demands to move out of the way coming from behind me. I turned to look and the detective had drawn his weapon, demanded my new friend put his hands in the air and face the wall. I could barely watch as the cuffs came out. He looked at me out of the sides of his eyes.

"You called the cops on me for theft? You called the cops on me for THEFT?"

A pat down revealed 12 dime bags of pot, my phone (which they made me call to verify), a Panera Bread pay stub and a Maryland Fire and Rescue Institute ID card.

I stayed quiet as uniformed officers flooded the scene. A quick description of the bus stop boy went out over the airwaves. Officers on bike, segway, cruiser and foot reported in: he was nowhere to be found. I heard on the radio they called MTA to stop the light rail for a search, SS style.

Needless to say, when I inventoried my Domke several items were missing. My Lumix point and shoot, a camera I have bought twice, was missing. As were several lens caps and my memory card wallet. The pictures on the 20D (the wedding photos) were gone. Shit.

In interrogation, my pen pal confessed that he decided to keep a few things for himself. And that somewhere in Howard County, buried in a box, I'd find the rest of my belongings. I don't think it helped his case that I surrendered the images he took with my cameraphone. He was very fond of his pot stash.

Later, I learned the detective and his colleagues took a field trip, armed with a warrant, and discovered more weed, the rest of my possessions and even more mary jane at bus stop boy's house. They made two arrests. I got everything back. The airport police lieutenant was very pleased. Everybody's happy.

But while I'm sitting here waiting for a call from the producers of COPS, a few things still bother me.

Did I just ruin someone's life?

If he was on a narrow path, did I just knock him off-course for good? He had a job, he was training to be a fireman, and at 20 years old, has a long, long life ahead of him.

And if I did ruin his life, should I be fearful for mine? Am I gonna have to watch over my shoulder every time I exit a building? Or think twice about flying from BWI?

All I can say is that I'm grateful to the personnel at the airport, who didn't dismiss my predicament as something too trivial to handle. They were professional, attentive and genuinely interested in seeing my valuables returned.

And after this episode, if you ever see me walking around with gadgets glued to my hands, you'll know exactly why.

Bob Mould Watch

I just saw Bob Mould walking east on P Street. He was walking slowly and stiffly. Maybe he hurt his back at the gym? He also seemed to be wearing an old-school OP t-shirt. Word . . .

Phillies 7, Homophobia 6

Dallas was so busy with his new iPhone last night that he forgot to write about the Phillies coming back last night to beat the Nationals and come within 1.5 games of first place in the NL East. In coming back, the Phillies also dealt a blow to at least one drunk old homophobic fan.

Explanation: Dallas and I were originally sitting in some seats in center field with a view of Aaron Rowand's ass. We had to leave those seats, however, because they were remote, the beer dudes rarely came, and we were right in front of large group of flatulent young Jews. So we decided to sit in a more crowded area in the 500 level just above home plate. Sitting behind us was a seriously drunk old man who had something to say about every play. And right around the time we got there, the Phllies were starting their big run that got them the lead. At one point I guess the old man figured out that Dallas and I were queens because he started mixing in some silly anti-gay shit in between his anti-Philly shit. My favorite, just as Chase Utley was coming up to bat (Dallas named his iPhone after Chase Utley, by the way):

"I guess it's not cheese steaks, it's tube steaks."

Scary, but fucking hilarious. If you're going to be a homophobic loser, you might as well be clever, I guess. Maybe Nationals fans (all 12-13 or so of them) are questioning their manhood because of the French heritage of their team.

Tied 6-6

Parker and I are at yet another Phillies game . . . one of the last to play at RFK Stadium. Too bad we just discovered the margarita bar and Phillies center fielder Aaron Rowand on this trip.

Just sit right back and you'll hear a tale . . .

Parker and I are back from Maine. We spent the weekend at his best friend's wedding. A beautiful event . . . Maine in September is crisp, the chowder hot and the coastline a sparking clear blue-green.

But that was during the daytime.

Packed in a house with other Delaware geeks, we were pretty tame by day: a few day hikes here, lots of trashy magazine reading, bocce ball in the afternoon. But once the sun dipped below the treeline a darker side eventually emerged.

The Delaware house, quaintly named the Blueberry Lodge, hosted parties three nights in a row. Friday I woke up and was OK. Saturday I woke up and was OK. Sunday I woke up and was not OK. I managed to gather my things (although not all of them), make it to the car, hook myself into the seatbelt and politely ask the driver to pull over after five minutes so I could puke. Round 1.

We stopped at McDonald's for brunch. That one came up on I-95 about two hours later. A Big'N'Tasty keeps its flavor even in reverse. Round 2.

We enjoyed a bit of crappy airport food where I tried to keep down a bowl of clam chowder. That one came up shortly after take off, and, since I was in the window seat, I had to wait for the pilot to turn off the "Fasten Seat Belt" sign before I could dispose of my "lunch." Round 3.

At BWI we just missed a B30 to Greenbelt. In my haste to board after waiting 40 minutes, I forgot to grab my camera bag (contents' value: $4000). Round 4 was an emotional KO. So I'm about to go home and slit my throat. Great weekend huh?

It takes a village to take care of Parker when he's drinking whiskey . . . and Boone's Farm . . . and Miller Lite . . . and vodka . . . and whatever

Parker and I are celebrating with the soon-to-be nuptials and their friends. As usual, the Delaware house has become a den of sinful indulgence. And the funny childhood stories attract an endless stream of fable seekers. As SB put it when asked about our party tactics: "Yeah, we rage."

The wedding is tomorrow afternoon, more TK.

The nerve!

Dallas just came downstairs to take a break from the pot-smoking, I guess. He was hugging me and being all cute and such. But then I realized that he was doing that so that I would go to bed so that my angry meat-eating friend could come into my apartment to crash without losing face. No. He will need to lose face if he wants to sleep in my place tonight.

PJ Harvey is still on. She got my back . . .

"As you savor the flavor of murder . . . "

So . . . I just got into a ferocious argument with a good friend of mine about whether or not it's morally OK to eat meat. Not a good thing to do on a Saturday night. But I'm entitled to my opinion. Especially in my own apartment. I would rather that people not eat Whole Foods Organic Salami in my home. Isn't that a valid opinion to hold??? Don't I have the legal right to deny people the right to chew, digest, and shit out a pig (or whatever salami is made of) in the place where I live? I think I do.

Anyway, I am sick and tired of being mocked and derided for my music, my politics, my diet. This sounds like a juvenile thing for a 30-year-old man to say. And it would sound especially silly if I were the type of person who routinely preached on high about how much better my likes and beliefs were. I am not that kind of person. But when pressed, I'll stand my ground. I owe that to myself at this point.

The people offended tonight (Dallas included) are currently on the roof smoking pot. I'm on my own listening to Rid of Me by PJ Harvey. All of the friends I had from the Rid of Me era are people who would never give me the kind of shit I got tonight. You can never go home again, I guess.

A Real Update

Dallas is running a 5k tomorrow. I'm sitting at home with nothing to so waiting for guests from New York to arrive. They're driving through Aberdeen, MD as I write this so I have some time to write an actual post and give all (ha! all . . .) of you a break from the bad Spanish and the margarita pictures a actually write a real update. Oh, where to begin . . .

Well, at about 30 1/2, my body is completely falling apart. Just before Dallas and I went away on our trip out west, I managed to sprain both of my wrists in a pathetic incline bench mishap. Now my gay body dysmorphic disorder is making me contemplate daily the bright side of slitting said wrists. I haven't been able to really do my workouts for about a month and I'm getting skinny and fat at the same, I feel. In addition, I've been visited by various other maladies:

1) Whenever I get up from bed or from sitting or lying down for an extended period of time, my right ankle is weak and achy. Sometimes it gives out if I put my weight down on it. Sometimes the pain migrates to my foot and my Achilles. The doctor I went to told me he has no idea what the problem is but it sounds like arthritis to him.

2) Last weekend, my back hurt for no reason at all. It's definitely not because of something I did at the gym (see above).

3) I rarely get carded at the Whole Foods anymore when I buy wine.

4) I drank a half a bottle of wine and a glass of whiskey the other night and woke up with a mild hangover. I can count on one hand the number of hangovers I had in my 20s.

5) I fell asleep on the couch last night at 11:30 while football was on.

6) A friend of mine posted some pictures from a party the other day and the haircut I was experimenting with over August made me look like an albino Lionel Richie.

Dallas is having a much better time lately. He was quite popular with the rice queens in the Pacific Northwest. Earlier this week, he was kinda stalked at Halo by some dude from California. And then last night the owner of a restaurant we went to jumped out of his seat and ran to introduce himself to Dallas. I was ignored. I feel like we live on a chart and I'm falling from my peak while he's cresting.

Ricky is a whore. He had filthy sex all weekend recently with a 22-year-old Puerto Rican boy from Indianapolis who has a 19-year-old boyfriend. They actually engaged in sexual congress on the floor just feet from the very stool I'm writing on now. Ricky is in Chicago right now at some gay law thing and the Puerto Rican followed him there. Dallas has been texting with Ricky and tells me that Ricky's hotel is right next door to the Puerto Rican's boyfriend's school. The Puerto Rican is sleeping on the hotel floor. Good times . . .

With that, I'll go. More later.

Back in the Dela

Parker and I are in Delaware and it just happens to be the first weekend after classes started. Newark is crawling with hot young boys with nothing to do. Oh to be young and underage.

I have never been this awake and sober at this hour before. This picture is of a bracelet Ricky found on the street outside a gay bar. It has a bejeweled flip-flop on it.

Mas margaritas en un aeropuerto! Que Sabroso!

Worried

Parker and I are worried that Washington State will be closer than anyone has forecast. Ron Paul has staff on every street corner in the gayborhood, at 8 p.m. . . . on a Friday night. And then we see this graffitied on the wall.