dear nobody.

(a somebody would never be interested in me, so surely you're a nobody)

Popping up on my digital soap box I give you my New York: concrete jungle where dreams are made of .. I have nothing to do, these streets make me feel so poor! ... and so the lyrics seem to unfold so relatably through my pea-sized Manhattan life. Over 3 years in New York with the solitary goal of finding a decent gay guy to buy me dinner has brought me full circle... without ever having to go in a circle. And thus, I've gone nowhere.


This fits perfectly with my lay-about lifestyle, but despite my lack of progress you'll be surprised to find out, I've actually put in quite a lot of effort to go so short! While I am not proud of this feat, it keeps my friends entertained and my bank account in the low double digits - two things that seem to epitomize what it means to be me. Let me tell you about a recent encounter.


On a damp and dreary Sunday in late January, after a particularly awkward brunch with the guy I had been seeing and his actual boyfriend, I was feeling a bit worthless and sub-human. I picked myself up by my shoe strings and tried in all attempts to garner sympathy from my dear friend Liz. With aspirations to get out of our apartments more in 2010 we have bought ourselves membership to a very chic gay church in midtown. Our outing to MoMA had been planned earlier in the week and despite rain and poor spirits we were determined to see the Tim Burton exhibit. If the dark and twisted world of Tim Burton can't make a rainy New York seem brighter, then I don't know what can.




Into the mouth of the beast we strolled with melancholy mustaches announcing our distaste for our general predicament. Crowding a few rooms, hoards of tourists escaping the wet streets were appreciating some modern 'art', or so they thought. Luckily for Tim Burton, MoMA and the movie business, most people believe anything you tell them... and these lambs were told this stuff is ART. Liz and I, being cultured beyond our own comprehension saw through the smoke and mirrors. "Why, this isn't art!" Liz declared, "these are cheap movie props and unsuccessful cartoons from the 80s." Liz is very perceptive and reminded me of a commonly accepted value that anything unsuccessful must be misunderstood, and therefore beyond the grasp of our limited comprehension... So we nod and smile, "oh yes, beautiful... how artistic," to practically anything really; this includes Tim Burton's, never-before-seen short cartoons which are currently showing on a loop at the exhibit.


Well, we did not nod, nor did we smile! While I am a huge fan of Edward Scissorhands, his life- sized wax figure would be better showcased at Madame Tussauds than MoMA. Had either of us a gag-reflex remaining, we may have reacted to these gruesome images deemed 'art,' but it was our fellow patrons that ruffled our feathers. In their OLD NAVY fleece and 'comfortable shoes,' with their kids and refrigerator- sized American Girl doll shopping bags, these spectators were distracting me from the unsavory exhibit. Being one to judge, I bitched and complained until we left.


With efforts to cheer me up, Liz recommended our favorite MSG hot spot. New Yeah Shanghai Deluxe (New Yeah is the phonetic spelling of New York in Chinese) can be found in the heart of Chinatown on Bayard street and is home to some true delicacies. General Tso chicken (fatty chicken chunks of ambiguous-shape fried and slathered in spicy sugary goo) and spicy won-tons (all mystery ingredients) are among the tastiest. We ate and gossiped in English under the watchful slanty eyes of our waitress. They always sit us in the front, away from the actual Asian people whom we are sure are given completely different menus and are served actual Chinese food.






But we don't mind the poor service and even poorer lighting, we are just happy to eat without the judgment of people whose opinions actually matter. Filled to capacity, we requested they clear our plates. Upon being offered our unfinished dumplings 'to go' I demonstrated my keen knowledge of current events by suggesting they send our left overs to Haiti. Perplexed and hesitant our poor busboy hovered without making eye contact, obviously an ESL student and suffering from low self-esteem. We pitied him. Being the compassionate giver that I am, I thoughtfully switched the destination of our generosity to his homeland China. "Or you could send our leftovers to China!" He was very gracious and bowed to us as he scrambled up all our uneaten food. The look on his face was all the thanks I needed. It feels good to give back on such a tight budget.


Even though this place is so cheap, I still didn't have enough money to cover my half the check. Luckily, Liz's new man friend is so enamored by her blondness that he has paid her to read! This is one of many reasons why Liz is a bottle blonde; appearing an ignoramus can be quite profitable to young New Yorkers. One must remember to exploit stereotypes at every opportunity.

Being a true friend she filled in for my short comings and we parted ways. I walked home alone and contemplated my afternoon. Was it a partial success because someone paid for part of my dinner? I like to think so. But, despite her drag queen-esque predilection for faux fur Liz is not a man nor is she interested in buying me dinner again, so I am back where I started. One circle of lower Manhattan later and alone on a Sunday night in New York.

As the wise Tim Burton once said of the #1. "This poor fellow never has fun! He's all alone. He's only ONE."