On the Gayest Place on Earth

I think I might have stumbled into the gayest place in New York City last night - a little place called Arriba Arriba (which I assume is Mexican for "Gay gay"). Also in attendance was the Pale Imitation of Desmond (Deluca) and Joanna, via Rhode Island.

Now.. in general, as we all know, I don't like Mexican food.... so this whole little caper began on the wrong foot as I met the dynamic duo on the corner of 46th and 9th and was informed that we'd be going to a Mexican place. I subtly tried to indicate two places that had BYOB and was promptly ignored.

I don't like being ignored. It hurts my feelings.

However, I was reminded that I like tequila (boy do I ever!), so things got back on track after that. So, anyways, we get in and are greeted by perhaps the gayest Mexican host on earth. How did I know he was gay? Well, that's like asking, is the sky blue? Are unicorns real? Is Mike a fatass alcoholic? Etc.

Anyways, it didn't QUITE hit us how gay Arriba Arriba was until the gay bartender made us gay frozen margaritas and we listened closely to the really subtle gay music being played gayly... and by subtle I mean thumping and uber-loud, uber-gay Ace of Bass (uber is a gay word, therefore it's place in this blog is neccessary). Gay Gay Gay.

Musicwise, what followed was a colorful rainbow of Britney Spears, Ace of Bass, and other assorted gay songs... except for some reason both Cher and Madonna were not featured artists. Are the gays mad at them? It was also fun to take any song they played and make it into inneundo.. like, for some strange reason the DJ (who danced to his own beat... the beat being commonly known as "Xtacy") played a Beatles song - Come Together. Get it? Come....... together......

The crowd also reinforced my assertion that this was the gayest place to be on Thursday night in New York City. It's like, you're a crocodile, right? And you're going down the pond to just check out things, you know, do crocodile things. And you sorta meander into a little pond section and you see a bunch of other crocodiles, and you're all like, OK, this is a popular spot... but after a little while you're like, hmmm something is off here, can't quite put my claw on it... and then it hits you -- ALL THE MALE CROCODILES ARE HAVING SEX WITH EACH OTHER. And then you're like, where are the women? ALL THE WOMEN CROCODILES ARE HAVING SEX WITH EACH OTHER. Well... all but one male crocodile and one female crodocile who are sitting behind you as the male crocodile talks about his problems with his parents (no really, this conversation was being had behind us for like 20 minutes (although neither of them was really a crocodile)).

It was pretty overwhelming. At certain points I felt inclined to call after our waitress "I'm not gay!" but I don't think she ever heard me. Also, I ordered a chicken salad, so I'm thinking that negated any attempts at non-homosexuality I was trying to make.

Oh yeah. And the food. Yeah. Um... it was Mexican, so you know, what do you expect? It was OK.

Afterwards we went back to Joanna's gigantic room at the Marriot Marquis and had beer and looked out on Times Square from her awesome view. Also, we watched the Apprentice Finale... which might not have been gay, but was a really wierd choice. Didn't see who won though. Also, on the way to the subway I did my "overwhelmed by tourists" thing where I flail my arms and make guttural sounds to get them out of my way. One of them looked at me and said "OH MY GOD!". It's always nice to scare people. I do it daily.

On Maine

I went to Maine last weekend. It's more or less pretty fucking awesome.

When people think, weekend road trip from New York City... I don't think they think "Maine!" often enough. They may think "Boston!" or "Philly!" or "DC!". They are nothing compared to Maine. Nothing. On top of this, all of these are "been there, done that" sorta places where you really can't leave much of a mark. In Maine, you really can... and if you drive erratically and well over the speed limit, you can be in Maine from New York City in about 4.5-5 hours (sooner if you don't stop for a McFlurry after severe disappointment because the one flaw in Maine is that the fuckers close their Dairy Queen to celebrate Christ becoming a bunny rabbit or some bullshit).

Anyways. How to change Maine:

-Take a diverse posse. We had an Afghani and a Phillipino. This effectively quadrupled the ethnic diversity of Maine.

-Also, be a fatass who loves CHUNKS of lobster. How can this forever change the landscape of Maine, you may be asking - well, simply put, you can put the Maine lobster on the endangered list for a week or two after your visit with a little dedication.

I could go on at length about the charms of Maine. There's the beaches with water that is surprisingly clear, but that are as fucking cold and windy as a witch's genital sack in late March. There's the "Stud of Kennebunkport" who runs a novelty shop wherein you can purchase glow sticks (for a dollar!!!) to be used later in your hotel room and who, sadly, is married. There's a surprisingly large number of fudge shops where you can discover the best smell on earth is liquid toffee and almonds being poured out onto a marble top to harden. One can stay at the Kennebunk Inn, that is haunted by a ghost named Sylus Perkins and who makes his presence known by throwing beer glasses (translation: one night someone got drunk and threw a glass and made up a story about a ghost named Sylus). When you ask, "Where's the nightlife?" the answer will always be - wherever you are, even if you're in a haunted Inn drinking champagne from a bottle and watching aforementioned Phillipino dazzle you with glowsticks on string.

But really... all of these petty details are nothing when compared with true reason to go to Maine:
That is a 1.25 pound lobster served with a cup of clam chowder, goat island mussels, and a beer of your choice..... for $33.95.


Let me leave you with this thought - remember that story about the woman who lived in a bathroom for two years and her ass got fused to the toilet seat and when you heard about it you said, how the fuck does this happen? How could someone just sit in a bathroom for two years and live off of having her boyfriend bring her food everyday? This can't be real, can it???

Well... let's just say that if I lived in Maine... I would inhabit a bathroom at Federal Jack's or Allison's Restaurant and have the waitresses bring me lobster in some form every four hours (be it roll, whole, or chunk)... except unlike that crazy woman I would stay there for far longer than 2 years.