Monthly Archives: June 2011

Lame Adventure 203: New York City 2011 Gay Pride Euphoria!

We were somewhere under this rainbow.

Between the two of us, Milton and I have attended many Pride celebrations through the years, but following Friday night’s historic same-sex marriage vote by the New York State Senate, neither of us had ever experienced a celebration quite like the glorious one we witnessed from the sidelines on Sunday.  The gratitude expressed to Governor Andrew Cuomo for completing the work that his predecessor, former Governor David Patterson, had started to legalize same-sex marriage in the Empire State, was expressed throughout.  Andrew Cuomo is a hero who has earned the vote of every LGBT New Yorker forever.


Milton and I met at our usual undisclosed meeting place in the West Village.  Everything seemed to be going according to plan until we were pounding the pavement en route to staking out a good picture-taking spot.   I stepped off a curb and one of my gunboats landed in a fetid puddle of garbage soup.  I was generously splashed with toxic stink but fortunately my attire was not stained.  I simply smelled like I was wearing a fragrance that could have been called Vomit by Chanel.

This year, the turnout seemed much larger than in earlier years.  There was more of everyone in both the ultra inclusive crowd and the march itself.  There were gay people, straight people, oldsters, youngsters, drag queens, butch and femme types of both genders, punt dogs, families with children and couples of all persuasions.  The lovely warm weather was the perfect compliment to the celebrating.  We never once felt like we might collapse from heat prostration.

There was also an unseen heroine at Sunday’s march who was there in spirit.  She’s Lady Gaga and her anthem, Born This Way, blasted triumphantly from so many of the floats.  Milton hailed:

Milton (hailing): That’s the song of a generation!

I pondered his assessment and groaned.

Me (groaning):  We had Material Girl for ours.

Clearly, the country is moving in a progressive direction.  Posted below are some of the over 1,200 pictures Milton and I shot of this year’s victory march.  Enjoy!

Waiting for the march to start.

The traditional kickoff featuring Dykes on Bikes leading the way.

Throng of jubilant marriage equality supporters marching, including one wearing her pet snake as a scarf.

Victorious marriage equality float.

Grand Marshalls, It Gets Better Project creators, Dan Savage & Terry Miller.

Gay man's burden.


Flag bearer.

Grumpy the Care Bear.

Senator Chuck Schumer

NYPD marching band.

New York City Police Commissioner Ray Kelly

Easy riders.

Hand in hand in awe of the crowd.

FDNY couple.

New mother pride.

Five decades ready to make it legal.

Super soaker boys.

Boxers with a fighting chance.

Milton's dreamboat financial advisors.

Can your financial advisor do this?

Hand in hand.

Fitness king.

Rainbow attire.

Uber rainbow attire.

Rainbow diva.

Naked Cowgirl and Friends.

Asian pride boys.

Asian pride girls.

What Milton and I will wear to 2012 Pride.

Handsome scooter kid.

Topless joy.

Leg up on pride.

Got it and flaunting it.

If anyone's missing feathers, they're over here.

Nice hats.

Nice boots.

Winged victory.

Dominique Strauss Kahn's nemesis*, Manhattan District Attorney Cyrus Vance, Jr.

*Not anymore!

Great view.

New York State Senator Tom Duane and his spouse Louis Webre.

Rainbow flag bearer.

Thanks for sharing.

Modern family.

Dads and daughter.

Pedal power.

Milton and I have tried to do this at home with me peddling and he pole dancing. He told me his concussion wasn't that bad.

The reliably lovely Juno.

Marching with the Yorkie.

Marching with the Dachshund.

Punk Batman.

Princess Bear.

Showing off their little girl side.

Banner says all.

Leatherman and friend.

Latin women marching.

Latin guys marching.

Evita's here!

Ready to be wed.

Super ready to be wed.

Hey sailor!

Together at last, blue bikini undies and white chiffon.

Say cheesecake!

Happy dance.

Daughter of Divine: Miss Liberty with attitude!

News to us.

Happy face.

Pretty dudes.


Good question.

Good observation.

Shake it.

Michael Lucas of Lucas Entertainment waving Israel's flag.

Blue masked man.

Living color.

Lamba Legal.

Lesbian action heroines.


Quakers marching.


Hedda Redda.

Whistle blower.

Shirtless smile. Yes, that is a penismobile in the backgound.

Superhero pride.

Turkey baster son with his lesbian mom.

Daughter proud to have a lesbian mom.

Hula hoopster.

Sandwich board pride.

Interesting concept: sobriety.

Viking man.

Viking woman.

Stonewall law students.

Silver Surfer's spawn.


Subtle signage.

As the saying goes, little flag, big smile.

Nice glasses.

Big wheels.

Big stilts.

Out and proud journalist Jane Velez Mitchell.

Dancing duet of joy.

Muscle Beach Fabio.

Pride and joy.

Post pride water canons in the Hudson at sunset.

Big bang fireworks over Hudson.


Lame Adventure 202: We Love New York!

Empire State Building glowing with same-sex marriage pride.

Milton and I were in the East Village attending an excellent off-Broadway play called Unnatural Acts currently on the boards at one of our favorite theaters, Classic Stage Company, when the historic vote for marriage equality was taking place in the New York State Senate.  This play, based on the true story about a group of persecuted gay male college students attending Harvard in 1920, is a disturbing episode that Harvard kept secret for over eighty years.  As tough as it was to watch at moments, and the food coma I suffered thanks to the Pad Thai washed down with a Passion Fruit Mojito I had for dinner didn’t help, after seeing this tragedy we reflected on how far this country has come in its attitude about homosexuality 91 years later.  Certainly, what happened tonight in Albany was remarkable.  Neither Milton nor I ever dreamed that same-sex marriage would be legal in our lifetime, but three years ago, we never imagined this country would ever elect an African American president, or that we’d ever find Osama bin Laden.  We continue to feel wonderful about being wrong.

Eagle-eyed Lame Adventure contributor, Coco, while stiletto-pounding the pavement in her lower Manhattan neighborhood earlier this week, snapped these photos in the windows of a Levi’s store in anticipation of this historic vote.

She ain't heavy she's my spouse.

Hat off, arm in arm!

Possibly, I’m prejudiced but the just married boys strike me as a bit shy with their backs turned when paired with the jubilant in your face butch/femme girls.  Coco opined that the girl-on-girl display was much more fun.

Friday evening, while Milton and I were taking a pre-play stroll down University Place, we momentarily took a break from bickering about his insistence that The Killing of Sister George is the best lesbian themed film ever, when we noticed these eye-catching Ralph Lauren Rugby store windows.

Beautiful brides.

Beautiful (but headless!) grooms.

We were so bothered by why the chaps were missing their heads, we went inside to ask what that was about.  The adorable clerk explained that in the haste to pull this window display together, Ralph’s Visual Management department did not have male mannequins with heads available, but soon, the guys will have their heads.  Milton told me that he’s going to keep an eye on those windows.

Lame Adventure 201: Close Encounters of the Worst Kind

Every so often I encounter a complete stranger that is so unnecessarily inconsiderate they catapult to frontrunner status for the Unbearable Dense-ness of Being Award.  This has happened to me twice this week and so I have two nominees.  The incidents occurred at two reliable sources of combat pay in an average New Yorker’s daily life – the subway and the laundromat.

On my way into work at rush hour, I boarded a crowded 2 Express train at the 72nd Street subway station heading downtown.  Using my Elastigirl skills, I elongated my being into a slot of space the width of a pencil next to a lean businessman.  Between the two of us, we easily allowed four more passengers entry including Drizella the Hair Whipper who parked herself next to me.  Initially I did not even notice her, but once the train pulled out of the station and began to pick up speed, Drizella started twirling her ponytail in a circular motion, oblivious that it was continually hitting me in the face.  I think the obvious:

Me (thinking):  Huh, my new low beaten with hair.

I bellow aloud:

Me (bellowing aloud):  Give the hair twirling a rest.  You’re hitting me in the face!

Drizella stops and looks at me with this expression:

What'd I do?

Earlier in the week on an evening that was warm with a nice breeze, perfect weather to be sitting outdoors sipping a cold beverage with any member of my posse, I instead chose to do laundry since I was fast approaching the underwear-I’ve-yet-to-ditch-but-if-I-were-caught-dead-wearing-it-my-corpse-would-be-mortified phase.  This is underwear I would not even photograph for this site for fear that would be the one image from this blog that goes viral.

As I was waiting for my wash to finish, I wheeled over a cart that looks identical to the one pictured below.

If this cart could talk, what might it say?

A woman in my own over-forty-under-death age group, mumbles something incoherent, and makes a point of taking that cart and placing it in front of her own washer that will finish several minutes after mine.  I have a moment of, “Huh?”  I don’t ask questions since this is New York, Loon Capital of America.  As I go to take another cart since there are several to choose from, she gives me the stink eye as if I deliberately took the cart that must have sentimental meaning to her.

Cluster of seen one, seen them all carts - not to everyone!

She elaborately lines it with a white plastic bag, further staking her cart-turf.

My wash finishes and as I load my wet clothes into my new cart, I wonder if she is also going to flash her crazy at me in the direction of the dryer I select even though there are several available?  Normally, I unload the washer and load the dryer at warp speed, and return home until five minutes before my dryer finishes.  As I ponder this next potential confrontation with a dryer, I move so slowly I give the impression that I’m doing Tai Chi, so I look like my own brand of oddball.  The dryer I choose does not set her off, but then I have an even more dreadful thought.  Will she open m y dryer once I leave and pull something out such as a sock?  If I were to enter her abode, would I discover mountains of lost socks belonging to laundromat patrons she’s targeted?

Me (thinking):  Am I in the presence of the Missing Sock She-devil?

If so, how inconvenient for I do need to return home to retrieve my laundry bag. I am now loading my dryer Tai Chi-style, but I’m also waiting for her wash to finish.  When it does, I notice that she doesn’t use the plastic bag lined cart she took away from me.  She removes her wet clothes by hand and carries them to a dryer.

The music from The Twilight Zone plays on the iPod in my head.

Then, a miracle happens.  She leaves!  The combination of my intuition and infinite paranoia suspects her departure could be brief.  Even though she has timed her dryer for almost half an hour, I sense she is going to return much sooner.  I race home, grab this week’s issue of The New Yorker along with my laundry bag, and boomerang back at warp speed.  Within minutes of my return, Missing Sock She-devil is back, too.  There are two other women, one folding and the other, a woman in her early twenties, loading her wet clothes into a dryer. Missing Sock She-devil now focuses her wrath on the woman half her age.

Me (thinking):  What the hell has she done? Leave my daughter alone!

Then, I recall I’m both not this young woman’s mother and I’m also a dedicated non-breeder.  Once the young woman has inserted her quarters into her dryer she leaves the premises.  Missing Sock She-devil removes her clothes from her dryer, even though her load appears to be damp, and her machine still has fifteen minutes to go.  She could have given those minutes to the young woman.  As she walks past me, I resist having myself beaten to within an inch of my life with a bottle of bleach by asking:

Me:  Helped yourself to any socks lately?

Lame Adventure 200: Dad’s Day and Location Scouting

When I woke at noon on Sunday, after brushing the sock taste off my teeth I called my dad out on the West Coast to wish him a Happy Father’s Day.  I also told him:

Me:  I thought I’d let you sleep in today.

He was in good form and said he received my snarky card about a lazy loafer progeny and that it amused him.  He asked me:

Dad:  Do you need money?

Me:  I’m getting by.  I’ve got my bills covered.

Dad:  Do you need money?

Me:  I need a job that pays me better or a gig that offsets this job that pays so pathetically.

Dad:  Yeah, you do.  So do you need money?

Me:  It’s Father’s Day!  This isn’t the day when the offspring hits on the father for a check!  This is your appreciation day.

Dad:  Oh.  Good point.

Later that sunny and warm afternoon when I joined Coco to location scout another YouTube music video featuring my sidekick, Greg, my father accompanied us symbolically.  I brought along this great picture of him.

18-year-old Dad as a member of the DDYC (Draft Dodgers Yacht Club aka the Coast Guard) in 1945.

When Coco and I spoke on the phone earlier, she was quite sure that she had found the perfect spot for filming and added:

Coco:  It looks beautiful at funset.

Me:  What’s that?

Coco (confused):  Funset?

Me:  What’s funset?  What the hell are you talking about?

Coco (daylight moment):  SUNSET!!!!!!!

Fortunately Coco is very used to my being hard of hearing – something I did inherit from my dad.  The location, a pier in lower Manhattan, does seem to be the perfect spot, and she’s right, it surely must look magnificent at sunset.

Lady Liberty on a beautiful Sunday in spring.

What baffled us were the many fishing rods leaning against the pier’s rails with lines dipped into the toxic brew that is the Hudson River.

Death wish fishing with fisherman on verge of collapse.

Me:  Would you eat a fish caught in these waters?

Coco:  No, never!  I wouldn’t even go kayaking in the Hudson for fear I’d somehow fall out.  The second I’d hit the water I’d die just from the shock of finding myself in the Hudson River.

Cruise ship and sail boats holding their own in the Hudson.

I took more photographs, shot a test video, but unfortunately Coco forgot to bring her singing saw so it was music-less.  To her credit, she knows my taste in modern art well, Modigliani nudes and lawn gnomes.  She did remember to bring me a miniature lawn gnome so that offset my disappointment with not hearing her play her specialty, We Will Rock You, followed with an encore of trimming a two by four piece of pine.

Miniature gnome with gnomenclature book.

Coco has been grousing about her “milky white” skin the second spring turned warm some weeks back, but when I photographed our arms side by side, it dawned on her that if I did not look so much like my dad, I could have easily been the spawn of albino rocker Edgar Winter.

Coco, looking Tahitian, in barbed wire bracelet on left and me, looking like Casper crossbred with Cheeta in Timex Indiglo on right.

The one thing I failed to inherit from my own pere is his olive skin.

Edgar Winter

As we sat on a bench talking and broiling, we noticed something that looked like it might have once been among the living floating towards us but it was still too far for us to determine if it was a dead possum or some variation of the Loch Ness monster.

Floater in mid-frame.

As dehydration and heat prostration set in, we headed back down the pier for a beverage when we saw this ferociously ugly side of this idyllic location.

"Bring out yer trash!"

Maybe the luckier people that are fishing will catch a plastic water bottle instead of an eight-finned bass with two heads and fur.

If my symbolic dad were actually with us he would surely shout:

Dad:  Don’t you two touch anything in that water!

Coco might be able to fight anything attacking us with her bracelet.

Dual purpose barbed wire bracelet -- jewelry and Hudson River water pollution slasher.

Or, my dad just might ask:

Dad:  Do you need money?

Lame Adventure 199: Ceiling Mold, Modern Art and Jesus

Yes, here they are together at last that unlikely trio, ceiling mold, modern art and Jesus.  Last week’s heat and humidity had an adverse effect on the bathroom ceiling in my place of employ as pictured below.

Smells pretty, too!

This week’s cooler temperature has put a halt to the leak and temporarily dried the mold that is creeping across the ceiling with the confidence of a nearsighted bucktoothed nerd plowing through a trigonometry final.  The current state of the bathroom’s ceiling mold also brings to mind 1947-J, an oil on canvas painting by abstract expressionist painter Clyfford Still.


At the risk of sounding like the quintessential jaded New Yorker that I fully resemble, I think my vision of this Still painting is a tad more clear sighted than imagining I’ve seen Jesus on a pancake and then trying to sell that pancake on eBay at a starting bid of $500.  Some industrious Floridians attempted to do this in 2006.  If Jesus does decide to make an appearance in our ceiling mold though, I’ll make sure to share it here in the sequel to this post I will either call, “Ceiling Mold, Modern Art and Jesus 2,” or, “Here’s Jesus!”

Lame Adventure 198: Same Old Me

One of the advantages of working a day job that is slightly less captivating than the study of the shape of gum stains on the sidewalk is that it gives one countless hours of opportunity to think, especially while doing mundane tasks such as removing 1,778 images from 889 sheet protectors.

889 sheet protectors at last count.

For example, one can think about wanting to take a nap, lunch, sex, what’s the name of that song playing on the radio, is that smell Windex or a terrible cologne, sex, my foot itches, I must remember to pick up mustard, sex, pigeons have it so easy, what’s the lifespan of a pigeon, sex, is this pain in my chest a heart attack or indigestion, am I going to drop dead here at my desk with my foot itching, sex, is it going to rain today, did I bring my umbrella?

My colleagues, in particular my sidekick, Greg, are also adept at voicing random thoughts aloud.  Recently, Greg pondered the question of how long does it take for us to completely replace every cell in our bodies.  He was unsure if it was seven or ten years.  One of the things I was sure of is that my most recent batches of cells whether they are seven or ten years old are not quite as robust as earlier versions.  Once home, while guzzling a bottle of Magic Hat Wacko beer to lubricate my thought process —

Wacko beer endorsed by Lame Adventures.

I went online and Google searched, “How long does it take to renew every cell in the human body?”

According to Ask a

“Recent research has confirmed that different tissues in the body replace cells at different rates, and some tissues never replace cells. So the statement that we replace every cell in the body every seven years or every ten years is wrong.”

Apparently, the number of brain cells you enter the world with are all you get.  When they die and they will, that’s it, you regress into an even bigger dolt.  They’re not replaced and their loss probably helps explain why I keep blanking on getting mustard, even though I recently looked directly at the mustard shelf while in the store, but then went to the meat department and picked up a steak, something I had not intended to purchase.  What is even more annoying is returning home, then recalling I still need mustard, going back to the store and momentarily suffering a brain freeze about why I have made this second trip.  Fortunately, the voice inside my head screamed:

Voice Inside My Head (screaming):  You need mustard you moron!

Ask a also claims that fat cells are replaced at a rate of 10% per year in adults.  I find this rather ironic since those are the cells I most wish would go away and never return.  They also seem to be the ones that are quickest to multiply, especially in the vicinity of the abdomen and hips while parked at one’s desk pulling hundreds of images out of sheet protectors as the mind wanders.

Heart cells are also replaced at a reduced rate as a person ages, so basically over time, we go completely downhill, but there are always people out there that probably should be dead, but continue to carry on quite nicely like one of my favorite musicians, Keith Richards.  That I find encouraging.  Pigeons on the other hand live on average 3-5 years in the wild, but up to 35 years in captivity.  Maybe they don’t have it that easy after all.

New York City pigeon in Bryant Park in July 2010, possibly already a goner in June 2011.

Lame Adventure 197: Temperature Wars

Much of the country is in a heat wave.

Channeling my inner Bill Cunningham, interesting sun bonnet from behind.

On Thursday, temperatures in Gotham City reached a high of 96, but the heat index – whatever that is — the “real feel” temperature (?) made it feel more like 102.  All I knew was that it felt hot as a kiln outside.

My go-to source of weather news, the sidewalk on Greenwich Street.

Thursday was also the day when I inconveniently left my quart-size Cold Brew iced tea bottle at home, but I did remember to bring a new box of tea.  I realized this snafu as I was hotfooting my way up to the subway station, running late as usual.  There was no time to return to my sanctum sanctorum to retrieve this vessel I value on the level of my glasses, cell phone and camera, nor was there time to purchase an overpriced inferior iced tea on my way into work.  The most practical solution for me to savor a caffeine fix would have been to sit at my desk and chew on one of my new tea bags, preferably with the tag hanging out of my pie-hole, but I resisted pursuing that course of desperate action and was in a predominantly foul mood until my 1 pm feeding.

My boss, Elsbeth, had a dental appointment and arrived around eleven.  Outside my window I noticed that the usually bickering pigeons I call Israel and Palestine perched on the air conditioner have called a temporary truce and are actually sharing the space in peace.

Israel and Palestine making nice.

As seen in the above photo, Israel does not even have the energy to stand, or possibly it was further weighted by the humidity.  It is at this same time that Elsbeth starts fiddling with the thermostat, one of her favorite pastimes all year round.  I hear her repeatedly turning buttons on and off.  She shifts the gage from 72 to 85 announcing:

Elsbeth:  I’m cold.

Instantly, I can feel my body temperature soar.

Me (screaming inside my head):  Christ on a cross, woman, it’s the hottest day of the fucking year, open your window!

Me (saying in a helpful cheery tone):  Just open your window, Boss.

Elsbeth (epiphany):  That’s a good idea!

She returns to her office and opens her window.  I hurdle my desk and slap that gage back down to 72.  A few minutes later I have to visit the Accounting department three floors away.  When I return, I see the gage has been raised to 79.

Hands off!

I emit my trademark monosyllabic sound effect that’s a cross between a gasp, a sigh, and an acid-reflux induced retch.

My colleague, Ling, is looking flushed.  She’s wearing a tank top and her hair is puddled atop her head.  Chilly Elsbeth is wearing cargo pants and a long sleeve tunic.  I must remember to suggest she bring her fleece or a wool blanket.

Ling (definitive): It feels hot in here.

This is due to the heat wafting in through Elsbeth’s open window.  I give up the fight and announce that I have to run an errand.  I step outside into the soup and invest 26 cents into the purchase of a single banana, my contribution to reviving the stagnant economy.

Even the Dominique Strauss Kahn stalkers in the press abandoned their posts across the street from his lair, it was that hot. They completely missed DSK standing in his doorway clad only in flip flops asking for maid service.