A Night at the Starlight

I’m in awe.

Last night I finally went to see Troy perform at Starlight, and it was revelatory. He’s been playing there every Thursday night in June and July, and since last night was the final gig, I figured it was time for me to see that swingin’ hep-cat perform. Wow. His voice is velvety, or like rippling cream, or both, and he can hit those high notes like a bell. He’s got great stage presence, with droll wit on the one hand and self-deprecating charm on the other. He won me over when he told us that his mother — who was in the audience — had come into town and had bought him an air conditioner. Cute.

Fortunately, I got there early and was able to get a stool. Standing next to me was a couple (a straight couple — I forgot they have those in New York) who consider themselves to be some of his groupies. They’ve been fans of his for five years. And the lounge was filled with people who obviously love him, coming back week after week. Understandably so.

Sparky and Michael and David and Jonathan were there, too.

Troy, Troy, Troy. You rock. And swing. And schmooze. And perform. And write terrific music and lyrics.

Oh, what am I trying to say? I’m not doing him justice. I’ve never been good at reviewing. He’s just wonderful. Before a song, he patters with witty understated irony, and then he starts to sing and winds up tapping directly into your veins.

Actually, that makes him sound like Count Dracula. But again, I’ve never been good at reviewing.

Go see him.
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More Transatlantic Gay Blogmeet Photos.
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Tunnel Vision

I think I deserve the award for the stupidest thing ever to happen to a living being.

So tonight my friend Nick and I went out for Thai food a few blocks south of Union Square. It was disgustingly hot and humid out, and we were sitting by the window. We had just finished eating when who walked by? RJ! RJ and two other guys were walking past, and we made eye contact and he waved at me. A few minutes later he appeared at our table to say hi. I made some introductions, et cetera, et cetera. It was nice. Then RJ went on his merry way.

A little while later, Nick and I left the restaurant and parted ways. I started walking north towards 14th Street. It was like a sauna outside. Both my undershirt and my work shirt were drenched. Suddenly I really had to go to the bathroom. So I started walking towards the Barnes & Noble at the opposite end of Union Square, nonchalantly at first, and then briskly. Very briskly.

I finally got there. Went up to the third floor. The bathroom was closed, with a sign that said, “Closed for cleaning — please use restrooms on the second floor.” Dammit. Took the escalator back down to the second floor. Walked briskly into the restroom.

I went into a stall, shut the door behind me, unbuckled, and sat down on the toilet. I was sweating like a maniac. My clothes were drenched, my face was wet. It was brutal. My glasses were sliding down my face, so I took them off, folded them up and put them in my shirt pocket.

I did my business, finished, stood up, tucked and buttoned everything back together, and leaned over to flush the toilet.

It happened so quickly. Or so slowly. I’m not sure which.

As I leaned over and pressed down on the handle, my glasses fell out of my shirt pocket and into the toilet. A split second later — although it felt like an eternity — I thrust my hand into the toilet bowl to try to grab them before they went down in the powerful watery vortex. But they were gone. My two-hundred-and-fifteen-dollar pair of glasses, with stylish, narrow frames made by Vogue, with featherweight lenses containing anti-reflective coating, a pair of glasses I’d bought in November — had gone straight down the toilet. Along with the contents of my bowels.

Those toilets have really powerful water pressure.

I felt dazed. Not angry or upset, just dazed. Frankly, I was just plain stunned. I stood there gaping, staring into the toilet for a few moments, running the possibilities through my mind, wondering if anything I’d learned in kindergarten or college or law school could help me out here. Maybe I should find a manager? No. My glasses are probably out of the building by now. Maybe I should contact the New York City Sanitation Department? No — we’re talking one pair of glasses amid the contents of several million people’s bowels. There’s nothing I could possibly do. They’re gone.

I walked back to the PATH station, surrounded by blurry shapes. Sat on the PATH train, reading; I can see close up with my glasses, just not far away. Came home, found my spare pair of glasses. Yeah, at least I’ve got the spares. But they’re not nearly as stylish, or as comfortable.

I also have contact lenses, so I think I’ll be wearing those for a few days. And hey, I guess I know what I’m going to be buying with my $300 tax rebate! (But I still think this tax plan sucks, because the members of “the wealthiest one percent” are getting tax rebates, too, and they can already afford all the pairs of glasses they want. With gold frames studded with diamonds, even.)

Coincidentally, according to this week’s issue of Time Out New York: “Some 6,000 miles of sewer tunnels transport 1.5 billion gallons of waste and runoff out of NYC each day.” One and a half billion gallons! I’m screwed. There’s also this more detailed explanation of where the water goes. None of this helps me now.

Anyway, if anyone in the greater New York metropolitan area gets a clogged toilet in the next day or so, you’ll know whose fault it is. Go easy on me, though.

You wouldn’t hit a man without glasses, wouldya?