I woke up this morning drunk; drunk with power (my two NCAA brackets are ranked 6th and 8th out of 68 after the first day of games) but mostly drunk in the traditional sense, from an overabundance of free beer at yesterday’s March Madness party.
It started at noon, and my friend Scott and I took the afternoon off so we wouldn’t have to worry about going back to work. We were told that “everyone usually leaves by 2:30,” but what the party organizers didn’t know is that Scott and I pride ourselves on standing out from the crowd. And if that means that at 5:00, while workers are frantically breaking down tables around us, Scott and I remain there stoically drinking and watching basketball, then so be it. There is no price on individuality. Luckily there was also no price on the six beers we ordered right before they packed up the bar. There may be a price on all the employees gathering around laughing at us, but little do they know I stopped caring what people think about me back in 1994 when everyone gave up flannel but I kept on wearing it because it was comfortable.
When we finally left around 5:30 (at the polite insistence of someone wearing a shirt with a Planet Hollywood logo) we went to the coat check room to retrieve our jackets. However we noticed something funny when we got there, namely that the coat check room wasn’t there anymore. It was like a boiler room con aimed specifically at taking our coats. Scott surveyed the scene with a constipated look on his face and neither of us knew what question to ask first: Did we leave our coats here? Are we in the women’s room? Have we been here so long that our coats have been moved to the lost and found? Mercifully, an employee came over to us and explained that they didn’t know anyone was left at the party, so they assumed two people had forgotten their jackets. Scott and I smiled at each other, knowing that we were victorious in our quest to be the last people to leave. At least I think that’s what we did. There’s also a good chance we simply belched and said, “WHY IS YOUR FACE SPINNING, NICE COAT LADY?”
Even with all my success at drinking and gambling, my greatest accomplioshment came this morning in the form of an email into my [redacted] account. All it read was:
Voting has begun for the Round of 64!:
I followed the link and read the first two paragraphs on the page:
I’d wager that most readers of gay blogs would be lucky to make a free-throw shooting “granny style.” Nevertheless, we have now entered unto the yearly basketball phenomenon known as March Madness.
It’s in that spirit that we yearn for the prospect of hyper-competitive, self-absorbed gay bloggers at center court, scratching out eyes and pulling out hair. And so we offer “March Gayness 2007,” a 64-blog, bracketed competition to determine who will emerge the top of the blogger heap.
At first I thought it was simply a solicitation to vote. As a
well respected blogger, I get invitations for this kind of stuff all the time. But then I checked out the bracket, and lo and behold:
Proof that the gay community has better taste in reality shows than they do in blogs: I am in the running to be named the best gay blogger for “March Gayness 2007.” Gay.
At first I was a little taken aback by the mistaken assumption that I was a gay blogger. Sure, I can see how some things I write about may emit a decidedly feminine vibe, but that’s only because I read in Cosmo that this year women are back to liking men who are in touch with their sensitive side. But at the end of the day, I am still a vagina-loving guy. I still read Walt Whitman and drink scotch and say things like, “Where was she hiding those?” when Sun wears a bikini on “Lost,” and most of all I don’t think Diana should win America’s Next Top Model because she’s too fat.
But then I thought (and this may be the alcohol talking) “I want to kick their asses.” That’s right, I want to be the best [not really] gay blog out there. I cried at The Notebook, I slept in a cabana chair with my friend Scott in West Palm Beach, and I use face moisturizer! Every day!
So vote now; vote [redacted]; but most of all, vote proud.