Five Reasons Why I Love Los Angeles

Before this whole book tour fiasco started, I had planned to move to Los Angeles as of December 1 of last year. My roommate was done living in New York, and quite frankly, so was I. Having lived in the Big Apple for over twelve years, I thought it was time for a change of pace and Los Angeles, seemed to be the place to go. However, a once in a lifetime opportunity presented itself and I had to take a risk and go on book tour. Lucky for me, our forth stop on the rainbow tour was the City of Angels. Upon getting off the plane from San Francisco and taking off all of my clothes, I was reminded in a mere twelve seconds why I love this town in the first place.

1. Everyone is a star. So you made a cameo on a short-lived reality TV series? Or better yet, you’re a hairdresser to the stars. Perhaps you’re a go-go dancer who parades around West Hollywood every weeknight dressed in nothing but a g-string and a dream. Welcome to L.A. because here – you’re a star. I quite honestly could not believe that literally everyone has an absurd story to tell and because of that, everyone here is a celebrity. When I arrived in L.A., the man who arranged our events here, schlepped me around town as if I had just starred in the new Oliver Stone vehicle. Everywhere we went he asked people: “Don’t you know Mark? He’s a writer. He’s fabulous! He’s everything!” and, like clockwork, everyone responded: “Of course, we do! We love him.” What people don’t know here, won’t hurt them and everyone hates to be left out what they think someone will be the next best thing. Not only that, I haven’t had to pay for a Goddamn thing since we’ve been here. I was outfitted for my book reading on Thursday night and got to keep the clothes and when I went to lay out with Boa on the roof of his hotel yesterday, he told the hotel manager that I was on book tour and the manager insisted that everything we spent on food and drinks while on the roof be complimentary. Meanwhile, I wasn’t even staying at the hotel, I was staying in my lesbian sister’s girlfriend’s one bedroom apartment on an air mattress. God I love it here.

2. Everyone is gorgeous and everyone is a moron. If you ever want to feel bad about yourself, visit a gym in West Hollywood, California. Everyone is gorgeous. And why wouldn’t they be? Los Angeles, is, after all, the entertainment capital of the world so everyone needs to make sure that bodies be looking right. It doesn’t end there. There’s the Botox, the teeth whitening and the tanning (which even I find ridiculous and you know I love to tan. There are no less than ten tanning salons on Santa Monica Boulevard alone and it’s perpetually sunny and seventy degrees outside). Everyone always looks amazing, however everyone, for the most part is dumber than a box of hair. Trying to have conversations with people is tedious because everyone spends so much time trying to look good that they’ve forgotten to pick up a book to learn anything. This benefits myself for several reasons. 1. I was pretty much able to manipulate every situation I was in to profit myself. 2. No one was listening to a fucking thing I was saying so I was able to basically make fun of people directly to their faces without them ever knowing it and 3. If I did move here, I would probably be running this town by month’s end. No one actually works here so my drive paired with the fact that everyone here is so unbelievably lazy would allow me to shoot straight to the top. My favorite stupid person moment was when a friend introduced me to one of his friends by saying: “This is Greg. He has a disease. He gets dumber every year.” What a bunch of hot bitches.

3. The nightlife is amazing. Sorry New York, but you’ve shot yourself in the foot with this one. I know I am dating myself, but when I moved to New York City, eleven years ago, there was no better place in the world to go out and party. There was an endless amount of clubs, parties everyday and people were generally more fun. I love seeing the kids these days that move to New York with their hair four feet in the air and a giant stick up their ass, sipping gin and tonic’s in the corner of the Ritz, thinking they’ve made it to the Motherland. Listen up children: when I was your age, I was face down in a toilet in a club that was hallowed out church and when I finally rallied, I was doing blow with two to four drag queens until ten the next morning. That was fun. Industry is retarded. In Los Angeles, it’s a party every day of the week. It’s what New York USED to be and what it should be again. While walking down Santa Monica Boulevard at eight in the evening, there are people crowding the no less than twelve clubs within a three-block radius. The clubs are crowded with good-looking people, go-go boys, strippers and all of the debauchery you could ever think of. And you’ll never have to buy a Rihanna album ever again. Just walk down the street and you’ll hear her whole catalog in a matter of three minutes. I am not a huge fan of go-go boys, because I am not a dirty old man (yet) but these kids fucking work it. I can’t remember the last time I even saw a go-go boy in New York (aside from going to Splash – yuck) but I have to say they do certainly bring a little something extra to the party. And get this: you don’t have to wear everything you own in order to make it to the bars. Throw on a t-shirt and jeans and you’re in! It’s always seventy and sunny in Los Angeles. New York: you’ve become too squeaky clean. I appease you: please bring back to hookers and drug dealers and make yourself fun again. Bring that sleaze back! New York isn’t boring to me because I’ve stopped drinking – I have never taken a sip of booze while in L.A. and it’s always been a blast.

4. People are friendly. This is also because they are stupid and because of the endless amounts of sunlight (which raises your Vitamin D levels and makes you a happier person), but they’re friendly nonetheless. One thing New York has going for it is its realness. You always know where you stand with pretty much everyone in your life there. In Los Angeles, everyone is so self-conscious and always thinking the person they are speaking with can help them get ahead that they aim to please. Granted, I made coffee plans with nearly twenty people this week and they all flaked out because literally everyone is a flake here, I didn’t mind. The exchanges I had with people were effortless, easy and enjoyable. Marijuana is also legal here, so that may have something to do with it as well. I love New York, but when I get my coffee in the morning, I prefer having it served to me with a smile and not a dirty look.

5. Everyone in L.A. is full of shit. And I mean everyone including myself while I was here. It’s unbelievable to me the things that come hurling out of people’s mouths. “OMG, I had lunch with Lindsay Lohan the other day.” No you didn’t. “I heard that Kyle from the ‘Real Housewives of Beverly Hills’ had dinner here the other day and got into a fist fight with Lisa.” No she didn’t. “I think I just saw Michael Jackson’s ghost walking down Sunset with Blanket.” Shut the fuck up. Little do the residents of Los Angeles know that no one is more full of shit than yours truly, hence why I love it here so much. People will literally say anything to get you to pay attention to them and no one appreciates that more than the man who wrote the book on it!

You all know I am a New Yorker through and through (I will be back and living on 57^th St. before you know it), but I will be God damned if I don’t love me some L.A. Our five days here have been amazingly fun and our book events were out of control with full houses and people sitting on the floor because we had run out of chairs – you all made me feel like a superstar and I will love you forever for it. If anyone had told me that going on book tour was going to be this much fun, I would have called them a fucking liar. This is of course before I go to Arkansas, Alabama and Tennessee, but it’s been a pretty wild ride nonetheless. Next stop: my favorite city in the country: San Diego.

The Single Life: San Francisco

“You know what San Francisco reminds me of?” I asked Jeffrey as we walked down Van Ness Street, in the heart of town.

“What’s that?” he replied.

“'Sister Act,’” I replied, “And ‘Sister Act 2: Back in the Habit’ while we’re at it.”

And…we’ve arrived.

“You know,” Jeffrey said, “I’ve always preferred ‘Sister Act 2, if I’m being honest.”

“Me too,” I replied, “I had a meeting with the producers of ‘Sister Act: the musical’ in New York a few months ago and I told them that I thought it would be a good idea if they did ‘Sister Act’ and ‘Sister Act 2’ as musicals together in repertory. They told me to fuck off.”

“Oh well, valiant effort,” Jeffrey replied.

Jeffrey and I walked down to the Castro District of town, the place where gaydom was born and decided to eat at a lovely little restaurant called Chow. Upon our arrival, I checked us in on Facebook and we took a seat ready to eat dinner.

We ordered dinner and Jeffrey began rambling on about Buffalo (I swear to God one of these days the kid is going to take a shit that reminds him of Buffalo and twet me a picture of it) and I decided to use the lavatory because I had been holding in a day’s worth of pee. Traveling is fun and all, but when you are going from city to city, day after day, it becomes exhausting and dehydrating. For whatever reason, ever since I’ve left New York, it’s almost as if I have been chewing on an imaginary salt lick for the past week and a half. I excused myself and went to pee.

The line for the bathroom was about three deep and I couldn’t help but notice that the only people in line were Asian girls. Suddenly, I flashed back to one of my last night’s in New York City and one of my most Asian friends, Boa. Boa used to live in San Francisco and all I could do was think about how much fun he’d be having if he were here. It’s a town full of Asians and gay people, he’d naturally fit right in.

I went back to the table and was thankful that our food had arrived upon my return. As I began to eat, I looked up and saw a familiar, yet unexpected face.

“Oh my God!” I yelled.

“What?” Jeffrey questioned.

“OH MY GOD!” I leapt up from the table and was greeted by Boa who was grinning from ear to ear.

“Surprise, bitch!” Boa said.

“OH MY GOD!” I yelled again.

“I was going to surprise you at your book reading tomorrow night, but I saw that you checked in on Facebook here and I was like, ‘eh, fuck it’,” he said.

I hugged Boa for about forty-five minutes, stuck my tongue down his throat then smacked him on the ass. If you’ll recall, I wasn’t one hundred per cent sure when I’d see my most Asian friend again, because when we left New York, his plans were very much up in the air. I almost cried upon seeing him. He’s such a good friend.

After dinner, Jeffrey and I met up with Boa and his band of misfit Asians and misfit Asian wannabes. Luckily for me, nothing has changed with our dear Boa.

“God, I hate everybody,” Boa said as we met him at the Lookout, a hotspot among the local San Francisco gays.

“No surprises there,” I replied.

“And, I am hammered!” he then said.

“Seriously Boa? It’s like 8:30.”

“Yea, I know,” he replied, “we’ve been drinking all day. AND I HATE EVERYONE!” he screamed.

“Ok, I got it,” I replied.

The Lookout is a bar near the Castro that literally looks out onto the street and is raised above ground so you can see everyone walking below you. After I told Boa of my most recent heartbreak, that took place a few weeks back in New York, he proceeded to then yell at everyone below us.

“God I hate gay people,” he said, “I cannot believe this happened to you AGAIN. What the fuck is wrong with everyone?”

“I don’t know,” he replied.

“I HATE GAY PEOPLE!” Boa yelled to the pedestrians on the street.

“It’s OK girl,” I said as I rubbed his back. “It’s OK.”

“I HATE EVERYONE!” He yelled again as one of the people walking down the street then looked up at us.

“Oh honey, he’s not talking about you,” I yelled down to the street to the man who must have thought he had walked by an insane asylum.

“Why is everyone so stupid?” Boa asked.

“I don’t know girl,” I replied, “it may have something to do with the seventeen drinks you’ve had tonight, just saying.”

“Ugh,” Boa sighed.

God love my girl Boa, she has been through it the past few months. I am pretty sure that he has dated every asshole that I haven’t in the New York Metro Area as well as parts of California.

Boa, Jeffrey and I went to another bar, but Boa’s co-worker was date rape drug wasted so he had to take him back to their hotel and Jeffrey and I went back to ours where I then proceeded to snuggle up with my Flat Stanley Susan Lucci.

We were fortunate enough to spend a full five days in San Francisco so I decided I would do my part and spend a day volunteering at some of the local AA Meetings and Sober Houses in the area. As many know, I am a huge advocate for gays and lesbians or anyone for that matter in helping in other people’s efforts in getting sober and staying sober. When I lived in New York, I spent a lot of my time at the detox center at a local hospital and continue to help people whenever I can. Early last week, I was featured in The Advocate Magazine, which was an amazing honor and I spoke about my book, my tour and my sobriety. Unfortunately, because so many people are so short sided, there were tons of comments about the gay community having dealt with their alcohol and drug problems and many people who read the article did not think that it was an issue anymore with the community. Having written a mother fucking book about it, I can tell you, with one hundred per cent certainty that it is. In fact, it’s an even bigger problem than it was when I began writing “Blackouts and Breakdowns”. Now a reported thirty-three per cent (that’s one third) of the LGBT community struggles with drug and alcohol addiction. So to everyone who felt the need to comment about what I was doing without having researched the hard facts I respond to you: Please go suck a black dick, if you already aren’t. You clearly have no idea what the fuck you are talking about and too much time on your hands.

Anyway, upon my tour of the AA meetings of San Francisco, I met some very wonderful people. There is a sober house on Castro Street called the Castro Country Club, which I highly recommend every AA to visit while they are in town, because it is one of the only places of it’s kind and is run by a group of truly amazing people.

Enough with the sober talk! Our adventures in San Francisco were truly amazing. This city is filled with unbelievable people and it’s one of the only cities outside of New York that I have felt the presence of an actual gay “community”. There is also another community here that rivals anything New York has ever seen.

“So…” Jeffrey said as we left a book event on Monday night. “Can we walk down a street other than rape alley?”

“Rape alley?” I asked.

“Yea, rape alley,” he responded, “the corner of Market and Van Ness streets. I call it rape alley. There are like fifteen homeless people that just hang out there and every time I walk by, I feel like I may be raped.”

As we were having this conversation, a homeless man walked by.

“Can I have a cigarette?” the homeless man asked me.

“Oh, I’m sorry, I am out,” I responded.

“WHAT?!?!?!?!” the homeless man said.

I quickly looked over to Jeffrey who had a face a sheer horror.

“YOU NEVER DO ANYTHING FOR ME!!!!” the homeless man yelled.

“Excuse me?” I questioned.

“YOU NEVER DO ANYTHING FOR ME!!!!” he yelled again.

“But we just met,” I responded.

“YOU NEVER DO ANYTHING FOR ME!!!!” the man was clearly off his rocker, if not for the fact that he was yelling at me for absolutely no reason, but for the fact that he was walking down the street with his shoes in his hand.

“What are you talking about?” Jeffrey chimed in. “He gave you a blowjob last night! Go away!”

And with that, the homeless man fled. Good old Jeffrey coming through in the clutch.

“The homeless people in San Francisco have got nothing on the homeless people in New York. It’s unbelievable.”

As I was saying this, a homeless woman walked up to me.

“Do you have a light?” she asked me.

“Sure,” I responded as I gave her a lighter.

Her face lit up: “OH MY GOD THANK YOU SO MUCH!” she yelled.

Here we go again.

The homeless woman then proceeded to hug me for five minutes straight until she saw something shiny and continued on down the street.

“Jesus!” I said.

“Can we please go back to the hotel?” Jeffrey asked.

Without even realizing it, we had walked down rape alley anyway. We held each other for comfort and made it back to the hotel in one piece.

We have loved our journey to the City by the Bay. Our events were awesome, our new friends were awesome and we learned a lot. Now it’s time for Jeffrey, Susan Lucci and I to head to the City of Angles for quite possibly our biggest event for the book tour – and thank God – Boa will be there waiting for us.

The Single Life: Portland

“So let me get this straight,” I said to Jeffrey. “You don’t know how to make copies, you don’t know how to use your iPhone and now you are telling me that you don’t know how to use directions on a map?” I asked as we got into the car from Seattle, ready to drive to Portland.

Best. Assistant. Ever.

For the trip down, we had to drive through six inches of snow (the newspapers in Seattle dubbed it the “storm of the century”) and just my luck we had about six hours to drive in that shit to get to our next destination, Portland, Oregon. Considering the fact that the one and only reason we picked Seattle for the first stop on our rainbow tour was because it “never snows” and no one in the state of Washington owns a God damn snow plow, the odds were stacked against us. Feeling particularly annoyed, Jeffrey and I made a bet. The day we drove to Portland, Jeffrey was not allowed to talk about Buffalo and I was not allowed to talk about working out. I love working out, it’s one of my favorite things to do and one of the only thing that continues to keep me sober. However, Jeffrey LOVES Buffalo. It’s one of the only things he ever talks about. I swear, Jeffrey could witness someone getting shot in a gang war right before his very eyes and instead of offering to help, he would quip about how the events that he had just seen reminded him about something that took place in Buffalo, circa 2001.

As we drove, in the storm of the century, Jeffrey chimed in with his segues. He loves to chat and loves to make himself laugh even more.

“Thank God for windshield wipers,” he said, “I bet you don’t know where they were invented.”

“If you say Buffalo, I am going to have to punch you in the face,” I replied.

He didn’t respond.

Upon arriving in Portland, we quickly found out that we were not actually staying in Portland, but a suburb called Beaverton. Hahaha, beaver. Like a lesbian. Anyway, we dropped out stuff off and headed to venue where we were to have our book reading.

My face was all the fuck over Portland and thankfully so. It’s about time that the Rose City knew about “Blackouts and Breakdowns” and we were thrilled when the hot ass gay Mayor of the city tweeted about our arrival. When we got to the venue, we were greeted by some wonderful people, including, thankfully a handful of lesbians. Now, you all know, I love my gays. But I will be God damned if I don’t love my lesbians ever more. Gay guys in big cities have horrible attitudes (like me!) especially when the attention is on anyone but them. Lesbians, on the other hand fucking love me. I don’t know what it is. Perhaps, my Tin Tin hairdo that reminds them of someone they once had a tryst with back in the day, but when I roll into town, they all take notice. Thank God for lesbians.

After the event, I noticed that Jeffrey was talking to someone who had come to the reading and I eavesdropped on their conversation, because I am a nosy piece of shit.

“So yea,” Jeffrey said, “back in Buff—“

“HA!” I yelled, “You can’t even go twenty-four hours without talking about Buffalo. We need to find you a new topic to talk about, like, I don’t know, how about BLACKOUTS AND BREAKDOWNS? I am sure something in that book reminds you of your hometown.”

“I have actually been talking about Buffalo the whole time I was just trying to keep my volume low so you couldn’t hear me.”

Jeffrey and I had an awesome night out and the following day we went downtown to explore Portland, check out some of the bookstores that are selling “Blackouts” and take a picture of our Flat Stanley Susan Lucci in front of a landmark.

“Please make sure Susan doesn’t get wet,” I asked Jeffrey.

“I can’t be responsible for Susan,” he replied.

“Her hair will frizz,” I said, “and considering you barely know how to send an email, I think asking you to cart Susan around town is not asking a lot.”

“Touche,” Jeffrey replied.

We walked up to the Portland Opera House to get Susan’s picture, but my publisher called and I had to take it - a call that lasted twenty minutes. When I turned around, Jeffrey was in a hot convo with a middle aged homeless woman, speaking most likely about Buffalo. When I rejoined Jeffrey, I asked:

“So what were you and your new best friend talking about? The Buffalo Bills?”

“No,” Jeffrey replied, “we were talking about you.”

“Finally!” I responded jokingly.

“Yea,” he replied, “she said that she saw your book at Powell’s Books.”

“Did she buy it?” I asked.

“She’s homeless.”

“Right,” I replied, “hence why you need to shift your grassroots marketing efforts back to Grindr. At least the gays on there have enough money to buy an iPhone, so they can therefore afford a book.”

“God Mark!” Jeffrey said, “She was really nice. She said she saw your book so I started talking to her. She is an addict and now she is sober.”

“Sweet,” I said, “I love a survival story.”

“She said she would buy your book next time she had money,” Jeffrey said.

“Well, I think he money would be better spent somewhere else than on that garbage.”

Had I had a copy on me, I would have given her one for free, but I unfortunately did not. Afterwards, Jeffrey and I took a picture of Susan Lucci in front of the opera house which took approximately twenty minutes that included me yelling: “JEFFREY MAKE SURE SUSAN DOESN’T GET WET!” Anyone walking by must have thought we were retarded morons.

That night, Jeffrey and I hit the town. Besides the hourly torrential downpours that would drive me to suicide had I lived there, Portland is a very cute, very liberal town. I actually preferred it to Seattle. Everyone was super nice and bodies be all right. As Jeffrey and I prepared to leave, a young man walked up to us.

“Excuse me,” he said to me, “are you Mark?”

“Yes,” I replied.

I had figured through our grassroots marketing efforts via Grindr, the person approaching me was a local who we had tried to wrangle to a book reading.

“I am such a huge fan of yours,” he then said.

“Seriously?” I asked, thinking he was joking.

“Yes, I’ve read everything you’ve ever wrote.”

Holy crap, an actual fan. Instead of being rude, like I usually am and asking where the hell he was when I had my book reading the previous night, we took a picture and tweeted it. Good old twitter.

The next morning, Jeffrey, Susan Lucci and I were up at four am and off to the airport headed to our next stop: San Francisco. On our way there, we looked for the Oregon trail, but all we found were a bunch of trainnies.

“I hear there are gay people there,” Jeffrey said on the way to the aiport.

“Yea,” I replied, “I’m pretty sure it’s were gaydom was born.”

The Single Life: Seattle

On Monday, my journey to the first stop of my epic rainbow tour of the country began at six o’clock in the morning when I arrived at LaGuardia Airport in New York City prepared to board my flight to Seattle. As I entered the airport, I turned around to gaze at the city that has brought me so much joy and so much pain for the past eleven years and looked at the Manhattan skyline from afar one last time.

“You crazy bitch!” I said as I glanced at the sun coming up over the city. “God I hate you. But, I’m going to miss you so Goddamn much.”

“Excuse me?” an elderly woman said, as she was about to enter the airport.

“Oh,” I paused, “I wasn’t speaking to you, I was having a moment.”

She looked at me with a blank face.

“I WAS HAVING A MOMENT!” I yelled and the woman scurried away.

After paying ninety dollars to check my luggage, which by the way clocked in at sixty-four and a half pounds (because I am like ‘Maria Full of Grace’ smuggling fucking books across the country like a Goddamn drug mule as Jeffrey likes to say) I boarded the place beside a crying child and in front of another crying child and off to Seattle I went.

Well, Seattle by way of Denver of course. I had planned my flight to coincide with the arrival of my assistant Jeffrey’s from Los Angeles to Seattle so I bit the bullet and took a longer flight so that the both of us would arrive at the same time. When I got to the airport I waited about ten minutes until Jeffrey text messaged me from the plane and told me he had landed. I was so excited to see my little nugget; I could have pooped. We hadn’t seen each other in over two months, since he came to New York for his epic visit and I was so happy to see him I could have stuck my dick in him right there in the middle of the tarmac.

When Jeffrey came down to baggage claim, I heard “Run to You” by Whitney Houston playing in the background. I was having a full on “Bodyguard” moment then and there.

We caught up briefly and then whisked ourselves off the pick up our rental car where we were greeted by a very friendly Hispanic looking man who was ready to give us our car.

“It’s pretty bad out there,” the man at the rental car agency said.

“What are you talking about?” I asked.

“It snowed about two inches last night,” he said in a Southern accent.

“Why do you have a Southern accent? Where are you from?” I asked.

“Right here in Washington,” he said.

“Then why do you have a Southern accent?” I questioned.

He ignored me and continued: “It snowed two inches last night so we are going to upgrade you to an SUV at no charge.”

“Two inches?” Jeffrey questioned.

“Yea,” he replied.

“Big deal. I’m from Buffalo. I’ve dealt with worse,” Jeffrey said. Jeffrey originally hails form Buffalo, New York and will literally talk about his hometown every chance he gets. It’s a fun little factette that he loves to share…with anyone who will listen.

Having slept about forty-five minutes the night before, I was ready to get our car and get the hell to our hotel as soon as humanly possible. Jeffrey and I got into our rental car and began making our way to the hotel.

“Did you think the guy who gave us our car was cute?” Jeffrey asked.

“I wasn’t paying attention. I still don’t understand why he had a Southern accent thought, especially since he was from like, down the street,” I replied.

“I thought he was cute,” Jeffrey said.

“Then why don’t you go back there and regale him with stories about Buffalo. I’m sure he’d love to hear all about it.”

I think Jeffrey must have rolled his eyes but I was driving so I wasn’t paying attention. Anyway, we made our way to our hotel, checked in and went out to the gay neighborhood with the intent to rape the citizens of Seattle and let them know damn well that the “Blackouts and Breakdowns” book tour was here. Before we did anything, we needed to eat so we stopped into a fabulous Mexican restaurant and were greeted by our fabulous waitress.

Before we could even order beverages, our waitress had told us the following: she hailed from San Jose, California, dated a guy who was severely bi-polar and was now dating his non-bi-polar brother and was half Puerto Rican and half Irish. Sometimes, I feel like Lucy from the Peanuts comics. It’s almost as if I am sitting there in a cardboard box asking people to hire me as their therapist, but I have no words of wisdom to share, just offensive comments about their loved ones so I ordered enchiladas and got down to business.

“Jeffrey, we need to talk shop,” I told him as we waited for our food.

“Ok,” he replied.

“We are grassroots marketing the shit out of this book tour so one thing I am going to need you to do is get on Grindr and tell everyone in town that we are here and I will do the same.”

“Ummm…ok,” he replied.

“Seriously though, I am not above pimping you out to sell books. We’ve spoken about this before, at length.”

“I wanted to become more sexually promiscuous so we may as well sell some books in the process.”

“Glad we’re on the same page.”

Jeffrey and I laughed and caught up. Following dinner, we went to a bar in Seattle called Purr and chatted with the locals. Turns out, when you leave New York, people are like really nice. So nice that the bartender at Purr literally drew us a map of where to go in town.

“Everyone here is so nice,” I told the bartender.

“Really?” he asked.

“Yea,” I replied.

“I think Seattleites are really passive aggressive,” he said.

“That’s because you guys are so close to Canada and it’s rubbed off on you,” I stuttered. And we all know how I feel about Canadians – I love them.

“This place reminds me of Buffalo,” Jeffrey said. God love the kid, he certainly loves his hometown. I swear to God he could witness a back alley abortion take place in front of his very eyes and be reminded of some significant occasion that took place in Buffalo circa 1992.

“Well ToTo, we’re certainly not in Hells Kitchen anymore, that’s for sure,” I said.

We got to know the locals, passed out postcards, booty dropped with a few lesbians and were off to bed.

The following evening, it was time for our big event at Lobby Bar, Seattle’s hottest gay spot. I still couldn’t get over how friendly and polite everyone in the Emerald City was. People smiled at you, opened doors for you, most likely didn’t stab you in the back to get what you want (we didn’t get that far into the underbelly of how the city operates so I can’t be certain) but everyone here is great. When we got the venue, we were greeted by Curtis, the owner of the bar.

“I hope there’s a good turn out,” he said, “with the snow coming and all.”

“What snow?” I questioned.

“Well, it snowed two inches two nights ago. That’s a big deal for us in Seattle,” Curtis said.

“Well in Buffalo, it snows…” Jeffrey began to say.

“Enough, Jeffrey,” I interrupted. “But there is no snow currently on the ground, so I don’t really understand what all the hubbub is about.” And yes, I use the word hubbub daily.

“Right,” Curtis continued, “but the potential of snow drives the citizens of Seattle into a tizzy.”

“Wonderful,” I replied. The only reason this stupid book tour started in Seattle was because of the fact that it NEVER snows here. And wouldn’t ya know, we’re here for a “record breaking snow storm”. Because, why wouldn’t we be?

Luckily, through my quick wit, using Grindr as a marketing tool and ability to get people to do pretty much whatever I tell them, we had an awesome turnout for the event and it went off flawlessly. It was the first time I had done a book reading in front of a room of complete strangers and it felt great to get a new fan base of complete strangers all the way over on the west coast. Mainly because most of the people who came were lesbians, and you all know the lesbians fucking love me. Another new fan (who we picked up on Grindr) also loved the reading but I was shocked when he pulled out his hand to shake mine and he was missing a thumb. In a rare moment of keeping my shit together, I didn’t say a word. However, once we left I pointed it out to Jeffrey, who hadn’t noticed because he was too busy talking about Buffalo.

Afterwards, Jeffrey and I had quite possibly the best subs we had ever eaten.

“There’s a place in Buffalo like this sandwich shop,” he said.

“I’m sure there is kiddo, I’m sure there is.”

We spent our Golden day of not traveling and not performing roaming around the city with our cardboard cutout Susan Lucci Falt Stanley taking pictures and eating calzones the size of the city of Buffalo. And wouldn’t you know, it snowed a full six inches and the city has since been sent into a tailspin. However, Jeffrey told me that he only wanted to be referred to as “Meredith Gay” for the duration of our trip in Seattle.

Tomorrow Jeffrey, Susan and I venture off to Portland, Oregon. We’ve sent already sent out a GAY-P-B. They know we’re coming, in fact the gay Mayor tweeted about “Blackouts and Breakdowns” last night. We had an absolute blast in Seattle but we are definitely looking forward to picking up some trannies along the Oregon Trail.

Lies Gay Guys Have Told Me

1. “I’m just not interested in a relationship right now”

My response: “So why did you go on four dates with me and why am I pretty certain that you are dating 4-6 other people right now. Facebook never lies.”

2. “I’m just on Grindr looking for friends”

My response: “Then why are you only showing a picture of your torso? Are you headless? Are you looking for other headless friends? Are you trying to start a headless kickball team?”

3. “I’m not really a slut”

My response: “Then why did we meet on Manhunt? And why do you have a sling in your closet?”

4. “I’m clean. I just got tested for everything last month.”

My response: “That ‘cold sore’ on your mouth says otherwise.”

5. “I’ll leave my wife for you and everything will be OK. I promise.”

My response: “Oh, OK. That’s normal.” SEE: “Blackouts and Breakdowns”

6. “I don’t party that much.”

My response: “Then does every picture of you on Facebook show you passed out in a bar? Facebook never lies.”

7. “I’m sorry, I don’t want to date you anymore, but I think we’d be better off as friends.”

My response: “Hello? That was two months ago. Where have you gone? Were you abducted by aliens?”

8. “Oh, I work for my ex-boyfriend. I’m his assistant.”

My response: “Blowing someone for cigarette money does not an assistant make. You’re a glorified prostitute.”

9. “I was molested as a teenager at summer camp.”

My response: “If by summer camp, you mean the bath house and if by teenager you mean last week, this means you’re a whore...and a liar”

The Happy Birthday Hooker

Get the picture? It's TJ Hooker. Hahaha.

“I’m going to get you a hooker for your birthday,” my buddy Tom text messaged me.

“Alrighty,” I replied.

A few moments later, he called. “Listen,” he said into the phone, “you can’t drink, you can’t do drugs, you get screwed every year because your birthday is right between Christmas and New Years. It’s YOUR day. Let your hair down and do something crazy.”

“When you put it that way…” I replied.

To be honest, I had never really thought about getting a hooker until that very moment. For one thing, it has been kind of a slow couple of weeks. With planning this fucking book tour and the second book coming out, things have been quite hectic. Which translates into me having nothing to write about so hanging out with a hooker for a night would at least give me an endless supply of material if nothing else.

Tom sent me a website to look over the various hookers to chose from. There really is something to that old saying: “there is something for everyone.” Looking over the website that Tom sent I saw so many varieties of men, most of whom I wouldn’t have sex with for free, but I guess everyone has a type. I narrowed my search down to two eligible hookers and sent them to Tom. One was named Tomas (I’ve changed his name to protect the innocent – his name was really Tommy. Woops) and the other was named Peter, who goes to my gym. Upon seeing him, I literally yelled out, “Oh my God, HE’S a hooker?” in the middle of Starbucks and the people surrounding me looked at me in disgust. Eh, fuck them.

Tom told me he would take care of the logistics, i.e., he would pay for it, figure out where I needed to go and then relay the information back to me. Now, technically I was not paying for a hooker personally, so the fact that this was a gift made the whole situation a little better to stomach. Within minutes, Tom got back to me with details.

“OK,” he said, “get this. The hooker lives in my building.”

“What?” I asked.

“Yea,” he replied, “He lives on the 41^st floor. How crazy is that?”

“That’s great. I can come and gossip before I head to his place.”

“I know right?” Tom said, “And after, cause I know your sorry ass is gonna have story. Anyway, I’ve taken care of everything so all you have to do is come over here beforehand, pick up the money and then…” he laughed, “wait for it…go upstairs. How fucking crazy is that?”

“Seriously crazy,” I laughed.

Then I thought to myself, I had picked the wrong vocation. Tom lives in possibly the nicest building in the city and his rent has got to be at least five thousand dollars a month. If a hooker could afford that kind of rent, I needed to start thinking about changing careers. I have always thought I would have made a great whore, (I mean I may as well get paid for it at this point) and seeing first hand the literal lap of luxury they live in furthered my interest in becoming a high-class escort.

The only problem with Tom’s brilliant plan was that I was seeing someone at the time. Note how he has never been mentioned once in this blog until now so you know what that must mean…it went south. Right after Thanksgiving I met a boy named Evan who reached out to me via facebook because he had seen me at a bar with a few mutual friends a few nights before and added me as a friend. He was the tallest person I had ever met and we had this whole Paul Bunyon/Thumbalina thing going on and I liked it. Throughout the following weeks, we became close, or so I thought and went to a show, out for dinner and finally hooked up a few days before Christmas the night before he was to leave to go home for the holidays. All along, I am thinking to myself: “I am about to go on book tour for three months, this couldn’t possibly work out. But how amazing would it be if it DID? How amazing would it be to have someone on my side while I took this amazing, life altering adventure?” Evan knew from day one that our time together was fleeting, but just because someone is leaving town for a few months (which in the grand scheme of life is not long at all) doesn’t mean that you cannot continue to develop a relationship. So, in an effort to make sure that we could continue getting to know each other, I invited Evan to come to San Francisco for a few days while I would be there. He thought that idea was fun and the next day (the day after my birthday) called to tell me that he couldn’t do the long distance thing. In all honesty, the most we would have gone without seeing each other would have been three weeks between my coming back to New York for obligations I had before the book tour started and flying him to various cities using my points. The thing that kills me, is that he knew all along that I was leaving so my question is: “Why bother?” I am twenty-nine years old, I don’t need any more friends (you know my old saying, I barely like the ones I have now, why the fuck would I want any more?) and if that’s all he wanted, why was he sleeping naked in my bed but a week before this conversation took place. I think was just another of God’s little reminders to get the fuck out of New York while I’m ahead.

My feelings were very hurt, yet again because this all seemed so out of the blue. It’s not like I woke up one day and told Evan: “you know what? I think I am going to leave for three months.” Anyway, feeling particularly low and severely annoyed, I decided to take Tom up on his offer.

The next night, I went to Tom’s apartment to pick up the envelope full of money that I was to give to my hooker, who lived upstairs. I got back into the elevators of Tom’s building and went up to the 41^st floor. I knocked on my hooker’s door and briefly wondered if I should refer to Tomas as “Vivian”, since we had this whole “Pretty Woman thing going on.”

“Hello,” Tomas said, opening the door.

“Hi!” I said as I entered.

I took my coat off and looked around his apartment. Everything in his apartment was Versace. The mirrors, the rugs on the floor, the couch, literally everything had to Versace logo on it.

“Jesus Christ,” I said.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

What I wanted to say was: “this whole writing business is for the birds and where do I sign up to become a hooker?” but I instead replied: “Oh nothing, your apartment is just very nice, that’s all.”

“Oh,” he said.

“So,” I began, “What do you do?” I asked.

He gave me a look that said: “Are you kidding me?”

“Oh, right,” I retorted. “I mean do you do anything else? Like other activities, you know, like a book club. Because if you do, I know this really great book…”

“Nope,” he interrupted.

“Oh.”

“Shall we?” he said as we gestured toward his bedroom.

“Oh ok,” I said. Apparently we were skipping the small talk all together and just going for it. This hooker really needed to work on his hospitality. I wasn’t even offered coffee or cake.

Once entering the bedroom, I noticed that the hooker had leather sheets on his bed. I almost lost it.

“What is it?” Tomas asked.

“Oh, nothing,” I replied.

Tomas began taking his clothes off and got on the bed. I was still standing there, fully clothed and ready to ask one thousand questions because I am a nosy ass piece of shit.

“So, like, do you get a lot of old guys?” I asked.

“Sometimes,” he replied, “but sometimes not.”

Tomas was a man of few words.

“So am I one of the better looking guys that has been here?” Here I am ALWAYS fishing for a mother-fucking compliment, like…well…a whore. “Because I would have never done this if my friend hadn’t bought you for me for my birthday.”

He looked at me with a funny face. How awkward this hooker must have felt to have someone say “my friend bought you for me…” but it didn’t seem to faze him for long.

“This isn’t a Grindr hook-up, dude,” he uttered. “You can cut the small talk shit and we can just do what you came here to do.”

“I know,” I replied. “I just feel weird getting right to it.”

Then the hooker came and kissed me. I kissed him back but couldn’t help but notice for someone whose profession is to service and pleasure others; he was pretty terrible at kissing. I pushed him off of me.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

“Oh nothing,” I said as I turned away and looked out of his window to his amazing view of Manhattan. All I could do was think: “I cannot believe that a. I am leaving all of this for three months and b. I am in a hookers apartment.” I turned and looked back at him.

“So where are you from?” I asked.

“Long Island,” he replied. I had figured as much from the accent.

“Nice.”

Silence.

The hooker rolled his eyes again, “Where are you from?” he sighed.

“DC,” I replied.

“So what exactly is it that you want to do?”

“I honestly don’t know,” I replied, “I’m kind of scared to be here as it is. I’ve never done anything like this before in my life. So you’ll have to bare with me.”

“It’s OK. I just don’t like chatting too much. I mean, some people think I am like, their fucking physiatrist and just sit here and talk forever.”

“I get that you’re not a therapist. If you were, you’d be way overpriced and most likely not covered in my health care package.”

Still, didn’t get a laugh out of him. This was a stone cold, serious hooker. He meant business and was quickly tiring of my smart ass segues into conversations about our hometowns.

“So, what do you like to do in bed?” I asked.

“Again,” he replied, “this is not a Grindr hook-up. It’s all about what YOU want.”

“Seriously?” I asked as I suddenly realized why people got hookers in the first place. I could just lay back and do nothing and get off. This was better than a Grindr hook-up and probably better than having a boyfriend. I stood there and looked into my hookers eyes and realized that if I didn’t have sex with him, I would not only be wasting Tom’s money but Tomas would be running off with 250 dollars of someone else’s money without doing anything for it and that is simply just not the American way. I mean, I wouldn’t go all the way to Mount Everest without attempting to climb it so I could get at least get a fucking bumper sticker so I decided that yes, I should sleep with a hooker tonight.

So I had sex with a hooker. And to be honest, I’ve had better and I didn’t have to pay for it. I love sex as much as the next guy, but when someone is yelling things like “fill up my hole” and “take that dick”, etc. it’s less so much less of an enjoyable sexual experience and more of a bad, low-budget porn come to life.

Two days later, I went to Tom’s apartment because I needed some help getting materials together for my book tour when who should get on the elevator with me but my hooker from two nights before. I smiled at him but he looked down. When I waved, he turned away. Apparently even when paid to sleep with me, the people I have canoodled with refuse to acknowledge my presence upon seeing me. God I hate everyone. Looks like 2012 is off to a banging start…in more ways then one.

One Life to Live

When I was applying for college, my college essay was called “My Life As A Soap Opera”. At the tender age of seventeen, I had been through more than most seniors in high school had even imagined. My father was on his third marriage to a lunatic masquerading as a hard-nosed lawyer, my parents barely spoke to each other and I was still pretending to be straight. The above basically coincided with what was happening on my favorite show of all time “One Life to Live”. Having watched the show for years at this point, I realized that my soap opera pathos and crazy ass family could pay off for me big time and pay off they did when I was accepted to almost every school I applied for and subsequently wrote a tell all book about our crazy ass adventures together (see: “Eating My Feelings” in stores April 19).

One of my very first memories as a child was watching that red headed little minx Tina Lord go plunging down the Iguazu Falls only to be rescued by a bunch of friendly natives dressed as stereotypical Indians. At six years old, I was absolutely fascinated by the events that took place in this fictional town called Llanview. I was hooked immediately and pretty much everything I’ve ever needed to know in life I learned from soap operas. I learned what exactly the hostile takeover of a major corporation entailed and that it can be done from a town in the middle of Pennsylvania that no one has ever heard of. I learned the you can fall through a skylight and recover in about two to four days. I learned how to switch a paternity test, and in the late 90’s, a DNA test. Once you know these things – you’re pretty much set for life.

I am a firm believer that every life is peppered with monumental events that shape the people that we eventually become. Weddings, births, the reveal of an evil twin brother you never knew you had – these things are defining moments, or as I like to call them “season finale moments.” Over the years, I have acquired several season finale moments of my own. I stopped drinking against all odds. I have been through a messy break-up or two. I threw a lawyer out of a window. Oh, wait, that wasn’t me - that was Blair from “One Life to Live”. Anyway, as I am about to embark on the biggest season finale moment of my life – “One Life to Live” won’t be waiting there for me on Monday so that we can work out our problems together as a family.

When the news that “One Life to Live” was cancelled broke, it took me about four weeks to not only get out of bed, but to realize that the friends that I had made over the last twenty-three years were leaving me forever. It was like someone had come in and shot each and every member of my family one by one in a massacre that resembled the Maldavian massacre back on “Dynasty” in the late 80’s. I had grown up with these people and suddenly they were taken away from me. My friends were gone. In fact, I would have preferred if someone had taken my actual friends and left me with my stories.

As we all know, tomorrow I leave on my forty-two-city book tour to promote “Blackouts and Breakdowns”. It has been a long road getting here. First of all, writing a book that people will enjoy is hard work. Getting that book published is even harder. Planning a book tour – possibly the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do. There’s finding a venue, making sure the press is aware you are coming to their town, finding lodging, traveling every other day and getting butts into seats is my full time job for the next three months. Basically, I am taking a leap of faith and going out into the unknown while risking everything in the process. Everything in my life has been affected by this book tour. I have gotten rid of my fabulous apartment, I have put every nickel I have into this and saying that leaving town has strained relationships is the understatement of the century. The next three months are going to be a journey – and whether it be a good or bad one – it’s going to be a life lesson (as if I really need another one of those) and I am certain when I return to New York City in April, I will have changed in more ways than one. But that’s not the only thing that will have changed.

When I leave town tomorrow, it will be the first Monday in forty-three years that “One Life to Live” won’t be on at two in the afternoon. I am having the biggest season finale moment of my life and I won’t have the pleasure of going back to Llanfair and watching Viki pot a plant while she talks to Jessica about their multiple personalities. Blair won’t be there to push Tea out of a window…and visa versa. No one will be shot. No one will be come back from the dead. No one’s estranged child will come back to interrupt their long lost parent’s wedding. WHAT THE HELL AM I SUPPOSED TO DO? The assholes at ABC have taken away the one and only thing that has brought me consistent pleasure for the past twenty years.

On Friday, I sat down and watched the final episode of the show and cried. As you all know, I rarely cry but my heart facsimile was overwhelmed with emotions because I realized when Viki and Clint sat down on the chez at Llanfair, that would be the last time I would ever see them again.

Thank you “One Life to Live” for keeping me entertained for so long. You are the best friend I have ever had. In keeping the spirit alive, I have a little surprise for the residents of each city we visit. Be sure to follow me on twitter to find out what exactly I am talking about. Tomorrow I board a flight to Seattle, the first stop on our rainbow tour, but little do the citizens know, Jeffrey and I are traveling with another person – and she’s famous. Find out whom this week!