Tuesday, October 5, 2010

On the Radio

They said it on the air
On the radio whoa oh oh
On the radio whoa oh oh
On the radio whoa oh oh
On the radio whoa oh oh now, now...
--Donna Summer

First off, make sure you tune in tonight to hear me guest co-host "The Derek and Romaine Show" on OutQ Radio -- Sirius channel 109, XM channel 98. I will be filling in for the vacationing Romaine Patterson. Very excited and also somewhat nervous, as the show runs FOUR HOURS -- from 6PM to 10PM ET. The most I've ever been on the radio is 20 minutes at a time, so it just seems like a lot. (I've been told to bring a sandwich.) If you'd like to chat live, call in to the show at 866-305-6887.

Actual photo of my family listening to me on OutQ.

Derek Hartley and I have a strange relationship. The first few times I was on the show as a guest, I thought he sort of hated me. (Once, when I was on the phone calling in from San Diego, a caller was like, "Derek, why don't you just admit that you don't like this guy? And I agree! He sucks!") Then the tide turned somewhat, and the last few times I've seen Derek, both on and off the air, I got the sense he was secretly in love with me. Now he's asked me to host with him. It should be an interesting four hours, regardless.


THIS JUST IN: It turns out my ex-boyfriend's ex-boyfriend is going to be a guest on the show tonight as well. Why don't we have my mom call in, too, and complete the circle of awkwardness?

(Actually, my mom is in Eastern Europe with my father right now on a whirlwind Holocaust tour. She emails us regular dispatches such as: "Today your father and I visited the oldest Jewish cemetery in Poland." It's the old Jews' version of Spring Break in Daytona.)

Don't ask -- I have no idea.

So yeah, my whole "I'm going to start blogging regularly again!" thing has fallen apart. But you know what it is? The last blog I posted three weeks ago, focusing primarily on the movie "My Bodyguard," took me HOURS to write. I was really kind of proud of it. And you know how many comments I got? One. One measly comment! And yes, more of you commented on the Facebook link, and that's all very well and good. But Facebook comments disappear into the Cosmos in a matter of days, never to be seen again. Whereas a genuine blog comment is forever... or at least until 2012, when the world ends. Needy much? Yes, I  am. But I also feel like if I'm going to spend hours posting my hilarious and insightful thoughts and observations, I must know that more than one person is reading them! What I'm saying is, it wouldn't kill you to leave a comment here now and then, would it? And call your mother. (She's in Poland.)

The truth is, I don't have a whole lot to tell you people anyway. Life is rather slow at the moment. I've only been doing about one gig per week. The pointless day job continues. The weather is getting colder by the minutes, and I have been spending way too much time on the sofa, watching television, wishing I had someone there to snuggle with. Been going through one of my perennial existential "What the hell am I doing with my life?!" crises with which I'm afflicted every few months. Trying to just keep my head down and wait for it to pass.

(Literally as I typed the words above, I received an email from Nickel Spa with the following subject heading: "Live Penis Enhancement Seminar with Dr. Mark Solomon." Maybe it's a sign from the Universe.)

Seen two rather excellent movies lately -- Ben Affleck's "The Town" and the documentary "Catfish." Was particularly inspired by the latter. Putatively the story of a New York photographer who embarks on a Facebook romance with what he believes to be a beautiful and talented young Michigan woman, "Catfish" actually delves into deeper questions of identity, especially identity in our age of social networking, reality TV and general over-sharing.

I recently witnessed (from afar) the breakup of two social acquaintances who had been together for years. The relationship ended bitterly after it turned out one of them had lied to the other about some of the most essential personal information, including his age. The whole thing has been deeply unsettling for me, even though I am only casual friends with both of them. It brought me back to my senior year in college.

That was the year I fell in love for the first time. His name was Tony, and he was and is a terrific guy. (We remain friends to this day.) One of Tony's best friends at the time was a guy named Paul. They were both in their mid-20s and had been friends since they were undergrads. Tony, I and all our friends referred to Paul as "Dr. Paul," because he was an internist at the University of Michigan Medical Center.

Or so we thought.

We also thought Dr. Paul had been a member of Sigma Chi fraternity, and that he was single.

Through a chain of events too exhaustive to recount now, we ultimately found out that Paul was not a doctor. He was a phlebotomist -- a blood-drawing technician. He had never attended Sigma Chi (or any fraternity, for that matter). And he had a boyfriend with whom he shared an apartment. There were more lies, but those were the biggies I can recall.

I cannot explain how this incident rattled my innocent, 21-year-old brain at the time. I was so totally thrown by such pathological lying that I wound up writing a play based on the experience for my playwriting class. (It was called "Our Son, The Doctor," and I'm pretty sure it was horrible.) I just couldn't fathom inventing a whole biography of one's self and then maintaining it for years, even among one's closest friends. I still can't. It's hard enough maintaining my real life; who has time for an imaginary one?

Anyway, see "Catfish." It's good.

Gotta run. See you on the radio.

Homo on the air.

P.S. Connecticut folks, come see me with along with a hoard of hilarious homos in a few weeks!