AT WORDS POETIC I’M SO PATHETIC…
or, WHAT COLE PORTER WOULD HAVE WRITTEN IF HE WAS ALIVE TODAY AND A GAY BLOGGER IN MANHATTAN AND LINKING LIKE CRAZY ONE WEDNESDAY NIGHT JUST BECAUSE.

OH, AND IF COLE HAD A LOT LESS TALENT.

Guy #1:
You’re the top,
You’re an Appletini;
You’re the top,
You’re a Howard Deanie;
You’re a go-go boy
Who’s a so-so toy at Splash;
You’re a Missed Connection,
Bob Dole’s erection,
You’re Anil Dash!
You’re divine,
You’re the staff of Gawker;
You’re the line
Between ‘fan’ and ‘stalker’;
I’m diptheria
At Siberia,
I’m pop!
But, if baby,
I’m the bottom
You’re the top!

Guy #2:
No, you’re the top,
You are Paris Hilton;
You’re the top,
You’re… um… Charlene Tilton?
You’re news I don’t miss,
Thanks to Gothamist,
And Jen;
You’re the goddess Isis,
You’re Marie’s Crisis,
You’re Ambien!
Thou art swell,
You're the "Bridge… Down Under,”
You’re Michele,
Blogging A Small Wonder;
I’m a blogger who
Blogs through Blogger, who
Can’t stop,
But, if baby,
I’m the bottom,
You’re the top!

Guy #1:
No, you’re the top (goddamit!),
You are Aaron Bailey;
You’re the top,
You read Kottke daily;
You’re the clever pen
Wielded now and then
By Lance;
You’re a third-floor walk-up,
A blog they talk up,
You’re true romance!
You’re a nose --
No, you’re rhinoplasty;
You’re the prose,
Of the great D-NASTY;
I am nothing more
Than a cheap link-whore,
Who's GOP!
But if, baby,
I’m the bottom,
You’re the top!

Guy #2:
No, I said that
You’re the top,
You know frequent fliers;
You’re the top,
Like Elizabeth Spiers;
(Doesn’t rhyme with Spears,
Britney: have no fears,
You’re safe);
You’re Posh Happy Hour,
Giff Miller’s power,
You’re Calvin's waif!
You set the time,
And you never grovel;
You’re sublime
As a Rob Byrnes novel;
I’m a worthless bloke, or
A Bloomberg smoker,
A prop;
But if, baby,
I’m the bottom,
You’re the top!

Later that night, Guy #1 and Guy #2 finally realize that they have no option but to indulge in a night of mutually unsatisfying frottage, and the next morning decide to try to remain friends. That experiment lasts seventeen hours. Now they nod politely when they run into each other, then talk behind each other's back.

This post brought to you with apologies to the two bloggers to whom I didn’t link. And with further apologies to Cole Porter’s Ghost.

Starting tomorrow: no more caffeine or wine, or combinations thereof.

Maybe.

Maybe not.