THE PARTY IS ON. MARK YOUR CALENDARS.
It took long enough, but I've finally made arrangements for a launch party for Trust Fund Boys. Granted, the book will have been well-launched by then, but... any excuse for a party.

By the way, you're all invited. Hey -- it's a cash bar. Why not?

The details:

TRUST FUND BOYS: The Party
Monday, June 28
6:00 PM - 9:00 PM
at
POSH
405 West 51st Street (at Ninth Avenue)
Manhattan

I will be there. The paparazzi will be there.

Will you be there?

MEMO TO: HOT TODDY'S EMPLOYER
FROM: FAMOUS AUTHOR ROB BYRNES

Dear Toddy's Employer:

I thought you should know that Hot Toddy (known to you as Mr. Hot Toddy Pizeek) has not been adequately performing whatever it is you pay him for. Instead, he has been e-mailing me throughout the day, mocking people and... well, I think he was even making fun of Michael Vernon.

Oh wait... that was me. Never mind. Let's move on...

Now, I must say that I stand second to none when it comes to having a deep appreciation for Toddy's writing skills and sense of humor. Even though he doesn't find people hitting each other with hammers nearly as amusing as I do. Still, I am a great admirer. That is why it pains me to tattle on him.

I am doing it for him: if he loses his job, he will no longer be able to entertain me with his blog, since he will not have access to a computer. (I don't know that for a fact, but it seems pretty obvious that he does all his blogging from work. I mean, have you read his entries closely? I would certainly never blog from work. Nor would anyone else. Shut up!) Not only that, but his career options would be limited. He might even end up as Lainie Kazan's personal assistant!

Call me crazy, but I want better for Mr. Hot Toddy Pizeek. On the other hand, when I get e-mail at work that can only be described as NP-17-rated, well... I'm concerned. Something about 'smoldering'... 'tongue'... 'harder'... 'lunge'... 'kiss'... 'rageing'... you get the idea.

As the cool kids say, NSFW.

Thank you in advance for any measures you must take. If you discipline him, please forward the images to me at your earliest convenience.

I'M RICH RICH RICH!!!
This e-mail just in:

GREECE OLYMPIC 2004 PROMO LOTTERY INTERNATIONAL,
FROM: THE DESK OF THE PROMOTIONS MANAGER, INTERNATIONAL
PROMOTIONS/PRIZE AWARD DEPARTMENT,
ATHENS,GREECE
REF: OYL /26510460037/02
BATCH: 24/00319/IPD
ATTENTION: RE/ AWARD NOTIFICATION; FINAL NOTICE
We are pleased to inform you of the announcement of winners of the 2004 GREECE OLYMPIC PROMO LOTTERY, ATHENS, GREECE/INTERNATIONAL PROGRAMS held on 26TH APRIL 2003.
You are attached to ticket number 023-0148-790-459, with serial number 5073-11 drew the lucky numbers 43-11-44-37-10-43, and consequently won the lottery in the 3rd category.
You have therefore been approved for a lump sum pay out of US$950.000. 00 in cash credited to file REF NO.OYL/26510460037/02. This is from total prize money of $80,400,000.00 shared among the Twenty-nine international winners in this category. All participants were selected through a computer ballot system drawn from 25,000 names from Australia, New Zealand, America, Europe, North America and Asia as part of International Promotions Program, which is conducted annually.
CONGRATULATIONS!
Your winning is now deposited with a Finance Company in Utrecht insured in your name.Due to the mix up of some numbers and names, we ask that you keep this award strictly from public notice until your claim has been processed and your money remitted to your account. This is part of our security protocol to avoid double claiming or unscrupulous acts by participants of this program. We hope with a part of you prize, you will participate in our end of year high stakes US$1.3 billion International Lottery. To begin your claim, please contact your claim agent;
MR HOGVED PIETER
FOREIGN SERVICE MANAGER,
EQUITY SECURITY, UTRECHT,NEDERLAND
E-mail:: equity@winning.com
For due processing and remittance of your prize money to a designated account of your choice. Remember, all prize money must be claimed not later than 15TH JUNE 2004. After this date, all funds will be returned as unclaimed.
NOTE: In order to avoid unnecessary delays and complications, please, please remember to quote your reference and batch numbers in every one of your Correspondences with your agent. Furthermore, should there be any change of your address, do inform your claims agent as soon as possible.
Congratulations again from all our staff and thank you for being part of our promotions program.
Sincerely,
MR PAMYOTHY RAMADO
THE PROMOTIONS MANAGER, GREECE OLYMPIC PROMO LOTTERY,.
N.B. Any breach of confidentiality on the part of the winners will result to disqualification.

Woohoo! I don't know what I should spend my money on first! Wardrobe? A car? Back taxes? It's all so--

"Any breach of confidentiality..."

Shit.

Ah well. Back to work.

SIGH
I can't even begin to explain this referral.

This is the sort of thing that could get me into so much trouble with Bradykins...

THE FINAL WORD ON PUBLISHERS WEEKLY
Okay, PW didn't like my book. Screw it. I'm over it. I am past it. One random reviewer writing a short anonymous piece while hungover or sick or menstruating or whatever isn't going to ruin my week.

As my good friend, the writer Rabih Alameddine (who's the sweetest man in the world, as well as being enormously talented), wrote:

Oh hon, that's always awful. Getting a bad review is a killer. I know it won't make you feel good but the reviews of the second book are almost always killers. You know, these PW reviewers are all failed writers. All of them. Real reviewers suck but PW reviewers suck harder. They get paid piddling amounts and no one get to see their names.

So, in keeping with my new philosophy of getting past my recent sourness and returning to my happy, sunny, borderline-retarded disposition, I direct your attention to BoBo's blog, where my Portland friend has started separating the 'a clef' from the 'roman.'

APPARENTLY SHE HASN'T LEARNED HER LIMITATIONS
Next page for Rosie may be a gay parent mag
(Via Queer Day)

WHY DOESN'T ROLAND EMMERICH MAKE A MOVIE ABOUT THIS?

Attack of the Cicadas. Coming soon to a suburb near you.

Okay, so last week I brought you the nauseating story of the guy who got sick from over-indulging on cicadas. This week, we have cicadcas attacking both the Leader of the Free World and Zenchick. What next? Thank God I live on an island with almost no vegetation.

I have a confession... a confession even more embarrassing than that of my AOL account. I quake in fear before most bugs. Cockroaches? They rattle me for hours. Water bugs? Forget about it. If I find one in my apartment, I just move.

Last week, when Bradykins visited New York, he and his friends related how they had to swat away the cicadas that swarmed them in front of his home in Arlington. I really don't think I could cope. Give me threatening teens on the subway, aggressive panhandlers, crazed cab drivers... no problem. I am in control. But a bug approximately 00.00004% of my size turns me into a screaming schoolgirl. Go figure.

Ah well... in a few weeks the cicadas will be gone, and I'll be safe for another 17 years.

SEE YOUR FAVORITE BLOGGERS
Mark has posted photographic evidence of the event that was GB:NY. Notably missing: Addaboy.

(I so need a haircut. Friday. I promise.)

TECH HELL
If you read my previous post, you can imagine that my morning did not start off on a high note. I may get back to that later, when I'm not feeling so defensive that a person said that my baby is ugly. But for now, I have something new to bitch about.

(I know, I know... it seems as if I've been complaining about everything lately. But I haven't. For example, I didn't bother writing about how my roommate almost burned the apartment down in an alcohol-fueled middle-of-the-night stovetop grease fire, leaving the apartment smelling like Elizabeth, New Jersey for the past two days. Although I guess I now have. Huh.)

Anyway, my work e-mail crisis continues. And I'm about ready to scream.

What happened is this: two years ago when we secured the domain, all the details were handled by my Deputy Director. She subsequently left that job but continued the domain renewal. Yes, I asked for it to be transferred to me from time to time, but eventually the situation became one of those 'out of sight. out of mind' things. It was as if ROB'S-WORK-NYC.COM was just always magically there.

Until last week, that is, when she informed me that the domain was about to expire, and asked me (finally) to assume responsibility. I gave her my credit card information and asked her, as the registrant, to take care of the details.

On Sunday, the domain was suspended. E-mail was returned. Rob was greatly saddened.

Sadder still has been the past 24 hours trying to solve the problem. It seems that everyone has the new payment information, but no one has the authority to go forward. It seems there is some entity out there known as a reseller who has to give the go-ahead, but no one can tell me who that reseller is, and the only web site I can find to track things down has no phone number to contact. Yes, it has an e-mail address, but and e-mail address is sort of meaningless if you can't send e-mail because the domain is suspended!

(I guess this is where I have to confess that I have a backup AOL account. That usually embarrasses me, but in this case, it's proven to be fortunate.)

I have so many things I could and should be doing instead of unraveling this mess, but I have a feeling that this is how I'll be spending the bulk of my week.

I guess I'm getting an education about how the Internet works, but you know what? Ignorance truly is bliss.

OW.
Publishers Weekly doesn't love me anymore.

Find it yourself.

GREAT. NOW I'LL NEED TO BUY A SARI
Welcome to TRL: The Rob Log. So I understand you're looking for:

i want a rich woman in bombay for sex friendship & she will give money

italy speedo pool

little transex

mboto (here he is, and you can read the story here:)

"Hola Kids" language in action

And, of course, the ubiquitous Luigi Tadini.

Thank you all for your interest in me and my web log. It means so much.

TELEPHONE? WHAT'S A TELEPHONE?
My e-mail is out, and that pisses me off. I'm lost. I'm isolated. I'm cut off from humanity... alone... adrift... with only a telephone, fax and my own voice to communicate with the thousands of people strolling down Third Avenue who I can see out my window.

This is like some sort of sick, twisted reality show: Survivor: Outlook.

Sigh.

Well, anyway, while I'm paralyzed by my lack of e-mail, I'd better take the opportunity to ask if you want to join me and a few of my nearest and dearest at a Very Special Episode of Gashole on Friday, June 6. At this one-time performance, the beautiful and talented Karen Mack and Michael Holland (my imaginary boyfriend) are presenting a salute to the Tonys, which includes a show built around Tony-nominated songs, a big-screen TV, some food, and an open bar, all for the low, low price of $40. Is this a great country, or what?

If you'd like to go, drop me an e-mail or leave a comment. But move quickly! I'm making reservations on Wednesday, May 26.

POST-GB:NY STRESS SYNDROME
So Friday night was a lot of fun, even though I faded far too early. A week of not sleeping and five hours of white wine will do that to a guy. Plus, it's very hard pretending to be Choire Sicha. Trust me on that. (Manhattan Dan has the photographic evidence... by the way, I'm the one in pink. I told you about my pastel fetish, right?)

Too bad I got so drunk tired so soon, too, 'cause I was having a great time meeting people I had only known through their blogs. The rapport was immediate. Good people who I hope to see again. (And I now have a number of links to add, which I'll get to eventually. Promise.)

Oh yeah -- and we drunk-dialed Hot Toddy. Which was what I'm sure he thinks the evening was all about.

Anyway, while the rest of the kids continued to frolic around Manhattan for the remainder of the weekend, I was doing grown-up things, like getting drunk tired at a dinner party in Westchester on Saturday night and getting drunk tired watching regular characters getting killed off on Sunday night television. Vicarious cruelty. Gotta love it.

And now it's Monday morning, and I'm back to the same old, same old. An overflowing e-mail in-box, a desk piled with work, a thousand tiny headaches... whine, whine, whine.

On a more positive, upbeat, happy note, the Publishers Weekly review of Trust Fund Boys is supposed to be out today. I'll post it as soon as I receive it.

Unless it sucks, of course, in which case you're on your own.

ALMOST HERE
Well, yes, the gay blogger party of gay blogger parties is almost here (that sounds sort of pathetic, doesn't it?), but I was speaking about Trust Fund Boys. Correspondents are reporting that Amazon is shipping... Publishers Weekly reviews it on Monday... and now the InsightOut Book Club has posted this description:

Rob Byrnes, the author of ISO favorite The Night We Met crashes the non-stop party in New York’s snooty, wealthy gay world in this sexy, witty, fast-paced novel.

What’s a failed actor to do but change his name to Brett Revere and pretend to be rich in order to climb the social ladder? What Brett doesn’t expect is to meet a trust fund boy named Jamie Brock and fall head over heels for him. Especially when it turns out Jamie is playing the same game as Brett!

That doesn’t stop these two handsome young men from working together to keep their scams going. They are convinced that the answer to their money woes is in Manhattan’s wealthy, sugar-daddy-filled social circuit. As they set their plan in action, each begins to realize that maybe their unexpected love for each other is worth more than any trust fund. But how do two men who built their lives on deceit ever learn to trust each other and find out who they really are?

I can't take the excitement. Oh wait... yes I can.

Have a good weekend, kids! I'll miss you, too!

I'M NOT SAYING HE LOOKS LIKE A PERVERT. I'M JUST SAYING I'D BE WARY IF I FOUND MYSELF WITHIN TOUCHING DISTANCE OF HIM.
Female Employee Finds Web Cam Under Her Desk
(Via Drudge)

THE BIBLE IS DANGEROUS!
People who rely on a literal interpretation of the Bible have always worried me. Now it seems they should be worried about each other.

A woman is accused of pouring boiling oil on her boyfriend's face in an argument over a Bible verse.

Side note: this took place in Oregon. I'm just saying.

FROM THE DEPARTMENT OF BOO-FUCKIN'-HOO
Facing life after 40: Many of us suffer isolation, invisibility

Get over yourselves, grandpas.

THIS SHOULD SURPRISE NO ONE... RIGHT?

Lucky you! You are a BOMBSHELL AMONG BOMBSHELLS,
Marilyn Monroe. You are the ultimate woman.
You've got style, class, sex appeal and most of
all "the look". You are every man's
dream girl, no matter what era. You're the
essence of everything feminine and sexy, but
are a little ditzy at times. All you need is
some red lipstick and some Chanel #5 and you've
got it made. Watch Marilyn float across the
screen in "The Seven Year Itch" to
see how a little bit of body language goes a
long way!


Who is your inner bombshell?
brought to you by Quizilla
(Via Art Is For Losers)

ENTRY IN WHICH I REVERT BACK TO MY EARLY MORNING MODE
Fuck! Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck!

That's it. That is absolutely it. Everything I've come into contact with over the past week has turned into an absolute fucking nightmare.

Lights off. Lock the door. I'm going to Posh to forget about all of this.

ON A LIGHTER NOTE...
Once upon a time, Mark decided to come to New York, and a bunch of local bloggers thought it would be a good idea to get together. Then, a few more people wanted in... and a few more... and a few more... and then the BoiFromTroy decided to come to town, and, well... this happened:


Can I even begin to name the bloggers who are expected? Er... no, I can't. But just about every gay blogger in the area will be there, as well as a number of special out-of-town guests, so stop by. I mean, this is a big deal with it's own graphics, so you just know that a good time is in the making.

ANGER MANAGEMENT
I go through life holding my tongue and looking the other way. Yes, I get angry, but I try not to act on it. Anger is not a healthy emotion, and once the anger has passed, there's always too much collateral damage. Better to buck it up, swallow it, and get past it.

Usually.

Every now and then, though, I let it break through. And I hate myself the next day, even though the anger was probably justified.

Take last night, for example. Someone who means a lot to me remarked that lately I had been exhibiting an occasional short fuse. He was probably right, and it could be from a combination of factors. Maybe I'm letting my guard down a bit, now that I know him better. Maybe the incredible work stress he knows I'm under is eating at me. Maybe... well, pick any other factor you want. It probably works.

But my reaction was, well, angry. Angry that this was being thrown on me now, at a time in my life that doesn't allow for the distraction. Angry that it was being distorted, made significant only by the fact that I'm usually never angry. Angry that there was no perspective given to it, that the causes of my anger weren't taken into consideration.

Anger piled upon anger. The dam burst.

I think I fucked up a personal relationship that means a lot to me, and all because the accusation of excessive anger turned into a self-fulfilling prophecy.

The ramifications are exactly what I didn't want. I have a big meeting in an hour, and I've barely slept. I feel regret, even though I wasn't really wrong. Everything I've worked hard to not let happen has happened, because I got so angry I had to slam down a phone.

Anger sucks.

I'll probably delete this entry later... hell, I'll probably be embarrassed by it. Right now, I'm too punchy to think about it. In any event, this particular blog isn't the place you expect to find introspective confession, so it probably doesn't belong.

But, for now, I have to get it out somewhere. So here it is.

NEW YORK IS SUCH A FRIENDLY PLACE
The scene: West 52nd Street near Ninth Avenue. Early evening.

The players: Famous Author Rob Byrnes, Michael Vernon, Little Old Lady.

Action!

Rob and Michael walk toward Therapy.

Rob: We'd better have a quick cigarette before we go in the bar.
Michael: Good idea.

Rob and Michael light up as they continue down the sidewalk. Little Old Lady approaches from the opposite direction and sees cigarettes in their hands.

Little Old Lady: Why don't you shoot yourself! Why don't you just take a gun and shoot yourself.

Rob and Michael shrug and continue smoking as Little Old Lady stalks off, glaring at them over her shoulder.

Michael: What was that about?

Rob and Michael shrug again, finish their cigarettes, and discuss whether or not the encounter was blog-worthy. The End.

FIVE ODDSISH-AND-ENDSISH THINGIES, NONE OF WHICH WARRANT ITS OWN ENTRY
1. Tony Randall, RIP. (Via Michele, your source for breaking news... after TRL, of course.)

2. Campaign 2004 begins to shape up: A trucking dispatcher, Lancaster describes himself as “a beer drinking, bar brawling” candidate.

3. Coming next week: Publishers Weekly reviews Trust Fund Boys. Eek! It's almost real!

4. Lovin' me my Manhattan geography and trivia. (Via Gawker)

5. I need a haircut.

THAT DIDN'T TAKE LONG
May 17, 2004: Gay and lesbian couples start marrying in Massachusetts.

May 18, 2004: ABC plans reality TV show on wife-swapping.


[Yes, I know that the report is dated January 24. But if you haven't seen it, it's new to you.]

FINGER-LICKIN' GOOD.
What the fuck was this guy thinking? Great, now I'm gagging at my desk.

Better yet, the AP story links to this scrumptious site. I stopped reading at: "Most Americans don't realize that they are eating a pound or two of insects each year." Honey, you know why we don't know that? Because we don't want to know. Now shut up!

[Note: in fairness, I must point out that the following disclaimer is, in fact, present: "The University of Maryland and the Cicadamaniacs do not advocate eating cicadas without first consulting your doctor." The doctor in question, of course, would have earned a very specialized degree.]

This parade of grossness reminds me of something I read last week, but forgot to link to: New York magazine' article on "Extreme Eating." Fortunately (for you), the photos on-line are much smaller -- and therefore less graphic -- than the photos the jump out at you when you casual open the magazine in the privacy of your own living room.

I'm about to be put off food forever. As for you... bon apetit!

CODE RED
Due to a series of strange and possibly lethal coincidences, New York City will be hosting several out-of-town bloggers this weekend, including Mark and BoiFromTroy. In turn, a ton of New York bloggers will be welcoming them to the Center of the Universe. Expect to see people like Crash, Aaron, Michael, and, of course, me, as well as dozens of bloggers I don't read regularly but probably should, carrying our visiting brethren aloft through the streets to greet the cheering throngs drinking with them.

With so many gay bloggers gathered together in one place, though, there are national security issues. Therefore, I'm taking the liberty to designate the Portland bloggers to assume leadership of the blogosphere in the event of unspeakable blog tragedy (blagedy?)

This, of course, means that the Portland boys cannot drink while on call, but I'm sure they are up to that challenge. Fear not: New York City bloggers will return to international dominance by mid-morning Monday. Portland, you can be blind drunk by 4:00 Monday afternoon. Just like usual.

TO YOU, THIS MIGHT SEEM STRANGE, BUT TO ME...
Odd Google search ideas sometimes pop into my head, but 'Zimbabwean Porno Star' had not been one of them. Thanks to some random searcher, however, I now know that not only does Google turn up more than 200 hits on that topic, but that TRL is the top search result.

I am very proud, of course, but that probably goes without saying.

MY WEEKEND, AND WELCOME TO IT
Assignment: show two of Bradykins's friends around New York, and make it a meaningful experience.

Difficulty level: two days only.

Additional difficulty factor: both are from Colorado, and had never been to New York before; in addition, the possibility exists that they will never return. Therefore, the 'meaningful experience' factor.

Ready. Set. Go.

Friday:
* Posh.
* Vynl.
* Embassy Suites.

Saturday:
* The Winter Garden at the World Financial Center.
* World Trade Center Site.
* Lower Broadway.
* 6 Train.
* Grand Central Terminal.
* The Waldorf-Astoria.
* My office (to get a phone number I'd forgotten... and maybe to show off just a bit.)
* East Midtown.
* Lunch.
* Future Bloomberg Building.
* Bloomingdale's.
* Park Avenue.
* Madison Avenue.
* Central Park. (Note: disappointment that there were no pre-op trannies hanging from the trees. Must schedule better next time.)
* Tavern on the Green.
* Central Park West.
* Columbus Circle.
* 1 Train.
* TriBeCa.
* Embassy Suites; freshen up.
* Cab from WTC area to East Village. ("Look! There's the Brooklyn Bridge!")
* Gashole!
* Times Square. (Note: visit interrupted by massive thunderstorm. Guide protects visitors from rain; gets soaked; doesn't like getting soaked; proves his Manhattan street cred by being able to snag cab in torrential rain.)
* Embassy Suites.

Sunday:
* Battery Park Esplanade.
* Battery Park.
* Staten Island Ferry. (Note: this effectively gets New York Harbor, the Statue of Liberty, Ellis Island, the Brooklyn waterfront, Governor's Island, the Brooklyn Bridge, the Verrazano Narrows Bridge, the Lower Manhattan skyline, and, uh, Staten Island out of the way. Very time-efficient. And free. We like free.)
* Lunch in Staten Island.
* Return Ferry trip.
* 1 Train to Midtown to meet a friend at the Sheraton, where Brady and I first... you know.
* Ed Sullivan Theater.
* Friend cancels.
* Walk down Seventh Avenue to see Times Square when dry.
* Spontaneous stop at TKTS booth.
* Posh.
* Walk down Tenth Avenue in order to avoid Ninth Avenue street fair to reach 'The New 42nd Street.'
Dinner.
* Forbidden Broadway.
* Embassy Suites.

Monday
* 4:30 AM alarm.
* Get Brady to Penn Station and the girls in a cab to LaGuardia.
* Work.

I've seen enough of New York for now. If Mark wants to see anything next weekend, I'm sure a number of other bloggers will be happy to give him a guided tour. I'll meet them at the bar later...

READ IT HERE BEFORE YOU READ IT IN METROPOLITAN DIARY
Because I've been so wrapped up in odds and ends of joyless work drama this week, I totally forgot to share with you a deeply embarrassing story. And since the only thing I hate worse than being laughed at is being ignored, I'll happily share it with you.

First, you need a little background. I'm not the sort of person who likes the phone. In fact, I actively dislike the phone. Always have, always will.

And I hate people who yammer on their phones. Especially on, say, a New York City bus.

And I drink a bit. But you already knew that. When I do, though, a lot of my hard-and-fast rules go out the window.

So Tuesday night I had seven a few drinks and two shots with Michael after work, but -- since we hit the bar early -- it was still light out when I jumped on the M31 to go home. As the bus turned north on York Avenue, I remembered that I owed an old friend a call. [Sidenote: this old friend may or may not have been the model for 'Jamie Brock' in Trust Fund Boys, for those of you who have or will read it, by which I mean all of you.]

So I called. And we talked for the next ten minutes about, oh, gay bars and gay restaurants and gay couples and gay marriage and gay pets and gay gay gay gay gay. And then we said we'd talk again soon, and I hung up, as the bus pulled to the curb a few blocks from my stop.

Three young women stood to get off the bus and, smiling, looked toward the back of the bus, where I was propping myself up near the rear door. And then... they burst into applause.

I looked around, confused, sure I missed something. It was only when an older woman, seated near me and also smiling, glanced at me that I realized that the applause was for me.

"Me?" I asked. The older woman nodded.

Drunken bus-riding as performance art. I make commuting in New York City just that special.

I figure that in a month or so the other passengers will no longer recognize me. I think I can avoid the M31 until then.

LIGHT AT THE END OF THE TUNNEL
I am now almost to the end of the work week... perhaps the longest work week of my life. I have spent the past five days either buried in work, excruciatingly tense, or both. Mostly both.

But now I see that light at the end of the tunnel, welcoming me through the dark passage.

"Come to Happy Hour," it says. "It's Friday, your boyfriend is in town, and it's GDW."

Of course I don't answer it. Who talks to patch of light? I mean, even if you hear the light speaking first, that would be sort of weird, right?

But still, in a half-hour or so, I will turn off my computer, lock up the office, and depart for a place where I can hang out on a tiny porch with 93 other homosexuals and drink and smoke to my heart's content. Yay.

Oh yeah: and Bradykins is in town, too. Yay.

And I'll spend a blissful Friday night, Saturday and Sunday putting the darkness of this past week behind me.

Just in time to enter the next tunnel on Monday morning.

THE THINGS YOU COME ACROSS...
I have a new favorite Worst Blog Ever. I am laughing so hard I have tears streaming down my face. It's just that bad.

But I'm a nice guy, and therefore won't tell you how to find it. You'll just have to trust me.

But Christ, it's bad! I have to go back now and read some more...

MORE REPUBLICAN SAME-SEX MARRIAGE
The BoiFromTroy is not alone! There seems to be a lot more interest in same-sex pairing up in the GOP than I had realized... and I'm not just talking about John Derbyshire.

A few weeks ago, we learned of the carnality in the relationship between New York's governor, George Pataki, and State Senate Majority Leader Joe Bruno. Now, Republicans in my home turf are fessing up about their same-sex marriages!

Added Slattery: “Every family has disagreements. We had a disagreement and like every good marriage we worked it out.”

Sweet. And it's important that Rick Santorum has a support group when he's ready to take the plunge. Don't you agree?

WHERE'S ROB?
Here's a fun game: click on over to celebrity photographer Patrick McMullan's website and find the famous author hidden in a photograph. It's hours of fun for the entire family!

For more photographs from my glamourous life, click here. I'm not in any of the photos, but I was at many of these parties last Thursday night, and I know a lot of the people. Not the ubiquitous Luigi Tadini, who seems to be in every third picture, but many of the others.

A NEW LOOK
No, it's not your imagination. I've been meaning to move the furniture around and repaint the blog walls, and today was the day. (I sort of felt compelled, since so many visitors have been stopping by looking for entries related to tossing the salad and the definition of 'riding the short bus.')

I still need to tweak here and there, but I'm happy enough with the new look. As for you, well... you'll get used to it.

TEN THINGS THAT ARE ON MY MIND RIGHT NOW
1. Why was the word 'defenestrate' created? Who thought we needed a specific word to describe throwing something out a window? Realistically, more objects probably get thrown out doors, but we don't have a special word for that act, do we? Hmmm... maybe I'll make one up. When I have a few spare minutes.

2. I see that Kinja is still no longer including TRL in its gay digest. It used to. Have I become less gay than I was last week? Am I post-gay?

3. In my short blogging experience I've been linked to by A Small Victory, Buzz Machine, TMFTML, Queer Day, Gothamist, Lance Arthur, Wonkette, and the late, great Let Me Get This Straight. Each time one of the Popular Kids links to me, the number of visitors to TRL goes through the roof. My question is: is it wrong for me to get off on that?

4. It would be appropriate for IKEA to sell Swedish Fish.

5. I wish my first name was Christopher. Christopher Ryan Byrnes. Yes, that would be a good name. I also wish that I was a few inches shorter. I also can't begin to tell you why I wish either of those things.

6. I know it makes me sound really old when I tell people I started working for the New York State Assembly when Hugh Carey was still governor, but I can't help myself.

7. I'm loving the new and improved Blogger.

8. Right about now members of my Board of Directors are meeting with Captain Queeg my Chairman to determine my fate. Huh.

9. If I remember correctly, in the song "Welcome to the Theater" from the musical Applause, one lyric is:

You'll be a bitch,
But they'll know your name
From New York to Kokomo.

Kokomo is barely one-third of the way across the nation from New York, so what's the big deal? That's not fame. Fame is being known at least as far away as Provo, Utah, I would think.

10. I wish I was on a beach.

ON CINCO DE MAYO I MERELY GOT DRUNK AND CHATTY WITH A COUPLE OF OLDER WOMEN. NEXT YEAR, I'LL HAVE TO SET MY SIGHTS HIGHER
I'm glad I didn't have any liquids in my mouth when I came across this.

Poor Dan. He should've just gone to Union Square!

FROM THE DEPARTMENT OF 'I THINK I WOULD HAVE PHRASED IT DIFFERENTLY'
The Union Square Partnership is out to class up the neighborhood:



Rejected themes:
Cum to Union Square.
Union Square: Manhattan's Money Shot.
We'll Respect You in the Morning at Union Square.

ABOUT LAST NIGHT...
I'm not quite sure when this happened, but apparently someone replaced my blood with used motor oil and emptied a few ashtrays in my sinus cavity.

I don't even think bacon-egg-and-cheese-on-a-roll-side-of-hash-browns can help me now. I am doomed.

KINJA HATES ME
I'm very, very sad. Kinja robots no longer seem to be sweeping through, bringing the wit and wisdom of TRL to new audiences. The six referrals I got from Kinja will be missed.

I think I know what this is about, though. Nick Denton must have finally found out about RobBot-dot-com. (Scroll to the April 6 entry. You need the exercise.)

WHEN BRETT MET JOEY
A new excerpt from Trust Fund Boys has been posted. Knock yourselves out.

Miss the first one? It's here. And excerpts will also be available on the sidebar for the foreseeable future.

'Cause I treat you so very well.

DRESSING ON THE SIDE
Apparently, while I was off getting drunk in commemoration of Cinco de Mayo (preceding the days in which I'll get drunk to commemorate the links between fashion and art on Madison Avenue, Friday Happy Hour, and whatever other excuse I can come up with for Saturday night afternoon) every blogger picked up The Smoking Gun's report on the now-famous Oprah Salad-Tossing incident. I'm only in the 'D's on my blogroll and already I've come across it at Chrisafer's site and Defamer, and who knows how many other sites are yet to come.

This lemming-like behavior by bloggers can't be tolerated. It demonstrates an absence of imagination and---

Oh, who am I kidding? I am so pissed off that I'm late to the salad-tossing party. Damn damn damn!

Putting aside my envy over being scooped on the salad-tossing (which sounds sort of obscene, in and of itself), in reading through the complaint letters on TSG, it appears that Oprah may also be guilty of manslaughter:

"The Oprah show described with graphic detail a sexual term known as 'tossing salad.' It was so offensive that my child's head literally exploded."
[Given that correspondent's recent tragedy, I think his or her letter was notably sober and professional.]

Not surprisingly, even though it's 9:30 in the morning here in Manhattan and I should be eating something greasy to soak up last night's remaining traces of tequila, I've already decided on what I want for lunch. Go figure.

"YOU KNOW,' HE SAID, LEANING TO WHISPER IN MY EAR, 'FAMOUS AUTHOR ROB BYRNES TALKS ABOUT HIMSELF A LOT"
Heh. I just wanted to let you know that I'm self-aware enough to know that. Oh, and I don't care. Don't like it? Read some other crappy blog. There's a lot of them out there. Trust.

Now that that's out of the way, I have a treat for you. Since the publication of Trust Fund Boys is mere weeks away, I thought I'd give you a few excerpts each week. That way, you'll either become excited beyond belief, or realize that you have better uses for $23... ah, who am I kidding? You'll buy the book.

The first excerpt is self-explanatory (I hope) and is taken from the first six pages of the manuscript. (Yes, I know there's probably a typo or two; hopefully, we caught them in the editing process. Hopefully.)

Read Excerpt #1

BRIGHT LIGHTS, MR. BIG CITY
Jay McInerney just can't help himself:
"You have a full-time housekeeper. You spend $50,000 a year on cigars. You lunch at The Four Seasons. You also fly first-class, sometimes Concorde, and you stay at the Four Seasons in Milan. Your friend Luca di Montezemolo, the president of Ferrari, sends a Falcon 10 to pick you up in Paris and flies you to Bologna, where a helicopter is waiting to drop you at the Ferrari test track in Marinello, where you get to test-drive the latest road rockets."

(Or did I just give away my age. It's all about the second person singular, people. That and the Bolivian Marching Powder. Got it?)

WARNING: BEING THE MAYOR OF SAN FRANCISCO CAN BE HAZARDOUS TO YOUR HEALTH
Okay, I confess: I half-watched the atrocious made-for-TV move 10.5. But only for the special effects. Really.

I had to crack up during Sunday night's episode, though, when San Francisco City Hall collapsed as major politicians scrambled for their lives. The dialogue went something like this:

San Francisco Mayor: Governor!! Governor!!
California Governor: Mr. Mayor!! Mr. Mayor!!
San Francisco City Hall: Groan!! Creak!!
San Francisco Mayor: Gover-- AH!!!
San Francisco City Hall: CRASH!!

Admittedly, I wasn't building my nights around this movie, but did they even bother giving the mayor a name?

In any event, the stilted dialogue was so godawful that I had to laugh. I was trying to imagine their real-life counterparts in the same situation, and couldn't quite see them the same way the (alleged) screenwriters saw them.

San Francisco Mayor: Arnold!! Arnold!!
California Governor: Gavin! Don't worry!
San Francisco City Hall: Groan!! Creak!!
San Francisco Mayor: I've got same-sex weddings to perform here!
Same-Sex Couples: Eeek! Will anyone save us?
California Governor: I will hold up the City Hall Dome until you finish the ceremonies, Gavin.
Lesbian Couple: We'll help!
San Francisco Mayor: Thanks, Arnold!
San Francisco City Hall: Drat! Thwarted again!

As far as I could tell, the (probably unnamed) mayor in 10.5 was, er, removed from office in the collapse. The Governor fared better, merely getting trapped in the rubble for a while, which she probably preferred to being reunited with her ex-husband, one of those Duke Boys... 'Daisy,' I think.

But the whole mayor-buried-in-rubble thing got me thinking. Big-city mayors may often be reviled, but -- unlike Presidents or Latin American dictators -- they are seldom the victims of real violence or the destructive fantasies of writers.

Think about it. The roster of colorful mayors -- think Marion Barry or Richard Daley (both of them) or, well, pretty much any mayor of New York City -- is long, but no one seems to be aiming head shots at them. Don't get me wrong -- that's definitely a good thing -- but, with that track record, why are the mayors of peaceful, beatnik-y San Francisco in such danger?

In real life, of course, Mayor George Moscone was gunned down in 1978. Unless I've developed a big hole in my memory, Moscone is the only big-city mayor to be killed in the last few decades. But San Francisco mayors have also been killed off in films like The Towering Inferno and, now, 10.5, while their fictional counterparts in New York, LA, Washington, Chicago, and Boise are free to collect bribes, plot against political rivals, and rig elections without the specter of Death hovering over them.

I don't want to get all religious here, but perhaps there is something about the very position of Mayor of San Francisco that is almost Christ-like. That city's mayor is martyred to wash away the sins of... well, all other mayors. I mean, 'mayor' and 'martyr' even share four of the same six letters! Coincidence? I think not!

Clearly, the fictional, nameless Mayor of San Francisco is only the latest character to be killed off so that all other fictional American mayors can go about their business. That may not be right, but it fits the pattern.

However, I'd recommend that future fictional mayors stick a bit closer to the Governor when things start shaking and burning. Especially if Arnold has the role.

SITUATION: UNCHANGED
It will be a light blogging week. Somehow, I don't think that will impact on your life too much. However, I had a fairly relaxing weekend, so maybe I'm rested enough to tough it out through the upcoming week.

I must note for the record, though, that last Friday was the worst. The. Worst. Not only was work a ten-hour hellhole of soul-killing hate, but I then had to stand on Amtrak halfway to Washington, only to have Bradykins arrive at Union Station almost a half-hour late. (And baby... you know I love you, but -- if you're reading this -- don't ever do that again. Not even on days in which I'm in a good mood.) And then... well, let's just say that by Saturday morning, peace of mind had returned. And all that matters was that Friday was over.

Oh, by the way, bloggers are everywhere! The first person I saw in JR's on Friday night was Aaron Bailey. Small world, right?