I.R.A.

No, this blog post is not about the Irish Republican Army (though I support their right to armed resistance!)...this post is actually about the other I.R.A., I Require Attention, also know as Attention Deficit Childhood Disorder (ADCD)...it could also be called HANS--HIV Attention Need Syndrome.

Once the AMA (American Medical Association) or APA (American Psychiatric Association) makes a decision and it is listed in the DSM IV, I will let you know. (I kinda just wanted to see how many acronyms I could fit into the first few sentences in this blog).

But back to the topic at hand. In college, my good friend Kjersten dubbed me an IRA. Anyone that has ever met me knows that I am a bit of a clown, and while I have my quiet moments, I am generally the one trying to get folks talking, laughing, or somehow engaged. I try to be cognizant (at least at this point in my life) of how much space I am taking up (unless I've had a couple of G&Ts then all bets are off)...but the fact remains that I thrive on the attention of others. I am an extroverts extrovert and I start to go a little crazy if I am isolated from folks for too long.

In fact, one of my personal character defects is that I equate a lack of attention with a lack of love, which is super selfish. I have a ton of amazing love from so many people, and folks have their own damn lives. It doesn't mean that they love me less if they haven't had the time to see me lately, but in my own head/mind/spirit, if someone I care about hasn't checked in for a while or hasn't made an effort to get together, there is an arbitrary alarm clock inside of me that starts to sound an alarm...it wakes up my abandoment issues and next thing you know I am sending passive aggressive notes on Facebook.

Oy vey.

But I have noticed that there is a new twist to the game lately. In the past, part of my showmanship was to keep people laughing and keep them from looking too closely. I didn't want them to notice that I was hurting, using, unhappy or whatever it was that I wanted to keep people from seeing. Trust me on this my friends....isolation tips people off...if you want to hide whatever crazy you are going through....do it by making folks laugh and being a clown...they will never ask questions, think you are fun, and never really get to know you. Ahhhhh safety in public anonymity.

(Or to use one of my favorite metaphors of my own devising: the pitchers mound is the loneliest place in a softball game. You are right there for all to see but absolutely alone when it comes to letting that ball go. Once you let it go, other folks can help you get to your goals, but YOU have to first get that ball to a place where it can be of use....you got to get it across home plate....and then your teammates can step in.)

Sorry....tangent.


Lately I have noticed that my need for attention has multipled exponentially. Part of it, I think is simply loving the looks that this new fangled body of mine engenders. That part of it is fine. I appreciate the appreciation. But, I have noticed that now I spend half my workout trying to see if other people are looking. That, right there, is an issue.

Part of this is that living with HIV and having some some rejection(s) and hiding inside myself, staying away from the gym for long periods, and using all of my clowning and performance skills to keep people at a distance kept my inner child attention starved. It's sort of like dying of thirst while in the middle of the ocean...there was plenty of water but it wasn't the kind that could sustain life.

As I have worked very hard lately to keep my addiction in check, as I have begun writing and living much more openly about HIV, and as I have been working on my physical goals as well as my professional goals, I am becoming more comfortable with myself and who I am. As I am becoming more comfortable my attention starved inner child that has been hiding for so so so many years wants to be seen.

And I mean really seen. But instead of just wanting to be present and loved for all of who he is, my inner child is starting to throw temperantrums and demanding that everyone and all eyes look towards him.

I am about to give him an ass whooping.

Growing up poor, overweight, brown, queer, and then testing positive have left redonkulous scars...but just like the easy scars I get on my skin, they start to fade over time...and the new skin that emerges is pink and vulnerable for a time...it needs care and nurturing...and it doesn't want to be hurt again. That is exactly what Billy (that's my childhood name and what my family calls me)....wants to be protected, loved, and seen.

Now the work is to give him and myself the attention we all merit as human beings without it becoming pathological, overbearing, egotistical, or harmful.

Sometimes I just hate introspection...it usually means I got a whole bunch more work to do.

Guess what. I do.

Rookies vrs. Dish(Chargers): The Garden State

Last Sunday, I stepped out of my apartment and broke out into a sweat so thick and greasy I thought my scalp had started producing afro-sheen. At about 1:15pm it felt like I had left my building and walked directly into Satan's asshole in a steam room in Hell.

By the time I reached Scott Keeney's palatial building a short four blocks away, after bumping into my teammate Vinnie's Forest on the street, my socks were wet, my mouth was dry, and I was wondering if I could fake a stroke on the car ride to Jersey.

Yes, I said Jersey. As in New Jersey. As in the armpit of America, called the Garden State because some wise ass in the legislature had been an English teacher and got off on permanent and legislated irony.

When we reached the fields, though, I had to downgrade my dislike of New Jersey to mild loathing from outright disgust...as the park and the surrounding neighborhood looked homey...and, frankly the fields were better than anything we have in the city. Hell, the bathrooms had air conditioning and a pleasant old Italian man refilling the lavender air spritz while his palls were playing boccie ball outside.


There were actually two fields...one that was basically the Versailles of softball and the other one that was more like the Bastille of softball. We excitedly set up our stuff at the Versailles, at the insistence of Dr. Scott "Mouse Balls" Kenney, only to have our hopes smashed to pieces when an Ancient Umpire (from the Roman Empire, I think) slithered through the grass to tell us that we were, indeed, on the wrong damn field.

This week we were facing off with the Dish (Chargers). To begin with, there team is largely queer. They have one straight guy that our fearless leader (and a number of other Rookies) want to take for a spin around the boogina track, but other than that piece of man meat the rest are largely mouthy queens that are sometimes amusing and other teams could test the patience of a rock.


The games were awesome. Both games were nail biters. In the end it game down to the 7th inning in both games with the home team scoring the runs needed to win during their last up. The Rookies won the first game, and the Dish took us in the second game.

There were some awesome plays by Noah, Scottie, Bowman, and Herrick. Antony and Scott kept snatching line drives out of the air. Everyone played very well, even when the Dish really knocked up the obnoxious juice by trying to "intimidate" us...including me. Big Mike almost got a Big Bat in the back of the throat at one point. But Mama taught them mean old queens to back the hell up when she gets up to bat. And when they thought that they would single out Herrick in right field as a weak link, he snatched the ball up out of the air, and showed them how a REAL lady acts by not showing her coochie or opening her mouth. That's a real woman!

In the end, despite the fact that we were stank ass funky by the end, and with the loving support of Rich, Frank, special guest Gary Eggers, and Rich's parents (Bowman spent both games showing out for the parents in law)...we had a great time...and....well...there was air conditioning in the bathroom.

Rookies versus Diablitos: Attack of Captain Prison Porn

Last weekend marked the official start of Summer. Don't look at me crossed eye bitches. Summer starts when the first softball is pitched in the opening game of the queer Summer softball season. Mother Nature is a drag queen, and she will not be denied.

On a beautiful sunny Saturday afternoon, the Ladies of the Rookies (and assorted cheer-wives) gathered at the newly renovated, highly sparkling, goose shit covered softball fields of Randall's Island. With hope in our hearts, we started off with a little practice on a field which amounted to a giant Port-a-Potty for the Canadian Water Fowl nation.

This year we are joined by two Nookies and on sNookie. Only two of the three were there, and I have not yet met our new Gaysian. I super duper heart both Scottie and Roy...and they both bring Super Secret Special Powers to our team. Roy has the power to mesmerize any man within two yards of his Shimmy Shake and Scottie has magic booty shorts that cause spontaneous orgasms when he rubs his stark albino white (yet firm and shapely) thighs together.

With these new magics added to our team, you would think we couldn't lose.

But we did. Twice.

This week we played the Diablitos (for those of you that are Spanishly challenged that translates to "Little Devils"). Los Diablitos had been in a lower division last year, but after he was discovered that they recruited half of their team from Yankees that had been suspended due to steroid use, they dropped out of the season last year and moved up a division this year. The game started off with a bang, and the Rookies scored a number of runs. At first, I thought we had the game in the bag. The opposing teams defense was about as firm as a roofied sorority girls at a sex offender special invitation taping of Girls Gone Wild.

Then we met their secret weapons: Latino the Hun and Captain Prison Porn. These two got up to bat and acted like they were offspring of Superman and the Bionic Woman. I bet they could both shoot lasers from their dicks and shit radioactive turds.

The worst was Captain Prison Porn. He was like 8 feet tall, probably had a 5 foot dick, go go gadget legs, was tatted to hell, and literally every time he hit the ball it landed on the far side of the neighboring softball field.

For those of you that are sports challenged, you are not allowed to position your outfielders on the pitching mound of the field behind you as that would be rude to the team playing on that field.

And we are all about manners.

Frankly, and I ain't afraid to say it, the other team should be ashamed of themselves. For real. Those two dudes could easily play in the highest division of our league, and we are smack dab in the middle. If I wanted to play with a Yankee, I would drape myself in needles full of anabolic steroids and have Roy teach me how to do the Man Shimmy.

In the end, we had fun, and we did mighty well considering the genetically engineered opposition. We had some awesome plays (and some not so awesome plays), and I learned to never listen to Reggie when he is coaching third base.

I can't wait until this weekend's games.

P.S. A special thank you to our cheer section which included two of my besties from Minnesota that were visiting us, Rodrigo and Nubia, as well as Scottie's Hotty Boyfriend Brendan (wife swap anyone?), my very own love David (pictures by him), the ever sexy Rich, and also a surprise visit from Dan's Mom, sister, and nephew!

I Got a Vagina on my Left Testicle

Ok. So. It isn't actually a vagina. But it does kind of look like a little pink vajajay. Let me be clear, I have no envy of the miracle of life. I don't have vagina envy. I have never wished for a clitoris or a visit from the "monthlies." I don't see pregnant women and hate them for their ability to bring forth new human beings. Actually, when I see pregnant women during the summer months, I want to shake them and tell them to wait until winter before getting knocked up next time. It's just too damn hot to walk around with an extra person floating around in ones midsection.

No no, my little, rapidly shrinking (to use the word of my ex boyfriend who couldn't remember how to say the "C" word in English) cunk, is actually the left over remains of a staph infection on my left teste.

Talk about disgusting (the staph infection, not vaginas. Vaginas are a gift from God and should not be disparaged, particularly by stupid sexist men).

At the end of last week, I was just minding my own business when I started to get a fever. Both Thursday and Friday I felt like a big old ball of crap. My caca levels were extremely high. Then I noticed that my left nut had basically doubled in size. By Saturday, I was feverish, and I noticed that my nut had started to grow a mouth.

That's when I recognized the little beast for what it was. A staph infection. I had a staph infection once before...on my elbow and on my leg. The first time it showed up, I had no idea what the hell it was. I named it the Lump. That time, it didn't "open" by itself...and by open I mean it didn't create a fissure from which brilliant neon lime slime oozed out. That time, on the 4th of July, as I could hear the rockets red glare and all that shit, I took a cab to the emergency room, and the doctor shot my giant lump with Novocaine (aka liquid fucking fire)...and then sliced into it...and tried to suck out some of the juice with a plastic syringe.

That was about as fun as being fisted by Elizabeth Hasselbeck wearing Michael Jackson's glitter glove and holding a handful of rusted nails dipped in rattlesnake venom.

So, once I knew what this little (aka softball sized) nut affliction happened to be...it was off to the doctor. Before I left, however, I went to war on the nut. I squeezed it, and squashed it, and finally, using my bare hands, grabbed a handful of the banana slug that had taken up residency in my crotch, and yanked it out.

And there, left behind, was a vagina.

I stared, fascinated, at a 1/3 inch deep hole that was about a half an inch long. I had no idea there was that much space and/or meat between the surface of my nut sac and the actual testicle itself. The poor teste had fled to a lower part of the nut sac and was huddled against its twin brother, attempting to break through the pouch wall, and move into the other half of my ball sac.

The doctor actually told me that I was lucky that it had opened on my own cuz, in her words, "it saved me a cut."

The thought of an ER resident coming at my balls with a scalpel after, perhaps, a recent rough breakup from her long term boyfriend that she caught mounting a charge nurse, almost made me flee from the ER before getting my prescription for nuclear antibiotics. I figured I would take my chance with the flesh eating bacteria over the over worked, exhausted, bitter, Asian girl who might decided to buck the model minority stereotype and go all Nip/Tuck on me.

Now, less than a week after being on antibiotics, my little vagina is almost gone. Where once was a giant angry girl with a guitar vagina...oozing spooge and waving at passersby...is now a cute little innocent virgin vagina....not yet knowing the evils of the world and men...cute...pink...and gentle.

I will be happy when my little foray into intersexuality is gone.

Until then...I guess I get to check another box on demographic forms.

The human body is an amazing thing.

The Homerun That Almost Wasn't: Rookies vrs Renegades

So, this past weekend, we played our last games of the regular softball season. Let me tell you, this summer has seemed to sprint by. It has been as if Lady Summer got up on some methamphetamine, smoked some crack, and shoved some speed up her butt while riding the Energizer Bunny across the last few months. It's seems only the day before the day before the day before yesterday that I was on a cold Astroturf field in Chelsea, in 55 degree weather, freezing my ass off, trying to pitch a ball with frozen fingers (and testicles) during softball try outs. Now, it's hotter and wetter than Carnie Wilson's coochie up in here, the softball season is over, and we are staring down the sweaty throat of the playoffs.

We ended the season with a whimper...then a KABOOOOOOOM!

The first game was about as special needs as it could get. First of all, my arm seemed to have decided that it didn't give a fuck what my brain was telling it to do. It was going to throw the damn ball wherever the hell it wanted to throw the damn ball. I tried chanting on the pitcher's mound, I called up my ancestors, I invoked the Spirit of God, and my hand flipped me the bird and pitched the ball to center field. Thank GOD Reggie pulled my ass off the mound. After doing a great infield shuffle, I ended up spending the rest of the first inning at first base (foolishness).

Fairly quickly Reggie realized his mistake by putting me on first. I was then banished to right field. The Renegades saw a weakness..and to their credit I did miss two balls that they smacked out my way. The third ball, however, and I caught and they learned some respect (though it was temporary).

The Renegades are a very good team, and they are a sweet team. They don't give attitude, they smile when they are beating us, and have almost as much fun as we do. I like them.

After one particularly terrible inning, we found ourselves down by seven runs. Thank GOD Mason showed up. I like when Mason gets real angry (but not at me....ooooooooooooo not at me)...and after they tried pullin' some shenanigans...all of a sudden Mason was flipping and rolling on the ground, catching balls like they were flying at him off the Rock (God Bless Dwayne Johnson's fine ass).

It was during the first game, that I hit the home run that almost wasn't. I got up to bat, and I smacked the ball all extra hard. I was sure one of the bionic bitches in the outfield was going to catch it...but they pulled a me...it hit the tip of some one's glove and kept going...and so did I. I ran right up to and OVER first base without touching it. I realized my mistake and tried to run back, but Mason started screaming for me to run. Now, Mason is possible the God of Softball, and he knows all the rules, so I thought...damn maybe there is some special rule that you don't actually have to touch 1st base, so I kept on running. I got to third and started to slow down, and Reggie almost punched me in the face. I kept going and basically danced around the catcher to make it home. Thank GOD no one from the Renegades saw that I had missed first. The next pitch went and it was a moot point. The run stood, and I was a lucky mo fo.

The second game was magical. Everyone on our team was doing their thing. Mason was killing it in the outfield. Lenny pulled some magic in the in field. Scott was pitching fire and struck out MULTIPLE people. And Steve Herrick was doing some Go Go Gadget bullshit in the outfield and was making my penis get mightily erect. Of course, every one's favorite heterosexual ANThony...was doing it to it too. And....lo and behold by the Grace of Softball God (Mason), we BEAT THE RENEGADES!


Miss Reggie walks over and lets us know that we, by winning, kept the Renegades out of 1st place in our division. For about the time it takes for a neutrino to burst into and out of existence I felt badly...between the Renegades the the D!cks...I mean Demons, I would much rather the Renegades win. Of course...I would much rather US win most of all, and I take the win with a smile and a giggle.

In the end we had a blast, we played well, and it was so hot that soul got a sunburn (and so did Vinnie cuz the punk wouldn't put on sunscreen when I told him to do so).

I sure do hope we play fall ball.

Rookies versus Saints: Parking Ramp Softball

Yesterday morning, before the cock crowed, and before my morning wood had time to fall…I was already up, showered, slathered up in Icy Hot, and on a train heading down to Hudson Park to play some gay softball.

I followed the directions from the softball league’s website, which led me first to the Spring Street stop off of the C/E. Let me tell you, the far western edge of Manhattan, at the northern border of the West Village and the Southern limit of Chelsea on a Saturday morning is as dead as Walter Kronkite. God rest his soul.

Walking a block off the West Side highway and it being quiet enough to hear the voices in my head scream at one another was damned spooky.

Now, I have to begin this by saying thank you to Rookie Joe who had the foresight (I almost typed foreskin) to warn the Nookies on our team (aka me and Vinnie)…that the fields we would be playing on this week…were on the piers…meaning actually sitting above the river…and indoors.

Huh?

Sure enough, as I turned down Houston, I caught sight of what looked like a giant parking garage that had Pier 40 emblazoned across the top. I asked the bored looking female guard in the security station where I might find a gaggle of softball players, and you could see the visible strain and summoning of energy it took for her to thumb over her shoulder deeper into the parking garage.

I thought she might be high, which, considering she was on security detail, would have been very irresponsible of her.

But, sure enough, when I looked down what I had thought was a parking ramp but turned out to be a broad pedestrian tunnel, I saw that the parking ramp was hollow in the middle and contained a massive chemical green Astroturf multi-use field. One of those rubberized numbers, with the fake grass growing up out of the Dupont dirt that had all kinds of lines crisscrossing it so that it could be any number of sporting surfaces. Like me, it was very very versatile.

Only a tiny bit tardy, I showed up (before the coach I might add), and immediately fell in love with Rynnie…Scott’s adorable niece visiting her uncle. Rynnie was a softball player, a cutie patootie, a fierce Southern Baptist that had a wicked giggle and loved her big old gay uncle. How could one not fall in love with her instantly?

Immediately, folks asked me where oh where was Vinnie. To which I said…am I my neighbors keeper?

The bitches said yes.

It was then that I checked my phone and discovered that Vinnie hadn’t woken up until around 8:30 am (the games started at 9)…he said something about an unfortunate wax accident involving the dining room table, some candles, and lots and lots of Grey Goose.

Vinnie should have brought the candles to light a fire under our asses cuz we could not wake up for that first game.

We were playing the Saints, and, bless their hearts, they are the last place team in our division. They have solid fundamentals, but they just don’t have much power. Well…Saturday morning they were the motherfucking Electric Company and shocked our asses by pulling out a win in the first game.

Alas, they had no idea that once the sun truly passed over the Prime Meridian that all their earlier victories would come to naught. Once the sunlight cleared the horizon…the Rookies were on that ball like Reggie on…well…balls.

First of all, Noah had returned from exile in New Jacked Up Unemployment Rate City aka Detroit. And you know Miss Noah may wear a corset, but instead of the vapors she channels her antebellum feminine oppression into her bat. Combining that with Tom Ward, who was once again acting like Derek Jeter was a bitch compared to his batting, and with some 50 and loving it acrobatics by Joe…we were feisty and swinging our low hangers way out into the field.

In one inning we scored 10 runs. I almost peed on myself with joy. As a matter of fact, I did. But I blamed it on Noah’s dog Ludo. Them’s the breaks when one person can talk and the other one can only bark and look guilty.

In the end, we had a blast. Rookie-in-Absentia Eddie Buggie was with us, cheering us on, and base coaching. And everyone acquitted himself mighty well. Great games Rookies. Heyyyyyyyyyyyy.

A Little Bit About Me

My gal pal Divine Grace sent me one of these ridiculous questionairres via Facebook. Her answers were, well, hilarious. I figures since 1) it's nice sometimes to share a bit about myself with my readers that isn't angry or overly deep, and 2) I am exhausted after playing gay softball from 8am until about 12pm and then working out for an additional two hours, and 3) since I just made and ate a kick ass dinner, and 4) I am lazy as hell, I thought I would repost the survey I answered right here.

By the way...Divine has an amazing blog that is so so wrong yet oh so damn right. Click on her picture, and it will, like the song, take you there.

So here it is, the survey Miss Divine sent my way. Thanks Sugar...you owe me 20 minutes of my life that was sucked into a great Survey Hell Vortex.


1. What time did you get up this morning? 7:32am

2. How do you like your steak? If it isn't still mooing it's overcooked.

3. What was the last film you saw at the cinema? Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince (I vomited 15 times during the movie)

4. What is your favorite TV show? Is that the box with the moving pictures that tells me stories?

5. If you could live anywhere in the world where would it be? In the land where Rivers are made of cosmopolitans and lakes are filled with fried chicken and collard greens.

6. What did you have for breakfast? A banana...big...thick....long...

7. What is your favorite cuisine? Hmmmmmmmm I love NOOOOODLES. Thai, Vietnamese, but not Chinese...too short.

8. What foods do you dislike? Dirt.

9. Favorite Place to Eat? (I almost peed myself at Divine's response to this one)...preferrable at the kitchen table.

10. Favorite dressing? Creamy Italian...or a Creamy Puerto Rican.

11.What kind of vehicle do you drive? I don't think riding the subway counts as driving.

12. What are your favorite clothes? If it doesn't have a hole in the crotch and soy sauce stains on it...I'm good.

13. Where would you visit if you had the chance? Uranus or any anus for that matter.

14. Cup 1/2 empty or 1/2 full? I prefer to take my fluids intravenuously.

15. Where would you want to retire? By the time I am old enough to retire...the retirement age will have been raised to "dead."

16. Favorite time of day? Dawn/Dusk...it's when the vampires know to wake up and go to bed.

17. Where were you born? Duluth, Minnesota...I can pretty much promise I was the only mixed race, black, white, puerto rican, and native american born there in 1977....or since.

18. What is your favorite sport to watch? Anything where the guys have round butts and small tight shorts.

19. Who do you think will not tag you back? President Obama

20. Person you expect to tag you back first? Michael Jackson

21. Who are you most curious about their responses to this? Chastity...I mean Chaz...Bono

22. Bird watcher? Only after I've had too much absinthe.

23. Are you a morning person or a night person? I only wake up at Noon and Midnight.

24. Do you have any pets? David.

25. Any new and exciting news you'd like to share? I qualified for projecticle vomting for the 2012 summer games.

26. What did you want to be when you were little? A Vampire

27. What is your best childhood memory?Have you seen my childhood?

28. Are you a cat or dog person? Dogs....whether on two legs, four legs, or doggie style.

29. Are you married? I ain't got no ring yet...at least not one above my penis.

30. Always wear your seat belt? Man...I grew up watching those crash test dummy commercials. Heck yeah.

31. Been in a car accident? A fender bender.

32. Any pet peeves? PEOPLE WHO SMACK THEIR FOOD SHOULD BE GUTTED AND FORCED TO EAT THEIR OWN INTESTINES.

33. Favorite Pizza Toppings? Anything I can fit on top of it made of once living flesh.

34. Favorite Flower? Sunflower. What. I'm gay.

35. Favorite ice cream? Vanilla with chocolate covered almonds. Same way I like my men.

36. Favorite fast food restaurant? Burger Queen

37. How many times did you fail your driver's test? Never. Of course, I didn't take it til I was 23.

38. From whom did you get your last email? Lynne Serpe candidate for NY City Council from Astoria

39. Which store would you choose to max out your credit card? Christopher Street Adult DVD

40. Do anything spontaneous lately? I just farted.

41. Like your job? Love it.

42. Broccoli? Love it.

43. What was your favorite vacation? College.

44. Last person you went out to dinner with? Nasia

45. What are you listening to right now? I farted.

46. What is your favorite color? Cash Money Green.

47. How many tattoos do you have? Uno...for now.

48. How many are you tagging for this quiz? A few.

49. What time did you finish this quiz? Unfortunately, it hasn't ended yet.

50. Coffee Drinker? I brew my own...it comes out if you squeeze my left nipple.

Rookies versus Demons

I finally figured out how to pitch a damn softball. Which, is hilarious, since I am one of the pitchers for my beloved team, the Rookies. Before yesterday, I thought I had it down. I had this habit of starting off a game throwing more balls than strikes. My old team used to call me, lovingly, one in five...meaning one strike for every five balls. Not a good average. Usually, around the second inning, I work it out so that I throw enough strikes that the opposing team can't risk not swinging. But, it was more luck and prayer than actually knowing what the hell I was doing (plus umpires that felt sorry for me out there...all alone...walkin' folks like they were in a parade).

Well, yesterday I discovered that if you actually hold on to the damn ball, firmly, and then release it...instead of letting it roll off your finger tips, the ball tends to go where the hell you want it to go.

I am a genius.

Yesterday, we played the Demons. The Demons (at least in attitude) lived up to their name. The first game was not a shining moment for our team. First of all, I was too terrified to pitch against the damn team. I chickened out right before we began, which put Scott on the pitcher's mound and me at 2nd base.

I had never played any base...let alone 2nd base...(outside of the bedroom) in my entire life. The first game was hilarious as both the umpire in the in-field and Mason, playing shortstop, coached me between almost every pitch. Mason, who I just adore, would tell me where I should throw the ball when it came to me. And come to me it did...a couple of times I did what I was supposed to do...a couple of times I sure as hell didn't. At one point, Dan made a minor error in calling time, and Mason, aka Miss Softball Rules 2009, let him know that he hadn't done it quite right..at which time the very loving “Blue” out next to me exclaimed...”See...it's a learning experience for everyone.”

Lord have mercy.

During the first game, we were the home team, which meant that we were entitled to the last at bat. By the time the 7th inning came around, it was 15-0. The Demons were shovin' their pitchforks in our collective culos.

At one point, I was on first, and Mason was the 1st base coach. He gave me the usual coaching around when to run and when to stay put and when to put my booty up in it and get on to 2nd base. Whoever was batting after me smacked the ball, and I sprinted to 2nd base...only to have the ball go foul...and I waltzed back...at which point Mason declared, "That's ok honey...they all wanted to see your ass when you run anyway."

Mason knows just what to say to make a gay's day. (David snapped a couple of shots of me bent over on base...and I can say with some pride that the lunges and squats are working their magic).

At the end of the 1st game, it was my last at bat, and I saw the pitcher beckon to the outfielders to move in closer. That, of course, pissed me off, and I whacked the ball away out into left field.

That'll show 'em.

And then, I believe it was Joe...though I can't quite remember... came to bat, whacked the ball good, and we ended the game 15-2. Someone from our team exclaimed...”Ha! So much for a shut out.”

And the Demons were pissed.

I mean come on people...you were beating our booginas into poontang dust, and you are going to get all uppity because we finally managed to score in the last inning of the game. It's only GAY softball people.

Oh yeah, that's right, more than half of their team was straight.

Well, at least we were playing gay softball. We have our token straight, Antony, but, you know, he's sensitive, so that doesn't really count.

The second game was much better. First of all, I was pitching...which was better for the infield since Mason, Dan, the Umpire, and the Lord Jesus Christ didn't have to spend half their time coaching me and the other half praying I would be where I was supposed to be when I was supposed to be there.

My first couple innings pitching sucked, then I had the revelation of which I wrote earlier, and from that point on, I believe I walked one or two people for the last six innings of the game. How about that!

My most shining moments came in the second or third inning of the second game when two line drives were hit directly to me. I snatched both of them up and managed to get them to 1st base without overthrowing it or takin' out any wildlife. My team, as always, was loving...and Reggie was catching and kept smiling even when I was throwing balls directly at the damn batters.

But, even more impressive than my bachata-ing while pitching, was the fact that we were giving just as damn good as the Demons. They were the 1st place team, and for almost the entire game we were never more than one or two points behind them. Going into our last at bat, we were three runs down and, thanks to some crazy shennanigans by Dan aka Speed Racer and Mason aka Mama's Boy...we scored two runs. The Demons looked mighty mighty pissed.

I repeat...it's only gay softball.

The day had some amazing plays, particularly by our returning Rookie Tom Ward...who kept running with Mason basically waving a stop sign in his face....just missed being tagged out...and politely hopped onto home plate. He scored...and I had to use the defibrillator on Mason.

Did I mention that I also caused several team members a minor heart palpitation when my third base coach waved me in...and I kept right on running...almost right into the catcher...who was holding the damn ball. I made it back to third, but I think I permanently damaged one of Scott's aorta.

In the end, we lost the second game 8-7, but we had a good time...and with only 10 people actually showing up to play....a bitch was real tired by the time we left.

Much love to Rich aka Pom-Pom McCooties and David aka Tight Booty Berube for cheering us on...and much love to the boys for the ride back into the city.

PS Steve Bowman also made some power plays...and once revealed his mean face over the Demons anti-social autistic antics...I love Steve.

Roosevelt Island of the Damned: Rookies versus the Dish

Updates: The issues detailed in this story about the interactions with members of the Roosevelt Island community have been referenced in a number of local media sources from Roosevelt Island: NYC 10044, Roosevelt Islander, and Roosevelt Island 360. This update is from 5 June 2009.


(Please note...there are no photos from the game this week as David was off playing Jets and Sharks with a friend of ours...we are going to have a rumble after I post this blog.

The journey to and from Roosevelt Island was somewhat of an adventure yesterday. I arrived at the subway station at 57th and 6th street to find that the F train was running in only one direction. Of course, being new, I was convinced that the island was down by Brooklyn...and when I saw there were no downtown trains I became dismayed. I approached the glass box habitat of the MTA workers, and I laid my anxiety at their feet.

“Hey, since there are no downtown trains, how do I get to Roosevelt Island.”

“Roosevelt Island is uptown.”

“Oh I am so new.”

At this point the Blatino behind the glass started cracking up and said, “Can you say that again, please.”

“I am so new.”

At that point he fist bumped me...our fists separated by about an inch of Plexiglas.

“How do I get to the island then?”

“Just go down those stairs right there. And, you know, there is a mental hospital on the island...you may wanna check it out.”

I cracked up and went to find my train.

The station should have been a clue as to what I would find on the island. The stop was largely deserted. It was sort of like the opening salvos of a horror movie. The unwitting Manhattanites boarding the Hell Train populated by the souls of the damned.

I emerged onto Roosevelt Island to a magnificent view of the Manhattan East River skyline. The island itself was an idyllic massive public housing project. For an island that was first settled by Dutch settlers in 1659...the island had very little in the way of architecture that predated the 1960s. Notable exceptions were a couple of old disease sanitariums, a church, and a house from the 18th century.

The island was beautiful. It was a sunny day marred only by the intense number of amputees roaming the streets. For the first time I saw a wheelbed. Much like a wheel chair with two large wheels in front and two smaller wheels in the back, but it was wheeled by a gentleman that had nothing below his butt checks.

I surmised there must be a hospital that focused on amputees nearby. I later found out that I was indeed correct.

I arrived at the softball fields a good 15 minutes before any of my teammates. I spent my first ten minutes staring out at the East River, at an industrial site, chanting and sending good juju to the team.

Once some of the other boys arrived, we began chatting with some of the folks there from the other teams already on the field. Turns out Roosevelt Island is a little bit like the Village of the Damned.

The field on which we would be playing was beautiful. A stand of birch trees at one end. A natural outcropping of native rock to the side of the fields. And raging idiotic local residents screaming racial and homophobic epithets out of their apartment windows.

Turns out when the other teams first arrived the locals had decided that despite the fact that our league had purchased permits to play on the fields that we should bow to them and allow their little rug rats to play ball on the field. It got so rowdy that the police came and arrested one of the parents. The families scattered, but mid-way through the second game of the first set of teams playing, we were treated to a whole host of obscenities. The best part ever was that the man screaming these things was sitting in the window with his two little boys standing next to him. That's what I call good parenting.

I wanted to scale the building and bitch slap him.

It also didn't help that a guy from one of the other teams playing was a complete and total drama queen, and was advising us...in the middle of the day...surrounded by amputees and old ladies...to walk in groups and carry our bats in our hands. Responding to idiocy with barely veiled racism is not necessarily the way to go.

That was the bullshit of the day....

The good part of the day started when Clay showed up. He was wearing a few too many clothes for my taste. I would have preferred him to play the entire game in a pair of boxer briefs and a whistle. But, you know, that's just me. We were sitting and chatting and it came around to the...ummm....guess the ethnic mix game. Clay's guess was that I was a Hisblasian. After correcting him, telling him that I am actually a Blatinoindiwhite, he raised his hand in a very pontifical manner and declared “Hisblasian.”

It was great to see the ladies of the Rookies. Noah was crackin' the whip, including at one point when Bowman and I were having a nice chat in the outfield and the Dish had the nerve to smack a ball to Right Center. I mean. Really. Who does that.

My other gem play of the day was when I picked up the ball, the play was at second, and I threw the ball to first. I am so awesome.

We had a great game. I smacked the ball way oh way out to the edge of the field. Reggie, after threatening to pack us all up and ship us to work on a cotton field in Alabama if we didn't play aggressively, took the field to fill in for Jim who was off doing something or another. Bowman, Noah, Herrick, Scott, Clay, and everyone else treated that ball like it was the back of a Mormon missionary's head. Smack! Smack! Smack!

In the end we won 15-8.

I had to leave before the second game, so I am not sure how that one faired. If Clay did remove any more clothing, I am going to be deadly upset. But, the first game was a blast, even with the idiots in the windows and the unclean souls on the train ride over.

(Update...I found out that we lost the second game 12-4. Clay should definitely have taken his clothes off.)

Goodbye Slammers, Hello Rookies!

This morning, after a night spent in deep battle with my explosive colon, I woke up at 9:30, look at David, kissed him, and started to panic. This morning was the second and final draft for the Big Apple Softball League. I was supposed to get a softball glove last night on my way to chanting, but, due to marital strife, I was unable to do so.

So, this morning, not only did I have to be in Chelsea by 11am, I also had to get to City Sports (in the opposite direction of the park), get a glove, and then get to Chelsea.

We did it.

I walked up to an astro turf field on West 27th, that was slowly being filled by queers of multiple genders, wearing numbers stuck to their backs, and eyeballing each other as they warmed up with some ball throwing. I met a kid named Memo, and we managed to throw the ball to each other (well I threw it to him and he threw it to the fence about 100 feet behind me) exactly twice before the Comish (Reggie) called us all together.

All roughly 60 of us pooled together, huddling like the Daddy Emperor Penguins in March of the Penguins, cussing at NY One which had promised us a 60 degree day and we got 49 with -2000 wind chill.

Then the exercises started.

We chose positions on the field and begin a series of drills. Surrounding us were the managers from the teams looking to draft players. I felt like the fat kid with thick glasses and and an afro in gym class. I just knew I would be last picked.

first turn to field a ball came up and the woman hitting the ball hit it to short instead of 2nd base. I decided to be a superhero and ran across the field, jumped to grab the ball, missed, tucked, and rolled across the astro turf. Titi would have been pissed cuz I never did shit like that on the Slammers.

Then came batting, which is when the called for the pitchers. Now, I was the backup pitcher for the Slammers. Sometimes I was on fire and other times I was fired and pulled off the field. So, I was a bit nervous to get up and have to lip sync, I mean pitch, for my life. I stepped to the mound and low and behold, I pitched a strike. As a matter of fact out of roughly 15 pitches perhaps three or four were outside of the strike zone. Not only that, I was catching pop flys that were hit by the batters. Miracles do happen.

After about 2.5 hours, everyone had been put through their paces, and then came the selection process. One of the other pitchers was first pick. My little heart fell. Then, all of a sudden, the commissioner pointed at me and said "Come here." He informed me that I would be pitching for his team. And a guy standing next to him smiled and said, "I told him to pick you."

I was a first round draft pick. Selected before the other managers began meeting to dole out the remaining 58 players. I felt like I was walking on air! I felt so good I let loose with a TRIM SPA BABY! You like my body? (that's for you Slammers out there).

So there you have it. I tried out for the Big Apple Softball League. I wasn't picked last. And I will be back on the softball field this summer. Feeling a little bit like Sporty Spice (and lookin' like Scary Spice). Rock on! And thank you to my beloved man for standing in the freezing as cold with me, snapping pictures, and cheering me on.