Tuesday, January 30, 2007

Slutty Luke is Back!

A Four Letter Word the movie has a myspace page! I've added the synopsis and tons of stills (like the one below) from production. I also pimped out the site with the help of my friend Joey. Click here to check out the profile, request friendship (!) and receive all the latest from my latest independent comedy (it's just been accepted to the Miami Gay & Lesbian film festival in April/May)

"Mace, I just want to be able to unhinge my jaw like an anaconda."

(Jeremy Gender and Jesse Archer- in a still from A Four Letter Word, 2007)

Monday, January 29, 2007

The Sink is not a Fireplace

There is absolutely nothing sentimental about New York City. No packrats allowed. And that gorgeous old beaux-arts turn of the century school? It's being demolished. But I digress...
I determined that my 2001 returns were taking up far too much room (I don't need them anymore, do I?) in my shared 500 square feet. I don't have a shredder, and heaven help it if someone steals my identity and the $12 I have in the bank. I took preventative measures. I burned my tax returns. In the kitchen sink.

My roommate Dan warms up with the heat of blazing "sensitive information" in the alphabet city sink fire of '07.

There aren't any fire alarms in the building, so I figured I was fine. But really, this is the type of thing (like leaving a candle burning) that is ripe for a front page New York post headline that defines stupidity. Soon after igniting my papers we couldn't breathe, the neighbors ran out screaming--and worst of all--the burned documents created heaps of sludge that just won't go down the drain. I've tried bottles of drano, and still. Sludge. For days. Not to mention the charred sink. Please help me think of a good excuse when I call the super to fix an inexplicably "clogged" sink.

Sunday, January 28, 2007

Goodnight, Grandma

I guess there will be no more posts about the alzheimer antics of my Grandma Gloria because she died lastnight. She left the premises peacefully, in her sleep -- a perfect finish for a sweet and gentle woman. I'm feeling guilty now about all the "gloria" blog posts. At least there can't be any more of those.

My best girl Gloria is gone.

Thursday, January 25, 2007

Details Magazine Model

Yesterday I modeled for Details Magazine. On the last page of each issue, there's a model and it's a "Gay, or..." theme. "Gay Bond or James Bond?" or "Gay or Former Child TV Star?"...shit like that - and then they make fun of the model. There will be an arrow to his shoes that reads "He likes rubber on the bottom," cheeky copywriter stuff. Anyway, apparently I resemble this season's new "Bachelor." So it'll be me on the back page of the March issue under the caption "Gay or TV bachelor?" Gee, people are gonna wonder.

"Should we have him hold just the rose, Alex? Or the rose and the champagne? Maybe just the ring box?"

"Let's just shoot all of it, Mika."

I nabbed these Polaroids from the shoot, so you get an idea--it'll be a variation. The Details people were a blast and damn, I love modeling. Getting paid hundreds to do nothing but stand there and smile. Characteristically, I also guzzled the champagne prop.

Hate Mail!

Club Martini at Vlada lastnight was a smash, and I didn't get smashed! (well, not totally) Alas, I wasn't able to get the singer, Brian Kent, to take any clothes off--- the audience had to settle for a peek at his happy trail...and the sexy mug, of course.

Then I got home and received HATE MAIL! All from my February OUT column. I won't subject you to the whole thing (I'm called an "emotional rapist," among other things) ...but here's a selection:

Its because of dumb blondes like you that the rest of us, gentlemen have to defend our orientation and status as good natured people who whole heartedly scream out "Treat us fairly". We want same sex marriages but there are still people out there who repeatedly abuse the homosexual life style and cause us to go further into the dark ages. For every ten steps ahead there lies a Jesse Archer pushing us deeper into blackness and invisibility.

Blackness and invisibility?? That doesn't sound very sparkly.

Looks like I hit a nerve! I must have scratched off some old scab. Or maybe he just wants the 20 year old's phone number. Either way, this "dumb blond" (me) is proud to provoke people into actually feeling things. If he, or you, or anyone cares to see what I personally meant to say with that column, read the recent post.

Wednesday, January 24, 2007

One Week, 3 Big Shows

Something about Broadway makes me nod off like a junkie on a Bed-Stuy stoop. I get in, sit down, pass out and wake up 20 minutes into the show -- at which point I begin to evaluate what's happening onstage. Here's the lowdown on 3 shows (not including my own CATFIGHT) this week:

Spring Awakenings: right now the hottest ticket on the Great White Way. I got in sat down and Duncan Shiek has composed beautiful melodic music. It lulled me right to sleep. I awoke to find the young cast having sex, the adults moaning about it, and the kids eventually dying. I got the soundtrack. It's great at bedtime.

Kathy Griffin at Carnegie Hall: I did NOT fall asleep! My friend Michael took me, and I've never been to Carnegie Hall, so I kept looking up and around. I had NO idea who Kathy Griffin was, and I felt like that Cambodian jungle woman who just discovered civilization because every gay man in Manhattan was there (it wasn't just Carnegie Hall I was ogling). I was waving this way and that, blowing air kisses, the whole bit. Kathy Griffin is a very funny woman. I should get a television and watch her.
One huge flaw, however. This "taking the piss" out of celebrities humor is fleeting. Kathy Griffin and her comedy will soon be forgotten. In 50 years, nobody will laugh about Paula Abdul. Nobody will know who she is. Note to Kathy Griffin: Huckleberry Finn is timeless, Paula Abdul is not.

The Color Purple: OK- I love purple (just look at my blog). Still, I slept from the opening "Patty-Cake" until midway through Act 1 when Shug Avery arrived. I was excited for the "Sister" number, and for the "God is trying to tell you something" gospel bonanza--but there was none of it. NOT ONE song from the beautiful movie! There was the lesbian kiss, though. Actually, more like 3 lesbian kisses (the show is produced by Oprah, kids). I actually shed a tear which is my guage on whether or not it is a good show. It is a good show. Especially if you're poor black and ugly.

Tuesday, January 23, 2007

US Passport Requirements

At last some good has come of the purported "War on Terror." All Americans traveling outside the country, even to Canada, are now required to have a passport. Only a woeful minority of Americans have passports today, and any effort to increase that number is nothing short of a lifesaver.

If our insulated, isolated, lowest common denominator American (see right) gets out and travels the world, there will be a lot less of this fear based foreign policy.

Simply put, you don't drop bombs on places you've traveled to.

Monday, January 22, 2007

Sparkle-On at Club Martini!

CLUB MARTINI is a weekly gay event held up in Hell's Kitchen, which lies on the opposite diagonal side of the universe from my Alphabet City (read: 5 miles). However, I do make it up there occasionally because my friend and director Casper hosts it, along with Steve. Somehow (imagine that!) I end up with free drinks! *Will Trek For Drink Tickets* (I need that button).

This week's special was named in my honor: the SPARKLTINI! (they rejected my request for the "two-fistini").

Club Martini also has weekly entertainment. Usually I'm so bombed, that I heckle the performers. "Take off your clothes!!" I screamed repeatedly during a rather poignant and well-choreographed heterosexual love dance. I got in trouble for that one, but if you choose to dance at a Gay Bar, whaddya expect? At least I gave them attention.

This wednesday, as shocking as it sounds, I have been asked to co-host Club Martini! Who knew? Liza Minelli must have been out of town. In exchange for free booze and some shameless publicity, I get to host this lovely event. Of course I've promised not to get too drunk or obnoxious until after the show. So head on over to Vlada this wednesday (Jan 24) between 9pm and midnight--and see if I keep my promise.

BRIAN KENT (left) is singing this wednesday at Vlada. He doesn't appear to take heckling lightly. But maybe I can convince him to remove an item of clothing anyway.

Edie (right), is also performing. She can kick higher than a Rockette. Plus she's from my hometown. I am SOO not fucking with her.

Saturday, January 20, 2007

Useless Humanity

At the uptown C train train platform on 23rd street, I saw the poster below. Scrawled across it, in big black marker, were the spot-on words you see below right. I couldn't have said it better myself.

"Meanwhile...back in IRAQ"

Friday, January 19, 2007

Been Here Too Long

Price increases are an accurate measure of the length of time you've been in a city. When I arrived in New York City almost six years ago, the price of a subway ride was $1.50, now it's $2. A plain slice of pizza was $1.75, now it's $2.25. I am cheap, so I know all this. And I don't even want to TALK about my rent.

The quintessential NYC hotdog at Gray's Papaya --the ultimate in hobo-gogo savings (I don't have a real job, people) -- was 75 cents with all the trimmings back in 2001. Later it went up to 90 cents. And when I went in this week...a $1.25!

The juice squirting frankfurters at Gray's Papaya now cost over a dollar. "Prices Went Up," reads the sign inside, "Please don't hate us."

Thankfully I have a stack of Ramen noodles at home. If Ramen Noodles ever cost anything more than 5 for a dollar, I'm moving out of this city godammit.

Thursday, January 18, 2007

Two Menacing, Beautiful Jungles

This photo taken on a speedboat 45 minutes upriver to an isolated Nicaraguan jungle outpost called "Pearl Lagoon." There are a lot of Miskito Indians near Pearl Lagoon, and one we met kept telling us, "The Miskitos do not have excellent jobs," he was very sad about this, but I kept thinking: wait, the Miskitos have jobs?

Back into a remote outpost in the urban jungle: Alphabet City. This is the view of downtown New York City from my rooftop the other night. The bright building is the woolworth building, it used to be the worlds tallest skyscraper back in the 20's. It also used to stand by two ugly buildings. What were they? Oh yeah, the twin towers.

Tuesday, January 16, 2007

OUT Magazine Column - February 2007

OUT magazine's February issue is available and thanks to those of you who have read it and written to me. The cynic and the clarinetist experience resonated with many of you; others of you are disappointed in me, and another reader wants to know the "purpose" of my columns.

I do feel a bit bad about not illuminating Auntie Mame for the clarinet player. She is my hero and role model, and I do believe we have a responsibility to educate the next gay generation. That said, the last sentence of the piece was not insincere. I meant it heartfelt. In saying "I fully understand the allure of youth," I meant to express that this kid, in his idealism, showed me what I've lost in "growing up." And that hopefully we cynics can recapture some of that idealism ourselves.

If that's what you got from the column, great. If you got something else out of it, great. And if you don't see any purpose at all, and still read it - that's great too. Thanks for reading.

Vanessa Williams at the Golden Globes

My friend Chad screamed when he saw her lastnight.
"That hairpiece! ---- It's like she fell into Diana Ross' pussy!!"

Monday, January 15, 2007


Here in the East Village there's a disappearing gang of roving...wait for it...Puerto Rican stuffed animal cyclists.
These local leftovers hearken back to the Alphabet City of old. Before gentrification and white people like me, these old Boricuas ate their gallo pinto, pronounced "Lower East Sider" as "Loisaida" and then renamed Avenue C "Loisaida Avenue," so as to glorify crude English. And best of all, they rode these bikes.

And you thought I was gay.

There's still a few of them left. And you should see them when they go on procession through Thompkins Square Park. All eyes are agog. There's nothing like old latin men proudly peddling stacks of stuffed animals. These dudes sparkle.

Upper West Side Blind

I'm walking to work at a real estate office on the Upper West Side. On the sidewalk there's a blind man, gently giving instructions to his seeing-eye dog. Accidentally he bumps into the back of a man who was waiting for a bus. "Hey OW!" screams the man, turning around. The blind man looks frazzled, and the man he hit realizes he's blind, but doesn't apologize-doesn't say anything. People are looking, so I decide to apologize for the new yorker. "Sorry, sir," I say, and this is gonna sound funny. "He didn't see you're blind."

Sunday, January 14, 2007

Barroom Brawl!

Back in NYC, I went out to dance at BANK lastnight just below Avenue A. It was packed, but I still managed to get drunk and do a few cartwheels, and somersault tumbling onto a row of posh couches. Later, I grabbed a guy's crotch on the way downstairs.

My friend Scott saw him first - a big latino rushing down the stairs like a wildebeest in combat boots. Suddenly a big beefy thing is before me screaming, "You touched my boyfriend?!" and without giving me a chance to answer he is taking swings. At my face. Not the face!

I kicked him away from me, and he grabbed my leg and pulled and there I am hopping like a cricket to stay upright. So gay. Luckily my friend Scott was bravely pulling him off me and screaming for security. Just before the guy ran off, I gave a strong elbow to his face. I hope I broke his nose. He disappeared and as a consolation, I've been given free admission next week.

When it was over I wasn't sure it really happened. Did it? You expect this sort of "defend her honor" behavior in bars with dart machines and moosehead trophies on the wall, but fisticuffs in the gay bar?! Over a crotch-grab! Really. Take it as a compliment, bub.

As you can see, I haven't learned anything from this experience. Except for the fact that a purple shiner on my right eye is oddly flattering. I think I'll keep it for a few days.

Thursday, January 11, 2007

Unlimited Carry-On Flabbage!

This mature FUPA flew on the 12 seat puddlejumper you see behind. After seating myself, I brazenly turned around to witness how this terrestrial phenomenon planned to squeeze herself aboard an airborne craft. With a push and a shove and a heave-ho, she succeeded. More impressively, the two and a half seats she occupied withstood the incalculable pressure.

The FUPA is a flightless creature.
At right, we witness a rare exception.

Thankfully the pilot did not insist we strap into seatbelts and, mercifully, no stewardess was on hand to criminally offer any mid-flight cheeze doodles. While the other passengers considered the probability of a FUPA-precipitated two-ton tailspin into the uncharted Nicaraguan jungle, this speciman spent the hour-long flight applying make up onto her face. As if a little rouge could distract us.

For expert advice on the habits and ever-expanding habitats of the FUPA, visit the fupahunter.

Monday, January 08, 2007

Nashville Has Gone Global

Only boats can reach the tiny fishing town of Pearl Lagoon, because there is no road through the dense jungle. The pèople are friendly and sweet and take care of one another, like the Ingall´s family back in Walnut Grove. No one makes fun of the gimpy farmkid, or that woman with the humongous head. They speak a mix of creole and miskito and spanish and something bordering English. And oh yeah, they know country music lyrics.

At night, the big ranch huts mostly blast reggae; songs with titles like "I caught you suckin´ on my brotha´lollipop!¨and then, suddenly, country music hits the speakers. I look around and people are bopping and humming along. I find it inexplicably bizarre, and yet somehow comforting, to stand in the mud of a backwater Nicaraguan village just below the Mosquito Coast and hear Tanya Tucker blaring out of a jungle hut.

Saturday, January 06, 2007


I´ve been socked away on a hidden Caribbean island just off the coast of Nicaragua: Little Corn, it´s called. It´s never had any corn, but the Spanish pirates that plundered the place back in the day called it "carne" island, and the English just made a linguistic error.
It´s slow and sweet and there isn´t a vehicle anywhere. Jungle trails and palm trees are about it, and at the few restaurants to eat you´ve got to order far before you´re hungry. A big black lady named miss Martha was my favorite. I´d order a sandwich from her shop, and she´d promptly go stare at the sea, for like ten minutes. Seriously. Then she´d walk back to her kitchen, "You want a sandwich?" Um, yeah. Then she´d go in and (I can only presume) start on the yeast for the bread.
One hour later when the sandwich arrived, I´d ask for a glass of water. "What?" asked Miss Martha. "A glass of water,¨I say. "What?" she asks again. "A glass of water," I repeat. Miss Martha looks at me quizzically, "You want a glass of water?" Phew. "Yes, please."
If there´s anything to make you almost miss the pace of New York City, it´s the Caribbean. Yes, almost.