Sunday, Oct. 24, 2004 - 9:52 a.m.

1:15 a.m. If I had to tab that one attribute I love most about my pal BCup it�s his unending and tireless effort to drag me to gay clubs against my will. So here I sit, atop a sticky cracked red naugahyde barstool, in one of Chelsea�s seediest men4men clubs, holding my stomach in for a clientele unworthy of the contraction.

1:18 a.m. BCup, sounding like a salivating parrot, chants, �How �bout him? How �bout him?� Then with a slight change of inflection, from horny smarmy to a gay Joey Tribbiani, �How �bout him? Oh, how �bout him.� Feeling a sense of obligation every now and again I�ll toss out a, �Yeah, he�s cute� followed by a brief critique ��in an infectious disease kind of way� or ��if you like inbreeds� or ��for a freak.�

1:28 a.m. Just about ready to make my escape back to the Upper Westside and the safety of my cozy nook of an apartment I see him approaching. Caught like a deer in headlights I�m struck paralyzed by a 6� 5� 335 lb. man with a smile consisting of a tooth and miles of inflamed gums. After regaining my wits my first instinct was to dart for the door but still somewhat dazed all I could muster was to grab BCup�s arm as if bracing myself for a car accident. BCup leaned in close whispering, �How �bout him?�

1:29 a.m. Extending his hand he tells me, �My friends call me Sweet Ray.� Having been in similar situations like this before I have learned, the hard way, that it is best not to encourage. I reply, �I�m sure that�s quite the compliment.� �I saw you from over there,� he says. I strategically ask, �Where?� Throwing his head to the left he says, �Over there.� I query further, �Where exactly?� Adding a pointing finger he says, �There.� Plotting my exit I say, �Go show me. Exactly.� Either a big fool or no fool he responds, �Truth is I don�t right remember where eggsacly I was but it was most definitely over there.�

1:39 a.m. I�m ten minutes into Sweet Ray�s life story and all I can do is wonder if Anbesol is spelled with an �al� or an �ol.�

1:44 a.m. Somewhere around his ma working at The Sears and his pa being a prisoner or prison guard I realized that this isn�t Los Angeles this is New York. I�m a New Yorker and I am no longer a prisoner to my old way of thinking. With that self-revelation I pried my pants free from the barstool gave Sweet Ray a sweet hug and left.

1:45 a.m. Fresh air. I mean really, come on, we didn�t even shop at Sears.

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