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I’ve posted a bit in the last day or so, so you might, if interested, want to scroll down from here.

So to prove I’m gay, or overpaid, and to restock my supply of sweaters without having to knit them, I went to Gerry’s on Bleeker—the sales guy was cute and tolerant of my trying on every sweater in the store and leaving it rumpled on the chair next to the counter—he told me to. After a while he started bring sweaters to me so I’d leave the others alone.

Sidetracked. Like I said, I went to Gerry’s on Bleeker an bought two sweaters that I could never knit and were not at all cheap. One was a brown Converse sweater by John Varvatos with a chunky zipper up the front. Young, but not ridiculous. This will be the inspiration for every sweater I ever knit for myself, should I ever do so. Slightly ribbed, which flatters my smallness, without making my shoulders look too narrow, as did half the sweaters in the shop. Raglan sleeves are not my friends. Neither are bright stripes across my middle. The other was an inside-out grey-ish, ribby, v-neck by NSF. Cute. I’d definitely lust after a (thin young) man in this sweater. Don’t ask what I paid.

In PTown last summer I saw a cashmere sweater over which I have kicked myself for not buying. I priced the yarn afterwards: 50% more to do it from scratch and months of labor, and I’d screw it up anyway.

iTunes

Apple upgraded iTunes and I’ve spend much of the last two days incorporating the new format into my life. I’ve scanned album covers (for private use only). I’ve confirmed that much of my music is typical of a gay man in his forties. I’ve bought new music.

Thirty seconds is not enough time to decide if one likes a piece of music enough to buy it.

On one hand, Apple should credit you when you buy an album after having bought a song or two from the album. On the other hand, I spend more for espresso. Or sweaters.

Old Music

On the subject of my music collection, there is too much Pet Shop Boys and I am tired of Jimmy Somerville. Early Madonna grates too. Anybody remember the soundtrack from The Lostboys? Keifer used to be so cute.

Erasure is so lame, but I’m listening to them. I’m so old.

Here I am complaining my life isn’t gay enough, and, lo and behold, I’m #1 and #2 on a MSN Ireland search for “gay cycling dreams.”

I bet I’m not the only one who’s disappointed.

Sometimes I feel like my life is insufficiently gay. And I don’t mean happy. I’m unfizzy. Flat. Anti-fabulous.

This usually happens after we come back from PTown. Yes, PTown is a bit of a gay fantasyland, but so is Manhattan. I feel so dull, almost corporate.

I’m OUT at work. It’s not a feeling of closetedness; it’s a sense of not living up to my gay potential. I’m boring gay-wise. My job is boring gay-wise. It’s not a gay job.

I don’t know anyone gay at work. I know that some people are gay, but I don’t know them.

Without giving up my job, which does in a limited way allow a bit of diva-ism, I want to be more gay.

I hereby vow to be gayer, as soon I figure out what I mean by that.

More on the vacation after the break. If the gay stuff makes you uncomfortable, move on. Not that I’m getting explicit, but I prefer my rudeness to be intentional.

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Don’t you hate it when you forget to switch the dryer from Air Fluff to Regular Heat? The bathmats are still a bit damp.

Listening to the Decemberist’s The Island from The Crane Wife. I am fascinated by this album.

The bathmats didn’t look that dirty, but the water in the washing machine looks like sewage. Gross.