SGM Seeks LTR in NYC: Merry Christmahanukwanzaaka!

I feel like writing a fluff piece this week, so I figure I’ll just stick to non-controversial, lightweight topics like race and religion. Who’s in?

It’s funny how quickly a year flies by. I feel like it was just yesterday that I went to see the tree at Rockefeller Center with Morris, bummed about him dating the diminutive, nefarious My-Size Ken and hoping that they would break up so I would have a sliver of a chance at Morris seeing me as anything more than a buddy.

For those just tuning in, it turns out that the situation was far from how I perceived it. My-Size Ken and Morris weren’t on the same page as far as their relationship was concerned. In fact, they had very different understandings of it, in that Morris thought they were dating and My-Size Ken, well, didn’t. Because I had long ago vowed to myself to never be the kind of guy who got in the way of other people’s relationships, I didn’t tell Morris how I felt about him, and so, with nothing to tie him to New York, he took a gig as a performer on a cruise ship, a contract which he renewed, because, well, the Caribbean trumps New York, especially in the winter.

Sorry, you guys, I don’t mean to dump on ya. I just wanted to get that out of the way, because one year later, I found myself once again at the Rockefeller Christmas tree, but this time at my side was the new guy in my life, Spider-man.

As we wandered through the crowds, I wondered why I subject myself to this crapfest year after year. Yes, the tree is magnificent. Yes, there’s something magical about how New York transforms itself at Christmastime and becomes this big, family-friendly, Nutcrackers-and-Rockettes-filled, candy-cane-flavored hot mess.

Oh God, it's the Fembots! Run! Run for your lives!

But the crowds. Christ on a stick, those goddamn crowds. Seemingly comprised of 98% Staten Islanders (holders of the most obnoxious accents and attitudes this side of Boston), wading through the crowds around Rockefeller Plaza is like crawling naked through a pile of scorpions, only without the pleasant anaesthetic quality of scorpion venom.

The tree’s pretty badass, though.

We grabbed a cup of coffee at a stand near the tree and pleasantly argued over who got to pay. I was quicker with my cash, so he said drinks were on him later on in the evening. As we elbowed our way through the crowd, I voiced my frustration, saying I wish I had web-shooters like the comic book Spider-man so I could swing over all the teased hair and ratty Yankees caps.

I had never told him the nickname I refer to him by, so I figured might as well now.