First off, bestgayblogs is running a year-end contest, and i’m up for Best New Blog. Please, please, please help me out by clicking here and choosing my site (Scott Anthony) in the last category. I could really use the exposure, and it would only take you five seconds. Not that I want as many readers as possible, and not that that’s what a blog is about–oh wait, I do. And it is.

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Do you ever interact with someone, but you can’t pay attention to what they’re saying because you spend the whole time trying to remember where the hell you know them from?

I was at the club a few weeks ago, hanging out with my friends Alice and Joe at the door (I used to work there, and I’d much rather hang out with the employees than the patrons), and this guy kept hitting on me. It was that childish kinda flirting where it’s a little endearing, but mostly annoying. I was pretty sure he was drunk and he kept going “Take your clothes off!” and “God, your hair is so nice!” (Yeah, I never get that one.) He also kept awkwardly grabbing my elbow, which is…I don’t know know what that is about, to be honest.

I couldn’t figure out why he looked so familiar. He kinda seemed like that guy, the guy who isn’t all that attractive and tries to make up for it by being as outraegous as possible–half the New York scene, of course–and so the flirtation attempts seemed a little pathetic.

Flipping through New York today, I skimmed over the Party Lines page, and who did I see? The guy, of course. It was Jay McCarroll, the winner of Project Runway’s first season. He’s slimmer and better looking than before, but it was undeniably him. And now that I think of the obnoxious behavior, it perfectly mirrors what I saw on TV. And the story I heard from one of my best friends who said she approached him and told him she loved his work, and he brushed her off with the most flippant attitude possible, not knowing that she was a DJ there and the owner’s best friend. How fitting that I would brush him off in return.

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Speaking of getting hit on, Bushwick is a funny neighborhood when you look like I do, slightly androgynous and exotic. You attract all the down-low chulos, like the guy at the deli who made my sandwich and then leaned over and asked for my phone number. And the thug on the street who interrupted my first listen of Extraordinary Machine on my nano to ask my name and what I liked to do for fun while looking down at his crotch. I don’t think he meant to hear about the DeLillo book I was finishing. (Yeah, Fiona. “My peace and quiet got stolen from me,” indeed.)

Let’s not even get started on the guy at the laundromat who came up to me yesterday near the subway and went “How come you never talk to me, papi? I’ve been wanting to talk to you for the past year. I always wait for you to come in.” Stalking is creepy. Stalking for a year in the laundromat? Just a little more creepy.

Ay, ay, ay. Bushwick stays hots through the winter. Just don’t tell anybody.