What a Difference a Gay Makes

Hey friends,

I come to you tonight blogging about an ice cream cone I had today.
Yes, an ice cream cone.
An ice cream cone so delicious, so decadent, so... fierce, that I have to share it with you all.

I got word that the Big Gay Ice Cream Truck was parking near the plantation today, and I made it my job (you know, one I like) to be there. I'd never been to the truck, but I'd heard and read about it. I figured with the right to marry, the New York truck would be in top form.

The Big Gay Ice Cream Twitter verified their location (just 4 blocks from me), and said "something's going to happen" at around 3pm. I disregarded that--although I secretly hoped it would be a free ice cream giveaway. When I got there at 2:50, the line was surprisingly short and moved relatively quickly. About 10 minutes into my wait, a tall man in sunglasses, followed by three cameramen, walked up and took a spot at the back of the line.

My first thought was, "this must be some sort of ice cream flash mob." Clearly I don't really know what a flash mob entails.

When I got up to the front, I was immediately overly familiar (natch), assuming that, as a young, gay, ice-cream-making entrepreneur, Doug Quint already understands that he's my spirit animal and remembers me from a previous life.

"What's with the paps?" I asked regarding the cameramen. "I feel like Suri Cruise!"
I don't know why I said that. Gay visionaries make me nervous.

After perusing the menu (who are we kidding? I memorized the menu on the website before I rolled up), I chose the Monday Sundae. Guys, let me break this ice cream cone down for you:
1. You take a waffle cone and line it with Nutella.
2. Inside this Nutella-lined cone, you squeeze in some chocolate-vanilla-swirl soft serve. (you know even my desserts are interracial!)
3. You then top this swirl with ribbons of dulce de leche.
4. Then, to be really classy, you sprinkle just a hint of sea salt on top of that.
5. AND THEN apply a whipped cream halo. [get your mind out of the gutter!]

I think you need a visual:
And, if you're a real glutton like me, you ask for graham cracker crumbles on top.

In my defense, I'm not a fan of dulce de leche, so I asked if I could substitute for grahams.
"Mmmmmm....no," said Doug after a moment's pause. "How about you have it the way it's made and I'll put graham cracker crumbs on top?"
I know better than to argue with an elite gay visionary. And I'm so glad I didn't--that dulce de leche was the shizz. I'm officially calling it dulce de lechheeeeeyyyyyy !!!!

I try to hang back and see what the cameras are about to catch. Turns out the "tall guy in sunglasses" was none other than top chef, TV star, author, and food critic/writer Anthony Bourdain.

Now, I don't have much time for the Travel Channel (unless someone gets a mysterious disease while dining in the Congo), so I'm not hip enough to recognize Bourdain in person. I will say, however, that I'm his new #1 fan. Bourdain got to the back of the line and waited just as patiently as everyone else. And when he got up to the front, he ordered The Salty Pimp.
Yep, The Salty Pimp.
Gotta love the BGICT and Bourdain's style. Tony's a real salt(y pimp) of the earth, a good egg--probably poached with a drizzle of hollandaise, I'd imagine.

Playa, Please!

I came home from meeting idol/future life partner Augusten Burroughs last night and was semi-bummed out and also very hungry. I figured I could cure both of these ailments by purchasing ice cream and cookies, and then consuming them. As I headed to my crib from the store, a random on a bicycle said hello. Being a bitter New York City born-and-bred hag, clearly I ignored him. Moments later, he reappeared.

Random On Bicycle: Did my saying hello offend you?
Blacktress (rolling eyes): No, but you following me is now creeping me out.
ROB: I'm sorry. Can I get your name?
Blacktress: No.
ROB: Why not?
Blacktress (sighing): Please, leave me alone. I am not in the mood.
ROB: I just want to say hi.
Blacktress: Don't. I'm mean.
ROB: Mean people don't usually say they're mean.
Blacktress: I'm very self-aware.
ROB: Self-aware of what?
Blacktress: Um, myself.
ROB: You're not from New York, are you?
Blacktress: Yes, I am.
ROB: Harlem? You don't seem like it.
Blacktress: Um...
ROB: I'm from Harlem, too, on the East Side. I'm going over there now, to my aunt's house.
Blacktress: Well, you should get there now.
ROB: I'm gonna put up her curtains. Or drapes. One of those.
Blacktress: Well, you should hurry up.
ROB: With this thing [he gestures towards his bike.] it doesn't take any time.

There is a pause. Dude is still following me and we're mere steps from my door. I can't have him know where I live. My patience is beyond thin.

Blacktress: WHAT DO YOU WANT?
ROB: How about I give you my facebook or my information, and you can contact me.
Blacktress: No, I'm not going to do that.
ROB: Is because of how we're meeting.
Blacktress: Among other things, yes. But mostly cause I don't want to be bothered. I'm not in the mood for this foolishness.
ROB: Well then, why don't you let me contact you. Can I have your facebook?
Blacktress: NO!
[For some reason he finds my shouting endearing, and I'm getting more and more annoyed]
Blacktress: Look, I'm almost home, and I'd like you to stop following me. What can I do to get you to leave me alone?
ROB: Why don't you take my information.
Blacktress: Fine.

He gets off the bike, searches in his FANNY PACK for his business card. He then finds a pen. He flips the card over and begins to write.

Blacktress: This is taking too long. I've got ice cream in this bag and it's not going to eat itself.
ROB: I'm giving you my personal email. [beat] That's funny. I got ice cream at home, too. It's Tofutti.
Blacktress: Oh god, stop writing, I'm done.
ROB: It's dairy free.
Blacktress: I know what Tofutti is.
ROB: Did you have braces, or are your teeth naturally like that?
Blacktress: I had braces twice.
He laughs, as though I just said something hilarious.
ROB: I like your glasses, they're cute.
He hands me the card.
Blacktress: OK.
ROB: Can I get your name?
Blacktress: No.
ROB extends his hand for a handshake.
Blacktress: No.
ROB: No?
Blacktress: It's swine flu season. Can you please go now?
ROB: Ok. Looking forward to hearing from you.

He bikes away and I continue walking forward. I look back and see he's still going, going, gone, so I double back and head in my door.

Good lord, can't a blacktress just come home on a cold night and not be bothered by a man on a bicycle? I think you all know his business card is in the trash right now. Of course, I'm dying to hyperlink you to his website, but I can't risk him finding the site and then NEVER LEAVING ME ALONE!