Richard Grayson

Scott came over late last night after he “broke [his] girlfriend’s heart” by breaking up with her. She was so upset by the unexpected breakup that he “had to take her out for a drive to Brooklyn,” where they talked on the Promenade. Jeez. The girl probably didn’t know what hit her.

For the past week, I’ve begun to feel certain that I’ll have the HTLV-III antibody in my blood. After all, if I could have the hepatitis B antibody, why not the one from AIDS? I keep thinking that somehow I’ve forgotten sexual encounters I’ve had.

There’s a little patch of Band-Aid on my arm where my blood was taken for the AIDS antibody test. Perhaps in as early as a week, I’ll know if I’ve been exposed to the AIDS virus. Dr. Rundle, the gay doctor I went to, told me to sign a fictitious name to the consent form. I signed it “William F. Buckley, Jr.”

At the Red Apple, a WABC-TV camera crew was set up to go live for the 5 PM news because someone claimed they put cyanide in two-liter bottles of lemon-lime Slice, and the city ordered the soda off the shelves. I bought mandarin orange Slice, which was supposedly safe.

Last night’s rededication of the Statue of Liberty was a bit too much of a stage show for me. Then again, I didn’t go to the demonstration protesting the Supreme Court sodomy ruling, either, even though I learned about it from a notice someone put up on our lobby’s bulletin board last night.

I went out shopping at Red Apple. There are a lot of cute guys, most of whom look gay, in that supermarket, which might be a good place to meet people. For example, the guy in line ahead of me was not only nice-looking, but he had coupons – and a guy who cuts coupons out of the newspaper is probably a good catch, right? Oh well.

Ronna asked me along to a party celebrating Ellen’s new job as a runner on Kate and Allie. I put on a big print shirt over a low-cut tank top, rolled up my corduroys, and wore my high-top sneakers. The party was a mix of young Wall Street types and actor-types. Nobody seemed particularly fascinating or attractive to me although several of the guys were probably gay.

She saw Donald last night, for their sixth date, and it looks as though that’s definitely leading somewhere. After walking her home, I gave her a tentative peck on the cheek goodbye when we reached the entrance to her building. I was happy when, in response, she put her arms around me and gave me a big hug and kiss.

Up on the West Side Highway, we met neighbors of Jami’s and stood near a radio. First everyone sang “We Are the World,” then “Hands Across America.” It was kind of touching to see people of every race and age holding hands, but I wonder if it will do any good other than to make the participants feel better about themselves.

When he got back to his house, he saw creepy-looking guys on the front steps, so he walked to Seventh Avenue, intending to call Susan. Suddenly there was a knife up against his throat, and a man held him and said, “If you don’t want to die, do whatever I say” – all this while people were walking past him, and none of them called the police.

Teresa and Michael seem pretty comfortable in their relationship. At times, he can be nasty to her, but he does it in a playful way. “Isn’t he mean?” she asked me. “No, I’m cute,” said Michael. “He’s cute,” I said. And Michael said, “Sure, he’s not going to say I’m mean because he doesn’t want to spend the whole summer with you.” The man is correct.

People published three letters on the celebrity shortage article. The final letter said: “My hat’s off to Richard Grayson and Fred Bernstein for writing this wonderful piece of humor and to People for publishing it. Please let’s have some more of this heartwarming satire!” – Phyllis Diller, Los Angeles