Last night, I ventured to lower Manhattan with Joe to offer my moral support in his audition for a local gay cheerleading team. As the directions provided were sketchy, we had to keep asking for help from passers-by, whose replies were consistent: keep going down this one particular road until you come to the housing projects and there it is.

We did, and there it was.

We arrived early, while a karate class was still practicing. I have never seen a karate class, and as I have been thinking of learning a martial art, I paid close attention. As Joe went to find the cheerleaders, I watched some black- and brown-belts spar. In some cases, it looked more as if they were bitch slapping each other than practicing a centuries-old Asian tradition, but as they repeatedly succeeded in knocking each other over, I say if the bitch fits, slap it.

Then came cheerleading, which was presided over by a queeny martinet who went on at length about some sort of donation bucket before taking the new recruits out on the floor. I sat on the top row of the bleachers and flipped through a Macworld magazine while watching the amateurs learn a few routines and the established "senior team" run through slightly more complicated maneuvers. I gave Joe a thumbs-up whenever he looked my way, and really, he was quite good . . . probably the best of the new group and better than some of the seniors. It was delightful to see him so happy. And to know that the friend I was there to support did not suck. Because then I would have to lie and say how wonderful he was; maybe even that he was one of the best.

Hee hee. He really was. Next week he will officially try out and find out if he makes the team. I hope he does, even if it means I will have to venture forth from the Upper West Side more often to see him perform.

Or maybe I will buy a jetpack.