Chestnuts Roasting...

This time of year usually amounts to me getting fat, losing motivation, feeling lonely, broke, and not wanting to leave my apartment. The older I get the more difficult the holidays become. I am continually reminded by family that I am single and not getting any younger, asked questions I don’t want to answer, have to hear about so-and-so’s engagement then feign interest in stories about medical conditions. Every Christmas morning my mother reminds me that when I have a boyfriend I will no longer get a stocking full of razors... I am not sure what the implication of that is but it always feels like a threat.

Today I decided that it was time to cast off the negative vibe and remember why this used to be my favorite time of year. When I was little Christmas meant listening to the Carpenters Christmas while my sister and I pranced about with tinsel draped around our necks. My mom would pull out all the campy Christmas crap she had collected over the years and every room had something special- even the toilets got Santa caps. It meant having an electric candle light in my room which illuminated everything blue or orange depending on the color my mom chose that year. I could twirl endlessly in a red velvet skirt with gold fringe on the edges (the Christmas tree skirt ) and no one would think twice- God I loved that. I have fond memories of lilac candles on evergreen advent wreaths, lighting one each Sunday evening in anticipation of Santa’s visit. It was the time when everything felt magical and wishes came true.

As you probably noticed I had no idea that according to my father and the Catholic Church Christmas was about the birth of Jesus- then again who does anymore.

My earliest and one of the best Christmas memories is from when I was four. At that age my main concerns were

1. playing Barbies with my sister
2. singing & dancing
3. organizing my stuffed animals
4. playing with blocks and matchbox cars
5. playing dress up.

I did not realize that there were games and activities that were distinct to each gender at this age. I had no idea I was different from my mother and my sister- they were my favorite people, my best friends and we were one in the same. We hung out together, laughed, played, made cookies and dinner- it all seemed normal. My sister played “boy games” with me so why couldn’t I play “girl games” with her? My parents agreed, for the most part. The first time I noticed something was different was when my mother had painted my thumb nail red and said “Don’t let your fatha’ see that”. Following that incident I was caught twice putting on my mothers make up and not thinking anything of it. Santa knew of my practices and so war was to be waged in the toys I would receive that year.

Christmas Eve my sister and I dug into our gingerbread houses and ate candy while the adults sipped sherry. I had on my blue and red flannel bathrobe and was walking around with a pink headband on because my sister had one on- everything she did I had to do as well. I am pretty sure it was the first time I knew what was actually going on (seeing as it IS my earliest Christmas memory). Once we had run around and worn ourselves out of the sugar high it was time for bed.

My weary mother tucked me in, turned on my blue candle light and said to make sure I slept all the way through the night or Santa wouldn’t come. She leaned in and gave me a good night kiss smelling of perfume and powder with a hint of tart wine- the fanciest smell in the world. I obeyed her and forced my eyes shut. That night felt like an eternity.

Finally I saw the sun and knew it would be OK to sneak downstairs and see if Santa came. I hopped out of bed and into my sister’s room. There she slept amongst her stuffed animals in full barrettes and ribbon beauty looking like a princess. I cautiously walked over and her eyes flew open. We giggled and suddenly there was rustling from my parent’s room. It was time.

My parents were worn and tired, probably hung-over, dreading the day of screaming and family that was about to ensue but they did not show it. My dad got the camera and told us we had to wait for him to go down first. My dad trotted down the stairs and made a big deal of all the presents with audible “OH MY! WOAH LOOK AT THAT!!”.

I almost peed my pants in excitement.

We were given the "OK" and we descended the steps holding hands. We reached the landing and my sister and I screamed- the place was FLOODED with gifts . I don’t mean a mild two or three big things and a bunch of crap- I mean play houses, sleds, toys and more toys. I have no idea how my parents afforded all of it but it was truly amazing. We quickly separated hands and flew towards the gifts.

The room was divided up between the two of us with gender specific toys most prominent so we would know which side to go to. Each of us had a full on toy store display to rummage through and scream “WOW” as we tore through gift after gift. My sister began to play in her new cardboard play house as I went through my stash of goods. A yellow Tonka dump truck, a fire engine, more blocks, matchbox cars, star wars action figures- so much good stuff. Then I saw the first truly awesome gift- a cowboy outfit laid out and next to it a POM POM!!! I yelped and looked over for my sister's approval. She stood proudly behind me with a pom pom in hand to! I put the cowboy hat on my head and we waved our pom pom's around and chirped with delight. I was in heaven, dress up AND a pom pom what could be better.

Then I saw it.

She was beautiful.

I stopped my cheering and my pom pom slid out of my hand as I stood dumbfounded by her beauty. I was nervous at first as she was in the middle of the divide and it could go either way- could be my sisters, could be mine- which was it? I continued to stare at her. I glanced longingly at my mom and she nodded “go ahead”.

Slowly I walked over to her. I saw her brown polyester hair shining in the Christmas tree lights, her perfect complexion, her pouted lips, her Carmen Miranda looking disco outfit. It was mine, my very own BARBIE! I ran towards her and picked up her little busty body. Something was off about her- she was kind of hollow and not as heavy as my sisters Barbies, she seemed "cheap" if that was possible, plus she had brown hair- Barbie was BLONDE. I didn’t care, I cast off all doubt about who she was and just knew she was mine and I loved her. I could not put her down. I removed my cowboy hat, walked over to the Tonka truck, placed her in it and started doing her hair. Later I changed into the full cowboy outfit for pictures and did her hair again. I must have done her hair about 20 times that morning.

When the extended family arrived I was told to put her away in my room and not let anyone see her. Throughout the day I would check on her to make sure she hadn’t walked away or run off with Ken. She was there, staring blankly at me in her tacky flammable gown amongst the rest of my stuffed animals sending me pouty love. I would tell her not to move and I would be back, run down the stairs and continue having Christmas while thinking about her brown lustrous hair, her glamorous multicolored blue, yellow,orange and red ruffled gown and what fun we would have once everyone was gone.

Last Christmas my mom and I were watching the home movies from that year. There I was, headband and all skipping about in excitement.

“You know, that’s the year I got that knock off Barbie”.

My mom nodded and smiled.

“I loved that Barbie!”

She nodded once again and supped her scotch. She sighed, looked over at me in a tipsy glow and relayed the brief story of how Carmen Miranda dollar store Barbie came to be.

My mom knew I loved to play Barbies even when I tried to hide it. She knew my secret wish was one of my own. One day while out shopping she was inspired and bought a knock off Barbie for me (in case I didn’t really like it) and did not tell my father. Christmas Eve while they were setting up the gifts my mother pulled out the toy and placed it on my side of the floor. My father asked her what it was for and she responded “oh you know he plays Barbies with his sistah, I thought he might want one”. My father apparently was not too happy. The agreement was to place the knock off Barbie in the middle ground and see if I would notice it. My mother knew I would as I was observant but she obliged and placed the doll under the tree but a touch more on my side than my sisters.

Her little son did not let her down, he found that Barbie and thanks to her the best Christmas ever.

Sorry for the delay but..

Hi, I apologize for no new exciting posts or stories where I make an ass out of myself. I am at the end of my semester and will resume very soon (really soon)!

Silver Sailor (another hot flash)

Yesterday I was walking down the street with my ear plugs in (my new thing, it helps drown out all the idiots) and I passed by a store window where I saw a silver lame' top for the holidays on a female mannequin in a disenchanted pose amongst a series of paper snow flakes. I suddenly broke out in a cold sweat and was sent spinning into a whirl of highly frothed whipped gay images from the past. The usual "STOP IT" flew out of my mouth before I knew it and I continued walking. Each step was a flash bulb going off in my head.

Flash
I am 18
Flash
A sailor hat
Flash
Bell bottoms
Flash
A silver lame' shirt
Flash
Me holding a clip board at a gay foam party

Next thing I knew I was walking into traffic, my face red with shame and my umbrella blown open.

When I was 16 there was nothing I wanted more than a silver lame' shirt to go clubbing in. I had remembered afternoons filled with Donahue and Sally where they interviewed the New York City club kids and all the flamers had on dramatic make- up, brightly colored hair and loud lame' shirts- it was my first real exposure to openly gay men. Now that I had come out to friends I had decided it was to time to fulfill my destiny as a gay, run away to New York, make it as Broadway actor by day and lead a fabulous life by night. I wanted a wardrobe filled with platform shoes, tight pants, loud shirts- but most importantly- a silver lame’ shirt. The idea haunted me- silver lame', silver lame', SILVER LAME'. It was like that damn "I want my golden arm" camp fire story.

When I turned 17 my friend LCL took me shopping in New York City. We visited Patricia Fields so she could pick up some make up and check out the shoes. When we walked in I began to sort through the racks and there it was- SILVER DESTINY. I let out a short yelp and snatched it from the rack. It wasn't lame' (I had since realized that lame' is an incredibly uncomfortable material) but it was shiny, reflective, stretchy and hot. I immediately ran to a mirror and put it up against my body.

There I stood in my cords, flannel, and converse draping the god awful shiny fabric over my emaciated torso. The music grew in my ears, the room began to swirl, and I saw it- the future I had planned. I was fantastic, I was hosting club nights, I was in magazines, I was on Maury Povich talking about my life, I was the "it" boy- I was a success! I had to try it on, I just had to! I stepped behind the glittering curtain and threw off the flannel. I put arms through the cold fabric and sapped it up carefully. My skin was quivering and light bit of sweat formed on my brow. I turned around to face myself in the dressing room mirror- It was exactly what I wanted. I was convinced I looked great in reflective clothing, LCL agreed. 80$ later I was sure this silver piece of garbage would buy my happiness and acceptance into the "community".

It sat in my closet for a year.

When I was 18 I finally was old enough to get into a club without the aid of slutty teenage girls. LCL invited me to visit her in NYC where we planned a night of debauchery at The Tunnel. I decided it was time to break out SILVER DESTINY. I was so excited to finally wear it out in public and display my glistening glory. I was here, I was definitely queer and well, everyone but me was used to it.

What goes best with a silver shirt? Why a little sailor hat, a pair of tight, tan, second hand bell bottoms and clunky 90s shoes of course! The outfit was perfection. I was perfection, sickly teenage thin, looking like I was 12 in my tight clothing.

We had a great night out- we danced our asses off and at one point there was a circle watching us, I even heard someone shout "Damn that boy can dance". I had never felt happier. LCL was a great host and showed me off like a new toy. We even relaxed and did some underage drinking in the bathroom that Chloe Sevigny had her "I have HIV and am freaked out" walk in KIDS- I was in love with my outfit, NYC and living the dream.

I should have put it away, a one time deal and a memory to be savored. However, that was just not my style at that point- I was still confused and needed more.

That same summer I was living in Providence with WAGIN and desperately in need of a job. I had found an ad for a club promoter at this new gay club "Generation X". I was sort of done with the whole club kid/Broadway actor idea and was onto the "starving artist" notion. However when I read the ad I heard it- the thumping techno pounding in my brain- I saw it - me, club kid extraordinaire, fabulous, loved by all, and living the life. I called the number and went for an interview where I met a beefy gay 32 year old pervert. I got the job.

My “job” consisted of me walking around this "club" with a clip board talking to men and getting them on the mailing list. This "club" also had male strippers who would give you a private dance in the back (blow job) for a fee. I was oblivious to this. I was so blinded by my path to the top as a club promoter all I saw was “nightlife” (as lame as it was in Providence).

The big promotion for two weeks was the "foam party". If anyone has been to one of those events you know it is a nasty dirty affair- at that time I had no idea. I promoted that event with all my heart from 9pm to 12am. I told people how much fun it was going to be and what a great chance it was to meet other single gay men (At 18 I did not know anything about dating but there I was BS'n away). The final night of promotion before the party Beefy Boss came up to me and said "hey wear something special for the party". Oh and I did…

That night I prepped like a girl on prom night. I took a long hot shower, scrubbed everything down, did my hair, and clipped my nails, walked around in my underwear, put on moisturizer- the works. Out of the clothing chest came the pants, the hat, my new John Fluevog boots and SILVER DESTINY. I slowly dressed and saved the hat for last. I slightly tilted it to the side for effect- I thought I was the BOMB.

I arrived at the club and clacked my way across the pavement in my wooden soled shoes (giving me shin splints). I had the confidence of a Miss America contestant. I walked in the door and said hello to the surly lesbian that worked the door. She looked me up and down and waved me past with a quizzical look and went back to reading her book. I sashayed over to the bar where Beefy Boss was and gave a giant confidant smile. His face was not the face I expected- it was a face of "holy shit he really did get dressed up" combined with holding in laughter. The other sporty lesbian at the bar said "what the hell are you wearing, that’s not YOU!” Beefy boss immediately jumped in and said "You look great! Absolutely great! I would put you on the stage with the strippers if I could" and handed me the clip board "Now go get em!”

My confidence was waning.

Did I look stupid? Had Silver Destiny lost its touch in those few weeks? How could that be, everyone loves reflective material in the gay community right? I mean, I love reflective material… right? I went to the bathroom on the verge of a breakdown to check myself in the mirror. I looked great. "Fuck this place- this is Providence god damn Rhode Island, New York LOVED me!" I shouted like a mad man. I washed my hands and slammed the bathroom door.

Confidence renewed I went out and talked to strangers asking them to sign up for mailings and told them to go out to the patio and enjoy the foam. After about an hour and only two signatures I realized I had not even seen this “foam party”. I headed on out to the patio for a peak of the "fun". There it was- a small group of shirtless strung out looking fags grinding up on each other squealing, bumping, and humping amidst a sea of frothy grayish colored foam. I was shocked; it was like a bubble bath with a bunch of people- dirty slimy people TOUCHING each other all over, not caring, worst of all with all that soap NO ONE gets clean! I went in for a closer look, careful not to get foam on my Fluevogs. I was spotted by one amorous older hairy man who began to beckon me over. He gathered up a bunch of foam and SPLASH - nasty human sweat filled foam got all over my beautiful shirt and some in my mouth. Suddenly I was awake for the first time in my silver haze.

This was not who I was. The sporty lesbian knew it but I obviously didn’t. I didn’t even like this shirt all that much anymore let alone the stupid hat and the terrible music blaring in my ears during my revelation. I enjoyed the Smiths, sulking, smoking pot and drawing with WAGIN not squealing in piles of foam. Why the HELL was I here listening to crap music pretending to be something I obviously was not?! I felt a fool. I had been playing a game for so long I thought it was who I was. I clacked off the patio, placed my clip board on the bar, took off my hat and headed out the front door. I never looked back.

I called WAGIN on my "car phone" and told her I was coming home. When I climbed the stairs in defeat there she was to welcome me. I changed out of my clothes and joined her in the living room. She was waiting with open arms, a bowl, my sketch pad and some old records for us to listen to. I never felt more confused in my life.

I still see myself, from the outside, standing there, smiling like a fool in that outfit, trying so hard. I just wanted to fit in with gay men. I wanted to make gay men like me. I wanted to do what I was “supposed” to do as a gay man as told to me by the media, Sally and Phil. I never thought about what I wanted to do for me and who I was as an individual. I had never realized that you don't have to be outragous to prove you are comfortable with your sexuality. I guess that’s what being 18 is all about right?

"Cuddle Party"...hmmm

When I was 4 years old my favorite game was "huggies". This game consisted of me and my mom cuddling and snuggling- that was it. There were only winners, no losers and I loved it. We would giggle, talk about colors and toys, anything and I just loved it. I loved this game more than I loved playing with my sisters Barbies- so you KNOW that was a lot. My mom was the best (still is) and she thought she was the luckiest mom alive to have such a "cuddle bug" for a little boy.

As I got older I grew less fond of "huggies". I tended to opt for Legos, action figures, transformers, dress up, make up, crossing gender lines etc. My mom would catch me watching He-man, Smurfs or Jem and shyly say "hey you want to play huggies?' and I would reply with "maybe later" and turn back to my overly sexualized cartoon where I either wished I was a big strong man or a sexy young woman. I still hugged my mom, loved my mom but I did not want to spend hours of my time cuddling and snuggling when I had some imaginary friends to play with in the back yard.

As a teenager my aversion to physical touch grew. I was involved in theater groups where everyone was overly touchy feely. Most theater kids where into touching. Any excuse a theater kid could find to reach out and touch someone inappropriately was great and encouraged. Between the "circle massages" and the "touch freeze" improve exercises I was becoming increasingly uncomfortable with (and in) my body. I found it improper, it was intimacy without meaning. Touch was something special to me and I did not want to share it with people I barely knew. There was another level to this disgust- I was progressively learning about my sexuality and was more than a little confused so it did not help when a guy was massaging my shoulders and I got turned on. I just did not want to be touched until I was ready to be touched anymore- least of all by people who were fake and vying attention in any form they could get it.

The result of all this has brought me to where I am now. I don't even like the word "cuddle" or "snuggle". They gross me out. This is not to say I do not enjoy being close with someone, holding hands, lying around in bed all day and embracing but I do not do this with just anyone. If you meet me you will quickly learn, I do not hug, kiss or touch hello or goodbye unless I am drunk. Once again, not opposed, however for me there is an intimacy in touch of that nature.

The other day I was invited to an all male "Cuddle Party". "What the hell is that?!" you may be asking. Well it seems some therapist came up with the idea based on the lack of intimate touching in a non-sexual way in society these days. You pay 30$ bring comfortable clothes, meet strangers and "cuddle". The idea harkens back to days of yore where we would snuggle and cuddle with friends, hold their hands and it would all be ok and mean nothing more than I love you as a friend. The problem is- people grow up, hormones come into the picture and all those activities take on new meanings. (I also find it hard to believe NO ONE will get aroused or soon after their 30$ snuggle fabric softener experience go and have rough, tie me up sex.)

This idea makes me more than a little uncomfortable; it makes me shrink into the corner to find my happy place. Gay men, straight men, bisexual men, all in a big pile cuddling with dirty socks (there was a picture of dirty socks on the web site) holding each others sweaty palms as a moderator suggests activities for you to reach out to others. For me the real problem lies with the issue of intimacy and touch (again). I find that the act of embracing someone, holding their hand, snuggling or cuddling (ok I really hate those words and it is the last time I am using them) has a much deeper rooted meaning than the act of sex. It connotes comfort and trust with a person, letting your guard down and opening up, revealing your vulnerabilities. These are usually the feelings many people associate with sexual intercourse.

If you look at anything in the media these days you will see that sex sells- that once private act has been taken public therefore stripping it of its previous intimate notions. Sex seems to me to no longer be clandestine, it is "sexy, fun, provocative" a way to "shock, tantilize,and entice"- a way of getting your rocks off so to speak. What has replaced this- the idea of holding hands becomes more sacred, the idea of a deep embrace is more loving and private. Many people will not show public displays of affection like holding hands for they feel that it is too intimate. The small things have taken over for where the big things, namely sex, use to be. People can make sex into a physical act devoid of meaning however holding one another post coital (think of how many people run away to avoid that), kissing etc are still just as deep- think about the famous scene in "Pretty Woman" where Julia Roberts says she does not kiss on the mouth, too intimate. When she finally does and lets herself be held, she falls in love.

When I asked around to see what people thought of the idea of a "cuddle party". Usually I was greeted with an "eewwww". Some seemed receptive but many people, in fact most, said they would rather have a one night stand than just cuddle with a bunch of strangers. A few people I spoke with even said "wow those are some lonely people". Lonely? I think that may be unfair- but who knows. Progressive? Possibly. I just prefer to keep my touching to the person I plan on seeing more than once and establishing a resonant relationship with. I'll save my 30$ for a 20$ non-meaningful sexual experiences at Hot Brooklyn Party (no, I have never been, but thought about it).


***Now let me say the person who invited me is a nice person, nothing against their idea by any means, they feel the need to try things like this and that’s awesome- just not for me.***

Seriously- they need to shut up

I find this article disgusting but I had to share it. It was under the title "Bass Inspires New Term for Coming Out of the Closet" on imdb.

Former 'N Sync star Lance Bass has inspired a new term for gay celebrities who are outed by members of the media - they're being "lanced." Bass' boyfriend, reality star Reichen Lehmkuhl, says the term was coined after Bass revealed earlier this year that he is gay. Last week former Doogie Howser MD star Neil Patrick Harris was forced to admit he was gay after Internet media reports speculated on his sexuality. Lehmkuhl explains Harris' recent predicament saying, "It's to be outed by someone in the public media and to be a celebrity, and Neil Patrick Harris, I understand, has been 'lanced.'" Bass disclosed his sexuality in July, and said he decided to "speak my mind" because rumors surrounding his sexuality were starting to affect his daily life. He also announced at the time that he was in a stable relationship with Lehmkuhl, a former Air Force captain and winner of season four of CBS' reality competition The Amazing Race. Lehmkuhl adds, "People should be able to come out on their own. I don't know so much that it helps gay equality if a celebrity is outed by someone else and it shows that they're forced out. It just seems like it just continues the vilification of homosexuality in the media in this country."

Are they fucking serious "Lanced". I am tired of the D-list fags, go home and put it away.

Neil Patrick Harris, Like we didn't already know

Not really blog worthy as every other gay man with a blog in America is talking about this but here goes- stop the presses, be sure you are sitting down, hold Danny Pintauro close and get ready for this one- Doogie Howser is GAY!

Oh...
My ...
who the fuck cares!

I mean seriously, if one more lame ass D-List celebrity pops out of the closet I am going to puke. I don't care that you made it this far in an industry pretending you are something you are not and how "hard" it was for you. Why don't you go talk to the boy in the middle of the country who came out and was booted from his home and beat up everyday at school or the girl who came out and received death threats everyday until she moved away? Seriously...

Then again I guess anyone in the limelight (or just to the side of it) is good... right?

Hot flashes from the past

I have this tendency to think of past moments of embarrassment and relive them over and over in my head. I think most people do this. I however do this on a daily basis and sometimes it even prevents me from sleeping at night. I could be walking down the street and suddenly like a punch in the face I will remember some awful embarrassing moment and it won't leave my head. I often have to talk myself off the mental ledge. This “talk” usually ends with an outburst of “SHUT UP” or “STUPID ASS” that I fail to realize I said out loud until I see other looks on people’s faces that are next to me.

I have decided that rather than reliving these moments in my head and looking like a crazy person- perhaps a good way to bury the hatchet would be to reveal my most embarrassing, trying moments in my blog for everyone to enjoy. Halloween, having just happened I have been reliving the moment that drove me to hate the holiday...

In eighth grade most of the "popular" people had stopped dressing up to prove how adult and cool they were (this was before Halloween meant dressing up like a slut for our age group). They would still trick or treat - they weren't too cool for free candy- but they would just show up with a bag and an attitude then egg your house. If people mentioned they were dressing up around any of the "popular" crowd they would scowl and say something condescending about Halloween and it being for babies- most people avoided the subject as the struggle with adolescence and popularity raged on.

Eighth grade was the peak of my awkwardness. I was hideous- braces, acne, pubic chub and my hair started curling . I was a pretty big loser. I was known as a "fudge packing fairy" even before I WAS a “fudge packing fairy”. People avoided me like the plague and the few brave souls who were friendly with me were just as bad off. In previous years I would dress up for Halloween because I loved the damn holiday- a chance to escape my life and pretend I was someone else- it was theatrical and I was all about theater. When I had heard it was uncool to dress up I was saddened but made a mental note that if I came to school dressed up it would be social suicide- I was still recovering from my seventh grade disastrous turn as Puck in my English class's production of "Midsummer nights Dream" (A whole other fucking story that I don't want to think about- lets just say suspenders shorts, an ugly hat and wings).

Halloween night I wasn't invited to do anything and I stayed home with my parents while my older sister went to get drunk dressed up like a whore (seriously, that was her costume). I decided, hey no one will see me; I can dress up for Halloween. I went up to my room after dinner and took a good look around for something I could throw together as a costume. Amongst the many posters for musicals, my fake stage bunk beds (I made curtains around the bottom bunk and had a cardboard audience I pasted to the top bunk) and my shadow box sets- there it was, my sparking glitter green top hat tacked to the wall. I had bought this hat during the St. Patrick's Day blow out sale at our local Hallmark because it reminded me of the hats from "A Chorus Line"- but green- and I loved that show. (I used to dance around my room for hours with that hat on- pumping it off and on my head as I had seen them do in the movie). It hit me- "Leprechaun". I quickly grabbed it off its hanging tack and began to rummage through my chest of costumes (Yup I had one). I found a number of cheap St. Patrick’s Day items, like a paper vest, a green plastic bubble pipe, shamrock stickers- damn I had a lot of that Irish shit. I pulled out my clown make up and went to work.

The final outfit consisted of green sweat pants pulled up to “knickers” form, white athletic socks as tights, black dress shoes, a white button down shirt from my dad, the paper vest, the plastic bubble pipe, a "Crown Royal" velvet bag attached to my side for my “sack of gold”, green lipstick, shamrocks painted on my face and the piece de résistance- the green glitter top hat. I thought I looked pretty rocking. My mom was very impressed and I was put in charge of answering the door while she went to grab another glass of wine from the Carlo Rossi jug in the garage.

The bell rang- my first customers. My dad was super into Halloween as well so he rigged up this skeleton to stand when you opened the door- little kids would shriek with delight when this happened. I swung open the door to scare the kids watched their faces light up with fright. Parents laughed, I laughed, I would hand the candy out, graciously take complements from parents on my costume and all was good in the world.

This exercise in door opening went on for another hour and slowly tapered off. I went to the basement to watch "Child's Play" with my dad while my mom sipped wine in the family room because she "didn't want to watch that crap" (who could blame her really, if I had known how much fun it was to sip wine at that age I am sure I would have been right there with her.). Around 9pm the door bell rang. My mom shouted down in her customary manner for me to get the door. I looked at the clock in the basement and thought "huh, it’s late for little kids but oh well". I jaunted up the stairs in my little outfit and grabbed the candy bowl.

When I opened the door there they were- a group of "popular" girls from my class. They were of course dressed in black, attitudes in full swing clutching plastic gap bags. “Ugh… trick or treat …sigh”. When they finally looked up from their outstretched bags their eyes widened. They began to snicker. I was in shock, this was death- I dropped the candy bowl. I bent over to pick up all the candy that lay at my feet and my sparkling hat fell off into the pile, dusting glitter everywhere and rolling away from me. The girls shrilled with laughter and delight at my fumble. Eventually I gathered myself and the candy- gave each of them a piece and closed the door. I heard them shouting and howling outside saying things like "Oh my god what an ass! He looked so ridiculous- what a faggot!" as they tread down the front path.

I stood there, dumbfounded. I was caught. I was caught being as uncool as you could possibly be. My mom called out "who was that!?" and I responded with "I HATE YOU!" (Good pre-teen rational at work there). I then caught a glimpse of my ridiculous costume in the hall mirror and proceeded to run upstairs awash in tears.. My mom was yelling something at me but I couldn't hear, my face was burning and I was deaf with devastation. I slammed my door and ripped off my paper vest, rubbed off the make up as best I could and tossed my beloved hat aside. Eventually my mom realized something was up and came to check on me. She saw her little gay son sitting there in his curtained bed, weeping the green shamrocks off his face. Her face went from ready to yell to “Oh shit, what happened”. She sat down, rubbed my back and listened (She should have offered me some damn wine.). Her advice was if anyone said anything just say you were getting ready to go to a party next door- she assured me no one would care what a group of silly girls said.

The stupid thing is- people did care! The next day boys were asking me why I was wearing make up last night, “were you getting ready to let your dad fuck you?” (I always found that such a strange comment- that was molestation and incest-not gayness). To top it all off I had gym that day, which any artistic, theatrical, or just plain gay boy can tell you- is not our favorite class. When I was through changing into my sweats and on my way out of the locker room I was asked if I planned on jacking them up to my knees so I can “get fucked in the ass”- sans father comment. It was a shitty day to say the least. It took about four days that felt like a lifetime to live it down.

For the next few years in my life when October 31^st rolled around I didn’t think of candy and pumpkins- I thought of humiliation. Once I reached college and discovered that Halloween meant getting drunk and making out- I was sort of ok with it. It wasn’t until recently that I even thought about the middle school event - once again an unwelcome blast from the past. In retrospect there were far worse moments in my life but I think the reason this stuck was that one of the girls laughing at me that evening had been my very good friend the year before. She had turned on me. This same young woman even made a come back in my life as an insta-friend once I transfered out of that school. She never apologized for her remarks that night claimed not to remember a lot of her vicious behavior- her parents were going through a divorce at the time- I guess its all realtive when one really thinks about it. I don't talk to her anymore.

I still sort of hate Halloween and think that people use it as an excuse to act like bigger assholes than they already are- but with costumes on... or slutty outfits, so they think it makes it ok.

Customer Service

This is just a quick post- everyday I have to answer the most asinine questions like "um do I need to show a portfolio to apply to a Masters in Fine Arts program?" or "If I have an associates can I get a masters?". I am just not meant to talk to these people. I have no idea how I got this job as I have no patience for people, let alone stupid people. It is a good thing half these people can not see me when I am politely answering their questions. I am going to explode.

Drunken happiness.

My mom was in town for a conference with my dad this past weekend so I had the good fortune of being spoiled and taken out to a nice dinner with two of my closest friends- LCL and Wagin. My mom isn't like the other moms she's a "cool mom"... kidding, but it’s kind of true.

We all met up for drinks at Veloce (my mom, her friend, Wagin and LCL), a favorite of mine and Wagin's for a late night glass after I get out of class and she is heading home from the studio. It was crowded as hell on a Friday afternoon with nasty office ladies wearing cheap perfume, ugly furs, and hair so teased and sprayed you could hear it move when they turned their heads (kind of like rustling leaves in the distance). Apparently there was some horrible office function going on (should have been tipped off by the bald men with guts and ties) and a birthday party for some woman named "Sharon" who likes "Proskecceco"- yeah she couldn't get it right. We moved on to the gayest possible venue- Elmo.

I escorted my entourage of 4 women, two in their early fifties, two in their early thirties, and had that brief panicked thought of "Oh god, this is what life is going to be like for me... taking care of crazy ladies" thankfully I knew there was expensive vodka waiting for me and the thought passed. When we arrived at Elmo the techno music was pumping, the gay boys were drinking with their sugar daddies and bitch faces were in full effect. My mom loved it. In her mind she thinks these are places I go, just like those ones on "Will and Grace". It was just like she imagined (which is funny because if I took her to the real dives I drink at she would be horrified). I quickly ordered drinks and began to play waiter for all the women in waiting at the high tables by the window. I told the bartender (straight of course, they always do that at any gay bar to drive us all crazy) that I was with my mother, it was on her tab, keep it open. No sooner had I finished delivering the first round, I was on my second.

My friends enjoy my mom because she likes to have fun; she can drink with the best of them and APPEARS to be able to talk about anything. My friend LCL takes this as an opportunity to talk about inappropriate things like the size of the guy’s dick she is dating- how HUGE it is and how good the sex is. Ok, my mom may be cool, but not that cool. I could see in her face the "I am cool, yeah this is cool, and sex is fun..." frantic look. I tried to butt in but LCL just kept right on going. My mom ordered another glass of wine.

My mom is of the mindset that eventually everyone needs to settle down and find their "best friend" to marry. Many of my friends don't believe in this- least of all LCL. My mom tried to give the "dump the young guy and find a serious man" pep talk to LCL when she was finished. She tired the "why waste your time" tactic to no avail. LCL argued her position as to why good sex and a big dick were all that mattered right now, my mom nodded and smiled. I kind of wanted to tell LCL to shut up and not talk about these issues with my mom; she is still a MOM after all. The girl needs to learn to reel it in once and a while. Then again, this is why I love LCL and my mom does too. Their conversation continued, my mom nodded and I got another round like a good son.

Eventually the topic came to me and my dating life. My mothers friend asked me about it, my mom listened eagerly pretending she had heard it all before. My friends backed me up on the "I have no time and New York is tough" crap. It didn't go over too well. My mom pushed in at this point and started with the whole "what about that online dating you were doing" to which I shot back "Mom, that lead to nothing and everyone was not what they said" (half the time it was just for getting laid). She went on and on as to why I need someone, should have someone etc. This is the first time I realized how concerned my mom was for me and I guess I could see why- there I was, single, late twenty something, never been in a serious relationship, hanging out with two thirty something women all the time, in a circle with fifty something year old women and no man in site. My mom looked around and saw plenty of gay men hanging out, touching each other, enjoying each other- Why not her son?

She pressured me more like I had some dark hidden secret. When she used to do this I thought it was a fear of me not getting laid until one time I said "MOM if this is about sex, YES I have it and it is fun!" By the look on her face I could tell this was not what she was looking for.

My mom went on to who she could set me up with back home, who could I be set up with here- even went so far as to aske "what about your new gay doctor- does he know anyone?". She would have freaking asked the bartender to set me up if I let her get out of her seat but thankfully I was blocking her. I tried to explain that people have different paths in life; some don't include relationships as priority number one. Right now I am one of those people.

This was not what mom's like to hear. She began to well up. Her eyes were glassy, the frown was assuming its position and tears were about to flow. I have only made my mom cry once before as an adult and that was because I was poking fun of her when she was drunk. Now here she was again, tipsy and I was telling her I am single because I just am (it’s like a daughter saying she doesn't want kids or something). She reached out and grabbed my arm.

"Aren't you lonely? Don't you want someone? I just want to see you happy honey, you don't seem happy..." *sniffle*

I explained I am happy, as happy as a stressed out person in this city can be. If I focus on being lonely that is all I focus on. I am happy with my friends, granted they are all women. I am happy with work, ok yeah, I hate the head of my department and my daily tasks but the people are nice. I love school, even though I have no time for it and would rather eat my eyeballs than go to class half the time but I am happy DAMN IT... Shit...I am HAPPY. Her friend gave her a light hug and said "We know, its just all mothers want to see their sons with someone." Great, just what I needed, an "all mothers" comment.

That is the truth, I am happy. I am happy until someone brings my happiness into question because they themselves would not be happy in my situation. I think that sucks. I feel as though it is a judgment on my life. Adding a relationship would be great but I can not spend all my time and effort looking for that elusive someone who I may or may not enjoy spending time with- I got shit to do right now. It will happen when it happens... that’s what I keep telling myself.

After tears were dried, hugs were had and Wagin quickly changed the topic (thank god for Wagin) I found out my mom had not eaten in two days from stress (she is under the gun right now at her job - see, we are so much alike) thus the extra emotions and the touch of sluring that had creeped in. I sent Wagin off to order some food for the table to munch on while I paid some extra attention to my mom in her fragile state. She seemed to perk up after a few bites and was back to herself in no time asking about dinner and more drinks. She did keep giving me the "why does no one want my son" eye but I am used to that at this point. We had a few more drinks, I got the tab (to which the bartender said "wow your mom treats you and your friends well!", I blushed of course and over tipped him and his straight ass) we packed in the show and hopped in cab for dinner with more drinking and PROSECCO. I may dissapoint her in the relationship catagory but I know I can show her a good time like no one else.

The Institution of Marriage

It has been debated for several years now what the "institution of marriage" is. I looked online for a formal definition and found this definition of Institution;

Institution –noun

Sociology. A well-established and structured pattern of behavior or of relationships that is accepted as a fundamental part of a culture, as marriage: the institution of the family. --- Dictionary.com

Is the institution of marriage about family? A union between MAN and WOMAN? A legal word? A spiritual union? If this institution is indeed a "structured pattern of behavior or of relationships accepted as a fundamental part of culture" as the definition suggests- haven't times change enough where the establishment is anti-establishment, patterns of behavior have changed, people's views on other people's heritage and race have changed? For example, it is no longer acceptable to throw your bathwater out the window- but at one time that was very acceptable, established and normal. There was a time when people could not marry others of a different race in this country, which was changed because it was ludicrous. Why use this term "institution" for something that is fluid like love, relationships and family.

People believe we must defend this "institution" from all the unacceptable parties, namely the gay and lesbian population. President Bush has used this issue like a WMD to get voters attention during election seasons, to rally the masses- namely the conservatives who think it is their duty to uphold this "institution". I found this lovely quote from Mr. Bush in the New York Times on Friday October 27th

“Yesterday in New Jersey, we had another activist court issue a ruling that raises doubts about the institution of marriage,” Mr. Bush said at a luncheon at the Iowa State Fairgrounds that raised $400,000 for Mr. Lamberti.

The president drew applause when he reiterated his long-held stance that marriage was “a union between a man and a woman,” adding, “I believe it’s a sacred institution that is critical to the health of our society and the well-being of families, and it must be defended.”

...excuse me; I just puked a little in my mouth...

What exactly are we defending here? Is it the right to quickie Vegas marriage that results in divorce? The rights for married couples to overpopulate the world cheat on each other and then break up a family? Why is this so "sacred"? The health of our society is already in danger from many things- least of all if gay people decide they want to have the same rights as the heterosexuals in society.

I find this whole idea and defense of the issue sickening. It is obvious to me this has nothing to do with marriage, if it did, why not outlaw divorce? If your concern was family- heterosexual families screw up kids all the time, just look around. Why not broaden your term of family from a white picket fence image with 2.5 kids and a dog. In this day and age a "family" can be innumerable beneficial situations (Uncles raising Nieces, adoption, family friends raising kids, friends raising friends, look at the Golden Girls for fuck sake, they are a family). No this is not about the "institution"; this is about open discrimination taken once again to a national level and being confused in the semantics of marriage.

What I am learning as I get older in this society as a queer individual is that - its ok to be who you are... in certain places. Those places are the arts, salons, fashion, entertainment reporting, etc. You can act and function in society in those realms and under those circumstances. Nevertheless don’t show anything that woman in Texas eating her Doritos doesn't want to think about. Quite honestly this suites me fine- I am not going to Texas (they say everything is bigger their but somehow I doubt the things that matter are) but Texans and all other conservatives like to visit me and my "type" as an issue repeatedly. I am ok with not acting out all the time as a gay man, in fact I prefer it. Who I sleep with or choose to love is my business not anyone else’s (unless I am trying to sleep with them of course). I do not choose to define myself by my sexuality- it is a facet, like the fact that I am interested in silent film. Having said that- I do not like being told when it is or isn't ok for me to be who I am, least of all by people who have no business telling me how to run my life. Many gay men say “Who cares about that breeder tradition! Let them have it!" I do. I care because it means something more than a tacky ceremony and broken promises.

With this discussion of marriage being brought up again and again I am realizing it’s not ok to sit back and let people tell me to hide who I am. I spent many many years filled with self hatred, praying to not be gay (thanks god), training myself to not talk too excitedly, look at my hands the correct way, sit with my legs uncrossed to look macho, play sports I hated etc. I fought to be who I am and continue the struggle everyday. I am now openly being told that I am a second class citizen not only by bullies, assholes, and ignorant people but by the President. According to Mr. Bush, as a queer man I do not deserve the same rights as a heterosexual. This is what I care about. (On another note only good thing about this whole gay crap is that “Don’t Ask, Don't Tell" bullshit- I am TEELLLIINNNGG - I don't want to go to freaking fight a war over oil. PLUS half those army boys fuck each other and film it- as much as that would be fun, not my scene.)

I have no idea what the future holds and if marriage is in the cards for me however I would like the option like everyone else. It seems the heterosexual community needs to rethink what the hell they are talking about. These conservatives need to take a step back and look at their heterosexual divorce rates, adultery, and the amount of broken homes produced from a crap marriage. Why not focus on these things if it really is an issue of upholding that already weak foundation on the "institution of marriage". I somehow doubt anyone of these conservative battle leaders will because ignorance is bliss and it seems this is not the real issue at hand.

I have so much more to say about this and this is a very long rant -it will have to be another blog at another time...

*note- people who see marriage as a biblical thing- I would like to point out we are all going to hell according to your book written thousands and thousands of years ago so give it up- remember "judge not"?

*note 2- My parents have been married for over 30 years and they are going strong- I commend them for upholding their vows to each other, not to an "institution" like the church or marriage itself.

Break ups and hair cuts don't mix

The young woman who cuts my hair lately has been doing a pretty good job. I met her because I had a hair disaster a while back and she was my saving grace. I went in for a cut at a training school (mistake! mistake! cheap ass mistake!) and came out looking like George Michael circa 1985, complete with bouffant. It was one of those cuts that everyone gives you a fake smile in the salon and says "Oh.. that’s a... GREAT CUT". I knew it wasn't, I hated it. As soon as I was out of the place I pulled out my hat, went down 5 blocks and into the nearest salon that did not have a bad name like "Palace of Elegance". There behind the counter was a young blonde Brooke Hogan look alike complete with extensions. Not a fan of Brooke Hogan but when on a budget and desperate, beggars can't be choosers. She was bubbly, chatty and did exactly what I asked to fix the cut. The whole affair was reasonably priced and I was sold. She had a new client.

Yesterday I went for my monthly haircut because my mom is coming into the city and I wanted to look nice for her. Brooke Hogan greeted me with smiles, had my hair washed and met up with me at her station. I knew something was wrong with her when she distractedly asked "Do I use clippers with your hair?" instantly I replied "NO!!". She shrugged and started combing my hair back and forth, back and forth, preparing it for the shears.Trying to start a light conversation I asked her how her Mojito party went from the previous time. She paused.

" I just broke up with my boyfriend, I had to move out, I don't live there anymore" she gathered a bunch of my hair up and SNIP off went a good inch (when your hair is short to begin with an inch is a lot).

"Oh I am sorry to hear that, that sucks." I feigned interest. I really did not have the patience to hear my hairdresser's story seeing as after the cut I was going to meet my best friend to talk about her break up drama (which I actually care about).

"We went out for 4 years"

SNIP, chunk gone.

" I knew him for10. I mean it’s like I don't know we had different goals...(snip) he was a pot head....(snip) I have never been alone...(snip, snip, snip) " the more she talked the balder I was becoming. I didn't know what to do I was in a state of hair cut panic. I am the type of person who never interrupts a hairdresser because one bad snip and you can get cut, lose a chuck of hair, an ear or who knows what- those are some sharp weapons in their hands.

When I thought the torture ended- she continued on and talked about being single- just what every single gay man wants to hear about. Next thing I knew I was was being sheered like a lamb with the same damn buzzer we discussed her NOT using. Looking like a deer in headlights I shakily replied "uh huh..." to her every quip.

ZZZEEEUMMM up my neck.

"Is my hair line going to be halfway up my head! please stop there, I like the line natural the way you usually do it" I weakly pleaded.

"Oh, its okay I was just fixing it" (by the way my neck still burns from that stroke).

I was now freaking out- this is my fucking HAIR! I have to WALK AROUND with this shit in PUBLIC. I am single and can't afford to look like a freak with a bad haircut. I was done and decided to stop her since it was pretty much over and anything futher would have left me ready for the Army.

Next she turned me sideways and ZEEEUMM.

Off with my sideburns.

"OK! That’s good , thanks you can stop there!" I touched the soft patch of red skin where my sideburns used to be. “You took off my side burns..." I quivered wanting to cry.

"Oh.... I thought you said you wanted me too. I mean you always come in here and they are such a mess, I can't stand that. I thought you wanted me to clean them up." For the record, I never said anything about my sideburns. I like my sideburns. I had no idea she thought they were a "mess".

"Clean them up is different than taking them off " I smiled, killing her with kindness.

"Oh... Sorry hun, well, next time I'll just trim them."

She brushed off the curls that lay around me. "Product?"

I hate this part- they always put way too much, don't know how the fuck to style my hair and then try and force my curls to go a different way and say they love the look. I figured I had no curls left so what was there to lose. She took out half the tub and worked it into my head and then did the usual force of the hair unnatural ways and said "I just love this length and this curly messy look!". Um, what curls? what length? I had no hair left!

Suddenly excited she declared "Hey! next time you want to grab a drink at that place you mentioned with Mojitos, give me a call! I'll give you my number!" she flipped her hair extensions and trotted off to get her card. I guess now that I was bald she felt better.

Ok the girl is nice, I tipped her well, she means well, she was just a mess this time... I hope. Now because of that break up, my hair is a mess. Wagin told me it’s very "boyish". I am too old for boyish. Wagin assured me that it doesn't look bad. I asked her if she would really tell me if it was- because everyone knows they wouldn't really tell someone a haircut looks awful. Wagin shifted her eyes around and looked away "OF COURSE, don't be silly...hair grows back". Not too sure my trust in Brooke Hogan will.

Clear and Copious

Whenever I am at a urinal, starring at the wall in an attempt to not notice anyone else peeing right next to me, I hear the phrase "Clear and Copious" and it brings me back...

This phrase was passed on to me by a 60 something year old "proprioceptive movement" teacher I had in college (if you are thinking "what the fuck is that?!"- think about how a bunch of spoiled little 'actors' felt in that class, laying on the floor 'feeling' our backs and being told to lift our knees to our chest and release for months on end). This woman, Kayla, was pretty intense. She wore the same purple knit draped sweat outfit and every week would complain about having to wash it when it developed "knees"- which makes me think she did not wash it often as it always had "knees". She had short gray hair and looked like a cross between Gargamel, the evil wizard from the smurfs and Bea Arthur. I imagine at one time she must have been very striking but age was not her friend and her ear/nose growth did not become her. She was a former dancer having done ballet then onto modern and experimental work. She was a proponent of the Alexander technique and constantly talked about posture, alignment and how it could change your life. Whenever she would demonstrate you could see the years of training exude from her large pours.

She let it be known from day 1 that she hated actors- I respected that. I hated actors. At the time I was in crisis and had no idea what the fuck I was doing in an acting school with a bunch of "look at me" show offs. I thought "hey we could get along". Nope. She was very tough on our class and often was shouting and yelling at us because many annoying people could not focus. I dreaded that class every week with every fiber of my being.

Kayla would often start each class giving us tips and advice on eating and remaining 'healthy'. She once asked everyone how often we ate, what we liked to eat and what out favorite dessert was. She then berated every girl for their diets (or lack of one) and told every guy that what they liked was disgusting. I was pissed when it was my turn and I told her I liked pecan pie and her response was "UGH that is DISGUSTING, how can you eat that, its all butter and sugar" I responded in my tart, bitchy tone that was becoming notorious with teachers on campus "Yes Kayla, that’s why I like it. If you are going to respond that way to everyone when you ask a question, why bother asking at all".

Yup, I was that little shit in the class.

This did not go over well and she gave me a look of death and you could feel the room gasp. After a moment to collect herself and her death rays, she doled out the advice that everyone should exist on a diet of iceberg lettuce with black pepper, no need for dressing. She assured us this was "delicious" and very nutritious. The anorexic girl in our class agreed as she jotted down notes and muttered to herself.

Kayla and I often butted heads over her comments and treatment of everyone. As I stated before, I agreed, I did not like actors, I hated the school, I wanted out- but I still thought yelling at everyone, telling us we were disgusting annoying people who should only be eating lettuce to keep ourselves pure was not cool. This all came to a colossal head the day of the now notorious (amongst friends) "confrontation". After weeks of people flitting about and singing, not rolling on the floor and knee bending as she asked, she had it. She ordered a pow wow . The idea was to express our "feelings" on how the class was going. It just ended in the usual toung-lashing. She did not let one person finish a thought and kept interrupting with her opionons on how much we sucked. I, being the feisty fag, jumped in and began another embarrassing moment in my life. I was ready to pop and sick of this old bag bitching at me and some of the people I considered my friends (most were not and I could have cared less-but those of us who tried, it was awful to be yelled at all the time). I took a deep breath ready to let it all out.

" Kayla- SHUUUT UUUP!! God you are just so EVIL, you walk into a room and you just set TENISON!" . This was at the top of my well trained lungs... red faced...to a 60 something year old woman. I had no idea what had happened- I think I even went deaf for those few seconds.

Once again, I was that shit.

Death rays met me yet again but I was prepared. The room did not move. No one breathed.

She slammed her books down hard on the floor and pushed her tired body back into the chair. I gave her a defiant look. A pipe creaked, we stared, and I swear you could hear that western whistle in the background. I was the first to crack

" I am outta here." I said, put on my shoes and went to the door.

She replied with " I NEVER!" and did not finish- nor did I finish walking out the door.

If I had left it would have been the end, I would have looked even more terrible than I already did, throwing a tantrum and storming out. I promptly turned around, went back to the circle, took off my shoes and said

"I am not leaving" in snot nosed tone and sat down.

She was flabbergasted. People began to snicker from the tension, mouths were agape, and no one would look at me. I didn't give a shit, I was not backing down. I was there to explain myself and my thoughts- plus take what she had to say. What was her response? A few deep breathes, a deep stare that went right through me then -

"I am glad you came back. I am glad you expressed your view, now lets work on this."

To this woman’s credit she freaking DID. She finally saw we were a bunch of wound up assholes high on butter and sugar who needed attention so desperately we were willing to go sing and dance for it in amusement parks. I think she finally felt pity for our dumb souls. Personally, I would have told my 19 year old self to fuck off,get over the situation and flunked my bitchy ass.

Kayla no longer berated us, she told us interesting things. She talked about self confidence, the light that we should imagine following us and a bunch of spiritual crap that the girls in the class loved. She told us not to starve and instead began to talk about the importance of water. She said "Be sure to drink enough water to where your urine is Clear and Copious. If you do, you will have more energy, get sick less, and fell better, I promise. The more yellow your urine, the more toxic your body, the more toxic your soul" You know what- she is right- its the one thing I found I could agree with whole heartedly that she had to say (you also loose weight because often thirst is mistaken for hunger).

Kayla died a few years ago. It may seem strange but every time I see my clear, copious piss, I hear the old woman saying "clear and copious".

Public masturbation

There is a homeless woman who sits outside our building that Jamaica and I call "peeln'eat shrimp" why? You guessed it; she is always eating peel and eat shrimp. It’s very strange. She sits there with her cart, velour sweatpants and oversized jacket chewing on a bag of shrimp. I have been informed she has been seen eating sushi platters as well, bitch likes it raw I guess. I am not one to tell a homeless person how to eat, it’s their money, it’s their stomachs- I just don't know about discounted sushi and shrimp- but more power to her.

Today I noticed PeelnEat had her hands somewhere that was not in a bag of shrimp- they were in her pants. Not in the "stay warm" way but in the "working up a sweat" kind of way. Yes folks she was working her privates over in front of the fruit stand. I was shocked, but if anyone knows me, I like shock- so I looked for a few more seconds to makes sure it was real then continued on my way. The craziest thing- this is not the first time I have seen a homeless person, or any person masturbate in public- but it is the first time it has been a woman.

Once on the fourth of July a drunk smelly man was touching his rather small erect penis by a garbage can near some poor women (yeah I looked, yeah I watched, yeah I did nothing- I was drunk too). The woman called out "There's a MAN EXPOSING himself over here!" over and over as he swayed back and forth to the rhythm of her voice saying "shut up ... I am uhhhhh... shhhhhh". Eventually the police arrived and carted his exposed ass and erect penis out of the station and onto the street where exposing yourself can happen in a nice quiet back ally.

Another time there was a homeless man sitting in the station having what I thought was a seizure. I went over to see if he was ok. The guy was shouting up a storm saying "oh yeah! Oh LORD, oh" and jerking like no tomorrow. When I was within 10 feet of him I soon realized it was no seizure, it was intense and deep masturbation. At that point a concerned young woman had called the police down to go over and see if he was ok- she too thinking it was seizures. What did the police do- nothing. They came back to us and said "he's homeless". Umm NO KIDDING REALLY! I felt sorry for the guy however, I was not about to go over and give him money for masturbating on the subway platform.

This public masturbation is not limited to the crazies or the homeless. Oh no, many young women will tell you of the business men standing next to them on the subway rubbing one out in their pocket. My good friend WAGIN has had a man come up to her with his penis in a book, open it up and show her the "hairy potato" as she calls it and smile. She jumped up immediately calling him a bastard and thus looking like the crazy one. I know if I had been on that train down the car I would have thought "who is that crazy bitch screaming".

My favorite was the one time a man in elastic waist pants, heavy gut and dirty t-shirt sat across from me and rubbed away like nothing was strange about it. There were several people and children in the car- granted it was 2am and children should be home and asleep but that is not the point. I should have moved but I didn't- once again, I like shock and also I was drunk (again). I just sort of watched and stared him down. I was once told by a young woman I met at a bar that if you do that, stare, they leave you alone. She then informed me that if that doesn't work laugh at them. When flashers and public masturbators do their thing many times they want a look of shock to go home and jerk off to- or to stand by the trash and jerk off to- whichever is closest. If you aren't shocked, which a number of New Yorkers tend not to be, they lose their erections and go away. Neither worked in this case and I went into "subway mediation". In hindsight, probably not the best thing to do when drunk at 2am and man is masturbating across from you.

I enjoy masturbation a good deal. I love it in fact. After seeing this woman today I wondered what it takes to get to the point where its ok for you to masturbate in public like a monkey in a zoo. The closest I have ever come to public masturbation wasn’t even masturbation- it was a blowjob in a stairwell- but that is another story. One never knows when they could snap in this city. All the pressure we are under, all the people we see day in and day out, one day you could be walking down the street a normal average city citizen, the next thing you know SNAP you have a taste for day old sushi and masturbating in the park. Well at least thats how I see it happening...

Turn that frown...

This past weekend was a rough one- spent most of the time berating myself for allowing resistance to take hold of my life (read this damn book about artist blocks, not sure if that was a good idea). I spent most of Sunday freaking out about how this could have happened to me, where I went wrong and what the hell I was doing with my life (good times). After a bottle of wine (resistance), a cleaning spree (resistance), frustrated image searching online for flowers on branches for a project (semi-resistance) and masturbating about 4 times in two hours (major resistance)- I passed out.

Today I woke up, was ok until I rolled over and realized it was 7:45 and I usually leave my house at 7:50 to have my morning torture, uh commute. The day did not start off right. I had no idea how this manifests itself in my face until my lovely train ride to work...

This morning I had the good fortune to be lugging around a heavy camera, a tripod and my usual 80 pound book bag with me. I was happy to get a seat (rare that late in the commute). I was even able to read my AWESOME book "How Computers Work" for my systems class. I did not feel it necessary to stand up for the old ladies or the pissed off looking young women in heels huffing and puffing (normally I would- yeah I am nice like that... but seriously young ladies, don't wear the freaking heels if they hurt). A man got on two stops after me and started mumbling to some younger man who was standing by the door "You know if you only moved 12 inches it would make this whole thing a lot easier". I hate when people verbalize inner monologues on the train- it just leads to trouble. An argument ensued where the younger man defended himself and the older man said "You know I am a parent, I am glad you are not my son". I loved this- “I am a parent" whop de fucking doo, doesn't mean you know best jackass so shut up and stop complaining.

I took a good look at this man, parent, verbal ass to see what his deal was. When he finally turned I noticed he had this awful look on his face- a deep intense scowl. He looked like he had been smelling rotten garbage and pungent cheese for about 10 years and someone smacked him on the back to freeze his face that way (as urban legend would have it). When he finally pushed an old woman down to get a seat (yeah parent and polite my ass) he started staring at me. His scowl pierced my skin; he was just so UGLY with this nasty face on. I tried to brush it off and read an amazingly interesting chapter on how dot matrix printers’ work- he just looked at me more. I turned the page to view more diagrams... more stares. I put my book away to do "subway mediation" and block him out - out of the corner of my eye there he was, scowling at me. I was getting pissed and wanted to punch him.

I finally arrived at my stop, excused and pushed my way off the train and pouted up the stairs. My shoe came untied so I had to stop over to the side, drop my bags, kneel down and tie the damn thing. I caught a glimpse of myself in a window reflection as I went down to tie. I had the same freaking face that man did. I was scowling- not only was I scowling, you could almost see the pissed off negative energy waves like heat coming out of my head. I was shocked. I knew I tended to walk around with an "intense" look (years of being made fun of taught me it’s the best look to tell people to back the fuck off) however, I had no idea that look had turned to an off putting scowl. After staring at myself for several minutes in a crouch some woman’s purse hit my head and I was brought out of my stupor. Is this me? I mean yeah its me but really is this what I want to put out there. I beat myself up on a daily basis, now I have to worry if that is showing on my face? And what the fuck, that woman didn't even say excuse me or sorry- bitch that hurt! No scowl, no scowl, smile... I am happy to go to my job...

WAGIN's ex was a scowler- often radiating extremely negative energy. He was constantly getting mugged, spit on, punched and beaten. Negative begets negative. He always played the victim in these scenarios but now I realize that he welcomed these events by displaying his deeper negative emotions to the world. I don't want to be like that.

I may be miserable like most New Yorkers but I guess part of the trick is learning to turn that fucking frown upside down and kill people with kindness... ugh I feel sick even thinking about it.

La Dolce Self Indulgence

People in New York, Porn fans and gay men know- Michael Lucas, the self loving former "model" turned pornographer- has been working 'hard' on a remake of La Dolce Vita. This man is out of control. I can not even believe I am going to put the link to the "teaser" (complete with sad, deep, sounding piano, fashion show and blowjob). La Dolce Self Indulgence

I am a fan of his porn. I think it is well shot, all the guys are hot, have nice cocks, go from wild to mild so I can pick my flavor depending on my mood, etc. I even met the man under some interesting circumstances and was 'star' struck- all of which is a another story. It changed my perception on porn but was enlightening and he was very nice.

The problem with this movie is it is so "look at me everybody I am making an artful movie with graphic sex scenes and I am in it as well, look at me damn it, look at me, look at my cock, now look at me, I am a good looking man, LOOK AT ME I AM AN ARTIST" (all said with his Russian/euro accent).The guy LOVES himself, which is great- I wish I loved myself a third as much as he does- but when remaking an Italian Cinema classic loving yourself is not enough. Dude you make porn, no matter what you say its porn. Its good porn, but its porn. People have tried since the invention of porn to incorporate a good plot- NO ONE CARES. It harkens back to the days of shock cinema in the 30's- no one cared about the plot, they just wanted to see the ape woman on screen.

People don't watch porn for plot. No one wants to watch bad actors who are stiff (not that way... yet), can't deliver lines, their eyes are all shifty and constantly looking at or off the camera and have deep Hungarian, Russian, chezck or faggot accents- its just not what your interested in when you have a bottle of lube next to you and your hand ready to go. Porn actors are in the movie because they look good having sex- plain and simple. How many gay men are REALLY going to watch this for the 'art'? If they tell you they are, they are full of shit. Gay men are all going to fast forward most of the shit dialogue and poor performances to see who makes out with who, who has a bigger cock, who sucks who, who fucks who, how they look when they cum and who had a nice money shot. No one is interested in the "scenery" of New York, the 'costumes' (which look pretty much the same as his other movies- Euro Trash chic. You know this look well- the black suite, a bright colored open shirt with a chain and wet over styled hair) racy plot lines, or how he updated it and transferred it to New York (starring himself of course). If he was really going for a cinematic feel he also would have used film (now he could have but it looks an awful lot like it was shot on HD or 24p). No one cares that Amanda Lepore makes an appearance, there are women in the film (a rare thing for a Lucas production, in fact I don't think I have ever seen a woman in one of his movies) and he got access to all these interesting locations. It is just so ridiculous.

Michael Lucas, I love you. I would gladly work in post production for you doing titles, graphics, touch ups whatever (had to throw that in there). I think you are one of the great characters in the world of pornography, you are an excellent artist of sex- that is your medium- not film. I appreciate the attempt, I think its great you gave it a try- but in the future stick to what you know, Fire Island cruising 1,2 &3.

Cheetos and Boones anyone?

This news disgusts me.

Pop star Britney Spears is trying to boost the sales of her husband Kevin Federline's debut album by sponsoring a contest where the fan who helps sell the most albums gets to party with the couple on Halloween. According to MSNBC's The Scoop, the couple are having a special CD release party on Halloween night to promote the aspiring rapper's debut album Playing With Fire. The second prize is a pair of sneakers that Federline wore when he performed at the Teen Choice Awards in August. The third place winner gets a $200 gift certificate, while 10 runners-up get a replica of a medallion that Federline wears.-- imdb.com

What the fuck! Help make a rich couple richer and you can "party" with their sorry asses on Halloween! What exactly does that entail? I can imagine meeting them at their diaper smelling, cat piss, dirty house where you have to sit with K-Fag on some torn leather couch and watch a spoiled brat roll around on the floor (no not brits) while the big woman of the house pops out in rollers, chewing gum, with a fat baby hanging off her hip saying "Be ready in a minute- can I offer you some strawberry Boones, its real good y'all!" in her trailer trash way. She hands you a red plastic cup "We done broke our 2 fancy glasses for the sparkling stuff when we were filming our sex tape on that sofa after Kev's CSI premiere y'all" (chomp chomp, eyelashes falls into cup as she pours). After some crap wine she drops the baby into the crib, wipes her hands on the front of her dress and says "lets go ya'll! PARTY!", She chugs another bottle of Boones then flashes her tits. Then you head out to some shitty party reeking like cheetos, baby shit, and Boones and listen to Britney cry about how hard it is to be her.

If you are the lucky runner up you get to have a pair of USED FUCKING SNEAKERS!! Hello, you just helped them buy another freaking car (shooting low here people) and some more shitty shoes K-Fag never wears- you deserve more than a fucking pair of used sneakers. I would rather third prize of a 200$ gift certificate- but lord knows what that shit will be for- probably for Britney's new perfume cart in the mall. The best is the 10 people who get an UGLY replica of some cheap jewelry! What the HELL!

The prize should be a percentage of their album sales- and not some measly 1% I mean like 30-50%. You deserve it if you convinced people to buy shit that makes their ears bleed.

I say NO to this contest, I say NO to them, I say fucking stop the selling of this album, boycott it, snatch it out of acne filled teenagers hands, prevent anyone from buying it, tackle them, hurt them poke out their ears. It is time to bring that trash down, I am sick of their stupid asses being in the "news" and crowding my gossip pages for nothing other than eating freaking taco bell. I have a contest for you- prove to me you stopped several people from buying the album and I will give you some damn good head... well maybe.

Than again, if you manage to hock that shit to stupid people (without buying it) to meet the king and queen of trash, more power to you. I bet Trent from Pink is the New Blog is all over that (in an ironic way mind you) like cheez wizz on Britney's toast.

What happened to the whore Brit, the one I liked? I miss her.
OH- and since when does K-Fag have fans?

Don't they use CGI for that?

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Bartenders revisited

Anyone who lives in New York City knows that bar life and night life is a main staple in your own life. I enjoy going out to meet friends in a public spot- look at people around me, enjoy the atmosphere (when it doesn't smell like bleach and vomit like the Johnson’s- vomit,coke, teenage testicles, vag and smoke like Lit- or strange cheese like Subway Soul hosted every month at Rififi- but I endure because once your nose adjusts the music is good, the people are fun etc.). The possibilities for a good night out in this city are endless. What I do not enjoy is the sneaky bartenders who are looking to make a buck and prey on what they assume are "unsavvy" customers.

LCL and I were out on our first SFDN (spontaneous fall date night). We headed over to the Flatiron district (someone was calling it Chelsea, it wasn't) to one of those bar art shows ( I am not sure how I feel about the bar as a venue for art but I digress). The space was ok, nice booths and plenty of space but the lighting sucked for viewing work and each other (the BEST lighting in a bar is Big Bar on 7th- I highly suggest this little spot for first meetings and intimate conversations, the pink hues in the light make everyone look nice and glowing). We ordered our drinks right away- makers on the rocks for me and stoli and soda for the lady. I asked for the total 18$. I took a step back and said "what?!" but accepted it and pulled out my card. "Ummmmmmmm yeah, there is a 30$ minimum for using a card?!..." came back at me in the BITCHIEST tone from some short troll looking hooker behind the counter. I decided that was fine, I would just switch out the cards and get cash around the corner when we wanted to leave.

The artwork was not my thing- lots of rockabilly Goth art, pin ups etc. having said that it was of the better variety for that sort of work. We decided that with 18$ for two drinks, lame art,no one cute for either of us to flirt with and a desire to get stoned it was time to leave. I went to the atm around the corner, got my cash and went back to the bitch troll hooker to ask for my total again.

Bitch gives me the up and down and slyly says "ummm yeah... 20$".

I smelt someone who not only needed to douche but was trying to pull one over on me "ummmmmmm YEAH (I mocked back), well you said 18$ last time, what’s up with that?"

"Ummmmmmm yeah well lets break it down..." she proceeds to hide the piece of paper as she tells me " makers on the rocks was ahhhhh 9$ and stoli and soda was niii ummm- eleven, yeah eleven that makes... umm 20$". 11$ for a drop of stoli and flat soda water with too much ice and no fruit! I was livid at this point.

I know what she was doing- jacking up the price to pocket the extra and get a better tip. I did not think to ask for the slip when she slyly "tallied" it away from me. The bitch couldn't even do math when she way lying to me and pausing with her ummmmmmmmnmmmmms over and over. You could see the skanky gears turning. I, being the bitch I am, threw a 20$ at her and said "That’s all your getting out me!" and walked out. Yeah an over reaction, I admit, I mean the bitch was already smitten with ugliness why did I need to rub something else in her face- regardless I hate being played a fool.

This is not the first time some young whore has tried to change prices on me. I just think it is ridiculous when they do this. It may work on some straight guy staring at their tits but thank god I am not so dumb and am looking at their faces and reading their eyes. Once again, I understand everyone is trying to make a buck in this city but ripping people off is another story.

I love bartenders usually- so to all of you out there I say - STOP FUCKING ME OVER AND JUST POUR A GOOD STRONG DRINK... because thats when I give you a good tip, a generous tip because you deserve it. Damn I need a drink.