its kinda like this...

racing ride

2008-05-22T07:17:00.011-04:00

Last night I spent the evening with Best Friend and her man having a good time in Sunset Park. We chatted, drank, cooked, listened to music and watched a movie (which I could not make it through because I have pumpkin syndrome- I can't stay out late and start to fall asleep at 11). Right about the time I could no longer keep my eyes open the DVD began skipping so I saw it as a sign that I should go home. Best Friend is always kind and calls a car for me when my eyes are red slits and I can't talk. After a brief awkward period of bare feet in cold hallways the car service arrived and I was happily on my way.

I don't like to fall asleep in car service cars because it makes me a little nervous. Sure I can fall asleep on the subway and not give two shits when I wake up at Coney Island but a "car service" just doesn't offer the same luxury. The drivers often have no idea where I live and it ends up being a " Choose Your Own Adventure" on the streets of south Brooklyn. I usually try not to give too many "turn here... OH OH OH you should have gone left" because that is really annoying and means I have to pay attention. I also had a driver tell me "shut the fuck up I know what I am doing" once so that sort of put a damper on my direction giving. Now I just let them do their thing, get confused, run me around and I zone out. I never pay more than 12$ for the ride no matter which way they go.

A medium sized SUV was the car of choice this evening and I climbed into the back seat and shouted out my destination. The driver repeated it and we were off. I like it when the driver just leaves me alone or even better is on his cell phone headset talking to the air about his girlfriend or shouting in another language. Anything that means I don't have to talk because if I am in a car it means I am too drunk and tired to take the subway.

Suddenly we stop short.

"Oh my, did you theee that! learn how to drive misther!"

The driver yelled out the window. I couldn't tell if he had a lisp, an accent or was gay. He pressed the gas hard and I was thrown to the back of my seat. He began to stare at me in his rear view mirror .

"You know people juth don't know how to drive, I mean they are idioth. I have several carth bigger than this and my mom always sayth..." that's where I stopped paying attention and decided he was gay. Talking about your mom with strangers- unless she is sick, in town or famous, to me is kind of gay (I talk about my mom all the time and she is none of those things- see gay gay gay). Coupled with a funny voiced lisp made it complete for me. Lisps on their own can't be a determining factor as there are plenty of straight men that need speech therapy too.

Unfortunately he continued on about driving and life with his mother. It all sounded like leaky tires and gravel to me then I began to wonder if he was hitting on me? Was he? Was he cute? Should I pay attention? Damn I was drunk.

Suddenly I was hit with a question of "Don't you think?"

I was caught off gaurd. I had no idea what he was talking about anymore because of my interior monologue and trying to decide if I thought a car service driver was actually cute. I did my usual car speak of "hmmmmm yeah, right on". Then continued the contemplation. I tried my best to catch a full on glimpse of his face. He didn't seem cute. I think he was about 35. The car was nice and he made sure to tell me about those bigger cars several times. Maybe he was all right- I'd done worse... right? I couldn't remember.

He was still staring at me in the rear view and this time more intensely. I began to squirm. I didn't know what the hell was going on or where the hell I was in brooklyn for that matter. I decided after an awkward 45 seconds and deep contemplation that I had to talk to this guy now. I decided to slur out my two cents on driving.

"I have a hard enough time with people walking on the street, let alone inside metal objects that can kill you- I could never do your job." yeah yeah, a compliment that will shut him up.

Silence and stink eye.

He didn't get it. He just kept staring at me, more than the road. I was nervous. I thought I had made a fatal mistake and I was about to get my ass kicked... or fucked - I still was not sure and I really wasn't interested in either.

Sudden laughter errupted from the driver "Yeah yeah yeah..." - wait was he on a blue tooth and I didn't realize it. I opened my half shut eyes wider to get a better look. No, he was talking to me, unfortunately. He then thought he was free to go off on a tangent- this is where it all went wrong.

"You know who really can't drive- the Chinese. I can't stand their asses. They park for like 20 minutes in the middle of the road. The Chinese are taking over! They were outside my mom's place and I had to park their chinese asses..." Wait- was I transported back to 1942? Is my Irish Nanna driving me around?

"Not like the Spanish are any better with their music blasting and..."

Yup 1942 and Nanna.

The guy wasn't gay. His racial tirade cleared up his lisp and he had a thick brooklyn accent. He was starring at me in the back seat to see if I was of any recognizable nationality (other than white) before he could spew his venom on me, not his sperm. I was really uncomfortable. I also was beginning to realize that my tolerance for alcohol was lower than I thought. I hate when people go on evil tirades and expect you to chime in. This has happened to me before but usually I can walk away or say something about how horrible the person is being THEN walk away. The key - I could walk away. This time I was stuck in a car with a racist Brooklyn mama's boy I thought was gay and trying to pick me up. All I could do was say "mmmm".

When it finally was over I began to laugh a little, then bite my lip, then laugh some more. I was THAT desperate for a second to think a poc marked car driver with thinning hair and bug eyes was 1. hitting on me 2. could be cute and 3. I was considering HITTING on HIM. Man I was out of my mind. I laughed out loud at myself again, this time not containing it- just looking like a crazy person. I love laughing at myself like that- especially in front of people when I look like I belong in a padded cell.

He looked back and gave me a "you're fucking weird" look, did a giant U-turn and wouldn't you know it I was at my apartment. I gave him a 3$ tip out of fear and he looked intensely into my eyes as he handed back my change and said in a low voice "Thank you thir".

Seems like my Irish Nana was there- there to wake my drunken half Irish ass up and say "You asshole, this guy is ugly- what the heck is wrong with you!". Oh Nana, always watching out for me in the man department with guilt, shame or a smack on the head because as she liked to say "the gays are a good people".

I take love where I can get it

2008-05-21T07:30:00.007-04:00

The other day I received an email from best friend informing me that a new animal had entered her life. My first thought was "oh god this poor woman will never breathe normally again". See, best friend works in an office (a very cool and fun office- for me , not for her) that contains two cats. I say "contain" because no one really likes them very much and EVERYONE is allergic to them. The reason they are there? The boss man likes it that way, even if he is out of that office six to nine months of the year and never sees them.

The cats are those long haired fur ball bitch cats. They show you their ass all the time (complete with clumped hair in the anus- no matter how many times they are cleaned), they whine for attention then run away when you offer it and worst of all they shed like nobodies business. While at first they were cute little kittens that everyone played with and loved despite the sneezing, watering eyes and inability to breathe the fun wore off when they began to play on the fax machine and piss all over the halls.

The idea that a new animal would be introduced to this environment was not something I thought Best Friend would be jumping for joy over until she told me that it was not her animal to care for (thank god) but a new visitor from a fellow employee. Then she sent me this:
Everyone now with the collective "awwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwww"

but what I really loved was this next picture that describes the situation with the animals so perfectly I need not say more:
OK I do want to say more - Look at that damn adorable dog! Then there is one of those crazy ass whacked long haired cats that shows its clumped anus all the time with its piss matted fur looking sad. OK so its kind of sad but seriously, the cat is crazy and it makes everyone have an allergic reaction on a daily basis. It's OK folks, in spite of her deathly allergy Best Friend pets and loves these cats everyday- even worries about them. Partially because its her job and partially because even though something is causing her utter misery she still loves it. hmmmmmmm

Anyway I was more than thrilled to see this adorable dog. I could not wait to meet him. I can't explain it- the uglier the dog, the cuter he (or she) is to me. I love pugs, Boston terriers, French bull dogs... ok thats pretty much it. I think they are just the best dogs, so friendly and playful, not too big but not so small. You can still have dignity walking those guys around without looking like big old mo. They are still scary enough to keep small children with dirty hands from shoving their mitts in its face until you say "Its ok! He's friendly". If only I felt that way about guys...

I got to meet Mr. Moo (Moo is his name) yesterday. It was raining, I felt like shit, I was down, I could hardly breath through my nose, I was wearing dirty underwear because I needed to do laundry and oh so much more. When Best Friend greeted me at the office door with moo in her arms I lit up. I forgot he would be there! I am always nervous around new things and this was no exception, if I were a dog myself I would probably pee all the time when entering a room. Thank god thats not the case- although see me if I make it to 80.

I tentatively played while everyone worked away and finished up for the day. I then put him on my lap and he sat there for a while and I pet his fur, squeezed his little rolls and didn't pay attention to what people were saying. Eventually moo turned his face to me and licked me. I was grossed out of course but remembered that this was the dog way of saying "hey you are all right".

I noticed that moo really liked my pant hem and boot so I started to tease him a little and get him riled up. He made cute noises and did the head thrashing thing dogs do. I twirled around in my office chair getting him all dizzy then stopped suddenly and watched him freak out. He was so happy- maybe a little too happy.

Next thing I know my leg was mounted and I was getting humped. I know there are a lot of people who have had this experience- right? I thought it was funny at first and removed my leg from the situation. He was in hot pursuit. I shouted to best friend for help and all she could do was laugh and say "OH MY GOD MOO IS GAY MOO IS GAY!!!".

Yeah thanks for the help.

Apparently I am the only person he has ever mounted and humped repeatedly. What an honor.

I let the little guy go for a minute figuring he was just a puppy and didn't know better. It was not really a fun feeling knowing I was essentially this dogs "pocket pussy" for the moment but whatever I masturbate too- just not on peoples legs (ok not on peoples legs in public). I then pulled out an old tennis shoe thinking maybe it was my smell that he was into. He played a minute and then went right back to the leg. The good thing was there was really no contact against my leg; it was more "air humping". The second the lower half came into contact I was like "Ok ok the funs over sorry buddy I can fell your goods on my leg and thats no good" and had to pull away. I distracted him away from my leg with some butt plug looking toy. He seemed sad but still happy to play. He kept going for slight air pumps on the leg but nothing as major as the first few attempts. After about 10 minutes his owner came with the leash to take him home and he lost interest in my leg. Men.

This of course started my whole "IIIII want a Doooooog" speech. The good old "It's just what I need. I have the space for one his size, I have the love to give, I could use the company and I live right next to the park". The usual counter argument from Best Friend whenever I get this fanciful idea "If you had a dog, you would not be here right now... besides you are allergic to most dogs"-- touche. My mom's argument for this "Ugh ick you want them rubbing their asses all over your house!" Um mom- people do that too... but she has a point. My argument "I'll never want to leave to visit my family or go on vacations, its a 10 year commitment at LEAST". So it always puts a damper on the idea.

Last night I was dreaming about having a dog. It was awesome. Well ok truth be told I had a boyfriend and a dog in the dream (the only thing missing was a house with a pool). Maybe I can't have those things in real life but in my dreams they are the best pets ever and I don't have to worry about cleaning up after them (the dog and the boyfriend). Hooray for vivid dreams.

ps- I still want a dog.

Sinking

2008-05-16T12:38:00.001-04:00

You ever get the feeling like no matter how hard you try you are sinking and nothing you do will get you out of the hole? That everyone thinks you are an idiot? That you have lost your path, yet again? yeah its kind of like that right now...

Foodnetwork, you broke my heart

2008-05-07T08:21:00.009-04:00

It was 11:30 pm on Friday night. I had just spent the evening with Best Friend on an unexpected bar hop and was starving. I decided that it was ok to indulge in my secret guilty "I have no cash at the moment" pleasure and order pizza online- yes from Dominos. Yes, I eat Domino's pizza and damn it when you are drunk, haven't eaten dinner, don't feel like cooking and you live alone so no one can witness the carnage, it's allowed. I placed my order and left the tracker up so I could see when I could expect my processed pizza to arrive at my apartment. Next I saddled up to the TV in my favorite chair and blasted on the radiation tube for my usual late night surfing.

Channel 18- TBS... freaking bridget jones AGAIN
Channel 15- Fox- Seinfeld and I just can't take that it is on all the f'n time
Channel 21- CW 11 Stupid in the City
Channel 78- Foodnetwork...static ( I try again)
Channel 78- Foodnetwork again... blank screen

I turn the tv off then on

Channel 78- Foodnetwork... absolutely nothing

I unplug the cable from the back of my tv and plug it back in again

Channel 78- Foodnetwork... still gone

I stare at the blank screen in disappointment. My eyes begin to get misty. I let out a giant sigh of "Nooooooooooooooooooooo!". I was devastated. No "Ace of Cakes" , no "Iron Chef", no crappy "Throwdown", no "Foodnetwork in the Kitchen" Saturday mornings, not even freaking Mark Summers with his stupid ass "Unwrapped"! Just a blank screen where I can see myself reflected in the black tube with a dumbfounded look. It's gone. My favorite channel, my late night friend, my cooking instructor, my weekend morning companion, my confidant- essentially my boyfriend- up and left in the middle of the night with no explanation.

Typical.

I stared, hoping it was a figment of my drunk imagination.

30 minutes passed in silence and I was startled by my buzzer- the pizza came. I proceeded to eat the entire box of buffalo kickers and a large mushroom pizza with misty eyes lamenting my loss... in 20 minutes. See what happens when TV is not pacing me!

The thing is- I don't have real cable and I live alone. Deadly combo- television and a person who likes to be visually stimulated. I have what I call "apartment cable". This essentially means I moved into my apartment, there was a cable on the ground, and I thought "What would happen if I just plugged this little cable into the antenna input" and tah dah- clear reception on select channels. This also means that I am subject to cable whims. There was one point when I thought all was well with my TV relationship. I had figured out which channel was Bravo and I also managed to get The Cartoon Network. I thought I had tricked the system and this would last forever. I was wrong.

Channels started to dissapear. First went HGTV. I found it odd as it had been there since the beginning with the Foodnetwork. No love lost though as I was tired of watching House Hunters (with ever stale Suzan Wong). Candace Olsen's dorky Canadian antics on "Divine Design" with Chico were annoying the crap out of me and if I had to watch one more stupid prospective buyer talk about how the colors in the house were a problem I was going to shoot my TV. I thought good ridden to bad rubbish because I learned all I can learn from that channel.

A few weeks later I turned on my man and switched to the Cartoon Network. Blank. It too was gone. I was just getting into shows like "Foster's home for Imaginary Friends" and "My Gym Partner's a Monkey". I liked knowing what my niece and nephew would watch... sober... after school... if they were 6. I knew I would be ok as long as the Foodnetwork and Bravo were still around.

A week after the Project Runway finale, Bravo went missing.

Finally the cord was cut- the Foodnetwork was gone.

It's odd to be so attached to television and in particular a network dedicated to food. I find food shows soothing and comforting in ways that sit-coms or movies aren't. I feel like I am learning something pratical while being kept in a vegetative state. The foodnetwork taught me about deglazing pans, braising meats, reposing steaks, how to properly prepare an artichoke, making rues, making stocks, why fish and cheese don't go together and so much more. It brought out the cook inside me and made me feel confident in the kitchen the way no one else could. I began to cook circles around my family members and soon was getting the approval of best friend with her "restaurant quality" seal of approval on dishes I had made. No one taught me more about loving food than this channel, no one.

To see it gone, even as I write this, chokes me up.

The channel has come back intermittently and given me a glimmer of hope that maybe this will work out. Maybe if I just paid a little bit more attention to the channel, loved the new chefs I hated, tried more of their recipes, turned it on more, something- it would stay with me. No, it just kept telling me " you can't afford me no matter how much you love me". Now I am left with a bad habit of surfing from 62 (former Bravo) 67 (former Cartoon) 78(former foodnetwork) only to find blank screens or scrambled pictures that turn into blank screens.

Yesterday TBS was shut off.

Television? I HAVE no television.

I don't write about that

2008-05-01T08:47:00.003-04:00

I try no to write about my dating life very often as there are plenty of anecdotes one can hear about dating on a regular basis. Simply turn on your television past 11p, and you will see any number of single gal on the town typing single life witticisms on a laptop or single men acting quarkie with women on dates. It becomes a little depressing when you only get "apartment cable " and are left with a total of five stations (It also makes me question the demographic of tv watchers avoiding the news at 11pm). Go to any number of bars or cafes and just listen to other people- chances are you will eventually hear a sex/ dating story told much too loud for public ears but there it is.

It could also be that dating is the one topic I refuse to talk to my mom about in my life. It drives her crazy. I get worried that if she finds this blog and starts reading it she will think we can talk about it together over cocktails. While I love my mom, I just don't feel the need to talk about all my one night stands, hook ups, or month long relationships with her. None of it is significant enough to bother her with or have her get invested in. It will also make me look like a big old whore.

I once made the mistake of mentioning the fact that I had a sex life at Christmas during the post dinner drinks drunken boyfriend interrogation;

"So any new guys?"
"No"
(sip)
(sip)
" What about the lawyer, you seen him?"
"Ma, we are friends"
"Right, right right... what about that other guy"
(sip)
"There is no guy"
(sip)
"The one from last year?"
"No Mom"
(sip)
"Really? I thought you were-"
"Nope, no one"
"I mean its just you are so-"
"Mom- I get LAID if thats what you want to know!"
-Silence-
-Silence-
(gulp)
"So are you using safes*?"
"I need another drink"

*Safes= condoms

It's just not the conversation you want to have with your mom as an adult.

My point is that the market is saturated with dating stories and I don't know if I feel comfortable sharing dating stories (unless I am in a bar getting drunk shouting about how I was dumped again to my friends). However, I also think its a part of life, like picking your nose. I once told my niece who loves to pick her nose that it was OK she did it, just don't let anyone SEE you do it. Now when she is in a crowded room and wants to dig for gold she goes to the corner, gives us her back and picks away.

I am going to the corner now and talking about dating... to myself... while I pick my nose. Some things are better left unsaid. Granted- I wrote a whole post here before and decided to erase it after much thought and advisement so I was not fully above it at first. I decided I am really not into writing about dating- it gets messy, people know who you are talking about- and hell its kind of intimate and involves someone besides yourself. Why drag them through the blog mud unwillingly. It really doesn't make anyone like you more, in fact I think its a turn off to know you may be written about on some ass wipes blog if you go on a date. I have decided to leave that topic to the stupid asses who do it best with their lap tops in Starbucks and expensive shoes.

Changed my mind

2008-04-15T13:30:00.001-04:00

After careful and lengthy consideration I decided to say "fuck it" and I am still going to write here. If people see something they don't like- tough shit, its my blog. Yup, spoken like a spoiled brat.

It's a shame...

2008-02-19T13:02:00.002-05:00

This will be my last post on this blog. I love this blog but in case you haven't noticed I have not been writing. It has become more difficult to write for me as stress increases at my job and more people become aware of this blog (yeah...like so many people are reading it). I can not write freely anymore and that bothers me. I want to be able to write about anything in this blog, thats why I started doing it; that has become less of an option.

It sucks.

It's a shame people have to know you.

Love to all.

R

Umm I had Soup Yesterday

2007-12-03T14:09:00.000-05:00

The other day after a staff meeting I was invited out to lunch by my supervisor and the director where I work. They are good friends and wanted to include me in on the much more informal meeting and rehash of events just discussed in our full on staff event. My first response (as with any time I am invited out to lunch) was "I brought my lunch". Its true, I always bring my lunch- I am THAT guy.

That did not go over too well and was met with "Oh come OONNNNNN" and "You always bring your lunch, live a little". Next move and the true reason I could not join them " I don't have the money for lunch." I hate when I am forced to admit that. It is odd, even though I am making more money than before I have never been more broke in my life. Seriously. I don't know why a weekly paycheck makes it impossible for me to balance my budget but I have been broke more than once since I started this job.

"Oh Please, no one is paying for this- its a business lunch" my disappointed supervisor replied.

"Oh... well in that case... cool- where are we going?"

We went over options- Thai (too noisy), Italian (too expensive), Diner (rip off greasy spoon), Go Go Curry (nowhere to sit). We were left with Balkan food. I know, seriously, what the HELL is Balkan food. I thought at first they said VULCAN and was thinking we were headed to some gimmick laden tourist trap fitted with Dr. Spoc memorabilia and a futuristic menu- you know "astro burgers" and "chocolate vulcan death grip cake".

I didn't want to let them know I misunderstood and had no idea what I was in for so I merely said "Yeah that sounds awesome".

We headed down the block through the busy streets outside the porn shops and fabric palaces until we stopped in front of a brightly painted lower restaurant front. It wasn't until then I realized "Balkan" not "Vulcan" . Relieved I looked over the menu in its outdoor case. It seemed doable and we all went inside.

Now Balkan food is essentially Turkish/Middle Eastern cuisine. There are kabobs, meats in cabbages, lots of potato, spetzel (which seemed odd), iceberg lettuce, cucumbers, hot sauces, cool yogurt garlic sauce etc. Since none of us had eaten at the restaurant before it was decided we would all share our meals so we could taste a variety of items. I began to tense up at the idea of "family style".

I have always had an issue with sharing food. This partially stems from my father picking off my plate without a care in the world when I was growing up (eventually my mom yelled at him enough so he stopped) and the nag of my mom's "Do you want me to have some of that?" while she would pine over my plate if I ordered something better than her at a restaurant. However, the real meat of the issue has to do with bodily fluids - more specifically, saliva.

I don't mind swapping spit when making out but when eating...

People stick utensils in their mouths and then in their food, mush it around and repeat. Its just sort of gross to me. Then there are items like popsicles or ice cream on a cone which just totally gross me out. I refuse to eat ice cream on a cone because I think it is nasty to have a spit covered treat exposed to the world. The fact that people offer each other "licks" is even worse. I have the chills just thinking about it. I will share utensils or eat ice cream off someone's cone if I am having sex with them or they are a REALLY good friend but only then... and possibly not even then. I don't even share straws or drink a drink that is mostly gone with my best friend- and I love booze and straws.

Back to Balkan lunch...

It was not like this place was set up for family style- it was meant as a single dish per person which really meant no serving utensils and no holds bar for the spit in food. I cringed thinking of spit covered forks with leftover bits between the prongs, potato crusted knives and more. I decided that I would have to use my grab before stab method of sharing before anyone can dig in (basically I offer my food right away so people are taken a bit off guard and then share their meal before they had a chance to taste it). I am still new to this job so I didn't want to offend anyone, I wanted to be part the "work family" and fit in.

That's when I heard the following order.

"And I will have the bean and ham hock soup"

A wave of nausea went up my spine. How does one share soup?! WHO THE HELL ORDERS SOUP TO SHARE IN A GROUP! I calmed myself down by thinking "oh stupid they will bring small bowls or at least more spoons... just don't eat the damn soup".

The food arrived, no bowls, no spoons. I asked for extra spoons but the waitress just walked away. I tried my hardest to start the grab then stab sharing offering up my food,they took from my plate but no offers to take from their's came in return. My plan was foiled. I watched as forks dug in, went to lips and left spit strings hanging- then back for more. Next thing I knew I was being given a giant serving of stuffed wet cabbage with a side of saliva on my plate from a dirty fork.

"MMMMMMM thanks!" I grinned. I nervously plunged my fork into the wet cold mound and decided to block it all out and enjoy.

"Oh this soup is amazing! Here try it!" the spoon was handed from the director to my supervisor who quickly took up the offer and professed its glory.

"This is AMAZING, oh you MUST try this" She passed the bowl my way and licked the one spoon on the table clean and plunged it back in.

I hesitated. A bead of sweat went down my back. I didn't know what to do. I began to panic as a brown creamy mass was slowly slid my way.

"Ohhh uhhh I had soup yesterday..." Why did I think that would make me safe?

"That is ridiculous- try this its amazing" She reprimanded

"No really I mean I made a big pot- I am all souped out. It smells great though!" there that is good- I made a big pot... idiot.

"One taste will not kill you! COME ON!" and she nudged the plate into my dining space.

I had not experienced this much peer pressure since I was in middle school when all the boys told me if I didn't shower after gym I was a "scrub". I gingerly grabbed the spittle soaked spoon nested deep inside the bean matter.

I raised it to my lips while chanting "its OK, its OK, I am sure this is fine, the heat of the soup killed the germs, its OK, its OK..." Yeah the heat of the soup made it more of a breeding ground and I knew it but before I could withdraw I saw puppy eyes looking at me waiting for my soup approval. Down the hatch it went- without touching my lips or my tounge- essentially I plopped the bean mush in the middle of my mouth. Then I did the pull out - it was all teeth. Such a gross feeling, teeth on spoon.

Smiles of relief when I let out a "MMMmmmmmmMMMMMmmm this IS good"

I lied, it wasn't, however to prove how OK I was with sharing a spoon I took a second bite before I passed it on. "Really good!" spoon, teeth, grind, shudder

The rest of the meal was actually good. I downed the shared food so I could get that over with and went into my own. It was really tasty. I had a spicy veal kabob with a garlic yogurt sauce, a red pepper relish and this amazing flat bread. All of this required some hand involvement which I happily did. I ate most of my meal then remembered I had not washed my hands when I got inside. The last thing I had touched was the sticky railing coming down the stairs inside. So much for worrying about spit on a spoon. I felt slightly ill but pushed it all out of my mind. When I got back to the office I took an airborne... because for some reason I thought that would help.

After the whole affair I realized I learned something - sometimes to make people happy you have to let go of your own inhibitions, if just for a moment, stuff it down deep inside, take the spoon and taste what is offered. You can always rinse your mouth out with Listerine in private later.

We're Back

2007-12-03T13:14:00.000-05:00

You know that scene in Mommie Dearest after Joan Crawford aka Faye, picks up ungrateful bitch Tina after she gets in trouble for showing her grandma panties while making out with a boy? You knooooow they argue in the car- Tina tells Joan there is a liquor store on the corner- Joan (Faye) dramatically cries out " I should have known you'd know where to find the BOOZE and the BOYS"? Come on- its right before the famous choking scene... no? Well, anyway Joan walks in bringing the cool night air and ill feelings with her and declares to Barbara (a reporter from Red Book)

"WE'RE BACK" (scarf swooped off head and the heels click on the marble)

We'll...

I am back.

No scarf on my head, no heels (in my case hard soled shoes on marble). No fights with ungrateful children. I am just back...

I had a rough summer, got a new job, hated the job, loved the job, hated the job again, then settled on "like" and thought that was fine- no need to roller coaster that one again. I hit a really hard wall with "creative" energy and became a sad sack of shit. I stopped making work. I grew a beard that itched, shaved said beard (because Best Friend kept giving me funny looks but was too kind to say it looked like shit. Everyone else said I looked thin with it-which I loved. Truth be told I had lost almost 20 pounds and THAT was why I looked thin- nothing to do with the beard). I wallowed, did not leave my house for days on end, barely showered, watched mid afternoon TV where they told me "Depression hurts- but you don't have to..." and talked to the television. I stomped my feet, cried, drank myself into a stupor, laughed alone, talked to the walls... you know the usual crazy "no one understands me" artist crap.

Then suddenly I snapped out of it (thanks to a dumb ass dream).

I mean, I love melancholia as much as the next self loathing fag but that shit was exhausting.

I now can safely say, I like my new artwork, my new focus/ direction and am well... it is Christmas though and my mom did remind me to have my anxiety meds filled.

Long, long story short- I thought it fitting I begin writing again...

Enjoy!

New Job

2007-08-26T08:33:00.000-04:00

I have been extremely lazy about writing lately but all with good reason, I have a new job. I no longer working in higher education (at an art school) and have progressed to a non-profit art organization. Now I can officially answer the question

"What do you do for a living"
-with-
"Artsy Fartsy stuff".
-Instead of-
"Life coach the unintelligent into graduate school"

I will return to my writing antics very soon.

Rose lost her Turn

2007-07-20T11:25:00.001-04:00

Early this week it was reported that famed piano and sing along bar Rose's Turn will be closing its doors forever. All the gay musical men and loud mouth musical girls let out billowing cries of disbelief knowing they could no longer scream along to songs by the piano while getting drunk. It is a sad day when the happiness of a marginalized group is brought to an end by Real Estate, yet again, in this city.

If you had never been to Rose's Turn you missed a treat. I mean that in the most sincere and honest way possible. I am not a piano bar/ sing along kind of guy but I do of course have a story about my own trip to a place I swore I would never go in. I dreaded the idea of a hot bar filled with large clouds of smelly exhaled breath from people singing while downing drinks. To me, people singing along to a piano was worse than Karaoke. A live instrument instead of some cheesy synth back up seems to make people think they can sing, and sing well.

One cold and rainy night I was scheduled to meet up with a group of misfit former musical theater people and a musical composer for dinner and drinks. We chose a campy and ridiculous spot in the Village known for its sausage and schnitzel called Lederhosen. I of course was there early and had to sit at the bar and make obvious gestures that I was waiting for someone lest some stranger think I am a loser (you know the audible sigh and looking at the watch as you drink your second giant beer). Finally when all the late comers arrived we were sat in the back room at a picnic table surrounded by a mountain mural on the wall. The place reminded me of some cafeteria at a YMCA camp or basement of an elementary school. The food was OK, expensive and while fun for a one time deal, not worth it. The beer however, completely worth every last drop.

We payed our check after some rowdy raunchy conversations and of course no one wanted to go home. Our next thought was "where can we go that is not far where we can drink cheap drinks as we just spent all our dough on sausages". My friend Métier lit up and snapped his fingers "I know a place, my friend is working, we can get discounted drinks, maybe even a few rounds for free!" Then he waited for all to agree.

*Note- Métier likes all things campy and ridiculous, I mean two of the guys favorite movies are "The Apple" and "Xanadu". Mike had also been trying to convince us to go to Jekyll and Hide just for shits and giggles- neither of which interested us.

"NOT JEKYLL AND HYDE " we shouted in unison. He looked wounded.

'No no, I know no one wants to go there, just trust me" he replied

Now the thing with Métier is when he doesn't tell you what the place is right off the bat you need to be careful. My best friend, who was with me, and I have known him for years and not telling you a location is sort of his ruse to get you to go somewhere he knows you won't agree to if you hear it ahead of time. She and I looked at each other quickly and almost simultaneously said "Where Métier" in that "OK what is it NOW" way.

"ROSE'S TURN!" he gleamed.

Shit, shit SHIT. A piano bar. A piano bar I vowed never to go into every time I passed it and saw the head shots in the display case. I am not sure why I make stupid "vows" on such dumb things like bars and restaurants and then feel some sort of moral high ground because I VOWED not to go in- but I do it and always end up breaking it. What sort of self respecting gay man would VOW not to go into a piano bar and sing loudly and drunk... ugh- me.

My best friend looked at me and saw my terror.

"Hey we can make fun of people..." in her best tempting the devil voice.

I looked into her eyes for a moment, turned away then after a moment blurted out-

"Hell free drinks- lets do it Métier."

Métier did his happy nervous jump, turn, snap and lead the way to the mischief.

We went through the door and down the three steps as he hollered out to his friend working as a cocktail waitress. It was still quiet in the bar as the singing had not begun yet. The place was dimly lit with a red light dive bar aura about it.The familiar smell of bar rot filled the air. There was a microphone stand and an upright piano in front of a fish tank. In my memory its a fish tank, it totally could have been a wall of "queers" or something for all I know, I was tipsy. I let out a sigh as I sat down, rolled my eyes (nervous habit) and then smiled. Smiling helps when you are scared and nervous- just like whistling (I was Louis in "The King and I" when I was 8 what can I say).

We all ordered our stiff drinks. Métier was beaming, Best Friend and I were chatty, our third misfit, Composer was texting a hook up / former fling and getting ready to jet. The service was good and I must say the people in the bar were extremely friendly, especially the staff. I was starting to ease up and my tensed ass had just relaxed when suddenly there was a tinkle on the key board.

"Ladies and Gentleman, thank you for coming out this evening, my name is Joe and I will be playing for you all... if you have any requests let me know and if I don't know it, I will certainly try and fake it..." he played a few scales and flourishes then moved his mouth closer to the piano microphone so you could hear his giant inhale and out with "It's nine o'clock on a Saturday, the regular crowd shuffles in ... hey Nancy!..." He waved to a big man that walked into the bar. Fear washed over me and my ass tightened again.

I began to panic and looked over at Métier happily chatting with Best Friend, Composer was texting furiously and I had no choice left but to watch this man sing... singing a song...sing oh so seductively... heavily breathing in the mic... looking playfully my way- wait- was he actually cute? Huh, he wasn't bad. His voice was actually kind of good. Hang on hang on.... I was actually beginning to enjoy this.

OK this is after I downed my drink, blushed and promptly ordered another but it was a feeling of joy nonetheless.

The piano man sang a few more songs and picked up the mood with some up beat pop songs. More people began to pile in ranging from flaming queens to tourists and even business men with their arm candy they wanted to seduce. An affable mood was developing in the bar and the place felt like it had a growing "glow". I had about 4 vodka sodas at this point that were mostly vodka so that could have been it too- I of course did not care. I did however need to switch back to beer.

Out of the corner of my eye I noticed a woman sitting at the bar who seemed very anxious and nervous. I thought perhaps she was a patron like me, lured in by free drinks but terrified of public singing. She had dark short hair hidden underneath a scarf, a septum piercing, sleeveless shirt and cargo pants. A nervous lesbian. She looked around and around at all the people, darting her eyes back and forth. The piano man began to wind down his first set and paused to sip some water. She suddenly got up and approached the mic stand. She leaned over and spoke with the piano man then readjusted her position to one of confidence in front of the crowd.

"Hello" - feedback of course rang through the audience adding to the nerves.

"I just wanted to sing this song for you all, I hope you like it". Her voice quivered. Composer friend chose this moment to get up and leave to meet his sex ex and try and get some. We all said goodbye drunkenly quiet (which everyone knows is loud like a stage whisper). Once he had left and the commotion settled the woman took a deep breath and the piano began.

Now I was pretty drunk at this point so I do not remember what song she sang. I do remember thinking "OF COURSE SHE SANG THAT" which makes me think it was Melissa Ethridge's "I'm the only one" or a K.D. Lang song- but as you know I believe there was a fish tank in the bar too. After the first few painful notes she suddenly loosened up and was actually, dare I say it- GOOD.

Oh my god- I liked this. I, the man who vowed to not have fun in a sing along bar was liking it. I was enjoying the performance from this butch woman who stepped out of her comfort zone and belted a song out with true passion. It was sort of moving, in the way that you find things moving when you are drunk.

After the woman finished the crowd cheered and I let out a big roller coaster style "Weeeeehooooooooooooo!". She looked my way and smiled then went back to the bar to resume her nervous drinking.

This is where the evening became hazy, foggy and amazingly fun. I was being given free drinks, allowed to yell and sing as much as I wanted and no one batted an eyelash. Song after song was being played as waiters came up and did their thing, pointed to the audience for the chorus etc. I started out shyly blurting lyrics here and there too embarrassed to let loose at first. I slowly built up my courage and came up to full musical theater crescendo, singing with all my might by the sixth or seventh song- proud and ashamed that I knew the lyrics to most of the crap being played.

The Climax to the whole affair came when "Total Eclipse of the Heart" began on the piano and our waitress, Métier's friend stepped up to the mic. Silence and goosebumps filled the air as the raspy sorority girls behind us blurted out "I love this song!". It started out as a solo then the audience filled in the duet part. Next thing I know Best Friend, Métier and I were shouting the chorus at the top of our lungs laughing so hard that were were red and out of breath. By the end the whole place was alive with shouts, hoots, laughing and singing as everyone declared

"I really need you tonight
Forever's gonna start tonight
Forever's gonna start tonight"

Then we all warbled down to the serious part slurring around

"Once upon a time there was light in my life
But now there's only love in the dark
Nothing I can say
A total eclipse of the heart"

I had a lump in my throat, a stain on my lap (from my spilt drink) and a tear in my eye. It was beautiful.

We decided that it was time to go when each one of us needed "fresh air". We payed our very low tab, told the waitress she ruled, said goodbye to all the fresh non-drunk faces around us and stumbled up the stairs and out the door into the cool night air. As we walked down the block we all had the look of "One more... come on guys lets go for one more". Métier, embolden with liquor slurred out "no no , I have a real treat jussssshhhh follow me." We walked down the block tripped down some stairs and opened a door to another bar.

Our nostrils were hit with the distinct smell of testosterone, sweaty crotch and urinal cake. We pushed through a crowd and suddenly I heard a familiar tune on the piano. We had stumbled into the all musical theater sing along bar "Marie's Crisis Cafe". There in front of us were tons and tons of gay men singing along to the Guys and Dolls favorite "Sit Down You're Rocking the Boat". The image of twinkle eyed gay men singing to each other in an exaggerated musical theater fashion as if actually in the freaking show is burned into my head. It was just too much. Sing along to a variety of songs was one thing- but to Musicals only- Best Friend and I looked at each other in horror- not for us at ALL. (The place was packed so certainly gay men of that persuasion LOVE the place- and there is NOTHING wrong with that- just not our bag).

We looked at Métier who was swaying and hiccuping and said "We gotta get out of here" and hurried up the steps. We hopped into a cab dragging poor Métier back to Brooklyn with us so he wouldn't have to trek to the Upper West Side reeking of booze as he slid into bed with his sober boyfriend- again. We laughed like crazy in the cab, sang a little, recapped and fell out onto the streets of Sunset Park Brooklyn. Best Friend was kind enough to host our rowdy asses and smoke us out as we talked until 3am. Everyone agreed- killer time.

When I learned of Rose's Turn closing I was actually kind of sad... for a second. I had a blast there that one time. I am glad I did it. I am glad that I got to go to yet another New York landmark place before it was closed or changed for good (just like the time I bought weed with Best Friend in Washington Square park from the same guy who sold weed to the kids in KIDS the movie- and just like the movie it was that "sticks and pebbles crap"--this of course was in the mid 90's before they cleaned up the park and made it boring so old farts would feel comfortable.)

It saddens me that gay men, lesbians, lecherous men and their dates, tourists and anyone of the like will no longer have a piano bar to get drunk, shout out their feelings in the form of a pop song and feel deeply connected to total strangers.

Goodbye Rose's Turn...

"True"

2007-07-16T11:52:00.000-04:00

Normally I like to use my blog to tell stories or something of the like. I try and refrain from bitching too much because I do that enough in my daily life and writing it down just gives me a complex. Sure my first posts were on those bitching-esq topics but then I found my footing and began to write less and less about the daily monotony of working in an office, New York City subway rides and instead decided to expose my most embarrassing or telling stories.

Therefore I will TRY and keep this brief. (after reviewing it, I realize I failed on that count so just sit back and hopefully enjoy)

What the HELL is up with that freaking site "True"? Whenever I log into my myspace (I know... myspace, the passive aggressive way people keep in contact with former or distant friends that are to lazy to even email. Through the magic of sites like friendster and myspace you can learn all you need to know without ever having to talk to them- just keep dibs on them .)

Anyway whenever I log onto myspace I am greeted by an advert for "True" featuring two buff shirtless men holding each other looking as happy as can be with "Live, Love, Learn" or " Romance is just a click away" written in bold underneath.What the hell kind of slogan is that!? Live, Love, Learn? If it were that easy wouldn't we all be walking around in a wonderful sex filled bliss?

If its not "True"reminding me that I need to live love and learn its fucking "Gay.com". Usually the ad features some shaven buff guy all wet coming out of a pool looking sexy/pissed at the camera asking me if I have "given Gay.com a try". Um yes and my profile was deleted for some unknown reason and all anyone wanted on there was sex. Not that there is anything wrong with that- just don't market yourself as a dating site when you are indeed nothing of the sort- just a hook up site with some queercentric "news" articles.

Which of course leads me to the OTHER site I get advertised on myspace all the time. Manhunt. There coyly posed in front of me after I log in is this beefy, large pectoral man with a square jaw line and perfectly manicured chest hair telling me to "go online and get off". While I appreciate the straightforwardness of the whole thing I know that the same guy does not exist on this site. If he does it is in headless torso form. This headless torso that looks great soon turns into a monster when that same picture is "unlocked" to see the guys face. Its always a gamble and you run the risk of either turning to stone or the guy is 50.

My favorite advert to groan at after I log in or out is the Dr. Phil endorsed "Match.com" telling me "It's okay to look" while a seemingly live video loops of some guy with his shirt unbuttoned looking at the camera and trying to figure something out. Now this is somewhat true - there are some cute guys on web cams however they are all in Europe or nowhere near you to actually meet. Then there is always the point in which the conversation disintegrates to sex talk and he is stripping. Then you are stripping. Then you feel weird and isolated like you are in some bizzaro version of Logan's Run calling up a sex partner but they never "materialize" before you for actual contact. You just have to please yourself and watch someone else do the same. Oh and you don't meet those guys on Match.com, never.

In case you haven't noticed- I have tired online dating, quite a bit in fact. I don't go to gay bars very often because they make me feel like I am in a living version of online dating but heightened and with bad music. When I moved to New York City I gave on line shit a shot. I have done almost every kind of site from hook up sites to genuine dating sites (where gay men create a ruse of wanting a date when really they want to hook up - ANNOYING! If I wanted to spend money for sex I would buy a hot hooker instead of a shitty dinner with bad conversation and an awkward make out session to follow.) There are a few things I have learned from these trials and tribulations which go against all the damn slogans they tout like facts.

1. It is not OK to look- people have profile trackers. If you stumble across someone who looks good in a thumbnail then click to enlarge and think OH JESUS! YUCK! they know it.

2. Crazy people are on there. Sure I was on there, but I am not a crazy person hiding behind the guise of sanity- I admit I am a little crazy, sometimes shit house crazy. I think its part of my charm... yeah that's it my charm... right?

3. If someone doesn't appear crazy at first, give it some time- the crazy will come out and hit you faster than you can say "Check Please". I can not begin to tell you how many dates I went on where they started normal and then somewhere between the second drink and the abrupt end the person came loose. One instance a man cried and told me how lonely he was as he grabbed my knee and begged me to keep him company. I felt bad but JESUS it was a first meeting! I never called him or spoke to him again.

4. Almost NO ONE looks like their picture. The rule of online pictures - if there is more than one pick the UGLIEST one, and think to yourself "That's what they look like". When you finally meet them you will either be right or pleasantly surprised. If they are shirtless, you can almost bet that picture was taken after a few months of starvation so they could sit on the beach and feel better about themselves and have a good "on line" pic. Sometimes and I repeat again- ONLY SOMETIMES the pictures are accurate. When that happens its great, you met an honest person, you are off to a good start however, see 2 and 3.

5. The same 20 people you are going to be interested in are the same 20 people on every dating site. Period. -- Again, look at me, I tired them all---

It pisses me off that I have to look at that blatant false advertising everyday that I log into my shitty myspace page to see if any half ass friends have talked to me or anyone has returned my half ass messages out of boredom or worse- maybe some stranger liked my profile and wrote to me (myspace and friendster are the single person's safe haven, people can claim they never have done online dating but if you have a myspace page or friendster page and declare yourself single- you have done online dating. Its true- end of story- don't deny it).

Sure we all know the few success stories for online dating. Perhaps it is a hetero thing- perhaps not- perhaps I am jaded about the whole thing, I don't care. I am tired of being told I can meet a sexy, sane guy by sitting in front of the computer when it is just not true. Now if they showed a bloated guy with thinning hair, and the slogan was

"Lower your expectations lazy ass, after all you are sitting in front of your computer eating ice cream in your underwear."

Then I might believe it and not be so mad.

Big Steel

2007-07-10T08:57:00.001-04:00

Richard Serra, a minimalist sculptor, is currently having a show of his work at the MOMA. It is really an amazing show. Sure some of you may be thinking "wow... big sheets of rusting metal... great" but seriously, it is so much more than that. The massive sculptures are really an amazing site to see in person- sure you can look at pictures and think "Woah that is huge"- but to walk through and around them is a whole other feeling.

Yesterday I ventured out of my hermit world into the light to meet my best pal and head to the MOMA to see the show we had been talking about seeing for weeks. We had seen Serra's work together years ago at Gagosian before it was really "Gagosian" as she likes to point out (meaning it wasn't so polished and divided- I also saw a Damian Hirst show there before the space was really established. The show was awesome, it had the sliced cow, sorry to demean the art like that but really, that's what people know it as). At the time of the Serra show I was not very into abstract sculpture, in fact I am still not someone who longs to look at abstract sculpture or seeks it out- however, Serra's work is different.

Perhaps it is indeed the grand scale, the massive plates of metal twisted to look so malleable yet hard as rocks or the precarious way in which they stand that draws me in however I can honestly say I really am a fan of his work. While walking around and through his pieces Sequence, Band and Torqued Torus Inversion there is this disarming energy, I felt as though I had no balance and almost dizzy. While inside one of his shapes surrounded by metal that looks as though any moment it may come crashing down I had this intense feeling I can only describe as "ass tingle" - crude, I know, its the same feeling I get when I am up high and there is no railing and I look over an edge ( The first time I got this feeling from art was at a Bill Viola show at the old ICA in Boston- it was then that I decided video would be my medium of choice). The feeling inside a Serra shape for me is excitement and fear with a dash of disturbing serenity - a vortex of confusion if you will...with ass tingles. However this feeling is also unique for each individual and some may not feel anything at all and just be starring at the water stains running down the seem of the curved wall- which is all good if you ask me.

If you take the time to appreciate the rusted beauty of the finish, the curves, the scale, the gouged out spots that make it appear to be clay, if you look at it from different angles, walk around, just absorb- you will not be disappointed. I found many amazing views through openings that created abstract landscapes for one to admire, or even what I like to call "sets" and enjoyed finding new ways to look at the work. There are also smaller works of his on the sixth floor that prove even without the grand scale his work is powerful, transforming and transcending materials to raise questions in one's mind. Often times when people see things like this (or art in general) they are looking to be "DONE"- They walk in and expect something amazing to happen and when it doesn't they think they either don't "get it" or it's "stupid". I know because I used to be one of those people. I learned that just by looking at something and being open to it I can enjoy it far more than if I am looking for "meaning" thus frustrating myself when I don't "get it".

It seems lately in the New York art scene "idea and person" has eclipsed skill and craft thus intimidating some people into thinking they are not capable of understanding art. I find that very unfortunate. While I am one who knows and respects ideas I also find this disheartening at times for many reasons but one in particular is that some artist now hide behind ideas and use that as an excuse for poorly crafted art (yes some people do the opposite by hiding behind skill with no idea- the key is a balance). In my opinion the self importance of the artist is what keeps the general public from wanting to be a part of it. That behaviour begs the questions- is one making art for art sake, for artists only, for the select few- or is one making art as an expression of self, for the masses, even just FOR oneself? I do not know the answers to any of these questions and once again it is a personal question for each artist.

There is one thing I do know- once art is made and on view it is open to interpretation in as many ways as the human mind can go and there is nothing wrong with that. An artist may be frustrated because you do not see what they intended you to see however a good artist (once again, in my opinion) is open to new ideas and welcomes the new views on something they have made (I mean who the heck doesn't like to talk about themselves or something they made).

Serra's work is open for interpretation , he may in fact find it disgusting that I do not see some ideas embedded deep withing the spiraling sheets of steel or that maybe I even missed his point all together. I honestly don't care- sure I would love to hear what he had to say, but for me my reaction and my interpretation was all I needed. I read the essays provided by the museum (I always do) however it did nothing to increase my enjoyment of the work- it did inform me as to a historical time line and what the museum sees in the work, however once again, I enjoyed it on my own level. This work ultimately reminded me of why I love art- and that is something I have not felt in a long time. So please, go to the museum's this summer, enjoy the air conditioning and fuck all the "arty" people- just go and look at something nice and enjoy it on any level you can. If you don't enjoy it- hey no love lost at all but at least you stayed cool while you tried.

Hair Part II

2007-06-21T13:57:00.000-04:00

Once again, not my version of the musical sequel to “Hair” in which Claude rises from the dead to find his hippie friends have turned into yuppies - My hair. If you actually care you can read part one so the story has “fluidity”.

When high school was over I had found the hairstyle that suited me most- "The Caesar". However, the expense of 150$ haircuts was weighing on my pockets and I began to cut my hair myself. People, this is NEVER a good idea. Sure you can do the front fine and maybe the sides but definitely not the back. I gave myself so many bad haircuts it makes me cringe; it is also why in almost all photos from freshman year of college I am wearing flat caps backwards. The final straw for home hair cuts came when I gave myself what I like to call “The Corky St. Claire”. Yes, the gay community theater director created by Christopher Guest in “Waiting for Guffman”- I had that freaking hairdo- for a moment. After a month of this disaster the “straight” guy I was pining over told me I looked like a Dodo bird. I was crushed. He then came out to me. I was ecstatic. I threw up and then shaved my head.

When you shave your head you get treated like a person who gained a lot of weight suddenly and people pretend not to notice (I only know this as I had that experience as well). You get a lot of “Oh MY! Well at least you have a nice face and a normal shaped head…” as they look away in fear. I was “hardcore” at the time and did not care. I had dropped out of musical theater and was now attending art school. I was free to finally go nuts and do whatever I wanted without worrying about casting or needing it to be manageable. Everyone had fucked up hair in art school- in fact I think it is a requirement. There were so many options open to me now I didn’t even know were to start other than noting to myself “GROW YOUR HAIR BACK”. Thankfully it grows very fast.

I knew that I could maintain a low cost buzz cut with clippers and that style looked OK but was so pedestrian for art school. I was becoming more interested in alternative scenes at the time, attending rock shows, going to Goth nights and actively partaking in counter culture. The only question was how to express my inner person on top of my head like everyone else so I would be unique… like everyone else? I decided to bleach and dye my hair. It started innocent enough with a punky bleach kit from Newbury Comics. 45 minutes of agonizing scalp torture later and I had a nice yellow white hue on my head. It was pretty hip, especially when the roots came in. I however could not let it be. Every season I had to have something new about me, whether it was the way I dressed, my music, or my hair, it was always SOMETHING. Soon I was sporting bright purple hair, then blue, then pink (it was an accident). Soon my head hurt so much I couldn’t think and my hair was like straw; I had to call it quits. I decided since my soul was now black from the Goth scene my hair should be too and I went with blue-black like superman.

Note: This is not a good color for someone who is prone to put too many products in their hair; it highlights all the flakey weird shirt that happens when gel dries.

Note 2: NEVER dye your hair “purple black” it looks like mulled wine old lady hair when you do.

I settled into the color after a few months and I was off to England where bad haircut number… whatever… happened. I had grown my hair over the summer a little bit and was looking forward to a year of hot British boys with even hotter accents. I knew I had to get a new look for my solo life. I wanted to wait to cut my hair until I got to London where I had visions of fantastic outlandish haircuts existing everywhere. I mean, it is the home of the Sex Pistols, Siouxsie Sue, Morrissey, people with GREAT hair. I thought any expensive place would do as long as it looked cool (still had not learned the cost/quality lesson). I walked into a hip saloon in Soho and was greeted with excitement over being an American (obviously this was before the war in Iraq). I was hooked up with a bleached out older gay man who tanned too much and was wearing all black. My dream hair at the time was the “Edward Scissorhands”. I knew that was not possible with my hair so I thought that if I told him “spiky, cool and edgy” it would get me close. It did not.

I was spun around in the chair in the dramatic “look at you now!” fashion reserved for make over shows and I cried. Yup, I really cried this time. There before my eyes was my head- buzzed to the scalp on the sides, with a messy pile on top sculpted into a peak in the middle of my head. How could he have done this to me! As I continued to blubber he tried to comfort me with tea and kept saying “It’s the HEIGHT of LONDON FASHION! All the cute boys have it, trust me, you go out tonight and you will see- Its called the pile up or faux hawk if you will- look Daniel has it” ; a waif of a boy dressed in bright colors with limp wrists traipsed out from the back room with a broom. I sobbed.

This was 1999. The Faux Hawk had not hit ANYWHERE in the USA. It would not surface for at least another three years on any indie rocker, New York fag or hipster. In retrospect I now consider this a “cool” haircut that I got WAYYYYY before anyone else (yeah I am that petty). However at the time being ahead of fashion was not what I had in mind, I wanted to just be in fashion, not defining it. The funny thing is I eventually took to this haircut and kept it for a little while. The hairdresser turned out to be right and it got me laid like nobodies business.

Over the course of my year in England I started going to Toni & Guy’s hair school for discount cutting edge hair cuts. I was given three cuts; “Monkey Boy” or as they referred to it the “Vidal Sassoon Coif”- but don’t tell Vidal. The “Fuck Up”- which resulted from a student cutting my hair who had coke nostrils and was so frazzeled they couldn’t finish - the teacher ‘Made do” with what I had left (which was buzzer tracks and a front bouffant, I wore a hat for a month – thank god my hair grows quickly) Finally- “The Mess” which sounds like a bad thing but it was not. It was essentially a choppy cut mullet that I just put tons of wax in so my hair stood on its short ends. It worked really well with my hair texture and curl. I finally got my “spiky & edgy” hair cut.

When I came back to the states all the boys were growing their hair getting ready for the next big rage on cute indie boys, the 70’s shag hair. I knew inside I could never have this hair as I had already seen its cascading curls on my shoulders and triangle head. This however did not stop me from growth spurt number 2. I grew it out again and it looked AWFUL growing out this time (I mean WORSE than high school if at all possible). I recently found some old videos of me acting ridiculous for an installation project and was horrified when I saw this pasted down parted, long in the back short in the front grown out mullet mess on my head. That combined with my confused clothing aesthetic (black jelly bracelets, orange polyester shirt, grey flash dance sweater, spiky belt and tight black jeans) was enough for me to chuck that video across the room and then laugh at my poor choices.

When my hair did finally reach my chin, I knew how to care for it. Sure I often slept with a stocking on my head to flatten it and still played with it every night in the mirror. However I gave into the curl and was very careful with it. I became the person who every woman came up to and asked about my hair. I heard things like “Oh my god it’s like Nicole Kidman’s hair!” or “How the did you get it so shiny” (umm Vaseline and olive oil treatments - gross but it worked) and even “I wish I had hair like that” which usually came from my mother. It really was pretty, girl pretty, but still pretty.

The season changed- I got impatient and got it cut again. This time I was willing to shell out money and went to a Jean Pierre David on Newbury Street. I was sat in front of a Latina woman with brown lip liner and white pink lips. I made the mistake of not having a picture and the other big no no of “what do you think?” Well she thought “Latino Pop Star”. Basically it was short on the sides with lots of curls on the top, dripping onto my forehead. I looked like I was ready to hop on stage at the Latin Grammy’s (I was also into tanning at the time, don’t ask). It was actually a good haircut when I relaxed on the product, but that was rare as I was still a product whore, ruining pillow case after pillow case.

Well patient reader, another season came and yes another look. From this point forward the hair is a blurry mystery. History repeated itself, I fell back on old tricks, buzzed, shaved, even had a faux hawk again. I eventually settled on a haircut that was very similar to “the mess” cut that I got in London. This time given to me by a fantastic hairdresser at “Frenchy’s” in Burbank California(yes as in the character from “Grease”- the place was all pink and black and the girls who worked there were rockabilly pink ladies… of COURSE I got my hair cut there). This very fitting cut lasted me until last summer where I once again repeated the growth. Stupid, stupid growth. Once again when it was cut everyone applauded and told me how great I looked and how the long hair didn’t suite me. (This was after two haircuts- the first I freaked out when I left the Salon- no crying, I bring a hat now. I was given my middle school “George Michael/ Wham” bouffant again, she even had me under the fucking dryer! I don’t know why I didn’t say anything. I quickly hopped into another salon down the block and had it fixed.)

Now I wear my hair pretty much the same, subtle changes here and there but it is the same short haircut. I carry a picture of myself with the haircut at its best for whenever I am faced with a new hairdresser. It must be a good one because no one has fucked it up yet (well excluding the incident with break ups and haircuts- see blog). I have also learned that “thinning” only makes me look like I am losing my hair. It does not prevent the inevitable poof that happens with curly hair; it just rips your hair out and makes it grow in funny. It also does not work for someone who piled on product like no tomorrow in an attempt to control the uncontrollable. It merely exacerbates the situation.

This brings me to my final hair realization- product use. My head supplies enough natural oil that I do not need to load on the products causing clogged pores, itchy scalp and ruined sheets. My friends gently started telling me my hair looked greasy. I have one friend who referred to my hair as “Extra Crispy or Original recipe” depending on how much goo I piled on. Then one day my best friend (the very one who first encouraged me to grow my hair long) asked me why the hell I put so much shit in my hair. I did not know the answer. Enough taunting and a few days on a vacation when I ran out of product taught me that I really did not need to put stuff in my hair nor wash it everyday (sorry but its true, you really aren’t supposed to. I wet it but I only “wash” it every few days). I must admit this realization was the hardest and I still struggle with it on the days I wash my hair.

Hair is a very strange thing. It expresses a lot about someone; people make assumptions about personalities, lifestyle and interests based on it. It can be a source of rebellion or conformity. People grow it on weird parts of their bodies while “training” it not to grow on others. Men mourn its loss on their heads and grow it on their backs. Women style it to no end and it can drastically change the way someone looks. Trends and time periods are defined by it! It is amazing when you talk with people about their hair because everyone has at least one “what was I thinking” story- it’s a common bond. I have learned to like my hair despite the struggles, the growing amount of grays and the strange blonde highlights on the side of my head. It’s my hair, all mine. I thank my body everyday for deciding not to turn on me and make it all fall out. I can assure you when that day comes I will look at my past hair pictures, realize the fun we had, and say goodbye forever, shaving it off... hopefully I won’t be fat, adding insult to injury when I hear “OH MY! Umm well you have a nice face…”

When people tell you things about yourself

2007-06-18T10:37:00.000-04:00

This past Christmas I attempted to patch a rocky relationship with my Aunt. She was a very significant figure in my life during middle school when I had no friends and then she just got "weird" as my sister and I like to say. She and my mother have not been speaking for almost two years and as a result I hardly see her. Its a long story that has very little to do with this blog but lets put it this way- Italians can hold grudges and add to that competitive sisters, you have yourself a match made in hell. I digress...

While visiting my Aunt for a Christmas lunch we had run out of things to talk about and resorted to the etiquette low of "remember when" ( I had no idea that was a conversation low until recently when I read an article about the art of conversation). It started very amusing with "oh and you were in that play where you had to wear tights and an oversize shirt" or "Oh yeah Auntie I remember I saw you asleep in the audience during that show" (bless the woman for even coming to all the horrible children's shows I did). Things began to get a little ugly from her side when she started to bring up things I had forgotten as a child.

Apparently when I was about 4 she had taken me with her to a friends house who had a boy a few years older than I. He was stocky in build and sort of a bully. While the two adults were having tea we were sent to play in the yard and around the house. My Aunt informed me that an hour later they found me screaming in a tiny locked closet. When they opened the door there I stood, crying and in a puddle having peed my pants. They all laughed at me as I cried from fear of the dark and closed spaces. Funny right?

She laughed and laughed about this story like it was the funniest thing since Britney Spears tried to stage her come back. I sat there, mortified and slightly horrified that she found it so funny. I did not remember this event at all. I had sufficiently blocked it out by stuffing it down and replacing it with other horrific bully stories (like when I was held down by one kid and had my eyelids pulled open by another so a he could spit a loogie in my eye, yes my eyeball, yes a snotty wad of spit in there- or when I was tied to a tree and whipped with a rope- OR the time I was beaten with a red bat in a shack in order to be part of a "club" the bullies were forming- anyway you get the point.)

I thought of this today as I was sitting at my desk trying to complete two more tasks before I went to the bathroom. I always do this. I avoid going to the bathroom for as long as possible. My office is like a closet, my job like a bully and it got me thinking about this gem of a story...

Its amazing when someone tells you something you completely forgot and think " You bitch! That shit screwed me up pretty good!" while they laugh and laugh and laugh at your misfortune. Good times.

PS- She did apologize for telling the story with such joy and guffawing-However seeing as I am half Italian, the damage was done and the grudge born.

Hair (Part I)

2007-06-07T16:50:00.000-04:00

No, this is not about the musical I saw with my dad that I sat uncomfortably through as everyone got naked and my dad whispered "Jesus Christ" under his breath. This is about my very own hair and the trials that it entails.

I was born with light blond hair that grew into beautiful locks of gold. It was amazing, and then cut off so I looked less like a girl and more like a boy (proof is in the Super 8 footage of my first haircut. My face is that of a girl on Top Model about to cry when they cut off all her hair). My hair stayed light, soft and straight until I was 12. Then, one of my most hated words in the English language set in PUBERTY (that even gives me a shudder to write that word). My hair started to get darker and darker. No amount of “Sun In” was bringing the blonde back; slowly the highlights faded and became plain old brown. Then one morning I woke up and realized not only was I not blond but my soft hair was now coarse and quickly becoming wiry. Soon enough I had a full on white boy fro. I was in deep denial.

All throughout middle school I would wake up extra early to shower so I could spend 15 minutes blow drying my hair straight. It was a chore but I happily did it. My Sister did it, my Mom did it and even my Dad did it. Our house was filled with the whirl of blow dryers and shouts of “Are you DONE YET” from 6:45 until 7:15. Each school year I would try and come up with a new way to hide the shameful curl.

-In sixth grade I sported a "Zach Morris/ Wham" puffed hairdo that when people tried to touch it I would freak out and back away (no wonder everyone called me a pansy).

-In seventh grade I gave up on the poof and just tried to keep the damn out of control mess straight with lots of spray and gel thanks to my father’s abundant supply of ozone destroying Aquanet.

-In eighth grade I tried the "thinning" method. My hairdresser, Meryl, would attack my dry hair with sheers going from the scalp to the end essentially ripping out some of my hair to keep it from getting "big" (I would fall victim too this stupid method for the next 15 years of my life). I gave up on styling it at this point because I was chubby, had acne, braces & a chin strap; it was the least of my problems.

Finally after freshman year my braces had come off, I was sent to a dermatologist and my very best friend convinced me to give up all the fuss and let my hair "BE". I was given a teen make over (which is a whole other story) and went to school for the first time without blowing it dry and a full head of curls. I was happy. Happiness as a teenager is such a fleeting thing so of course it didn’t last. I got some looks and was asked what happened to my hair by several curious classmates. My replies of "this is how my hair is naturally" did not go over as well as I thought it would (much like when I said "better safe than sorry" in my earlier years). My hair had “come out”. The peak of my hair's expulsion from the dark occurred during the class all physically inept people dread most - GYM.

I was sitting on the bleachers with some girls chatting away avoiding any physical activity. I noticed the bitchy female gym teacher glaring my way and tried to avoid eye contact. I didn’t want to have to play shirts and skins “crab ball” and was trying to make it seem like I was more interested in “deck tennis” (aka sitting in the bleachers purposely losing rounds in the tournament). It was too late, she was walking towards me. My face got hot with guilt and all the girls around me began to hush. We were all worried she was going to ask us to doing something "sporty".

"Randy..." she approached

"Um yes Mrs. Cowell" I meekly replied.

"I just wanted to say I LOVE your hair!" Her voice boomed.

"Oh, well thanks" I was surprised- the first compliment, granted from a female gym teacher but I would take it where I could get it.

"What did you do to it?! Did you get a perm?!" she asked excitedly as her hands extended forward for a touch.

Laughter. I felt like Carrie yet again.

"Ummmm no Mrs. Cowell, this is how my hair is naturally, I was straightening it before"- I backed away from her hardened dry hands as they slowly approached my luscious locks.

Dumb ass! Admitting I worked at my hair as a boy in high school was almost worse than singing and dancing on stage in front of jocks... almost.

I was shamed into submission with hair talk for another year until the very same friend who suggested I let it “be” had another idea …

It was 1994 and grunge was at the "height of fashion". My head was filled with fantasy's of Eddie Veder raping me, I possessed four discount Van Heusen flannels I washed over and over to make them look used (it just ran the shitty dye), I sported Doc Martins with pride and was filled with angst. It was suggested as the ultimate teenage rebellion I grow my hair long. This friend of mine had a penchant for shaggy haired dirty boys and thought the look would suit me. I wanted to have sex with shaggy haired dirty boys so I immediately began growing out the mess.

It took a year. A year of awful mullet head, hats and down the middle parts pasted to my forehead. After months of pulling my hair down my face to see how long it was it reached my shoulders. It was a shining example of my love for Pearl Jam, Nirvana, and all things that looked like they were picked out of the trash.

The thing about a gay boy and long hair is you can spend hours practicing hairstyles-- on yourself! I would sit in front of the mirror doing the Marsha Brady 100 strokes a night, style it into French twists, French braids, regular braids, pig tails, the Bjork "Big Time Sensuality" hairdo, Princess Leah's- you name it I did it on my own head and quite well! I would even put on hair shows for my best friend (much to her delight)when I visited her. The problem of course was I could not figure out how to wear my hair as a GUY. I usually just pulled it back in a pony tail and called it a day. I was not the best at caring for it as I did not understand the amount of time long curly hair consumed to make it look effortless. However when I pulled it out of the ponytail, it had a nice straight sheen to it and I could let it flow free (God I wanted straight hair). This fantasy would abruptly end when the wind blew, the sheet of hair broke and I had triangle head. It was a curse and a blessing all in one. Curse because it was girls hair, blessing because without those locks I never would have played the "most poetic" (aka GAY) Romeo in Romeo and Juliet at the Boston Public Theater (I also happened to look good in the costume).

I soon decided that shoulder length was too much to care for and was not a good look for an “actor”. I had auditions for college coming up and needed to feel attractive and clean, not dirty and downtrodden. After my senior photo was taken I decided to cut it. This time however I had so much hair to work with I wanted to go to a curly hair specialist. I begged my mom to take me to a salon in Boston where they understood how to work with curly hair. I wanted to avoid the hair ripping thinning process and finally have an easy care hair do. My mom was having a hair crisis at the time herself so she set us both up with appointments at an expensive salon on Newbury Street.

Going into a Salon where you are not familiar with the hairdresser and saying “Go Nuts” is really not a good idea. I thought if you were paying top dollar for a hair cut you were getting the best. I still did not grasp the idea that “just because it’s expensive doesn’t always mean it’s good”. I was set up with a slim, young black man wearing tight jeans and a 70’s style shirt open to his navel named Corey. I sat in the chair and explained my hair history thus far. When asked what I wanted I said “whatever you think would suit me best”.

What did Corey think would look best? A Cosmo Kramer- yes the beloved wacky neighbor from the wildly popular Sienfeld with curly hair that stood up on end. Now this was not the “typical” Kramer cut it was more along the lines of the “moussed” Kramer (remember that episode, it’s the one were Elaine is moving into Jerry’s Building and Kramer discovers the joys of mousse). It was still up in the front but the curls were overly shiny and in tact, sliding down the side of his head. When I was spun around to look in the mirror I did not speak, my Mom spoke for me “He loves it!” I was given products galore to maintain the frizz and keep the curl in tact which brought the grand total to $150.

Being the influential teenager I was I kept this style for a total of two months. We have some really great Christmas photos where I look like I just stuck my finger in an electrical socket and then poured grease on my head. I was told by my acting teacher it was a much more “casting friendly” hair style. I was not that pleased. I felt like it made my pubescent face look fat. I also thought it was not stylish enough for the young man who wrote the fashion column in the daily bulletin. I needed to change.

After seeing a few of the above said photos I was horrified. It was worse than I thought. I immediately took my Christmas money, called up Corey and made another appointment. This time I went in with a plan. This time, I had a picture.

George Clooney was on ER and hitting it big time. He was handsome, dashing and he had that killer haircut. The “Caesar” had hit America. It was the “must have” of the hair season. I too HAD to have it. I arrived at the salon and was greeted by Corey with a kiss on the cheek and I handed him the photo- “THAT is what I want”.

It was a good haircut for me. When it grew out a little the curl would make me look like a roman statue head. I was even told I looked like “Mahk Antneee” by a grocery store clerk. I was happy, truly happy. I found the haircut that worked best for me. It was effortless, wind proof, water proof and required very little product (even though I still piled it on, old habits die hard).

Then I grew restless….

Xanadu, ONJ and Broadway

2007-06-03T10:25:00.000-04:00

Sunday night, 7 pm, 1980 something I am on the floor in my underroos starring up at the bright colored puppets of Fragle Rock. They sing some songs, the doozers build some things out of radish crystals that the Fraggles eat and I am loving it. Usually when the end is near on the show I would get a feeling of dread and worry, fun time was going to be over and it was time for bed (took me years to realize the beauty of sleep). However this time it was different, this time there was a special treat- Olivia Newton John had her "Physical" tour being broadcast on HBO. I loved Olivia, and I loved the song "physical" because I thought it was about aerobics, my mom taught aerobics and lets face it- I was a mommas boy(my fondest memory- me watching her shout out 'WINDMILL' and all the women doing the "wweeeoooooo" as they kicked their legs up and over). I was allowed to stay up for the first part of her concert then it was off to bed. Dreams of skipping rope and dancing ensued.

Olivia Newton John was my first crush. Now I say "Crush" but really it was a crush in the way a gay boy crushes out- I wanted to be her. I loved her saccharine sweet voice, her spunky personality, her non-offensive all American (yet Australian) looks. I loved that she loved to work out and created soft dance hits with her angelic voice ( I had no idea how dirty "physical" was until three years ago when I put it on a mix for a friend, I mean she is BEGGING for it in the song) . She was just the image of perfection- then along came Madonna and it was so long ONJ.

I often forget that she was my first love and foray into Pop music however when I hear certain songs of hers again (Magic, Suddenly, Physical, Hopelessly Devoted etc.) I feel like I am four again in the back of my mom's blue Oldsmobile with leather seating getting butterflies in my stomach. In fact even writing about her now I am smiling and feel giddy... I am also listening to Xanadu, the failed movie that was intended to launch her big time into movies (it didn't) about a muse who inspires a Santa Monica artist to open a Roller Disco to save "ART". The combo of ELO's rich and full 80's rock orchestrations with the sweet voice of the Australian Beauty- what could be better? Ummm let me see... let me see... a STAGE SHOW OF COURSE! And one where they roller skate damn it!

Well it finally happened.

I have an amazing friend who likes to indulge my gayest of gay sides and takes me to shows, movies, anything campy and ridiculous where I can honestly enjoy myself without judgment. Last week over coffee he casually asked me if I wanted to see XANADU on Broadway. I had walked past the sign two weeks earlier and said "holy shit I want to see that" under my breath lest any business men hear me.

"OH MY GOD TOTALLY!! I LOVE OLIVIA NEWTON JOHN!" my falsetto voice rang out. My face lit up and butterflies fluttered in (I knew full well she would not be in it but her spirit would be there). He was surprised at my reaction and said "Really? All right- a little Xanadu and dinner next Saturday". It was all I could talk about all week long. My Broadway actor friends made fun of me saying it was supposed to be terrible. People in my office kept saying "I know you are gay but I had no idea you were THAT GAY" to which I would reply "Have to believe we are magic" in my out of tune singing voice (because lets be honest- the gays ARE magic)

Saturday night I got dressed in my best attire despite the 85 degree weather with 100% humidity for a night at the theater- Nobody dresses up for it anymore but I don't care. I like to honor actors giving it their all by giving it my all as an audience member and to me that means dressing up. (Its all about respect you t-shirt & jeans wearing tourists who have ruined the art of dressing for the theater.) While yes I was stopped in the street and told "You must be hot!" I didn't freaking care, besides with all the old people going to theater these days they blast the AC almost like a preservative so no one has a heart attack during the show.

We arrived at the theater and realized, yes, we indeed were the demographic this was targeting- gay men, big woman, fans of the movie and people who love rainbows and roller skates all lined up and humming songs. The theater was tiny- the Helen Hayes. The set was that of a Greek theater and at first I was disappointed, I thought it would be all "Starlight Express", the other roller musical, with ramps and fancy lights etc. It was pretty stripped down. There were seats on the the stage, a rock band in the back and a tacky ass projection of a bad chalk drawing on the stage being reflected in the giant mirror above the stage. This is the very mural the young, dumb artist is working on when the muses spring to life and come out of the floor- the COOLEST most campy opening I have seen since Hairspray's bed trick for "Good Morning Baltimore".

The leading man, Sonny played by James Carpinello- who has a hot ass body with 1% body fat but no comic timing or real zip on stage (other than the zip of his rippeling leg muscles), starts the show off with a monolgue that leaves a lot to be desired. The problem- I could not tell if it was his character or him that was so bad, which ultimately left me not caring about him and just hoping his shirt would come off (it didn't). Thankfully this was soon forgotten when the most amazing comedic ensemble rode up in an elevator through the floor to "I'm Alive" through the chalk mural- I could not stop laughing. They even had the neon outlines in the projections on the floor of the "drawing" just like the movie. The muses, a mixture of effeminate hot men and character women with their beautiful leader Clio aka Kira ( Kerry Butler, who was beautiful, sunny, and hilarious) rise up and save Sonny from doom (in the plot line yes, but also from his own performace). They plan everything in faux Greek/Shakespearean/ Victorian - oh hell lets just call it fancy unison theater speak, as to how they can help this poor California artist. Clio decided she must go down to help him however she must not create art or fall in love. But how? how? She must have a disguise... that disguise- Leg warmers, roller skates and an Australian accent (the leg warmers end up being the thing that saves her life) Brilliant! The audience went nuts. I knew this show was going to rule the second Kerry Butler rolls on stage in her awesome skates with clear green flowered wheels, pink roller plates (the axles if you will), white boots, leg warmers and barret to the side of her flowing blonde hair.

The cheesy jokes, the outlandish dialogue all worked because the actors were all so amazingly committed and having a good time. Its rare to see EVERYONE and I mean EVERYONE in a cast enjoying themselves. Kerry Butler was better than I could have imagined. She had that ONJ feeling right down to her breathy "look at me" in the beginning of "Suddenly" (which includes Sonny and her dancing around with a phone booth in skates- yes people its true and it was pretty awesome). All her pop vocal nuances that sited ONJ were dead on without feeling like a Karaoke version or impersonation but an homage and a genuine comedic performance. Her Australian accent was HILARIOUS accenting all the words like "Unleeeeees" (as she rolls down a ramp with one foot out approaching Sonny) and "Mate" to give it that extra funny kick. The highlight to her hijinx is in the final number ("Xanadu") when she rolls downstage to a high wind fan being held up by a muse and blows her hair around with "sexy face" ala ONJ- I almost peed my pants it was so damn funny. It takes a lot to get me to laugh out loud and feel it all the way to the core- My friend Sonia is one of the few people who can do this- Kerry Butler, now you too.

The plot is different from the movie a bit from what I understand (only seen clips of it) but it worked very well. The two added jealous, villainous sister muses, Mary Testa and Jackie Hoffman (muse of tradgedy and epic respectively), bring the laughs and the vocal goods during songs like "Evil Woman" & "Strange Magic" both deserved a standing ovation for their comic genius. The dancers were amazing, and for such a small space they really were doing tough choreography. Andre Ward had one of the funniest moments in the show where he is Hermes delivering news to Clio in a very upright and straightforward manner when she goes on and on about her problems he sashays his cape away and says "Bitch- I don't know you" and storms off like a diva. Once again sheer comic grace.

YES- there is a ride on a cut out horse, Pegasus, to bring Clio to Zeus where she swoops gently through the cut out clouds and fog machines. YES Clash of the Titans comes to mind when on Mt. Olympus. YES there is some great tap dancing. Finally YES- there is a roller disco finale with tricks galore and awesome spandex and shorts costumes. (James Carpinello redeems himself with his skating abilities and his short shorts- very hot).

Now this show won't last - as was stated by the amazingly talented Jackie Hoffman in the show "This is like Children's Theater for 40 year old gay people" - and tourists don't like that nor get it but I sure did. All the sly references like how the show was ending (only an hour and a half no intermission) and "They only just hit the barricade across the street for the first time" (referencing its neighbor Les Miz) were lost on many but not those they targeted. We all laughed with aplomb because WE all got the jokes and that always makes a spectator feel special and more involved in a production of this sort.

This show feels like an over the top, rediculous breath of fresh air and while it may seem like a campy sketch comedy rendition of a muscial it KNOWS what it is and the sincerity of the performers make it work. Just when you are about to shift your numb butt in your seat the show is over and you are still laughing. I encourage anyone who Loves ONJ, Loves ELO, Loves 80s cheese, loves ROLLER SKATES and wants to laugh and have a good time to go and see this show- support these actors and give them the respect they deserve for truly taking you to a magical funny place, "Xanadu". (and dress up damn it!)

Two Quotes From "Crazy" Women

2007-06-01T13:24:00.000-04:00

First off- its June, whore-ay. Humidity is upon us and that means my hair will suck. Oh well... I'm also trying to post a new story once a week- but for now...

I read today that Tammy Faye has given up her ten year battle with Cancer and is in pain 100% of the time. Now back to me- I have been in extreme pain and unable to walk in the past so I can not imagine what THAT kind of pain is like and only hope she has some good weed and painkillers on hand (because holy water won't do much for nausea and pain). If I were a praying person (OK fine I sort of pray every night- its more like a meditation thing and I will never speak of it again) I would pray she goes in her sleep and free from pain- I really mean that and there is no snarkiness intended. I saw "The Eyes of Tammy Faye" and it shed a whole new light on her. Anyway she offered up this gem

"Today I want you to remember: You can't go forward, looking in the rear view mirror, yesterday is gone, you cannot put a broken egg back together again so don't spend your energy trying." – Tammy Faye

Another quote going around in my head lately is from America's favorite former socialite turned reclusive cat lady, Big Edie Beale. Yes Big Edie, not the scarf wearing fabulously delusional dancing little Edie.

When Little Edie complains about being "given" the chance to do things Big Edie bites back with

"Everything is great that you didn't do..."- Big Edie

Too True. Which proves these woman were intelligent, aware, and ahead of their time- just a little misunderstood and with a love of raccoons, cats, and squalor to boot.

Anyway... ENJOY!

Conquering the world...

2007-05-24T15:56:00.000-04:00

When I was 17 I worked at the French Connection in the Mall. It was there that I learned the complexities of the mall Hierarchy- basically the farther away from the food court, the higher end retail you were. We were on the opposite side of the mall from the food court. Thus as a teenager I thought it would up my cool and sophisticated quotient, much like my view on working in a coffee house (just for the record neither of those jobs amounted to anything cool OR sophisticated). While employed there I worked with this very effeminate gay man, Jerry, who was 30, falling out of shape, living at home in his parents basement and dating a fat hairdresser. Jerry was NOT the typical French Connection employee. He wore pleated pants (which were out of style even in the early 90’s) and silk patterned shirts open to reveal a wealth of chest hair and sagging pectoral muscles. Jerry loved to hit on me and since I was naïve and stupid I thought it was fun to flirt back and thought he may be a catch, lisp and all.

Jerry and my interactions were very strange and made most of our coworkers uncomfortable. They usually consisted of Jerry saying something sexual or totally pathetic and I would bite back in my usual razor sharp way. I never minded the banter back and forth and often found it fun to think of new witty come-backs, it was like I was practicing for the Bitch-lympics. Usually it ended in laughter and him touching me inappropriately as I winced in mild disgust and awe (disgust because of all the reasons I described above, awe because a MAN was touching me- it didn’t matter how gross). One particular day the laughter stopped and he never spoke to me again.

Jerry’s 31st birthday was coming up and he was in the usual quandary of “What am I going to do with my life?” I of course offered very little sympathy while listening to him moan on and on about how life takes so many twists and turns that you don’t know where you will end up. I snappishly folded my sweaters and told ugly women and chunky teenage girls they looked FABULOUS and told him he needs to figure it out because I was sick of hearing it. I had known since I was 13 what I wanted to do (4 years was a lifetime at 17) and listening to some “old” guy talk about life’s confusing paths was not one of them. My destiny was as follows:

1. Move to New York City
2. Go to NYU and major in musical theater
3. Graduate
4. Star in a Broadway musical hit
5. Win a Tony award
6. Break into movie by staring in an independent film I would co-write with my smart and devilishly handsome screenwriting boyfriend I met at NYU.
6. Win an Oscar and say ‘FUCK YOU’ to all the people who made fun of me.
7. Start a movie production company

Such realistic and easily obtainable goals, right?

After an exceptionally long lunch break Jerry came in very excited and told me he had “Great News”. I of course thought this news had something to do with me- it was great after all. I rushed to the back of the store by the men’s underwear where Jerry stood like a little kid who had to pee.

“I am going back to thchool!” he lisped

“What?!” I snapped back in disgust

He looked confused

“ugh and what for?!” I said before he could even respond.

“Make-up!” His eyes lit up like it made sense-- For the record:It didn’t. The guy always offered the most horrific hair and makeup advice to all the girls who worked at the store.

“Aren’t you a little OLD to be going back to school and for Make-Up of all things?” I condescendingly reproached.

Crushed and visably deflated (by a 17 year old) he turned away for a minute then slammed his hand down on the counter filled with boxer briefs (it was the only truly manly thing I had ever seen him do).

“YOU KNOW WHEN YOU ARE 31 YOU WILL THTILL THINK YOU CAN CONQUER THE WORLD!”

My quick witted and damning retort-

“By the time I am 31 I WILL have conquered the world!”

I then sashayed over to ladies to help another fatty squeeze into a strapless dress then cover up the arm rolls with a stylish shall (this is what made me the number one sales person in the region for the month of May).

When I turned back I saw him standing there dumbfounded and welling up in tears. He ran to the break room and slammed the door never to talk to me again. The manager later told me I had really hurt his feelings. I callously said he is a grown man and he can handle it. Thankfully my boss agreed and giggled at my comment. When I was driving home that night I decided that working with Jerry was too much of a scary sign. I needed to quite in order to focus on graduating high school and ensuring my fate will not be his. Two days after the incident I gave my notice.

Every birthday since 25 I have thought of this story. At first I thought it was hilariously funny. I would think of what a clever little bitch I was or how different my goals were. Then it turned into thoughts of how Jerry was right- things do change and twist in life. You really don’t know where you will land. The story slowly turned form aged wisdom lost on a young idiotic soul to a sad and haunting tale . Now as I careen towards 30 every time I try something new, every time I fail, every time I try to get my foot in the door, every time I am rejected- I think of this man and what he said. It will not go away no matter how many times I tell it to. Each passing year I see myself slipping further away from the confidant person I was, my goals, my ambitions and my dreams- granted many of them have changed but they still seem just as intangible. I am terrified I have hit a slippery slope and next thing you know I too will be living in my parents’ basement, working in a mall, have sagging pectoral muscles and some teenager will tell me I am an old loser. I however will not cry and merely turn to that little shit and punch his lights out.

New Web Site

2007-05-06T22:33:00.000-04:00

Hey, check out my new web site!

randallynch.com

The P_lace

2007-04-04T15:18:00.000-04:00

Saturday afternoon in the mid eighties, anyone who is anyone is busy playing Racquetball before their hot night out with their wives, dates,whatever. My father was no exception. Every Saturday he would take me to the Faunce Corner Racquetball Club for an afternoon of manly activities. There I would pass the time frolicking around the courts, play a game or two, hang in the lounge, the locker room etc. Truth be told- I mostly stared at naked men while pretending to conduct tours for groups of older women who had never seen naked men before. Mind you; these "older women" were invisible and mere figments of my imagination so it was just me looking at naked men and making comments about them in my head and under my breath. Yes it’s true, gay as the day is long, what can I say.

My favorite part of the afternoon was after we showered, went in the whirlpool, dried off and got spiffed up for my mom. My father would treat me to an Orangina and microwave nachos while he drank beer with his buddies before having to be home at 6pm. The men would talk about sports (all I knew about sports was I liked to wear baseball hats and funny foam fingers) jobs, money - I didn't pay attention. I was usually hypnotized by the giant rear projection television in the lounge showing aerobics while I munched away soaking in inspiration for dance routines I could try out when I get home. It was Saturday night after all and that meant my parents would go out, my sister would be in charge, we would have pizza for dinner and my favorite television show would be on Kids Incorporated .

I loved Kids Incorporated more than I loved the movie Cinderella, and let me tell you that was an awful lot. I would dream about being on the show and it was my life ambition and goal to some day be on Kids Incorporated and performaning at "The P_lace". Since I was a true fan I knew that "The P_lace" was really the “The Palace” but the “a” burnt out over the years and the place got rundown. Thankfully the soda jerk/ manager character revamped it 80’s style and brought in a group of singing kids. There was even an episode about an older woman who used to hang out at “The Palace” and her revisiting her past- I think it included flash backs involving 40’s style swing dancing and Martika as the old woman young again.

I was unaware that this was a set at the time and in my fantasy I was hired to sing and dance for groups of bright young things whilst they watched and sipped ice cream sodas; there just HAPPENED to be a camera there making a TV show. I would constantly tell people I wanted to be on the show (by people I mean my mom and grandma) and in every episode EXCEPT the Halloween episodes, it was too scary. I loved this show so much that my sister and our friends would often play "Kids Incorporated". This usually took up a whole afternoon and involved pulling out our dress up trunk, making up dance routines and performing for one another to Olivia Newton John or Madonna.

I still remember one particularly dramatic solo choreographed for me by my sister to “Hopelessly Devoted” by ONJ- the big move was me doing a push tuck and roll onto the floor to the lyric “you pushed my love aside” then grabbing my head to “I'm outta my head, hopelessly devoted to you”. I loved Olivia and my sister.

The first incarnation of this "game" I was made to be "The Kid" for our routines. In case you can not remember, or more accurately drank/smoked that memory away- "The Kid" was that little gay acting boy that would lisp about crushes on girls to the older brother character "Mikey" later replaced by "Ryan" (god I loved Ryan) and sang an amazing rendition of "Some guys have all the luck" while pouting about his latest crush on a mystery girl (aka Ryan). Playing “The Kid” meant no dressing up, no fancy dances, standing still while the girls did all the fun moves, and singing songs I did not like. I soon put a stop to this and demanded I play a different character. We had Gloria/Martika (my sister), Renee and Stacey (family friend friends who were blonde sisters in real life too) I didn't want to be "The Kid" and was too young for Ryan so there were not many options left for me. I finally decided we should create a story line where a mystery girl comes into the group and wows everyone with her amazing talent and they let her in. Now who would play this EXTREMELY talented mystery girl... who....?

Why your's truly of course!

I insisted that I get to have as much fun as the rest of the girls, wear gowns, make up like and do the sexy girl boob shimmy ala Pat Benetar “Love is Battlefield”(even though my father saw me do this once and winced "Don't do that...EVER again"). It was agreed that it was a good idea, a solid plot line and "mystery girl" was born.(Thank god my sister was cool with me always copying her and these friends loving me so much because really- some bad shit could have come out of this activity and a LOT of making fun). I finally got to spin in something other than the Christmas tree skirt (see Chestnuts Roasting), do the "costume changes" between our little routines, put on too much blue eye shadow and shake my ass like nobodies business. I pranced, I danced, I laughed, I squealed freely with no parental judgment (although I am sure they would have loved it). I thought there was nothing better than sashaying with the girls in our dank basement sporting my sister’s glow in the dark dance costume... well until I got beat up for that behavior.

The show eventually sputtered to a stop after two years and so did our game. The network shifted the time slot too many times so dedicated viewers like myself had no idea when it was on anymore.The final nail came when Disney bought it and took it off network TV. At that point I had outgrown the show but not my love of jazz hands, pop tunes and spinning in skirts (will I ever outgrow that? OK skirts, yes. Pop tunes, maybe- jazz hands NEVER). I would still visit the racquet ball club every Saturday, stare at naked men, eat nachos and get in trouble for swearing but somehow Saturday nights were never the same without all that singing and dancing.

NOTE! I was looking for the Soda Jerk/Managers name on wikipedia and I learned that one of the show's two creators has the same first and last name as my father- VERY weird and funny!

Thoughts of chicken fill my job hunting head...

2007-03-20T14:13:00.000-04:00

Right now I am sitting here in my office experiencing a pretty serious panic attack in relation to job searches. Everyone gets this feeling and I do not consider myself "special" in anyway when it comes to this. It is f'n scary out there! Everyday I check the websites I deemed worthy of the hunt, search around others, write endless cover letters in between job tasks and customize resumes, contacting people I don't want to talk to etc. I have been sending out at least 3 resumes a day for over a month. Yes I know I need to step it up and try another approach but when you are feeling crushed by life it gets really hard... damn excuses... however if I am in this office in the fall, well lets just say I will not be a fun person to hang around.

As I sit here digesting myself from stress and worry I can't help but think of the first time "job hunt sickness" came over me and I was left paralyzed and desperate. I was 18 and fresh out of high school. I needed a summer job to earn some extra cash for spending money. My parents had let me take my senior year off from working (I worked all through junior year at various awful mall stores) so I could audition and focus on my studies. Now they were on my ass like a dirty old troll to get a job, any job as soon as possible. I went all over freaking Providence RI dropping off my resume, filling out applications, I even called phone sex lines and asked how people got their jobs (little did I know it was just a hook up line and the men on the other end would be like "what job... my only job is too hook up with you" or just hang up).

I was mildly pissed because my Sister got her summer jobs through hook ups from my parents. Of course I, looking for a scapegoat, called out this injustice and they were taken aback- for a minute. Once again, stupid stupid boy, smart parents. My mom was offended at my indignant requests- after all she flipped the bill for my fancy school, gave me gas and spending money, paid for my car insurance etc.- She rose to the challenge I presented her and unsmilingly took note. After a moment to collect her thoughts about her ungrateful son she said she would help me look - and that she did.

The next morning after a nice long shower and a ride to the coffee shop I received a phone call from my mother.

"Rand, I saw a job for you, the Shell station is hiring, and you should go there"

(I only wish I could have seen my snotty 18 year old expression at the mere suggestion that I work at a gas station- I am sure it was a good one)

"Mom... that’s a Gas Station."

"Rand, you need a job, it has been a month since graduation and nothing. Now, you asked for help, I suggest you go and fill that application out and see if they will hire you, you have a lot of job experience so I don't see why they won't" replied my mother.

Her voice was stern and clear. It was a tone reserved for the most austere conversations and usually meant "I am putting down this glass of wine and you are about to get yelled at so loud your ears will bleed". I fumbled for a moment and then thought of my car being taken away, college being taken away and my mom hating me forever, the later did not seem bad as I was fuming at her suggestion but then again I do love my mom. That afternoon I hopped into my little Volvo and went down to the gas station to fill out the forms.

When I arrived and inquired about the job the heavy set woman behind the counter lit up with delight.

"Well look at you young man, right this way, right this way" her pudgy hands forked over a greasy clip board and a blue pen with its top bitten off.

"My, my, we could use your help, I got a truck load of chicken that needs marinating" she grinned.

My hands went dead on the paper.

"Chicken?" I meekly replied.

"Yeah Chicken, we serve rotisserie chicken and I need an attendant here to marinate and serve it."

(Again if I only had a picture of my face- beyond priceless)

Jaw to the floor, disgusted and slightly nauseated I replied "Umm you serve chicken at the gas station?"

"Well with all those Boston Markets opening up around we figured it would be a good thing. You almost done with that application?"

I finished filling out the form before I passed out in disgust and handed her the slimy clip board. She looked it over, gave a few ho's and hums then marked it up a bit to make it seem official. Her eyes met mine. Through her thick magnified lenses I could see the wear of the years at the station and it was not glitz and glamor, it was scary frightening stale times.. There was no sparkle, there may have never been a sparkle, it was gone. There was a glaze of film over her glasses hiding the weird specks in the whites of her eyes as well as the yellow crust formed at the corners. Her hair was bouffanted and high with two tones that went from highlighter orange to dark brown roots deep inside her crusted scalp. I was transfixed.

"Well you seem like a nice man, here come in the back and we'll talk about a schedule". When she moved you could hear her hair- it was that dry and stiff.

I was lead to the back room which really was a glorified janitor’s closet with a desk. She informed me I was to be on "Chicken" for the month of July to break me in, after that they would see if I was ready for the register. I was to come in early and "rack up" the chickens and set them on the roaster so they would be ready for the lunch rush at which time I was to stand behind them in an apron and try and sell the delicious treats. I was sweating like crazy and could only think 'This is what happens to people, you just wake up one day with no skills and you end up serving chicken in a gas station. oh my god I need skills!' I stared blankly at the pin up calendar over the chubby ladies buffont as she went on and on.

"You got it?... Huh, YOU GOT IT! you need to pick out your uniform shirt- its a loner and we take the money out of your check for it, dark pants on the bottom, you supply the pants ok?...OK?!... For a good looking boy you sure don't seem to understand much" she chirped and giggled.

"No, no, I got it... yeah thanks" I stumbled.

"Well then go ahead, the box of shirts is over there" she pointed to a worn out cardboard box marked with dark spots and thread worn sleeves hanging over the side.

"Oh oh, yeah ok" I said as I slowly walked over to pick up my Shell shirt. I had willingly worn gas station attendant shirts with great pride in the past year. I owned two and even a jacket with the name "Mike" sewn on it. It was the cool look for the mid nineties at my school- the whole grunge thing. However, when actually faced with having to wear this item for work purposes, it was a whole other story. I dug a little in the box and wondered if I really wanted to venture down to find my size and the body burried in the bottom. I grabbed a medium shirt by the top with the fewest stains and tried it on, it fit.

"Perfect, we'll see you tomorrow mornin' at 7?".

"Sure..." again in a daze.

I walked out of the station slowly removing my shirt, smiling, then ran to my car in a panic. I paused a moment for reflection- this was not so bad, it will be fine, that lady seemed nice enough. It is only for the summer, it is only for the summer, it is only for the summer.

When I arrived at my place I walked up the long narrow stairs to the apartment in defeat. I reached the door and decided the only way to get through this was to laugh. I put on the uniform and called out my best friends name. When she saw me in the uniform and heard about my job she confirmed my fears.

"You can NOT work serving CHICKEN in a GAS STATION! What the HELL was your mom thinking! Take OFF THAT SHIRT, we are going to the Emerald City Mall and getting you a job- lets go!"

The mall was a half hour away so I had not thought to go there and look before but was relieved at the option. I was happy my best friend was there to help me make the judgement call of good and bad, steer me away from the food court and spot the signs in stores I should work at. I was quickly snatched up by a lecherous older woman who wanted to do me at Gap Kids where I was to be the stockroom attendant- a whole other story. Then I found a job a week later for extra cash working at a gay club (see "silver sailor" post).

The next day I arrived bright and early at Shell with my shirt in hand, not on my back.

"What are you doin' you are supposed to wear the uniform" hissed the old bag.

I had rehearsed my speech over and over again so as to still be a nice young man and calmly give resignation. The last time I was this nervous I was resigning as an alter boy because my family was moving.

"I am sorry, I ...." I lost it; the speech was gone, out my head, out the odorous station, gone.

"You what! Now put it on!" she barked

“I just can't do this, sorry. I quit!" and just like that it was done. A wave of relief rushed over me. I was free- but I spoke too soon.

"Quit- YOU CAN'T QUIT! I have you on CHICKEN FOR THE MONTH OF JULY!!! NOW WHAT AM I SUPPOSED TO DO! GET THE FUCK OUT OF HERE! IF I EVER SEE YOU IN THIS GAS STATION I DON'T KNOW WHAT I WILL DO YOU BASTARD!"

and run I did, back to my apartment, to my best friend, never to visit that gas station again. Whenever we passed by there the rest of the summer we would peer in to see if the crazy lady was working and laugh like the bitches we are. A narrow escape from a job that was all too easy to get and just as easy to quit.

Now in this "hunt" I think of that desperate move and wonder if I will make that mistake again, not trust my instincts and take the first foolish offer thrown my way to get out of a bad place and into a worse one. Thankfully all I have to do is picture life as a gas station attendant and know- everything will be all right because I made sure I have skills and my best friend nearby in moments of job judgement weakness.

Where will Nomi Malone go?

2007-03-13T12:23:00.000-04:00

It seems that the good people of Las Vegas have demolished the "Stardust Hotel".

As you may or may not know this is the hotel where Nomi Malone's (Elizabeth Berkley) tale of a hooker who wanted nothing more than to be a "dancer" played out (but really she just turned into a giant spastic bitch hooker who spits, fucks and fights her way to the top- gets there - then spits in its face). I am very sad. Whats next- The Cheeta!

"I don't know how good you are darling, or what is is your good at but if its at The Cheeta, it ain't dancing, I know that much"

Well Crystal, apparently "You don't know SHIT!"

Oh Nomi, Crystal, Zack, Molly and Gaye I will miss you.

Seeing that shit hole (the stardust, not Elizabeth Berkley's ass), going to Versace, eating in the forum and standing outside the "Krave Club" were the highlights in my self guided "Showgirls" tour during my brief (and horrible) visit to Las Vegas . I now have no reason to ever visit that pit again (not that I would have anyway).

The demolition comes at a poignant moment in my life as well as I too undergo change, Oh "Showgirls"- always leading the way...

Confusion abound

2007-02-20T17:53:00.001-05:00

Well it seems some of you faithful readers have been asking "what the fuck dude, where did you go - how come no more blogs" Beleive me , plenty of embarassing episodes and catastrophies have happened that I am dying to write about but things are complicated. I apologize again- it seems I took too much from the all you can eat buffet of life and now have to sort out which things stay and which go. Hopefully this disaster will clear up soon as I have a lot in my head and a lot of unfinished posts on here that include-

-Why I loved Kids Incorperated

- The day the homeless religous man gave me a gift and changed my life

- When my biggest crush came out of the closet and I threw up

- Singing at town fairs only to be made fun of the next week in school and then on public access television

oh so many good times I tell you- so many revelations. In the meantime I am on my way to boredom and numbers.

Yes folks- I did not spell check.

Chestnuts Roasting...

2006-12-15T09:51:00.000-05:00

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..

2006-11-28T12:19:00.000-05:00

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)

2006-11-17T13:49:00.000-05:00

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

2006-11-14T18:11:00.000-05:00

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

2006-11-08T09:16:00.000-05:00

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

2006-11-06T14:55:00.000-05:00

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

2006-11-03T10:13:00.000-05:00

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

2006-11-01T11:19:00.000-05:00

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.

2006-10-30T12:20:00.000-05:00

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

2006-10-30T10:38:00.000-05:00

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

2006-10-26T15:26:00.000-04:00

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

2006-10-25T12:27:00.000-04:00

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

2006-10-24T15:22:00.000-04:00

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...

2006-10-23T10:49:00.000-04:00

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

2006-10-19T09:35:00.000-04:00

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?

2006-10-18T09:23:00.000-04:00

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?

2006-10-17T15:05:00.000-04:00

Today my boss and good friend, Jamaica, and I were walking to Walgreens to get some candy for the office and bitch about people in general. The conversation turned to doctors’ appointments, honesty and eventually fisting- yeah not sure how we got their either.

Jamaica stopped at the traffic light and twirled her umbrella in deep thought,

"I don't get that whole thing-' Fisting'- I mean what’s the fun in that- how can people do that?"

I went on to explain in my wise old fag way that the male prostate is right there and I imagine some guys would really want a good work out on that thing to make it feel extra good. It’s one amazing organ that can make you cum without touching yourself and feels great when massaged.

"Yeah but... why a fist?"

Now, I can only speculate reasons as to why people would do this- they like to feel like a puppet, they enjoy having their ass stretched to high heaven, they want to feel their organs move, it makes them feel alive, they have no desire to have bowel control when they are older- any number of reasons. I then mentioned I have seen fisting videos and they are crazy. In fact I have seen a number of fisting videos, some intentionally, most not so much and they all have left me dumbfounded. I even remember the time when I first saw an arm enveloped by a gaping hole- the look on the guys face in the film, his squirming body, my utter shock...

It all began one wet winter day in London. My friend, Brown Eyes, and I were looking for a fun night and she decided we should go to a club called "Fist". This was a famous London S&M club and she was pretty into the scene. Her German girlfriend was coming to visit and we decided it was a perfect fit or "fist" (thank you folks be here all night). I am not an S&M person at all- I don't enjoy beating people, feeling like a slave, or being slapped around (well bossed around is ok). At the time I liked to wear Goth make up and an occasional dog collar but not to be chocked with or for any other reasons than mere aesthetics- I was confused, what can I say. That night I put on my most "punk" outfit ( a ripped sleeveless black shirt and a velvet dog color, tight jeans and my ugly ass Buffalo shoes- remember those?) and got ready for a night of fun, music and maybe witness some light spanking. I had NO IDEA what I was about to get into.

The line for the club was filled with bears, mistresses, people in leather trench coats, the usual suspects for any Goth type fetish night. Once inside, layers were shed and I noticed a number of people walking around naked. The club had a distinct hormonal smell and lots of smoke everywhere. Brown Eyes and her girlfriend went off to the dance floor and I was left alone. I thought I would explore my new surroundings. The more people I saw the stranger things became. Nipple clamps, cock boards, strange piercing in parts I would never think to pierce- I was scared. Not like "I am going to be hurt" type scared, I was fully aware no one initiates anything without an invitation. I was more ”HOLY SHIT" type scared. Everywhere I turned real shit was happening, real whips hitting real asses (none of that Ricki's 99cent cheap made in china crap- they were using riding crops for horses and Indiana Jones whips), real tongues on real boots (dirty ones at that), real toothless men in full rubber suits giving head to real hard dicks sitting right next to me at the bar (I had no idea this was going on until I heard a moaning slurp and looked down at the guys legs next to me and saw the bobbing rubber orb of a head there). At this point I thought some air would be good.

I heard there was a patio out back that was nice from some bearded guy who kept winking at me while talking. I thought either he had a twitch or there was a joke I did not get... I pushed my way through a spanking orgy and some smelly naked man barking at his master. The door swung open and the cold air slapped me in the face (the only slap I would stand for- well unless it was something else but we won't go there). I pulled out my smokes and made my way down a path to where some people where entering another building "that must be the garden" I thought- such a dumbass- yeah a garden in the middle of winter in an S&M club.

There, at the end of the path, was a hanger type building with a door ajar. I peeked inside and saw some shadowy figures shuffling about. Some people were lighting smokes and soon enough I smelt some weed. “I could use some of that" I thought. I stepped inside to join the circle and people quickly dispersed. I noticed a strange musty odor combined with a familiar smell, ammonia? Cheerios? The light was extremely dim as I went further inside in search of the weed circle. I walked right into a fence with a black tarp over it. Startled, I groped along the "wall" and felt several holes at crotch levels and then a space to squeeze through. I realized this was a maze. "This is weird" I thought as I naively walked through the opening and began to wander down the dark aisle. Groans grew louder; hands began to appear at my waist, the sounds of lips smacking became hypnotic and rhythmic with my steps on the hard gravel. I felt like Catherine Deneuve in "Repulsion". A faint trickling sound got louder and louder as that strange musky cheerios smell grew around me. I saw a single light on the gravel floor peeking out from under a tarp. I turned the corner and had reached the epicenter- there in the middle was a young many tied to a giant x (not sure what that is called) and a large number of men (10-15) were pissing on him. I stopped dead in my tracks and dropped my smoke. THAT SMELL! That smell WAS PISS!!! I did not run, I did not move, I don't even think I breathed. I had no idea at this point in my life that people liked to be pissed on WILLINGLY (I mean sure the neighborhood bully had pissed on me before but I did not enjoy it... or DID I?? This was my first exposure to water sports and golden showers). I turned around quickly knowing the image was burned safely in the back of my mind forever and hit a hairy sweat mound with my face- "oy where you uff to luv" said the same bearded fool who directed me this way, to the damn "patio" - I pushed on by, running Deneuve style, all hands and moans as I let out small sighs and weak "get away" gestures- running to the "safety" of the club and another drink.

Once inside Brown eyes was nowhere to be seen, more people were getting naked, shouts were coming from all directions above the hardcore techno, blowjobs, hand jobs, toothless men, holes everywhere. I quickly found a drink and a table to sit and relax, collect my thoughts. A movie played above me. Ahhhhh focus... Ahhh nice clean old porn... Ahhhh... oh my god that guy is really going to town on that butt with his hand. OH! did he just put his hand in there? OH OH did he just shove his hand up further? OH MY GOD HIS ARM IS IN THAT GUYS BUTT!! SHIT oh my god that’s SHIT on that GUY- coming out of that other guys ASS!!!! OH MY GOD THAT’S SCAT PORN (my only exposure to this previous was from South Park where Cartman's mom apparently did scat videos)!! OH MY GOD that is A FOOT in that guy's ASS!!! OH MY GOD TWO ARMS IN THAT GUYS ASS!! OH my GOD that’s brown liquid coming OUT of that guys ASS!! Oh my GOD someone is licking it off!!!!!

I looked away, then back, then away, then back fighting repulsion and curiosity- I mean how could a foot get into an ass? How can one want to eat poop? How could TWO ARMS fit in an ass!! Don't these people want to be able to hold it in when they have the runs? .... Eventually after I thought I would never eat again I found Brown Eyes grinding topless on the dance floor being flogged by her girlfriend and told her I was going home to be sick.

Back to the present. Jamaica looks at me in horror and shock and says

"That’s not real- Don't they use CGI for that? "

I laughed and said "oh Jamaica, if only porn producers cared that much, I am afraid those 'actors' just get a punch, a foot, or a bat in the ass, a loss of bowel control and a hundred bucks if they are lucky"

Bartenders revisited

2006-10-14T20:29:00.000-04:00

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.

High School as a late twenty something

2006-10-12T11:32:00.000-04:00

I am the type of person that talks about my dreams, knows its annoying for anyone else to hear, and am annoyed when others tell me theirs (unless I am in them- like this one friend of mine had this boyfriend, straight, he used to have dreams of me sticking things in his ass. The best part - he liked it, found out later he was into anal pleasure. Crazy right?) YET I still talk about my dreams despite knowing all these things. I have stopped doing it as much but my poor mom hears them a lot and just replies with "mmmmmm... its craaaaaazy".

I have these fucked up dreams constantly about being back in high school. Not my public high school but the school I transferred to as a Junior (see previous "walk on by" post about the school for artistically inclined spoiled teenagers). This school was intense. It took the most of the rejected, teased, and often times gay teenagers from all over the country, plopped them down on a campus that looked like a Swiss ski lodge and told them to interact. I was in shock when I went there. It was the first time I was not the only boy who knew the all the words to Into the Woods, Godspell, Les Miserables, Hair... ( I really should not continue or I will embarrass myself). I could sit with a group of guys and girls and sing Sondhiem patter songs without missing a beat and have it be considered "cool"- by whom? I don't know because now I cringe when I think of that. I got to take an Art History class (thank god for that eye opener), write and direct a play, act like a fool, sing and dance- everything I had ever wanted. This was the best thing to happen to me since I discovered masturbation- yet the worst thing to destroy my teenage, weak as a dollar store paper plate ego but I digress.

I dream about this place a lot. I used to dream about meeting Madonna ( who I think would be the biggest most boring bitch if I ever met here) but as of the past few years it has been all about this place. I am always my current age and I am going about my normal business in classes, auditioning for shows, being broken down by asshole teachers, friends are backstabbing me, I am thrown on stage not knowing lines for a show I wasn't sure I was cast in to begin with- the usual anxiety dreams. There always comes a point in the dream where I realize - wait, I have my high school diploma don't I? Hold on, didn't I already go to college? Wait, I fucking stopped doing this musical crap right? What am I doing in high school? Then someone, usually some little shit I didn't like in school, tells me "oh no, they screwed up, you need to do this again". My stomach sinks and I accept the awful fate that has been bestowed on me in dreamland. I wake up sweating and VERY glad it was only a dream.

Last night was the first time the dream happened where I had made the conscious(well unconscious) choice in the dream to go BACK to HIGH SCHOOL. It seemed so real that I said "Gosh I can't believe I used to dream about this all the time and here I am , I should pinch myself and make sure this is real". I pinched and it FREAKING WAS! At one point in an anxious fit I even offered to have sex with a teacher, now normally if this were a "dream" we would have had sex right there and then ( I am notorious for that in my dreams. I used to have these dreams where guys were trying to kill me and I would say "don't kill me, don't kill me- please... i will suck your cock" and it would work, we would suddenly be having sex, hot rough nasty sex sometimes vampire sex.) However this time- nope he turned me down and said it was "flattering"- which added all to much to the realism of the situation. A number of flustering, awful, terrible, never want to happen in real life ( in the dream of course I thought the were happening) events ensued.

I woke up in exhausted and with a stomach ache in a horrible mood. This mood was then combined with a ride on the good ole F train, seeing a dead body on the street (yes really, one of the local crack heads had a stroke in a doorway. They merely placed a sheet over his shocked face and it kept blowing around while the police picked their ass) and general nastiness throughout the day

I really wish my high school would stay in the past- stop haunting me or standing in for anxious situations. I have had so many cool things happen in my life since then. I loved college, lived abroad, moved around and lead an interesting life- why can't I dream about those things?

Dreams are just so fucked up and so was that place...

This one's on the house...

2006-10-11T09:50:00.000-04:00

I was out last night with WAGIN and LCL, my two best friends ( WAGIN is also Prado for anyone who actually is following this, I think that is no one but whatever) celebrating the fact that I am not flunking out of graduate school - I am in fact doing quite well. I finally handed in work and got results back. I thought I was failing miserably on tests in my systems class- ahh nope, did extremely well (phew). I thought my project for compositing sucked- ahh nope, it was pretty freaking cool and the professor dug it. It was all such a giant relief that my stomach finally stopped churning, I regained my composure, and decided drinks to celebrate versus drink to drown my sorrows.

I met up with LCL and WAGIN at Beauty Bar- their favorite hot spot for checking out cute, dirty, skinny boys. They were in full force on their third round laughing and talking to strangers when I pranced in with my test in hand to show everyone like a freaking first grader. Our favorite bartender was there (with a bad hair cut and a shirt that was a little too tight) so we were happy. The three of us began the chatting, the bitching, spilling secrets one of us told the other not to tell the third and then we all laugh at how we can't keep secrets- it was like a slumber party in public without the panty freezing.

I had two Makers on the rocks- at 7$ a pop and a 2$ tip on each drink. I am broke so this money was my allotted 19$ for the week ( bought a coffee earlier)for those snacks and drinks that pop up. I had decided drinks and liver damange to celebrate were as good a reason to blow that money than any so I spent it all- high roller here. When it was time to get going our bartender came around and gave us a free round letting us know "This one's on the house". Cool right!? I was in the middle of a conversation but managed a "Wow, cool, thanks a lot man." and left it on the bar as the ladies contemplated their fifth free drink and said "eh fuck it" and went for it. I was deep in conversation and whisky f's me up so I didn't touch my drink for a bit. A few minutes went by and he comes back " This one's on me... Ok man", taps the bar and looks at me sternly. I said "thanks"- went back to my conversation. A few minutes later he looked over at me not touching my drink and gave me the "sup" nod.

I realized he was looking for a big freaking tip- the money I would have spent on the drink to go in his pocket. I know bartenders, I worked at a bar for a while as a shitty cocktail waiter (bad move when you work with all women at a down scaled version of hooters. Guys get pissed when they expect a waitress with big tits or a nice ass to serve them beer and a sassy faggot with a mouth of a sailor comes up to them and asks what they want. Of course 6 beers later their attitude changes to "a mouth's a mouth" and they think you are a hot riot... I never went there mind you but you know what I mean). Back to the tip issue- as I stated before I am broke, I had 1$ in my wallet, 1 meager little dollar to get my coffee in the morning without having to scrounge for change. I reached in because I knew he wanted it. I then turned to LCL and said "do you have any cash" she did but all large bills so she gave me her only single. I put down the 2$ after he glanced at me a third again. I was livid.

The point of "on the house" or "on me" means FREE. Not - give me your damn money like its a hold up. I would not have ORDERED the fucking third drink as I did not have the money. He put it in front of me and insisted I take it - twice verbally and once visually with his eyes! I should not feel obligated to tip his stupid ass for forcing booze down my throat. WAGIN came stumbling back from the bathroom and I told her the situation. She quickly offered to put money down for me and I said "NO! I didn't order the drink, I understand it was a favor, I gave him the tip I would have given him if I bought the drink and that should be enough." and I stand by that. We downed the drinks and left.

I am not cheap when it comes to tipping- I believe in tipping well. I understand the thought process of bartending, how it works. My close friend all throughout college was the head bartender at TT the Bears in Boston and I would visit her all the f'n time to drink and hear music. I befriended bartenders all over the city of Boston thanks to my various waiting jobs and they always gave me free drinks or bought rounds because I was generous. They also wanted me to stick around and keep them company, make them laugh, protect them from all the slime in the bar that really wanted their attention (it tended to be the female bartenders who liked me- but a few guys liked my money). Money, aka good tips, get you stronger drinks and faster service (most of the time, unless its some dumb fucking ho' in a bikini shaking her fake tits- then it gets you a fake tit shake).

The most important thing to keep in mind is they are POURING A DRINK. They are not jacking you off, massaging your feet, carrying your bags, etc. so a tip should be reasonable (I think 2$-4$ on a hard drink depending on difficulty , 1$-2$ on a beer) anyone who expects more is a greedy ass.

When the bartender buys you a round or says its on the house it is usually a THANK YOU for your generous tipping and I feel one should not be expected to fork over the 9$ they would not have spent on a drink they didn't really want anyway.

I love Dlisted

2006-10-11T09:30:00.000-04:00

I love this blog.

Dlisted

The only problem is sometimes you have to click the header a few times to get to the most recent updates- but that is seriously because I check the thing constantly.

The guy is really funny who writes it and he is ALWAYS the first to report on celebrity trash.

I used to read "Pink is the new Blog " before that fag started talking about his new boyfriend constantly, how he is in "lurve", his trip to Paris, and then all his shameless self promotion (people, well fat girls and fags, holding up shitty construction paper signs with 'Pink is the new Blog' on it). Then he was all into the fact that he was in GQ, met Madonna, was at the MTV awards- I admit all these things are cool but I don't want to read 3 paragraphs on how great you are- I want to see nipple slips and read who punched who at the after party- maybe a little snide comment here and there. Its like "Dude you write a fucking gossip blog- and not even a good one because you are too busy saying lame ass shit like 'lurve' and 'skrinks'". Seriously. He also moved to LA and thinks he is fabulous now- LA does not make you fabulous, money makes you fabulous (kidding that was a Madge inspired quote from Truth or Dare aka In bed with Madonna). All it means is he wakes up 3 hours later than the east coast and his gossip is stale, all the other bitchy fags have already found those pictures of Nicole Ritchie pretending to eat or Britney at Taco Bell made their comments and moved on. I guess I shouldn't TOTALLY diss him- I still read the trash- its something I love to hate- like the new plus sized Tyra Banks.

Anyway Dlisted RULES. It is just too damn funny. I love that the guy goes way over the edge and doesn't apologize. He is always updating the thing, has caption contests, celebrity birthdays, slut of the day and week (was Jennifer Saunders last week- nice one man). He gives all the bored office workers and teenagers something new to read every few hours and I appreciate that.Someday I want to hang out with his bitchy ass while we drink proseco and watch top model yelling at Tyra's cheesy ass when she strikes a pose "like THIS" (imagine Tyra striking some cheeky ridiculous pose with her eyes bugged out). Hats Off man! I highly suggest checking it out.

Dlisted

I'M SO EXCITED I'M SO EXCITED I'M SO.... SCARED

2006-10-09T09:24:00.000-04:00

"There's no time... There's never any time, I don't have time to study! I'll never get into Stanford! I'll let everyone down! I'm so confused!"- cut to pill popping- " I'm so excited, I'm so excited! I'm so... scared."

Anyone who knows anything about pop cultural crap knows this scene well, has seen the youtube remix with Le Tigre singing ( clip here- http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jzxTNWW2ifA&mode=related&search= ) and witnessed the shear brilliance of the Jesse Spano "caffeine freak out" as only Elizabeth Berkley can deliver (the craziest part of the whole clip is the total preview to her Oscar worthy turn as Nomi Malone, the whore/stripper/Vegas bitch with a heart of well, shit, in "Showgirls". I wonder if her agent submitted this clip to Paul Verhoven when they were casting with a note "you want a crazy ass bitch to get naked and freak out a lot - Elizabeth is your woman"). The even funnier part of the whole thing is I actually remember seeing this when it aired on Saturday morning for the first time. My sister loved "Saved by the Bell" so I would watch it with her to avoid chores. I remember thinking Jesse Spano looked my neighbor, Megan, and acted like one wound up, egg head, whore. I remember this episode so clearly, in my jams and neon t-shirt, loving me some Zach but really just wanting to be Jesse so he could shake me around and tell me it would be all right.

This is not such a funny clip when one wakes up everyday reliving it in their head, as I have been for the past 2 weeks. I, my folks, have become Jesse Spano (minus the Zach shakes unfortunately). No, not the pill popping crazed singing maniac- I got rid of that phase my first year in college (No Doz, Vivarin- Now SING you fool, SING SING SING- and dance while you do it- faster, faster, I said FASTER! ). I have become the person who is constantly feeling like there is no time. I feel like every minute I waste (like right now) has awful dire consequences and it makes me sick to my stomach.

Working full time in a shit job and going to school at night until 10pm, Monday- Thursday is just wearing me down. My apartment is a mess, there are dishes piled high and I can't find the sponge. I can hear the mice clawing in my walls again to get the crumbs on my floor. The roaches are back (I saw the biggest freaking roach I have ever seen in my medicine cabinet this morning - seriously I could have shaken its hand! I tried to squish it beind a shaving cream bottle but it was TOO BIG and its head and butt stuck out... ewww it was gross). I have no clean clothes- well I did manage a load of underwear. I am behind on my studying. I have not slept a good night sleep in three weeks from anxiety. I haven't been to the gym in a week and I have no desire to eat because my stomach is churning (the only good side effect to any of this- wait did I say that). Now where is the educational, life lesson, building character part? Oh I forgot- all those things ARE the lessons thus far, I see, I see...ugh.

Sure, not so bad you may be saying- what about the weekends, what about when you get home from class. You know what I say- what about FUCK YOU! I wasted my Saturday morning in the sound room at school trying to practice an assignment and the fucking speakers weren't working plus the woman who asked me to help her never fucking showed (which was the only reason I went in that morning to begin with- I would have cancelled but I didn't have her phone number- silly faggot). I spent the rest of the weekend working non-stop on a freaking 15 second clip for a composite class. I didn't study for a test I have Tuesday, go over my programming for an assignment due on Wednesday nor write a paper for Thursday. * cue Jesse Spano.

I can hear my mother now "You do better when you are busy honey, trust me" and ok I do- less time to think about crazy shit- but what about being too busy? I like reflecting in the park while sipping coffee- I never did that, but its nice to know I had the time to. I did enjoy watching my cooking shows on Satuday morning combined with cartoons, going to the farmers market, taking long walks and working out for two hours. I liked when my biggest worry was what to make for dinner or if I would pick up a brush and paint that day.

If this is what grad school is about I am not sure its for me... then again I am not sure what is for me anymore.... and does this really even matter now that North Korea has nuclear capabilities? I am such a whiney fag today...

Where is Jesse with those pills damn it!

Impress your boss with an online degree?!

2006-10-06T15:16:00.000-04:00

Ok, I figured I moped enough and it was back to some serious bitcherie.

While looking at my e-mail today I made the mistake of paying attention to the blinking banner above. It was for one of those money stealing shit houses disguised as a University. The design was a bunch of ripped notebook paper and tape all over the pieces and the text read "Impress your boss with an online degree in:" and listed the various useless degrees they offered. Seriously- who the hell sees that and says "you know what that WOULD impress my boss" and on that note- what "boss" is saying "You know what I find most impressive about you, your online degree- way to go tiger. Way to show me your lazy, cheap, initiative.". I mean what the hell- I feel bad for the people who think it's a good idea to throw away your money like that.

Which brings me to another online add that pisses me off- the Tru and Gay.com personal adds that seem to flood my myspace account and my inbox (You visit one porn site and its all over). I hate those things. First of all its the HOTTEST guy ever in the add and I am sorry, I have done the online dating thing and NO ONE online looks like that. Maybe they did when they were 19 but not when they are 32 , balding with a beer gut- that's why they are online. The worst is when I have met people with fake pictures. Its like they think they are going to get away with it. I mean what, I am not going to notice they look 15 years older, have manboobs and no hair? Its awful. I also am not into seeing these dumb single adds because they are constant reminders of how 1. I am single 2. I need to stop eating in order to have a six pack 3. I am ugly and that's why I am single and 4. I fell victim to those sites- believing the guy in the add was actually on there (told you I am not the brightest bulb sometimes). I fucking hate those things.

Am I a computer....

2006-10-06T10:57:00.000-04:00

If you know me , you know I am currently in the process of getting and MFA. The area I chose to study, wise or not, is Computer Art. What? YOU!! Well let me explain...

I went to an undergraduate college that was heavy duty on theory and the philosophy of art. I was taught that the idea is the most important thing when creating works of art, which I completely agree with, however the one thing that began to suffer when I was so focused on idea was craftsmanship. Being involved in art that is digitally enhanced or produced (I was a mutlimedia artist with a focus on video in undergraduate) it was important that I had a grasp of how things worked. I often would rely on the lab tech in the video department when I could not figure out how to make something work. He would sit down, show me, I would do it and forget it thinking "eh, I'll hire someone to do that for me in the real world." This eventually lead to the chair thinking I was indeed a tech wizz and I became a lab assistant. Sure I could help everyone with learning the basics of Final Cut Pro, how to import, get a clean shot, basic 3 point lighting- but when they showed up with fielding issues, color correction questions etc. I was at a loss.

Whenever I had ideas that were grander than my scope of technical understanding I relied on my intellect to find a reason to not have that projection be the size of a wall and make it on a TV instead. It was a great gift and often worked in my favor. I could back up any of my pieces and choices in making them a particular way with research, philosophy, arguments and would even have specific references on hand if they were needed. In a school where no assignments were given and grades were based on how well you defended your work- I became an expert at the argument, the discussion, the theory behind the practice. Once again, knowledge is power but my reasoning with myself to avoid a new challenge became a bigger problem.

When I graduated I disappointed many a professor by proclaiming I was moving to the land of commercial entertainment and greed- LA. The choice for me seemed clear- I had friends there, they were forming a business, asked me to be part based on my weird "arty" experiments in Boston . They needed that "fine art" element to give the edge so to speak. I saw it as an opportunity to finally learn more about the craft in film making, video, and design. I jumped at it- lied about my proficiency in programs and told my family I was headed out west (my mom cried).

Los Angeles was the smartest move for me at that time. I learned more about the technical workings of video in one month than I ever had in undergrad. Why? Clients didn't want to hear that you decided this rough look was better because it referred to the lyric in the song "I was so dirty, I would never be clean". They wanted results, smooth, slick, in your face RESULTS. I fought this at first and made many a first timer mistake by challenging the client- soon it became an issue of needing to make rent. I suddenly stepped up and learned programs on the fly because I had to. I had a very good friend sit down with me and patiently describe how things worked so I could assist him with larger projects, calming me down and helping me along. This eventually lead to me heading up the smaller scaled projects and building trust with them so my voice actually counted in the group- instead of being the "resident gay artist" I was becoming a part of their thinking. All my buddies showed me the joy in geeking out and learning technical things like what new program gives you a cleaner alpha channel on a green screen shoot or what compression codec works best for the web- can all be fun too.

After about a year of this the honeymoon was over. I was tired of wasting my personal ideas to sell a newspaper, an album, a song. I wanted to get back to what I wanted to do- what was that? I wasn't sure but I knew it wasn't making the lower thirds on the Blink 182 Iraq special for MTV2 or making another loser band look cool. I wanted the art world back.

I decided to leave and come to New York City. I wanted to go to graduate school. I wanted to find a program where I could combine the two elements I liked the most- art and my new found appreciation for computer technology. I wanted to be proficient enough to not need a pasty, pale, geek with man boobs telling me the "flux capacitor in your computer hooks up to the thing-a-ma-bob which is now not running due to a 404 error". I knew this was bullshit- I just didn't know why. I decided COMPUTER ART. There you go- that's the way. I wanted to learn the ins and outs, the inner workings, the binary language, the secrete code to geek speak. I wanted to combine this technical skill with a fine art practice to make the works I wanted to make- to realize I did indeed know how to make the wall size projection and even have it interact with the viewer through a series of sensors placed in the floor. No more reasoning out of it- no more slick for slick sake. Making things that were true to how I wanted to express myself and the topics I thought were important.

Which brings me to the present. Here I am- in the midst of this brilliant idea I had to become a computer and I am screaming. I don't get it. I quickly learned there is a reason those computer geeks never leave the house. Between the programming classes and systems classes on things like "how RAM works"( I am not talking that general " it just does" BS, I am talking electrical diagram crap so you can truly understand the "concept"). I am extremely confused and it seems that no one will clarify as this is a "graduate" program. When I write to the teacher of one particular class explaining my concerns he will tell me "I just want you to understand the general concepts, don't stress" yet when the fucking quiz is handed out- its not general, its pretty specific if you ask me and I AM STRESSED.

I know its a process, I understand that its a journey, you can't jump from point A to C without experiencing B. My problem is when the process is confusing as hell and no one is explaining it what can you do? I have no time to put any of what I am learning to practice because I am too busy trying to understand it. I spent over 4 hours trying to comprehend how a fucking computer reads bitmapped images with nothing to show for it and then no lecture to clarify. I had a few people want to start a study group but the cost of a tutor to lead the group is too much for me. It is a nightmare - it reminds me of this nightmare I had when I was really little- frankenstien was chasing me and I fell down a flight of stairs. There he stood above me, this man made monster thing shooting laser beams out of his eyes and I thought "well I guess this is what I have to do to survive so he won't eat me"- I would then wake up crying.

The thing is I want to understand, I want to get it- I am trying my damn hardest to hold on to the idea of what this could lead to. It just seems that right now it is only inhibiting me from making work, not helping me- making me feel even more stupid than I normally feel on a day to day basis (which is pretty stupid). I feel out of place amongst the groups of 3D animators and Computer Science majors. I feel uncomfortable when I over hear people speaking disparagingly about fine art( in my one art based class that in turn is also a history class), saying that a screening of Bruce Naumans "Make Up" is really not significant and full of shit. I know its their naivete that is speaking - but where can I draw the line. I can only speak up so often about the importance of artistry in computer driven work- but will anyone really hear- do I start to sound like that crazy preacher outside the school who says god is love? Will I become a computer like so many of these people seem to have done? Will I too forget that sometimes simplicity is best? Will I forget that sometimes bells and whistles are just BELLS and WHISTLES and do not help to clarify an idea? Will I too begin to think that something that was so signifigant in the beginning of a rich history has no signifigance now due to my lack of attention span from staring at a vibrating image all day long?

I want to see the forrest through the trees but right now it looks like a bunch of ugly bushes and everyone knows I don't like bush.

Having said all this a I am sure my tune will once again change when the learning curve hits slaps me across the face.

New York State of Mind

2006-10-05T16:31:00.000-04:00

a little down today so bear with me...

I was out last night attending an opening for a photographer friend of mine, doing my usual talking too loud while drinking cheap wine, not obeying the 30 second 30 feet rule (There was a girl next to me with a gut and a white boob tube revealing the most HIDEOUS rash all over her chest, it looked contagious so I had to point it out to every fag in the room. Unfortunately she heard me and I felt bad watching her adjust her hair in front of the rash. Ok, so I only felt bad for a second then I thought " wait-you are the one exposing that nasty rash and wearing a boob tube"... yeah still mean, oh well.). I had some nice conversations but one really disturbed me- one about the New York state of mind. It was brought to my attention from a native Manhattanite that people in this city are selfish, they are always looking for the next hot thing to make them better, always talking about what they want, when they want it, and not willing to compromise. Hearing this gave me the shivers.

The thought haunted me as I went to have a drink with my best friend- let'’s give her a name- Prado- as in the museum in Madrid. So I am going to meet Prado to discuss our lives, her particularly stressful work situation, the new dress she bought, and hear all about her bosses lectures and show (she works for a prominent artist). We of course come to a favorite topic- her current relationship, her past relationship, how I view her relationships (which makes me feel important that she cares) and the same old shit (basically its a circular discussion where nothing is accomplished). I bring up this selfish thing and wonder if she agrees, she looks at me for a second then spouts "well of course why do you think all those women in their forties suddenly want babies and husbands- spent to long being selfish and unwilling to compromise" and went back to sipping her white wine. She then must have noticed my facial disappointment and retorted "You are different, you just don't want to waste your time, you know what you want- I wish I could do that."- ouch. (For the record - I am not a woman and I don't want babies either.)

I thought New Yorkers were supposed to be different than that. I thought New Yorkers were supposed to have heart, spirit, culture... as I was thinking this in the supermarket this morning some dumb bitch cut me off on my way to grab the last Greek yogurt in the supermarket -Seriously- cut me off for a yogurt, which just confirmed my New York selfish thoughts. I was even naive enough to think the gay men in New York were going to be different. I thought they would love each other, support each other, care about each other- instead its one hair snatching event after another while they gold dig their way through Smelsea lisping like leaky tires, looking for younger hotter men or richer older men to fuck. What happened?

Am I one of these people ? Did I subconsciously move here for a chance to live in a city of selfish people and not be called selfish- instead referred to as "driven", "determined", "uncompromising" which of course I don't hear as much as I hear "bitch". Am I really not willing to compromise and only thinking of myself all the time- is that why I am alone, frustrated and failing school? Am I going to suddenly wake up 50 , single, living in a studio apartment in queens with a leaky toilet, broke, no pension plan, no health insurance, sleeping in the tub because rats have infested my apartment, thinking "what happened?" - the way things are going, probably (there all you cynics I beat you to the punch). (OH! and that last thing with the apartment is a the true story of someone I know who just moved out of the city at the age of 54- single and broke).

I know its probably not New York and it is just human nature- but when surrounded by people all the time, 24 hours a day, 7 days a week it seems like the world is New York City (selfish New York thing again) so for the moment- New York has got me down...

Excuse me Representative?

2006-10-04T09:17:00.000-04:00

I am sure everyone has been made fully aware of the latest sex scandal in politics involving Representative Mark Foley and his sexually explicit e-mails to an underage congressional page. I must admit, I am happy because the man is a Republican from Florida who got caught with his pants down (so to speak and well maybe not, you never know). I have no sympathy for the man, no sympathy for the Congressional Page (please, when I was 16 I was e-mailing sexually explicit material to older men as well- I was horny damn it), least of all sympathy for the Republican party. The worst part about this "scandal" is Mark Foley's pathetic excuses and attempts to cover his old poor ass judgment.

"I was drunk" um HELLLLOOOO we have all been drunk and made asses of ourselves but we also all know that there is a small kernel of truth in every drunken move ( also everyone knows- or should know- you never get near a computer, phone or fax when drunk for fear of sending stupid e-mail, myspace messages, aim, looking for sex because you think its funny.... wait never mind).

" I am an alcoholic" ok fine, but you're still a big ole faggot in wolves clothing. Get your stupid ass to AA, maybe you can meet some man your own age to fool around with.

"I have mental problems" ahhh yeah apparently- you were in public office lying all those years, not just to yourself but to all the hicks dumb enough to vote for you- that's enough to make anyone "mental". The whole world has "mental issues", why do you think we fight all the freaking time- no excuse you mo.

" I was molested". This one takes the cake. What is he trying to do here? The man basically discredited himself with all the "mental" and drunken behavior over the years now he wants us to believe its because he was molested between the ages of 13- 15? I think not my friend (This reminds me of that rapper who claimed he was "raped" by a fan and then impregnated her- dude in order to get someone pregnant you have to cum inside of them which means you were hard, which means you were stimulated and got off. "Man rape" is usually in the ass, not fun and very painful plus NO ONE ends up pregnant). Mr Foley, Tell me you were abducted by aliens, given the anal probe, you loved it, couldn't get enough, even asked the aliens to take a probe home- now they visit you on a regular basis to check your colon. I have an easier time believing that than this "molested" by a priest thing. It's just too many excuses all at once- leave the church molesting accusations to the men and women who aren't sleazy politicians and have actually suffered from the incident. Molested or not, Mr. Foley, you are gay- gay gay gay gay gay.

Which brings me to this point- His "coming out". Now that he was forced to come out of the closet he wants to be championed as a gay hero? This reminds me of a stupid article I read in New York Magazine that featured the horny New Jersey Governor's publicity stunt - talking about his "gayness" to promote some lame ass book. That article was awful. My best friend and I talked about this and were disgusted. He wants to be viewed with sympathy? I tell you who I sympathize with- all those men and women who had the balls to come out when they were young and got the shit kicked out of them by closeted homos like McGreevey. I sympathize with people whose lives are hard because they are being who they ARE not because they are hiding who they are for personal gain (let alone political). I sympathize with McGreevey's freaking WIFE and DAUGHTER whose lives are now a circus because of his selfish aspirations. McGreevey is slicker than a lubed up cock ready for anal- talking about the thrill of tricking everyone- dude shut up, you look like an ass ( actually you know who looks like a bigger ass- that guy he was knocking it with Gloem or whatever his stupid name is. The man called up Oprah and claimed he was a victim- oh shut your pie hole man, you were not a "victim" , please refer to "rapper rape" in previous paragraph except in this case Mr. G, you asked for it in the butt).

The most disgusting thing of ALL - and this is my final thought- is an article I read today in the New York Times. Here is a quote

"With their party under attack because of the scandal, Governor Bush and other Republicans suggested that Democrats were hypocrites for taking them to task. In particular, Democratic leaders have attacked Representative J. Dennis Hastert of Illinois, the House speaker, who is said to have learned about some communications between Mr. Foley and a 16-year-old page months ago.

Mr. Dinerstein said he and other Republicans intended to trumpet the story of Mel Reynolds, the former Democratic congressman from Chicago who was imprisoned for corruption and for having sex with an under-age campaign worker. Former President Bill Clinton pardoned Mr. Reynolds before he left office.

“If the Democrats want to fight on the issue of who's protecting the public and the children and all that,” Mr. Dinerstein said, “God bless them, because two weeks from now Mel Reynolds will be a household name.”

HYPOCRITES!!! HYPOCRITES!!! I just ate when I read this and suddenly tasted my breakfast again. Do I really need to point out the fallacy- all the witch hunts the Republican party has done, the lies they have told,scandals they have covered up (WMD, Hi how are you?). I can't even begin with this or I will burst another blood vessel in my eye (yeah I did that last week from stress).

My solution to all this crap is as follows
1.Take the damn horny teenagers out of capitol hill and hire some hags to do their jobs (All the teens are learning is how to flirt with old men anyway).
2. Take away prescriptions for Viagra from men that are in public office (most men should have this done to them but I am sure I will be singing a different tune when I need the shit).
3. Make each politician involved in this travesty take a good look in the mirror and ask themselves as leaders "is all this finger pointing and Lohan/Hilton fight behavior really doing the country any good".

I think you will find the answer is NO. Leave the bitch fights to the bitches, put your wrinkled dicks away and do your F'n JOBS.

What does the F stand for?

2006-10-03T11:18:00.000-04:00

I know everyone writes about the subway, this is nothing new- but man it is pissing me off lately

The F train. The bane of my existence in this city- the bane of many in this city. People love it or hate it. I, living way out in Brooklyn, hate it. It is the thorn in my side, the pain in my ass, the ache in my head. It ruins my day- everyday. I wake up earlier and earlier thinking it will help with my daily commute, maybe get a freaking seat- nope. The train is overcrowded with screeching children, Russian hags, pushy 50 somethings who cut off pregnant ladies to get seats (seriously, happened today and it wasn't the first time I have seen that shit), annoying teenagers, and the pissed off office workers with the look of "why me" - like myself. Why don't I just move? Yeah right- because I can afford the sky rocketing rents in such glamorous neighborhoods as Gowanus, Dumbo, Williamsburg (lets not even mention the L or the streets overwrought with leggings, tattoos and white belts), Fort Green etc. When did these ugly ass places become so hot?! Another story, another time- I am here to talk about the F.

Everyday I am on the damn F, the train gets stopped for one reason or another. The F train likes to be polite to other trains (not its own passengers) by letting them pass ("excuse me ladies and gentle men we have a G train crossing in front of us going nowhere anyone needs to be at this time of day" or even worse "The V will be leaving the station first so all the people on the LES can get to their jobs faster than you"). People who ride the F like to become "sick passengers" because they can't get it together to step onto the damn platform- instead they make EVERYONE late for work while they figure out what's going on ( I have been on trains with fake heart attacks, pass out episodes, puking and drunk homeless shitting themselves). Another great announcement and delay is the signals excuse ("red signal ahead we will be moving shortly" and there you sit for ten minutes ,watching the lady across from you read her bible and pick her nose because you forgot your reading material and can no longer cope with the "eyes shut meditation" face). There are of course all the people running late for the train that decide they will hold the doors open for all their friends, homies, acquaintances who are also running late and taking their sweet time to get to the subway doors until the conductor has to shout "YOU IN THE BACK DO NOT HOLD THE DOORS" then announces "Ladies and Gentleman we have a G train crossing in front of us ". My personal favorite- they decided mid run to change the service and not tell anyone until its too late. If it isn't my stop getting skipped ( I guess they think that no one really needs to get on or off there) at Jay street they decide to run on the A line for a while due to "construction" ( I have no idea what "construction" they are doing because all it looks like is guys with guts standing there holding lights. Not to say they aren't doing anything- I just don't know what they are doing and most certainly have not seen the benefits).

Its not like I live in the boonies... Ok I sort of do. I can not afford to live anywhere else. Ok I could if I got a roommate I don't know but I had one when I first moved to the city. It lasted 6 months. She wasn't a bad person at all. Her boyfriend moved in with us because I said "yeah sure it makes the rent cheap" however it meant that it was their apartment and I made a self imposed exile to my 3x4 room. The final straw was when I came home one Sunday and there she was, mop in hand, tears and sweat pants- she dramatically proclaimed I never clean. Not true. I never left a dish in the sink for longer than an hour, always cleaned up my little messes, cleaned a "shared space" every weekend etc. To top it all off I had just cleaned the bathroom and mopped the floors the previous day- I liked to do it early while they still slept (until noon) so I could get it done without interruption. I guess she thought a magic gnome had taken her pubic hair out of the drain, wiped the poop stains off the underside of the toilet seat, emptied the trash, made the faucet shine, and kept the house smelling like pine sol. In fairness this was after four months and she was frustrated about something else having nothing to do with me. I think she is a good person, meant no harm, however living together did not work. Moving into someone else's territory is never fun- that's why you have to find a place with someone so you can equally pee all over marking terrain together (this is a figure of speech people). Why don't you move in with friends? Too much info for this blog and besides- most live with boyfriends/girlfriends or have roommates.

-back to the F-

I know the subway is old. I appreciate that I never have to drive ( people can't even walk right on sidewalks, you think I want to be surrounded by them and a death machine on a totally packed highway!). I think its history is great, some lines are great, the workers- not so great but hey everyone has their problems and I am sure subway riders are annoying (look at me). I just wish they would fix the service, put electrical shockers on the doors so that people can't hold them, SOMETHING to make it a little smoother and not ruin my day.

Until that day ( or when I move to a new neighborhood where strollers are not the main form of transport and there is more than one line running there- please oh please oh please) I am stuck on the F. The train that makes everyday like Monday, everyday a rainy day, everyday the first day of school, tax day, and worse -puts me in a pissy mood again and again no matter what I do. Damn you F... damn you to hell.

How's your Backhand

2006-10-02T11:22:00.000-04:00

Recently I received an e-mail from an acquaintance/ former who knows what, telling me they enjoy my blog, they laughed and think its great I am writing blah blah. It was nice, they didn't have to- but then as I read on in the e-mail there was a little backhanded compliment on my photo which pissed me off. Surely I was being overly sensitive- no way would they do that! I quickly went online to find trusted source on backhanded compliments to be sure I was right (yeah I know what they are but I just HAD to check)

For the record, according to Wikipedia (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Backhanded_compliment) the backhanded compliment is "an insult disguised as a compliment. It is generally used to belittle or condescend, or often one uses a backhanded compliment when one wants to insult someone in a subtle way." Hmmm it seemed I was right on, it was backhanded! Then again what did I expect when this is sort of the basis of our friendship. I then thought- wait... Do I do this more than I am aware (because remember its all about me and I love to make myself crazy by taking on someone else's bad behavior - thinking its my fault).

Just like in my previous "walk on by" post I think this is something everyone is guilty of. I recently wrote to a male friend commenting on a new picture he had up online writing "You look much cuter without make up- just thought you should know". Why did I think he should know? I mean really what was my hope in that. The make up thing was my own issue (don't like guys in makeup, eyeliner anything of the sort, doesn't do it for me)- so what if he wanted to wear it. Its not like I am dating the guy and I could say "hey you know what- if you want to get some after dinner, take off the make up" -even then it seems ridiculous. Its who the person is and I know that- it was just purely for my own benefit to make me feel more important and above them (So, sorry man, that was unfair.).

I have found that the backhanded compliment is the ultimate bitch move. This is because it makes the receiver feel temporarily good about themselves- then if they think about it, awful. However by the time that has happened, they have thanked the person who just backhanded, talked with them, even bought them a drink. Plain and simple- they end up looking stupid. This is of course when the backhanded compliment happens in the present tense not through the many wonders of the internet like e-mail or aim where one can read it over and think "hey wait... You're a being a backhanded bitch " and call them out on it. Most people who use backhand on a regular basis are not aware of it or if they are, claim its the receiver being sensitive- after all they said they LIKED the outfit you had on, just not in that color.

Now when I backhand I am fully aware of it, savor it, enjoy my cleverly disguised insult but I never backhand people I like (maybe on occasion just for fun but really prefer not too because they know me and call me out on it- then a battle of the wits ensues, someone cries, drinks are spilled, alcohol wasted, then evetually a good hearty laugh comes out when I take it back -but still think it of course). I reserve my backhand for people I can't stand, people out of line who think they are smart, or at a party where I am talking to some rich trust fund baby that is boring because they 1.don't work 2. they don't have to work 3. they have nothing interesting to say and 4.they pretend like they are broke (a whole other blog).

To all backhanders (and myself) I say - Backhand all you want, just remember there can be a Backlash.(Karma is a backhanded bitch).

Tyra Dearest... My guilty pleasure

2006-10-02T09:38:00.000-04:00

I am sorry but I had to share this--

Ok, ok, I am late in my viewing of my guiltiest pleasure America's Next Top Model.(Its so awful but whatever, I watch it ok) I know they air on Wednesday but I have class that night, no TiVo, no VCR, "no studio, no contract.... I don't know what I'm gonna do!". Therefore I have to catch my weekly dose of screaming at skinny bitches that can't hear me on Champaign Sundays. Last night was my ANTM group's first meeting of the minds as we all agreed to hold off, no sneak peeks and watch it's repeat on Sundays- I am so lucky to have such great friends.

Anyway we had the usual debate on whether or not the girls are lame (always are at first until the editors really get going) if this season will suck (dumb question- all "cycles" suck -but I still watch) and where the hell Shandi is (you know the legally blind, cheating ho' who was spotted working at Walgreens in the city and then was the 311 girl). It's my version of watching Sunday football, but it's girls in gowns crying not men in tight pants sacking each other (although that can be fun too). Everyone just be glad I have something to yell at on TV and it's not them.

This week I was delighted to no end by Tyra herself, the woman I love to hate. She appeared at the judging in some ren-fair outfit complete with corset (covering her donut eating 175lb stomach) made of silk, velvet and of course- suede knee high boots. The best part- her hair and make up. The woman (can I call her that?) looked like freaking Mommy Dearest - not Joan Crawford herself, but Faye Dunaway's version of Joan in the 1981 classic "Mommy Dearest". I mean seriously, that crazy wig she has been wearing that is all over styled and stiff as a board combined with her false lashes and clown make up, what is she thinking! It was just CRAZY FUNNY, so funny I tipped over my champaign and wasted perfectly good alcohol I was laughing so hard ( yeah its been a rough week and I needed a laugh, thanks Tyra).

Take a look for yourself (enjoy that dramatic music- oh and the shots from that shitty shoot- my god this show is ridiculous). You have to copy and paste the link, the damn thing isn't working...

http://youtube.com/watch?v=96Gm2bolOcQ

I love that the 'judging' is taking place in that hotel in downtown Los Angeles with the revolving restaurant on top. This is that same famed hotel that was in Blade Runner and the show " It's a Living" was based on (coincidentally I have had overpriced drinks there served in novelty glasses you can keep). It is just pure comedy.

I also love that the prize has been downgraded to a cover of Seventeen Magazine . No more Guile Bensemon (sp,I know) and Elle magazine. I guess Hearst publications got wise to the fact that these girls will never work again.

Just walk on by... (no, this is not about a broken heart).

2006-10-01T09:43:00.000-04:00

There is a phenomenon that happens when one lives in the big city like New York. Many people come here to escape a life in the suburbs, escape their past, pave a new road and look toward the future. Yet is seems time and time again that one is confronted with the past, finding their idea is not so original and "OH MY GOD! Is THAT Missy Turner- shit shit shit...." so you cross the street, pretend to be looking in a window and walk on by.

Sure, this is not such a new concept for many- people know this, stupid bitch from Sex and the City had a whole episode about running into ex's and so forth [ok yeah, I watched that show when it was racy, on HBO, I was 23 and thought it was so great (so naive). Now that it's watered down counter part is in syndication I can't seem to avoid the freaking thing. I mean THAT is something I wish I could turn away from and regain my brain space dedicated to remembering episodes. A viewing is inevitable when you don't have cable, its 11pm and all you want to do is veg out and the CW (or is it the WB, or UPN, or MY 9- Jesus whatever) is the only channel that comes in clearly on your set. You fail to remember why you began to hate it so much- so you watch it. Then that damn monologue starts "So I wondered if men were like ice cream, what flavor blah blah I am a dumb slut" and all the hatred washes over you , hatred for the show, all the behavior it sparked in dumb young women, and the damn drinks people order... wait that's not the point].

OK, back to my original thought- I am not talking about one night stands, I mean everyone understands that that is part of a one night stand or even a break up in a city and if you don't- get used to it. No I am talking about people from your past that you knew, you liked, maybe even had one of those two-month high school friendships with, maybe you bought weed from them, lived in the same dorm, worked retail together, were in some Yoga class - or some other crap like that. When the friendship had run its course you counted on not having to see them again- next thing you know you are sucking down a coffee, rushing to a meeting and there they are staring at you across the street. You pull the "what's that in the window? Oh my phone is ringing" and the moment passes and so do they.

I am the number one fan of the walk by. My past is broad, I have done a lot of stupid things (and people) in various cities, made drunken best friends, been involved in silly groups, lets just say I know a lot of people by default... people I want to remain in the past. Maybe it was my behavior, maybe it was theirs, maybe shit had run its course- doesn't matter, I would prefer that they existed as a bunch of electrical pulses in my brain.

I like to implement the "I don't recognize you" version of the walk by and just stare blankly ahead. I even bought sunglasses that I thought would aide in this process ( I quickly realized my sunglasses were not dark enough to pull off anything like the walk by let alone the real reason I bought them- to check out guys on the street and not have them know. This became defunct when I was getting a number of dirty looks and thinking "wait can they see me?". It was like that moment when I was four and I realized just because I can't see people with my hands in front of my face doesn't mean they can't see me.) The "I don't recognize you" works best for me because if the person WANTS to make contact, they can and I can say "oh MY GOD! Katie! I didn't recognize you with (search for something different)... blue eye shadow on! Looks great!" This method works better for people from the distant past but one gets the idea.

Normally I don't think twice about the walk by- everyone does it in the city- its kind of like cutting someone off on the sidewalk. Yet the other day I was the victim of a "walk by" not a willing participant. I was struck by a feeling of oh, I don't know, sadness? No. Disappointment? Nope. Lets just say a "feeling" that wasn't panic or anxiety. I was walking down the road, looking at the things when there she was, strutting and grinning. When I realized I knew her she had the smirk of "I just got away with a walk by" and I wasn't going to turn around and say "HEY! I KNOW YOU! DON'T YOU GIVE MEeeeeEEE THE WALK BY!".

Who was this walk by? It was a girl I went to high school with. We were both day students at a boarding school for artistically inclined spoiled teenagers. We would often be there late working on various projects. We would sometimes talk, she was nice and even funny at times. I graduated and it was done. Some years later I ran into her while walking home from class and I stopped her and had a talk. Afterwards I decided to say "well I would ask for you number but I won't call so it was really nice seeing you". Damn that was bitchy of me, I was into this whole brutal honesty at the time and I figured why lie to someone I liked from the past. It was after that interaction I began doing the walk by - thus this snub seemed significantifigant.

I guess my point is that everyone has been on one side or the other for a walk by- its never fun. As hard as it sometimes is, being an adult is accepting that the past likes to dick slap you a lot. The best way to roll with it is to confront it head on and get it off. I think that from now on to avoid the "did they see me" or ill feelings I am going to implement a new rule- if I liked the person I will say hello, talk briefly, if they ask to catch up- get their number, don't give out mine and never call them- better that than brutal honesty. If I hated the person, I will turn quickly to the nearest store and walk in as fast as possible hoping they don't follow and it isn't a sex shop- oh who am I kidding I would go into that anyway.

This is embarassing but oh well- it brings me back

2006-09-29T10:13:00.000-04:00

I could talk about high art for the first real post, I could talk about my shitty commute, The smell in madison square park, I could even talk about the mice in my apartment- but why do that when I can talk about what everyone loves to talk about (ok people with no lives) - celebrity trash.

I am not sure if you are aware- which many of you office types or pop cultural addicts are- but the latest trend in failing careers is to go into a "Broadway" show. Why? Not really sure, I mean a musical in its billionth year is hardly the way to prove you have acting "chops".

The latest and greatest is the new Ashlee (yeah everyone, with two EE's, ok) Simpson, new nose, new weight, new hair, now in London as Roxy Heart- made famous in film format by bee stung Ms. Zelwegger (Ashlee chose to skip the ridicule of New York because we were so kind to Ms. Roberts). I feel bad saying this but well, she is actually all right- now let me phrase- she passes like the popular girl in high school who can sing a little and gets the lead because she is pretty and can sorta sing... once again, a little. We all know this girl, the girl you went and saw in that shit show who belted a middle range note and people went "weeehhhooooooOO!

Meanwhile the chubby talented real 'musical theater girl' complete with the "Les Miz" sweatshirt, covering her back rolls in her corset, sits back stage eating donuts pissed she is playing "momma" instead of Roxy. It is during Roxy's big number that FMG (fat musical girl), watching from the wings, doing the steps, lip synching along, decides she has had enough! After her last performance as the character lead (to a standing ovation in the cafetorium) she develops an eating disorder and goes to the Boston Conservatory. There she climbs to the top and goes on to be in a series of Broadway chorus numbers until one day she is told she is too old, reaches for the frosting and its over- she then starts an after school musical program for chubby girls telling them "you could be the next Roxy Heart... I was almost that girl, now a little less eating and a little more Broadway".

The Popular girl? Well she gets a hot ass rich husband- who was once in a circle jerk video as the cum receiver- a nice ring, some stretch marks and 2.5 children in a McMansion and spends her days talking about the time she did three whole numbers on a broken heel during Chicago while in high school.

The Question- Who is the real winner here? I say it’s the fag off to the side commenting on the whole thing.

But I digress...

Anyway here is a chance for you to see that newly fresh faced popular girl in the high school musical.
The big difference- The Brits are paying good money to see this crap.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1U-7jJzzvOE&amp;amp;amp;amp;eurl=

I'm here, I'm illegal... get used to it

2006-09-29T09:46:00.000-04:00

Yup, I have joined the ranks of every bored office worker, fat geek, bitchy ugly girl and queen with too much time on their hands and started a blog. Ideally this would be up with my web site but seeing how that is sitting on my computer desktop and not going anywhere right now I thought this could be the next best thing. For who? Why me of course.

I am starting this blog to share some of my thoughts on stupid crap, important crap, people, 'different places!’ bitch, whine, moan about this city (Umm this is NEW YORK Randy- its okay to wear a ball gown made out of polyester in the middle of hot ass July day! Thank you Erin O. for supplying me with a quote that has carried through the years)... pass the time... and relieve my friends of the novels I write to them that they can't read at work.

Who am I? Just your average faggot - nah make that the best, most interesting person you will meet in a long time, okay after a few drinks and if I am in a good mood. I am an artist (groan), a graduate student (double groan), and a pain in the ass (cheers). I think if you stay with me you may find something you like- if not feel free to call me a pansy ass fudge packer with nothing to say... please, do it, because to me its means you are the biggest homo of them all. Seriously- the people who made fun of me the most when growing up- now all suck it in one form or another. Time has been the greatest revenge in that sense.

Okay thank you and more to come...