The Most Wonderful Time of the Year!

Well it's been eight months, so you know what that means! It's time for me to find a new apartment!

Or, my roommates are moving out and I need to find a place to stay by February 1st. Something like that, I really wasn't listening.

I've already begun the search for a new room to live out the rest of my pitiful, weeded-out days. In fact, you caught me running in from Queens, where I saw a nice little corner in the world, as hosted by a rather attractive homosexual male ballet dancer. I say it as if any other kind exists. You must pardon this sudden slip into formality, but you see, I am continuing my trek through the literary jungle and have headed to BEAUTIFUL Paris, between the great wars, travelling along with the roguishly handsome Sir Ernest Hemingway. We've had quite a row or two since our time began, this morning on the F train to 4 Avenue. He, the sporting type, always ready for a drink and usually already nearing the finish of one ensconced in his bear hands. I, on the other paw (pardon the pun) am no drinker, not how I used to be. Once I could drink any lady under the table, now the liver needs time. Time for what, I am not sure, but I hope to return to my college weight class sometime in the future.

Wait, what was I saying?

Oh, yeah, I went to see this apartment in Queens with this cute-ish but hot gay ballet dancer. I don't know if I'll get it, but I do think there was some unspoken and unthought sexual tension between us. I hope I at least get an offer for rough, wet sex if I don't end up getting the room. Or even if I do, I'm easy.

I hate doing this, though. The entire process of finding an apartment, like finding a job, is dull, awkward and ultimately, pointless. And also like finding a job, this is done through craigslist. Thank god for craigslist! I've always wanted a one-stop shop for housing, occupations and paid sexual favors, though I swear it's my first time. And if you look hard enough, you can find all three in one convenient spot. Usually in the mustache of some pervy 49-year old husband and father in Jersey or his gay brother in Chelsea. Take for instance, this charming advert I found today:

$550 - 1MEDIUM SIZE BEDROOM AVAIL.2WINDOWS.UTILITIES INCLUDED
Reply to: hous-121156872@craigslist.org
Date: 2005-12-29, 1:20AM EST


IN SEARCH OF A FEMALE ROOMMATE ONLY.



I'AM A 30YO STRAIGHT MALE,IN A 2BEDROOM APARTMENT.SEPERATE BEDROOMS.I'AM IN SEARCH OF A FEMALE ROOMMATE ONLY.1 MEDIUM SIZE ROOM FOR RENT.UTILITIES ARE INCLUDED,SHARED KITCHEN,LIVING ROOM,& BATHROOM.BEAUTIFUL VIEW OF THE CITY.

I'AM LOOKING FOR AN ATTRACTIVE FEMALE WHO IS IN GOOD SHAPE,& NICE BODY.ROOMMATE ONLY TO SHARE WITH ADDED SEX INCLUDED.RENT CAN BE NEGOTIABLE TO A LOWER PRICE WITH ADDED SEX.PLEASE CALL FOR AN INTERVIEW AT (212)240-9?70 ASK FOR MIKE,OR EMAIL ME AT SUGARDADDY4U0077@AOL.COM.YOU CAN TAKE M15 BUS,OR TAKE 4/5/,OR 6TRAINS.TO BROOKLYN BRIDGE CITY HALL.OR A/C/E TRAINS TO FULTON.ROOM IS AVAILABLE ASAP.


SOUTH ST at SOUTH ST,AND PEARL google map yahoo map SOUTH STREET at SOUTH ST,AND PEARL

I love how he tries to sneak the sex in there, just tip it in at the last second. Nimbly. I mean, it sounded a bit suspicious at the start, what with the females only thing. He segues seemlessly, though, describing what sounds like a sweetass apartment that really doesn't exist anywhere in New York. Then there's the second paragraph, with all the qualitities he's looking for in a potential roommate. Now you start to think, there's at least some anal involved in this. The he reveals the magic word, then drops it in a seocnd time just to let you know that you're going to be fucking his fat, greasy Italian sausage. Yes I said Italian. He even has the nerve to set up appointments. Take note, kids. This is the type of hubris and spirit that's missing in our generation. We won't learn this behavior until we are far too old and unattractive to make this less creepy. And just check out that email address. One word: class.

Hopefully by this time next month I'll be living indoors, scrubbing the floor to my papi chulo's kitchen in a pair of cut-offs, fishnets and a smile.

Wish me luck!

Flirting With Disaster

lefabrat
AIM
8:52
i'm going to see an apt tomorrow in queens
8:52 PM
and the guy's a gay 26 yo ballet dancer
8:52 PM
i'm hoping to at least have sex with him

Boseivous802
AIM
8:52 PM
oh well that will be an eyeful
8:54 PM
be up front and say, i am horny
8:55 PM
http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/2257/670/1600/article.jpg

lefabrat
AIM
8:55 PM
i think i'll just go there naked under a trench wishing for the best
8:55 PM
omg, lol

Boseivous802
AIM
8:56 PM
i'd suggest the trench

lefabrat
AIM
8:57 PM
and i'm going to see an apt in north bergen and the gay there even smokes pot
8:57 PM
and really that's all i need in a man

Boseivous802
AIM
8:58 PM
is that new jersey?

lefabrat
AIM
8:58 PM
oh god, no
8:58 PM
brooklyn
8:58 PM
i hope it's brooklyn
8:58 PM
omg, is it in new jersey?!

Boseivous802
AIM
8:58 PM
i have no idea, it sounds like new jersey
8:59 PM
don't ask me i'm probably wrong

lefabrat
AIM
8:59 PM
o
8:59 PM
m
8:59 PM
g
8:59 PM
it's in jersey

Boseivous802
AIM
9:00 PM
cancel that appointment

lefabrat
AIM
9:00 PM
i'm going to have to
9:00 PM
omg
9:00 PM
i almost went to/ considered living and making out in jersey

Boseivous802
AIM
9:01 PM
i know, just breathe
9:01 PM
you are NOT bridge/tunnel

lefabrat
AIM
9:01 PM
omg, i don't even know what to SAY to that
9:01 PM
i was just thinking how staten island was a trip one only made in the most desperate of emergencies
9:02 PM
i mean NO ONE does the ferry

Boseivous802
AIM
9:02 PM
oh lord, not EVEN

lefabrat
AIM
9:02 PM
well, people do, tons of people, but i'm just way too snobby and gay to go to Shaolin
9:02 PM
but to think of living in Jersey...
9:02 PM
ugh, i dry-heaved a little bit
9:03 PM
where's that blunt?

Boseivous802
AIM
9:03 PM
just suck it down
9:03 PM
the fact you didnt even know it was new jersey proves you werent serious

lefabrat
AIM
9:03 PM
yes!
9:03 PM
yes it does
9:04 PM
and no one can say that it doesn't mean anything cuz it does, ok?!

Boseivous802
AIM
9:05 PM
just sing new york, new york

lefabrat
AIM
9:05 PM
good idea
9:06 PM
and i'll dawn a sequined pantsuit and down 3 'ludes just to be safe

So...I Don't Know How To Say This, But...I'm Reading Again.

Just thought I should let someone know.

Just in case I disappear in the enthralling passages of Augusten Burrough's "Running with Scissors."

Or if I'm touched inappopriately by his heartbreakingly comic pathos and I need an adult.

Then, there's always the possibility that I fall down the well of his love for irony only to be rescued three days later, amidst a flurry of television news cameras.

So, I leave my life in your sweaty, hairy palms.

I hope you have my back on this harrowing literary adventure.

The Destitute Say The Darndest Things

So my new favorite site for the next 3 hours is Overheard in New York. Too bad I never overhear anything in New York because I always have my headphones on. I might change my ways though, as I am missing out on some prime hobo gold.

Why, Yes I Did Just Jack Off At Work, Does It Show?

There's a certain glow from it, no? I liken it to emerging from a fresh bubble bath.


The sad thing is I'm proud of it. Sad and awesome.

Damn This STRIKE!!

You know, I really don't mind this strike. Sleeping over at my friend's dorm has been pretty fun and walking the 57 blocks to work isn't as soul-crushing as I had anticipated/hoped. However, I feel as if I am going to die. After all, a gal's got needs. Needs that involve me touching myself incessantly, day by day, hour by hour, if not minute by minute. As a 20 year old gay virgin, masturbation is one of the few things that keep me sane. The others being weed, daily Golden Girls marathons and that sweet smell of muffin and danish on my way to work from the countless carts and vendors linging the 3 miles to the good ole grind. Thus I haven't been able to explore the rugged terrain that is the equator of the globe that is my lusicous jackson body.

I don't know how much longer I can hold out, kids, before I just start jacking off every guy who even dares look within 35 degrees of my direction. This must not persist.

I Did It!

Well, Kids, I made it. I traversed the icy landscape of Post-Apocalyptic Manhattan, the reefer swimming through my veins and my iPod shuffle ringing in my ears. I could not be stopped. For a near 3 mile walk, it was rather brisk. I felt not only in good cheer as I sashayed with the occasional shauntay to the Upper Eastside, but a certain sense of power as I whizzed by the elderly and infirm as they crawled along these freezing streets. Stepping over the body of a partially frozen bag granny, my pulse jumped with excitement and I'm pretty sure I got a chubby downstairs. MTA strikes are FUN!!!

And this will never ever get old!

Sure, the walk to Brooklyn from Palladium, where I'm currently staying (for all you sexy/marginally attractive stalkers out there) is a 6.5 mile trek that Hopstop predicts will take around 3 hours, this hunting and gathering, Darwinian existence can never grow tired. Even if it will be 23 degrees tonight. Even if I have to walk 11 miles to work in the morning...Hmm, this isn't sounding...eh, well. Guess I'll just have to carjack a nigga and outrun the cops. Thank god Grand Theft Auto has prepared me for just this moment.

So until next time, remember, travel only at night and trust no one who offers you a ride. Especially no one with a thin mustache and a preternaturally high voice.

Death to Metropolis, long live the Jew Flesh!

Here We Go, Kids

Well, it's December 19. By 12:01 tonight, the TWU and the MTA will either come to an agreement or to fist to cuffs. And can I just say that I REALLY hope that the TWU doesn't strike because that will seriously mess up my life. As well as the lives of millions of other people. But mostly mine. So here's what I'm doing to prepare (take notes, Kids, this could save your/Amanda Lepore's life):
1. Stock up: As your average dealer travels by train/bus/the power of Ja, I suggest you pile up and hunker down with as fat a stash as you can acquire. Go in with friends to save money and you can always kill them and smoke their share if New York goes all "Oregon Trail" on our asses.
2. If you a.)live in Brooklyn, as I do, and b.)have to travel extra-burrough to get to work and c.)absolutely can't miss work, as I can't, then I suggest staying with a friend. Thankfully, most of my friends are still subsisting on NYU's bloody teet and I can crash on their crouch and hoof it to work in the morning. Since I've passed out countless times on that couch, and even draped it in my drunk girl vomit, it's like a second home. If you feel uncomfortable, though, it's probably best to pack an overnight bag with toiletries and various sexual toys because masturbation stops for no man.
3. Once you've secured your drugs and your lodgings, in whichever order you prefer, it's time to get sexy with it. We don't know how long this strike is going to last or if it's going to happen at all, but that just means you have to prepare for everything. After four days and we're all wearing the same stank clothes we had on at the beginning of the week, spirits are running low, as are the booze you vacuum-packed for such an occasion, the end might look rather enticing. But no, Sir, do not go gently into that good night. You can get through this. WE can get through this. We're better than the MTA and the TWU, dammit. We can rise above this. Sure, it's almost Christmas/Chanukkah/New Years and everyone travels, but you can't give up hope. There are such things as miracles. Miracles that involve you hopping on the back of the nearest hobo, breaking and branding him, then riding him all the way to California. They'll even name a Midwest Passage after you.

K, here we go, Kids. Snuggle up close to the bong and let's all tell camp tales to pass the time. We'll be out of the woods soon enough.

Enough Gay Sex To Braid A Tunisian Bride's Pubic Hair

So this weekend, I finally saw "Brokeback Mountain." And I must say that I was initially unimpressed. Yes it was a beautifully written, acted and directed film, but there wasn't enough sweaty man-squared action for me. Honestly, there's never enough gay sex for me in anything, ever, particularly in my own personal film, "Bitter, Repressed Gays Crying Into Their Own Ejaculate."

There's only one scene of gay sex, and it is hot, but I left the film surprisingly limp. In hindsight, I think the problem was not the lack of sex, but rather the lack of impact the film had on me. It was such a quiet, introspective movie that I kind of waited for that one scene in which everything explodes, implodes or self-destructs. This isn't that kind of film, though, and the more I think about it, the more I like it. It's a piece of subtlety and brilliance amidst a world of "Stealth" and "Kong." So there wasn't an orgy of anulingus,* but that's what the second feature of the weekend was for.

"Gay Sex In The 70s." There really is no better title to guarantee my presence in the theater, other than perhaps "Gay Pot Liza 54 In The 80s Featuring Free Hand Jobs and Snacks." Usually, I skip documentaries, because if I wanted to listen to some half-crazed drunk lecture me for two hours, I would have dated Sean Penn. But this was pretty well done. However, my judgment was automatically impaired by the rush of blood to my pants, but as I remember it, this was clearly the best movie in the history of the universe. After leaving Quad Cinema, I was inspired to find a mustachioed paramour in the wet,hot sticky dungeons of Christopher Street and re-enact one of the many scenes of naked, Disco love. Sweet, pulsing Disco love. But by the time the cold air hit me, any hopes of rectum abuse shriveled in the wind.

Film-wise, this weekend was much like a good date. I had the soft, longing of romance with "Brokeback" on Saturday followed by the staff infection of fulfilled longing with "Gay Sex" on Sunday. Only, this time I won't be in a hurry to get rid of this burning sensation.

Hmm, take that Gene Shalit.

Yeah, right there.

Mmm, that's how I like it.

A tower of eyefuls indeed.



*I'm pretty sure that's [not] a word.

For What It's Worth...

Well, I just got my paycheck. And perhaps not needless to say, I have died inside once again.

When I first saw Office Space, I thought it was just a funny satire; that office life couldn't possibly be that bad, that soul-killing. Ah, the naivete of youth.

Working in an office is shitty enough, what with the harsh lighting, tacky furniture, and hollow niceties that get thrown around like insert colorful, potentially offensive simile here. But take into account that you have to deal with bosses that track your every move--leaving you in a constant state of alert--the paltry salary--a sginificant portion of which gets confiscated by the government-- and the overall feeling that you're trapped in a ceaseless void of anonimity and suddenly torching your office building doesn't seem like such a bad idea.

In short, I need to get out. Not just from this particular job, but from working these kinds of jobs. I don't mind being underappreciated, but once you start fucking with my paychecks, shit turns serious. I need to get out or someone's going to have to take a pencil to the scrotum.

This May Be The (Lack Of) Weed Talking...

Usually, I'd be high right now. I'm not, since I'm broke yet again. And don't think it's sitting well with me at all. Alas, like a true soldier, I shall try and continue with this charade I call a "blog".

So I've noticed that at recent events for everyone's favorite gay cowboy flick--that I have yet to see (once again: broke)--one of the stars happens not to be there. At the LA premiere, Heath was a no-show. And at the recent NY premiere, Jake took a dive out. But why?

This may be the lack of weed talking, but I smell something hot and sweaty on the western front. Break out those Levis and that spitoon, cuz I'm a goin' a speculatin'!

First off, Michelle Williams. She's a cutie, I really enjoy her. She was obviously the only one on Dawson's Creek with any acting talent, and she may get an Oscar, or at least a nod, for her performance in "Bareback Mount Him*". But in terms of physical appeal, well, she's no Naomi Watts. Thus, I'm pondering the reasons behind the relationship between those two, as Hollywood is one shallow place. And they live in Brooklyn, the uppity, trendy part--also shallow. So why is Heath Ledger dating the non-Destiny's Child Michelle Williams? A cover up? Now that there's a baby involved, that issue is obviously out of the question, no?

Second, Jake Gyllenhaal. Every fag and their dad wants/believes him to be gay. And can you blame them? Boy is gorgeous. As is Heath, so this gay cowboy lovin's obviously going to be huge among the man-bag set. El Gyllenhaal has a certain ambiguity about him. He's boyish, yet manly, yet sensitive. And of course that translates to at least bi by some people's standards. And he's had an on again-off again relationship with one Mr. Kirsten Dunst. A relationship that seemed to be particularly off during the filming of "Brokeback." Now, he's single, but Heath isn't. Was there something we missed off-screen?

Now, I'm not trying to insinuate that Jake and Heath fell in love during the filming of the movie and Heath dumped Jake to turkey baste Michelle Williams at the last minute out of fear of doing such an overtly queer movie and the resulting animosity between the two heartthrobs leads them to avoid each other as often as possible. I'm just saying, hey, it could have happened. And I like to think it did when I jack off at night. I mean, a guy's gotta get to sleep somehow, right?

Stories of co-stars hooking up during the filming of movies creep out from under the casting couch all the time. We only tend to hear the ones involving a male and a female. However, is it too presumptuous to think that filming a tender love story in the throws of the mountains and the mountainous passion with another hot as balls actor could have led to some trailer boinking action? I think not. I just wish it weren't such a big deal. It's really painful watching Tom Cruise nowadays.


*Yeah, i totally stole that from some commenter on Defamer.

What Alarms Me Most Is That Kids Learn To Narc At Such An Early Age

Damn the DARE program.

Apparently, a substitute teacher was doing coke amidst a class of seventh graders in Jacksonville, FL. Now, I know that one shouldn't be doing coke, particularly during the daytime. I mean, sunlight is not the coke whore's friend. And in a public place and in the presence of children--wrong. But who are these kids? Don't they know they're supposed to keep their mouth's shut/threaten to rat him out unless he throws a few rails their way. What are they teaching the kids in school these days?

And speaking of DARE, can I just say that it's arguably the biggest waste of time and money since The FAME television series; though it did provide us with a young, pre-Control Ms. Janet Jackson.

Over Thanksgiving break, I was back home in Poughkeepsie, [Upstate] New York. Yes, I was stoned off my face for the entire time I was there, but that's not exactly where I'm going with this rant. But there was a murder across the street while I was there. And I had nothing to do with it. Not like anyone could prove that I did...Anywho, around 6 am, the door bell rang and it was the cops. No, rather, it was a very special cop. It was my first DARE counselor, making his was around the gayborhood questioning everyone. Thankfully, he didn't recognize me. Or the weed in my pocket. That would have been, in a word, awkward.

But I got to thinking. Seeing my ex-DARE warden, I realized that the scare tactics they employed probably did more harm than good. For years, I was the picture of sobriety. I rarely if ever got drunk, I never smoked weed or did drugs. But then college came. I still managed to abstain, though not for the lack of trying. I wanted to try something/anything/everything because I had abstained for so long; out of fear of becoming addicted, going to jail, what have you. DARE told me if I tried weed, I'd end up a drug fiend. So eventually, curiosity gave way to experimentation. Now, here I am. I'm not a drug fiend, but I am a huge stoner. And why? Of course, I share the lion's end of the blame, but what of DARE? They taught my peers and I how to fear and to judge, instead of teaching us how to abstain and handle ourselves in the likely case that we did experiment.

And I blame Nancy Reagan. Mostly because she tricked Gary Coleman into narcing on his friends in a very special episode of "Diff'rent Strokes" when she obviously should have been paying more attention to Todd Bridges and Dana Plato. But also, because just saying no doesn't leave room for a maybe, which can often lead one down a dangerous path.

Hey, What's That?

I like to describe friendship with me as thinly-veiled hatred. And I think most of my friends would agree with that statement. However, it's not as if I resent my friends. Far from it. Rather, I resent everyone, often for no particular reason other than that they breathe my oxygen and take up my space. Now, you may be asking yourself, what claim do I, Cheki With A Shh!, have to the O2 in the air and the matter surrounding us? And to that I respond, what right do you have to ask that? The same right I have to claim that I rule everything. It's at least as legitimate as your reasons for questioning me. Though, if you continue along this line of incredulity, I am going to have to deal with you. And trust me, you don't wish to be dealt with by the man who single-handedly brought down both "The Bob Newhart Show" and "Newhart". You're out of your league kids. So next time you contmeplate life and your place in it, just remember this: I am infinitely better than you can ever hope of being.

Now THIS Is How You Make A Movie, Folks!

Take note.

Accordinng to the always reliable--cough-- Perez Hilton, Colin Farrel recently OD'd on the set of Miami Vice and is now in rehab. I don't know if you kids have been following the production of this film/disaster/epiphany, but this is only the latest in a number of incidents and setbacks, including hurricanes, hard-partying and animosity between Sirs Jamie Foxx and Colin Farrell.

I remember, though, back in my day when this type of behavior was commonplace. We called it professionalism. These greenhorns acting today don't know they're asses from some Uruguayan whore's hole in the wall. I'm glad these two professionals are keeping the tradition alive.

Next, it's your move, Mr. Foxx. Apparently, you and Mr. Farrell have a rivalry going on when it comes to the ladies. And all pussy likes a bad boy. The ball's in your court. Sure you have an Oscar, but can you pull of that rare hat trick, what I like to refer to as the Bad Ass Christ 180? OD'ing, technically dying for several minutes,only to come back to life, blow a few more rails and fuck a bitch as if nothign happened? Only the greatest rock stars and addicts have achieved this...well, and Nikki Sixx. Do this, and you're golden.

Go ahead, Foxx. I dare ya.*

*Note: "Cheki With A Shh!" does not claim liability for Jamie Foxx's accidental death. Or those horrible tattoos he's been rocking lately. C'mon, man, let's get it together.

The Lost Weekend

Once you've scoured the fibers of your carpet for a molecule of weed, you know you've reached an all time low. Until you smoke the treasure you've managed to find. And then, well, it's somewhat of a low high. Sure you're laughing to yourself about how bitterly amusing your once innocent habit has morphed into a crippling addiction, but there are tears under those laughs. And you need to continue to laugh to keep the demons at bay. No, not again, you say. You won't let them have at you. You laugh to distract from the cold you feel at night, clutching the empty pillow next to you. You laugh because, hey, what else can you do. Denial is better than excepting your pitiful existence.

Which is why I'm glad I'm not you! Wow, that must suck. Now, if you'll excuse me, I've got weed dust to smoke.

Just When You Thought It Was Safe To Shift Your Assets To An Offshore Account In St. Martin....

I know I haven't updated in a while, but I've been to busy/tired/high or busy being tired from getting high, but I just got some devestating news one of my favorite sites, Gawker.

It's a good thing I get my giggle leaf from an independent distributor. But what is the world coming to when you can't make a few million dollars trafficking marijuana and laundering your profits without the freakin' government anally raping you at the next corner? Thank god Grace Jones isn't alive to see this.

What's that?

Oh, well, I'm sure she's devestated.

The Virtues and Pitfalls of the Fag Stag*

Every gay and his baby mama has a hag and that's been the case for AGES. Monty Clift and Liz Taylor. Will Truman and Grace Adler. Antonio Banderas and Melanie Griffith. SJP and Matthew Broderick. I mean, history's full of them. I, myself, have one for each outfit and mood.

But the white tiger of inappropriate queer-straight friendships is the fag and his stag. It's always strange yet refreshing--and mildly arousing--to find a hetero male not only comfortable enough with his sexuality to have a gay friend, but also one willing to strap one to his man-tit and carry him around in public like a newborn babe.

And, inversely, it's odd to find a 'mo willing to be seen about town with someone who doesn't know that his grotesque mandals aren't to be worn with every JC Penny outfit he has. Like all relationships, though, the fag and stag need to make compromises. Gladly, the strongest and most important connection I have with my non-sexual life partner can be bought in bagged form for 40 bucks an eighth.

Nevertheless, problems, no matter the level of limp-wristed dedication, arise. Imagine you, Dear Reader, are a mo--a real stretch, I know. You're at a bar/club/party with male friend. You, a young, good-looking and desperately available slut-in-waiting, stand in the wings talking with said friend. Gays walk by and you notice that instead of you, they're checking out your stag!

That's right, the guy who hasn't showered in two days and doesn't wash his hands after going to the bathroom. Or even worse, they might mistake your attention to him as signs of a more serious relationship. But that might just come off as an insult depending on the standards you've set for yourself.

I don't have that problem since my standards have been substantially lowered over the past six years so I'll take anything I can get.

Then there comes a time in every queer's life when the world becomes too dark and heavy, the meth dries up and you have to look into the mirror and realize that, hey, you're not like Liza Minelli in 1972. You're more like Liza now.

With most hags, you can come jogging lightly with a carton of ice cream and a tote bag of issues and tissues. But emotional support and the straight male have never been comfortable bedfellows, so what does one do? Well, that all depends.

If the stag and fag have been hanging out often enough, they should start rubbing off on one another. The gay might pick up some "masculine" hobby like widdling or decoupage and the straight might get in contact with that long-dormant feminine side. Tit for closeted tat.

On the other hand, a breeder's emotional distance can come in very handy when all your gay and female friends seem to be menstruating despite the presence of a(n innate) vagina. Also, there's just something interesting--exotic, if you will-- about a person who sees burping as a competitive sport.

My favorite part of the fag and stag dynamic are the inspired moments of whackiness, in which the differences between dickrider and cuntwalker are momentarily erased. Like when your stag tries to hook you up with someone. How precious is that? Or like when he picks out his first coordinated outfit. Tears come to my eyes just thinking about it. Suddenly you two are Bronson Pinchot and that other guy, running along hilltops and working with sassy black women at an imaginary newspaper.

Now, don't get me wrong. I heart my hags, but there's something to be said for male bonding and video games. As a result of my stag experience, I feel more in touch with my long-cracked out masculine side and have become much less prejudiced to those who prefer the vage. Lesbians not withstanding. If "Queer Eye" has taught us anything, it is that we can all get along as long as someone changes everything about themselves. And isn't that what America is all about?

Plus, if you're a straight, think of how much pussy you could score with a gay at your sides?

*This stereotype has been brought to you by the letter "R."

Jake Gyllenhaal and I...

A story of broken backs, broken dreams and broken flowers.

Bea [Arthur] and I were just chillaxing with Tom [Ford] and [Rosie Perez] one night, digging into the weed crate and rolling fat L after fat L, when suddenly the conversation turned to regrets. Regrets about love, life, career, whatever have you. Turns out Bea always wished she had cold-cocked Lucille Ball when she had the chance on the set of Mame. Tom regretted bedding Andy Warhol instead of Debbie Harry during a particularly coked out night at 54 when he was only 19. And Rosie regretted not getting in on the ground floor with J. Lo while she was slumming it on "In Living Color." Obviously, understandable. Then the bong came to me. I've lived a long and rich life, thankfully filled with few regrets. Yet there is one that haunts the recesses of my mind to this day.

It was a cool day. The wind was silent yet occasionally made its presence felt. We had been having marathon sex now, for about 137 hours. Jake and I. Hopped up off crystal meth and love, we couldn't keep our hands off each other. The day was absolute perfection. I noticed a change in the air, though. It was subtle, yet it was most definitely a change. Then that awful sound. The sound of bare, unwashed feet smacking crudely against pedestrian sidewalks. Of sagging breasts flapping up and down against an otherwise skeletal chest. The sound of an $800 Zac Posen original worn incongruously with leggings and a sloppy ponytail. An Olsen? A Lohan? God forbid, a Kimbirly Stewart! No, none of the above.

Dunst.

A soused Kirsten Dunst barreled her way into our love nest, knocking over several dozens of dollars worth of Target home essentials in her bony, untalented wake. She made a B-line for Jake and he clung to my lapel so tightly, staring at me with those puppy dog eyes of his. Without a word I knew what he wanted and what he did not. 'Don't let me go with the bad lady!' I stood, ready to fight for the man whom I loved, but Dunst only laughed. And I have never heard such a sound. It was as if the pits of hell had opened up and begun the chorus to "Save the Best for Last."

Before I knew it, he was gone. And so was she. Vanished into a fog of Swarovski crystals and tanning lotion. I don't know what had happened, but I still regret that day.

If only...if only I could have stopped her some how. Dangled a bottle of vodka in front of her face, anything! But alas, I was too slow and too powerless to save him. Now I can only see the only man I've ever loved without a condom--not including those sailors during Fleet Week, though it sure was love at the time--on TV, in movies and in the occasional photo, like the one above. It still hurts to talk about it.

But mark my words, Kirsten Dunst! You will pay and pay dearly!

The Case For...

Janet Jackson.

In which I break out my black Am Ex, a hundred dollar bill and Babyshambles debut Cd and attempt to sort my way through someone I feel is lacking propers. Props, the blacks like to call them.

And in this round, we have the princess of pop, Ms. Jackson, if you're nasty. And I totally am. Now, I might be a bit prejudiced as I grew up ENAMORED with Janet because bitch was killing it when this fag was coming of age, circa 1993. The choreography for "If" still leaves me a little wet. Okay, a lot.

But over the years, Janet has gone through some rather tough times. There's the secret divorce, the secret child, the Super Bowl nip-slip and most recently, her brother's continuing descent into what-the-hell-is-that-ville and this unbecoming growth. She's been taking it on the chin for a while and to her detractors, I say, can't a bitch just get fat in peace?

Some say that Janet's been riding her brother's coat-tails for a while. Well, if that was ever true, she was smart enough to hop off those tails when M. Jax started chilling with Macauly Caulkin. And as for talent, sure she can't sing, but a hoe can dance. I bet even with the whale blubber, Damita Jo can still serve Usher and Ciara. Furthermore, she's been making music since before I wsa born. And is still hanging in there while other lesser pop divas have gone with the wind. Where's Paula Abdul? High off pain medication and slumming it on Fox. Jodi Watley, hell some people don't even know who she is. Fuck the Taylor Danes, Vanessa Williamses and all others who have offered pale imitations of La Jackson. The only other bitch who's managed to fight criticisms of her life, career and fashion choices has been Madonna. And since the two really aren't competing for airplay or album sales, I think it's time they get together and give the gasy something to celebrate. Two over-the-hill divas, plummeting into irrelevance performing together at 2006's VMA's. And if their past history has anything to offer, they'll be titty-fucking right before a queer orgy breaks out on stage. Fuck a lezzy kiss or a little areola, these queens of the 80s and early 90s are ready to go all the way. Mmm, diva sandwich. I say they throw in Missy as the meat. Holla at that!

I Really Do Heart Sweatshop Labor!

While sauntering down the streets, chapeau in hand, of New York the other day, I glanced downwards. Instead of seeing the usual dog shit, dime bag, or homeless person, however, I see scribbled on the sidewalk, a sarcastic bit of graffito: I Heat Sweatshop Labor in front of Urban Outfitters. They're usually written in front of clothing stores, thus indicting the retailer for using the bony fingers of brown and yellow children to construct shoddy pieces in its new 80s crackhouse-themed Fall collection. Now, I don't know who these renegades are who put nozzle to stencil to articulte their indignation...but ignorance never stopped me or any other American-affiliated asshole from assuming. My guess is they're white, over-priviliged college dropouts who think they're deep and intelligent because they (still) wear dreads and write faggy poetry, while shrieking about the injustices of the world. And I hate those people. Not because they're white, though that certainly doesn't help. It's mostly because they don't know what it is to actually work for something. If you take away these sweatshops from the toothless mouths of the little Filipino children who clothe the world, where does that leave them? After all, that three cents a day ain't gonna earn itself. For thousands, if not millions of families in developing nations, menial, degrading labor is their only source of income and these fricking, bleeding uterus liberals are trying to impede that? You know what their problem is; they're not considering the people in those sweatshops. No, Mr. and Mr. Global-Handshake are too busy worrying about the inhuman conditions, painfully low wages and the long-established trend of the US trampling its stiletto all over the Third World's cherubic face. Well, to them, I say, fuck you! I'm thinking of the babies. Much like Wu-Tang, Cheki With A Shh! is for the chil'ren. I really do heart sweatshop labor and anyone who doesn't can meet me and my AK in the back of H&M. No one's going to get between me and my retail Stella McCartney.

It Really Does

"Southbend! Why, it sounds like dancing doesn't it?" --Katharine Hepburn as Tracy Lord Haven in George Cukor's "The Philadelphia Story" [1940]. Words I live by.

By the way, can I just say how much I love these spam ads masquerading as comments? They make me feel wanted and appreciated. They are the teet from whose erect nipple I suckle the nectar of life! If only they could be more...interesting. Knitting instructions? Come on, Rod. Is this what you wanted for yourself?

Is it Too Soon to Crack That Emergency Window?

Every once in a while, I hate New York. But in all fairness, the city really dares you not to. I believe there's a quote about New York being a party that you can't leave, or else you'll miss out on something. I'm not sure where it's from, or even if it's not something I just made up. And I'm really not in the business of researching or verifying facts because I'm not a journalist hell, I'm barely a writer. New York, if anything, however, is a drunken over-the-hill party girl who should have left the party a while ago because, let's face it, no one's going to fuck you tonight. They just don't like you like that. No, don't cry, City That Never Sleeps. But while we're on the subject, you might need to rub some cream under those eyes because it is becoming quite evident how little sleep you've gotten, fair city. It's time to hang up those stilettos, finish that last rail, wipe the man-juice from the corner of your mouth--no, the left side, not my left side, your left side...that's the right side...that's still the right side, there you go-- and just say good night. We won't think any less(er) of you. Sometimes, a gal has to look in the mirror and realizer that her tits aren't at her chin anymore and the bloom's off the rose. Take it like Bea Arthur would. Like a man. (Love you, B! Like to give a shout-out to Betty and Rue. Keep fightin' Estelle I got your back, Homey!))

Today I actually had worked all day. Wow. What is this? Next they're gonna want a bitch to come in on time and sober. But since I was immersed in (the verisimilitude of) productivity*, I couldn't update as often as I did yesterday, that GLORIOUS inaugural day of this "blog"/life partner. Not like I'm apologizing. No one's reading this anyway, not even my friends. My bastard friends. Who couldn't even show one modicum--ha, cum!--of interest in this, my new venture!

I can't blame them, though. "Blogs" are like so 2005. And I'm all about 2009 right now.

After this long day, I got on the subway...FROM HELL!!!

!!!

It stopped three times on the way to BK, leaving me stranded with a hulking mass of people--moist, pungent people!--in a fortress from which I could not escape. Angerdly**, I stewed in my seat til I could take it no more. Hence the title. Just thought I'd expand on that.

Because, that's why. Shut up!

*I'm pretty sure I only know what three of these words in this sentence (fragment) mean.

**I'm pretty sure this is a word, at least some language. Maybe Tagolog?

If Only Apartments Like This Actually Existed

$700 - Looking for drunken, jobless hipster types
(18-23) to take over room

Please take over my sublease here. The room is tiny,
the closet space is hidden behind other stuff, there's
a bitchy obnoxious cat with some sort of permanant eye
infection that loves to sit in the kitchen and drag
its infected ass all over everything.

Ideal candidate would have parents capable of paying
$700/month for rent, as well as $700 deposit. Parents
should also be able to swing $5/mo for utilities. You
should ideally not have a job; at worst "freelance
producer" or "thinking about writing" or something
like that is acceptable. You should be willing to
bitch about being broke, but always have money for
weed and electronics. Smoker preferred, ability to
drink other people's liquor and never buy your own a
definite plus. Prospect Heights

This May Be the Weed Talking...

Wherein I remove my street windbreaker and replace it with my house caftan, slip off those disdainful loafers for some laidback sneakers, and cordially invite you to be my neighbor and smoke a bowl with me.

This may be the weed talking, but I'm really glad I started this "blog." It's like a personal diary I can write in at the end of each episode as I gaze outside to the moon, like in that Disney Channel show with a pre-coke Brittany Murphy. What was it called? Anywho, but it's good to have a medium to communicate through. After all, isn't this what living in the future is supposed to be? Well, a real live future and not some anti-Utopian hell where we're all drugged up and happy. We're all drugged up and pissed. Just as long as we're drugged up, though, I'm fine.

For the first time in, really, forever, everyone has a voice and can be heard. And I choose mine to write mildly humorous postings during the time I should be working--and if my bosses are reading this, I am totally working right now, I'm just on a lunch break. And I'm not high.

Hopefully, I won't tire of this in three days and pursue my next great hobby, ceramic dolls of 70s Disco Queens. Though no one ever said I couldn't do both.


"Almost Home"! That's the name of the goddamn show!

The Only Way to Make "Mean Girls" Gayer?

Why, add some more fags to it! Hell, fag it out to the left, right, add a jaunty beret then drop to your knees and suck it off a little. Tina Fey won't mind.

Mean Gays - As if there are any other kinds.

Meditations of a 20-year Old Virgin

God, why don't I just kill myself now.

The Case For...

Paris Hilton.

In which I attempt to drunkenly ramble my way through justifying someone I feel to be underappreciated/underrated.

This time around, Paris Hilton. And why not? She's as good as anyone else. Or maybe, better.

I, for one, am not a fan. She's talentless, odd-looking, and her wealth is dubious at best.

But look at her now!

If anything, Paris gets my respect. And I know how much she's been clamoring for it, so hopefully she can get off my junk and let a bitch just be.

I mean, think about it. Everyone is quick to condemn her for being a media whore, and rightfully so, yet consider this: How much time and energy does it take to whore one's self out 365 days a year? Even in the face of universal disdain and mockery, still she perseveres.

If an embarrassing sex tape starring you were revealed, would you be able to not only rebound from it, but become even MORE famous for it?

If you were dressed like a retarded chimpanzee every time you were photographed outside of your house, wouldn't you at least try to get a better stylist? Maybe you would, but not Paris. Because beneath that lazy eye, throbs a brain. A brain that can't tell the difference between publicity and public shame, yet a brain that knows that a Marc Jacobs bikini/camisole is proper clothing to wear to a formal dinner. That crazy brain knows that people are expecting to see you in your Hangover's Best and to disappoint them, would be career suicide.

Every aspect of her life is lived in front of the cameras, from her sham engagement to a Greek billionaire to her sham rebound relationship with another Greek billionaire. And she gets paid to live. Paid by magazines, televison shows, whatever have you. The paparazzi buzz around her every minute and why? Because someone out there can't get enough of her. The question remains, who?

Who is actually a fan of Paris Hilton? Does such an animal exist? What self-respecting person is out there supporting her in her career. The answer is simple. Mosty likely, those who would dare call themselves a devotee of La Paris actually HAVE no self-respect. She represents America and its values at this time and place, and this America is a dirty slut who doesn't wear panties.

Then, there are those who enjoy her for the sake of schadenfreude. After all, what's more pleasurable to a sadist than seeing someone with absolutely no merits of their own attempt to prove that they have said merits?

Say what you will about Paris Hilton, but think to yourself the next time you double-click that illegally downloaded copy of "One Night in Paris": Could I take that dick and still look that apathetic? That's talent, people!

Furthermore, she is a person. Despite allegations to the contrary, and no one deserves to be ridiculed 24/7. At least take a break to take a bong rip and masturbate like I do.

Scandalous!

A friend of mine recently accused me of being obsessed with celebrity journalism.

Television brought into American homes all over the country, the lives of other Americans, either through sitcoms, dramas, game shows or the real meat on media's bloody bone, the news. As a faux-intellectual and all-around slacker, my knowledge of television and newsbroadcasting history is limited to reviews I've read of George Clooney's "Good Night, and Good Luck." However, I'm nearly 79% percent sure that the daily exploits of Jennifer Aniston's alleged affair with giant/actor Vince Vaughan wasn't what Edward R. Murrow had in mind. But in today's disaster-saturated media, maybe he would have found it more worthwhile than that unpleasant business going on in Iraq. I mean, Vaughan and Aniston? Together? Why it's like two fish from two very different ponds! Will it work? Is she over Brad? Can we expect a dirty fourgy around the corner with either Brad/Angelina or Courtney Cox-/David Arquette? Hell, get me a pad and a stiff brandy!

But in spite of all the warring, rioting, genociding, and just plain ickiness of America's and the world's affairs, celebrity journalism continues to thrive. And one of the most popular mediums through which you and I receive our gossip is television. E! and Vh1 not only seem to be leading the pack, but I'm pretty sure they're the same station. Tell me, has anyone ever seen E! and Vh1 in the same room together? Or E!'s "It's Good to Be..." with similar "Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous" rip-off, Vh1's "The Fabulous Life Of..." rocking the same imitation Louis Vuitton tote? I think not. But these two networks' disturbing similarities are only representative of what their viewership wants, or rather what the networks thinks its viewer's want. Vh1, once a video channel for the geriatric set, is now a full-blown celebrity stalker with such braindead fare as "The Surreal Life" and "But Can They Sing?" For the record, of course they can't. The "they" in question are faded celebrities struggling to hold onto that one last shred of distinction in exchange for their one last shred of dignity. And I couldn't be more supportive of that. After all it's better to be a has-been than a never-was.

Now, my friend and I were watching E!'s flagship series, "True Hollywood Story: Supermodels: Beyond Skin Deep." I forced her to sit through the trials and tribulations of Naomi, Cindy, Heidi, Tyra, Christie, Elle, Carol, Linda and the queen mother, JANICE. Two hours of enough backstabbing, shoulder pads and cocaine to make Joan Collins' head spin, what could be better? For me, though, the pleasure in watching celebrities rise, fall and inevitably rise like the phoenix from some other skinny bitch's expertly-coiffed ashes is not in the people, but the stories themselves. These are modern-day Dickensian tales. Or at least I assume it is, since I haven't really read much/any Dickens. Though, I do enjoy "A Muppet's Christmas Carol." It is the American dream to go from nothing to everything as fast and as easily as possible. Hence models make the perfect vehicle for this dream as they can pout, vamp and sleep their way to the top, without even breaking a sweat. Some might think it easy, but if it was, why can't you and I do it? Because we--well, you--are ugly. But that doesn't really make a difference.

There used to be a time when in order to be famous, one had to be either talented or at least reasonably attractive. It seems that time has passed us by. There was also a time, when celebrities represented America's very own royalty; glamorous, sophisticated and aloof. Now...well we have "One Night In Paris." The problem is, it's pretty easy to become a celebrity now. It's only hard to maintain it. What with the fluttering of a mosquito's wings taking our full attention away from who won "The Apprentice" to who's weave just got pulled on "Making the Band 3."

With television, weekly gossip rags and my medium of choice, "blogs", detailing every moment in a celebrity's life, they're no longer those larger than life beings. They're just like you and I, only rich and shiny. The Internet, cable and all that high tech stuff being developed hourly, have domesticated the once elusive Star. Still, we as a nation, are inclined to follow the exploits of the rich and shiny and our bloodlust is satiated by the "Access Hollywoods", "US Weeklys", "Defamers" and many many others so in a sense it becomes more difficult to ignore gossip journalism when it is shoved down our throat, like so much cock on the bathroom floor of Opaline.

Personally, though, I welcome that dick. Hell, I'd swallow it whole if given a glass of water and some flavored lube. The only thing is, though, as I fellate that manmeat, I'm thinking of Lindsay Lohan's life as a teenager thrust into superstardom when she might not have been ready for it. I don't condemn her for hoovering up enough powder to pancake herself up like a geisha and service the needs of current beau, Jared Leto. No. I take her and her actions with a grain of salt because I understand the heartbreak of a movie not opening at number one, of recording an album of sub-par alt-pop to lukewarm reviews or even the pain--physical and emotional--of crashing a $100,000+ luxury car into a blue collar worker's van/sole means of support. And no $7.5 million dollar paycheck will ease that pain.

So, yes, I do enjoy reading, watching and wallowing in celebrity journalism. But am I obsessed? Of course not. Because I'm a professional and I know to keep my distance; to become wrapped up in someone else's story is to lose your vantage point. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to check perezhilton.com to see if there are anymore pics of Jake Gyllenhaal stuffing his trousersnake into a Santa hat.

Wow, 2005

Well, it's 2005, the future. Where we can walk around with the world in our pockets and pussy at our fingertips. So it's time to start swirling that finger around and cause the great white flow of knowledge to unexpectedly burst onto the lips and eyelashes of the general public. And I, kids, am that finger.

I started this "blog," as the kids are calling it these days, basically to distract me during work and my copious amounts of free time. Okay, yes I am just jumping on the bandwagon. But, future followers and fanatics, let me assure you, once on said wagon, I'll make sure to shank and rob every single man, woman and tranny I can get my well-manicured, puss-tinged fingers on. And that's a promise.

Now that I've got the formalities out of the way, let's talk something important. Me. I just recently turned 20 and this gave me the insight and proper distance to look at my life and say, 'Hmm, this kind of sucks.' I should be in school, according to conventional wisdom, but I'm taking a year off to "find myself." Meaning I can't afford to attend NYU anymore. Huh.

I'm also a gay, and that also is not going too well...20-year old virgin. 'Nuff said. Furthermore, I'm an office assistant, aspiring entertainment legend and occasional Debbie Reynolds back-up dancer. yes, one of those is a lie, but I DEFY you to choose which one. And finally, I smoke marijuana, which is an unhealthily large part of my life, but hell, I'm a 20-year old virgin living in Brooklyn, what else is there for me to do? What's that? Jack off you say? Well, friend, I already have that more than covered.

Seeing that I have the attention span of a gnat and my daily intake of news consists almost entirely of celebrity gossip, I think I have the proper credentials to comment on the world and society as I see it, a glitter-drenched orgy of lights and leg-warmers. So, follow me, won't you, into Xanadu, where all your dreams come true. And by your dreams, I mean my sexual fantasies. Hooray for cock!