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!