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.