Saturday was fine. At least on the surface. See, we were (p.s. I saw the biggest fanny pack ever on the subway today, like a backpack-sized tumor on the crotch)planning on getting acid that day, but the e had worn us down. And in the hope of not appearing as some sort of drug addicts, we decided to go on Sunday. So, after sleeping off our ecstasy haze, we said, "Hey," how 'bout some iHop. Then we went shopping, I got an adorable vest and sassy shorts at H&M, but Karma and I had to leave to meet Dharma at her friend's party. An adult party at that--like, there was no one under 28 there. AKA, booze was flowing from the sidewalk. As was my drool by the time I left. Upon leaving, Karma and I had to run to the supermarket to grab an ice cream cake for this little girl for whom Dharma was throwing a little get-together. I don't remember much from that time, except eating that cake--shit was good, gurl. And shit was also in the freezer the following day...at least til Karma and I found it. During the party, we snuck away to smoke a blunt then I think I fell asleep. TYo be honest, I'm not quite sure what happened Saturday night, but we did go back to the adult party, drank some more, I think we met up with Dick and Harvey--oh yes, we did. We went to Tessa's bar where she was bartending. Yet another well-lit sports bar with tacky girls and fat men, but at least there was a pool table. I add that as if it was a saving grace, but it was only a malformed transition. We left the bar after some pool and headed back to Harvey's. Before I proceed with this section of the sotry, I must mention that Karma and I shared some Hydrocodones before drinking--a bad idea. Karma ended up throwing up on her cute little floral top, on her jeans, a bit in her bag and then finally into the garbage can. I had Harvey and Dick hold her hair back as I was busy being lazy and fucked up. Harvey cleaned her up and gave her a change of clothes and by 4:30-ish, Karma was ready to drive home. Magically, we weren't killed en route.
Sunday was the day all joy turned to bloody, curdling bullshit. Upon waking up at 2 or so, Karma called Dick to find out what time he and Harvey wanted to get the acid. Apparently, neither of them wanted to do it now, despite the fact that they had no problem doing it several times in the previous weeks. Whatev. Karma and I decided that since our plans for the day, hunting down some drugs, was kaput, we'd stay in, smoke some blunts and watch "Next" on MTV. I always love the gay "Next"s. The guys always end up making out in the bus--but once the cameras are off, I'm pretty sure there's an orgy. It's California, it's hot and they're gay--what more do you need for some multi-man fun? Well, perhaps Jose Cuervo and a speedo. While engrossed in "Next," we periodically called Harvey and Dick to see what they wanted to do. And honestly, Karma and I still wanted to do acid so we were hoping of scoring some. By 5, we had finished our lethargy marathon and had finally got into contact with Harvey and Dick. Oh, but that's not how it went down--at least according to some people. By "not calling" them, Karma and I had hurt their feelings. Sad face. We had been "using" them only to get acid. Karma and I were being assholes because we were ignoring Harvey and Dick. Dick, please.
After explaining several times that we weren't ignoring them, just stoned and lazy, Karma and I met the two boys at the Winchester. Pleasantries were exchanged, but Dick was being a, well, dick. When you snatch money out of someone's hand, claiming it as your own, you don't come off in the best light. I could care less as to the validity of your argument, but that's just plain rude. And that's just what Dick did to Karma. I was certainly not in the mood for this, as I was already pissed at the fact that Dick of all people would accuse anyone of being a user. Should I pull out the scrapbook of the last twor three years, clearly displaying Dick spending Karma's money, sleeping in her bed, eating her food, smoking her weed, talking to me like we're friends. Yet, I digress. Harvey, too. Before he came into some money, he was just as broke and just as much as a user as Dick...but I let that go. It was July 4th weekend, why can't we all just get along, no?
Hell no. Things just got weirder and more fucked up from that point on. Dick continued to display his prowess at fucking shit up, so Karma and I left, taking Harvey with us. We ended up in Rite Aid because I needed some face wash to combat these enlarged pores and oily skin. We met up with Dick again, still beating that donkey bit into the ground, so Karma suggested we leave him at the bar. An idea I was completely down for, though she was only "mostly" kidding. This was the moment, from what I understand, that triggered the shit storm. Harvey, supposedly, hates it when people ask him to choose between his friends, i.e. "Dick" and "Karma and I." He certainly didn't have this problem before when he wanted to ditch Dick in the past, but who am I to judge two-faced dochebaggery? I'm not angry,though. Far from it. I'm fucking pissed. But on with the story. Karma and I ended up just leaving Harvey and Dick behind since the whole "let's be friends" thing wasn't working that day. Still, though, we called them later that night to see if they wanted to hang out. No dice. Their phones continued to ring, uninterrupted.
Monday morning came and Dharma predicted this would be the day of assholes. Mother Nautre was holding her part of the deal up--it poured freezing rain, followed by hail, for about half an hour. I anticipated that we'd be swept away in the torrents, a la New Orleans, so I made a point to get some pot before the Apocalypse came. If I'm going to die, I might as well be high, right? Luckily, we didn't get flooded out of our existence and the sun came out. Tessa and her boyfriend, Jay, came by to hang out a bit, then Rick, Karma's boyfriend came over. I, single and saucy, pretended like I was waiting for my boyfriend to come over too--but then we left to run errands because I wasn't fooling anyone. The conflict between the two of us and Dick and Harvey only escalated. They continued to ignore our phone calls until Karma finally got in touch with Dick. His warning to us, via Harvey, was to stop calling Harvey's phone because he didn't want to talk to us. Erright. According to Dick, Harvey was mad about "something" that Karma said to him while at Rite Aid, saying that she personally attacked him at one point. That something was the insistence of leaving Dick behind, a decision I still stand by, by the way. Phone calls and accusations flew back and forth, followed by drunken, angry IMs until we were drunk enough to head over to the Winchester, yet again, to confront Dick and Harvey. Dick, being the stand-up guy he is, maintained his and Harvey's position that they were the victim's here--attempting to make Karma and I feel as if we had literally shat upon them. Something you should know, just for future reference, Dick is never wrong. In his mind, obviously altered as it is, everyone else is always in error, no matter the situation. He's one of those people that just keeps talking nonsensically for hours until you get tired of them and just leave. Why Karma dated him for as long as she did, I do not know. While Dick was explaining his head off, Harvey remained quiet at the bar. I didn't want to be around either of them--as from that day on, they no longer exist to me except as fodder for blog posts--I spoke to no one. Honestly,I was only there to back Karma up should she go off the handle and start kicking people in the jaw. Wouldn't be the first--or last--time.
Karma continued to argue/talk to Harvey and Dick, trying to find out why they decided to be such huge, gaping assholes all of a sudden. I think somehow, I'm involved. Dick, whether he meant to or not, always ruined my trips back to Poughkeepsie and this time was no exception. I refuse, however, to have him ruin the next trip because I will bite his fucking face off. And that's Karma's 21st birthday. I passed out along the way, drunk off Southern Comfort and vodka cranberries. I did wake up in time to hear Karma crying on the phone, presumably to Dick or Harvey. And how did we get here again?
Thursday, July 06, 2006
Wednesday, July 05, 2006
The Impotence of Being Earnest, Part 1
The following is a fictionlized account of a disastrous lost weekend, as experienced by "a friend of mine". All the names have been changed to protect the innocent and the assholes.
I always feel a little less sane after leaving Poughkeepsie. There's something in the air there that renders whomever lives within its roach-infested boundaries a complete and utter asshole. I lived there for, oh, thirteen years--way too long, needless to say--climbing my way through the city's school system. I go back every now and then to see my best friend and very first hag, one Ms. Karma Sorito. At this point she and her mother, Dharma, are the only family I know. It's been months since I've last seen her, despite talking nearly everyday online or on the phone. Along with our friends Harvey and Tessa, they're the only reasons I bother going back to a town I vowed to destroy once I had the suitable means.
Since April, many a change has occured in Karma's life. Where should I start? One can't rush into something like this, so perhaps I'd better start from the near beginning. Dharma was dating a man, let's just call him Insane. He was a nice guy, at least he appeared to be for the first few months he was living with them. Then, something snapped and Insane had to be taken away to a mental hospital--five times. This last time was the last straw. Dharma had gone into surgery to remove a few melon-sized lumps from her lady area, to stop any spread of cancer. Thankfully, she's ok. But at the time she had come out of surgery, well, she obviously wasn't. And this is the time Insane chose to fuck up badly, by stealing money, stealing Dharma's medication, lying about both instances and just being an all-around ass cunt. He freaked out after being confronted about it. Then the cops came. Then Insane was gone. A very familiar scene in the house of Sorito. While he's locked up--er, seeking counseling for his problems, he continues to contact Dharma, making promises of changing, trying to bribe her with money and sobbing all over the phone and in letters.
Insane's abrupt exit coincides with that of Dick's. Dick and Karma dated for a year, maybe two. But for the last year of their association, Dick lived in Karma's bed. That's what boyfriends and girlfriends do sometimes. OF course, for that last year of their association, Karma and Dick weren't dating. At all. They had broken up and he continued to live with her because "he had no where to go." Karma--please keep up here--had found someone else, Rick, and was dating him clandestinely for the year that Dick camped out in her sheets. Dick found out, yet there was no explosion. But remember this, kids, with an asshole, there's always an explosion. And there is no bigger asshole than Dick. He's the kind that refuses to admit that he's an asshole, while everyone around him knows it but attempts to love him in spite of it. Love can only stand so much, though. Everytime I came up to Poughkeepsie, Dick would ruin my stay with the swirling dark cloud of drama that enveloped him and that house. My love for him dried up like a year ago, but Karma still held on. That was until Dick tried to kill Rick with a golf club. Fast forward to Dick having to move in with his best friend--also one of Karma's best friends--Harvey.
For the first time in a very long time, I came home to Poughkeepsie, to the house I called home, and there was silence. There was peace. There were no grown men crying or punching holes in walls. No screaming about some perceived slight, followed by even more tears. The house was settled. Well, except for that knife Karma found in front of the house. Someone was stabbed, Karma found the weapon,, unaware that it was what it was, and threw it in her garbage. Then a cop showed up alerting her to the prior events, and suggesting that she get tested. Y'know, just in case. Oh, and there may or may not have been a revolver somewhere in Dharma's garden. Other than that, though: peace. So, I arrived late Friday night witht the hope that this weekend would be superfantasticallyawesome. July 4th weekend! Ow! I had already decided on calling into work on Monday, July 3rd and extending my vacation to four days of smokin' and chokin'. It started well.
Karma, Harvey and Dick met me at the train station. Even though they weren't dating anymore, Karma and Dick still tried to remain friends. Awkward. We piled into Karma's car and the next thing I know we're driving to Wappingers (the Wop-Wop) to get some e. We got six pills, three between Karma and I and the other three between Harvey and Dick. We gathered on Harvey's back porch to smoke as the pills kicked in. Topics for discussion came so easily: the weather as our impending doom, Harvey and myself finding some good dick with a job, killing Insane should he ever come back and our testimonies in the subsequent trial. You know, the normal stuff. It was so nice. Talking, smoking, rolling--what was a bad week was melting into a great weekend. At about 2:30, though, Harvey's landlord's disembodied voice commanded us to "take it inside". Fearing that Harvey's mothter would come outside and eat our hearts, we quickly finished hitting the bong and skiddaddled to the nearest bar.
Living in New York, Manahttan especially, gives me a certain vantage point. Some would say it comes off as pompousness, but I just call it, "me being better than you are." Bars and clubs cannot possibly compare to the ones I've visited on my late night crawls through my beloved city. Unless the walls are covered with vomit and the people are shooting up on the pool table, color me unimpressed. So I was already a little cautious about going to this bar, the Winchester. Karma shared my unease because we also just don't like people. They're sort of a waste of time, if you ask me. My fears were realized when we stumbled into the Winchester--little did I know that tacky was a uniform. If I had a dime for every ill-fitting strapless halter top I was forced to be in contact with this weekend, I could have bought those heifers some good taste. Yet, I digress. I tried to keep quiet and not judge anyone. Karma, Harvey and I were watching "Dr. 90210," thinking it odd that this show--of all the programs on TV--would be on in this particular bar. It was the episode with the twins who both wanted to get their asses lifted. Or maybe it was breast lifts. They could have used either, as well as a nose job, so I'm not sure. The three of us were talking when this stringy-haired bitch and her gap-tooth decided to butt in. She walked away shortly after, taking her rats nest hair out of reach of my awaiting claws. By then, I was ready to go. Yet, Harvey and Dick insisted we stay for the Drink. As if this mysterious concoction would make us forget we were in the third circle of hell, but who am I to refuse a free drink? That Sex on the Beach was fabulous, though.
The bar was a slight bump in the road of an otherwise smooth, thoroughly entertaining ride. Karma even brought Harvey and Dick back with us to her house. Dick had been banned by Dharma in an attempt to avoid any gratuitous drama. We were smoking a blunt when she came downstairs. Karma had this brilliant plan to put our hands in front of our faces so she wouldn't see us. Dharma came down and I could see through the corner of my eye that she clearly could see us, then she threw her hands up in the air and went to the kitchen. "Did she see us?" Um...yeah. I mean, we were on e, but we weren't that fucked up and of course she saw Dick sitting on her couch. Karma was volunteered to offer her mom the blunt as a sort of peace offering. Or at least to distract her as we swept Dick under the rug. There was no rug, however, and Karma refused to be the sacrificial lamb. So I volunteered. Dharma was fine with Dick being there--must have been something GOOD in the air that night, cough, cough--just as long as he didn't upset anything or anyone. And surprisingly he didn't. At least not on Friday night.
I always feel a little less sane after leaving Poughkeepsie. There's something in the air there that renders whomever lives within its roach-infested boundaries a complete and utter asshole. I lived there for, oh, thirteen years--way too long, needless to say--climbing my way through the city's school system. I go back every now and then to see my best friend and very first hag, one Ms. Karma Sorito. At this point she and her mother, Dharma, are the only family I know. It's been months since I've last seen her, despite talking nearly everyday online or on the phone. Along with our friends Harvey and Tessa, they're the only reasons I bother going back to a town I vowed to destroy once I had the suitable means.
Since April, many a change has occured in Karma's life. Where should I start? One can't rush into something like this, so perhaps I'd better start from the near beginning. Dharma was dating a man, let's just call him Insane. He was a nice guy, at least he appeared to be for the first few months he was living with them. Then, something snapped and Insane had to be taken away to a mental hospital--five times. This last time was the last straw. Dharma had gone into surgery to remove a few melon-sized lumps from her lady area, to stop any spread of cancer. Thankfully, she's ok. But at the time she had come out of surgery, well, she obviously wasn't. And this is the time Insane chose to fuck up badly, by stealing money, stealing Dharma's medication, lying about both instances and just being an all-around ass cunt. He freaked out after being confronted about it. Then the cops came. Then Insane was gone. A very familiar scene in the house of Sorito. While he's locked up--er, seeking counseling for his problems, he continues to contact Dharma, making promises of changing, trying to bribe her with money and sobbing all over the phone and in letters.
Insane's abrupt exit coincides with that of Dick's. Dick and Karma dated for a year, maybe two. But for the last year of their association, Dick lived in Karma's bed. That's what boyfriends and girlfriends do sometimes. OF course, for that last year of their association, Karma and Dick weren't dating. At all. They had broken up and he continued to live with her because "he had no where to go." Karma--please keep up here--had found someone else, Rick, and was dating him clandestinely for the year that Dick camped out in her sheets. Dick found out, yet there was no explosion. But remember this, kids, with an asshole, there's always an explosion. And there is no bigger asshole than Dick. He's the kind that refuses to admit that he's an asshole, while everyone around him knows it but attempts to love him in spite of it. Love can only stand so much, though. Everytime I came up to Poughkeepsie, Dick would ruin my stay with the swirling dark cloud of drama that enveloped him and that house. My love for him dried up like a year ago, but Karma still held on. That was until Dick tried to kill Rick with a golf club. Fast forward to Dick having to move in with his best friend--also one of Karma's best friends--Harvey.
For the first time in a very long time, I came home to Poughkeepsie, to the house I called home, and there was silence. There was peace. There were no grown men crying or punching holes in walls. No screaming about some perceived slight, followed by even more tears. The house was settled. Well, except for that knife Karma found in front of the house. Someone was stabbed, Karma found the weapon,, unaware that it was what it was, and threw it in her garbage. Then a cop showed up alerting her to the prior events, and suggesting that she get tested. Y'know, just in case. Oh, and there may or may not have been a revolver somewhere in Dharma's garden. Other than that, though: peace. So, I arrived late Friday night witht the hope that this weekend would be superfantasticallyawesome. July 4th weekend! Ow! I had already decided on calling into work on Monday, July 3rd and extending my vacation to four days of smokin' and chokin'. It started well.
Karma, Harvey and Dick met me at the train station. Even though they weren't dating anymore, Karma and Dick still tried to remain friends. Awkward. We piled into Karma's car and the next thing I know we're driving to Wappingers (the Wop-Wop) to get some e. We got six pills, three between Karma and I and the other three between Harvey and Dick. We gathered on Harvey's back porch to smoke as the pills kicked in. Topics for discussion came so easily: the weather as our impending doom, Harvey and myself finding some good dick with a job, killing Insane should he ever come back and our testimonies in the subsequent trial. You know, the normal stuff. It was so nice. Talking, smoking, rolling--what was a bad week was melting into a great weekend. At about 2:30, though, Harvey's landlord's disembodied voice commanded us to "take it inside". Fearing that Harvey's mothter would come outside and eat our hearts, we quickly finished hitting the bong and skiddaddled to the nearest bar.
Living in New York, Manahttan especially, gives me a certain vantage point. Some would say it comes off as pompousness, but I just call it, "me being better than you are." Bars and clubs cannot possibly compare to the ones I've visited on my late night crawls through my beloved city. Unless the walls are covered with vomit and the people are shooting up on the pool table, color me unimpressed. So I was already a little cautious about going to this bar, the Winchester. Karma shared my unease because we also just don't like people. They're sort of a waste of time, if you ask me. My fears were realized when we stumbled into the Winchester--little did I know that tacky was a uniform. If I had a dime for every ill-fitting strapless halter top I was forced to be in contact with this weekend, I could have bought those heifers some good taste. Yet, I digress. I tried to keep quiet and not judge anyone. Karma, Harvey and I were watching "Dr. 90210," thinking it odd that this show--of all the programs on TV--would be on in this particular bar. It was the episode with the twins who both wanted to get their asses lifted. Or maybe it was breast lifts. They could have used either, as well as a nose job, so I'm not sure. The three of us were talking when this stringy-haired bitch and her gap-tooth decided to butt in. She walked away shortly after, taking her rats nest hair out of reach of my awaiting claws. By then, I was ready to go. Yet, Harvey and Dick insisted we stay for the Drink. As if this mysterious concoction would make us forget we were in the third circle of hell, but who am I to refuse a free drink? That Sex on the Beach was fabulous, though.
The bar was a slight bump in the road of an otherwise smooth, thoroughly entertaining ride. Karma even brought Harvey and Dick back with us to her house. Dick had been banned by Dharma in an attempt to avoid any gratuitous drama. We were smoking a blunt when she came downstairs. Karma had this brilliant plan to put our hands in front of our faces so she wouldn't see us. Dharma came down and I could see through the corner of my eye that she clearly could see us, then she threw her hands up in the air and went to the kitchen. "Did she see us?" Um...yeah. I mean, we were on e, but we weren't that fucked up and of course she saw Dick sitting on her couch. Karma was volunteered to offer her mom the blunt as a sort of peace offering. Or at least to distract her as we swept Dick under the rug. There was no rug, however, and Karma refused to be the sacrificial lamb. So I volunteered. Dharma was fine with Dick being there--must have been something GOOD in the air that night, cough, cough--just as long as he didn't upset anything or anyone. And surprisingly he didn't. At least not on Friday night.
Wednesday, June 28, 2006
Love on the Dot-Com
Being completely inept at meeting men in the real world--lest you count getting drunk and fondling every naked torso in sight "meeting" someone--I've decided to take to online dating. I've already made many a pass on dudes online and am waiting to hear a response. I might be waiting forever, but where in the past that may have discouraged me, this is Cheki 2006. I'm willing to cast my dick into those gay waters for as long as it takes to get a bite. Then I shall reel that man in, gut 'im, have my way with 'im, stuff 'im and hang 'im on my wall right next to my taxidermied Janice Dickinson. Yes, friends and enemies, this summer I shall conquer that most mysterious of races: the datable gay.
Since I'm a novice at this, I'm starting off slow. Myspace has a bevy of mo's just waiting to hook up, but tucked precariously into its nooks and crannies are those looking for something other than a one night stand. I think I may have found one last night and I sent him a message along these lines:
"Subject: Why, Hello, Sir
Body: I hope I'm not being too forward here, but I really liked your profile and I wanted to know if you wanted to go on a date sometime. I mean, you know, like after proper introductions via AIM, clandestine flirting through various IMs, the occasional brief phone call and other jazzy steps in this awkward mating dance. Once again, I hope this isn't weird---well, let's face it, I already succeeded in making it horribly so--but if you're not turned off by my Hugh Grant-esque befuddlement, my screenname is lefabrat.
Later, :-)"
Who could resist that? Well, since I haven't heard back from him yet, possibly him. But it's only been a few hours, so I won't obsess over it. BUT I WANT HIM NOW!!!
Sorry. I'm really horny. And, not going to lie to ya, drunk. Yes, it's not even 11 am. Don't judge me, assholes.
I've also been trolling Nerve/Onion personals which has--surprisingly--witty, charming, intelligent guys who care more about what you read than the size of your chest. Well, at least in theory. I mean, they are guys. We are a very shallow sex when it all falls down. It's hard to have it both ways: physically attractive and a winning personality. That strange animal does exist, but they almost always are dating someone. Sure, I could kill their insignifcant other. That's the easy way out--if I can get away with it. If I end up in jail, though, face down in the shower after being ravaged by a series of buff men who treat me as just another faceless hole, will it be worth it?...
Um, duh. However, that's a last resort. For now, I'll just try my luck with these online dating sites. If it doesn't work, well, I hope E! does a re-enactment of my trial with Shemar Moore portraying me. What's he doing anyway? Here's to love on the dot-com!
Since I'm a novice at this, I'm starting off slow. Myspace has a bevy of mo's just waiting to hook up, but tucked precariously into its nooks and crannies are those looking for something other than a one night stand. I think I may have found one last night and I sent him a message along these lines:
"Subject: Why, Hello, Sir
Body: I hope I'm not being too forward here, but I really liked your profile and I wanted to know if you wanted to go on a date sometime. I mean, you know, like after proper introductions via AIM, clandestine flirting through various IMs, the occasional brief phone call and other jazzy steps in this awkward mating dance. Once again, I hope this isn't weird---well, let's face it, I already succeeded in making it horribly so--but if you're not turned off by my Hugh Grant-esque befuddlement, my screenname is lefabrat.
Later, :-)"
Who could resist that? Well, since I haven't heard back from him yet, possibly him. But it's only been a few hours, so I won't obsess over it. BUT I WANT HIM NOW!!!
Sorry. I'm really horny. And, not going to lie to ya, drunk. Yes, it's not even 11 am. Don't judge me, assholes.
I've also been trolling Nerve/Onion personals which has--surprisingly--witty, charming, intelligent guys who care more about what you read than the size of your chest. Well, at least in theory. I mean, they are guys. We are a very shallow sex when it all falls down. It's hard to have it both ways: physically attractive and a winning personality. That strange animal does exist, but they almost always are dating someone. Sure, I could kill their insignifcant other. That's the easy way out--if I can get away with it. If I end up in jail, though, face down in the shower after being ravaged by a series of buff men who treat me as just another faceless hole, will it be worth it?...
Um, duh. However, that's a last resort. For now, I'll just try my luck with these online dating sites. If it doesn't work, well, I hope E! does a re-enactment of my trial with Shemar Moore portraying me. What's he doing anyway? Here's to love on the dot-com!
Tuesday, June 27, 2006
Why Are Lesbians So Unkempt Nowadays?
Now, I'm all for individuality and gay rights and all that shit. I'm just saying, what happened to taking pride in one's appearance--gay pride? Give me some Marlene Dietrich, some Greta Garbo, some Tallulah Bankhead. Now those dykes knew how to turn it out. I for one wouldn't mind taking a roll in the sack with any of those ladies. Today's sapphites remind me of twelve-year old boys in both their grooming habits and style of dress. I for one stopped wearing cargo shorts and mandals in like, sixth grade. I understand it's summer and the air's thicker than the beard on Ryan Seacrest, but how about some linen pants? Or some fabulous above the knee, non-denim shorts with a pair of ass-kicking wedges? If heels aren't your thing, and I know they aren't for many of you, how about some ballet slippers? There's nothing wrong with being adorable, just ask Portia de Rossi. Now that's a lez that knows how to glam it up. Remember, ladies and she-fellas, glamour is not just for straight women. And it never was. I mean, look at this:
Stern, austere, ambiguous, but still -- fabulous. (P.S. Can we find a new word to describe fabulosity, I am totally over that word.)
If glamour puss isn't your thing, throw on a pantsuit and some buckle shoes. You can dress a suit up or down depending on the occassion, weather, and level of butch. After all there's nothing sexier than a woman in a tux:
Sisters, I'm not saying this to be mean, nor am I addressing the entire pussy-eating population. Just the ones who think plaid is STILL a staple. I'm talking to you, Rosie. Before you step out the house, just wonder, am I giving the world my best face? If not, throw on some rouge and a touch of foundation. No need to overdo it as a natural look is often more appealing than drag queen chic.
And speaking of drag queens, I see you fags snickering in the background. You little fruits aren't exempt from this scrutiny, either. Here are some tips: Abercrombie and Fitch is tacky. Armani Exchange is tired. FCUK off with the FCUK. The whole point of fashion is to experiment and have fun with it. Throw those graphic tees in the back of your armoir, unpop those collars, and show those straights how to dress. Tally, hoes!
Stern, austere, ambiguous, but still -- fabulous. (P.S. Can we find a new word to describe fabulosity, I am totally over that word.)
If glamour puss isn't your thing, throw on a pantsuit and some buckle shoes. You can dress a suit up or down depending on the occassion, weather, and level of butch. After all there's nothing sexier than a woman in a tux:
Sisters, I'm not saying this to be mean, nor am I addressing the entire pussy-eating population. Just the ones who think plaid is STILL a staple. I'm talking to you, Rosie. Before you step out the house, just wonder, am I giving the world my best face? If not, throw on some rouge and a touch of foundation. No need to overdo it as a natural look is often more appealing than drag queen chic.
And speaking of drag queens, I see you fags snickering in the background. You little fruits aren't exempt from this scrutiny, either. Here are some tips: Abercrombie and Fitch is tacky. Armani Exchange is tired. FCUK off with the FCUK. The whole point of fashion is to experiment and have fun with it. Throw those graphic tees in the back of your armoir, unpop those collars, and show those straights how to dress. Tally, hoes!
Monday, June 26, 2006
P.S.
The kittens are officially gone.
And I could care less. Does that make me cold-hearted? Why am I even asking, I really don't care. One of those bitches diarrhea'd all over my goddamn floor. I am so over animals, leaving only amoeba among things that I can tolerate. And even they are beginning to wear on my nerves.
And I could care less. Does that make me cold-hearted? Why am I even asking, I really don't care. One of those bitches diarrhea'd all over my goddamn floor. I am so over animals, leaving only amoeba among things that I can tolerate. And even they are beginning to wear on my nerves.
Desperate No More
I wasn't always the witty, charming, whimisical and color-coordinated future icon you read before you. This facade took years of study and prayer to contruct, yet the scars from grade school occasionally rear their ugly, puss-dripping heads. Hence my current bachelorhood. And it's accompanying virginity. None of thse conditions are voluntary. I'm not Rivers Goddamn Cuomo; I don't take a vow of celibacy for clarity or whatever bullshit reason. I'm just a loser. Plain and simple. When I look in the mirror, I still see the chubby, weird dorky gay kid everyone made fun of at one point in their prepubescent life. And that needs to end.
When I was beginning to come into my own as a gay, my hormones raged uncontrollably. Since I was only out to a few people and still fearful of what might happen to me should I come out to anymore, most of my efforts to assuage the heat betwixt my legs were clandestine. I'd pilfer workout mags from drug stores into my bookbags, jack off in my room with unhealthy frequency (my record was nine times, achieved in the summer of 2003, thanks to the rebroadcasting of "American Gladiators" on basic cable)and my favorite passtime, stalking hot straight guys in the mall. Oh! the hours I spent trolling the Galleria, devouring meaty calves, large pecs peeking through tight shirts and the cherished exposed arms of various studs, hunks and the like. At the end of a long day of stalking, my feet were sore and my heart heavy with regret at having wasted my time. And let's not forget the embarassment of walking around a mall--the stomping ground of the gum-popping set--from afternoon to evening without buying a single thing. It's like being in the 70s and not getting stoned with Streisand. It's just not done.
But it's not like I had any thought of approaching these guys I dutifully followed til they ran away from my ever-present stare. Far from it. My pleasure came from merely looking at them because that's all I thought I was worthy of doing. I'd concoct stories about them in my mind--about our torrid love affair, too passionate for the world to understand. In my mind, they were who I wanted them to be: smart, funny and a great dancer, despite who they actually were. So it was enough for me for a while. My imagination was my boyfriend. Now, however, I'm totally over my imagination. It doesn't put out and frankly I don't need that level of commitment without some hot action, you know? Stalking simply doesn't do it for me anymore.
And why should it? I'm a pretty good catch, over here. I won't repeat my astounding attributes, but if you knew me, you wouldn't be able to understand why I'm alone. I'm just that awesome. And even if I am slightly dillusional, if that flapjack-breasted Kiki Dunst can trick someone into loving her, I should have no trouble. As of today, I am officially hanging up my stalker binoculars because I'm not in high school anymore. I'm not still in the closet, I'm no longer an insecure teenager. I'm an insecure 20-year old and dammit I deserve love--real love--like everyone else. Not that I expect men to suddenly drop their shoulder bags and come chasing after me, but I will no longer debase myself by sneaking around behind the next piece of eye candy I see. Hell, that's what the internet's for.
When I was beginning to come into my own as a gay, my hormones raged uncontrollably. Since I was only out to a few people and still fearful of what might happen to me should I come out to anymore, most of my efforts to assuage the heat betwixt my legs were clandestine. I'd pilfer workout mags from drug stores into my bookbags, jack off in my room with unhealthy frequency (my record was nine times, achieved in the summer of 2003, thanks to the rebroadcasting of "American Gladiators" on basic cable)and my favorite passtime, stalking hot straight guys in the mall. Oh! the hours I spent trolling the Galleria, devouring meaty calves, large pecs peeking through tight shirts and the cherished exposed arms of various studs, hunks and the like. At the end of a long day of stalking, my feet were sore and my heart heavy with regret at having wasted my time. And let's not forget the embarassment of walking around a mall--the stomping ground of the gum-popping set--from afternoon to evening without buying a single thing. It's like being in the 70s and not getting stoned with Streisand. It's just not done.
But it's not like I had any thought of approaching these guys I dutifully followed til they ran away from my ever-present stare. Far from it. My pleasure came from merely looking at them because that's all I thought I was worthy of doing. I'd concoct stories about them in my mind--about our torrid love affair, too passionate for the world to understand. In my mind, they were who I wanted them to be: smart, funny and a great dancer, despite who they actually were. So it was enough for me for a while. My imagination was my boyfriend. Now, however, I'm totally over my imagination. It doesn't put out and frankly I don't need that level of commitment without some hot action, you know? Stalking simply doesn't do it for me anymore.
And why should it? I'm a pretty good catch, over here. I won't repeat my astounding attributes, but if you knew me, you wouldn't be able to understand why I'm alone. I'm just that awesome. And even if I am slightly dillusional, if that flapjack-breasted Kiki Dunst can trick someone into loving her, I should have no trouble. As of today, I am officially hanging up my stalker binoculars because I'm not in high school anymore. I'm not still in the closet, I'm no longer an insecure teenager. I'm an insecure 20-year old and dammit I deserve love--real love--like everyone else. Not that I expect men to suddenly drop their shoulder bags and come chasing after me, but I will no longer debase myself by sneaking around behind the next piece of eye candy I see. Hell, that's what the internet's for.
Wednesday, June 21, 2006
Real Life Lessons
So just barely over a week into becoming the proud parents of two kittens, my roommates and I have decided to give up and return the little buggers from whence they came. It breaks my icy heart, but it is a decision that simply had to be made. It turns out that Chairman Meow and Fosse Uggums are sick. And I don't mean BDSM sick, also known as the "fun sick," but more along the lines of shitting blood sick--the "gross, should we call an old priest and a young priest?" kind of sick. And being broke college students, we just don't have the time, money or the amount of sober acumen necessary to take care of two child cats. Le sigh. Le purr. Le fuck. Oh, well. Anyone want a pair of blood-shitting cats?
In other mews (PUN!), I've finally learned the choreography to "Bye, Bye Blackbird" from Liza with a Z and my gay little heart couldn't be any giddier. It's only a matter of time before I re-enact the entire concert a la Rufus Wainwright, but my reviews will be considerably more favorable. After all, these gams were made for dancin'!
In other mews (PUN!), I've finally learned the choreography to "Bye, Bye Blackbird" from Liza with a Z and my gay little heart couldn't be any giddier. It's only a matter of time before I re-enact the entire concert a la Rufus Wainwright, but my reviews will be considerably more favorable. After all, these gams were made for dancin'!
Tuesday, June 13, 2006
Fresh Pussy
So my roommates and I acquired two kittens over the weekend. I like to say acquire as if the cat-retrieving process involved some sort of seedy deal with a seven-fingered man with only a passing acquaintance with the English language and a Jansport backpack stuffed with wide-eyed domestic animals he smuggled into the country in his rectum, but we actually adopted them from a precious cat lady in Ozone Park. One is a champagne-colored ball of cuteness and diarrhea with swirls on its coat, unimagintaively named "Chairman Meow" by my roomie. Way to go for the easy joke, Spatz. The other is black and white. And a killer. Seriously, don't turn your back on this mother fucker or you'll end up dick down on the floor desperately trying to dig whiskers from your exposed pancreas. And he goes by the name Leslie "Fosse" Uggums aka Chuck Norris aka Moo Too aka Dirt McGirt aka That Fucked Up Nigga. Full name or nothing, he gets a little pissed if you don't address him properly.
These are my first pets, like ever, barring the various rats and roaches I befriended in my childhood. I've never really been an animal lover, because if I wanted to smell like I was shat and peed upon all day I'd just give into the voices in my head, throw on a potato sack and live on the L train. Hi. But these kittens are SO FUCKING CUTE!!!! Just looking at them play, explore and throw back high balls fills me with a feeling I've never known before. Could it...is it...LOVE? Or maybe it was that Fancy Feast I ate last night. Damn cat food always looks so damn appetizing in those damn commercials. But who am I kidding? I love those little fur-ball coughing assholes. Look for me in the near future running from my apartment throwing live cat grenades at those who would dare intrude upon my fastidious feline flat.
These are my first pets, like ever, barring the various rats and roaches I befriended in my childhood. I've never really been an animal lover, because if I wanted to smell like I was shat and peed upon all day I'd just give into the voices in my head, throw on a potato sack and live on the L train. Hi. But these kittens are SO FUCKING CUTE!!!! Just looking at them play, explore and throw back high balls fills me with a feeling I've never known before. Could it...is it...LOVE? Or maybe it was that Fancy Feast I ate last night. Damn cat food always looks so damn appetizing in those damn commercials. But who am I kidding? I love those little fur-ball coughing assholes. Look for me in the near future running from my apartment throwing live cat grenades at those who would dare intrude upon my fastidious feline flat.
Tuesday, May 30, 2006
Sardines in a Can
Living a life underground is no way to live.
Falling asleep to the trembling whir of the locomotive only to wake and realize that not only did you miss your stop, but also that the next train won't be coming for another 2 hours due to weekend construction sure can throw a kink into your day. So can having to wait 20 minutes between Manhattan and Brooklyn, pressed against 80 sweaty passengers on the L train--which for some reason isn't air conditioned. And then there was the five minute hold up at 1st Ave, the smarter/weaker of commuters chosing to disembark rather than wait for to die like the rest of us. These are the moments that test one's faith.
Once New York held the promise of a new life, wanton sex, decadent fashion and enough drugs to forget the pain of an old life. But when you can barely afford to pay the rent to your cramped, shitty apartment with your shitty roommates in some shitty part of Brooklyn that no one has ever heard of, there is nothing to keep those Golightly dreams alive. I went to Philly the other day and everyone I met there wanted to know all about Manhattan. When I told them that I was tired of it, they asked: Who gets tired of New York? New Yorkers.
In truth, the city can be harsh, ugly, dangerous, loud, cramped, annoying and a whole other series of negative adjectives. With 8 trillion people packed into five bouroughs, it's no wonder I feel as if I'm in hell sometimes. But I picked this city to live in and it can kick me around, shove me into walls, crash into me on the stairs and grope me inappropriately when it thinks I'm asleep, but this is the city for me. Because I push back. I went to Philly the other day and everyone I met wanted to know all about Manhattan. When I told them I was tired of it, they asked: Well, why don't you move? Because suck as it might, it's still the best place in the world. For all the shit it throws my way, this is the only place I can be myself and become who I want to be...
Liza Minnelli circa 1972. Make sure to catch my concert special "Cheki with a Shh!," choreographed by Bob Fosse...'s neighbor's aunt's tranny hairdresser.
Falling asleep to the trembling whir of the locomotive only to wake and realize that not only did you miss your stop, but also that the next train won't be coming for another 2 hours due to weekend construction sure can throw a kink into your day. So can having to wait 20 minutes between Manhattan and Brooklyn, pressed against 80 sweaty passengers on the L train--which for some reason isn't air conditioned. And then there was the five minute hold up at 1st Ave, the smarter/weaker of commuters chosing to disembark rather than wait for to die like the rest of us. These are the moments that test one's faith.
Once New York held the promise of a new life, wanton sex, decadent fashion and enough drugs to forget the pain of an old life. But when you can barely afford to pay the rent to your cramped, shitty apartment with your shitty roommates in some shitty part of Brooklyn that no one has ever heard of, there is nothing to keep those Golightly dreams alive. I went to Philly the other day and everyone I met there wanted to know all about Manhattan. When I told them that I was tired of it, they asked: Who gets tired of New York? New Yorkers.
In truth, the city can be harsh, ugly, dangerous, loud, cramped, annoying and a whole other series of negative adjectives. With 8 trillion people packed into five bouroughs, it's no wonder I feel as if I'm in hell sometimes. But I picked this city to live in and it can kick me around, shove me into walls, crash into me on the stairs and grope me inappropriately when it thinks I'm asleep, but this is the city for me. Because I push back. I went to Philly the other day and everyone I met wanted to know all about Manhattan. When I told them I was tired of it, they asked: Well, why don't you move? Because suck as it might, it's still the best place in the world. For all the shit it throws my way, this is the only place I can be myself and become who I want to be...
Liza Minnelli circa 1972. Make sure to catch my concert special "Cheki with a Shh!," choreographed by Bob Fosse...'s neighbor's aunt's tranny hairdresser.
Wednesday, May 24, 2006
Mmmm, Hot Nerd
I just had an excellent sighting. Now, we've all seen attractive guys who happen to wear glasses. Yes, it's unbelievably sexy and only leads down the road of you being bent over a twin sized bed in his mom's basement, drunk off Zima because apparently being hot is a full time job and affords no feelings of motivation or advancement. But those guys aren't nerds. They're probably not even smart. And I would check those glasses to make sure there are actually lenses in them. What I saw today was the real McCoy. Ill-fitting, ugly short-sleeve PLAID button up shirt. K-Mart khakis that stop just short of the ankle--revealing ankle socks, naturally. Grungy sneakers that say I don't need/can't afford to buy new shoes because I'm kind of a genius and I'm above that. Finally, he had the too small backpack that he's probably had since the 8th grade (aww). On anyone else, this would be off-putting at best. But if you took his clothes off with your teeth as I imagined doing, he could easily be a male model. Strong, solid build, gorgeous face, great skin. I mean who the hell are you? I swore it was just some hot piece with a healthy sense of irony posing as a geek. But then he flashed his college ID--pre-med. After that, I needed a minute and a wet nap to gain my composure. However, beautiful. Simply, beautiful.
Thursday, May 18, 2006
Short Story: "It Fits, But You Can't Make It Work," Part 2
“I don’t even know why I’m,” cough, “going up there.” Our little, smoke-filled 2001 Camry chugged along at 25 mph on 86 North, despite Toto’s nagging suggestions to at least match the 50 mph speed limit. He is so impatient--I think it’s because he’s an only child. Note, this is also the reasoning I use to explain his laziness, his unkemptness and his drug dependence. My drug dependence, on the other hand, is based on my alienation as a child.
“Well, your aunt died. She was your mom’s sister. It seems likely that you’d want to,” cough, “pay your last respects.”
“I have no respects left to pay that bitch.”
“Well, at least you can get some,” cough, “closure.”
“I guess. Say, would it be wrong to just lift one foot, let’s say the left, and just,” cough, “stomp her face in. It’s just one foot, you know? And it’s all in the effort for,” cough, cough, “closure.”
“I wouldn’t have a problem with it, it’s not like she can feel it.”
“Exactly!”
“But I can’t vouch for the others in your family. They might take offense, but if everyone’s drunk, who knows? Could be the start of something, a tradition, a nom de guerre some might say.”
“Obviously only those who don’t know what ‘nom de guerre’ actually means.”
“Baby you’re just,” cough, “splitting hairs. Just chill out. It won’t be that bad.”
“I think you’re wrong. I think this is going to be the worst day of my life and I’m none too happy about that. I was having such a good month, too.” Cough, cough. “I got a raise at my job.”
“Yay!”
“I found a quarter in the middle of the street.”
“Wow, really? Not just a really big nickel?”
“That’s what I thought at first, but no. It was an actual quarter.”
“Yay!”
“And my aunt died and that really brightened up last week.”
“Yay!”
“But this FUCKING funeral! Can’t we just turn around?”
“You’re still driving--25.”
“I’m not speeding up.”
“But how do you think this looks? I mean you ARE black.”
“What? Oh, yeah. I always forget that. Well, it’s time for you to take over anyway.”
“All right, fine. But I’m flooring it all the way. Scoot over.”
“Can I pull over first?”
“Fuck that. I’ll grab the wheel, you keep your foot on the gas and we’ll just switch places. It’ll be fun.”
“That’s dumb.”
“You’re face is dumb.”
“Good comeback.” Eventually, though, he wore me down. He always does and I usually regret it. This time was no exception.
“I still think we should turn around for that joint.”
He looked at me with that look. That look that meant, ‘I’m not in the mood to fucking joke with you, Toto, so just shut up.’ I’m not going to lie, that look kinda turns me on. It’s full of so much anger and passion…when he gets mad—not that I intentionally make him mad, but I don’t usually feel that bad about it. In hindsight, however, it might have been better if we hadn’t decided—okay, if I hadn’t decided—to switch seats while passing by a state trooper. I honestly didn’t see him, but I was still holding the spliff in my left hand and Bri just ripped it out of my hand and threw it to the side of the road. I really didn’t mind, but there was at least a few puffs left in that thing. But whatever. I wasn’t even that serious.
He’s on edge, understandably. He doesn’t want to go to this funeral but of course he is. He won’t admit to himself that he still has feelings for his family, if not necessarily love, he has a history with them. It’s harder for me to understand because I’ve always been pretty close with my family. They’re totally cool with me being gay. Well, at least that’s what they say. But it doesn’t matter what they think so much as what they give me. Don’t get me wrong, I love my family, but I love them a lot more when they get me an iPod for Chanukah. Grandma was awesome, though. When I came out she practically wet herself with excitement. Turns out she was a big time hag back when people didn’t have TVs and condoms. According to her, everybody fucked everybody because there was nothing else to do. You just didn’t talk about it because your private life was private, and then she went into this rant about how the government has too much control over us and totalitarian this, Big Brother that. I stopped paying attention because she’s old and her voice gets unpleasant after a while. But she was the only one who fully supported me when I came out…I wonder if Brian’s family knows?
“Well, your aunt died. She was your mom’s sister. It seems likely that you’d want to,” cough, “pay your last respects.”
“I have no respects left to pay that bitch.”
“Well, at least you can get some,” cough, “closure.”
“I guess. Say, would it be wrong to just lift one foot, let’s say the left, and just,” cough, “stomp her face in. It’s just one foot, you know? And it’s all in the effort for,” cough, cough, “closure.”
“I wouldn’t have a problem with it, it’s not like she can feel it.”
“Exactly!”
“But I can’t vouch for the others in your family. They might take offense, but if everyone’s drunk, who knows? Could be the start of something, a tradition, a nom de guerre some might say.”
“Obviously only those who don’t know what ‘nom de guerre’ actually means.”
“Baby you’re just,” cough, “splitting hairs. Just chill out. It won’t be that bad.”
“I think you’re wrong. I think this is going to be the worst day of my life and I’m none too happy about that. I was having such a good month, too.” Cough, cough. “I got a raise at my job.”
“Yay!”
“I found a quarter in the middle of the street.”
“Wow, really? Not just a really big nickel?”
“That’s what I thought at first, but no. It was an actual quarter.”
“Yay!”
“And my aunt died and that really brightened up last week.”
“Yay!”
“But this FUCKING funeral! Can’t we just turn around?”
“You’re still driving--25.”
“I’m not speeding up.”
“But how do you think this looks? I mean you ARE black.”
“What? Oh, yeah. I always forget that. Well, it’s time for you to take over anyway.”
“All right, fine. But I’m flooring it all the way. Scoot over.”
“Can I pull over first?”
“Fuck that. I’ll grab the wheel, you keep your foot on the gas and we’ll just switch places. It’ll be fun.”
“That’s dumb.”
“You’re face is dumb.”
“Good comeback.” Eventually, though, he wore me down. He always does and I usually regret it. This time was no exception.
“I still think we should turn around for that joint.”
He looked at me with that look. That look that meant, ‘I’m not in the mood to fucking joke with you, Toto, so just shut up.’ I’m not going to lie, that look kinda turns me on. It’s full of so much anger and passion…when he gets mad—not that I intentionally make him mad, but I don’t usually feel that bad about it. In hindsight, however, it might have been better if we hadn’t decided—okay, if I hadn’t decided—to switch seats while passing by a state trooper. I honestly didn’t see him, but I was still holding the spliff in my left hand and Bri just ripped it out of my hand and threw it to the side of the road. I really didn’t mind, but there was at least a few puffs left in that thing. But whatever. I wasn’t even that serious.
He’s on edge, understandably. He doesn’t want to go to this funeral but of course he is. He won’t admit to himself that he still has feelings for his family, if not necessarily love, he has a history with them. It’s harder for me to understand because I’ve always been pretty close with my family. They’re totally cool with me being gay. Well, at least that’s what they say. But it doesn’t matter what they think so much as what they give me. Don’t get me wrong, I love my family, but I love them a lot more when they get me an iPod for Chanukah. Grandma was awesome, though. When I came out she practically wet herself with excitement. Turns out she was a big time hag back when people didn’t have TVs and condoms. According to her, everybody fucked everybody because there was nothing else to do. You just didn’t talk about it because your private life was private, and then she went into this rant about how the government has too much control over us and totalitarian this, Big Brother that. I stopped paying attention because she’s old and her voice gets unpleasant after a while. But she was the only one who fully supported me when I came out…I wonder if Brian’s family knows?
Tuesday, May 16, 2006
Short Story: "It Fits, But You Can't Make It Work", Part 1
April, but it’s unseasonably cool. Or maybe it’s supposed to be this cool and it’s just been unseasonably warm for the past few years. Maybe it’s not seasonable at all. Is 50 degrees even considered ‘cool’ anymore? The sky must be punishing us for past transgressions, hiding the sun behind those thick corpulent clouds. But at least the flowers are beginning to bloom. That’s one good thing I can say about Sacton, spring is always beautiful up here. I’d have to dig deep in order to find anything else, though.
The roads are still that pristine dark black from the earlier rainstorm. They look so disgusting when they’re gray, especially if it’s accented by the corpse of an overzealous rabbit. The last time I came up here, about three years ago, this road was littered with dead bodies, as if I was driving through some petting zoo Jonestown. I should have turned back when I saw that first deer on the side of the road. It was a fawn, with a white tail and little white specks on it’s back. I had to pull over the car and just…be for a moment. Just absorb it. Then I saw his mother come out from the sparse woods, nudging her baby and it was the saddest thing I’d seen up til then. Being only nineteen, I hadn’t seen very much. But I should have turned back. I don’t think I know why I didn’t.
Topher’s with me this time. My little Toto. Ever since that last trip I refused to come up here ever again, but things inevitably change. I didn’t want to go alone and I was kind of surprised when Toto offered to come along with me, something about wanting to meet my family and all that. To be clear, I never wanted to meet his family. Nor do I ever want to. I find that they have a clan mentality. Not all families, just the ones I’ve encountered. They accept you initially as a guest and let you begin to feel like you’re one of them. But sooner or later you realize that you’re NOT one of them, you’re just another outsider. A withered brown leaf on their geneaological tree, destined to fall off and float away. But more power to Toto.
“Do you think you can take over soon?” I asked. I’ve always hated driving, unless you have nowhere to go. Driving aimlessly is akin to meditation for me. The road wraps itself around my mind and we disappear together. When you get lost, you’re not really lost at all because you’re not trying to find a specific location. You’re just discovering the world around you. As soon as you introduce a map, that’s when I lose all interest.
“Yeah, give me like five minutes.” I look over at my co-pilot, Toto, rolling a joint between his long nimble fingers. He said he used to play the piano, but when I asked him to teach me he refused. So I think that piano was just code for accordion.
“You do realize this is a rental?”
“It’ll be okay. We’ll just roll the windows down. Or,” dipping his bushy, curly hair into his book bag and re-emerging shortly with a thick glass bottle the size of Pepto Bismol, “we could hotbox and just spray it down with a little Coolwater.”
I considered for a minute then rolled up my window. If it had been Polo, I might have answered differently.
“We should probably pick up some Febreeze or something on the way. It’s impossible to get weed stench out of fabric.”
Toto looked at me, grinning, with the lit paper clenched between his yellowing teeth, his eyes obscured by the canopy of hair on his head. “That’s why I don’t bother to wash my clothes anymore.”
“Well, thank god one of us does.”
The roads are still that pristine dark black from the earlier rainstorm. They look so disgusting when they’re gray, especially if it’s accented by the corpse of an overzealous rabbit. The last time I came up here, about three years ago, this road was littered with dead bodies, as if I was driving through some petting zoo Jonestown. I should have turned back when I saw that first deer on the side of the road. It was a fawn, with a white tail and little white specks on it’s back. I had to pull over the car and just…be for a moment. Just absorb it. Then I saw his mother come out from the sparse woods, nudging her baby and it was the saddest thing I’d seen up til then. Being only nineteen, I hadn’t seen very much. But I should have turned back. I don’t think I know why I didn’t.
Topher’s with me this time. My little Toto. Ever since that last trip I refused to come up here ever again, but things inevitably change. I didn’t want to go alone and I was kind of surprised when Toto offered to come along with me, something about wanting to meet my family and all that. To be clear, I never wanted to meet his family. Nor do I ever want to. I find that they have a clan mentality. Not all families, just the ones I’ve encountered. They accept you initially as a guest and let you begin to feel like you’re one of them. But sooner or later you realize that you’re NOT one of them, you’re just another outsider. A withered brown leaf on their geneaological tree, destined to fall off and float away. But more power to Toto.
“Do you think you can take over soon?” I asked. I’ve always hated driving, unless you have nowhere to go. Driving aimlessly is akin to meditation for me. The road wraps itself around my mind and we disappear together. When you get lost, you’re not really lost at all because you’re not trying to find a specific location. You’re just discovering the world around you. As soon as you introduce a map, that’s when I lose all interest.
“Yeah, give me like five minutes.” I look over at my co-pilot, Toto, rolling a joint between his long nimble fingers. He said he used to play the piano, but when I asked him to teach me he refused. So I think that piano was just code for accordion.
“You do realize this is a rental?”
“It’ll be okay. We’ll just roll the windows down. Or,” dipping his bushy, curly hair into his book bag and re-emerging shortly with a thick glass bottle the size of Pepto Bismol, “we could hotbox and just spray it down with a little Coolwater.”
I considered for a minute then rolled up my window. If it had been Polo, I might have answered differently.
“We should probably pick up some Febreeze or something on the way. It’s impossible to get weed stench out of fabric.”
Toto looked at me, grinning, with the lit paper clenched between his yellowing teeth, his eyes obscured by the canopy of hair on his head. “That’s why I don’t bother to wash my clothes anymore.”
“Well, thank god one of us does.”
Thursday, May 11, 2006
Monday, May 08, 2006
I Need You...to Hold Me, to Scold Me, Cuz When I'm Bad, Mmmm, I'm Oh So Bad: 1-5
So I had a dance-related injury on Friday night. I had to serve someone in an impromptu dance-off and as a result my left leg is a little tight. But alas, that is the spirit of disco: drunk and high, dancing your knees off til the early morning hours. It's good to know that some values never die, huh? So without further adue, let's get on with this list:
1. Cheryl Lynn - "Got to Be Real" (Cheryl Lynn, 1978)
"What you thiiiiiiiiink-uh? What you feeeeeeeeeeeeeel, now? What you knooooooow-a? To be REAL! It's got to be REAL!" It all starts with those walls of Jericho-shattering horn stabs and you know that your rump will not stop bumping for the next 3 and 1/2, or 5 minutes, depending on which version you get. I suggest the shorter as you get to hear Cheryl "soo-hoo"-ing all over the place in the middle. It sets the bar deliriously high in the beginning and it keeps it floating and spinning til the very last drum kick. Perfect song? Perhaps. Best song ever? Well, having heard every song that ever was at least 5 times, I can safely say that it obviously is. And anyone who says different is a heathen. A disco-hating heathen.
2. The Emotions - "Best of My Love" (Rejoice, 1977)
Oh, The Emotions. Oh, you. You and your infectious joy. Little angels. Taking it from the church straight into la discoteque. Jesus, get off that cross right now and show us that six pack! Mmm, our Father who art in heaven, indeed. "Best of My Love" really is just a gospel song, dipped in shimmer, washed in fabulous and left out to dry on a gold lame clothing line. Sure, some may find that a bit sacreligious, but honestly the Puritans never knew how to let their hair down.
3. LaBelle - "Lady Marmalade" (Nightbirds, 1974)
That beat just walks all over you in its silver 6-inch spiked cha cha heels, don't it? It grabs you, screws you and never lets you go. At night, I can still hear it calling me in the middle of the night: more, more, MORE! Gitchy, gitchy ya ya da da da. Gitchy, gitchy, ya, ya hey. Mocha, choca lata ya ya, Creole Lady Marmalade! Ooh, ah. Little sticky here. Wow, napkin, someone?The connection between disco and sex was never clearer and this funk masterpiece laid the sultry roots for all other disco cuts to come. Oh, and do yourself a favor and pick up Nightbirds. Patti, Nona Hendryx and Sarah Dash soaring through glam, soul, funk and disco. You're welcome.
4. Anita Ward - "Ring My Bell" (Songs of Love, 1979)
If you're listening to this song for the first time, it will most likely come off a bit strange. First of all, it doesn't hit you over the head with a propulsive beat, nor will it ever. The real charm in this song is in its seductiveness. Anita is talking to you like she has a dick in one side of her mouth and a ball gag in the other. Things are going to get hard, sweaty and little illegal in 49 states in no uncertain terms. Ring a ding ding ding, baby.
5. Vickie Sue Robinson - "Turn the Beat Around" (Never Gonna Let You Go, 1976)
What can I possibly say? That percussion section. Vickie Sue's inspired performance. It's like someone kicked you in the head with badassness and left you to drown in your own blood, only to hallucinate that you were living inside Jesus' own personal marching band. Gloria Estefan tried to cover this song, but she pales miserably in comparison to the original. That and she's Cuban so it's innately inferior.
1. Cheryl Lynn - "Got to Be Real" (Cheryl Lynn, 1978)
"What you thiiiiiiiiink-uh? What you feeeeeeeeeeeeeel, now? What you knooooooow-a? To be REAL! It's got to be REAL!" It all starts with those walls of Jericho-shattering horn stabs and you know that your rump will not stop bumping for the next 3 and 1/2, or 5 minutes, depending on which version you get. I suggest the shorter as you get to hear Cheryl "soo-hoo"-ing all over the place in the middle. It sets the bar deliriously high in the beginning and it keeps it floating and spinning til the very last drum kick. Perfect song? Perhaps. Best song ever? Well, having heard every song that ever was at least 5 times, I can safely say that it obviously is. And anyone who says different is a heathen. A disco-hating heathen.
2. The Emotions - "Best of My Love" (Rejoice, 1977)
Oh, The Emotions. Oh, you. You and your infectious joy. Little angels. Taking it from the church straight into la discoteque. Jesus, get off that cross right now and show us that six pack! Mmm, our Father who art in heaven, indeed. "Best of My Love" really is just a gospel song, dipped in shimmer, washed in fabulous and left out to dry on a gold lame clothing line. Sure, some may find that a bit sacreligious, but honestly the Puritans never knew how to let their hair down.
3. LaBelle - "Lady Marmalade" (Nightbirds, 1974)
That beat just walks all over you in its silver 6-inch spiked cha cha heels, don't it? It grabs you, screws you and never lets you go. At night, I can still hear it calling me in the middle of the night: more, more, MORE! Gitchy, gitchy ya ya da da da. Gitchy, gitchy, ya, ya hey. Mocha, choca lata ya ya, Creole Lady Marmalade! Ooh, ah. Little sticky here. Wow, napkin, someone?The connection between disco and sex was never clearer and this funk masterpiece laid the sultry roots for all other disco cuts to come. Oh, and do yourself a favor and pick up Nightbirds. Patti, Nona Hendryx and Sarah Dash soaring through glam, soul, funk and disco. You're welcome.
4. Anita Ward - "Ring My Bell" (Songs of Love, 1979)
If you're listening to this song for the first time, it will most likely come off a bit strange. First of all, it doesn't hit you over the head with a propulsive beat, nor will it ever. The real charm in this song is in its seductiveness. Anita is talking to you like she has a dick in one side of her mouth and a ball gag in the other. Things are going to get hard, sweaty and little illegal in 49 states in no uncertain terms. Ring a ding ding ding, baby.
5. Vickie Sue Robinson - "Turn the Beat Around" (Never Gonna Let You Go, 1976)
What can I possibly say? That percussion section. Vickie Sue's inspired performance. It's like someone kicked you in the head with badassness and left you to drown in your own blood, only to hallucinate that you were living inside Jesus' own personal marching band. Gloria Estefan tried to cover this song, but she pales miserably in comparison to the original. That and she's Cuban so it's innately inferior.
Thursday, May 04, 2006
No Blacks, No Jews and No Ga-hays!: 6-10
6. ABBA - Gimme! Gimme! Gimme! (A Man After Midnight)(ABBA: Gold, 1994)
I never knew ABBA could be so suggestive. Or aggressive. I really thought that the Nordic folk never had sex, but produced offspring through a rather complex, rhythmic dance to generic pop music passed down over the generations. But ABBA proved me wrong, as they often do. The ladies and gentle-Swedes of the world's favorite reclusive supergroup command you to drop trou and start stepping along with the beat. Thanks Madge (and Jimmy) for introducing us.
7. Thelma Houston - "Don't Leave Me This Way" (Any Way You Like It, 1976)
Some people want you to beg for them. They feel that they're just so impossibly stupendous that one must genuflect in their presence. But not Thelma Houston. Sure, she plays that game for a minute then the beat kicks in and shit is on. Disco kick! Ugh! Yell in that fucker's face and let him know that this puss is Grade A. Bravo, Ms. Houston.
8. Machine - "There But for the Grace if God Go I" (Machine, 1979)
Wow, a disco song about actual social issues. But when you set that scene against one of the most insane tracks, like, ever, suddenly social commentary can do the hustle just like everyone else. And blow in the bathroom like everyone else, too.
9. Chic - "I Want Your Love" (C'est Chic, 1978)
Sheer beauty. Just listen to those bells. Though it doesn't have the life-saving bassline of "Le Freak," it don't need it. That feathery vocal, the pounding bells and those sweet strings all volleying off one another, it makes you want to fall in love with the next stranger that looks at ya. Well, hello there. Sure, you're balding, fat and probably have a baby meekrat's penis, but "I Want Your Love." Mmmm, funk.
10. The Whispers - "And the Beat Goes On" (The Whispers, 1980)
Way before Will Smith sampled it for his PG-rated ode to "Miami," the Whispers funked all over the place with this. Turn it on, turn it up and try not to bop your head along to their groove. I dare you, bitch.
I never knew ABBA could be so suggestive. Or aggressive. I really thought that the Nordic folk never had sex, but produced offspring through a rather complex, rhythmic dance to generic pop music passed down over the generations. But ABBA proved me wrong, as they often do. The ladies and gentle-Swedes of the world's favorite reclusive supergroup command you to drop trou and start stepping along with the beat. Thanks Madge (and Jimmy) for introducing us.
7. Thelma Houston - "Don't Leave Me This Way" (Any Way You Like It, 1976)
Some people want you to beg for them. They feel that they're just so impossibly stupendous that one must genuflect in their presence. But not Thelma Houston. Sure, she plays that game for a minute then the beat kicks in and shit is on. Disco kick! Ugh! Yell in that fucker's face and let him know that this puss is Grade A. Bravo, Ms. Houston.
8. Machine - "There But for the Grace if God Go I" (Machine, 1979)
Wow, a disco song about actual social issues. But when you set that scene against one of the most insane tracks, like, ever, suddenly social commentary can do the hustle just like everyone else. And blow in the bathroom like everyone else, too.
9. Chic - "I Want Your Love" (C'est Chic, 1978)
Sheer beauty. Just listen to those bells. Though it doesn't have the life-saving bassline of "Le Freak," it don't need it. That feathery vocal, the pounding bells and those sweet strings all volleying off one another, it makes you want to fall in love with the next stranger that looks at ya. Well, hello there. Sure, you're balding, fat and probably have a baby meekrat's penis, but "I Want Your Love." Mmmm, funk.
10. The Whispers - "And the Beat Goes On" (The Whispers, 1980)
Way before Will Smith sampled it for his PG-rated ode to "Miami," the Whispers funked all over the place with this. Turn it on, turn it up and try not to bop your head along to their groove. I dare you, bitch.
You Can Dance and You Can Die: 11-15
11. Blondie - "Heart of Glass" (Parallel Lines, 1978)
God Debbie Harry was one fine piece of ass back in the day. Hell, I'd probably still do her now, but only if she were whispering the lyrics to this song in my ear. No disco diva, this song managed to meld the worlds of disco, new wave and punk together long enough to realize that they couldn't stand each other. Then punk kicked disco in the nuts, new wave spit in its face and disco limped back to it's glitter ball.
12. Yvonne Elliman - "If I Can't Have You" (Saturday Night Fever Soundtrack, 1977)
"Saturday Night Fever", huh, kids? One of the touchstones of a generation yet it also sparked a massive backlash against disco. The boogie balloon got so big that it had to burst it's sequined insides at some point. But before it did, it gave us this Bee Gees-penned classic sung by Yvonne Elliman.
13. Earth, Wind & Fire Featuring The Emotions - "Boogie Wonderland" (I Am, 1979)
What is Boogie Wonderland? Why, the place where funk and disco meet, have slimy, unprotected sex and produce beautiful, afro-haired babies with the innate ability to boogie down, of course.
14. ABBA - "Voulez-Vous" (Voulez-Vous, 1979)
No offense to "Dancing Queen" but I simply can't resist the triumphant "a-ha!s" in the background. It's like those crazy Swedes are proclaiming their own awesomeness. Can we rock? A-ha! Can we make you dance? A-ha! Voulez-vous? A-ha!
15. Diana Ross - "Upside Down" (diana, 1980)
How can you possibly lose? Diana Ross + Chic's Nile Rodgers and Bernard Edwards = Disco Gold. Come on everybody, let's all chant it together: Upside down you're turning me/ You're giving love instinctively/ Round and round you're turning me/ I say to thee/ Respectfully!"
God Debbie Harry was one fine piece of ass back in the day. Hell, I'd probably still do her now, but only if she were whispering the lyrics to this song in my ear. No disco diva, this song managed to meld the worlds of disco, new wave and punk together long enough to realize that they couldn't stand each other. Then punk kicked disco in the nuts, new wave spit in its face and disco limped back to it's glitter ball.
12. Yvonne Elliman - "If I Can't Have You" (Saturday Night Fever Soundtrack, 1977)
"Saturday Night Fever", huh, kids? One of the touchstones of a generation yet it also sparked a massive backlash against disco. The boogie balloon got so big that it had to burst it's sequined insides at some point. But before it did, it gave us this Bee Gees-penned classic sung by Yvonne Elliman.
13. Earth, Wind & Fire Featuring The Emotions - "Boogie Wonderland" (I Am, 1979)
What is Boogie Wonderland? Why, the place where funk and disco meet, have slimy, unprotected sex and produce beautiful, afro-haired babies with the innate ability to boogie down, of course.
14. ABBA - "Voulez-Vous" (Voulez-Vous, 1979)
No offense to "Dancing Queen" but I simply can't resist the triumphant "a-ha!s" in the background. It's like those crazy Swedes are proclaiming their own awesomeness. Can we rock? A-ha! Can we make you dance? A-ha! Voulez-vous? A-ha!
15. Diana Ross - "Upside Down" (diana, 1980)
How can you possibly lose? Diana Ross + Chic's Nile Rodgers and Bernard Edwards = Disco Gold. Come on everybody, let's all chant it together: Upside down you're turning me/ You're giving love instinctively/ Round and round you're turning me/ I say to thee/ Respectfully!"
Toot Toot, Heeeeeyyy, Beep Beep: 16-20
16. Evelyn "Champagne" King - "Shame" (Smooth Talk, 1977)
Champagne was only 16 when she recorded this song, not like you could tell. Her best song, "Shame" is a bitch slap on wax. "SHAME! Burning, you keep my whole body yearning." But it's also a call to love--sweet sweet disco love--as "Wrapped in your arms is where I want to be."
17. Donna Summer - "Bad Girls" (Bad Girls, 1979)
Donna really hit a one-two punch with this track and "Hot Stuff" in '79. But for my money, "Bad Girls" takes the cake. When I walk down the street, I secrelty chant "toot toot, heeeyyy beep beep" with each step, all the while pretending I'm on the prowl for my next meal ticket. It's good to be a bad girl.
18. The Andrea True Connection - "More, More, More" (More, More, More, 1976)
A porn star doing disco, it all seems so appropos. It's the 70s, let's all fuck and dance and then record ourselves fucking and dancing. But when the song is this good, you could kill Sudanese orphans in the recording process and I wouldn't care...too soon?
19. First Choice - "Let No Man Put Asunder"/ "Dr. Love"(Delusions, 1977)
I really love when god and disco meet. I once saw god blowing Mikhail Baryshnikov at 54 and he looked fffaaaaaaattt. Then Dr. Love came over and started playing with god's balls and it got a little weird. But how could the big guy resist with First Choice beckoning him to the dance floor?
20. Donna Summer - "Hot Stuff" (Bad Girls, 1979)
"Gotta have some hot stuff, gotta have some love tonight!" Woo, turn the cameras off, Donna. There might not be 12 minutes of moaning, but this is arguably her sexiest and sassiest song.
Champagne was only 16 when she recorded this song, not like you could tell. Her best song, "Shame" is a bitch slap on wax. "SHAME! Burning, you keep my whole body yearning." But it's also a call to love--sweet sweet disco love--as "Wrapped in your arms is where I want to be."
17. Donna Summer - "Bad Girls" (Bad Girls, 1979)
Donna really hit a one-two punch with this track and "Hot Stuff" in '79. But for my money, "Bad Girls" takes the cake. When I walk down the street, I secrelty chant "toot toot, heeeyyy beep beep" with each step, all the while pretending I'm on the prowl for my next meal ticket. It's good to be a bad girl.
18. The Andrea True Connection - "More, More, More" (More, More, More, 1976)
A porn star doing disco, it all seems so appropos. It's the 70s, let's all fuck and dance and then record ourselves fucking and dancing. But when the song is this good, you could kill Sudanese orphans in the recording process and I wouldn't care...too soon?
19. First Choice - "Let No Man Put Asunder"/ "Dr. Love"(Delusions, 1977)
I really love when god and disco meet. I once saw god blowing Mikhail Baryshnikov at 54 and he looked fffaaaaaaattt. Then Dr. Love came over and started playing with god's balls and it got a little weird. But how could the big guy resist with First Choice beckoning him to the dance floor?
20. Donna Summer - "Hot Stuff" (Bad Girls, 1979)
"Gotta have some hot stuff, gotta have some love tonight!" Woo, turn the cameras off, Donna. There might not be 12 minutes of moaning, but this is arguably her sexiest and sassiest song.
Gimme! Gimme! Gimme! Some Disco After Midnight!: 21-25
I don't know if it's the return of spandex and feathered hair a la Madonna, or the fact that I just need to dance but I am in love with disco right now. Well, honestly, I'm always in love with disco, and not ironically. Yes, it's cheesy, but once you get over that you realize just how awesome some of these songs are. Just close your eyes, crank up some Donna Summer's "I Feel Love" in your headphones and try not to feel transcendent. Thus I decided on the long walk to work that I would rank my favorite disco gems, 25-1. Strap on your rollerskates, wipe off the mirror and pull Liza's number out of your rolodex cuz it's time to go to Funkytown, population: funk.
21.Diana Ross- "Love Hangover" (Diana Ross, 1976)
If there's a cure for this, I don't want it, don't want it," Ms. Ross coos before the song inevitably crescendoes into an orgy of beats and moans and one of her best singles/biggest hits. You can just see the disco ball, can't you?
22.Evelyn "Champagne" King - "Love Come Down" (Get Loose, 1982)
And Evelyn, you make my love come down my leg. Pass me a wet nap.
23. Carl Carlton - "Everlasting Love" (Everlasting Love, 1974)
Why, hello, Mr. Carlton. One of the most joyous songs ever recorded, it's all over in two and a half minutes and you don't even know what hit you.
24. Sylvester - "You Make Me Feel Mighty Real" (Mighty Real, 1980)
Fuck the Bee Gees, this is how you do falsetto, kids.
25. Silver Connection - "Fly, Robin, Fly" (Save Me, 1975)
"Fly, Robin, fly! Up, up to the sky!" No other lyrics, but with that bassline and those strings you really don't need anything else.
21.Diana Ross- "Love Hangover" (Diana Ross, 1976)
If there's a cure for this, I don't want it, don't want it," Ms. Ross coos before the song inevitably crescendoes into an orgy of beats and moans and one of her best singles/biggest hits. You can just see the disco ball, can't you?
22.Evelyn "Champagne" King - "Love Come Down" (Get Loose, 1982)
And Evelyn, you make my love come down my leg. Pass me a wet nap.
23. Carl Carlton - "Everlasting Love" (Everlasting Love, 1974)
Why, hello, Mr. Carlton. One of the most joyous songs ever recorded, it's all over in two and a half minutes and you don't even know what hit you.
24. Sylvester - "You Make Me Feel Mighty Real" (Mighty Real, 1980)
Fuck the Bee Gees, this is how you do falsetto, kids.
25. Silver Connection - "Fly, Robin, Fly" (Save Me, 1975)
"Fly, Robin, fly! Up, up to the sky!" No other lyrics, but with that bassline and those strings you really don't need anything else.
Sunday, April 30, 2006
Gay Robots, Tran-droids and Dykey Automatons
Oh, Nick Swardson. I love you so much, and you won't even give me the time of day. We'll see, fucker. We'll see.
www.myspace.com/gayrobot
So, uh, I think I'm in love with that. Nick Swardson does the voice and I believe Adam Sandler's producing or throwing money at rich Jews in cheap suits. Same thing, really. And it's going to be on Comedy Central. God, I can't wait to get stoned, vege out, and fall asleep watching it!...My life is so empty. But I guess that's why it floats. Rimshot!
Barry, when I say rimshot, I mean rimshot not suck down a bottle of $5 vodka behind the drum kit like no one can see you. Fuck you!
And scene.
www.myspace.com/gayrobot
So, uh, I think I'm in love with that. Nick Swardson does the voice and I believe Adam Sandler's producing or throwing money at rich Jews in cheap suits. Same thing, really. And it's going to be on Comedy Central. God, I can't wait to get stoned, vege out, and fall asleep watching it!...My life is so empty. But I guess that's why it floats. Rimshot!
Barry, when I say rimshot, I mean rimshot not suck down a bottle of $5 vodka behind the drum kit like no one can see you. Fuck you!
And scene.
Wednesday, April 26, 2006
Erotic, Erotic - - Put Your Hands All Over My Body...
I love the warmth. The warmth of spring. The warmth of a mother's love. The warmth of a bulging man rock in my mouth as I massage it up and down with my cocksure tongue. Almost choking a bit. But I'm a pro, I haven't thrown up unvolunteerily in over 2 years.
The day started off as any other. I blindly threw my alarm clock across the room, hitting Kitten Kiboodle, the maid, in the temple. Amid cries of "Oh, I can't see anything!" and "Sir, could you please call the doctor," I somehow managed to put together an outfit for the day. Stepping over her limp body, I ordered Kitty to run the bath, iron the clothes I had set out and prepare breakfast. Those bumps were particularly well cut today and I let Kitty know, but she simply nodded her ursine head and skulked back to her business, clutching the ice pack my tennis/swimming/gymnastics/aerobics instructor, Poli, had provided her with.
Mysteriously feeling a bit lackluster about 15 minutes or so after breakfast, I decided to take a nap. However, Poli had other ideas as I woke up with his magnificent, steely left pec jammed uvula deep in my mouth. It was time for swimming.
Poli was something of a conundrum to me. A six-foot, three bronze god built only of rippling muscle and baby lotion, he was about as smart as a three year old child but hung like a thirty year old porn star. I loved him like one man can only love another man, but his presence infuriated me to no end. He was always running around, sticking things where they didn't belong and due to the extreme size of most of those things, a professional oft had to be called to the house. And how I disdain people! But standing by the Super Olypmic-sized pool, dripping from every square inch of his body with chlorine, bursting through that tiny little black speedo, grinning broadly as if it were his last day in rehab, I felt nothing but love. And a huge erection in my pants. Thus swimming lessons were pre-empted for the moment.
Next: "I Once Caught A Fish THIS Big..."
The day started off as any other. I blindly threw my alarm clock across the room, hitting Kitten Kiboodle, the maid, in the temple. Amid cries of "Oh, I can't see anything!" and "Sir, could you please call the doctor," I somehow managed to put together an outfit for the day. Stepping over her limp body, I ordered Kitty to run the bath, iron the clothes I had set out and prepare breakfast. Those bumps were particularly well cut today and I let Kitty know, but she simply nodded her ursine head and skulked back to her business, clutching the ice pack my tennis/swimming/gymnastics/aerobics instructor, Poli, had provided her with.
Mysteriously feeling a bit lackluster about 15 minutes or so after breakfast, I decided to take a nap. However, Poli had other ideas as I woke up with his magnificent, steely left pec jammed uvula deep in my mouth. It was time for swimming.
Poli was something of a conundrum to me. A six-foot, three bronze god built only of rippling muscle and baby lotion, he was about as smart as a three year old child but hung like a thirty year old porn star. I loved him like one man can only love another man, but his presence infuriated me to no end. He was always running around, sticking things where they didn't belong and due to the extreme size of most of those things, a professional oft had to be called to the house. And how I disdain people! But standing by the Super Olypmic-sized pool, dripping from every square inch of his body with chlorine, bursting through that tiny little black speedo, grinning broadly as if it were his last day in rehab, I felt nothing but love. And a huge erection in my pants. Thus swimming lessons were pre-empted for the moment.
Next: "I Once Caught A Fish THIS Big..."
I'm Seriously Going to Start Begging Strangers on the Street to Have Sex With Me
"C'mon, please! I'm already on my knees here!"
Tuesday, April 25, 2006
Dear Hinda
The following is a letter a friend of mine found while rummaging through a random public computer at school. Being the avid supporters of schadenfreude that we are, she kindly passed this onto me.
Now, it's not the fact that this guy is trying to get into the pants of some girl on the other side of the country that's embarassing. It's also not the fact that he says such touching things like: "...besides making me want to pimp ho’s and carjack somebody, you bring out some other excellent qualities in me...." Or that he extols such wisdom as: "Everyone I meet teaches me something. Some people teach me how to do things, some people teach me how not to do things."
It is the level of commitmment he puts into it. In order to write something this schmaltzy, this cheesy and this grammatically incorrect, one must have no sense of self-awareness. Or, be head over anus in love. It's sickening, really. But you can just tell that this guy's heart is pinned roughly to his sleeve with a safety pin and gum, bleeding all over his Ecko sweatshirt. I hate to admit it, but I almost admire his ability to so thoroughly puss out in the span of one "like letter." If only I had a heart, eh?
Anygay, below is the letter in its entirety, bad punctuation and all. Read it and try not to jack off with your tears later tonight.
Dear Hinda,
forgive me for not calling to tell you this. I don’t think the
phone would give me all the time I need to say what I want to say, and
since I had such difficulty expressing myself the night before you
left, I figured I’d try a different approach here
But don’t be scared. There’s nothing in this letter that will
scare you. I will try to make it as funny as the one I left for you in
New York but there are only so many drawings I can make of your big hair
(insert drawing I love nytshirt).
Do you remember when I said I studied everything about you in a
couple of hours? I was being completely truthful. I have an eye for
detail and a spectacular memory. I always have. I remember exactly what
your hands look like, how your toes are just a little spaced apart from
one another so that they don’t quite touch, and I remember the precise
way you sat on the futon hugging your knees with your arms---you
reminded me of my sister then. I picked all that up in the first twenty
minutes!
What took me a little longer to notice about you was that you
are a complete woman. it was only as we were walking along the river
tossing the apple back and forth that I saw how everything about you
comes together. And I don’t pretend to know you that well, but I think
what I saw in you was real. Do you know what I mean? How do I say this
without sounding ridiculous? Well, being in your presence that
afternoon made me realize what it is like to be completely aware of
another person and at the same time forget about myself. It was a rare
and beautiful feeling. Maybe it was the AA meeting that gave us a
little high or maybe it was the sunshine…I don’t know and I don’t care.
All I know is that afternoon I felt like I really connected to you.
And that is the most amazing thing about life–interacting with
other human beings. Everyone I meet teaches me something. Some people
teach me how to do things, some people teach me how not to do things.
But everyone teaches me something.
From you I learned to live in the moment. Truthfully, it’s all
we have. Sometimes I look into the future and sometimes I look into the
past, and when I do either of those things I miss the absolute beauty
of the present. And yet the present is difficult because it demands
that I be honest. The past and the future allow me to create scenarios
that may not have happened or that may never happen. Living in the
moment does not allow this. And being honest is hard because
sometimes it’s the dream of the past or the dream of the future that I
really like to chase.
Of course you already know that you bring out the gangsta in
me. But I also want you to know that besides making me want to pimp
ho’s and carjack somebody, you bring out some other excellent qualities
in me as well. Basically, you’ve encouraged me to be a better
communicator, and I’ve decided to pay you back with some truly honest
words.
And that’s why I’m writing. I’d love to come to san diego to
see you but I can’t come out if you are in a relationship. You might be
saying, “Who invited Christian to San Diego anyway?” I did. I invited
myself. And as much as I’d love to see you I don’t think it would be
healthy for either or us if I came out there while you were dating
someone. I don’t say that because I want something physical to happen.
I have plenty of bitches here in NY for that. I say that because I like
you. There. You heard it. Hinda N----, I like you.
Now don’t get teary-eyed. this is not a love letter. This is
a “like” letter. The “like” letter always comes before the love letter.
And sometimes after the love letter comes the hate letter, but not all
the time–thankfully. So stop laughing already, I’m trying to be serious
here!
Now I don’t dare look too far into the future. You’ll have to
use my big bald head for that. But if I take a little peek into the
past I see that we had a lot of fun and all I want is to try and do it
again. You know my motto: Let’s do it. Well, I have another one: Let’s
do it again.
So I don’t know what you’re going to think of all this but I
had such a great time with you here in New York that I would regret not
telling you, or worse, not telling you that I want to see you again.
Life is short, we have to take risks. Being honest with you is risky
but it’s a chance I’m willing to take.
Like I said before, I have no idea what the future holds but
it’s not in my nature to sit back and wait to find out. Everything I
ever wanted out of life I had to go out there and get. Beuatiful women
don’t just come knocking on my door. Well, not all the time. Sometimes
they get the key from the cleaners and let themselves in.
I know we joked about me not making a move….well, now I’ve made
one.
Write back.
Oh, I'm totally going to.
Now, it's not the fact that this guy is trying to get into the pants of some girl on the other side of the country that's embarassing. It's also not the fact that he says such touching things like: "...besides making me want to pimp ho’s and carjack somebody, you bring out some other excellent qualities in me...." Or that he extols such wisdom as: "Everyone I meet teaches me something. Some people teach me how to do things, some people teach me how not to do things."
It is the level of commitmment he puts into it. In order to write something this schmaltzy, this cheesy and this grammatically incorrect, one must have no sense of self-awareness. Or, be head over anus in love. It's sickening, really. But you can just tell that this guy's heart is pinned roughly to his sleeve with a safety pin and gum, bleeding all over his Ecko sweatshirt. I hate to admit it, but I almost admire his ability to so thoroughly puss out in the span of one "like letter." If only I had a heart, eh?
Anygay, below is the letter in its entirety, bad punctuation and all. Read it and try not to jack off with your tears later tonight.
Dear Hinda,
forgive me for not calling to tell you this. I don’t think the
phone would give me all the time I need to say what I want to say, and
since I had such difficulty expressing myself the night before you
left, I figured I’d try a different approach here
But don’t be scared. There’s nothing in this letter that will
scare you. I will try to make it as funny as the one I left for you in
New York but there are only so many drawings I can make of your big hair
(insert drawing I love nytshirt).
Do you remember when I said I studied everything about you in a
couple of hours? I was being completely truthful. I have an eye for
detail and a spectacular memory. I always have. I remember exactly what
your hands look like, how your toes are just a little spaced apart from
one another so that they don’t quite touch, and I remember the precise
way you sat on the futon hugging your knees with your arms---you
reminded me of my sister then. I picked all that up in the first twenty
minutes!
What took me a little longer to notice about you was that you
are a complete woman. it was only as we were walking along the river
tossing the apple back and forth that I saw how everything about you
comes together. And I don’t pretend to know you that well, but I think
what I saw in you was real. Do you know what I mean? How do I say this
without sounding ridiculous? Well, being in your presence that
afternoon made me realize what it is like to be completely aware of
another person and at the same time forget about myself. It was a rare
and beautiful feeling. Maybe it was the AA meeting that gave us a
little high or maybe it was the sunshine…I don’t know and I don’t care.
All I know is that afternoon I felt like I really connected to you.
And that is the most amazing thing about life–interacting with
other human beings. Everyone I meet teaches me something. Some people
teach me how to do things, some people teach me how not to do things.
But everyone teaches me something.
From you I learned to live in the moment. Truthfully, it’s all
we have. Sometimes I look into the future and sometimes I look into the
past, and when I do either of those things I miss the absolute beauty
of the present. And yet the present is difficult because it demands
that I be honest. The past and the future allow me to create scenarios
that may not have happened or that may never happen. Living in the
moment does not allow this. And being honest is hard because
sometimes it’s the dream of the past or the dream of the future that I
really like to chase.
Of course you already know that you bring out the gangsta in
me. But I also want you to know that besides making me want to pimp
ho’s and carjack somebody, you bring out some other excellent qualities
in me as well. Basically, you’ve encouraged me to be a better
communicator, and I’ve decided to pay you back with some truly honest
words.
And that’s why I’m writing. I’d love to come to san diego to
see you but I can’t come out if you are in a relationship. You might be
saying, “Who invited Christian to San Diego anyway?” I did. I invited
myself. And as much as I’d love to see you I don’t think it would be
healthy for either or us if I came out there while you were dating
someone. I don’t say that because I want something physical to happen.
I have plenty of bitches here in NY for that. I say that because I like
you. There. You heard it. Hinda N----, I like you.
Now don’t get teary-eyed. this is not a love letter. This is
a “like” letter. The “like” letter always comes before the love letter.
And sometimes after the love letter comes the hate letter, but not all
the time–thankfully. So stop laughing already, I’m trying to be serious
here!
Now I don’t dare look too far into the future. You’ll have to
use my big bald head for that. But if I take a little peek into the
past I see that we had a lot of fun and all I want is to try and do it
again. You know my motto: Let’s do it. Well, I have another one: Let’s
do it again.
So I don’t know what you’re going to think of all this but I
had such a great time with you here in New York that I would regret not
telling you, or worse, not telling you that I want to see you again.
Life is short, we have to take risks. Being honest with you is risky
but it’s a chance I’m willing to take.
Like I said before, I have no idea what the future holds but
it’s not in my nature to sit back and wait to find out. Everything I
ever wanted out of life I had to go out there and get. Beuatiful women
don’t just come knocking on my door. Well, not all the time. Sometimes
they get the key from the cleaners and let themselves in.
I know we joked about me not making a move….well, now I’ve made
one.
Write back.
Oh, I'm totally going to.
Thursday, April 20, 2006
Digging My Way Out of the Trenches
Life, as you all know, is riddled with peaks and valleys. The peaks can often get so high you forget how low you were, even if it was only a few days ago. Riding the gnarliest waves of success can leave you unprepared for wiping out in the cruel blue crush of...okay, I lost my way with this stupid surfing analogy. The point is, even when everything seems to be going right, it is best to remember that they can fall apart at any minute. How did I get here?
Conversely, when you're down for the count, what hope is left in your soul? When all you can see for miles are the footprints of your failure, there IS no path to success. Then suddenly....It's all very slow. The road evens out, elevates and next thing you know you're looking out at the world below you and opportunity flows, seemingly, from everywhere and nowhere all at once. How did I get here?
I won't go into details, as it is too early to tell, but for the first time in months (years? decades? fashion eras?) I feel as if things are looking up for me. A part of me is excited at the prospect of regaining my autonomy. If there's one thing I hate, it's depending on anyone for anything. Yet, another part of me is afraid that this is another false safety net and should I continue this high-wire act, there's nothing there to catch me. Wow, I'm really into these mataphors today. Still another, the more bombastic part of me, is ready to take whatever life hands me and run as far as these tremendous gams can take me. How did I get here?
I'm here because of stupid decisions, regrettable mistakes, fortunate mishaps and a dash of destiny. That's solved. The more important matter at hand is, where will I go from here? If I have learned from any of those decisions, et al , which I think I have, anywhere and everywhere. The world is so vast and I'm so young and ALL that good shit. Right now, I don't really care where I'm going, just as long as I have fun on the way.
HAPPY 420, KIDS!!!
Conversely, when you're down for the count, what hope is left in your soul? When all you can see for miles are the footprints of your failure, there IS no path to success. Then suddenly....It's all very slow. The road evens out, elevates and next thing you know you're looking out at the world below you and opportunity flows, seemingly, from everywhere and nowhere all at once. How did I get here?
I won't go into details, as it is too early to tell, but for the first time in months (years? decades? fashion eras?) I feel as if things are looking up for me. A part of me is excited at the prospect of regaining my autonomy. If there's one thing I hate, it's depending on anyone for anything. Yet, another part of me is afraid that this is another false safety net and should I continue this high-wire act, there's nothing there to catch me. Wow, I'm really into these mataphors today. Still another, the more bombastic part of me, is ready to take whatever life hands me and run as far as these tremendous gams can take me. How did I get here?
I'm here because of stupid decisions, regrettable mistakes, fortunate mishaps and a dash of destiny. That's solved. The more important matter at hand is, where will I go from here? If I have learned from any of those decisions, et al , which I think I have, anywhere and everywhere. The world is so vast and I'm so young and ALL that good shit. Right now, I don't really care where I'm going, just as long as I have fun on the way.
HAPPY 420, KIDS!!!
Friday, April 14, 2006
Raising the Gay Bar
Last night, my friend Drunkos and I went out gay barring. Much like gay clubbing, only with less dancing and fewer drugs. We sashayed in, as sashaying is our only means of transportation after a 60 oz bottle of sangria split between the two of us. And as we're both fragile mo's, we were considerably drunk as we sashayed into Phoenix last night.
Within like 5 minutes of us being there, Drunkos gets hit on by a cute-ish 32 year old skater-rocker guy, with one of those adorbale little chain belts for his wallet. They proceeded to talk/make out for the rest of the night and I, being the loser that I seem so intent on becoming, sat in a corner by myself, thumbing through an HX. I did get to read a sassy little interview with Pink, though. Who knew she did a track with the Indigo Girls for her latest album?
As I sat there in the corner, I reflected on my drunken state and the actual social situation I was in. A gathering of gay men, drinking and partaking in flimsy dialogues seems a simple enough situation. However, I could not bring myself to get past the superficialtity of it all. Once the skater man-boy came over and invited me to join the conversation, after Drunkos' unsuccesful attempt, he tried to spur me into action. Going so far as to call me "great-looking." I include that only because I like to read it and hear how it sounds in my head. He went on to say that, "We're all friends here. We all want the same thing."
And he was right. We're all guys. We're all gay or bi or queer in some fashion. So, what's the big deal?
For me, though, I do not see the few, broad similarities between us, but rather the few, albeit significant differences. For me, the queer world is still in black and white. There are the black gays and then there is everyone else. Whether this is a product of internallized racism or actual racist sentiment, I do not know. I rarely find myself attracted to other black gays, and thus I don't feel that anyone will be attracted to me, despite my "great-looking"ness. Then there is the fact that I am still not comfortable with myself or my sexuality. That epiphany of sorts came out, like most do, in an altered state of mind. If you just get lost in your thoughts sometimes, you can find yourself in some place you never expected or realized even existed. But when I can't even bring myself to accept myself for who I am, how can I possibly expect to find anyone to love me? Outside of just paying them, but who has escort money these days?
The differences aren't so important. I know that. I've learned that. Hell, I even teach that. But it's always hardest to take your own advice. Especially since I'm half in the bag most of the time, so how the hell would I know what I'm even talking about? Yet, I know that we are all humans, thus we all have some very important and fundamental needs in common. As in the need to love and be loved, and the need to be happy. So then I should just be able to pick my self-loathing black, gay ass up and start acknowledging our wonderful sameness, no? Fuck you. It's not that easy. But at least I realize what I need to do: Next time at a gay bar, I might just put down my free copy of HX, throw caution to the wind and actually crack a smile. If only at the absurdity of someone actually reading one of those cheap, greeting card-sized faux magazines in a dark, dank bar at 1 am on a Thursday night.
Within like 5 minutes of us being there, Drunkos gets hit on by a cute-ish 32 year old skater-rocker guy, with one of those adorbale little chain belts for his wallet. They proceeded to talk/make out for the rest of the night and I, being the loser that I seem so intent on becoming, sat in a corner by myself, thumbing through an HX. I did get to read a sassy little interview with Pink, though. Who knew she did a track with the Indigo Girls for her latest album?
As I sat there in the corner, I reflected on my drunken state and the actual social situation I was in. A gathering of gay men, drinking and partaking in flimsy dialogues seems a simple enough situation. However, I could not bring myself to get past the superficialtity of it all. Once the skater man-boy came over and invited me to join the conversation, after Drunkos' unsuccesful attempt, he tried to spur me into action. Going so far as to call me "great-looking." I include that only because I like to read it and hear how it sounds in my head. He went on to say that, "We're all friends here. We all want the same thing."
And he was right. We're all guys. We're all gay or bi or queer in some fashion. So, what's the big deal?
For me, though, I do not see the few, broad similarities between us, but rather the few, albeit significant differences. For me, the queer world is still in black and white. There are the black gays and then there is everyone else. Whether this is a product of internallized racism or actual racist sentiment, I do not know. I rarely find myself attracted to other black gays, and thus I don't feel that anyone will be attracted to me, despite my "great-looking"ness. Then there is the fact that I am still not comfortable with myself or my sexuality. That epiphany of sorts came out, like most do, in an altered state of mind. If you just get lost in your thoughts sometimes, you can find yourself in some place you never expected or realized even existed. But when I can't even bring myself to accept myself for who I am, how can I possibly expect to find anyone to love me? Outside of just paying them, but who has escort money these days?
The differences aren't so important. I know that. I've learned that. Hell, I even teach that. But it's always hardest to take your own advice. Especially since I'm half in the bag most of the time, so how the hell would I know what I'm even talking about? Yet, I know that we are all humans, thus we all have some very important and fundamental needs in common. As in the need to love and be loved, and the need to be happy. So then I should just be able to pick my self-loathing black, gay ass up and start acknowledging our wonderful sameness, no? Fuck you. It's not that easy. But at least I realize what I need to do: Next time at a gay bar, I might just put down my free copy of HX, throw caution to the wind and actually crack a smile. If only at the absurdity of someone actually reading one of those cheap, greeting card-sized faux magazines in a dark, dank bar at 1 am on a Thursday night.
Wednesday, April 05, 2006
My Favorite Quote Today:
"Two equally racist men, one white, one black, who are habitual pot smokers, even though they hate each other, will still sit down and smoke a joint together without a second's hesitation if the situation arises; they may even invite the Mexican."
--Shoutwire
--Shoutwire
Tuesday, April 04, 2006
The Broke Stoner's Guide to Getting, Staying and Dying High
Hey Kids.
Being a 20 year old college dropout, times often get hard and the purse strings have to be pulled a little tight. So tight that you couldn't squeeze a dime out of your purse's pursed, virginal lips. Now is such a time.
So what is a pothead to do? Sure, one could simply not smoke and wait til one's situation improves...but that would make one a fucking quitter. Instead, here are a few suggestions and ideas to quench your THC thirst:
1. Resin D'etre
Get your bong, water pipe, bowl or whatever paraphanelia have you and let's begin. Resin is gold. Black gold. It's that nasty gunk left over in your piece after you've smoked. The fastidious might be tempted to clean it, but if you're poor like me, that's just dumb. If you scrape it out and let it dry, if it needs to, you can smoke that turdesque matter. Then it's like a "Golden Girls" clip show, where you re-experience all the different varieties of bud you've smoked and you get to see just how many priceless expressions of exhaustion Dorothy has for one of Rose's St. Olaff stories.
2. Roach Hotel, Motel, Holiday Inn
I know this might be hard at first, but let's all put forward a good effort, hm? Now, when you're swimming in the universe's infinite beauty, just puffing away on that joint and/or blunt, you must resist the temptation to stick it in between your teeth and suck it drier than [insert dirty, preferbly racist, double entendre here]. Instead, tuck that roach away for a rainy day. When the time comes to use it, you can stick in a bowl or just finish off where you started days, weeks, possibly months before.
3. Us and Stem
There's a reason why marijuana has stems. Mostly it's because it's a plant and it needs to grow on something, but the other, more practical reason, is that you can smoke those tiny little green sticks. You just break them up and stuff them into a bowl, light up and then you'll notice a strange scent. It's weed, for sure, but it also has a bit of a lacquer bouquet to it. Like someone just finished shining yourshoes and now you're burning them three inches from your face. It's mildly unpleasant and will most likely leave a hole in your throat, but it gets the job done, Lambs. Well, not really. Smoking stems barely gets you high, but at least it staves off the chills of sobriety.
4. Frontin', Sucker MCs
If you have a special relationship with your dealer, you might be able to front a small amount of pot. I'd gladly pay you Tuesday, for a dime bag today, i.e. the Wimpy Rule. Be careful, though, as most dealers are shiesty little fuckers and before you know it, you'll be sucking him off in the alley way by your job in the middle of the day as a toothless bum jacks off to it, all for your daily fix.
Not that that's a bad thing. Hell, if I could give head for weed, I'd just walk around with knee pads and mouthwash. Then I could use my money to get some new kicks. Sweet.
That's all I can think of/feel like writing right now. If any of my (three) readers has any ideas, post those shits.
Being a 20 year old college dropout, times often get hard and the purse strings have to be pulled a little tight. So tight that you couldn't squeeze a dime out of your purse's pursed, virginal lips. Now is such a time.
So what is a pothead to do? Sure, one could simply not smoke and wait til one's situation improves...but that would make one a fucking quitter. Instead, here are a few suggestions and ideas to quench your THC thirst:
1. Resin D'etre
Get your bong, water pipe, bowl or whatever paraphanelia have you and let's begin. Resin is gold. Black gold. It's that nasty gunk left over in your piece after you've smoked. The fastidious might be tempted to clean it, but if you're poor like me, that's just dumb. If you scrape it out and let it dry, if it needs to, you can smoke that turdesque matter. Then it's like a "Golden Girls" clip show, where you re-experience all the different varieties of bud you've smoked and you get to see just how many priceless expressions of exhaustion Dorothy has for one of Rose's St. Olaff stories.
2. Roach Hotel, Motel, Holiday Inn
I know this might be hard at first, but let's all put forward a good effort, hm? Now, when you're swimming in the universe's infinite beauty, just puffing away on that joint and/or blunt, you must resist the temptation to stick it in between your teeth and suck it drier than [insert dirty, preferbly racist, double entendre here]. Instead, tuck that roach away for a rainy day. When the time comes to use it, you can stick in a bowl or just finish off where you started days, weeks, possibly months before.
3. Us and Stem
There's a reason why marijuana has stems. Mostly it's because it's a plant and it needs to grow on something, but the other, more practical reason, is that you can smoke those tiny little green sticks. You just break them up and stuff them into a bowl, light up and then you'll notice a strange scent. It's weed, for sure, but it also has a bit of a lacquer bouquet to it. Like someone just finished shining yourshoes and now you're burning them three inches from your face. It's mildly unpleasant and will most likely leave a hole in your throat, but it gets the job done, Lambs. Well, not really. Smoking stems barely gets you high, but at least it staves off the chills of sobriety.
4. Frontin', Sucker MCs
If you have a special relationship with your dealer, you might be able to front a small amount of pot. I'd gladly pay you Tuesday, for a dime bag today, i.e. the Wimpy Rule. Be careful, though, as most dealers are shiesty little fuckers and before you know it, you'll be sucking him off in the alley way by your job in the middle of the day as a toothless bum jacks off to it, all for your daily fix.
Not that that's a bad thing. Hell, if I could give head for weed, I'd just walk around with knee pads and mouthwash. Then I could use my money to get some new kicks. Sweet.
That's all I can think of/feel like writing right now. If any of my (three) readers has any ideas, post those shits.
Thursday, March 30, 2006
Strangers on a Train
I find myself falling in love with more and more guys daily.
It's spring, I already know that. The sudden emergence of sunshine, warm weather and pretty, smelly flowers signal every species in this vast metropolitan animal kingdom to copulate til their copulates fall right off. Come May, I'll be humping every muscular calf to pass in my line of vision. The 'why' doesn't concern me. It's the "what the hell can I do about it" that's really the rub.
Like 30 billion other people, I ride the subway every morning to work. And every day I am bombarded by a cavalcade of attractive men, with whom I'm trapped for minutes at a time, undergound, with limited oxygen and space. Often, we're pressed together like two horny, desperate sardines in one large, rectangular can. Wow, I didn't know fish could be such a turn on...
Now that I've jacked off, I'm reminded of the point I was trying to come to a few sentences ago. With so much fesh man meat dangling before my mouth on a maddeningly constant basis, is it appropriate to take the bait?
OMG, how Carrie Bradshaw do I feel right now?
A friend and I were discussing this particular issue over sangrias and tears last night. He told me that he feels the same way, what with us both being frustrated, self-loathing gays and all. Apparently, a relatively attractive guy came up to him on the subway. Now mind you, this is New York, so his subsequent reaction is rather logical. If a strange man came up to you on the subway, making a face I'm sure he though was sexy, but most likely was just plain creepy, you'd get off 3 stops early and walk to your destination in the middle of January too.
And that's what I fear. If I were to ever bite the mullet and sashay over to a stud/hunk/hot nerd on the 6, would my advances be rebuffed in a similar fashion? I guess the only way would be to try. Here is where a better writer, or at least a writer more bold than I, would make a grand declaration to find this out. Perhaps, dressing up like a fat woman and then conducting my "social experiment" on unsuspecting, hidden-camera'd individuals. Thus, I'd be able to test society's views of subway come-ons and make fun of the morbidly obese. Just like Tyra.
But I'm just not that bitch. If I were, though, I'd wear bangs more often because that forehead is getting out of control.
It's spring, I already know that. The sudden emergence of sunshine, warm weather and pretty, smelly flowers signal every species in this vast metropolitan animal kingdom to copulate til their copulates fall right off. Come May, I'll be humping every muscular calf to pass in my line of vision. The 'why' doesn't concern me. It's the "what the hell can I do about it" that's really the rub.
Like 30 billion other people, I ride the subway every morning to work. And every day I am bombarded by a cavalcade of attractive men, with whom I'm trapped for minutes at a time, undergound, with limited oxygen and space. Often, we're pressed together like two horny, desperate sardines in one large, rectangular can. Wow, I didn't know fish could be such a turn on...
Now that I've jacked off, I'm reminded of the point I was trying to come to a few sentences ago. With so much fesh man meat dangling before my mouth on a maddeningly constant basis, is it appropriate to take the bait?
OMG, how Carrie Bradshaw do I feel right now?
A friend and I were discussing this particular issue over sangrias and tears last night. He told me that he feels the same way, what with us both being frustrated, self-loathing gays and all. Apparently, a relatively attractive guy came up to him on the subway. Now mind you, this is New York, so his subsequent reaction is rather logical. If a strange man came up to you on the subway, making a face I'm sure he though was sexy, but most likely was just plain creepy, you'd get off 3 stops early and walk to your destination in the middle of January too.
And that's what I fear. If I were to ever bite the mullet and sashay over to a stud/hunk/hot nerd on the 6, would my advances be rebuffed in a similar fashion? I guess the only way would be to try. Here is where a better writer, or at least a writer more bold than I, would make a grand declaration to find this out. Perhaps, dressing up like a fat woman and then conducting my "social experiment" on unsuspecting, hidden-camera'd individuals. Thus, I'd be able to test society's views of subway come-ons and make fun of the morbidly obese. Just like Tyra.
But I'm just not that bitch. If I were, though, I'd wear bangs more often because that forehead is getting out of control.
Wednesday, March 22, 2006
Looking for Gay Love in the Big City....
...on Craigslist:
"any yuppies need oral service on way home? - 28"
"PLUMP BUBBLE ASS HERE TO MASSAGE and EAT... - 28"
"my Azz is Horny - 26"
"Any RAW BLACK TOPS looking for a White Virgin BTTM - 23"
"Petite white boy for Black Men - 28"
"I love thugged out white/latin boys - 31"
"***Brokeback Mountain Buddy*** - 34" This one at least promises a relationship with it's cowboy love story-inspired title..even if that love will only end in heartbreak and cheesy 80s mustaches.
"GAM Looking for to Date - 26" I would love to think it's just a fabulous, disembodied leg, but alas...
"Muscle bottom wants some - 28" I kinda want to hit this one based on his pic alone, but this is the internet and he's probably a fat, hairy 70 year old woman into kinky shit....on second thought, what was their email?
"any yuppies need oral service on way home? - 28"
"PLUMP BUBBLE ASS HERE TO MASSAGE and EAT... - 28"
"my Azz is Horny - 26"
"Any RAW BLACK TOPS looking for a White Virgin BTTM - 23"
"Petite white boy for Black Men - 28"
"I love thugged out white/latin boys - 31"
"***Brokeback Mountain Buddy*** - 34" This one at least promises a relationship with it's cowboy love story-inspired title..even if that love will only end in heartbreak and cheesy 80s mustaches.
"GAM Looking for to Date - 26" I would love to think it's just a fabulous, disembodied leg, but alas...
"Muscle bottom wants some - 28" I kinda want to hit this one based on his pic alone, but this is the internet and he's probably a fat, hairy 70 year old woman into kinky shit....on second thought, what was their email?
The Merits of a Meritless Generation
What do we have to offer? This blogging, internet-savy, plugged in, tuned out generation--what do we have to offer, well besides sass and uncalled for sarcasm?
Trick question!
When you have those aforementioned qualities, you really don't need anything else. We stand not on the shoulders of our meth-addicted ancestors, but on the bones of the disillusioned youth of generations passed. We saw what protesting, univeral love and other high-minded ideas got them, so my peers, rather knowingly or not, have processed history and distilled out the rich minerals from which we shall build the future: greed and apathy. To put it simply, this generation just don't give a shit. The world's falling down around me, yet I realize not only am I powerless to stop it, but I could care less about what happens as long as it doesn't affect me personally.
But can you really blame me? Everything that has happened, globally and nationally, the generation currently in charge has just let it happen. Letting the government run rampant and unchecked, supporting a useless and increasingly bleek war, ignoring the crises on our own shores and the ones America has directly/indirectly caused and pursuing the almighty euro in sacrifice of everything else; with a model like that, is it so hard to source where the values of someone my age truly lie? Hope is a fool's luxury, kids.
We're all depressed, on drugs and getting dumber as the years wear on. Not all of us, of course, as there are exceptions to all ruless. See: gay republicans, straight choreographers--Fosse? Really?--etc. There is a crop of twenty-somethings coming up who are conservative, savvy and ruthless--a throwback to that shoulder-padded glory era of yuppie dominance--but the 80s are always coming back. The general assumption is that everyone 18-25 or so is a liberal, a democrat or at least a moderate, but the country itself has shifted so dramatically to the right that the majority of us are conervative on some level. Take into account that the future lies in the hands of the educated and the priviliged, hands that are ignorant to the toil of hard work and have forever been pampered with the warmest/silkiest of oils, I like patchouli, and it seems that we as a nation have only begun our obsession with all things that hang to the right.
But if there is one thing I am proud of in my contemporaries, besides the six pack abs and rock hard pecs that have become requisite for any male old enough to curl a dumbbell, it is the acceptance of the queers. This is literally, the gayest generation, like, ever. My teenage years weren't the greatest, but the biggest problem in my life was never that I was gay. It was an issue, but there were so many resources available to me, be it the internet, support groups, the local gay bar--and I grew up in upstate New York, above said gay bar--that I never feared what might happen to me in the halls once the school bell rang. Also, race has become so blurred in 20 odd 6, with the multiracials representing a larger and larger percentage of the population,* that I feel racism is slowly but surely on its way out of the country. However, for this to truly happen, someone's gotta take the necessary steps, once someone knows just what the hell those steps are.
Who'll be the next great leader? Who's willing to step up and lead us all into a brave, new world?...Anyone? No, not today? You know, that was really a rhetorical...nevermind. I kind of lost interest in what I was doing, anyway. Whatever. What was I going to say? Oh, yeah. Someone's going to have to step up to the plate and lead this generaton and future others...oh, fuck, I don't even believe what I'm saying anymore. Fuck it.
*I don't do research...so FUCK you.
Trick question!
When you have those aforementioned qualities, you really don't need anything else. We stand not on the shoulders of our meth-addicted ancestors, but on the bones of the disillusioned youth of generations passed. We saw what protesting, univeral love and other high-minded ideas got them, so my peers, rather knowingly or not, have processed history and distilled out the rich minerals from which we shall build the future: greed and apathy. To put it simply, this generation just don't give a shit. The world's falling down around me, yet I realize not only am I powerless to stop it, but I could care less about what happens as long as it doesn't affect me personally.
But can you really blame me? Everything that has happened, globally and nationally, the generation currently in charge has just let it happen. Letting the government run rampant and unchecked, supporting a useless and increasingly bleek war, ignoring the crises on our own shores and the ones America has directly/indirectly caused and pursuing the almighty euro in sacrifice of everything else; with a model like that, is it so hard to source where the values of someone my age truly lie? Hope is a fool's luxury, kids.
We're all depressed, on drugs and getting dumber as the years wear on. Not all of us, of course, as there are exceptions to all ruless. See: gay republicans, straight choreographers--Fosse? Really?--etc. There is a crop of twenty-somethings coming up who are conservative, savvy and ruthless--a throwback to that shoulder-padded glory era of yuppie dominance--but the 80s are always coming back. The general assumption is that everyone 18-25 or so is a liberal, a democrat or at least a moderate, but the country itself has shifted so dramatically to the right that the majority of us are conervative on some level. Take into account that the future lies in the hands of the educated and the priviliged, hands that are ignorant to the toil of hard work and have forever been pampered with the warmest/silkiest of oils, I like patchouli, and it seems that we as a nation have only begun our obsession with all things that hang to the right.
But if there is one thing I am proud of in my contemporaries, besides the six pack abs and rock hard pecs that have become requisite for any male old enough to curl a dumbbell, it is the acceptance of the queers. This is literally, the gayest generation, like, ever. My teenage years weren't the greatest, but the biggest problem in my life was never that I was gay. It was an issue, but there were so many resources available to me, be it the internet, support groups, the local gay bar--and I grew up in upstate New York, above said gay bar--that I never feared what might happen to me in the halls once the school bell rang. Also, race has become so blurred in 20 odd 6, with the multiracials representing a larger and larger percentage of the population,* that I feel racism is slowly but surely on its way out of the country. However, for this to truly happen, someone's gotta take the necessary steps, once someone knows just what the hell those steps are.
Who'll be the next great leader? Who's willing to step up and lead us all into a brave, new world?...Anyone? No, not today? You know, that was really a rhetorical...nevermind. I kind of lost interest in what I was doing, anyway. Whatever. What was I going to say? Oh, yeah. Someone's going to have to step up to the plate and lead this generaton and future others...oh, fuck, I don't even believe what I'm saying anymore. Fuck it.
*I don't do research...so FUCK you.
Tuesday, March 21, 2006
I, Stoner
Some would disagree, but it's not easy being a stoner. Sure, lazying about all day, trading off between DVDs of "Cheech & Chong: Still Smokin'," "Half Baked" and "Dude, Where's My Car?", listening to your favorite 3-hour Phish jam and eating a salad bowl full of shrimp Ramen sounds like a walk in the park, but most stoners I know aren't like that. You know, lame.
Rather, I'm talking about the societal pressures, the stigma and the often uncalled for vitriol we as potheads must endure in our everyday lives. No one takes us seriously because we're always giggling. No gay in this town will even look at me once they smell my jacket. And if you come high to work, people want to be all up in your shit like they fucked your mother or something. Really though, is it so wrong to want/need to be high every moment of your life only because the pain of reality is too much to bear? Because last time I checked this was still New York and not bitch-ass, straight-edge faggot loser town.
I recently proclaimed that I was cutting back on smoking the reefa, for the fifth time this month, only to reneg on this promise once the voices started getting a little too real. I'm lethargic, my cough is hacking and usuaully produces some unsightly green mucus and I tend to overeat whenever I'm high, so I thought the obvious conclusion was to relax on the joint tossing. But cutting back's for quitters. Next thing you know, I'm like 5 years sober and a born-again Christian. I've seen those people, and though spending the majority of my life on my knees in polyester sounds enticing, I'll have to pass. Smoking is just too much fun. I have,instead, chosen to accept my fate and declare, I, Stoner. Hey, that's just who I am right now; bitter, cantakerous and sarcastic with a blunt eternally strapped to my inner thigh...just in case.
And I also plan on smoking the smart way. By using a vaporizer, I can preserve my throat. I'm going to start taking vitamins for energy and my overall health. And I'm already on a diet so I'm going to start eating and snacking much better. All in the effort to avoid doing the responsible and logical thing because in the end, I'm gonna get fucked up one way or another. And that knowledge just gives me the comfort I need to fall asleep at night...that and the bong right in reaching distance from my bed. You know, just in case.
Rather, I'm talking about the societal pressures, the stigma and the often uncalled for vitriol we as potheads must endure in our everyday lives. No one takes us seriously because we're always giggling. No gay in this town will even look at me once they smell my jacket. And if you come high to work, people want to be all up in your shit like they fucked your mother or something. Really though, is it so wrong to want/need to be high every moment of your life only because the pain of reality is too much to bear? Because last time I checked this was still New York and not bitch-ass, straight-edge faggot loser town.
I recently proclaimed that I was cutting back on smoking the reefa, for the fifth time this month, only to reneg on this promise once the voices started getting a little too real. I'm lethargic, my cough is hacking and usuaully produces some unsightly green mucus and I tend to overeat whenever I'm high, so I thought the obvious conclusion was to relax on the joint tossing. But cutting back's for quitters. Next thing you know, I'm like 5 years sober and a born-again Christian. I've seen those people, and though spending the majority of my life on my knees in polyester sounds enticing, I'll have to pass. Smoking is just too much fun. I have,instead, chosen to accept my fate and declare, I, Stoner. Hey, that's just who I am right now; bitter, cantakerous and sarcastic with a blunt eternally strapped to my inner thigh...just in case.
And I also plan on smoking the smart way. By using a vaporizer, I can preserve my throat. I'm going to start taking vitamins for energy and my overall health. And I'm already on a diet so I'm going to start eating and snacking much better. All in the effort to avoid doing the responsible and logical thing because in the end, I'm gonna get fucked up one way or another. And that knowledge just gives me the comfort I need to fall asleep at night...that and the bong right in reaching distance from my bed. You know, just in case.
Thursday, February 23, 2006
Am I Hot?
Ohmigod, did I miss something? Maybe it's because I'm always high or whatever, but I think I might be hot. Or maybe in the beginning stages of hot.
I've always been that heavy kid with glasses and occaionally nappy hair, and to an extent I still am. However, I just recently shaved my head and now I've been noticing a lot more attention being paid to little old me. I'm getting a bit flustered, perchaps it's the vapors, the VAPORS!! The vapors? But I'm not sure how to tell what's going on? Are hot and mildly attractive guys looking at me because there's something on my face that I didn't catch before leaving the safety of the indoors? I mean, I could understand a couple of days of that happening, but there's a consistency I've been experiencing. For instance, take ten minutes ago. If you can remember that far back, what with the war going on and all.(Perhaps a little too Woody Allen?)
I was walking down the street back to work, and I was blazed like chestnuts on that proverbial open hearth fire, when I saw this, for lack of a more emphatic adjective, GORGEOUS guy coming from the opposite direction. Normally, I'd just try to catch a few passing glimpses without arising suspect from him. But at the time, and in my condition, I was staring at everything, one of the benefits of being stoned in the city.
You know, after living in New York for a while, you get kind of tired of it. Well, I did. I became desensitized to the diversity and vibrancy of this city because I fell into a routine of going to school, going to work, always going somewhere or staying and vegging out. But when I go anywhere else, like Poughkeepsie, I realize just how shitty everywhere else is compared to NYC, Manhattan especially. New Yorkers don't live in the real world. We live in left-wing, blow job giving, coke-snorting paradise that very few people have experienced. It's just not that exciting when you live it everyday. Thats why I get high. I appreciate things more, put things into perspective and gain focus often lost in the daily grind of life. And I get a nice little buzz to take me through the day.
But I was walking on the street when I saw this GORGEOUS guy walking towards me. I glanced at him, and yay saw it was good, then I did one of those lurid scans, from sole to scalp. And I got a little wet downstairs. As I walked by him, he caught me staring at him and--normally this would devolve into some unfinished homoerotic fantasy I was so fond of writing in high school...and now--cocked his head to the side and gave me a weird smile. Then it looked as if he said something, but my headphones were blasting ABBA so I missed it. I'm not sure what it was all about, but my heart kind of skipped a beat a bit. I thought that maybe he was straight and just really cocky, as if daring me to gaze or some shit, but then I remember how he was dressed. Very 'mo, but in this day and age, who knows anymore?
Not the sultriest of stories, I know, but I'm 20, single and a virgin. I'll take whatever I can get. However, it's moments like these that boost my confidence to one day, maybe even kiss a boy. WHOA! Head rush. Baby steps, Cheki, Baby steps.
I've always been that heavy kid with glasses and occaionally nappy hair, and to an extent I still am. However, I just recently shaved my head and now I've been noticing a lot more attention being paid to little old me. I'm getting a bit flustered, perchaps it's the vapors, the VAPORS!! The vapors? But I'm not sure how to tell what's going on? Are hot and mildly attractive guys looking at me because there's something on my face that I didn't catch before leaving the safety of the indoors? I mean, I could understand a couple of days of that happening, but there's a consistency I've been experiencing. For instance, take ten minutes ago. If you can remember that far back, what with the war going on and all.(Perhaps a little too Woody Allen?)
I was walking down the street back to work, and I was blazed like chestnuts on that proverbial open hearth fire, when I saw this, for lack of a more emphatic adjective, GORGEOUS guy coming from the opposite direction. Normally, I'd just try to catch a few passing glimpses without arising suspect from him. But at the time, and in my condition, I was staring at everything, one of the benefits of being stoned in the city.
You know, after living in New York for a while, you get kind of tired of it. Well, I did. I became desensitized to the diversity and vibrancy of this city because I fell into a routine of going to school, going to work, always going somewhere or staying and vegging out. But when I go anywhere else, like Poughkeepsie, I realize just how shitty everywhere else is compared to NYC, Manhattan especially. New Yorkers don't live in the real world. We live in left-wing, blow job giving, coke-snorting paradise that very few people have experienced. It's just not that exciting when you live it everyday. Thats why I get high. I appreciate things more, put things into perspective and gain focus often lost in the daily grind of life. And I get a nice little buzz to take me through the day.
But I was walking on the street when I saw this GORGEOUS guy walking towards me. I glanced at him, and yay saw it was good, then I did one of those lurid scans, from sole to scalp. And I got a little wet downstairs. As I walked by him, he caught me staring at him and--normally this would devolve into some unfinished homoerotic fantasy I was so fond of writing in high school...and now--cocked his head to the side and gave me a weird smile. Then it looked as if he said something, but my headphones were blasting ABBA so I missed it. I'm not sure what it was all about, but my heart kind of skipped a beat a bit. I thought that maybe he was straight and just really cocky, as if daring me to gaze or some shit, but then I remember how he was dressed. Very 'mo, but in this day and age, who knows anymore?
Not the sultriest of stories, I know, but I'm 20, single and a virgin. I'll take whatever I can get. However, it's moments like these that boost my confidence to one day, maybe even kiss a boy. WHOA! Head rush. Baby steps, Cheki, Baby steps.
Wednesday, February 22, 2006
Scene 1
Franky (on phone): Hmm, hi. I, uh, recently saw a, an, uh, ad, for a study. Paying 100 bucks, dollars, and I was wondering if--well, the ad said nonsmokers, and I was wondering what that entails....mmhmm, tobacco and marijuana...how about crack?....hello?
Kindness
I'm SOOOOOOO HIIIIIGH, you guys!
Well, I was. Now, I'm just sort of floating...floating...taste the grainbow.
Well, I was. Now, I'm just sort of floating...floating...taste the grainbow.
Acrimony
Do you ever feel like just putting a gun to a hobo's face just to see him shake in his toeless shoes? Just to have that feeling of power over someone, all the while knowing that no matter what, you're not him? When life deals you a bad hand, it's best to look at the homeless--not in the eyes because that's how they get ya--to get through the rest of the day. Those gnarled, wrinkled, toothless faces would give anyone a sense of accomplishment, no matter what might have transgressed earlier. But then there are those hobos that don't really give a shit and would gladly be put out of their misery. Stick a gun to their face and they might just pull the trigger. Or, if they're really badass, they'd just grab that gun from your manicured fingers and rob you of all your possessions. That is what I aspire to.
I had to sit through 35 minutes of telephone prompts and elevator music as I tried to get through to a real and actual Indian today. East Indian, as opposed to the raped and pillaged version. When they decided that speaking to a computer was a time saver, I do not know, but by the fifth time I yelled "Yes!" into the receiver only to be rebuffed by an automated "I'm sorry could you repeat that?" I was ready to choke myself with the phone cord. A pleasant enough death, I suppose, if unglamorous. I prefer to go out with fireworks and streamers, something that says, "DEATH! Starring ME!!" Needless, to say, by the end of that lost half an hour of my life, I was in rather poor spirts, only to be compounded by the revelation that something I was expecting was not to be expected any longer.
I was supposed to work not this Saturday, but next, proctoring an exam. I was excited for the fact, not because I'd be sitting in a room full of residents for 8 hours as they took an in-service exam, but rather for the fact that I'd be getting an extra 8 hours of work in my paycheck and free food. And free food is my middle name. I had t changed legally in '97. More importantly though, I was looking forward to seeing one of the doctors scheduled to take the exam that day. We had had minor conversation for the first time last week and I do believe I caught him staring at me one day. Big mistake on his part. The second a guy shows any remote interest in me is the moment he gets a new stalker. I'm not saying I'm desperate for attention or anything, but this virginity's not fucking itself away, if you catch ma drift. And he's a young, hot doctor. Not only is he out of my league, but I'm pretty sure we're not in the same species. But I was hoping to take this opportunity on not this Saturday, but the next to get some valuable face time with this guy and now...:-(
Oh, well. Nothing probably would have come from it anyway. It never does. I'm the dating equivalent of an infant. I'm all smiles and odd stares only to soil myself as soon as the object of my affection so much as looks at me. At this point in my life, I kind of just want to get it over with. Just put runway lights leading up to my crotch. Is that subtle enough. Or maybe I could become a street hustler. I just saw "Mysterious Skin" with my new future ex-boyfriend, Joey Gordon Levitt. There's something very intriguing about throwing your body to the wind and not caring about the consequences. I can see myself now, bedecked in gold lame booty shorts and nothing else, skulking my way across Chelsea, getting picked up by fat, hairy johns who know how to treat a dirty slut right.
But I'd never do it. If only because I need to feel in control. That life would spiral crazily, leading to me being addicted to meth, killing one of my customers and ending up in prison to be the butt boy for every Tom and hairy Dick in the joint. Perhaps not too bad a life--maybe I could even get married to someone with the colorful nickname "Ass Ravager." Then I'd be just like those badass hobos, not giving a shit, always ready to pull the trigger. No matter how horrible my day is, at least I'd be someone's bitch. And no one could ever take that away from me and my Ass Ravager Bill. But til the day I slip on the cootchie shorts and slip off my dignity, I guess I'll have to find new ways to cope with the general shittiness of life. In the distance, I can hear the faint bubble of a bong rip and I know that everything will somehow, someway be okay.
I had to sit through 35 minutes of telephone prompts and elevator music as I tried to get through to a real and actual Indian today. East Indian, as opposed to the raped and pillaged version. When they decided that speaking to a computer was a time saver, I do not know, but by the fifth time I yelled "Yes!" into the receiver only to be rebuffed by an automated "I'm sorry could you repeat that?" I was ready to choke myself with the phone cord. A pleasant enough death, I suppose, if unglamorous. I prefer to go out with fireworks and streamers, something that says, "DEATH! Starring ME!!" Needless, to say, by the end of that lost half an hour of my life, I was in rather poor spirts, only to be compounded by the revelation that something I was expecting was not to be expected any longer.
I was supposed to work not this Saturday, but next, proctoring an exam. I was excited for the fact, not because I'd be sitting in a room full of residents for 8 hours as they took an in-service exam, but rather for the fact that I'd be getting an extra 8 hours of work in my paycheck and free food. And free food is my middle name. I had t changed legally in '97. More importantly though, I was looking forward to seeing one of the doctors scheduled to take the exam that day. We had had minor conversation for the first time last week and I do believe I caught him staring at me one day. Big mistake on his part. The second a guy shows any remote interest in me is the moment he gets a new stalker. I'm not saying I'm desperate for attention or anything, but this virginity's not fucking itself away, if you catch ma drift. And he's a young, hot doctor. Not only is he out of my league, but I'm pretty sure we're not in the same species. But I was hoping to take this opportunity on not this Saturday, but the next to get some valuable face time with this guy and now...:-(
Oh, well. Nothing probably would have come from it anyway. It never does. I'm the dating equivalent of an infant. I'm all smiles and odd stares only to soil myself as soon as the object of my affection so much as looks at me. At this point in my life, I kind of just want to get it over with. Just put runway lights leading up to my crotch. Is that subtle enough. Or maybe I could become a street hustler. I just saw "Mysterious Skin" with my new future ex-boyfriend, Joey Gordon Levitt. There's something very intriguing about throwing your body to the wind and not caring about the consequences. I can see myself now, bedecked in gold lame booty shorts and nothing else, skulking my way across Chelsea, getting picked up by fat, hairy johns who know how to treat a dirty slut right.
But I'd never do it. If only because I need to feel in control. That life would spiral crazily, leading to me being addicted to meth, killing one of my customers and ending up in prison to be the butt boy for every Tom and hairy Dick in the joint. Perhaps not too bad a life--maybe I could even get married to someone with the colorful nickname "Ass Ravager." Then I'd be just like those badass hobos, not giving a shit, always ready to pull the trigger. No matter how horrible my day is, at least I'd be someone's bitch. And no one could ever take that away from me and my Ass Ravager Bill. But til the day I slip on the cootchie shorts and slip off my dignity, I guess I'll have to find new ways to cope with the general shittiness of life. In the distance, I can hear the faint bubble of a bong rip and I know that everything will somehow, someway be okay.
Sunday, February 19, 2006
Don't Call It A Cumback, I've Been Queer For Years
Please pardon the pun, but I thought I'd add a little hot sauce to this posting. It's been a while since I've updated, but the mob really does have ways to get their money and believe me when I say they're a tad bit inhumane. Once my ball hair grows back, I'll be, well, right as rain kids. Though for now, Momma's enjoying the breeze, even though my pleasure has been halved, but I don't really like to hold a grudge.
Anywho, a lot of shit's happened in the world, people dying, high ranking politicians shooting the geriatric, fading popstars riding ass to clit with their ungodly spawn et cetera, schmetcera. But it all means one and one thing alone: 2006 is the beginning of the end. That's right, kids, stuff your head in between your legs and take in your last whiff of life because we're all going to hell in a Chinatown Chanel clutch knockoff. I mean, just look at the damn stitching. Happy New Year!!
But really, though, this is me loving you.
Anywho, a lot of shit's happened in the world, people dying, high ranking politicians shooting the geriatric, fading popstars riding ass to clit with their ungodly spawn et cetera, schmetcera. But it all means one and one thing alone: 2006 is the beginning of the end. That's right, kids, stuff your head in between your legs and take in your last whiff of life because we're all going to hell in a Chinatown Chanel clutch knockoff. I mean, just look at the damn stitching. Happy New Year!!
But really, though, this is me loving you.
Friday, January 20, 2006
Don't Hate the Playa, Hate the Game!!!
And that game is Hands Up in 2006!
Hands up in 2006!
Gonna spell
The names of
PEOPLE!!!!!!!
PEOPLE!!!!!!!
Soylent green is PEOPLE!!!!!!!
But seriously, I've finally come up with the perfect pick up line:
"Ok, here's my propositon. I'm alone and awesome. As far as I can tell, you're also alone and awesome. Why not let's get together and be so fucking awesome the entire world has to sheild its eyes a bit?"
I can hear the manties droppiong already.
Hands up in 2006!
Gonna spell
The names of
PEOPLE!!!!!!!
PEOPLE!!!!!!!
Soylent green is PEOPLE!!!!!!!
But seriously, I've finally come up with the perfect pick up line:
"Ok, here's my propositon. I'm alone and awesome. As far as I can tell, you're also alone and awesome. Why not let's get together and be so fucking awesome the entire world has to sheild its eyes a bit?"
I can hear the manties droppiong already.
Monday, January 09, 2006
Like A Diva From the Ashes of Her Coked Out Nostrils...
Still I rise.
So, my roommates are fucking assholes and i just feel the need to write about it and get it out of my system. This catharsis will inevitably be completed by smoking a spliff and donning a mink stole to perform a fancy jig in the streets.
Then everything will be better once again.
And now that I'm finally out of that unimaginative hell, I can pursue my real dream: to start the first lesbian softball team the world has ever known. Some may call me foolish, i say I'm a visionary. Some may have laughed, but they can stick a snausage in their guffaws, because this guy's got plans!
I can hear Ethel Merman cackling "Everyting's Coming Up Roses" already.
So, my roommates are fucking assholes and i just feel the need to write about it and get it out of my system. This catharsis will inevitably be completed by smoking a spliff and donning a mink stole to perform a fancy jig in the streets.
Then everything will be better once again.
And now that I'm finally out of that unimaginative hell, I can pursue my real dream: to start the first lesbian softball team the world has ever known. Some may call me foolish, i say I'm a visionary. Some may have laughed, but they can stick a snausage in their guffaws, because this guy's got plans!
I can hear Ethel Merman cackling "Everyting's Coming Up Roses" already.
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