Withdrawal

I'm far too idealistic sometimes. I put so much hope and trust into one thing, only to be desparingly let down. True, I'm a cynic to the bone, disproportionatley bitter for my age, but oh, I love life. It's People I can do without. But life is extraordinary sometimes. Unfortunately, those sometimes come few and far between, leaving only the desperation and hopelessness. Yet for all the gloom hanging over us, there are those moments when you're in love with life. I just wish I could feel that way forever, to forever be in love.

I'm content. Right now, I am content. I've spent a lazy Sunday, watching movies from Netflix, high as a kite and twice as pretty, just trying to get out and over the night before. It was yet another disappointment, in one has become a running joke in my life. A party seems like such a simple thing. invite some friends over, drink, have fun and try not to say anything they might remember and hold against you in the future. Human relations are not simple, though. They cannot be because human emotions are too intense and consuming and only enhanced with the use of drugs and alcohol. But who can resist a room of their favorite people, loud music and conversations that at the time seem wonderfully meaningful?

The party was a bit of a failure, one that I took, like everything else, very personally. I like to think every emotion I feel has some greater resonance, some reason why. And I hate my job. It makes me want to die. Literally. It feels as if my life is not my own whenever I'm there, that my soul is no longer of use. I need to be in a creative atmosphere yet all I can do right now is work in an office. I am trapped by all these material things and I am utterly miserable. So why not throw a party?! A good olde housewarming party. My week was horrible, wrapped in depression and a growing sense of 'what the hell is it all for?' This party was to be my salvation, I thought. It wasn't. And I went to bed at 1 convinced I'd be unshakably withdrawn for the rest of the week.

And I might still. I like to run away from people and into myself when living becomes too much. I'm sure everyone does. Or maybe they do the opposite. Depends on who you are, I suppose. But as I lay on my bed this Sunday afternoon/evening, I don't care as I much as I thought I would. Yes, the party, and everything I had attached to it, delfated. That's life. A series of disappointments. I loathe the idea of going back to work tomorrow, though. I don't think I can handle it anymore. It's time to move on. The question is, will I be able to find the strength to move again. Have I gotten too comfortable, too lazy, too complacent to move? No, I cannot stay there. I cannot subject myself to such feelings daily. I must get out or I'll never get anywhere again.

But I'm ok. I watched my Netflix'd "The Hours" today. I had a very Mrs. Dalloway day yesterday. An ordinary day of errands for an inevitably frustrating party. It was wonderful. The movie, not the day. That something so tender, sensitive and revelatory can exist, gives me the reason in life I'm seeking. Art. To act, to write, to direct, to CREATE. I have to live in the hours of my life, no matter how hard they may seem. Or how pointless. After all, there is something waiting between them. Perhaps a great party. Or a great book. A great film. And the people I've been foolish/lucky enough to love.

All You Have to Do is Dreeeeaaam, Baby,We'll Be There... *And TWIRL*

So apparently I was the last gay in the world to see Dreamgirls, providing further evidence to have my 'mo card unceremoniously snatched from my immaculately manicured fingers. Ever since I heard about this movie, like around summer, I was a bit excited. And yes, that is an understatement. I was f-ing psyched. Especially when I started hearing the buzz. Standing O at Cannes! Oscar for Jennifer Hudson! Beyonce doesn't suck! What-what-what? Soon the anticipation became crippling. Living in NYC, I looked forward to seeing it before everyone else on Dec. 15th and then rubbing it in the rest of the gay nation's faggy face. Unfortunately, tickets were sold out until its wide release on Christmas Day. Thus I made it my mission to see the Dreams while in Poughkeepsie during the holiday. That, however didn't pan out, either on Christmas or the following weekend of New Years, as a bitch was too stoned and lazy to function. And I will not take your judgmental stares, either, mother fuckers. I'll tell you what, last person who looked at me like that got their left eye dug out with a plastic spork. Thus the new year dawned, miserably, by the way, and my manifest destiny's child was still out of my grasp. To make matters worse, I went to a friends' birthday party, steam packed with gays. Inevitably, the conversations turned towards Dreamgirls and I felt the cold Antarctic wind of the pariah, an outsider among outsiders. What kind of queen was I?! So, to comfort myself in the cold, Dream-less nights, I downloaded not only the regular soundtrack, but also the Deluxe Edition. 36 songs, y'all! Yet the shiny, bubbly 60s/70s Motown soul by way of Broadway with a quick detour in Vegas, only made me crave the accompanying visuals more. Finally, I saw it last weekend.

I liked it. Ok, really liked it. Didn't love it. It was really good. Not GREAT. As a movie, it's all right. The pacing's a bit off, and some of the characters and their relationships aren't developed that well. Actually most of the characters. You know who they are and what they're like, but not necessarily what drives them and why. That's really because there's very little in the way of dialogue in the movie. But it's a fucking musical. People's thoughts and feelings are expressed in elaborately staged numbers, much like how my thoughts and feelings are expressed on a daily basis. 5,6,7,8 I'm high! *And TWIRL!* The movie's lack of depth, though, is counterbalanced by the often thrilling performances and those damn, fabulous costumes. Eddie Murphy is surprisingly good. Lively, energetic and actually pretty sexy, while still human and tragic. Almost makes you forget that he made his last, like, 15 movies. Almost. Beyonce is actually rather capable as Deena Jones, except when given too much dramatic weight to carry on her dainty little shoulders. But Foxxy Cleopatra she is not. And her Diana Ross interpolation is awesome. Bitch remains a charismatic performer, if not a charismatic actress. And when she does that twirl during the "Dreamgirls" number, you realize that the girl probably killed Diana Ross and stole her essence because there's a new diva in town. Quick note: B apparently lost 20 lbs to play Deena Jones...I mean did she gain 40 lbs before losing it, or...just wondering. Gorgeous though. And Jenny Huds. Hi. Though her role didn't require that much acting, it did require a hell of a lot of emoting. You feel for Effie White, even when she's sassing the world with her big hips and even bigger voice. And what a voice. My face melted off during "And I'm Telling You (I'm Not Going)." How a relatively boring Jamie Foxx managed to walk out on that, is beyond me. Will it translate to an Oscar? I wouldn't be surprised, though the Academy might favor something less showy and with more acting. But any performance that can bring god in the room for 4:45 deserves attention. Oh, and how I do love when a star is born. In short, Dreamgirls, though not really worth all the hype, is still entertaining as balls. Big sequiny balls with some shimmery fringe and a beehive wig. It's full of magic so it's very easy to look past the weak-ish storyline and occasionally boring direction. I'm totally getting it when it comes out on DVD. And not from that little Asian woman in the subway, either.

Nothing Says Happy Holidays Like Grace Jones Singing 'Little Drummer Boy'

I just hoped there would be a dance break in the middle, where a dozen Grace Jones would march out and rip Pee Wee limb from limb, but I guess it was a family show. For the record, though, Pee Wee's guests included: Little Richard, k.d. lang, Zsa Zsa, Joan Rivers, Cher and I'm sure a tranny somewhere in there. A little flesh-tearing would have fit in just fine, thank you.

Edumacation

On my way to work, riding the elevator to the sixth floor, a doctor told me that I’m going to go prematurely deaf. He had entered the same time as I, too preoccupied with whatever he was reading to even say ‘excuse me’ when he bumped into me, but when the opening notes of the Supremes “Come See About Me” came marching out from my headphones, he took notice. “If I can hear that…” he began and I removed one headphone, so as not to be disrespectful, but the rest of what he said kind of just melted away. “I’ve been crying—prematurely deaf—boo hoo.” It’s not like I didn’t appreciate his concern, but this wasn’t the first time I’d heard that. Just like it wasn’t the first time that I nodded politely as I walked away, assuring my attempted savior that I would take their advice into consideration. What they don’t seem to understand is that I listen to my music so loudly so I don’t have to listen to anything or anyone else. The more disconnected with the rest of the world I am, the better. And if I end up deaf, which I’m sure I will, well, then it’s my own fault. It’s merely a consequence for a mistake. But most importantly, it’s MY mistake.

I’m beginning to feel the consequences of what may have been a potential mistake. Far too often, the practical side of my personality wins out over my idealistic side. I consider and reconsider every decision in my life, no matter how trivial, because I’m afraid of making the wrong decision. I’ve deliberated for half an hour what to buy for lunch only to decide that I’m not that hungry anymore. But then comes the time when I’m so tired of being afraid that I just say ‘the hell with it’ and jump headfirst into disaster. That dive is almost always immediately followed by regret. However, that was the rationale behind my decision not to go back to school. I wanted to take a chance and pursue writing, music, film, things that made me happiest. It’s like, if I don’t do it now, when will I? The logical step after finishing high school is college. You finish college, then either go onto grad school or find a job. That job will most likely not be in your desired career path, but, hey, bills add up. Eventually, hopefully, you find a job that utilizes that precious degree and those hard-earned skills, or you wake up one day in the same job and wonder exactly what went wrong. The answer is never simple, but following a set path practically invites fucking up somewhere along the line. Truthfully, I never wanted to go to college in the first place. I just wanted to get out of Poughkeepsie and matriculation was the clearest and easiest way to that. Mission: accomplished. Now what?

I was on the “traditional” path until I couldn’t afford NYU anymore, so I had to forge my own path. There was something very exciting in that, not knowing where I was going--I still don’t. But I felt a sort of beauty in fucking up. Everything was falling apart round me, being out of school, ending up homeless and being too stoned and drunk to really care. Disaster. All the while, I was half-heartedly promising myself and my friends that I was going to go back to school because that’s what I thought I was supposed to do and what I thought my friends wanted me to do. After all, what prospects are there for a college dropout? Then I realized that I didn’t want to go back to school. I didn’t want anymore debt, I didn’t want anymore useless classes and I sure as hell didn’t want to start over from scratch. NYU wasn’t about to release my transcript with the thousands of dollars I still owed them. So here I am. I managed to skip the whole finishing school thing and have gone onto the job for a job’s sake. I can’t help feeling twinges of regret, though. Sure I have a job now, but what about a year from now? The initial excitement I felt has decomposed into anxiety and, yes, fear.

On my daily commute to and from work, I notice ads for continuing education. Everyday people smile out at me, happy with their decision to go back to school and urging me to do the same. “Thanks to Interboro, I was able to make a better life for my kids.” Isn’t that sweet? Every time I see one of those ads, that regretting twinge rears its ugly head. How will I ever make a better life for my kids? How will I ever learn English so I can be more viable in the job market? How the hell will I ever start my own eye care business? I could always go back to NYU. I’m pretty sure they have eye care business as a major. I don’t believe it’s for me though. Not just ophthalmology—ha, big word—but university. It all comes down to structure and organization. For some people, they need that structure in order to thrive and that’s fine. I find, however, I need a lack of structure since it allows me to find my own way. If I’m told what to do, either by some well-meaning doctor, or by some clueless professor, I’ll simply ignore it. The world is all noise to me and I need to sort through it I order to find the sound that appeals to me most. And if I should go deaf in the process, well, at least I won’t have to listen to anyone ever again. A win-win situation, if you ask me.

This Mating Dance

Skin-tight T-shirts
They just love how you flirt
Butt-hugging jeans
You’re the star of the scene
2 drinks in hand, you storm the bar
To wake up next morning with no idea where you are
And your crotch has an itch you just can’t scratch
Yet you’re what some might call ‘quite a catch’
With gym-toned body and vacant stare
You left your glasses behind for a pair
Of contacts, now without a care
You go out each night, but find no one there

Take the lead in this mating dance
Just maybe you’ll put him in a trance
Then you can finally rest your feet
Finally feeling, that for once, you’re complete

Life’s filled with glee
When all your drugs are free
To keep things fun
You like not knowing what you’ve done
And with the beat in your ears
All anxiety melts and disappears
You think of old friends back home
While regretting that last drop of patron
Then push them out your mind
You just wanna have a good time
But in the mirror, behind that last line
‘The reflection staring back ain’t mine’

Take the lead in this mating dance
Just maybe you’ll put him in a trance
Then you can finally rest your feet
Finally feeling, that for once, you’re complete

Who are they all, crowded in together?
Young ones and old ones who should really know better
The stench of desperation fills the sweat-drenched air
As you sip one lonely drink by the bar in despair
It’s been too long, what does it hold for you?
But another hook up, another night to wash out your ‘do
Fat’s building up around your middle and the boys don’t look twice
Even the bartenders ignore a simple request for more ice
Defeated, you leave the old IT spot, unaware of the new
It’s been too long, what does it hold for you?

Take the lead in this mating dance
Just maybe you’ll put him in your trance
But maybe’s fickle, a 50-50 chance
Lean against the wall, sit out this tired mating dance

Celebrate Good Times, C'mon! FAWWWWNK!

Ooh, I just realized it's been (over) a year since I started my blog. An entire 11 months longer than I had expected my attention span to hold up. It's time to pop open some bubbly! Yeah, so what is' only noon, don't you dare fucking judge me.

It Looks Hopeless from Here but Admittedly I’m Near-Sighted

It looks hopeless from here but admittedly I’m near-sighted
I look to the sun, to see the bright side, you can’t say I didn’t try it
It only burned my eyes, the air filled with my cries, don’t sound too delighted
To see me fall, you know stars always fall the farthest and the world watches
Truth be told, I’m living in disappointment, been knocked down a few notches
But it hurts most to try, then fail, get back up and repeat the process
I can’t move forward because I’m always set back
I’d lift my head up, but I don’t know where my head’s at

Subsisting out of bags and on couches, I can’t shake it
I’m a burden to my friends, though you could debate it
‘Cause they’re all I have, in the pit of my stomach I hate it
Being a pariah, a motherless child if there was ever one created
She didn’t plan me, I supposed, being 42 and unwed
We ran to the states and I saw snow, the first time it fell
It was cold then and it never seemed to warm, oh well
If she ever loved me, I’ll never know, see we never discussed it
As I drop my head, moistened eyes, it’s like I’ve rehearsed it

I wish these days would halcyon up, let’s move the gloom along
Because I hate my life and my job but I know that it’s wrong
To look at the world, take a blind eye and sing your own sad song
Everything’s wrong, but everything’s wrong! Life is too long
Cruel little game we’re forced to play as if it’s our infinite duty
I hate the people who insist every day’s filled with infinite beauty
They’re too blind or simply they refuse to see the infinite cruelty
Wedged between those moments that make water fill your eyes
Expecting the worst leaves me open to be surprised

It looks hopeless from here but admittedly I’m near-sighted
I look to the sun, to see the bright side, you can’t say I didn’t try it
It only burned my eyes, the air filled with my cries, don’t sound too delighted
To see me fall, you know stars always fall the farthest and the world watches
Truth be told, I’m living in disappointment, been knocked down a few notches
But it hurts most to try, then fail get back up and repeat the process
I can’t move forward because I’m always set back
I’d lift my head up, but I don’t know where my head’s at

He Looks Like If Ryan Phillippe and John Stamos Had A Gay Baby

Hey Kids, remember this?
Well, I was trolling through youtube last night for something to wank off to when I found these gems:

Dissatisfaction

I’m beginning to think I need to make a change. I’m beginning to think that that may be easier than I had expected. I’m beginning to think that if I don’t make some sort of change, I’ll be stuck. And I’ve always hated being stuck.

New York is a myth, I’ve decided. It is a dream, a rumor, pure hearsay that has been propagated for centuries by movies, songs, literature and let’s not forget sitcoms. After all, Carrie Bradshaw figured prominently in mine and hundreds, if not thousands, of little gay boys wanting to successfully pull off a halter top and ballerina skirt while hailing a cab on Fifth Avenue. It’s also the small town mentality. To grow up in a town that you feel is too small to hold your larger than life dreams, the big city is the only outlet and the only reasonable solution. There, ah yes, THERE, people will understand me, will appreciate me and will love me. There I can get back at all the fuckheads who made life miserable for me. Where will they be in ten years? Doubtless stuck in the same nowhere town with the same nowhere jobs they’ve been working since high school, though I hear they’re a manager now. But when I wake up at 5:30 every morning to face hordes of shoving, malodorous, disgruntled people who hate their jobs and show up at the job I hate--stoned because I can’t take the idea of going out of the house sober--only to run through the same small talk with the same people, day in, day out, ad nauseum, well then… we’re all stuck aren’t we? Being in New York doesn’t automatically make life fabulous, only interesting; amusing at best. No, to participate in the mythology requires money and a lot of it. Which is what I don’t have. Ambition, tenacity, a lack of shame? Check, check and check. It’s just that damned price of admission.

I’m at the age where dreaming still isn’t a luxury. I’m young. I tend to forget that. And when I’m occasionally reminded of it, I get a surge of electricity through my body that seems to say ‘you don’t have to do anything you don’t want to, you’re barely old enough to drink and nowhere close to collecting social security, you don’t have to do this’.

Hey, I think I’ve got a little respiratory problem. I’ve been coughing and hacking up mucus for weeks. I think it’s from my sinuses, but surely the daily/hourly blunt smoking isn’t helping. Luckily, that’s clearing up, though and I’ll be able to stop grossing out everyone around me, myself included. Seriously, a long, green trail of slime from your lips to the garbage can is a bit of a turn off in some circles. My left shoulder hurts from that Hep B booster vaccine I just got yesterday. Technically, I don’t have Hep B, but my liver toxins are so high that they’re doing it as just a precaution. Liver or not, a girl’s gotta live and that apple martini last night was delicious. I’m running out of vodka, though…hmmm. Too bad I only have about a combined 6 dollars in my bank accounts. Until Friday anyway. Payday is always the greatest day, but it has to be after surviving the Day Before Payday. After spending my entire paycheck in five hours from paying bills and/or rent, well, the only money I have left over for myself gets rolled up and sucked into my lungs. Everything else--food, clothes, chiffon--must wait for another day, another week, month, year, lifetime. Being broke the following Monday after Payday makes survival look rather grim, let alone the Day Before Next Payday. By then I’m hanging on by one pinky toe while trying not to bleed too heavily on the carpet at work. And whatever pride I've developed and hasn’t eroded through wear and tear over the years keeps me from asking for any help. After all, I’m 21, dammit. I’m an adult. And as an adult, I will exercise my right to fuck myself up at least as much as life does...which is on a disturbingly regular basis. I’m a fugitive from reality. What has it done for me lately? Or ever, really? So I’m stoned at work at 8:49 on a Wednesday morning. Some doctor chided me for being cold and impersonal in a mass email. Obviously, he doesn’t know me. Doesn’t know that cold and impersonal is my shtick. It’s what I do. It’s who I am. Plus I just wrote what my supervisor told me to. In the scheme of things, I don’t matter. At least not to that doctor. So why be sober? I’m bored as it is.

I want to run away. I actually can run away. No one and nothing is stopping me. What if one day, instead of waking up at 5:30 to face the hordes of shoving, malodorous, disgruntled people who hate their jobs I don’t show up at the job I hate. I just pack up all my care and woe. I’m tired of being pushed around by this city. I’m tired of being pushed around and told what to do, period. Ellipsis. What if, question mark. I wish jazz hands was a punctuation, exclamation point.

The Tracks of My Cheeba Tears

So I’ve been devoting a lot of my blogspace lately to the gradual death of my emotions and ability to feel, thus neglecting my other two passions: music and marihuana. So, to remedy that, I decided to compile a list of some of my favorite songs to burn to at the moment. Some are perennial favorites on my daily journey through the weed wonderland that is the apartment of my mind while others I’ve only recently found the joy in increasing my THC levels to dangerous highs to their both funky and fresh beats. Just sit back, inhale deeply and let the love seep into your brains. And remember, kids, just say 'no.'



1. ABBA- “Lay All Your Love on Me” Anthemic as always, but with a heaping of melancholy and regret sauteed over a disco beat. Mmmmm.

2. Amy Winehouse- “Back to Black,” Back to Black [2006]
Bonus Track: Amy Winehouse- “Tears Dry on their Own,” Back to Black [2006]
Little did I know what was missing from my life was a drunk white British gal singing Phil Spector-inspired girl group pop with cool, jazzy vocals. Somehow, life feels complete.

3. Aretha Franklin- “Oh Me Oh My (I’m a Fool for You Baby),” Young, Gifted & Black [1972]
Bonus Track: Aretha Franklin- “Daydreaming,” Young, Gifted & Black [1972]
No one can work your soul into fits of ecstasy as frequently or as passionately as Re Re. Girl's looking a bit Jabba D. Hut these days, but I ain't sayin' shit...to her face anyway.

4. Beyoncé- “Irreplaceable,” B’Day [2006]
Bonus Track: Beyoncé- “Suga Mama,” B’Day [2006]
A change of pace from the bitch-slapper, "Ring the Alarm," Beyoncé turned it down a bit and I'm still throwing shit to the left, to the left. Get your damn bags out of my goddamn room, nigga!

5. Billie Holiday- “On the Sunny Side of the Street” Oh, Lady Day. You get me through the rough times with your wounded voice and the simple knowledge that your life was ten times more fucked up than mine could ever hope to be.

6. Black Star- “The Definition,” Black Star [1998]Mos Def. Awesome. Talib Kwali. Not as awesome as Mos Def. But together, they are/were the North's answer to Outkast.

7. The Cure- “Just Like Heaven” Kiss Me, Kiss Me, Kiss Me [1987] Contrary to popular belief, not everyone who likes the Cure wears too small plaid shirts and skinny jeans. It does help to rock some eye liner and an air of despair, though.

8. David Bowie- “Moonage Daydream,” The Rise and Fall of Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars [1972] I have no idea what Bowie is saying in this song--clearly I need to be on cocaine and face down in Lou Reed's lap to TRULY understand--but he sure says it with soulful conviction.

9. Diana Ross & the Supremes- “My World is Empty Without You,” I Hear a Symphony [1966] Echoey and hauting, Diana & Co. sound like they may have had the wall of sound treatment, but still come off with the polish and sophistication that only Motown could provide.

10. Grace Jones- “Love is the Drug,” Warm Leatherette [1980]
Bonus Track: Grace Jones "Pull Up to the Bumper," Nightclubbing [1982]
Oh, Grace. You're as cold on record as you were last night in bed, but twice as entertaining. Ho! Fantastic cover, though.

11. Guns N’ Roses- “Sweet Child O’ Mine,” Appetite for Destruction [1987]I do the sickest air guitar to this song: tongue out and kickin', legs as far apart as I can spread 'em, head bangin' against the rock & roll wind. Fuckin'A, bro. Fuckin' A.

12. Juicy- “Sugar Free,” It Takes Two [1986] Basically a rip off of Mtume's "Juicy," (ahem, the group's name) but the groove is still undeniable. By the way, I'm both sugar free and now, have no trans fat!

13. Kelis- ”Protect My Heart,” Tasty [2003]
Bonus Track: Kelis- “Emergency,” Kelis Was Here [2006]
Hey remember when Kelis was doing the trashy 80s dance pop/hip-hop thing a year before and a hundred times better than Gwen Stefani? Well, this one track puts La Stefani to shame, even moreso than that tacky Von Trapp shit she's peddling nowadays.

14. Led Zeppelin- “D’yer Maker,” Houses of the Holy [1973]
Bonus Track: Led Zeppelin- “Fool in the Rain,” In Through the Out Door [1979]
This song is so fucking high. Even if you're not smoking, it'll make you irie. All up in the face.

15. Liza Minnelli- “Bye Bye Blackbird,” Liza with a Z [1972]So sue me. I'm gay. I love Liza. Do I judge you for liking John Mayer? Oh yes, that's right...John Mayer's pretty gay too.

16. Madonna- “Get Together,” Confessions on a Dance Floor [2005]Along with "Hung Up," Madonna's greatest contribution to dance music since "Ray of Light." but really, though, hasn't she given us enough? Time to start giving back, y'all. Help momma Madge to her disco walker.

17. Outkast- “She Lives in My Lap,” Speakerboxxx/The Love Below [2003]I really love Andre 3000's Prince impersonation. Until recently, he was doing a better Prince than the man himself. No better example than this pyscho-sexual romp through eighties funk updated for the funkin' oughties.

18. Prince- “Erotic City,” Let's Go Crazy Single(B-Side) [1984]We can funk until the dawn, making love til cherry's gone. Or something like that. You don't need to know the words to know this song is funking dirty. And also funking funky....Funk.

19. Rufus & Chaka Khan- “Stay,” Street Player [1978]
Bonus Track: Rufus & Chaka Khan- “You Got the Love,” Rags to Rufus [1974]
Okay, I might have lied. Chaka Khan is so transcendent sometimes that she gives Aretha a run for her money...and her fried chicken--I'm sorry I couldn't help myself--just witness the rapture that is "Stay" or the measured funk of "You Got the Love."

20. Sheila E.- “The Glamorous Life,” The Glamorous Life [1984]The best Prince song supposedly not written by Prince, Sheila E. drummed her way forever into my heart with a tale of long mink fur coats in the summertime, i.e. my life.

21. Stevie Wonder- “Ordinary Pain,” Songs in the Key of Life [1976]
Bonus Track: Stevie Wonder- “Knocks Me Off My Feet,” Songs in the Key of Life [1976]
Stevie warms us up and then lets protégé Syreeta turn it up on "Ordinary Pain," giving us two sides to that old break up story. And the chorus of "Knocks Me Off My Feet" makes me wet in the panties. What? You asked...oh, you didn't? Well, I'll just assume you did and we'll leave it at that.

22. TLC- “Creep,” CrazySexyCool [1995] Gosh, remember when R&B was fun? When it wasn't sappy love songs or overproduced faceless by-products? Sometimes, I like to take CrazySexyCool in my arms and weep for hours on end. "Don't go chasin'..."...oh, it's too much.

Portrait at 21

Happy birthday to me. I actually made it. Funny how no age is ever how you thought it’d be, though. At fourteen, I thought I’d have a boyfriend, a car and be at NYU studying film at eighteen. Well, I did the NYU thing, just not film. At eighteen, I’d thought I’d have my own apartment, be getting ready to graduate college and going out every night at twenty-one. Well, I have no plans to graduate, let alone return to school, and I rarely go out as I can’t bare the sight of most people. I’m already an old man, it seems. So at twenty-one, I don’t know where or who I’ll be at thirty. I only have fears of what and who I don’t want to be. For instance, I’m terrified at the prospect of working the same job day in, day out for the next ten, five, or even two years. I’m afraid I’ll still be depressed, alone and weighed down by the baggage of previous years. And I dread losing myself along the way. Now, I’m not afraid of getting old, rather, I welcome it. What I fear is getting old and realizing I’m just as miserable as I was ten years ago. And by miserable, I really mean poor. Because let’s face it, as long as I can afford to buy my happiness in bulk…I’ll feel that I’ve won.

Twenty-one is one of those magic numbers. A threshold year. It’s built up in our adolescent American minds as the final frontier, the official end of your childhood in the eyes of the law and your parents. Clearly we stop seeing ourselves as children once we become teenagers. After all, no one knows the complicated feelings and emotions we experience. They are real, they are painful, they are therefore adult. But I stopped seeing myself as a child when I became a teen for different reasons. When you have no one to treat you as their child, no one to call “Mom” or “Dad” you cease being a child. You’re just a kid. No one’s in particular, you’re nothing special except maybe someone to be pitied. But how I detest pity. But since I was fourteen, I’ve always felt grown-up, more or less. I worked to put food on the table and to help pay bills, and I suffered the consequences of failing to provide for myself. That, I know now, was not true adulthood. There was a safety net, a very shoddy one, but a net nonetheless. There was a great deal of slack afforded to me for my age. There was free lunch at school and friends to whom I could turn when dinnertime rolled around and nothing was left in the cupboards. And there was my brother who tried, but couldn’t quite live up to his role as my guardian. But at twenty-one, the net is all but a faint memory. I’m my own guardian, responsible for myself; I can’t blame anyone for the mistakes I make. Too bad, as shifting blame is one of the cornerstones of childhood. As for school, college gives you its warm insulation from the cold real world and without that, you have to find your own. Thankfully, I still have friends.

When my mom died, I didn’t know to whom to turn or what to do. Suddenly, my family didn’t feel like a family. It was always my mother and I, and occasionally my brother. We came over to this country together and lived in a small one-bedroom apartment together. She was the anchor of my life, and with her gone I was a castaway, adrift at sea. I needed something to latch onto and my friends were the most likely candidates. So they became my family. My friendships mean more to me than anything in the world, so it hurts most when they hurt me. I try not to let it affect me, try not to let anyone see just how much it hurts me to be neglected by them. It feels like being abandoned all over again. And to avoid that, I’d rather be the one to do the abandoning--it gives me some power back. You lose power when you let someone into your life, into who you are, who you were and who you hope to be—-similar to the power I’m giving you as the reader. It comes with loving someone and hoping they love you back. I didn’t know that for the longest time and it was painfully hard to learn. My first deep friendship was hard to live through. When she hurt me It hurt more than anyone else had ever hurt me before and I wanted to hurt her just as much as she had me. So we fought constantly, but when I needed her she was there (usually) and when she needed me, I was there (usually). We had to work through all of our fighting and I had to let her in and thankfully she was patient enough to wait for me. If anything, I looked forward to my 21st birthday to celebrate it with my friends, as without them, I doubt I would have made it this far. I didn’t care about the actual birthday because as far as I was concerned, the age couldn’t tell me anything I hadn’t already known. It was the celebration that would allow me to reflect on the journey. Therefore, it was paramount that the most important people in my life be there to celebrate it with me. The fact that some weren’t there hurts more than I thought it would. But then again, I could just be on my period. My breasts have been rather tender as of late. Or maybe I’m just realizing what’s really important in life. Drugs, drinking and going out every night are great, but it’s not what makes life worth all the bullshit it puts you through. What makes it worth it are the people whose voices on the other side of the phone make your heart just a bit lighter and whose presence means more to you than any gift. Oh, god, when did I become a Lifetime movie of the week? “Not Without My Stepdaughter’s Autistic Husband: The Mary Kay Johansson-Franklin Story.” If you’ll excuse me, I need to stop writing this and go cry on the floor of the bathroom.

Suddenly I Don't Know Anymore, Part 3

I had a magnificent walk of shame the following morning. And I didn’t even feel like a cheap slut, particularly since I had spent the night in a fabulous four-floor townhouse in the West Village, dry-humping into that sleepy hour where night bleeds seamlessly into morning.

Ricky had failed to mention that he lived in a friggin’ castle the few times we had hooked up. He braved the G train into Brooklyn to my little shithole corner of the world to desecrate my air mattress each time, so I had no inkling of what awaited me. I understood his reasoning, though. After all, this house was his and his wife’s and I was the first piece of trade he had invited there—which obviously filled me with a bit of pride. Whether out of my own naïveté or all consuming self-involvement, it didn’t bother me that we were hooking up in the same bed that he had shared with her for X number of years. The thought didn’t even cross my mind until recently.

Tim retired as soon as we got back to Ricky’s house. How convenient. Though, we had already decided that no hanky panky would occur; that’s what Saturday was for. I would have the shithole corner of the world to myself, the roomies all out of town. So he would come over. Instead, we stayed up talking, making out, doing more coke and watching “Project Runway.” And speaking of which: seriously, Jeffrey? I hate that fucking douche. The details of our conversation have since disappeared from my memory--all I can remember was that it was fun. But after a few hours, we decided to turn in. Sleep was a foolish idea, however, as neither one of us was tired and before I could properly adjust my hip, we were dry humping. Followed by cuddling. Followed by more dry humping. Unfortunately, there was no wet humping denouement, but what can ya do? I got up to leave at 7 so I could run home and get ready for work. Just like that, our first date was finally over. I thought it a resounding success. But I might have misinterpreted something along the way.

Ricky had already informed me that he might not be able to make our date to the Met, so it came as no surprise to me when he cancelled later that day. What did come as a surprise was the identity of his soon-to-be-ex-wife. He had mentioned the night before that he was an actor and I remembered the name of one his movies, so being the crack detective I am, I went looking for him on IMDB. Turns out he was a minor actor, but he had some success as a writer/director, having been nominated for the Grand Jury Prize at Sundance for his first film, which coincidentally starred his wife—whom I actually recognized. She’s a considerably more successful actress, having starred in two successful shows and a good number of films and even getting nominated for an Emmy a few years back. And we’re talking primetime here, kids. When I told my friends, they couldn’t believe it, but I just chalked it up to the constant randomness my life throws at me. This time it was thrown all up in a bitch’s face.

Saturday came around and Ricky text’d me that he might not be able to make it to our little rendezvous. I didn’t think anything of it. He had gone out of town with Tim and I figured he was caught up doing whatever have you. Then he text’d me again, confirming that he wouldn’t be able to make it at all. I was disappointed, though not devastated. I still expected him to call eventually, expected us to go out on another date. Hell, at least expected us to get in one more shag. I stopped expecting about a week ago. Although, I can’t bring myself to erase his number from my phone. Maybe he’ll call, maybe not. But I’d at least like to know it’s him so I can have the satisfaction of not answering…I shouldn’t answer right?

Suddenly I Don't Know Anymore, Part 2

I refuse to believe it's me. I always think it's me, but that's just negative thinking. Rather, I just think everyone else sucks but me. Oh, wait, that's negative too. Well then, I'm positive everyone else sucks but me and I'm happy that it's not me. That works, no?

I didn't see Ricky for a week since he propositioned me for that sex party, which in hindsight I regret not attending. Then one Sunday, he came over before heading off to meet up with some friends, squeezing me into his busy schedule. How sweet. We fucked for about an hour and made out as we got dressed and he headed out the door. When he left, I was caught up in something I had not known before, an excitement for something other than drugs or free booze. Nothing like love, at least not how I imagined it would be, but the promise of something more than just the occasional hook-up. And I didn't mind that promise, hell, I actually looked forward to it. My first relationship! Yay! We had plans to go out that following Saturday to the Met for what would be our first date.

On Thursday night, we were talking online, my preferred form of communication, when he invited me out to drinks with him in Manhattan, before going to a friend's party--managing to fit me in again, the little dear. Now I was stoned, mind you, and on the Queens border of Brooklyn, thus getting on the G and L trains was not a task to be taken lightly. However, never one to turn down free drinks, though I'll get to that debilitating tendency in a later post, and secretly wanting to see him/happy that he wanted to see me as well, I eventually accepted. So it was that our first and more than likely, our last, date was to be that night.

Hmm, how do I ease into this? Or perhaps, I should just jump right into it. Yes, that’d be best. Turns out Ricky was married for ten years and still married as it turned out, though, his divorce would be finalized in four months. Maybe it was the three vodka cranberries, but that revelation didn’t shake me as much as he had expected, or as much as it should have. Many a gay man marries for different reasons; Ricky loved his soon to be ex-wife, but now he was done with women. What had brought that about, I’m not sure, but it didn’t matter much to me. I just like him. Ricky’s friend, Saul, happened to be at the bar that night, as well. Apparently, it was a favorite hang out of theirs—I had been there several times myself—but Saul was doing us the great service of pretending to ignore us for most of the night. Then all pretensions fell and our date became more of a friendly get-together. I didn’t entirely mind the fact of Saul’s presence as he was one of those fun, witty gays you hear so much about. Still, a part of me wanted him and the rest of the bar to disappear so I could be with my old man. Didn’t happen though. Instead, the three of us left together.

They were heading to a party to meet up with Ricky’s houseguest/friend from LA, Tim. I walked with them to a corner store so Ricky could go to an ATM. Saul had ordered coke from his dealer, which should have been an indication that this night was not going to end anytime soon. Still, I thought I wasn’t invited to said party, even after I found myself outside with Ricky and Saul. Saul waited for the dealer to show up, while Ricky and I made our way into the apartment. You know, I didn’t think there were parties solely attended by fabulous gay men in the city anymore, but I came face to face with just that. Well, that and an obligatory hag. Clearly, a token. We had arrived just as the party was winding down, though Saul, Ricky and I had enough time to take one turn each sniffing in the bathroom. When my turn came, I headed to the bathroom, locked the door and pulled out the packet Ricky had discreetly snuck into my pocket. I had done coke before (who hasn’t, really?) and I was used to getting a gram here or there, splitting with my friends whenever the mood struck us, so when I reached into my pocket and pulled out an eight ball, I was more than a little surprised. Excited would be a better word. I carefully measured out my lines, ran the water to divert the sound of my nostrils hovering up the white powder, then returned to the party, my pupils more dilated than when I had arrived. After a few more minutes, Saul took his turn, and then the party was over. Everyone left, except the three of us, Tim, the slumbering host and his boy toy-cum-boyfriend who invited us to stay as long as we wanted. Which we did, blowing rails on a $3000 table and chatting about things you chat on coke about: life, love, sex and doing more coke. We left the apartment at around 2 a.m. Already aware that the L train was down for the night, I was hopelessly relieved when Ricky invited me to spend the night at his place, something he had never done, what with the divorce and all. The drunk, coked out me was flying high that night.

Suddenly I Don't Know Anymore, Part 1

So I recently lost my virginity, as I made sure the entire world knew. An underwhelming experience, for sure, but an experience that needed to happen, nonetheless. It left me not wanting to be touched or kissed or loved. Even sex was an abhorrent concept. But I've never been a quitter and shortly thereafter I found myself not only remounting the horse, but fucking the living shit out of it. The second guy I slept with, let's call him Ricky, was fantastic. He was a 41 year old I met online, as I'm unable to interact in the real world with real people. But before I get to Ricky, I should mention that I started off the week with a hot 26 year old PhD student who worked in the same place I did. We met up at his apartment during my lunch break and jacked off together. Pure romance. It's inconsequential, but you must understand I was on a mission. I had decided on Sunday, while upstate, to try the whole sex thing again as my loins were burning through my boxer briefs when I found Ricky. We were intended to meet up on Sunday night, but I didn't come back into the city until late, so we rescheduled. Monday was the PhD student, Tuesday was Ricky. Tuesday was, as I mentioned before, fantastic. We had sex for two hours, including one or two breaks to avoid exhaustion or untimely death, and I began to like Ricky. By the time Wednesday rolled around, I decided to become a manwhore. Sex was too good not to have all the time and with as many people as possible! Wednesday I had some ass lined up, but had to cancel due to previous plans with a friend--bros before hos, dude!--but Thursday I was at it again. That experience was also completely forgettable, except for my first use of poppers. Until then, I had always read in personal ads and the like about poppers though remained in the dark as to what they actually were. I was even offered some by the gross toothless turquoise man in Queens, though I refused...for reasons that should be evident in that paramour's description. But I tried them when this guy, a 35 year old, 6'5" dance instuctor (not quite as hot as it sounds) because I was in a devil may care mood, fucking the world and not giving a damn. Final diagnosis: eh, I'll stick to pot. After the less than stellar Thursday, I decided I wanted a triumphant Friday! Ricky and I had decided on a simple code to alert one another to our willingness to copulate: text 'I'm horny.' Which is what I did Friday after work, but it was for naught. He had a date. Ever the good sport and a class act, I told him to call me if his date didn't put out. Funny story: he did end up calling me, but it was around 1:30 and I was returning underground from a party. I got his message an hour later and called him back. Turns out he had called to invite me to a 'sex party.' His date did end up putting out, plus a little extra, apparently. After that, a weeklong dry spell took violent hold of my life.

You'll Never Be a First Class Blogger, or a First Class Human Being, Until You Learn to Have Some Small Regard for Human Frailty

So I finally did it. And by it, I mean the sex. That's right, this 20 year old virgin is no longer one and in two months, no longer the other. I always thought that once I lost this V card, I'd be a new person and to a certain extent I am. Rest assured, I'm still the bitter, sarcastic asshole you fell in love with so many moths ago, but I must say, I am not as needy as before. How I longed for companionship! For a cute, shaggy boy who rested beatifically in my bed as I stared at his quietly heaving chest and relished the joy that I knew he was mine, all mine. However, after experiencing just one night of intimacy with another person, I quickly realized that I am in no way ready for a relationship for the simple fact that I don't like to be touched. Let me start from the beginning.

Wednesday night, last week, I was more bored than usual and a special kind of stoned, the kind that makes you do dumb shit even though you know how dumb said shit is. Taking a cue from my roommate, one Ms. Runaround Spatz, I took to craigslist to find some possible action. After posting an ad of my own, as well as answering a few other posts, I finally got a response that tickled my desperate fancy. The inquirer had seen my post and sent along a few pictures of himself for my pondering. He was 39 which was in itself a turn on for me--daddy complex--and he didn't look THAT bad. I mean, his picture was somewhat blurry, but he would do. He also claimed to have an 8 incher and who am I to turn that down? As became vividly clear, I should have. I called the number he gave me after a series of emails and was voice to voice with someone who sounded as if he were missing a couple teeth. But boy was I determined. I had reached a certain point where I just needed to be touched and it really didn't matter, in my mind, who it was. So I left my apartment at 3:00 in the morning to head to Queens. It took a longer time than I had hoped as the G is the worst train to ever run underground and I really think it hates me. I ended up deep into Queens due to the G running express, then I had to double back and ride somewhere into Astoria. All the while, I imagined hooking up with my 39-year old. i romanticized our encounter to such an extent that the actual experience would have to be a let down. Unfortunately, that would be putting it far too lightly.

I ended up at my designated stop at around 3:40. I alerted my intended paramour on his home phone. He didn't have a cell phone, which really should have been a tell-tale sign that this guy was a loser. Still, I remained determined. I waited in what closely resembled the ghetto, but lacked the menace and the bravado, for a solid ten to fifteen minutes, baked and drifting away on my iPod. Then I saw a tiny little man speeding his way towards me. I knew it had to be him, and for a split second I considered ducking into the subway before he saw me. But I had travelled so far and it was so late that I had no choice but to go through it. The little man first went up to an angry looking black man, mistakig him for me, so I went up to him to avoid further confusion. In the light of the street lamps I saw what I had truly gotten myself into. He was short, 5'7 his email had said-that was certainly true. He looked older than his stated 39 years, however: sharp, jagged cheekbones, pale skin, my suspicion of his missing teeth painfully confirmed. Bedecked in his best turquoise shirt, acid-washed mom jeans and a pony tail, he seemed eager to meet me. And by meet, I mean fuck. Clearly. I could not bring myself to match his entusiasm, but I tried to converse with him as best as I could. I can't remember what we actually talked about as with most people, his words went in one ear and out the other. I could only think of how bad an idea this was.

We got back to his "apartment." A house, in which he rented a solitary room, filled with piano keyboards. Oh, yes, he was a pianist. Of the classical variety, though he purported to be able to play anything. We silently crept up to his room, and I though how absurd it was that a 39 year old man had to sneak men into his room the same way a 15 year old might in a similar situation. Though I hope that no fifteen year olds are trolling craigslist at 3 am. As soon as he closed the door to his room, he proceeded to undo the top buttons to his turqouise shirt, put his hands around my waist and gently grind his groin into mine. I stood frozen in a mix of fear and repulsion, my arms up in apprehension. Sensing this, he backed off. I thought that I could leave, I should leave, but I had travelled so damn far that I thought that maybe at least I'd suck the guy off. I sat on his futon and talked to him, simultaneously trying to convince myself that I could in fact go through with this. I also thought it in poor taste to leave so soon after getting there. So we sat down and smoked a joint--hence, the night wasn't completely a bust. In between drags, he told me his life story and I listened patiently. He told me of the time he lived in Australia, this girl he became fast friends with, who was unaware that he was gay and who later fell for him and wanted to date him. Forced to tell her the truth, they eventually came to a compromise so that he could sleep with one guy a week, but he had to be with her the rest of the time. It worked out for a little while, but he fell for some guy and his relationship and friendship with the girl suffered as a result. As he told his story, I felt as if I was in my own bildungsroman and as a matter of fact, I was coming of age but this would not be the man who would be the catalyst to my sexual awakening. I didn't want that dick, no matter how big it supposedly was, anywhere near me. After he asked if I had ever taken poppers, I decided it was time to go. I excused myself on the basis that I wasn't "really feeling this," which he understood and we shook hands goodbye.

In the night air again, I felt such relief at not having gone through with his intentions that I nearly jogged home. The trains, however, did not share my enthusiasm, and I got turned around several times on my journey home, finally plopping down on my air mattress at around 5 a.m. I got three hours of sleep, but the following day I was rather amused at what had happened/didn't happen the night before. If anything, I thought, it would make a great story or a sub-standard blog entry. Case in point. Despite this entire situation, I remained steadfast. I was a man on a mission. I resumed my craigslisting, this time armed with the knowledge hard won in Queens the night before. I saw this ad for a cute white guy looking for a black top, and as I was a virgin, I figured I could pull that off. After another series of emails and exchanged pictures, he gave me his phone number. I called and he seemed cool, down to earth, and he was 2 stops away so that was also a plus. I left to meet him at around 10, bidding adieu to Runaround and her ex, Cookie Puss Darvish, amidst wishes of good luck. Outside, it wasn't as cold as I had previously thought, so I decided to walk. On the way, I phoned a few of my closest friends to alert them of what might be trangressing in a matter of minutes or hours. That cocktail of emotions similar to going into a final or going out onstage to perform overtook me: fear, anxiety, excitement, panic and joy. I hoped this time would be different, that this guy would live up to my irrealistic standards or at least to my much lowered expectations.

We met outside of this gay bar in Williamsburg, and he was indeed as cute as his picture, if not a bit heavier than I would have cared for. He waddled. But, I tried to get passed that. After all, I'm not (that) shallow. His name was Sean and he was 24 and had just quit his job running tne North American division of this European furniture company which he insited on pronouncing with a pretentious French accent. He had quit due to someone he couldn't stand to work with, but the company apparently wanted him back so they were going to find a way to get rid of the other guy in order to bring Sean back, with more money. He was well spoken, no trace of the Nebraskan accent he must have worked hard to eliminate. He didn't have a college degree, he had dropped out early to pursue job offers he was getting though he's going back to finish in the near future. At the bar, he ordered for me and bought my drinks, making me feel like the lady I so often pictured myself as. We went outside to the courtyard area, sat and talked for a bit. He was really into touching and kissing in public and I was not. PDA is for exhbitionists and assholes. I've always mantained that position and I doubt I'll ever change. There's just something about something so personal in a public setting that upsets and distrubs me and reeks of desperation. I like to keep my desperation to myself, thank you. Despite this minor foul, I found myself liking Sean. It was something like chemistry, or maybe it was the beer. In hindsight, it might have been a mix of both and also a touch of that personal desperation to like someone and have them like me back.

We had the typical getting-to-know-you banter and he kept touching my leg, my arm, my face and tried to kiss me, sometimes succeeding and always asking if I was comfortable with it, to which I lied so that he wouldn't stop liking me. After our second round of Bud Lights, we absconded to his place. But before getting there, we stopped at a market so he could pick up some Smirnoff and some other little things. He should have gotten some lambskin condoms while he was at it. When we finally arrived to his apartment, I was pleasantly surprised. It was cute, well-decorated and he raved about the down comforter. Instead of getting straight to the task at hand, we went out and talked some more, over the bottles of Smirnoff. He revealed to me that he really liked me, through text message, and I responded that I really wanted to date him, a confession I thought was real and true, as I was taking one of many whizzes through the night. Thoughts of us dating and cuddling and being a couple flooded my head. Isn't this what I wanted? Didn't I want to couple with someone? I tried to convince myself that yes, it was what I wanted. I'm always trying to convince myself of something rather than facing the blank truth for what it is. In all honesty, I wasn't really attracted to Sean. He was cute, smart, kind of funny, successful, everything I should be attracted to. But there were certain things I couldn't quite get over.

Finally, he was ready to have sex. I won't go into details because I, myself, don't want to relive them. But dude had a small dick. And he was a bit of a whiner, constantly making baby noises and at one point in the night he nudged his head up against me like a neglected kitten. I don't really do that. And he also wanted to have sex without a condom because he was allergic to latex. And I REALLY don't do that. Eventually he let up and let me fuck him with the latex. I don't want to brag or anything--and if you know me you know that's a boldface lie--but he asked me to stop because I was hurting him. I mean, yes he had already come, but still, do with that as you will. I however, didn't get off that night. You would think that I would be the one most upset at that, but Sean felt that he hadn't done me a good service as my first time. I really didn't care and was ready to go to bed. The plan as we had decided earlier was for me to sleep in his bed and then I'd wake and go home to get ready for the day. Instead, he asked me to leave, out of shame, or maybe he was just done with me; either way, I still didn't care. I might not have came, but I saw and I conquered.

On my way home, I called bff and hag extraordinaite, Karma to let her know that I had gone through with it. She was happy for me, as was I, but I still felt somewhat empty. Sean had asked what I had rough plans to spend the weekend together and I was supposed to call him the next day. Yet, when the next day came, I didn't call. I didn't want to. In the dark I had liked him, I had wanted to be with him but with the light of day came all this second-guessing. I focused on all that was wrong with him and the more I thought about it, the more turned off I became. He was too fat, too hairy, too pale, too needy, too touchy feely and I dreaded having to see him again. So Friday came and went and I didn't call. Then Saturday and I was a bit more comfortable in my decision to abstain. By Sunday, I was over it. Runaround Spatz asked if I felt comfortable around him. And I didn't. I didn't feel like myself. He had come on to strong too soon and had scared me away. That was the real root of it. Everything else I didn't like about him was only magnified by my discomfort around him. And like that, I had turned a corner. From being hapless virgin to that asshole who says he'll call but never will. How quickly one grows up when given the right circumstances.

I watched The Philadelphia Story on Saturday It's one of my favorite films and has been for years. I always likened myself to the protagonist, Tracy Lord as brought to magnificent life by the incomparable Kate Hepburn. She was so cool, so distant, so unapproachable and could disarm anyone with a cold, withering stare. I respected her and those qualities so that I wanted to embody them, to be Tracy Lord. And I guess I got what I wanted. In the film, her first marriage, to Cary Grant's C.K. Dexter Haven, doesn't work because she is so cool, frigid, really, so distant and so unapproachable that she refuses to sleep with him. Dexter remarks to her that she'll "never be a first class woman, or a first class human being until you learn to have some small regard for human frailty." On the eve of her second marriage, she undergoes a transformation through the help of Dexter and James Stewart's Macauly Connor. She learns that being an icy goddess prevents you from loving and being truly loved. Maybe the problem wasn't with Sean, but with me. Hell, it probably was with me. I know I'm distant and can seem cold and foreboding, but it works for me. In fact, I prize myself on it. To me, the world is two-faced, cruel and horribly unforgiving. Thus keeping people at arms length prevents me from being hurt. And yes, it also prevents me from loving anyone more than as a friend, or being loved as more than such, but...I don't need that. At least not right now. I'm not a first class human being and I don't want to be. One day I'll inevitably have to be though it will take the right man to convince me it's worth it. If anything I've taken away from this experience, it's peace of mind. Now that I'm no longer emblazoned with my personal scarlet letter, V, I feel as if a weight's been lifted. So I may be ready to let someone in sooner than I know. Or I could just end up fucking any and everything that walks. Either way, I'm fine with it. Rats off to ya, kids.

Behold!

The magic that is Erykah Badu. I don't really have a reason for posting this except that it's awesome and my blog's all about awesomity. From the now-defunct Chappelle's Show, I present you with Ms. Badu, in concert:

Dreams DO Come True

I'll tell you one thing, Liza is looking great these days. Sixty and sexy, With a Z gave a free concert in Asser Levy Park and the gays and the geriatric Jews turned out in spades to show their fanatical support. I, myself, endured nearly two hours of subway, an hour of standing around listening to the over 70 set gripe about being alive and the tired schtick of our host for the evening, Mr. Morty Moskowicz. But boy was it worth it!

Liza made her sequined entrance at around 8:45 doing a particularly showtune-y version of "I Can See Clearly Now" ending with a triumphant "I CAN SHEE!" After that number, Ms. Minnelli announced that she had succesfully lost 26 pounds since we had seen her last year (though I didn't have that distinct pleasure) and it certainly showed. The gams were on display for the audience to see as she wore a high cut little cream bedazzled minidress, matching stockings and shoes so shiny they must have been made out of the hair of the muses. I could see them sparkling even from my disadvantaged vantage point, some 300 feet from the stage.

The show and Liza kept steaming along, with "The Man I Love," "Sara Lee," an ode to her favorite snack food, "Ring Them Bells," and concluding with "Let's Hear It for the Band" or something along those lines. My memory is a bit fuzzy as I was in a state of complete euphoria at the time. And by 'euphoria', I mean stoned. During the "Band" number, Liza disappeared for what could only be a wardrobe change and perhaps a sandwich. No booze or drugs for her, though--that's right, Liza's on the wagon, kids. And I say, bravo.

Re-emerging in a sequined red number, revealing a rather sassy shoulder, Liza began the second part of the show. This included a Kander and Ebb original, "Sailor Boys" Liza dragging up a nearly 80-year old Gina Lollobrigida, proclaiming, "We made it man!" and a soulful rendition of "You Can Keep Your Hat On" by her pianist, some musical theater fag whose name escapes me at the moment. During his perfomrance, Liza took a seat and let him do his thing, then she requested a matching red hat and had him play again. This time, though, she did a little dance number that could only be described as fucking adorable. Then it was on to the finale, "Cabaret." Noticeably, she changed one of the lines--"When I goooooooooo, I'm NOT goin' like Elsie!" Meaning, she's not going out of an overdose of "pills and liquor." And thank god for that. I'm not ready to lose Liza yet. I'd be devestated. I wouldn't be able to jazz hand for months. Anywho, she finished "Cabaret" and left the stage after a well-desered standing O, but we all knew that wasn't the end. A few minutes later she came back on asking if we wanted another song? Duh. Duh duh duh-duh-duh-duh. Duh duh duh-duh-duh-duh. "Start spreading the news!" And bitch TORE. IT. UP. After another standing O, some die hard fans still waited. This couldn't be it. And of course it wasn't. Liza came back on--"But I don't have any more songs," she said in that way that you knew wasn't going to stop her from trying anyway. It was true, her band didn't have any more arrangements, but the old girl still belted out one final number a capella, leaving the stage for good. We still waited just in case, but then Morty Moscowicz came back instead, so it was clearly time to go.

Oh, Liza. With a Z. Not Lisa. With an S. Cuz Lisa with an S goes Sss, not Zzz. You've still got it. But once you have it, I doubt you ever really, truly lose it. Let's me, you and Bea do a revival of Mame. You can have the title part, Bea can reprise her role as Vera, which I guess leaves me as your loving nephew, Patrick. I smell Tony!

I, For One, Am Shocked

suzanne said...

What a sad, nasty, stupid little misogynist you are. You may think you're not, but you are. It's the comments like just stop standing around bleeding from your genitalia and It's the idea of women that gets me down that give you away.
But if you ask me it looks like day-old lunch meat.
Nobody was asking you, honey. Shut up and go away, and stop posting your horrid moronic crap. If you think you don't hate women, you're delusional.


Shocked, I say! Recently I've been accused of being a mysoginist. And I have NO IDEA where people may have gotten that idea. Just because I said that a woman's vagina reminds me of "lunch meat" and urged them to "stop standing around bleeding from your genitalia throwing those mammaries around like a baseball"--I mean out of context that just sounds mean. In context though, it's mean and gratuitous. Apparently someone or some people got angry at that, but that's really not my problem. The post was a joke, this blog is a joke and my life is a joke. So why not have a little fun? With hundreds of civilians dying in Lebanon and Ryan Seacrest masquerading as a heterosexual, there are far worse crimes being perpetuated here, kids. Don't consider this an apology, because I'm not sorry. Why should I be when I was just yanking some chain? Some vaginal chain. I'm just owning up to what I said and I also hate being misunderstood and found it necessary to clarify my position: Gays = don't much care for them. Women = could do without them. The infirm = I push past them in the subway. Kids = I push them off swings and steal their lunch money. I'm just an asshole trying to get through this crazy world and taking down as many people as I can. And if you take me too seriously, well, you're going to hate me a lot more than you probably already do. Now let's settle this the way they used to in the 80s: dance-off. I bring my crew and whoever's pissed, bring theirs--the last ones standing get the Adidas of Glory. Aww,shit. It's on like Breakin' 2: Electric Boogaloo.

I Don't Much Care for Women

I mean, really, what are they good for? Yes, tits are nice and for some reason the snatch is appealing to some. But if you ask me it looks like day-old lunch meat. Now, don't misunderstand, I don't hate women--far from it. The greatest beards and hags of my life have been female. It's the idea of women that gets me down. Yesterday, walking through the Loisaida, I saw a bevy of attracvtive, queere-esque men holding hands and getting handsy with whom I suppose were their girlfriends. It's not just an aesthetically queer appearance, you see, but also their mannerisms. It's a special something that I can't always put my finger on but would nevertheless would enjoy fingering. Now, I'm willing to leave well enough alone, but a pang of jealousy shoots through me everytime I see these couplings. I mean, are there no gay men left? Did I miss something where gay guys just suddenly stopped being gay and took up with the fairer sex? Is it the year of living vaginally? *Shudder*. Or am I just completely dillusional? Not gonna lie to ya, the answer probably lies in the last question. However, it is times like these that I wish women would just go away--just stop standing around bleeding from your genitalia and throwing those mammaries around like a baseball. It's not mysogyny--hell, I'm a huge feminist. I would just rather scorch the earth of their presence so I can have all of their men to myself. Is that so bad?

I was thinking of those questionably straight men today as I read an article in the New York Times Style section, sassily titled "When the Beard Is Too Painful to Remove." The article concerns married men who realize/come to grips with the fact that they are gay. They often have homosexual relations outside of their marriage, even a second monogamous relationship--usually with a man in a similar situation. Some choose to end their marriage, however most do not, fearing the end of their domestic life. I have to agree with Bonnie Kaye, ex-beard, current hag (?) interviewed in the article that the decision to stay in a marriage to preserve the idea of that marriage is horribly selfish. In this case, there is more than one person's life at stake: a wife, kids, other family members. It's a sicky situation but it requires courage and the willingness to be truthful in order to overcome it. But just imagine having to tell your wife of 25 years that her vagina repulses you. Aaawwkwaaarrrd. There is a definte possiblity she may hate you that your kids may hate you and that Paul Lynde may hate you. But Paul Lynde hates everyone. However, I've always considered honesty with yourself to be one of the most important things in life as well as a sign of maturity. I know and I admit that I'm a bitchy, moody, asshole with a minor drug and alcohol abuse problem. What some consider minor, though, is up for grabs. Anyway, I'm getting off topic here. My point is, it is sad there are men in these situations, even sadder that there are women who, unbeknownst to them, are in these situations and sadder still that this situation still occurs in a society supposedly far more progressive than the age of Rock Hudson and Monty Clift. If Brokeback's taught us anything, it's that two guys in cowboy hats getting it on is hot. And what gay man wouldn't want to be part of that? Drop the ladies and let me have your sweet, bearded love.

My Thighs Are Chaffing Like 2 Sailors After Fleet Week

Newsflash to New York: it's a might bit warm out. You may have missed this little detail as your brains have been fried by the 100 degree heat. But I'm just here to let you know that it's a little unpleasant outside. I hope you have some A/C in your homes because I know I sure don't. I stopped being alive about two days ago as a result but my body's so accustomed to the everyday grind that I'm still going about my daily tasks, ie commuting to work, smoking pot and writing the occasional sassy post on my blog. I guess none of those tasks requires any sort of mental thought--who knew? Unfortunately, all this activity has caused my thighs irreparable damage and I fear should they rub together anymore vigorously my pants will catch afire. I'm going to dig myself an underground lair and wait til fall--or til I finally collapse and die. Whichever comes first.