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'!
Wednesday, June 21, 2006
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.
Thursday, December 29, 2005
The Most Wonderful Time of the Year!
Well it's been eight months, so you know what that means! It's time for me to find a new apartment!
Or, my roommates are moving out and I need to find a place to stay by February 1st. Something like that, I really wasn't listening.
I've already begun the search for a new room to live out the rest of my pitiful, weeded-out days. In fact, you caught me running in from Queens, where I saw a nice little corner in the world, as hosted by a rather attractive homosexual male ballet dancer. I say it as if any other kind exists. You must pardon this sudden slip into formality, but you see, I am continuing my trek through the literary jungle and have headed to BEAUTIFUL Paris, between the great wars, travelling along with the roguishly handsome Sir Ernest Hemingway. We've had quite a row or two since our time began, this morning on the F train to 4 Avenue. He, the sporting type, always ready for a drink and usually already nearing the finish of one ensconced in his bear hands. I, on the other paw (pardon the pun) am no drinker, not how I used to be. Once I could drink any lady under the table, now the liver needs time. Time for what, I am not sure, but I hope to return to my college weight class sometime in the future.
Wait, what was I saying?
Oh, yeah, I went to see this apartment in Queens with this cute-ish but hot gay ballet dancer. I don't know if I'll get it, but I do think there was some unspoken and unthought sexual tension between us. I hope I at least get an offer for rough, wet sex if I don't end up getting the room. Or even if I do, I'm easy.
I hate doing this, though. The entire process of finding an apartment, like finding a job, is dull, awkward and ultimately, pointless. And also like finding a job, this is done through craigslist. Thank god for craigslist! I've always wanted a one-stop shop for housing, occupations and paid sexual favors, though I swear it's my first time. And if you look hard enough, you can find all three in one convenient spot. Usually in the mustache of some pervy 49-year old husband and father in Jersey or his gay brother in Chelsea. Take for instance, this charming advert I found today:
$550 - 1MEDIUM SIZE BEDROOM AVAIL.2WINDOWS.UTILITIES INCLUDED
Reply to: hous-121156872@craigslist.org
Date: 2005-12-29, 1:20AM EST
IN SEARCH OF A FEMALE ROOMMATE ONLY.
I'AM A 30YO STRAIGHT MALE,IN A 2BEDROOM APARTMENT.SEPERATE BEDROOMS.I'AM IN SEARCH OF A FEMALE ROOMMATE ONLY.1 MEDIUM SIZE ROOM FOR RENT.UTILITIES ARE INCLUDED,SHARED KITCHEN,LIVING ROOM,& BATHROOM.BEAUTIFUL VIEW OF THE CITY.
I'AM LOOKING FOR AN ATTRACTIVE FEMALE WHO IS IN GOOD SHAPE,& NICE BODY.ROOMMATE ONLY TO SHARE WITH ADDED SEX INCLUDED.RENT CAN BE NEGOTIABLE TO A LOWER PRICE WITH ADDED SEX.PLEASE CALL FOR AN INTERVIEW AT (212)240-9?70 ASK FOR MIKE,OR EMAIL ME AT SUGARDADDY4U0077@AOL.COM.YOU CAN TAKE M15 BUS,OR TAKE 4/5/,OR 6TRAINS.TO BROOKLYN BRIDGE CITY HALL.OR A/C/E TRAINS TO FULTON.ROOM IS AVAILABLE ASAP.
SOUTH ST at SOUTH ST,AND PEARL google map yahoo map SOUTH STREET at SOUTH ST,AND PEARL
I love how he tries to sneak the sex in there, just tip it in at the last second. Nimbly. I mean, it sounded a bit suspicious at the start, what with the females only thing. He segues seemlessly, though, describing what sounds like a sweetass apartment that really doesn't exist anywhere in New York. Then there's the second paragraph, with all the qualitities he's looking for in a potential roommate. Now you start to think, there's at least some anal involved in this. The he reveals the magic word, then drops it in a seocnd time just to let you know that you're going to be fucking his fat, greasy Italian sausage. Yes I said Italian. He even has the nerve to set up appointments. Take note, kids. This is the type of hubris and spirit that's missing in our generation. We won't learn this behavior until we are far too old and unattractive to make this less creepy. And just check out that email address. One word: class.
Hopefully by this time next month I'll be living indoors, scrubbing the floor to my papi chulo's kitchen in a pair of cut-offs, fishnets and a smile.
Wish me luck!
Or, my roommates are moving out and I need to find a place to stay by February 1st. Something like that, I really wasn't listening.
I've already begun the search for a new room to live out the rest of my pitiful, weeded-out days. In fact, you caught me running in from Queens, where I saw a nice little corner in the world, as hosted by a rather attractive homosexual male ballet dancer. I say it as if any other kind exists. You must pardon this sudden slip into formality, but you see, I am continuing my trek through the literary jungle and have headed to BEAUTIFUL Paris, between the great wars, travelling along with the roguishly handsome Sir Ernest Hemingway. We've had quite a row or two since our time began, this morning on the F train to 4 Avenue. He, the sporting type, always ready for a drink and usually already nearing the finish of one ensconced in his bear hands. I, on the other paw (pardon the pun) am no drinker, not how I used to be. Once I could drink any lady under the table, now the liver needs time. Time for what, I am not sure, but I hope to return to my college weight class sometime in the future.
Wait, what was I saying?
Oh, yeah, I went to see this apartment in Queens with this cute-ish but hot gay ballet dancer. I don't know if I'll get it, but I do think there was some unspoken and unthought sexual tension between us. I hope I at least get an offer for rough, wet sex if I don't end up getting the room. Or even if I do, I'm easy.
I hate doing this, though. The entire process of finding an apartment, like finding a job, is dull, awkward and ultimately, pointless. And also like finding a job, this is done through craigslist. Thank god for craigslist! I've always wanted a one-stop shop for housing, occupations and paid sexual favors, though I swear it's my first time. And if you look hard enough, you can find all three in one convenient spot. Usually in the mustache of some pervy 49-year old husband and father in Jersey or his gay brother in Chelsea. Take for instance, this charming advert I found today:
$550 - 1MEDIUM SIZE BEDROOM AVAIL.2WINDOWS.UTILITIES INCLUDED
Reply to: hous-121156872@craigslist.org
Date: 2005-12-29, 1:20AM EST
IN SEARCH OF A FEMALE ROOMMATE ONLY.
I'AM A 30YO STRAIGHT MALE,IN A 2BEDROOM APARTMENT.SEPERATE BEDROOMS.I'AM IN SEARCH OF A FEMALE ROOMMATE ONLY.1 MEDIUM SIZE ROOM FOR RENT.UTILITIES ARE INCLUDED,SHARED KITCHEN,LIVING ROOM,& BATHROOM.BEAUTIFUL VIEW OF THE CITY.
I'AM LOOKING FOR AN ATTRACTIVE FEMALE WHO IS IN GOOD SHAPE,& NICE BODY.ROOMMATE ONLY TO SHARE WITH ADDED SEX INCLUDED.RENT CAN BE NEGOTIABLE TO A LOWER PRICE WITH ADDED SEX.PLEASE CALL FOR AN INTERVIEW AT (212)240-9?70 ASK FOR MIKE,OR EMAIL ME AT SUGARDADDY4U0077@AOL.COM.YOU CAN TAKE M15 BUS,OR TAKE 4/5/,OR 6TRAINS.TO BROOKLYN BRIDGE CITY HALL.OR A/C/E TRAINS TO FULTON.ROOM IS AVAILABLE ASAP.
SOUTH ST at SOUTH ST,AND PEARL google map yahoo map SOUTH STREET at SOUTH ST,AND PEARL
I love how he tries to sneak the sex in there, just tip it in at the last second. Nimbly. I mean, it sounded a bit suspicious at the start, what with the females only thing. He segues seemlessly, though, describing what sounds like a sweetass apartment that really doesn't exist anywhere in New York. Then there's the second paragraph, with all the qualitities he's looking for in a potential roommate. Now you start to think, there's at least some anal involved in this. The he reveals the magic word, then drops it in a seocnd time just to let you know that you're going to be fucking his fat, greasy Italian sausage. Yes I said Italian. He even has the nerve to set up appointments. Take note, kids. This is the type of hubris and spirit that's missing in our generation. We won't learn this behavior until we are far too old and unattractive to make this less creepy. And just check out that email address. One word: class.
Hopefully by this time next month I'll be living indoors, scrubbing the floor to my papi chulo's kitchen in a pair of cut-offs, fishnets and a smile.
Wish me luck!
Wednesday, December 28, 2005
Flirting With Disaster
lefabrat
AIM
8:52
i'm going to see an apt tomorrow in queens
8:52 PM
and the guy's a gay 26 yo ballet dancer
8:52 PM
i'm hoping to at least have sex with him
Boseivous802
AIM
8:52 PM
oh well that will be an eyeful
8:54 PM
be up front and say, i am horny
8:55 PM
http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/2257/670/1600/article.jpg
lefabrat
AIM
8:55 PM
i think i'll just go there naked under a trench wishing for the best
8:55 PM
omg, lol
Boseivous802
AIM
8:56 PM
i'd suggest the trench
lefabrat
AIM
8:57 PM
and i'm going to see an apt in north bergen and the gay there even smokes pot
8:57 PM
and really that's all i need in a man
Boseivous802
AIM
8:58 PM
is that new jersey?
lefabrat
AIM
8:58 PM
oh god, no
8:58 PM
brooklyn
8:58 PM
i hope it's brooklyn
8:58 PM
omg, is it in new jersey?!
Boseivous802
AIM
8:58 PM
i have no idea, it sounds like new jersey
8:59 PM
don't ask me i'm probably wrong
lefabrat
AIM
8:59 PM
o
8:59 PM
m
8:59 PM
g
8:59 PM
it's in jersey
Boseivous802
AIM
9:00 PM
cancel that appointment
lefabrat
AIM
9:00 PM
i'm going to have to
9:00 PM
omg
9:00 PM
i almost went to/ considered living and making out in jersey
Boseivous802
AIM
9:01 PM
i know, just breathe
9:01 PM
you are NOT bridge/tunnel
lefabrat
AIM
9:01 PM
omg, i don't even know what to SAY to that
9:01 PM
i was just thinking how staten island was a trip one only made in the most desperate of emergencies
9:02 PM
i mean NO ONE does the ferry
Boseivous802
AIM
9:02 PM
oh lord, not EVEN
lefabrat
AIM
9:02 PM
well, people do, tons of people, but i'm just way too snobby and gay to go to Shaolin
9:02 PM
but to think of living in Jersey...
9:02 PM
ugh, i dry-heaved a little bit
9:03 PM
where's that blunt?
Boseivous802
AIM
9:03 PM
just suck it down
9:03 PM
the fact you didnt even know it was new jersey proves you werent serious
lefabrat
AIM
9:03 PM
yes!
9:03 PM
yes it does
9:04 PM
and no one can say that it doesn't mean anything cuz it does, ok?!
Boseivous802
AIM
9:05 PM
just sing new york, new york
lefabrat
AIM
9:05 PM
good idea
9:06 PM
and i'll dawn a sequined pantsuit and down 3 'ludes just to be safe
AIM
8:52
i'm going to see an apt tomorrow in queens
8:52 PM
and the guy's a gay 26 yo ballet dancer
8:52 PM
i'm hoping to at least have sex with him
Boseivous802
AIM
8:52 PM
oh well that will be an eyeful
8:54 PM
be up front and say, i am horny
8:55 PM
http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/2257/670/1600/article.jpg
lefabrat
AIM
8:55 PM
i think i'll just go there naked under a trench wishing for the best
8:55 PM
omg, lol
Boseivous802
AIM
8:56 PM
i'd suggest the trench
lefabrat
AIM
8:57 PM
and i'm going to see an apt in north bergen and the gay there even smokes pot
8:57 PM
and really that's all i need in a man
Boseivous802
AIM
8:58 PM
is that new jersey?
lefabrat
AIM
8:58 PM
oh god, no
8:58 PM
brooklyn
8:58 PM
i hope it's brooklyn
8:58 PM
omg, is it in new jersey?!
Boseivous802
AIM
8:58 PM
i have no idea, it sounds like new jersey
8:59 PM
don't ask me i'm probably wrong
lefabrat
AIM
8:59 PM
o
8:59 PM
m
8:59 PM
g
8:59 PM
it's in jersey
Boseivous802
AIM
9:00 PM
cancel that appointment
lefabrat
AIM
9:00 PM
i'm going to have to
9:00 PM
omg
9:00 PM
i almost went to/ considered living and making out in jersey
Boseivous802
AIM
9:01 PM
i know, just breathe
9:01 PM
you are NOT bridge/tunnel
lefabrat
AIM
9:01 PM
omg, i don't even know what to SAY to that
9:01 PM
i was just thinking how staten island was a trip one only made in the most desperate of emergencies
9:02 PM
i mean NO ONE does the ferry
Boseivous802
AIM
9:02 PM
oh lord, not EVEN
lefabrat
AIM
9:02 PM
well, people do, tons of people, but i'm just way too snobby and gay to go to Shaolin
9:02 PM
but to think of living in Jersey...
9:02 PM
ugh, i dry-heaved a little bit
9:03 PM
where's that blunt?
Boseivous802
AIM
9:03 PM
just suck it down
9:03 PM
the fact you didnt even know it was new jersey proves you werent serious
lefabrat
AIM
9:03 PM
yes!
9:03 PM
yes it does
9:04 PM
and no one can say that it doesn't mean anything cuz it does, ok?!
Boseivous802
AIM
9:05 PM
just sing new york, new york
lefabrat
AIM
9:05 PM
good idea
9:06 PM
and i'll dawn a sequined pantsuit and down 3 'ludes just to be safe
So...I Don't Know How To Say This, But...I'm Reading Again.
Just thought I should let someone know.
Just in case I disappear in the enthralling passages of Augusten Burrough's "Running with Scissors."
Or if I'm touched inappopriately by his heartbreakingly comic pathos and I need an adult.
Then, there's always the possibility that I fall down the well of his love for irony only to be rescued three days later, amidst a flurry of television news cameras.
So, I leave my life in your sweaty, hairy palms.
I hope you have my back on this harrowing literary adventure.
Just in case I disappear in the enthralling passages of Augusten Burrough's "Running with Scissors."
Or if I'm touched inappopriately by his heartbreakingly comic pathos and I need an adult.
Then, there's always the possibility that I fall down the well of his love for irony only to be rescued three days later, amidst a flurry of television news cameras.
So, I leave my life in your sweaty, hairy palms.
I hope you have my back on this harrowing literary adventure.
Thursday, December 22, 2005
The Destitute Say The Darndest Things
So my new favorite site for the next 3 hours is Overheard in New York. Too bad I never overhear anything in New York because I always have my headphones on. I might change my ways though, as I am missing out on some prime hobo gold.
Wednesday, December 21, 2005
Why, Yes I Did Just Jack Off At Work, Does It Show?
There's a certain glow from it, no? I liken it to emerging from a fresh bubble bath.
The sad thing is I'm proud of it. Sad and awesome.
The sad thing is I'm proud of it. Sad and awesome.
Damn This STRIKE!!
You know, I really don't mind this strike. Sleeping over at my friend's dorm has been pretty fun and walking the 57 blocks to work isn't as soul-crushing as I had anticipated/hoped. However, I feel as if I am going to die. After all, a gal's got needs. Needs that involve me touching myself incessantly, day by day, hour by hour, if not minute by minute. As a 20 year old gay virgin, masturbation is one of the few things that keep me sane. The others being weed, daily Golden Girls marathons and that sweet smell of muffin and danish on my way to work from the countless carts and vendors linging the 3 miles to the good ole grind. Thus I haven't been able to explore the rugged terrain that is the equator of the globe that is my lusicous jackson body.
I don't know how much longer I can hold out, kids, before I just start jacking off every guy who even dares look within 35 degrees of my direction. This must not persist.
I don't know how much longer I can hold out, kids, before I just start jacking off every guy who even dares look within 35 degrees of my direction. This must not persist.
Tuesday, December 20, 2005
I Did It!
Well, Kids, I made it. I traversed the icy landscape of Post-Apocalyptic Manhattan, the reefer swimming through my veins and my iPod shuffle ringing in my ears. I could not be stopped. For a near 3 mile walk, it was rather brisk. I felt not only in good cheer as I sashayed with the occasional shauntay to the Upper Eastside, but a certain sense of power as I whizzed by the elderly and infirm as they crawled along these freezing streets. Stepping over the body of a partially frozen bag granny, my pulse jumped with excitement and I'm pretty sure I got a chubby downstairs. MTA strikes are FUN!!!
And this will never ever get old!
Sure, the walk to Brooklyn from Palladium, where I'm currently staying (for all you sexy/marginally attractive stalkers out there) is a 6.5 mile trek that Hopstop predicts will take around 3 hours, this hunting and gathering, Darwinian existence can never grow tired. Even if it will be 23 degrees tonight. Even if I have to walk 11 miles to work in the morning...Hmm, this isn't sounding...eh, well. Guess I'll just have to carjack a nigga and outrun the cops. Thank god Grand Theft Auto has prepared me for just this moment.
So until next time, remember, travel only at night and trust no one who offers you a ride. Especially no one with a thin mustache and a preternaturally high voice.
Death to Metropolis, long live the Jew Flesh!
And this will never ever get old!
Sure, the walk to Brooklyn from Palladium, where I'm currently staying (for all you sexy/marginally attractive stalkers out there) is a 6.5 mile trek that Hopstop predicts will take around 3 hours, this hunting and gathering, Darwinian existence can never grow tired. Even if it will be 23 degrees tonight. Even if I have to walk 11 miles to work in the morning...Hmm, this isn't sounding...eh, well. Guess I'll just have to carjack a nigga and outrun the cops. Thank god Grand Theft Auto has prepared me for just this moment.
So until next time, remember, travel only at night and trust no one who offers you a ride. Especially no one with a thin mustache and a preternaturally high voice.
Death to Metropolis, long live the Jew Flesh!
Monday, December 19, 2005
Here We Go, Kids
Well, it's December 19. By 12:01 tonight, the TWU and the MTA will either come to an agreement or to fist to cuffs. And can I just say that I REALLY hope that the TWU doesn't strike because that will seriously mess up my life. As well as the lives of millions of other people. But mostly mine. So here's what I'm doing to prepare (take notes, Kids, this could save your/Amanda Lepore's life):
1. Stock up: As your average dealer travels by train/bus/the power of Ja, I suggest you pile up and hunker down with as fat a stash as you can acquire. Go in with friends to save money and you can always kill them and smoke their share if New York goes all "Oregon Trail" on our asses.
2. If you a.)live in Brooklyn, as I do, and b.)have to travel extra-burrough to get to work and c.)absolutely can't miss work, as I can't, then I suggest staying with a friend. Thankfully, most of my friends are still subsisting on NYU's bloody teet and I can crash on their crouch and hoof it to work in the morning. Since I've passed out countless times on that couch, and even draped it in my drunk girl vomit, it's like a second home. If you feel uncomfortable, though, it's probably best to pack an overnight bag with toiletries and various sexual toys because masturbation stops for no man.
3. Once you've secured your drugs and your lodgings, in whichever order you prefer, it's time to get sexy with it. We don't know how long this strike is going to last or if it's going to happen at all, but that just means you have to prepare for everything. After four days and we're all wearing the same stank clothes we had on at the beginning of the week, spirits are running low, as are the booze you vacuum-packed for such an occasion, the end might look rather enticing. But no, Sir, do not go gently into that good night. You can get through this. WE can get through this. We're better than the MTA and the TWU, dammit. We can rise above this. Sure, it's almost Christmas/Chanukkah/New Years and everyone travels, but you can't give up hope. There are such things as miracles. Miracles that involve you hopping on the back of the nearest hobo, breaking and branding him, then riding him all the way to California. They'll even name a Midwest Passage after you.
K, here we go, Kids. Snuggle up close to the bong and let's all tell camp tales to pass the time. We'll be out of the woods soon enough.
1. Stock up: As your average dealer travels by train/bus/the power of Ja, I suggest you pile up and hunker down with as fat a stash as you can acquire. Go in with friends to save money and you can always kill them and smoke their share if New York goes all "Oregon Trail" on our asses.
2. If you a.)live in Brooklyn, as I do, and b.)have to travel extra-burrough to get to work and c.)absolutely can't miss work, as I can't, then I suggest staying with a friend. Thankfully, most of my friends are still subsisting on NYU's bloody teet and I can crash on their crouch and hoof it to work in the morning. Since I've passed out countless times on that couch, and even draped it in my drunk girl vomit, it's like a second home. If you feel uncomfortable, though, it's probably best to pack an overnight bag with toiletries and various sexual toys because masturbation stops for no man.
3. Once you've secured your drugs and your lodgings, in whichever order you prefer, it's time to get sexy with it. We don't know how long this strike is going to last or if it's going to happen at all, but that just means you have to prepare for everything. After four days and we're all wearing the same stank clothes we had on at the beginning of the week, spirits are running low, as are the booze you vacuum-packed for such an occasion, the end might look rather enticing. But no, Sir, do not go gently into that good night. You can get through this. WE can get through this. We're better than the MTA and the TWU, dammit. We can rise above this. Sure, it's almost Christmas/Chanukkah/New Years and everyone travels, but you can't give up hope. There are such things as miracles. Miracles that involve you hopping on the back of the nearest hobo, breaking and branding him, then riding him all the way to California. They'll even name a Midwest Passage after you.
K, here we go, Kids. Snuggle up close to the bong and let's all tell camp tales to pass the time. We'll be out of the woods soon enough.
Enough Gay Sex To Braid A Tunisian Bride's Pubic Hair
So this weekend, I finally saw "Brokeback Mountain." And I must say that I was initially unimpressed. Yes it was a beautifully written, acted and directed film, but there wasn't enough sweaty man-squared action for me. Honestly, there's never enough gay sex for me in anything, ever, particularly in my own personal film, "Bitter, Repressed Gays Crying Into Their Own Ejaculate."
There's only one scene of gay sex, and it is hot, but I left the film surprisingly limp. In hindsight, I think the problem was not the lack of sex, but rather the lack of impact the film had on me. It was such a quiet, introspective movie that I kind of waited for that one scene in which everything explodes, implodes or self-destructs. This isn't that kind of film, though, and the more I think about it, the more I like it. It's a piece of subtlety and brilliance amidst a world of "Stealth" and "Kong." So there wasn't an orgy of anulingus,* but that's what the second feature of the weekend was for.
"Gay Sex In The 70s." There really is no better title to guarantee my presence in the theater, other than perhaps "Gay Pot Liza 54 In The 80s Featuring Free Hand Jobs and Snacks." Usually, I skip documentaries, because if I wanted to listen to some half-crazed drunk lecture me for two hours, I would have dated Sean Penn. But this was pretty well done. However, my judgment was automatically impaired by the rush of blood to my pants, but as I remember it, this was clearly the best movie in the history of the universe. After leaving Quad Cinema, I was inspired to find a mustachioed paramour in the wet,hot sticky dungeons of Christopher Street and re-enact one of the many scenes of naked, Disco love. Sweet, pulsing Disco love. But by the time the cold air hit me, any hopes of rectum abuse shriveled in the wind.
Film-wise, this weekend was much like a good date. I had the soft, longing of romance with "Brokeback" on Saturday followed by the staff infection of fulfilled longing with "Gay Sex" on Sunday. Only, this time I won't be in a hurry to get rid of this burning sensation.
Hmm, take that Gene Shalit.
Yeah, right there.
Mmm, that's how I like it.
A tower of eyefuls indeed.
*I'm pretty sure that's [not] a word.
There's only one scene of gay sex, and it is hot, but I left the film surprisingly limp. In hindsight, I think the problem was not the lack of sex, but rather the lack of impact the film had on me. It was such a quiet, introspective movie that I kind of waited for that one scene in which everything explodes, implodes or self-destructs. This isn't that kind of film, though, and the more I think about it, the more I like it. It's a piece of subtlety and brilliance amidst a world of "Stealth" and "Kong." So there wasn't an orgy of anulingus,* but that's what the second feature of the weekend was for.
"Gay Sex In The 70s." There really is no better title to guarantee my presence in the theater, other than perhaps "Gay Pot Liza 54 In The 80s Featuring Free Hand Jobs and Snacks." Usually, I skip documentaries, because if I wanted to listen to some half-crazed drunk lecture me for two hours, I would have dated Sean Penn. But this was pretty well done. However, my judgment was automatically impaired by the rush of blood to my pants, but as I remember it, this was clearly the best movie in the history of the universe. After leaving Quad Cinema, I was inspired to find a mustachioed paramour in the wet,hot sticky dungeons of Christopher Street and re-enact one of the many scenes of naked, Disco love. Sweet, pulsing Disco love. But by the time the cold air hit me, any hopes of rectum abuse shriveled in the wind.
Film-wise, this weekend was much like a good date. I had the soft, longing of romance with "Brokeback" on Saturday followed by the staff infection of fulfilled longing with "Gay Sex" on Sunday. Only, this time I won't be in a hurry to get rid of this burning sensation.
Hmm, take that Gene Shalit.
Yeah, right there.
Mmm, that's how I like it.
A tower of eyefuls indeed.
*I'm pretty sure that's [not] a word.
Thursday, December 15, 2005
For What It's Worth...
Well, I just got my paycheck. And perhaps not needless to say, I have died inside once again.
When I first saw Office Space, I thought it was just a funny satire; that office life couldn't possibly be that bad, that soul-killing. Ah, the naivete of youth.
Working in an office is shitty enough, what with the harsh lighting, tacky furniture, and hollow niceties that get thrown around like insert colorful, potentially offensive simile here. But take into account that you have to deal with bosses that track your every move--leaving you in a constant state of alert--the paltry salary--a sginificant portion of which gets confiscated by the government-- and the overall feeling that you're trapped in a ceaseless void of anonimity and suddenly torching your office building doesn't seem like such a bad idea.
In short, I need to get out. Not just from this particular job, but from working these kinds of jobs. I don't mind being underappreciated, but once you start fucking with my paychecks, shit turns serious. I need to get out or someone's going to have to take a pencil to the scrotum.
When I first saw Office Space, I thought it was just a funny satire; that office life couldn't possibly be that bad, that soul-killing. Ah, the naivete of youth.
Working in an office is shitty enough, what with the harsh lighting, tacky furniture, and hollow niceties that get thrown around like insert colorful, potentially offensive simile here. But take into account that you have to deal with bosses that track your every move--leaving you in a constant state of alert--the paltry salary--a sginificant portion of which gets confiscated by the government-- and the overall feeling that you're trapped in a ceaseless void of anonimity and suddenly torching your office building doesn't seem like such a bad idea.
In short, I need to get out. Not just from this particular job, but from working these kinds of jobs. I don't mind being underappreciated, but once you start fucking with my paychecks, shit turns serious. I need to get out or someone's going to have to take a pencil to the scrotum.
Wednesday, December 14, 2005
This May Be The (Lack Of) Weed Talking...
Usually, I'd be high right now. I'm not, since I'm broke yet again. And don't think it's sitting well with me at all. Alas, like a true soldier, I shall try and continue with this charade I call a "blog".
So I've noticed that at recent events for everyone's favorite gay cowboy flick--that I have yet to see (once again: broke)--one of the stars happens not to be there. At the LA premiere, Heath was a no-show. And at the recent NY premiere, Jake took a dive out. But why?
This may be the lack of weed talking, but I smell something hot and sweaty on the western front. Break out those Levis and that spitoon, cuz I'm a goin' a speculatin'!
First off, Michelle Williams. She's a cutie, I really enjoy her. She was obviously the only one on Dawson's Creek with any acting talent, and she may get an Oscar, or at least a nod, for her performance in "Bareback Mount Him*". But in terms of physical appeal, well, she's no Naomi Watts. Thus, I'm pondering the reasons behind the relationship between those two, as Hollywood is one shallow place. And they live in Brooklyn, the uppity, trendy part--also shallow. So why is Heath Ledger dating the non-Destiny's Child Michelle Williams? A cover up? Now that there's a baby involved, that issue is obviously out of the question, no?
Second, Jake Gyllenhaal. Every fag and their dad wants/believes him to be gay. And can you blame them? Boy is gorgeous. As is Heath, so this gay cowboy lovin's obviously going to be huge among the man-bag set. El Gyllenhaal has a certain ambiguity about him. He's boyish, yet manly, yet sensitive. And of course that translates to at least bi by some people's standards. And he's had an on again-off again relationship with one Mr. Kirsten Dunst. A relationship that seemed to be particularly off during the filming of "Brokeback." Now, he's single, but Heath isn't. Was there something we missed off-screen?
Now, I'm not trying to insinuate that Jake and Heath fell in love during the filming of the movie and Heath dumped Jake to turkey baste Michelle Williams at the last minute out of fear of doing such an overtly queer movie and the resulting animosity between the two heartthrobs leads them to avoid each other as often as possible. I'm just saying, hey, it could have happened. And I like to think it did when I jack off at night. I mean, a guy's gotta get to sleep somehow, right?
Stories of co-stars hooking up during the filming of movies creep out from under the casting couch all the time. We only tend to hear the ones involving a male and a female. However, is it too presumptuous to think that filming a tender love story in the throws of the mountains and the mountainous passion with another hot as balls actor could have led to some trailer boinking action? I think not. I just wish it weren't such a big deal. It's really painful watching Tom Cruise nowadays.
*Yeah, i totally stole that from some commenter on Defamer.
So I've noticed that at recent events for everyone's favorite gay cowboy flick--that I have yet to see (once again: broke)--one of the stars happens not to be there. At the LA premiere, Heath was a no-show. And at the recent NY premiere, Jake took a dive out. But why?
This may be the lack of weed talking, but I smell something hot and sweaty on the western front. Break out those Levis and that spitoon, cuz I'm a goin' a speculatin'!
First off, Michelle Williams. She's a cutie, I really enjoy her. She was obviously the only one on Dawson's Creek with any acting talent, and she may get an Oscar, or at least a nod, for her performance in "Bareback Mount Him*". But in terms of physical appeal, well, she's no Naomi Watts. Thus, I'm pondering the reasons behind the relationship between those two, as Hollywood is one shallow place. And they live in Brooklyn, the uppity, trendy part--also shallow. So why is Heath Ledger dating the non-Destiny's Child Michelle Williams? A cover up? Now that there's a baby involved, that issue is obviously out of the question, no?
Second, Jake Gyllenhaal. Every fag and their dad wants/believes him to be gay. And can you blame them? Boy is gorgeous. As is Heath, so this gay cowboy lovin's obviously going to be huge among the man-bag set. El Gyllenhaal has a certain ambiguity about him. He's boyish, yet manly, yet sensitive. And of course that translates to at least bi by some people's standards. And he's had an on again-off again relationship with one Mr. Kirsten Dunst. A relationship that seemed to be particularly off during the filming of "Brokeback." Now, he's single, but Heath isn't. Was there something we missed off-screen?
Now, I'm not trying to insinuate that Jake and Heath fell in love during the filming of the movie and Heath dumped Jake to turkey baste Michelle Williams at the last minute out of fear of doing such an overtly queer movie and the resulting animosity between the two heartthrobs leads them to avoid each other as often as possible. I'm just saying, hey, it could have happened. And I like to think it did when I jack off at night. I mean, a guy's gotta get to sleep somehow, right?
Stories of co-stars hooking up during the filming of movies creep out from under the casting couch all the time. We only tend to hear the ones involving a male and a female. However, is it too presumptuous to think that filming a tender love story in the throws of the mountains and the mountainous passion with another hot as balls actor could have led to some trailer boinking action? I think not. I just wish it weren't such a big deal. It's really painful watching Tom Cruise nowadays.
*Yeah, i totally stole that from some commenter on Defamer.
What Alarms Me Most Is That Kids Learn To Narc At Such An Early Age
Damn the DARE program.
Apparently, a substitute teacher was doing coke amidst a class of seventh graders in Jacksonville, FL. Now, I know that one shouldn't be doing coke, particularly during the daytime. I mean, sunlight is not the coke whore's friend. And in a public place and in the presence of children--wrong. But who are these kids? Don't they know they're supposed to keep their mouth's shut/threaten to rat him out unless he throws a few rails their way. What are they teaching the kids in school these days?
And speaking of DARE, can I just say that it's arguably the biggest waste of time and money since The FAME television series; though it did provide us with a young, pre-Control Ms. Janet Jackson.
Over Thanksgiving break, I was back home in Poughkeepsie, [Upstate] New York. Yes, I was stoned off my face for the entire time I was there, but that's not exactly where I'm going with this rant. But there was a murder across the street while I was there. And I had nothing to do with it. Not like anyone could prove that I did...Anywho, around 6 am, the door bell rang and it was the cops. No, rather, it was a very special cop. It was my first DARE counselor, making his was around the gayborhood questioning everyone. Thankfully, he didn't recognize me. Or the weed in my pocket. That would have been, in a word, awkward.
But I got to thinking. Seeing my ex-DARE warden, I realized that the scare tactics they employed probably did more harm than good. For years, I was the picture of sobriety. I rarely if ever got drunk, I never smoked weed or did drugs. But then college came. I still managed to abstain, though not for the lack of trying. I wanted to try something/anything/everything because I had abstained for so long; out of fear of becoming addicted, going to jail, what have you. DARE told me if I tried weed, I'd end up a drug fiend. So eventually, curiosity gave way to experimentation. Now, here I am. I'm not a drug fiend, but I am a huge stoner. And why? Of course, I share the lion's end of the blame, but what of DARE? They taught my peers and I how to fear and to judge, instead of teaching us how to abstain and handle ourselves in the likely case that we did experiment.
And I blame Nancy Reagan. Mostly because she tricked Gary Coleman into narcing on his friends in a very special episode of "Diff'rent Strokes" when she obviously should have been paying more attention to Todd Bridges and Dana Plato. But also, because just saying no doesn't leave room for a maybe, which can often lead one down a dangerous path.
Apparently, a substitute teacher was doing coke amidst a class of seventh graders in Jacksonville, FL. Now, I know that one shouldn't be doing coke, particularly during the daytime. I mean, sunlight is not the coke whore's friend. And in a public place and in the presence of children--wrong. But who are these kids? Don't they know they're supposed to keep their mouth's shut/threaten to rat him out unless he throws a few rails their way. What are they teaching the kids in school these days?
And speaking of DARE, can I just say that it's arguably the biggest waste of time and money since The FAME television series; though it did provide us with a young, pre-Control Ms. Janet Jackson.
Over Thanksgiving break, I was back home in Poughkeepsie, [Upstate] New York. Yes, I was stoned off my face for the entire time I was there, but that's not exactly where I'm going with this rant. But there was a murder across the street while I was there. And I had nothing to do with it. Not like anyone could prove that I did...Anywho, around 6 am, the door bell rang and it was the cops. No, rather, it was a very special cop. It was my first DARE counselor, making his was around the gayborhood questioning everyone. Thankfully, he didn't recognize me. Or the weed in my pocket. That would have been, in a word, awkward.
But I got to thinking. Seeing my ex-DARE warden, I realized that the scare tactics they employed probably did more harm than good. For years, I was the picture of sobriety. I rarely if ever got drunk, I never smoked weed or did drugs. But then college came. I still managed to abstain, though not for the lack of trying. I wanted to try something/anything/everything because I had abstained for so long; out of fear of becoming addicted, going to jail, what have you. DARE told me if I tried weed, I'd end up a drug fiend. So eventually, curiosity gave way to experimentation. Now, here I am. I'm not a drug fiend, but I am a huge stoner. And why? Of course, I share the lion's end of the blame, but what of DARE? They taught my peers and I how to fear and to judge, instead of teaching us how to abstain and handle ourselves in the likely case that we did experiment.
And I blame Nancy Reagan. Mostly because she tricked Gary Coleman into narcing on his friends in a very special episode of "Diff'rent Strokes" when she obviously should have been paying more attention to Todd Bridges and Dana Plato. But also, because just saying no doesn't leave room for a maybe, which can often lead one down a dangerous path.
Hey, What's That?
I like to describe friendship with me as thinly-veiled hatred. And I think most of my friends would agree with that statement. However, it's not as if I resent my friends. Far from it. Rather, I resent everyone, often for no particular reason other than that they breathe my oxygen and take up my space. Now, you may be asking yourself, what claim do I, Cheki With A Shh!, have to the O2 in the air and the matter surrounding us? And to that I respond, what right do you have to ask that? The same right I have to claim that I rule everything. It's at least as legitimate as your reasons for questioning me. Though, if you continue along this line of incredulity, I am going to have to deal with you. And trust me, you don't wish to be dealt with by the man who single-handedly brought down both "The Bob Newhart Show" and "Newhart". You're out of your league kids. So next time you contmeplate life and your place in it, just remember this: I am infinitely better than you can ever hope of being.
Monday, December 12, 2005
Now THIS Is How You Make A Movie, Folks!
Take note.
Accordinng to the always reliable--cough-- Perez Hilton, Colin Farrel recently OD'd on the set of Miami Vice and is now in rehab. I don't know if you kids have been following the production of this film/disaster/epiphany, but this is only the latest in a number of incidents and setbacks, including hurricanes, hard-partying and animosity between Sirs Jamie Foxx and Colin Farrell.
I remember, though, back in my day when this type of behavior was commonplace. We called it professionalism. These greenhorns acting today don't know they're asses from some Uruguayan whore's hole in the wall. I'm glad these two professionals are keeping the tradition alive.
Next, it's your move, Mr. Foxx. Apparently, you and Mr. Farrell have a rivalry going on when it comes to the ladies. And all pussy likes a bad boy. The ball's in your court. Sure you have an Oscar, but can you pull of that rare hat trick, what I like to refer to as the Bad Ass Christ 180? OD'ing, technically dying for several minutes,only to come back to life, blow a few more rails and fuck a bitch as if nothign happened? Only the greatest rock stars and addicts have achieved this...well, and Nikki Sixx. Do this, and you're golden.
Go ahead, Foxx. I dare ya.*
*Note: "Cheki With A Shh!" does not claim liability for Jamie Foxx's accidental death. Or those horrible tattoos he's been rocking lately. C'mon, man, let's get it together.
Accordinng to the always reliable--cough-- Perez Hilton, Colin Farrel recently OD'd on the set of Miami Vice and is now in rehab. I don't know if you kids have been following the production of this film/disaster/epiphany, but this is only the latest in a number of incidents and setbacks, including hurricanes, hard-partying and animosity between Sirs Jamie Foxx and Colin Farrell.
I remember, though, back in my day when this type of behavior was commonplace. We called it professionalism. These greenhorns acting today don't know they're asses from some Uruguayan whore's hole in the wall. I'm glad these two professionals are keeping the tradition alive.
Next, it's your move, Mr. Foxx. Apparently, you and Mr. Farrell have a rivalry going on when it comes to the ladies. And all pussy likes a bad boy. The ball's in your court. Sure you have an Oscar, but can you pull of that rare hat trick, what I like to refer to as the Bad Ass Christ 180? OD'ing, technically dying for several minutes,only to come back to life, blow a few more rails and fuck a bitch as if nothign happened? Only the greatest rock stars and addicts have achieved this...well, and Nikki Sixx. Do this, and you're golden.
Go ahead, Foxx. I dare ya.*
*Note: "Cheki With A Shh!" does not claim liability for Jamie Foxx's accidental death. Or those horrible tattoos he's been rocking lately. C'mon, man, let's get it together.
Sunday, December 11, 2005
The Lost Weekend
Once you've scoured the fibers of your carpet for a molecule of weed, you know you've reached an all time low. Until you smoke the treasure you've managed to find. And then, well, it's somewhat of a low high. Sure you're laughing to yourself about how bitterly amusing your once innocent habit has morphed into a crippling addiction, but there are tears under those laughs. And you need to continue to laugh to keep the demons at bay. No, not again, you say. You won't let them have at you. You laugh to distract from the cold you feel at night, clutching the empty pillow next to you. You laugh because, hey, what else can you do. Denial is better than excepting your pitiful existence.
Which is why I'm glad I'm not you! Wow, that must suck. Now, if you'll excuse me, I've got weed dust to smoke.
Which is why I'm glad I'm not you! Wow, that must suck. Now, if you'll excuse me, I've got weed dust to smoke.
Thursday, December 08, 2005
Just When You Thought It Was Safe To Shift Your Assets To An Offshore Account In St. Martin....
I know I haven't updated in a while, but I've been to busy/tired/high or busy being tired from getting high, but I just got some devestating news one of my favorite sites, Gawker.
It's a good thing I get my giggle leaf from an independent distributor. But what is the world coming to when you can't make a few million dollars trafficking marijuana and laundering your profits without the freakin' government anally raping you at the next corner? Thank god Grace Jones isn't alive to see this.
What's that?
Oh, well, I'm sure she's devestated.
It's a good thing I get my giggle leaf from an independent distributor. But what is the world coming to when you can't make a few million dollars trafficking marijuana and laundering your profits without the freakin' government anally raping you at the next corner? Thank god Grace Jones isn't alive to see this.
What's that?
Oh, well, I'm sure she's devestated.
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