The magic that is Erykah Badu. I don't really have a reason for posting this except that it's awesome and my blog's all about awesomity. From the now-defunct Chappelle's Show, I present you with Ms. Badu, in concert:
Thursday, August 24, 2006
Friday, August 18, 2006
Dreams DO Come True
I'll tell you one thing, Liza is looking great these days. Sixty and sexy, With a Z gave a free concert in Asser Levy Park and the gays and the geriatric Jews turned out in spades to show their fanatical support. I, myself, endured nearly two hours of subway, an hour of standing around listening to the over 70 set gripe about being alive and the tired schtick of our host for the evening, Mr. Morty Moskowicz. But boy was it worth it!
Liza made her sequined entrance at around 8:45 doing a particularly showtune-y version of "I Can See Clearly Now" ending with a triumphant "I CAN SHEE!" After that number, Ms. Minnelli announced that she had succesfully lost 26 pounds since we had seen her last year (though I didn't have that distinct pleasure) and it certainly showed. The gams were on display for the audience to see as she wore a high cut little cream bedazzled minidress, matching stockings and shoes so shiny they must have been made out of the hair of the muses. I could see them sparkling even from my disadvantaged vantage point, some 300 feet from the stage.
The show and Liza kept steaming along, with "The Man I Love," "Sara Lee," an ode to her favorite snack food, "Ring Them Bells," and concluding with "Let's Hear It for the Band" or something along those lines. My memory is a bit fuzzy as I was in a state of complete euphoria at the time. And by 'euphoria', I mean stoned. During the "Band" number, Liza disappeared for what could only be a wardrobe change and perhaps a sandwich. No booze or drugs for her, though--that's right, Liza's on the wagon, kids. And I say, bravo.
Re-emerging in a sequined red number, revealing a rather sassy shoulder, Liza began the second part of the show. This included a Kander and Ebb original, "Sailor Boys" Liza dragging up a nearly 80-year old Gina Lollobrigida, proclaiming, "We made it man!" and a soulful rendition of "You Can Keep Your Hat On" by her pianist, some musical theater fag whose name escapes me at the moment. During his perfomrance, Liza took a seat and let him do his thing, then she requested a matching red hat and had him play again. This time, though, she did a little dance number that could only be described as fucking adorable. Then it was on to the finale, "Cabaret." Noticeably, she changed one of the lines--"When I goooooooooo, I'm NOT goin' like Elsie!" Meaning, she's not going out of an overdose of "pills and liquor." And thank god for that. I'm not ready to lose Liza yet. I'd be devestated. I wouldn't be able to jazz hand for months. Anywho, she finished "Cabaret" and left the stage after a well-desered standing O, but we all knew that wasn't the end. A few minutes later she came back on asking if we wanted another song? Duh. Duh duh duh-duh-duh-duh. Duh duh duh-duh-duh-duh. "Start spreading the news!" And bitch TORE. IT. UP. After another standing O, some die hard fans still waited. This couldn't be it. And of course it wasn't. Liza came back on--"But I don't have any more songs," she said in that way that you knew wasn't going to stop her from trying anyway. It was true, her band didn't have any more arrangements, but the old girl still belted out one final number a capella, leaving the stage for good. We still waited just in case, but then Morty Moscowicz came back instead, so it was clearly time to go.
Oh, Liza. With a Z. Not Lisa. With an S. Cuz Lisa with an S goes Sss, not Zzz. You've still got it. But once you have it, I doubt you ever really, truly lose it. Let's me, you and Bea do a revival of Mame. You can have the title part, Bea can reprise her role as Vera, which I guess leaves me as your loving nephew, Patrick. I smell Tony!
Liza made her sequined entrance at around 8:45 doing a particularly showtune-y version of "I Can See Clearly Now" ending with a triumphant "I CAN SHEE!" After that number, Ms. Minnelli announced that she had succesfully lost 26 pounds since we had seen her last year (though I didn't have that distinct pleasure) and it certainly showed. The gams were on display for the audience to see as she wore a high cut little cream bedazzled minidress, matching stockings and shoes so shiny they must have been made out of the hair of the muses. I could see them sparkling even from my disadvantaged vantage point, some 300 feet from the stage.
The show and Liza kept steaming along, with "The Man I Love," "Sara Lee," an ode to her favorite snack food, "Ring Them Bells," and concluding with "Let's Hear It for the Band" or something along those lines. My memory is a bit fuzzy as I was in a state of complete euphoria at the time. And by 'euphoria', I mean stoned. During the "Band" number, Liza disappeared for what could only be a wardrobe change and perhaps a sandwich. No booze or drugs for her, though--that's right, Liza's on the wagon, kids. And I say, bravo.
Re-emerging in a sequined red number, revealing a rather sassy shoulder, Liza began the second part of the show. This included a Kander and Ebb original, "Sailor Boys" Liza dragging up a nearly 80-year old Gina Lollobrigida, proclaiming, "We made it man!" and a soulful rendition of "You Can Keep Your Hat On" by her pianist, some musical theater fag whose name escapes me at the moment. During his perfomrance, Liza took a seat and let him do his thing, then she requested a matching red hat and had him play again. This time, though, she did a little dance number that could only be described as fucking adorable. Then it was on to the finale, "Cabaret." Noticeably, she changed one of the lines--"When I goooooooooo, I'm NOT goin' like Elsie!" Meaning, she's not going out of an overdose of "pills and liquor." And thank god for that. I'm not ready to lose Liza yet. I'd be devestated. I wouldn't be able to jazz hand for months. Anywho, she finished "Cabaret" and left the stage after a well-desered standing O, but we all knew that wasn't the end. A few minutes later she came back on asking if we wanted another song? Duh. Duh duh duh-duh-duh-duh. Duh duh duh-duh-duh-duh. "Start spreading the news!" And bitch TORE. IT. UP. After another standing O, some die hard fans still waited. This couldn't be it. And of course it wasn't. Liza came back on--"But I don't have any more songs," she said in that way that you knew wasn't going to stop her from trying anyway. It was true, her band didn't have any more arrangements, but the old girl still belted out one final number a capella, leaving the stage for good. We still waited just in case, but then Morty Moscowicz came back instead, so it was clearly time to go.
Oh, Liza. With a Z. Not Lisa. With an S. Cuz Lisa with an S goes Sss, not Zzz. You've still got it. But once you have it, I doubt you ever really, truly lose it. Let's me, you and Bea do a revival of Mame. You can have the title part, Bea can reprise her role as Vera, which I guess leaves me as your loving nephew, Patrick. I smell Tony!
Monday, August 07, 2006
I, For One, Am Shocked
suzanne said...
What a sad, nasty, stupid little misogynist you are. You may think you're not, but you are. It's the comments like just stop standing around bleeding from your genitalia and It's the idea of women that gets me down that give you away.
But if you ask me it looks like day-old lunch meat.
Nobody was asking you, honey. Shut up and go away, and stop posting your horrid moronic crap. If you think you don't hate women, you're delusional.
Shocked, I say! Recently I've been accused of being a mysoginist. And I have NO IDEA where people may have gotten that idea. Just because I said that a woman's vagina reminds me of "lunch meat" and urged them to "stop standing around bleeding from your genitalia throwing those mammaries around like a baseball"--I mean out of context that just sounds mean. In context though, it's mean and gratuitous. Apparently someone or some people got angry at that, but that's really not my problem. The post was a joke, this blog is a joke and my life is a joke. So why not have a little fun? With hundreds of civilians dying in Lebanon and Ryan Seacrest masquerading as a heterosexual, there are far worse crimes being perpetuated here, kids. Don't consider this an apology, because I'm not sorry. Why should I be when I was just yanking some chain? Some vaginal chain. I'm just owning up to what I said and I also hate being misunderstood and found it necessary to clarify my position: Gays = don't much care for them. Women = could do without them. The infirm = I push past them in the subway. Kids = I push them off swings and steal their lunch money. I'm just an asshole trying to get through this crazy world and taking down as many people as I can. And if you take me too seriously, well, you're going to hate me a lot more than you probably already do. Now let's settle this the way they used to in the 80s: dance-off. I bring my crew and whoever's pissed, bring theirs--the last ones standing get the Adidas of Glory. Aww,shit. It's on like Breakin' 2: Electric Boogaloo.
What a sad, nasty, stupid little misogynist you are. You may think you're not, but you are. It's the comments like just stop standing around bleeding from your genitalia and It's the idea of women that gets me down that give you away.
But if you ask me it looks like day-old lunch meat.
Nobody was asking you, honey. Shut up and go away, and stop posting your horrid moronic crap. If you think you don't hate women, you're delusional.
Shocked, I say! Recently I've been accused of being a mysoginist. And I have NO IDEA where people may have gotten that idea. Just because I said that a woman's vagina reminds me of "lunch meat" and urged them to "stop standing around bleeding from your genitalia throwing those mammaries around like a baseball"--I mean out of context that just sounds mean. In context though, it's mean and gratuitous. Apparently someone or some people got angry at that, but that's really not my problem. The post was a joke, this blog is a joke and my life is a joke. So why not have a little fun? With hundreds of civilians dying in Lebanon and Ryan Seacrest masquerading as a heterosexual, there are far worse crimes being perpetuated here, kids. Don't consider this an apology, because I'm not sorry. Why should I be when I was just yanking some chain? Some vaginal chain. I'm just owning up to what I said and I also hate being misunderstood and found it necessary to clarify my position: Gays = don't much care for them. Women = could do without them. The infirm = I push past them in the subway. Kids = I push them off swings and steal their lunch money. I'm just an asshole trying to get through this crazy world and taking down as many people as I can. And if you take me too seriously, well, you're going to hate me a lot more than you probably already do. Now let's settle this the way they used to in the 80s: dance-off. I bring my crew and whoever's pissed, bring theirs--the last ones standing get the Adidas of Glory. Aww,shit. It's on like Breakin' 2: Electric Boogaloo.
Thursday, August 03, 2006
I Don't Much Care for Women
I mean, really, what are they good for? Yes, tits are nice and for some reason the snatch is appealing to some. But if you ask me it looks like day-old lunch meat. Now, don't misunderstand, I don't hate women--far from it. The greatest beards and hags of my life have been female. It's the idea of women that gets me down. Yesterday, walking through the Loisaida, I saw a bevy of attracvtive, queere-esque men holding hands and getting handsy with whom I suppose were their girlfriends. It's not just an aesthetically queer appearance, you see, but also their mannerisms. It's a special something that I can't always put my finger on but would nevertheless would enjoy fingering. Now, I'm willing to leave well enough alone, but a pang of jealousy shoots through me everytime I see these couplings. I mean, are there no gay men left? Did I miss something where gay guys just suddenly stopped being gay and took up with the fairer sex? Is it the year of living vaginally? *Shudder*. Or am I just completely dillusional? Not gonna lie to ya, the answer probably lies in the last question. However, it is times like these that I wish women would just go away--just stop standing around bleeding from your genitalia and throwing those mammaries around like a baseball. It's not mysogyny--hell, I'm a huge feminist. I would just rather scorch the earth of their presence so I can have all of their men to myself. Is that so bad?
I was thinking of those questionably straight men today as I read an article in the New York Times Style section, sassily titled "When the Beard Is Too Painful to Remove." The article concerns married men who realize/come to grips with the fact that they are gay. They often have homosexual relations outside of their marriage, even a second monogamous relationship--usually with a man in a similar situation. Some choose to end their marriage, however most do not, fearing the end of their domestic life. I have to agree with Bonnie Kaye, ex-beard, current hag (?) interviewed in the article that the decision to stay in a marriage to preserve the idea of that marriage is horribly selfish. In this case, there is more than one person's life at stake: a wife, kids, other family members. It's a sicky situation but it requires courage and the willingness to be truthful in order to overcome it. But just imagine having to tell your wife of 25 years that her vagina repulses you. Aaawwkwaaarrrd. There is a definte possiblity she may hate you that your kids may hate you and that Paul Lynde may hate you. But Paul Lynde hates everyone. However, I've always considered honesty with yourself to be one of the most important things in life as well as a sign of maturity. I know and I admit that I'm a bitchy, moody, asshole with a minor drug and alcohol abuse problem. What some consider minor, though, is up for grabs. Anyway, I'm getting off topic here. My point is, it is sad there are men in these situations, even sadder that there are women who, unbeknownst to them, are in these situations and sadder still that this situation still occurs in a society supposedly far more progressive than the age of Rock Hudson and Monty Clift. If Brokeback's taught us anything, it's that two guys in cowboy hats getting it on is hot. And what gay man wouldn't want to be part of that? Drop the ladies and let me have your sweet, bearded love.
I was thinking of those questionably straight men today as I read an article in the New York Times Style section, sassily titled "When the Beard Is Too Painful to Remove." The article concerns married men who realize/come to grips with the fact that they are gay. They often have homosexual relations outside of their marriage, even a second monogamous relationship--usually with a man in a similar situation. Some choose to end their marriage, however most do not, fearing the end of their domestic life. I have to agree with Bonnie Kaye, ex-beard, current hag (?) interviewed in the article that the decision to stay in a marriage to preserve the idea of that marriage is horribly selfish. In this case, there is more than one person's life at stake: a wife, kids, other family members. It's a sicky situation but it requires courage and the willingness to be truthful in order to overcome it. But just imagine having to tell your wife of 25 years that her vagina repulses you. Aaawwkwaaarrrd. There is a definte possiblity she may hate you that your kids may hate you and that Paul Lynde may hate you. But Paul Lynde hates everyone. However, I've always considered honesty with yourself to be one of the most important things in life as well as a sign of maturity. I know and I admit that I'm a bitchy, moody, asshole with a minor drug and alcohol abuse problem. What some consider minor, though, is up for grabs. Anyway, I'm getting off topic here. My point is, it is sad there are men in these situations, even sadder that there are women who, unbeknownst to them, are in these situations and sadder still that this situation still occurs in a society supposedly far more progressive than the age of Rock Hudson and Monty Clift. If Brokeback's taught us anything, it's that two guys in cowboy hats getting it on is hot. And what gay man wouldn't want to be part of that? Drop the ladies and let me have your sweet, bearded love.
Wednesday, August 02, 2006
My Thighs Are Chaffing Like 2 Sailors After Fleet Week
Newsflash to New York: it's a might bit warm out. You may have missed this little detail as your brains have been fried by the 100 degree heat. But I'm just here to let you know that it's a little unpleasant outside. I hope you have some A/C in your homes because I know I sure don't. I stopped being alive about two days ago as a result but my body's so accustomed to the everyday grind that I'm still going about my daily tasks, ie commuting to work, smoking pot and writing the occasional sassy post on my blog. I guess none of those tasks requires any sort of mental thought--who knew? Unfortunately, all this activity has caused my thighs irreparable damage and I fear should they rub together anymore vigorously my pants will catch afire. I'm going to dig myself an underground lair and wait til fall--or til I finally collapse and die. Whichever comes first.
Thursday, July 27, 2006
Refrain
Nobody loves me quite yet
What am I to do?
Furrow my brow, sit and fret?
Or plunge neck-deep into ceaseless rejection?
Wondering if I manage to attain perfection
Will they love me then?
If I do everything right
Am better than everyone else
Could I stand a chance tonight?
Of finally meeting Love Ofmy Life
Probably not, but it's still great to hope
Even when hope's dangling lifeless from a rope
What I use to numb the pain
Can never stop it from comin' again
What i take to numb the pain
Will never stop it from comin' again
But I hope when I do numb the pain
I'll forget that'll soon have a regretful refrain
I could care less if I lived or died somedays
What keeps me goin' are the drugs and that funny way
Creating something makes me feel
Like I've added a stroke to a make a painting more real
As if i've been placed here for a reason I've yet to discover
Perhaps that I can exist one day without a lover
That what I've created is that bit of hope for me
The hope I lost sight of in spite of me
What I use to numb the pain
Can never stop it from comin' again
What i take to numb the pain
Will never stop it from comin' again
But I hope when I do numb the pain
I'll forget that'll soon have a regretful refrain
What am I to do?
Furrow my brow, sit and fret?
Or plunge neck-deep into ceaseless rejection?
Wondering if I manage to attain perfection
Will they love me then?
If I do everything right
Am better than everyone else
Could I stand a chance tonight?
Of finally meeting Love Ofmy Life
Probably not, but it's still great to hope
Even when hope's dangling lifeless from a rope
What I use to numb the pain
Can never stop it from comin' again
What i take to numb the pain
Will never stop it from comin' again
But I hope when I do numb the pain
I'll forget that'll soon have a regretful refrain
I could care less if I lived or died somedays
What keeps me goin' are the drugs and that funny way
Creating something makes me feel
Like I've added a stroke to a make a painting more real
As if i've been placed here for a reason I've yet to discover
Perhaps that I can exist one day without a lover
That what I've created is that bit of hope for me
The hope I lost sight of in spite of me
What I use to numb the pain
Can never stop it from comin' again
What i take to numb the pain
Will never stop it from comin' again
But I hope when I do numb the pain
I'll forget that'll soon have a regretful refrain
Tuesday, July 25, 2006
So I Fell in Love Again on the Subway
This is a situation that happens at least twice a day on my daily commute. The one thing I can actually stand about the complex snaking of tunnels beneath this crazy little island-nation is the plethora of hot men that run in and out of those sliding doors we should all stand so clear of. This one embodied what is quickly becoming my "type": the hot nerdTM. Cute pinstriped pants, fabulous man-bag, a clean white undershirt--displaying very well the hotness underneath--all capped off by a neat pony tail and horn-rimmed glasses. I imagined us pushing a stroller somwehere on the Upper West Side, perhaps in Europe once we tired of America and decided to quit it all together. We'd be wearing matching cardigans and linen shorts coming just so above the knee. I'd have my sunglasses on in order to fool the paparazzi constantly at my door, but he'd be at my side, ready to tackle the nearest photohog that dared snap pictures of my baby after I had already promised exclusive rights to People. We'd share private moments and jokes harvested through years of intimate discussions and broke-back-breaking sex. I'd be wearing cheap Converse slip-ons, to keep me close to the people. But a few feet behind us would be our Swedish bodybuilding bodyguard to keep the people far enough from us. And boy would we be stoned! Stoned and in love, our two adopted Chinese and Sudanese babies giggling away at the brilliant sun shining only for them. For a brief moment, life would have been as perfect as it could have gotten.
But then the doors opened and we diverged towards different exits. It's still nice to imagine had we actually made eye contact something serendipitous would have happened. Or at least, you know, a blow job in the back of a Duane Reade.
But then the doors opened and we diverged towards different exits. It's still nice to imagine had we actually made eye contact something serendipitous would have happened. Or at least, you know, a blow job in the back of a Duane Reade.
Friday, July 21, 2006
Love on the Dot-Com: Am I Here Again?
So it looks as if the tall guy's blown me off. I thought we had what I thought was a good date and went around excitedly telling everyone about it, but it seems he went home and forgot I existed. I asked him out on Tuesday for a second date on Friday--I was even going to cook and we were going to get baked, all very cute--but he made an excuse about work and said he'd let me know the next day. Since I'm new to this dating bull, it took me a while to figure out that that actually means I don't want anything to do with you. When he responded the next day that he had a party to go to, without any offer to reschedule or anything else for that matter, I still refused to believe. It turns out I wasn't even going to be around on Friday since I'm going upstate to celeberate Karma's 21st birthday, i.e. getting trashed and falling down stairs repeatedly. I asked him if he wanted to reschedule, to which I heard the chirping of one solitary, virgin cricket. Well, I get it now. Thanks, world. I guess I have to dust myself off and try again, but I'm already over dating. Can't I just be rich and famous already? That way the dick will just come flying at me from all corners of the globe and I'll be more than happy to catch them with my open mouth.
F*ck This Sh*T MotherF*cker I'm a G*ddamn Movie Star!
So if you remember Harvey*, you'll know that he and I are no longer friends. But after reading this, you'll understand why you don't fuck with me when i'm having a bad week.
So he basically went on a tirade on his Myspace blog abou Karma, Tessa and myself:
TESSA- A DUMB STRAWBERRY BLONDE WHO IS NAIVE ENOUGH TO THINK PEOPLE STILL LIKE HER
CHEKI- AN ILEGAL IMMAGRANT WHOSE 21 AND WILL NEVER GET LAID BECAUSE NO ONE IN THEIR RIGHT MIND WILL TOUCH THAT
KARMA- A DUMB ITALIAN WHO SWEARS ITALIANS ARENT JUST FROM ITALY BUT CAN BE BORN IN TUKAHOE OF ALL PLACES. NONE THE LESS SHES A TROLL BITCH WHO UMM IS SCREWIN A LOSER GUY WHO PRETNEDS TO BE A FIRE FIGHTER BUT CRIES IN REAL LIFE SITUATIONS.
First of all, who bitches about people on their Myspace blog except 16-year old girls who have nothing better to do? Aparently, 21-year old fags who have nothing better to do. Second of all, I am 20 so get it right, bitch. And the following was my response to his well-thought-out, articulate assault:
I don't know were the fuck you get off insulting anyone you two-faced, lazy ass, no-job having, waste of life. I at least have a future unlike some drug-addicted piece of shit who'll fuck anything that even looks at him, i.e. his fat, hairy, mildly reatrded "best friend." Just because I have class and tact and some semblance of intelligence, don't hate on me. Let's see where your're bony ass is in 10 years--but let me just guess really quick: Still living in your fucking mom's house, planning on going back to school but getting fucked up everynight because that's the only thing you know how to do and admittedly you do it well. Keep my name out of your fucking mouth because you don't know me and I sure as hell don't know who the fuck you are.
And then I added:
And as for Tess and Karma, they're two of the most awesome people you've known or will ever know and to think of all the shit we did for you--it makes me sick. Go suck Dick's greasy little dick and keep pining after idiotic straight guys with STDs b/c you don't deserve anything better, you little shit.
I apologize for the vulgarities, but this was written in a moment of heat. Angry heat. The heat you feel boiling up in your ears. And it only added to what was already a shitty week. Don't you know that tall guy blew me off? I really hate the gays.
*All names have been changed to protect the innocent and douchebaggy.
So he basically went on a tirade on his Myspace blog abou Karma, Tessa and myself:
TESSA- A DUMB STRAWBERRY BLONDE WHO IS NAIVE ENOUGH TO THINK PEOPLE STILL LIKE HER
CHEKI- AN ILEGAL IMMAGRANT WHOSE 21 AND WILL NEVER GET LAID BECAUSE NO ONE IN THEIR RIGHT MIND WILL TOUCH THAT
KARMA- A DUMB ITALIAN WHO SWEARS ITALIANS ARENT JUST FROM ITALY BUT CAN BE BORN IN TUKAHOE OF ALL PLACES. NONE THE LESS SHES A TROLL BITCH WHO UMM IS SCREWIN A LOSER GUY WHO PRETNEDS TO BE A FIRE FIGHTER BUT CRIES IN REAL LIFE SITUATIONS.
First of all, who bitches about people on their Myspace blog except 16-year old girls who have nothing better to do? Aparently, 21-year old fags who have nothing better to do. Second of all, I am 20 so get it right, bitch. And the following was my response to his well-thought-out, articulate assault:
I don't know were the fuck you get off insulting anyone you two-faced, lazy ass, no-job having, waste of life. I at least have a future unlike some drug-addicted piece of shit who'll fuck anything that even looks at him, i.e. his fat, hairy, mildly reatrded "best friend." Just because I have class and tact and some semblance of intelligence, don't hate on me. Let's see where your're bony ass is in 10 years--but let me just guess really quick: Still living in your fucking mom's house, planning on going back to school but getting fucked up everynight because that's the only thing you know how to do and admittedly you do it well. Keep my name out of your fucking mouth because you don't know me and I sure as hell don't know who the fuck you are.
And then I added:
And as for Tess and Karma, they're two of the most awesome people you've known or will ever know and to think of all the shit we did for you--it makes me sick. Go suck Dick's greasy little dick and keep pining after idiotic straight guys with STDs b/c you don't deserve anything better, you little shit.
I apologize for the vulgarities, but this was written in a moment of heat. Angry heat. The heat you feel boiling up in your ears. And it only added to what was already a shitty week. Don't you know that tall guy blew me off? I really hate the gays.
*All names have been changed to protect the innocent and douchebaggy.
Thursday, July 20, 2006
Not Mouse, Never Mouse. If Anything *Rat*!
I only realized it recently, but I've been All About Eve'd at work. This young thing, older than I--but I still feel thrown away like a piece of fabulous trash--came to temp for an employee who was leaving on maternity leave. She started months after I did, yet today I find myself the Margo Channing to her Eve Harrington; drunk, tart-tounged future has-been having been eclipsed by a conniving, heartless wench. She's already gotten a promotion, including a raise, benefits and all that jazz. And here I am still making $12 an hour. Sure, that's not bad--but considering my rent eats up half of my monthly earnings, my bills a third and my drug habit another third, it's no wonder I'm always broke. But we are in a beehive, pal. Didn't you know? We are all busy little bees, full of stings, making honey day and night. Aren't we honey?
Tuesday, July 18, 2006
Oh...My...God
Nirvana
If you're wondering, this is 70s funkateers, LaBelle performing on Cher's variety show, in all their metallic feathery glory. Why is entertainment so...unentertaining now?
If you're wondering, this is 70s funkateers, LaBelle performing on Cher's variety show, in all their metallic feathery glory. Why is entertainment so...unentertaining now?
Monday, July 17, 2006
Love on the Dot-Com, Part 3: And Suddenly the Drought Ends...
I had two dates this past weekend. Not one, but two. And that beats my record for last year by about...two. Freshman year, I had two sort-of dates that I don't really count. One involved some skeevy, boring, kind of dumb guy I met online whom I bombarded with my friends to scare him off. The second guy ended up being Drunkos, my non-sexual lifemate and girl Friday. So, this, needless to say is big news for me.
The first guy I went out with, whom we'll call Jazz, was not exactly who I'd thought he'd be--physically. A bit hippy for my taste and being as shallow as I am, this was strike one. The clothes were strike two, but I could forgive the odd body odor as we both had just come out off of work. Other than that, he was a nice enough guy. We had a very entertaining series of emails that rose my expectations to that of elopement upon eye contact. Unfortunately, that special something was missing in the real world. We were very similar, but perhaps too similar. If anything, I got a potential friendship out of our date. And, oh, yeah, a tongue down my throat. And all over my foundation. We ended up on his roof in Brooklyn, eating Spice, drinking wine, reclined and looking at the stars. Then next thing I know, I'm being straddled under the bejeweled heavens and I'm being licked in every direction, from Deleware to Colorado. And I'm not going to lie to you, I kind of enjoyed it. But for future reference, I don't think I'll go for that kind of mauling, lest I am really into it. And then it's rape time.
The second guy, let's call him Brim...the second guy I plan to trick into becoming my boyfriend by twirling something very shiny before his eyes and whispering suggestions into his ear, such as: "Buy me flowers" and "Let's adopt racially diverse orphans one day." He was tall, a giant some might say, at 6'3". He has the purdiest eyes in the world, a sense of humor, wit, and intelligence. And he actually talked about stuff that was important in the world. Stuff that I don't care about because the world's dead to me already, but it's impressive nonetheless. We went to Brighton Beach and just hung out on the sand for a while, talking, criticizing people who walked by and discussing our love of the herb--everything I like to do while lazing about. Then we went looking for some food on the boardwalk, finally settling on this Russian restaurant for lunch/dinner. While their, he even repirmanded me on not saying please when I asked for a napkin. The damn waiter owed me a napkin anyway, but that really impressed me. Some people still have manners, it seems.
On the trip back to his gayborhood, Park Slope, where we discussed a myriad of topics. He even mentioned that he might want to adopt orphans with AIDS (AWWWW). I didn't even know guys like that existed. I walked him to his door, we hugged and he said to call him again sometime. I'm new to this whole dating thing, but I'm pretty sure that means he wants to go out on a second date. I mean, a four hour date, after which we both remark that "it was a good time" denotes that a good time was indeed had by all, no? But who knows these days...the gays are so tricky. Well, here's hoping for a sceond date and the end to my bitterness...well at least the severity of it.
Cheers!
The first guy I went out with, whom we'll call Jazz, was not exactly who I'd thought he'd be--physically. A bit hippy for my taste and being as shallow as I am, this was strike one. The clothes were strike two, but I could forgive the odd body odor as we both had just come out off of work. Other than that, he was a nice enough guy. We had a very entertaining series of emails that rose my expectations to that of elopement upon eye contact. Unfortunately, that special something was missing in the real world. We were very similar, but perhaps too similar. If anything, I got a potential friendship out of our date. And, oh, yeah, a tongue down my throat. And all over my foundation. We ended up on his roof in Brooklyn, eating Spice, drinking wine, reclined and looking at the stars. Then next thing I know, I'm being straddled under the bejeweled heavens and I'm being licked in every direction, from Deleware to Colorado. And I'm not going to lie to you, I kind of enjoyed it. But for future reference, I don't think I'll go for that kind of mauling, lest I am really into it. And then it's rape time.
The second guy, let's call him Brim...the second guy I plan to trick into becoming my boyfriend by twirling something very shiny before his eyes and whispering suggestions into his ear, such as: "Buy me flowers" and "Let's adopt racially diverse orphans one day." He was tall, a giant some might say, at 6'3". He has the purdiest eyes in the world, a sense of humor, wit, and intelligence. And he actually talked about stuff that was important in the world. Stuff that I don't care about because the world's dead to me already, but it's impressive nonetheless. We went to Brighton Beach and just hung out on the sand for a while, talking, criticizing people who walked by and discussing our love of the herb--everything I like to do while lazing about. Then we went looking for some food on the boardwalk, finally settling on this Russian restaurant for lunch/dinner. While their, he even repirmanded me on not saying please when I asked for a napkin. The damn waiter owed me a napkin anyway, but that really impressed me. Some people still have manners, it seems.
On the trip back to his gayborhood, Park Slope, where we discussed a myriad of topics. He even mentioned that he might want to adopt orphans with AIDS (AWWWW). I didn't even know guys like that existed. I walked him to his door, we hugged and he said to call him again sometime. I'm new to this whole dating thing, but I'm pretty sure that means he wants to go out on a second date. I mean, a four hour date, after which we both remark that "it was a good time" denotes that a good time was indeed had by all, no? But who knows these days...the gays are so tricky. Well, here's hoping for a sceond date and the end to my bitterness...well at least the severity of it.
Cheers!
Wednesday, July 12, 2006
Mmm, I Do Loves Me Some Starbucks
But I love this commercial even more. Anything featuring people singing and/or dancing in everyday situations has got my everlasting devotion. I just can't wait til I re-enact the street dancing scene from Fame. Show up in Midtown tomorrow in movement clothes--you know leg warmers, jazz pants, chunky sweaters with the collar cut off--nd be ready to work!
P.S. I read online somewhere today about the black woman in the beginning and how she gets squashed but the two white people are saved from the deadly, folding scenery. The poster even mentioned how the guy manages to escape certain doom with a little "whoa" at the end. Plus, in the abbreviated version, they keep the black woman being squashed. And you know what--it's true. What's that about Starbucks?
P.S. I read online somewhere today about the black woman in the beginning and how she gets squashed but the two white people are saved from the deadly, folding scenery. The poster even mentioned how the guy manages to escape certain doom with a little "whoa" at the end. Plus, in the abbreviated version, they keep the black woman being squashed. And you know what--it's true. What's that about Starbucks?
Tuesday, July 11, 2006
Quick Question...
Why is that if you throw up once...ok, twice--what's that? Four times. Well, I think that's a bit exaggerated. Fine--why is it that if you throw up on four separate occassions, you're immediately branded the guy who throws up at parties? I think that's a bit unfair. And I do NOT appreciate it. Guess what douches, I have feelings too. And sometimes I need to drink excessively, to the point where I am no longer breathing air but rather 160 proof vodka, sweating rum and shall I suffer a cut, bleeding gin just to feel alive again. Don't judge me, fuckers! It's not like I mention all the times you've had a back alley abortion? No. Well, there was that one time I told your mom, but she kept looking at me with that lazy eye of hers. Or maybe she was looking at you. Or, or, or I've never told anyone about the time you sawed that head off the Jebediah Springfield statue in the town square and everybody got super pissed, did I? No. I didn't. So I would appreciate it if you quit it with all the backhanded comments because I'm a grown ass man and I will puke on everything in the world if I want to. I hope someone cleans it up, though, because I gotta go somewhere in the morning.
Monday, July 10, 2006
Shackles
Have you ever felt that you were just trapped? No, trapped is too easy, I need a stronger word...imprisoned. Have you ever felt imprisoned? As if you were going to die shackled to some wall next to dusty skeletons who have suffered similar fates. Well, that's what it's like working in an office. There are no windows. There is no hope. Instead, you're surrounded by people as miserable and bitter as you are, if not more so. And you're always being watched. By whom, no one really knows. But trust in the fact that someone is watching you, somewhere at sometime. I wouldn't mind the dull grey decor, the false smiles covering up deep-seeded resentment for anyone with a sliver of joy, or even the wave of sickness I feel when I realize that I have all the potential in the world but am filing it away in alphabetized drawers. What really gets me is working 40 hours a week, minus five hours for lunch, plus overtime, and still not being able to afford to eat. Or buy drugs. And by eat, I mean buy drugs. What really pisses me off is getting paid on Friday and being broke on Monday. And people telling you that it doesn't get any better. Then what the hell am I working for? I want to live not merely exist, to paraphrase the Prophet, Stevie Wonder. But I'm 20 and I can't really do anything else. Only wait. Wait and hope that things do get better and that I can finally live in a solid gold treehouse, just like I dreamt of as a kid.
Okay, that's a lie. I never dreamt of that as a kid, but it sounds pretty badass, huh?
Okay, that's a lie. I never dreamt of that as a kid, but it sounds pretty badass, huh?
Friday, July 07, 2006
Sometimes I Really Love People
Like when they leave me messages like these while I'm getting high, er, having lunch:
[16:17] slinkstergirl555: oooh, montel is doing a makeover show
[16:17] *** Auto-response sent to slinkstergirl555: Lunch...insert irreverent, vaguely racist comment here.
[16:17] slinkstergirl555: he's taking pissed off 13 year old goth girls and putting them in skirt suits with pearls
[16:17] slinkstergirl555: the girls are still pissed, but their moms are crying in happiness
[16:20] slinkstergirl555: speaking of (not at all vaguely) racist comments, i had this awful customer last night
[16:20] slinkstergirl555: 50 year old fat white guy, with a 2 inch dick
[16:20] slinkstergirl555: kept asking if i wanted that dick
[16:20] slinkstergirl555: (no)
[16:21] slinkstergirl555: and unless you pay me another $100, i'm not going to lie to you about it
[16:21] slinkstergirl555: then asked me if i'd bring him home to my boyfriend
[16:21] slinkstergirl555: i said, "no, we don't like white guys"
[16:21] slinkstergirl555: and he said, "oh, he's colored?"
[16:22] slinkstergirl555: colored?
[16:23] slinkstergirl555: i said, where are you from, mississippi?? he said, no, here. and i said, then when are you from, slavery era? and he chuckled and was like, no, i'm just naughty.
[16:23] slinkstergirl555: naughty is the new racist
[16:17] slinkstergirl555: oooh, montel is doing a makeover show
[16:17] *** Auto-response sent to slinkstergirl555: Lunch...insert irreverent, vaguely racist comment here.
[16:17] slinkstergirl555: he's taking pissed off 13 year old goth girls and putting them in skirt suits with pearls
[16:17] slinkstergirl555: the girls are still pissed, but their moms are crying in happiness
[16:20] slinkstergirl555: speaking of (not at all vaguely) racist comments, i had this awful customer last night
[16:20] slinkstergirl555: 50 year old fat white guy, with a 2 inch dick
[16:20] slinkstergirl555: kept asking if i wanted that dick
[16:20] slinkstergirl555: (no)
[16:21] slinkstergirl555: and unless you pay me another $100, i'm not going to lie to you about it
[16:21] slinkstergirl555: then asked me if i'd bring him home to my boyfriend
[16:21] slinkstergirl555: i said, "no, we don't like white guys"
[16:21] slinkstergirl555: and he said, "oh, he's colored?"
[16:22] slinkstergirl555: colored?
[16:23] slinkstergirl555: i said, where are you from, mississippi?? he said, no, here. and i said, then when are you from, slavery era? and he chuckled and was like, no, i'm just naughty.
[16:23] slinkstergirl555: naughty is the new racist
I Have Two Thoughts on PDA
1. Find a damn room. Guess what, at 9 am, no one wants to see you straddling your man against the subway door, or observe the way you casually grab your bitch's ass underneath her sundress. It's all very crass and usually disgusting--I'm talking to you hairy, fat man wearing your college t-shirt you've quite obviously outgrown and bleach blonde dick attachment. Holding hands is fine, everyone loves a good handhold. But keep this in mine next time the urge to take it a step further creeps into your mind: would you do that in front of your grandmother? If you even have to think about it, choose against it. You'll be doing us all a favor.
2. Stop being a tease and go through with the show. If you just can't help but keep your hands off your partner, just to show the world just how freaking in love with them you are, then stop being a little pussy and rip off the clothes. That's right, in the middle of the sidewalk, on the 6 train, in church--let's not be coy. Obviously you want to get down anyway, and you don't mind people looking on in horror, so let's get some dick in vagina action (especially since gays rarely show PDA, though I'd gladly pay to see two bull dykes go at it in the LES). You're the ones who put that big toe over the line, so there's no going back now. I'll get the camera.
2. Stop being a tease and go through with the show. If you just can't help but keep your hands off your partner, just to show the world just how freaking in love with them you are, then stop being a little pussy and rip off the clothes. That's right, in the middle of the sidewalk, on the 6 train, in church--let's not be coy. Obviously you want to get down anyway, and you don't mind people looking on in horror, so let's get some dick in vagina action (especially since gays rarely show PDA, though I'd gladly pay to see two bull dykes go at it in the LES). You're the ones who put that big toe over the line, so there's no going back now. I'll get the camera.
Thursday, July 06, 2006
Love on the Dot-Com, Part 2: Unlucky in Love
Is there an unsightly pimple about my face? Do I have psoriasis on my clavicle? Again? Am I unfunny or just plain boring? In the world of online dating, potential mates get to know you based on a few dramatically lit photos and some blurbs written while drunk at work. Based on these two criteria, "Fit4Fun" or whomever can look at me and know whether or not I'm worth his six pack time. As you may have known, I'm attempting to get some man action online. So far, I've "winked" at about 12 guys on Nerve/The Onion personals. Nothing. I sent a cute, though perhaps too cluttered of an invitation to a date to this guy on MySpace. Zilch. And most recently, I asked out another guy, this time on Facebook, whom my friend HJ Spatz thought I'd like. This time I was a bit more straightforward:
"Hello,
I believe you know one Ms. HJ Spatz. If you don't, then this is awkward and you should probably just disregard this message. If you do, I'd like to invite you out to coffee, or maybe drinks, or maybe coffee with booze tossed in there. I don't mind drinking out of a flask. Anywho, let me know if you'd like to hang out sometime."
Informal, cute, but not precious. It's a bit of a gem. I sent it yesterday...nothing quite yet. But I'm not riding it off yet. I am oddly optimistic, as my profile says. Maybe this time, huh?
"Hello,
I believe you know one Ms. HJ Spatz. If you don't, then this is awkward and you should probably just disregard this message. If you do, I'd like to invite you out to coffee, or maybe drinks, or maybe coffee with booze tossed in there. I don't mind drinking out of a flask. Anywho, let me know if you'd like to hang out sometime."
Informal, cute, but not precious. It's a bit of a gem. I sent it yesterday...nothing quite yet. But I'm not riding it off yet. I am oddly optimistic, as my profile says. Maybe this time, huh?
The Impotence of Being Earnest, Part 3
Tuesday. Initially, I had planned to go home Tuesday night because I had work at 10 the next morning in Manhattan. I learned that after I passed out, not only did Karma have it out with the two boys but she also broke up with her boyfriend Rick. He was supposed to come over that night and Karma drunk-dialed him to find out when he was coming over. His friends were, from what I hear as I was long gone at this point, being rude to her while she was on the phone. I have only met a few of Rick's friends, but color me surprised. Sarcasm. Anywho, they broke up and Tuesday morning slinked its way into our consciousness. I wasn't at all worried about Rick and Karma--he came over later that day and they made up, as expected. As for Harvey and Dick, I was beyond my breaking point with them, but still Karma wanted to talk to them. If only to figure out why they were being such assholes to her. Short answer, they're assholes. Long answer, they're assholes who expect the world to cater to them while offering nothing in return and basically take up space, use people and do drugs on a daily basis. Great friends, no?
However, Karma lives in Poughkeepsie. I do not. Poughkeepsie is truly lacking in potential friends. Like I said, it's something in the air, maybe in the water that makes everyone fake, two-faced and tacky. But there have got to be better friends than these, somewhere. I'm not in the business of talking shit about people, at least not without getting paid for it, so I'll drop this. Speaking of fake and tacky, though, Karma, Rick and I went to this poor excuse for a party my last day there. It was in the boondocks of Wappingers, but I'll tell you what, hipsters are EVERYWHERE. Skinny jeans, ironic t-shirts and all. They're in Wappingers, but they're also fat. And don't know how to dress for their shapes, i.e. bitches were too fat for their tops. It was one of these bitches we consulted re: acquiring some trees. For some reason, it was damn near impossible to find any weed that day. And considering the direction in which our weekend had headed, we needed to smoke just to forget the deluge of shit that had suddenly rained upon us.
Monday was mainly devoted to finding marijuana, and once that was accomplished, well, nothing much happened. There was pizza. There were fireworks in Highland. Karma and I saw our old friend, Jerry, whom we've known since elemntary school/middle school. He fell in his building a little while ago and now his back is fucked up and he can barely walk. Happy 4th, everybody! While exiting the firworks campground area, we ran into Dharma, possibly drunk, also on the exit. We were going to let her hit our blunt, but it was kind of a roach by then so we just headed back to Poughkeepsie.
I decided at about 9 that I wasn't going back to New York that night. I still hoped to save my vacation by just chilling the fuck out. We headed back to that lame hipster (repetitive, I know) party, anticipating that Harvey and Dick would be there and therefore we'd have to fight some bithces. Not only were they not there, but the party was dead--so we returned home. The 4th passed on rather easily, a welcome change from the unnecessary drama that had unfolded in the previous nights. I woke up Wednesday morning, smoked a blunt with Dharma and then Karma drove me to the train station. I ended up leaving with some cute new clothes, about an ounce of pot and with two (read: one)friend less. It sucks to lose a friend, but when they make it so very clear that you don't mean shit to them, it actually feels pretty damn good. As if getting rid of a two-faced weight off you shoulders. I don't have time for people who are going to be fake and I don't think anyone should. I mean, if you were fake, rich and had connections that could advance my career, that's perfect for a business realtionship. And I have, like, no gag reflex. But for a friendship, I at least expect some degree of earnestness. But I have always had unrealistic expectations.
However, Karma lives in Poughkeepsie. I do not. Poughkeepsie is truly lacking in potential friends. Like I said, it's something in the air, maybe in the water that makes everyone fake, two-faced and tacky. But there have got to be better friends than these, somewhere. I'm not in the business of talking shit about people, at least not without getting paid for it, so I'll drop this. Speaking of fake and tacky, though, Karma, Rick and I went to this poor excuse for a party my last day there. It was in the boondocks of Wappingers, but I'll tell you what, hipsters are EVERYWHERE. Skinny jeans, ironic t-shirts and all. They're in Wappingers, but they're also fat. And don't know how to dress for their shapes, i.e. bitches were too fat for their tops. It was one of these bitches we consulted re: acquiring some trees. For some reason, it was damn near impossible to find any weed that day. And considering the direction in which our weekend had headed, we needed to smoke just to forget the deluge of shit that had suddenly rained upon us.
Monday was mainly devoted to finding marijuana, and once that was accomplished, well, nothing much happened. There was pizza. There were fireworks in Highland. Karma and I saw our old friend, Jerry, whom we've known since elemntary school/middle school. He fell in his building a little while ago and now his back is fucked up and he can barely walk. Happy 4th, everybody! While exiting the firworks campground area, we ran into Dharma, possibly drunk, also on the exit. We were going to let her hit our blunt, but it was kind of a roach by then so we just headed back to Poughkeepsie.
I decided at about 9 that I wasn't going back to New York that night. I still hoped to save my vacation by just chilling the fuck out. We headed back to that lame hipster (repetitive, I know) party, anticipating that Harvey and Dick would be there and therefore we'd have to fight some bithces. Not only were they not there, but the party was dead--so we returned home. The 4th passed on rather easily, a welcome change from the unnecessary drama that had unfolded in the previous nights. I woke up Wednesday morning, smoked a blunt with Dharma and then Karma drove me to the train station. I ended up leaving with some cute new clothes, about an ounce of pot and with two (read: one)friend less. It sucks to lose a friend, but when they make it so very clear that you don't mean shit to them, it actually feels pretty damn good. As if getting rid of a two-faced weight off you shoulders. I don't have time for people who are going to be fake and I don't think anyone should. I mean, if you were fake, rich and had connections that could advance my career, that's perfect for a business realtionship. And I have, like, no gag reflex. But for a friendship, I at least expect some degree of earnestness. But I have always had unrealistic expectations.
The Impotence of Being Earnest, Part 2
Saturday was fine. At least on the surface. See, we were (p.s. I saw the biggest fanny pack ever on the subway today, like a backpack-sized tumor on the crotch)planning on getting acid that day, but the e had worn us down. And in the hope of not appearing as some sort of drug addicts, we decided to go on Sunday. So, after sleeping off our ecstasy haze, we said, "Hey," how 'bout some iHop. Then we went shopping, I got an adorable vest and sassy shorts at H&M, but Karma and I had to leave to meet Dharma at her friend's party. An adult party at that--like, there was no one under 28 there. AKA, booze was flowing from the sidewalk. As was my drool by the time I left. Upon leaving, Karma and I had to run to the supermarket to grab an ice cream cake for this little girl for whom Dharma was throwing a little get-together. I don't remember much from that time, except eating that cake--shit was good, gurl. And shit was also in the freezer the following day...at least til Karma and I found it. During the party, we snuck away to smoke a blunt then I think I fell asleep. TYo be honest, I'm not quite sure what happened Saturday night, but we did go back to the adult party, drank some more, I think we met up with Dick and Harvey--oh yes, we did. We went to Tessa's bar where she was bartending. Yet another well-lit sports bar with tacky girls and fat men, but at least there was a pool table. I add that as if it was a saving grace, but it was only a malformed transition. We left the bar after some pool and headed back to Harvey's. Before I proceed with this section of the sotry, I must mention that Karma and I shared some Hydrocodones before drinking--a bad idea. Karma ended up throwing up on her cute little floral top, on her jeans, a bit in her bag and then finally into the garbage can. I had Harvey and Dick hold her hair back as I was busy being lazy and fucked up. Harvey cleaned her up and gave her a change of clothes and by 4:30-ish, Karma was ready to drive home. Magically, we weren't killed en route.
Sunday was the day all joy turned to bloody, curdling bullshit. Upon waking up at 2 or so, Karma called Dick to find out what time he and Harvey wanted to get the acid. Apparently, neither of them wanted to do it now, despite the fact that they had no problem doing it several times in the previous weeks. Whatev. Karma and I decided that since our plans for the day, hunting down some drugs, was kaput, we'd stay in, smoke some blunts and watch "Next" on MTV. I always love the gay "Next"s. The guys always end up making out in the bus--but once the cameras are off, I'm pretty sure there's an orgy. It's California, it's hot and they're gay--what more do you need for some multi-man fun? Well, perhaps Jose Cuervo and a speedo. While engrossed in "Next," we periodically called Harvey and Dick to see what they wanted to do. And honestly, Karma and I still wanted to do acid so we were hoping of scoring some. By 5, we had finished our lethargy marathon and had finally got into contact with Harvey and Dick. Oh, but that's not how it went down--at least according to some people. By "not calling" them, Karma and I had hurt their feelings. Sad face. We had been "using" them only to get acid. Karma and I were being assholes because we were ignoring Harvey and Dick. Dick, please.
After explaining several times that we weren't ignoring them, just stoned and lazy, Karma and I met the two boys at the Winchester. Pleasantries were exchanged, but Dick was being a, well, dick. When you snatch money out of someone's hand, claiming it as your own, you don't come off in the best light. I could care less as to the validity of your argument, but that's just plain rude. And that's just what Dick did to Karma. I was certainly not in the mood for this, as I was already pissed at the fact that Dick of all people would accuse anyone of being a user. Should I pull out the scrapbook of the last twor three years, clearly displaying Dick spending Karma's money, sleeping in her bed, eating her food, smoking her weed, talking to me like we're friends. Yet, I digress. Harvey, too. Before he came into some money, he was just as broke and just as much as a user as Dick...but I let that go. It was July 4th weekend, why can't we all just get along, no?
Hell no. Things just got weirder and more fucked up from that point on. Dick continued to display his prowess at fucking shit up, so Karma and I left, taking Harvey with us. We ended up in Rite Aid because I needed some face wash to combat these enlarged pores and oily skin. We met up with Dick again, still beating that donkey bit into the ground, so Karma suggested we leave him at the bar. An idea I was completely down for, though she was only "mostly" kidding. This was the moment, from what I understand, that triggered the shit storm. Harvey, supposedly, hates it when people ask him to choose between his friends, i.e. "Dick" and "Karma and I." He certainly didn't have this problem before when he wanted to ditch Dick in the past, but who am I to judge two-faced dochebaggery? I'm not angry,though. Far from it. I'm fucking pissed. But on with the story. Karma and I ended up just leaving Harvey and Dick behind since the whole "let's be friends" thing wasn't working that day. Still, though, we called them later that night to see if they wanted to hang out. No dice. Their phones continued to ring, uninterrupted.
Monday morning came and Dharma predicted this would be the day of assholes. Mother Nautre was holding her part of the deal up--it poured freezing rain, followed by hail, for about half an hour. I anticipated that we'd be swept away in the torrents, a la New Orleans, so I made a point to get some pot before the Apocalypse came. If I'm going to die, I might as well be high, right? Luckily, we didn't get flooded out of our existence and the sun came out. Tessa and her boyfriend, Jay, came by to hang out a bit, then Rick, Karma's boyfriend came over. I, single and saucy, pretended like I was waiting for my boyfriend to come over too--but then we left to run errands because I wasn't fooling anyone. The conflict between the two of us and Dick and Harvey only escalated. They continued to ignore our phone calls until Karma finally got in touch with Dick. His warning to us, via Harvey, was to stop calling Harvey's phone because he didn't want to talk to us. Erright. According to Dick, Harvey was mad about "something" that Karma said to him while at Rite Aid, saying that she personally attacked him at one point. That something was the insistence of leaving Dick behind, a decision I still stand by, by the way. Phone calls and accusations flew back and forth, followed by drunken, angry IMs until we were drunk enough to head over to the Winchester, yet again, to confront Dick and Harvey. Dick, being the stand-up guy he is, maintained his and Harvey's position that they were the victim's here--attempting to make Karma and I feel as if we had literally shat upon them. Something you should know, just for future reference, Dick is never wrong. In his mind, obviously altered as it is, everyone else is always in error, no matter the situation. He's one of those people that just keeps talking nonsensically for hours until you get tired of them and just leave. Why Karma dated him for as long as she did, I do not know. While Dick was explaining his head off, Harvey remained quiet at the bar. I didn't want to be around either of them--as from that day on, they no longer exist to me except as fodder for blog posts--I spoke to no one. Honestly,I was only there to back Karma up should she go off the handle and start kicking people in the jaw. Wouldn't be the first--or last--time.
Karma continued to argue/talk to Harvey and Dick, trying to find out why they decided to be such huge, gaping assholes all of a sudden. I think somehow, I'm involved. Dick, whether he meant to or not, always ruined my trips back to Poughkeepsie and this time was no exception. I refuse, however, to have him ruin the next trip because I will bite his fucking face off. And that's Karma's 21st birthday. I passed out along the way, drunk off Southern Comfort and vodka cranberries. I did wake up in time to hear Karma crying on the phone, presumably to Dick or Harvey. And how did we get here again?
Sunday was the day all joy turned to bloody, curdling bullshit. Upon waking up at 2 or so, Karma called Dick to find out what time he and Harvey wanted to get the acid. Apparently, neither of them wanted to do it now, despite the fact that they had no problem doing it several times in the previous weeks. Whatev. Karma and I decided that since our plans for the day, hunting down some drugs, was kaput, we'd stay in, smoke some blunts and watch "Next" on MTV. I always love the gay "Next"s. The guys always end up making out in the bus--but once the cameras are off, I'm pretty sure there's an orgy. It's California, it's hot and they're gay--what more do you need for some multi-man fun? Well, perhaps Jose Cuervo and a speedo. While engrossed in "Next," we periodically called Harvey and Dick to see what they wanted to do. And honestly, Karma and I still wanted to do acid so we were hoping of scoring some. By 5, we had finished our lethargy marathon and had finally got into contact with Harvey and Dick. Oh, but that's not how it went down--at least according to some people. By "not calling" them, Karma and I had hurt their feelings. Sad face. We had been "using" them only to get acid. Karma and I were being assholes because we were ignoring Harvey and Dick. Dick, please.
After explaining several times that we weren't ignoring them, just stoned and lazy, Karma and I met the two boys at the Winchester. Pleasantries were exchanged, but Dick was being a, well, dick. When you snatch money out of someone's hand, claiming it as your own, you don't come off in the best light. I could care less as to the validity of your argument, but that's just plain rude. And that's just what Dick did to Karma. I was certainly not in the mood for this, as I was already pissed at the fact that Dick of all people would accuse anyone of being a user. Should I pull out the scrapbook of the last twor three years, clearly displaying Dick spending Karma's money, sleeping in her bed, eating her food, smoking her weed, talking to me like we're friends. Yet, I digress. Harvey, too. Before he came into some money, he was just as broke and just as much as a user as Dick...but I let that go. It was July 4th weekend, why can't we all just get along, no?
Hell no. Things just got weirder and more fucked up from that point on. Dick continued to display his prowess at fucking shit up, so Karma and I left, taking Harvey with us. We ended up in Rite Aid because I needed some face wash to combat these enlarged pores and oily skin. We met up with Dick again, still beating that donkey bit into the ground, so Karma suggested we leave him at the bar. An idea I was completely down for, though she was only "mostly" kidding. This was the moment, from what I understand, that triggered the shit storm. Harvey, supposedly, hates it when people ask him to choose between his friends, i.e. "Dick" and "Karma and I." He certainly didn't have this problem before when he wanted to ditch Dick in the past, but who am I to judge two-faced dochebaggery? I'm not angry,though. Far from it. I'm fucking pissed. But on with the story. Karma and I ended up just leaving Harvey and Dick behind since the whole "let's be friends" thing wasn't working that day. Still, though, we called them later that night to see if they wanted to hang out. No dice. Their phones continued to ring, uninterrupted.
Monday morning came and Dharma predicted this would be the day of assholes. Mother Nautre was holding her part of the deal up--it poured freezing rain, followed by hail, for about half an hour. I anticipated that we'd be swept away in the torrents, a la New Orleans, so I made a point to get some pot before the Apocalypse came. If I'm going to die, I might as well be high, right? Luckily, we didn't get flooded out of our existence and the sun came out. Tessa and her boyfriend, Jay, came by to hang out a bit, then Rick, Karma's boyfriend came over. I, single and saucy, pretended like I was waiting for my boyfriend to come over too--but then we left to run errands because I wasn't fooling anyone. The conflict between the two of us and Dick and Harvey only escalated. They continued to ignore our phone calls until Karma finally got in touch with Dick. His warning to us, via Harvey, was to stop calling Harvey's phone because he didn't want to talk to us. Erright. According to Dick, Harvey was mad about "something" that Karma said to him while at Rite Aid, saying that she personally attacked him at one point. That something was the insistence of leaving Dick behind, a decision I still stand by, by the way. Phone calls and accusations flew back and forth, followed by drunken, angry IMs until we were drunk enough to head over to the Winchester, yet again, to confront Dick and Harvey. Dick, being the stand-up guy he is, maintained his and Harvey's position that they were the victim's here--attempting to make Karma and I feel as if we had literally shat upon them. Something you should know, just for future reference, Dick is never wrong. In his mind, obviously altered as it is, everyone else is always in error, no matter the situation. He's one of those people that just keeps talking nonsensically for hours until you get tired of them and just leave. Why Karma dated him for as long as she did, I do not know. While Dick was explaining his head off, Harvey remained quiet at the bar. I didn't want to be around either of them--as from that day on, they no longer exist to me except as fodder for blog posts--I spoke to no one. Honestly,I was only there to back Karma up should she go off the handle and start kicking people in the jaw. Wouldn't be the first--or last--time.
Karma continued to argue/talk to Harvey and Dick, trying to find out why they decided to be such huge, gaping assholes all of a sudden. I think somehow, I'm involved. Dick, whether he meant to or not, always ruined my trips back to Poughkeepsie and this time was no exception. I refuse, however, to have him ruin the next trip because I will bite his fucking face off. And that's Karma's 21st birthday. I passed out along the way, drunk off Southern Comfort and vodka cranberries. I did wake up in time to hear Karma crying on the phone, presumably to Dick or Harvey. And how did we get here again?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)