I have come to the conclusion that everybody in the entire world should work in the service industry at some point in their lives. It's not much to ask, and I really think that it would serve the greater good. This would automatically offer any waiter/bartender/hotel worker/anyone else that has to try to remember that the customer is always right and not actually a raving lunatic a very easy comeback the next time some moron gets too big for their britches. Have a rude customer at a restaurant? Simply reply "I'm sorry, sir (or ma'am) but do you remember when you were a waiter? Do you remember what you did to the food of people who acted like you? Wonderful, would you like to take another pass at that last statement that you made then?"
If you can't tell from the opening of this blog, I think my time in the service industry is starting to come to a close. I'm not sure exactly what the straw that broke the camel's back was...or perhaps it was more of a parade of straws. The hotel guest who ordered three vibrators so his bevy of prostitutes could simultaneously pleasure themselves (seriously, dude, people are losing their jobs, and you just dropped almost $300 on fake penises that aren't even safe to use in the shower). My friend Lisa's customer at her restaurant who, rather than simply ordering a drink, mixed ketchup in with his water to make tomoto juice (seriously, dude, people might be losing their jobs, but a tomato juice costs $2. And that's really gross). The Irish woman who kept me on the phone for an hour wondering why the price quote she got from one of her friends wouldn't be honored by the hotel (seriously, you drunken nitwit, if you don't have the money to come to New York, don't come. Crawl back to your pub, throw some Guinness down your gullet, and pass out like you do every other night of the week).
Regardless of the reason, my temper grows shorter daily...and as we all know, it didn't exactly have a large cushion to burn through. This has forced me to consider other options. Should I try to get a desk job that will still give me the freedom I need to audition? Two problems: a) that job doesn't exist, and b) if I get a desk job, it better be on a low floor, because I would give myself about a week before I leapt through the window in an attempt to escape, or at least end the misery. I've thought about becoming a fitness instructor. I'd be good at that; I can put on my music, boss people around for an hour and get paid for it, besides the fact I look good in a tank top. Unfortunately, they want you to have things like certifications and CPR training to do that; I suppose this is because if someone collapses in class you're supposed to be able to take care of them. I'd rather do it like the trainers on The Biggest Loser: when someone collapses in class, I get in their face, scream that they're weak, and if they don't get up immediately they won't have time to eat themselves to death because I personally am going to rip their porcine arm off and beat them with it until they stop darkening my doorstep. This tactic, it seems, is generally frowned upon by the community at large.
Which leads me to my great idea. Some people have just one talent. I, of course, have been blessed with intelligence, a fantastic sense of humor, and let's just face it, the face of an angel and the ass of a Greek god. However, there is one other thing that I can do better than a lot of people, this is something that I can make money doing, and no, I am not referring to my fully conquered gag-reflex.
I can bake. I mean, I can really bake. I can make cookies that will change a life, cakes are a cakewalk, and pie is my bitch (except for lemon meringue...the entire family has some kind of genetic malfunction on this dessert. I don't want to talk about it). The time has come to use my mother-given talent to further my own economic ends; and since I can't get married in this state or this country, I think I shouldn't have to pay taxes on it. Now, since the feds disagree with me on this, and I'm way too pretty to go to jail, I need to find some way to keep it under wraps. Which leads me to the title of this post.
The Underground Pie Railroad.
I'm fully convinced that the UPR is my ticket out of financial dependence on tips, hotels and the service industry in general. First of all there is the engima factor. Everyone likes to be on the inside of a joke, or be the first to discover a new fad. There is a bar by the name of Milk and Honey which literally changes it's phone number regularly, and doesn't allow anyone in without reservations. Finding the number is a game, and people play it eagerly. The UPR is going to be a pie service of the most top secret level. In order to place orders, one must first find the contact information, which can be determined by solving an Amazing Race-esque scavenger hunt that will send interested pie-lovers throughout New York City. Once the clues are gathered, and the contact information found, hopeful customers can place their orders.
The second factor is exclusivity. All orders must be placed at least a month in advance, and the UPR Management team reserves the right to refuse orders at any time due to demand, acts of God, or a personal dislike of the client. This will not only encourage people to order early, it will also create an atmosphere of fierce competition among the client base, while at the same time being certain that they will treat all UPR employees with the utmost respect. The first time an Upper East Side maven hits her rival with a Manolo Blahnik, and sneaks her order into UPR headquarters, we have an immediate ticket onto Gossip Girl.
The episode almost writes itself: Serena tries to use her connections to help Dan get his hands on an exclusive apple pie, which he has promised his math tutor as payment for his sessions (remember, Dan's the poor one). Unfortunately, Blaire, who is feeling slighted by Dan because she has a completely delusional view of her own importance, sneaks into the UPR baking facility and drugs Dan's pie with a large dosage of quaaludes. In an homage to my dearly departed Pushing Daisies, Kristin Chenoweth guest stars and sings a cover of Fiona Apple's Criminal, while Blair drugs the pastry and makes her quick escape. Then she goes and stands very close to Chuck and they discuss how their love could never blossom; they both breathe heavily and she desperately tries to not tear off her headband, because she knows it's the only thing that makes her remotely believable as an 18-year old. Dan and Serena take the dessert to Dan's tutor, and she gratefully accepts it as payment, and invites them both in to sample "a piece of the greatest pie ever made." Serena senses a love connection between Dan and his tutor, and starts to angrily shovel her portion into her mouth, thinking how he would never have gotten his common peasant hands on the pie of the gods without her help. She gets about halfway through her slice before the 'ludes take hold, sending her and her weave plunging headfirst into the remainder of "the greatest pie ever made," to the horror and abject despair of Dan's tutor. Shocked, she believes Dan meant for her to pass out so he could have his way with her, and throws Dan and his apple-speckled ex out of her apartment. When Serena wakes up, she quickly realizes what happened as she remembers Blair smelling suspiciously of cinnamon and nutmeg the previous day, and quickly levers her friend into tutoring Dan so he doesn't fail his math class. Meanwhile, Jenny is annoying, Nate is inexplicably attracted to her and Vanessa makes coffee.
The third and final factor in the future success of my fledgling bakery is, of course, quality of product. No one is going to go on a city-wide scavenger hunt for a cookie that crumbles. No one is going to beat a neighbor with an over-priced piece of footwear for the kind of cake one can get at the diner down the street. And no one is going to base an entire episode of television around a pie that doesn't make one fall on one's knees in gratitude. Luckily, like any good young homo, I spent my formative years clinging to my mother with every fiber of my being, and while entangled in her apron strings, I learned quite a bit about making desserts that will make a grown man weep. I have complete faith in anything I bake being able to send throngs of dessert lovers over the moon and directly into orbit. And as The Underground Pie Railroad slowly takes hold, the service industry will finally, ultimately lose it's hold on me. Free at last, free at last, oh sweet God I'll be free at last.
Sigh. It'd be nice, wouldn't it?
**You'll notice that I've been fairly silent on the Proposition 8/Pastor Rick Warren fiasco (debacle? implosion? nah, I like fiasco), but this is not because of a lack of things to say. I say this rarely, but I think someone else said it better. Interested? Read this.**
Tuesday, December 23, 2008
Saturday, November 15, 2008
The Actor's Diet
Diets are big these days. It seems one cannot go a day without hearing about a new fad diet, or weight-loss pill, or fat substitute that promises to help one get those pounds off like a prom dress. Whole television shows are built around watching obese people sweat themselves into oblivion, and waiters are constantly being asked if there is a low-carb substitute. By the way, the answer to this question is always no, even if some servers try to couch it in nicer terms. And by asking it, you have earned the eternal enmity of the entire service industry, most of whom have better things to be doing than standing around trying to help you order low-carb mashed potatoes. Take a lesson.
However, I recently stumbled upon a weight loss system that outstrips them all. It's virtually guaranteed to get you in the best shape of your life, no exceptions. It inspires gym visits in a never before seen frequency. Once you arrive, I promise that you will work out harder and more intensely than ever before. And rather than getting a donut for breakfast, you will suddenly discover an undeniable craving for a yogurt smoothie. It's what I like to call The Actor's Diet, and it's extremely simple to apply it in your life. There is no monetary commitment, like Weight Watchers, and no commercials with aggravating celebrities like Jenny Craig. The secret to The Actor's Diet is very simple, and one that I'm surprised more people have not thought of as a motivation to get people to the gym more and McDonald's less, and I'm going to share it with the you here.
Appear onstage naked.
I discovered this inspirational tool only a few weeks ago, when I received word that I would be performing in a play that required to me to appear starkers in the opening moments. There I was, excited to be working on a show, and at the same time restructuring my schedule for the foreseeable future to allow for gym visits at least 6 days a week. Even as I called people to tell them the good news, I was mentally scratching ice cream and potato chips off of my grocery list and adding carrots and granola. The yoga and pilates classes that I had planned on taking for about 6 months suddenly sky-rocketed to the top of my priority list, sending catching up on Gossip Girl plummeting to the bottom.
My new found commitment to a healthier life received unexpected and immediate support from a bad illness that laid me up in bed. As I huddled under the covers, trying to keep from shaking uncontrollably, I just kept repeating Emily Blunt's classic line from The Devil Wears Prada: "I'm one stomach flu away from my goal weight." I figured my sickness could act as a jump start for my system, a sort of pestilential detox, stopping me from eating things like chocolate chip cookies and pizza by keeping me bed-ridden for five days. While it unfortunately had the side effect of keeping me out of my newly planned exercise regimen for almost a week, I was determined to look on the bright side of life.
After returning to the land of the living, I immediately realized I had no time to lose, and The Actor's Diet went into full effect. And as I found out more about the play I would be performing, the more intense it became. Not only would I be in my birthday suit, but I'd be in my underwear for the bulk of the play. See ya later, pasta! I'd be performing in the LGBT Center, probably to an audience of mostly gay men, not generally known as the most forgiving of cultural groups. Bye-bye, bagels! The room in the Center where we would be performing has a very little separation of audience and actors, virtually guaranteeing every attendee a pornographic level close-up of my junk. Hello, salads twice a day! I'd be taking some photos with no shirt on to be submitted to gay magazines, where all of homosexual New York would be taking a gander at my pecs. Two-a-day work outs it is (and never again making fun of Photoshop)!
Now you might all be thinking, "But come on! We're not all actors! How can we appear naked onstage?" Well, I would recommend is signing up for a weekend at a nudist colony. Of course, you will have an advantage there, because you won't be the only one naked in a room full of clothed people, but perhaps baby steps is the way to go. After getting yourself in better shape for the clothing optional set, you can commit to streaking across a local college campus in a month. See how many horny collegians you can get to chase you, and how many run away. These are little goals that you can set for yourself, but I'm telling you, if you want to get in shape, public nudity is the way to inspire yourself to do so.
**As a short side-bar, I would like to apologize for the lack of posting of late. I would assure you that this is not because of a lack of material, but because there are going to be some big things happening soon. Suffice it to say my future marriage to David Wright is going to become a more direct topic of discussion soon. Not to worry, there will be no major changes here...you can always come here for stories from my drama-filled life. However, soon there will be another place where you can get even more of me, because I'm a giver like that. And I promise to try to be more reliable with my posting!**
However, I recently stumbled upon a weight loss system that outstrips them all. It's virtually guaranteed to get you in the best shape of your life, no exceptions. It inspires gym visits in a never before seen frequency. Once you arrive, I promise that you will work out harder and more intensely than ever before. And rather than getting a donut for breakfast, you will suddenly discover an undeniable craving for a yogurt smoothie. It's what I like to call The Actor's Diet, and it's extremely simple to apply it in your life. There is no monetary commitment, like Weight Watchers, and no commercials with aggravating celebrities like Jenny Craig. The secret to The Actor's Diet is very simple, and one that I'm surprised more people have not thought of as a motivation to get people to the gym more and McDonald's less, and I'm going to share it with the you here.
Appear onstage naked.
I discovered this inspirational tool only a few weeks ago, when I received word that I would be performing in a play that required to me to appear starkers in the opening moments. There I was, excited to be working on a show, and at the same time restructuring my schedule for the foreseeable future to allow for gym visits at least 6 days a week. Even as I called people to tell them the good news, I was mentally scratching ice cream and potato chips off of my grocery list and adding carrots and granola. The yoga and pilates classes that I had planned on taking for about 6 months suddenly sky-rocketed to the top of my priority list, sending catching up on Gossip Girl plummeting to the bottom.
My new found commitment to a healthier life received unexpected and immediate support from a bad illness that laid me up in bed. As I huddled under the covers, trying to keep from shaking uncontrollably, I just kept repeating Emily Blunt's classic line from The Devil Wears Prada: "I'm one stomach flu away from my goal weight." I figured my sickness could act as a jump start for my system, a sort of pestilential detox, stopping me from eating things like chocolate chip cookies and pizza by keeping me bed-ridden for five days. While it unfortunately had the side effect of keeping me out of my newly planned exercise regimen for almost a week, I was determined to look on the bright side of life.
After returning to the land of the living, I immediately realized I had no time to lose, and The Actor's Diet went into full effect. And as I found out more about the play I would be performing, the more intense it became. Not only would I be in my birthday suit, but I'd be in my underwear for the bulk of the play. See ya later, pasta! I'd be performing in the LGBT Center, probably to an audience of mostly gay men, not generally known as the most forgiving of cultural groups. Bye-bye, bagels! The room in the Center where we would be performing has a very little separation of audience and actors, virtually guaranteeing every attendee a pornographic level close-up of my junk. Hello, salads twice a day! I'd be taking some photos with no shirt on to be submitted to gay magazines, where all of homosexual New York would be taking a gander at my pecs. Two-a-day work outs it is (and never again making fun of Photoshop)!
Now you might all be thinking, "But come on! We're not all actors! How can we appear naked onstage?" Well, I would recommend is signing up for a weekend at a nudist colony. Of course, you will have an advantage there, because you won't be the only one naked in a room full of clothed people, but perhaps baby steps is the way to go. After getting yourself in better shape for the clothing optional set, you can commit to streaking across a local college campus in a month. See how many horny collegians you can get to chase you, and how many run away. These are little goals that you can set for yourself, but I'm telling you, if you want to get in shape, public nudity is the way to inspire yourself to do so.
**As a short side-bar, I would like to apologize for the lack of posting of late. I would assure you that this is not because of a lack of material, but because there are going to be some big things happening soon. Suffice it to say my future marriage to David Wright is going to become a more direct topic of discussion soon. Not to worry, there will be no major changes here...you can always come here for stories from my drama-filled life. However, soon there will be another place where you can get even more of me, because I'm a giver like that. And I promise to try to be more reliable with my posting!**
Saturday, October 11, 2008
Italian Orthodox
I think my life jumped the shark this weekend. For those of you not in the know as to what exactly this means, "jumping the shark" is a term for a TV show that has gotten so ridiculous that it loses its appeal; it comes from a late episode of Happy Days when the Fonz was water-skiing in his leather jacket and literally (or as literally as one gets in a TV show) jumped over a shark. Well, I wasn't wearing a leather jacket, I've never water-skied in my life, and I certainly was nowhere near a shark (I don't like sharks), but I was definitely feeling a bit like the storyline of my life had veered from pleasantly quirky to unforgivably ridiculous.
Seriously, at what point does falling for the wrong guy stop being a problem and start being a talent? I think it's the moment when you start using your past failed relationships as fodder for humorous blog postings. Channel your bitterness into something productive and voilà! Even if you don't have a boyfriend, you'll have legions of devoted fans, so when your blog is turned into a wildly successful book of essays, you can be assured of an excellent turn-out for all the readings in your cross-country book tour. Although, let's be honest, if this blog was turned into a novel, there are few places in the middle of the country in which I would be welcome to read. But enough of the tangent! I'm sure you're thinking, "Enough chit-chat! Enough build-up! You're giving me blog-related blue balls! What, oh what, could have happened in your life to make you think that you have jumped the shark!?"
I got dumped last week for not being Italian enough. Seriously. I was told that I did not reflect the "orthodox cultural traditions" of a specific Italian region. Now, I ask you, what the hell does that mean?
It seems that God, having run out of normal reasons to have someone dump you, decided to reach into his bag of tricks last week and just have a laugh at my expense. There are many reasons that I can understand for a break-up, from the really good ones like "I'm sorry, but we're fundamentally different," to the ones that aren't particularly nice but are extremely true like "I'm sorry, but I can't picture myself having sex with you on a regular basis, or really even once." There's even the ridiculous ones that one simply can't escape in this world, like "I'm sorry, but you like mayonnaise." All unavoidable stories in most of our lives (if you're one of the people who fell in love when you were 15, and have been living in bliss since then, you shut your mouth right now). However, I feel this last one is really beyond the pale.
It seems at first glance to fall into the "I'm sorry, but you like mayonnaise" category, but ultimately, the thing that moves it beyond this is the fact that (if I may continue the metaphor) I HATE mayonnaise. Or, to bring it back to reality, I AM Italian. Not 100%, being a good old-fashioned American mutt, but it certainly is the culture I most identify with. My family has lasagna at Thanksgiving. I believe it's important to make more food than a group of people could possibly consume at one gathering "just in case." And I often reassure my friends that my brother and sister-in-law aren't arguing...that's just how they talk. If I'm now being dumped by someone who judges me not Italian enough, what is next I ask you? Will I be dumped for not being gay enough? "I'm sorry, but you think Queer as Folk was an American tragedy?" "I'm sorry, but you hate cosmos!?" "I'M SORRY BUT YOUR UNDERWEAR ARE NOT 2(X)IST BRAND!?!"
Okay, so those probably won't happen. However, to avoid such run-ins in the future, I propose that everyone start being a little bit more honest about their bag of hair. What I'm referring to, of course, is my and Victoria's oft-proven hypothesis that we like to call The Bag of Hair Theory. This, incidentally, should not be confused with someone referred to as "dumb as a box of hair." One's a bag. One's a box. Totally different. Anyway, The Bag of Hair Theory goes like this. Picture it: you've been on a few dates, and things are proceedingly swimmingly. Conversation? Witty banter abounds! Check! Sense of humor? Funny, but realizes that you're funnier! Double check! Attractive? Won the David Wright look-alike contest! Triple check! And even better, I just realized what I want for my birthday next year...
So there you are, having gone on a few dates, and you have decided that you're going to go see your new beau's apartment. You walk in, a bit apprehensive as to what's going to greet you, but not to worry! Things are neat and clean without looking like he spit-polished the table for your visit. There are no dirty dishes in the sink, but a small pile of mail sits haphazardly on the kitchen table, giving it a nice lived-in feel. You enter the bedroom. The bed is made, but there are no dirty socks on the floor. A quick scouting mission to the bathroom, and everything's flushed, but look, he leaves the cap off of the toothpaste! You immediately decide that there is nothing more adorable in the world than this, and picture yourself rolling your eyes indulgently as you screw the cap on for him every morning once you live together. In fact, you're relieved to have found a tiny, miniscule, almost unbearably cute flaw. It's like his drawback is puppies.
And so you allow yourself to relax. Which is, of course, your downfall.
When he gets up to get some water for you (he is, after all, a perfect gentleman), you wander over to his closet, and innocently look in to scout the shirts that you plan on borrowing for yourself once the relationship inevitably progresses to the next level. And even as you rejoice at his impeccable taste in vertically striped button-downs, you look down...and notice a large garbage bag on the floor of the closet. The garbage bag is curiously full, almost bursting with something, and you inquisitively look closer. At this moment, he walks back into the room.
"Hey, what's this?" you ask.
"That? Oh, that's the bag where I keep all of my hair clippings. You know, from trips to the stylist. I've been keeping all of them for years."
And that's the bag of hair. I'm not referring to the fact that he calls the hairdresser the stylist, although this would obviously also be a huge issue. I'm talking about the literal bag of hair sitting on his closet floor, the bag of hair that has made you realize that this relationship was doomed from the moment he first placed a shorn lock into a Gladware product.
Of course, the bag of hair is only a metaphor. We all have a bag of hair. Some of us have baggage from past relationships; some of us think that putting rainbow sprinkles on chocolate ice cream is not only grounds for breaking up with someone, but is actually cause for physical violence. But we must remember that some are honest about their bag of hair, while some people hide it for as long as they possibly can and try to fool people into thinking that they're "normal."
So I beg you, all of you: let your freak flag fly! Believe me, whoever it is that you're dating is a complete weirdo as well. You just have to find the person who's bag of hair is something that you can live with, and hope that they can live with yours. Here, I'll start: if I call you and you don't call me back, I will, as Heart once sang, go crazy on you. Oh, and that rainbow sprinkles on chocolate ice cream thing? That's me too.
Seriously, at what point does falling for the wrong guy stop being a problem and start being a talent? I think it's the moment when you start using your past failed relationships as fodder for humorous blog postings. Channel your bitterness into something productive and voilà! Even if you don't have a boyfriend, you'll have legions of devoted fans, so when your blog is turned into a wildly successful book of essays, you can be assured of an excellent turn-out for all the readings in your cross-country book tour. Although, let's be honest, if this blog was turned into a novel, there are few places in the middle of the country in which I would be welcome to read. But enough of the tangent! I'm sure you're thinking, "Enough chit-chat! Enough build-up! You're giving me blog-related blue balls! What, oh what, could have happened in your life to make you think that you have jumped the shark!?"
I got dumped last week for not being Italian enough. Seriously. I was told that I did not reflect the "orthodox cultural traditions" of a specific Italian region. Now, I ask you, what the hell does that mean?
It seems that God, having run out of normal reasons to have someone dump you, decided to reach into his bag of tricks last week and just have a laugh at my expense. There are many reasons that I can understand for a break-up, from the really good ones like "I'm sorry, but we're fundamentally different," to the ones that aren't particularly nice but are extremely true like "I'm sorry, but I can't picture myself having sex with you on a regular basis, or really even once." There's even the ridiculous ones that one simply can't escape in this world, like "I'm sorry, but you like mayonnaise." All unavoidable stories in most of our lives (if you're one of the people who fell in love when you were 15, and have been living in bliss since then, you shut your mouth right now). However, I feel this last one is really beyond the pale.
It seems at first glance to fall into the "I'm sorry, but you like mayonnaise" category, but ultimately, the thing that moves it beyond this is the fact that (if I may continue the metaphor) I HATE mayonnaise. Or, to bring it back to reality, I AM Italian. Not 100%, being a good old-fashioned American mutt, but it certainly is the culture I most identify with. My family has lasagna at Thanksgiving. I believe it's important to make more food than a group of people could possibly consume at one gathering "just in case." And I often reassure my friends that my brother and sister-in-law aren't arguing...that's just how they talk. If I'm now being dumped by someone who judges me not Italian enough, what is next I ask you? Will I be dumped for not being gay enough? "I'm sorry, but you think Queer as Folk was an American tragedy?" "I'm sorry, but you hate cosmos!?" "I'M SORRY BUT YOUR UNDERWEAR ARE NOT 2(X)IST BRAND!?!"
Okay, so those probably won't happen. However, to avoid such run-ins in the future, I propose that everyone start being a little bit more honest about their bag of hair. What I'm referring to, of course, is my and Victoria's oft-proven hypothesis that we like to call The Bag of Hair Theory. This, incidentally, should not be confused with someone referred to as "dumb as a box of hair." One's a bag. One's a box. Totally different. Anyway, The Bag of Hair Theory goes like this. Picture it: you've been on a few dates, and things are proceedingly swimmingly. Conversation? Witty banter abounds! Check! Sense of humor? Funny, but realizes that you're funnier! Double check! Attractive? Won the David Wright look-alike contest! Triple check! And even better, I just realized what I want for my birthday next year...
So there you are, having gone on a few dates, and you have decided that you're going to go see your new beau's apartment. You walk in, a bit apprehensive as to what's going to greet you, but not to worry! Things are neat and clean without looking like he spit-polished the table for your visit. There are no dirty dishes in the sink, but a small pile of mail sits haphazardly on the kitchen table, giving it a nice lived-in feel. You enter the bedroom. The bed is made, but there are no dirty socks on the floor. A quick scouting mission to the bathroom, and everything's flushed, but look, he leaves the cap off of the toothpaste! You immediately decide that there is nothing more adorable in the world than this, and picture yourself rolling your eyes indulgently as you screw the cap on for him every morning once you live together. In fact, you're relieved to have found a tiny, miniscule, almost unbearably cute flaw. It's like his drawback is puppies.
And so you allow yourself to relax. Which is, of course, your downfall.
When he gets up to get some water for you (he is, after all, a perfect gentleman), you wander over to his closet, and innocently look in to scout the shirts that you plan on borrowing for yourself once the relationship inevitably progresses to the next level. And even as you rejoice at his impeccable taste in vertically striped button-downs, you look down...and notice a large garbage bag on the floor of the closet. The garbage bag is curiously full, almost bursting with something, and you inquisitively look closer. At this moment, he walks back into the room.
"Hey, what's this?" you ask.
"That? Oh, that's the bag where I keep all of my hair clippings. You know, from trips to the stylist. I've been keeping all of them for years."
And that's the bag of hair. I'm not referring to the fact that he calls the hairdresser the stylist, although this would obviously also be a huge issue. I'm talking about the literal bag of hair sitting on his closet floor, the bag of hair that has made you realize that this relationship was doomed from the moment he first placed a shorn lock into a Gladware product.
Of course, the bag of hair is only a metaphor. We all have a bag of hair. Some of us have baggage from past relationships; some of us think that putting rainbow sprinkles on chocolate ice cream is not only grounds for breaking up with someone, but is actually cause for physical violence. But we must remember that some are honest about their bag of hair, while some people hide it for as long as they possibly can and try to fool people into thinking that they're "normal."
So I beg you, all of you: let your freak flag fly! Believe me, whoever it is that you're dating is a complete weirdo as well. You just have to find the person who's bag of hair is something that you can live with, and hope that they can live with yours. Here, I'll start: if I call you and you don't call me back, I will, as Heart once sang, go crazy on you. Oh, and that rainbow sprinkles on chocolate ice cream thing? That's me too.
Monday, September 15, 2008
Mint Juleps and Honeysuckle
There comes a time in everyone's life when they must do something that takes them outside of their comfort zone. A time when an Olympic swimming gold medalist must perform on a live late-night sketch show (and now, playing a block of wood...Michael Phelps!). A time when a fake newcaster is asked to throw the first pitch at a Mets game (try to get the ball OVER the plate, Jon Stewart. Not that I could have done any better). And, of course, a time when I went to a wedding with one of my girls in the great state of Georgia.
I have often been quoted as saying that the continental United States is made up of places that I fly over on the way to a coast and Chicago. However, despite my best efforts, I was finally forced to visit one of those places: Duluth, Georgia. Duluth is about a 45 minute drive from the Atlanta airport, most of which I spent going over raunchy wedding stories with Erika, Amber, and the gay father of the bride (who shall be henceforth referred to as Big Daddy). I felt great relief knowing that there would be at least one more homosexual at the ceremony, assuming that that would at least mean that I would not be the only male dancing. The rest of the time I spent going over adages in my head like "I don't think we're in Kansas anymore" and "Fasten your seatbelts! It's going to be a bumpy night!"
The first order of business was the rehearsal dinner that night, and things started to go downhill almost immediately. First of all, we got a ride to the rehearsal with the groom's party, where two things were quickly established. 1) That one of the groomsmen was wearing a pleated denim kilt, and 2) that the wedding, like the rehearsal, would be taking place outside. In Georgia. In early September. Holy humid, Batman. With visions of heat rash and pit stains dancing in my head, I quickly retreated into the air conditioned reception hall, and watched my bridesmaid friends suffer, as they rehearsed how to walk 30 feet for approximately an hour. After everyone was sure exactly how to not screw up the day that the bride had been dreaming about since she was first told she was a pretty pretty princess when she was 6, the gathering dispersed, and reconvened at a local restaurant for the actual dinner portion of the evening.
Once everyone had gathered, the New York contingent quickly armed themselves with liquor, and claimed the table nearest to the bar so we could get our hands on more on short notice. The food was actually surprisingly good for an Italian restaurant in the south, and the evening appeared to be progressing normally. Naturally, we all should have been waiting for the other shoe to drop, but lulled into ease by the wine we were drinking, we weren't aware a problem was developing just one table over, where the minister was sitting.
A short word on the minister. He is the bride's step grandfather. You'll all remember Big Daddy, the bride's gay father? Well, Big Daddy has a lover, and his lover has a father, and his father has Jesus. And not the nice, forgiving Jesus that many of the Christians up north seem to believe in. We're talking about a full-on fire and brimstone, cast sinners down into the pits of hell for eternal damnation and torment Southern Baptist Minister...you know, the good kind.
Back to the action at hand! While our table and half the rest of the reception were pickling ourselves at the open bar, apparently the Minister was having some trouble reconciling our debauchery with his religious beliefs. You see, it seems the good man had never presided over a union in which liquor of any kind was consumed at the reception or at the rehearsal dinner. The fact the there were drinks being offered was enough to give him fits; one look at our double-fisting table, and the man was nearly apopleptic. The bride came over, rolling her eyes, and expressed a deep desire to call off the wedding and elope, if only to escape the brewing insanity around her. It is a repeated observation of mine that the people who should be the happiest at a wedding , i.e. the bride and groom, generally look to be one over-cooked crab cake away from a Romeo and Juliet-esque murder/suicide.
Naturally, no one at the table allowed the discomfort of one religious nutbag to curb our fun at all. As the evening wore on, we started to acquire some new friends, mostly in the form of the groomsmen that had ferried us to the rehearsal in the first place. Drawn to the table by Amber's tremendous chest, they quickly found a good time in our discussion of the myriad other guests and their obvious shortcomings. And this was our introduction to Junior Mints. Not the delicious candy I've had a long, loving relationship with, but a groomsmen whose name I couldn't remember in my mentally compromised state, and Erika took it upon herself to nickname for me. We all then quickly picked our own favorite candy to call ourselves, and alas, I wasn't coherent enough to realize that mine obviously should have been Skittles. Taste the rainbow...
Junior Mints quickly revealed himself to be what can only be described as a bi-curious Navyman, who spent most of the night being torn between ogling Amber's dirty pillows and trying to entice me into allowing him to explore the finer points of man-love. Being deep behind enemy lines, there was no way I was going anywhere near him; people in Georgia get real upset about that kind of thing. Luckily, Amber was able to distract him with her breasts, and despite him running his hand through my hair, pinching my nipple and trying to grab my crotch, I was able to get through the evening unscathed and intact.
The day of the wedding dawned bright and hot. I spent most of the day in bed, watching Brendan Fraser, and pitying the ladies their duties in hair and make-up which woke them up at 6 am and had taken them away all day. I hitched a ride to the ceremony, and helped Amber and Erika find air vents to stand over in their dresses to keep them fresh. The wedding began outside, and as promised I was fully damp in the space of 30 seconds. The ceremony itself was one of the best of it's kind, being under 15 minutes, and with enough background noise that I could hardly hear anything. It also did lead to a wonderful new riddle: what's that noise after the woman finished singing her solo at the Southern wedding? That's the sound of one homosexual clapping in Georgia. I've never claimed to be up on my wedding etiquette...I'm the one who looks around in a church during the ceremony to try to figure out if I'm supposed to stand up, sit down, or fight fight fight. However, I don't think I had ever committed a faux pas quite as frowned upon as the ill-advised clapping...I half expected the woman sitting behind me to reach into her purse, pull out a carefully disguised machete, and put all of Georgia out of my misery then and there.
The reception was, in and of itself, fairly uneventful. The girls and I agreed that the best looking man there (outside of me, of course) was the gentleman sitting next to me in a wheel chair. The bridesmaids and groomsmen were suitably uncomfortable when forced to walk together and be introduced as faux couples. And most importantly, I saw the most hideous groom's cake that has ever been created. Shaped like a football field, covered in bright green icing, the groom's cake was as completely tacky as the bride's was tasteful. Placed prominently, and completely unmissable to anyone not headless, the football field was populated by small figures of pop culture icons like Darth Vader, Mr. T, Spider-Man and, my personal favorite, The General Lee from Dukes of Hazzard. You know, the one the plays "Dixie" when the horn is honked, and is a symbol of the Confederate States of America? The War of Northern Aggression is alive and well!
Ultimately, however, I made it out of Georgia alive. There were some close calls, and some times where I seriously wondered if I would ever be the same. But Georgia and I made some wonderful memories together...not the least of which was the woman who decided that these shoes with black socks was the way to go for footwear at a wedding. Well, on one foot anyway; the other one was in a cast, having apparently recently been broken, but I won't make fun of her for that. It turns out that some of the Southern hospitality wore off on me after all...
I have often been quoted as saying that the continental United States is made up of places that I fly over on the way to a coast and Chicago. However, despite my best efforts, I was finally forced to visit one of those places: Duluth, Georgia. Duluth is about a 45 minute drive from the Atlanta airport, most of which I spent going over raunchy wedding stories with Erika, Amber, and the gay father of the bride (who shall be henceforth referred to as Big Daddy). I felt great relief knowing that there would be at least one more homosexual at the ceremony, assuming that that would at least mean that I would not be the only male dancing. The rest of the time I spent going over adages in my head like "I don't think we're in Kansas anymore" and "Fasten your seatbelts! It's going to be a bumpy night!"
The first order of business was the rehearsal dinner that night, and things started to go downhill almost immediately. First of all, we got a ride to the rehearsal with the groom's party, where two things were quickly established. 1) That one of the groomsmen was wearing a pleated denim kilt, and 2) that the wedding, like the rehearsal, would be taking place outside. In Georgia. In early September. Holy humid, Batman. With visions of heat rash and pit stains dancing in my head, I quickly retreated into the air conditioned reception hall, and watched my bridesmaid friends suffer, as they rehearsed how to walk 30 feet for approximately an hour. After everyone was sure exactly how to not screw up the day that the bride had been dreaming about since she was first told she was a pretty pretty princess when she was 6, the gathering dispersed, and reconvened at a local restaurant for the actual dinner portion of the evening.
Once everyone had gathered, the New York contingent quickly armed themselves with liquor, and claimed the table nearest to the bar so we could get our hands on more on short notice. The food was actually surprisingly good for an Italian restaurant in the south, and the evening appeared to be progressing normally. Naturally, we all should have been waiting for the other shoe to drop, but lulled into ease by the wine we were drinking, we weren't aware a problem was developing just one table over, where the minister was sitting.
A short word on the minister. He is the bride's step grandfather. You'll all remember Big Daddy, the bride's gay father? Well, Big Daddy has a lover, and his lover has a father, and his father has Jesus. And not the nice, forgiving Jesus that many of the Christians up north seem to believe in. We're talking about a full-on fire and brimstone, cast sinners down into the pits of hell for eternal damnation and torment Southern Baptist Minister...you know, the good kind.
Back to the action at hand! While our table and half the rest of the reception were pickling ourselves at the open bar, apparently the Minister was having some trouble reconciling our debauchery with his religious beliefs. You see, it seems the good man had never presided over a union in which liquor of any kind was consumed at the reception or at the rehearsal dinner. The fact the there were drinks being offered was enough to give him fits; one look at our double-fisting table, and the man was nearly apopleptic. The bride came over, rolling her eyes, and expressed a deep desire to call off the wedding and elope, if only to escape the brewing insanity around her. It is a repeated observation of mine that the people who should be the happiest at a wedding , i.e. the bride and groom, generally look to be one over-cooked crab cake away from a Romeo and Juliet-esque murder/suicide.
Naturally, no one at the table allowed the discomfort of one religious nutbag to curb our fun at all. As the evening wore on, we started to acquire some new friends, mostly in the form of the groomsmen that had ferried us to the rehearsal in the first place. Drawn to the table by Amber's tremendous chest, they quickly found a good time in our discussion of the myriad other guests and their obvious shortcomings. And this was our introduction to Junior Mints. Not the delicious candy I've had a long, loving relationship with, but a groomsmen whose name I couldn't remember in my mentally compromised state, and Erika took it upon herself to nickname for me. We all then quickly picked our own favorite candy to call ourselves, and alas, I wasn't coherent enough to realize that mine obviously should have been Skittles. Taste the rainbow...
Junior Mints quickly revealed himself to be what can only be described as a bi-curious Navyman, who spent most of the night being torn between ogling Amber's dirty pillows and trying to entice me into allowing him to explore the finer points of man-love. Being deep behind enemy lines, there was no way I was going anywhere near him; people in Georgia get real upset about that kind of thing. Luckily, Amber was able to distract him with her breasts, and despite him running his hand through my hair, pinching my nipple and trying to grab my crotch, I was able to get through the evening unscathed and intact.
The day of the wedding dawned bright and hot. I spent most of the day in bed, watching Brendan Fraser, and pitying the ladies their duties in hair and make-up which woke them up at 6 am and had taken them away all day. I hitched a ride to the ceremony, and helped Amber and Erika find air vents to stand over in their dresses to keep them fresh. The wedding began outside, and as promised I was fully damp in the space of 30 seconds. The ceremony itself was one of the best of it's kind, being under 15 minutes, and with enough background noise that I could hardly hear anything. It also did lead to a wonderful new riddle: what's that noise after the woman finished singing her solo at the Southern wedding? That's the sound of one homosexual clapping in Georgia. I've never claimed to be up on my wedding etiquette...I'm the one who looks around in a church during the ceremony to try to figure out if I'm supposed to stand up, sit down, or fight fight fight. However, I don't think I had ever committed a faux pas quite as frowned upon as the ill-advised clapping...I half expected the woman sitting behind me to reach into her purse, pull out a carefully disguised machete, and put all of Georgia out of my misery then and there.
The reception was, in and of itself, fairly uneventful. The girls and I agreed that the best looking man there (outside of me, of course) was the gentleman sitting next to me in a wheel chair. The bridesmaids and groomsmen were suitably uncomfortable when forced to walk together and be introduced as faux couples. And most importantly, I saw the most hideous groom's cake that has ever been created. Shaped like a football field, covered in bright green icing, the groom's cake was as completely tacky as the bride's was tasteful. Placed prominently, and completely unmissable to anyone not headless, the football field was populated by small figures of pop culture icons like Darth Vader, Mr. T, Spider-Man and, my personal favorite, The General Lee from Dukes of Hazzard. You know, the one the plays "Dixie" when the horn is honked, and is a symbol of the Confederate States of America? The War of Northern Aggression is alive and well!
Ultimately, however, I made it out of Georgia alive. There were some close calls, and some times where I seriously wondered if I would ever be the same. But Georgia and I made some wonderful memories together...not the least of which was the woman who decided that these shoes with black socks was the way to go for footwear at a wedding. Well, on one foot anyway; the other one was in a cast, having apparently recently been broken, but I won't make fun of her for that. It turns out that some of the Southern hospitality wore off on me after all...
Wednesday, August 27, 2008
Brokeback 10m Platform
There are few times in my life when I am overcome with patriotism. As discussed on this very blog, I have a powerful aversion to politicians, and tend to equate pride in my country with things like country music and Kraft Macaroni & Cheese. Don't get me wrong, I know that America is way ahead of, say, Bangladesh as far as crappy places to live, but every time I see that Chevrolet commercial with "This Is Our Country" playing in it, I'm caught between aggravation and nausea. However, every four years, one event inevitably brings out the proud American in me, despite all of my eye-rolling and judgment. That's right, I am an Olympics junkie. Specifically the Summer Olympics...I find the Winter Games to be a nice diversion, but a) the male athletes tend to compete in sports in which their uniforms actually qualify as clothing and b) all of my favorite TV shows go into repeats for the duration of the event.
These past two weeks were no exception...I was in bed alone when Jason Lezak won the Men's 4x100 Meter Relay, and was actually pumping my fist and cheering for the USA. Granted, the NBC announcers were prattling on about how Michael Phelps could still win 8 gold medals because of Lezak's swim and I was far more interested in watching the male swimmers help each other out of their skin-tight body suits, but I CARED. I was thrilled when Nastia Liukin won her All-Around Gymnastics gold medal, and was almost overcome when Shawn Johnson, in her final event of the games, won the gold medal on balance beam. I was so into the US for the past few weeks, I might as well have draped myself in an American flag and taken a lap around Carroll Gardens while handing out apple pie, chanting "Iraq Sucks!" and rooting for the Yankees.
Until August 23rd.
What happened on August 23rd, you ask? August 23rd was the final night of competition in Beijing; most of the events being broadcast were Track & Field, but one great eye-candy competition remained: the final of the Men's 10m Platform Diving. For those of you who don't watch the Olympics, diving is about as popular as oxygen over in China, and whenever the coverage moved to any diving event, the Beijing Water Cube was rocking like a Bon Jovi concert in New Jersey. And on this particular night, the Chinese divers were attempting to sweep the entire diving competition, winning gold in all 8 events, a number which NBC officials were sure to tell viewers at least fourteen thousand times was very significant in the Chinese culture. The audience had reached critical mass, and I was half expecting the fans to throw beer bottles at each other.
Diving also happens to be about as popular as oxygen in the gay community, largely because swimmers no longer wear Speedos, and water polo takes place underwater. Divers generally spend more time out of the water than in it, and also do things like run directly to shower next to other hot men in teeny-tiny little briefs before jumping right into a hot tub with their aforementioned compatriots. Believe me, I am not a general supporter of the plum smuggler as bathing suit...I tend to think that most people could benefit from more rather than less coverage. However, Olympic athletes tend to have the kind of bodies that can not only pull off the banana hammock, but actually just use it as a framing device for rippling abs and ripped thighs.
However, in addition to this, Diving was also the home to the only out male athlete competing in the entire Olympic games (naturally, softball and soccer had a few lesbians, but let's face it, the women are, by and large, much more sporty than us). Young Matthew Mitcham from Australia was carrying the torch for all of us. He has said that he doesn't want to be known as "the gay diver" but just as "an Australian diver who did really well at the Olympics," a request that I think most people can understand. Nevertheless, tough tits, Matthew was the only gay we had in the Olympics, and we in the community were glued to the TV watching him.
And as we were glued to the TV, the following happened. Matthew won. In the final round of dives, trailing China's Zhou Luxin by over a hundred points, Matthew hit his most difficult dive in the competition, earning the highest point total EVER awarded in the Olympic Games to get the gold medal. To say that I was beside myself would be an understatement. I was actually sitting next to myself, and looking at myself jumping up and down like a crazy person, for while my patriotism might be suspect, my gay loyalty is extremely strong. It made me want to drape myself in a rainbow flag and take a lap around Carroll Gardens while handing out condoms, chanting "George Bush Sucks!" and rooting for the end to the production of all acid-washed denim. I couldn't wait to listen to the NBC announcers talk about all of the hardships (depression! anxiety attacks! early retirement!) Matthew had overcome to end up one of the greatest stories of these Olympics. I was poised to see his medal ceremony, and ran over to my computer to make sure that "I Will Survive" was playing, so Matthew would be honored by both the Australian and Gay National Anthems. Eagerly, I awaited the inevitable post-dive interview where he would thank his boyfriend and his mother. I looked up from my computer, having cued up Gloria Gaynor, and saw...NBC had switched to another event. It was probably Michael Phelps winning his eight gold medals for the eighteen thousandth time (yes, we get it, he swims very fast). I quickly grabbed my TiVo remote and rewound, convinced that I had accidentally jumped ahead in the recording, but no. NBC had just cut away after Matthew won and spent no more time on the event or it's historical significance.
To say I had an acid flashback to when Crash won the Oscar over Brokeback Mountain would only be a lie insofar as I have never dropped acid. For all of the gay film-makers, actors, and writers, we as a community really produce some abysmal movies, many of which play directly into the stereotypes we spend most of our time fighting against. We get one movie, ONE, that truly deserves to win the Best Picture Oscar, and we lose to Crash, a pandering, obvious morality tale with all the shock and originality of Two and Half Men repeat. We get one athlete, ONE, that not only competes in the Games, but actually wins, and we get no athlete profile, nor any real broadcast time devoted to his event. NBC claims that they don't discuss athlete's sexuality, but they have no problem talking about the (female) track and field star whose boyfriend is on the New York Giants, or the Italian swimmer who stole her chief rival's boyfriend and coach in early 2008. So, actually, NBC just doesn't discuss athlete's homosexuality, as if they are afraid that they are going to produce the FCC's follow up to Nipplegate.
For those of you that may have missed Matthew's final dive, you can go here, and see the last three divers in the final round. And for those of you who, like me, wanted to see the medal ceremony, you can go here; just make sure you have your gay anthem of choice cued up! Oh, and I recommend watching the whole clip...at the end Matthew climbs up into the bleachers and kisses his boyfriend on the cheek, which was apparently far too much for NBC to show on national TV. They're right, the raw display of sexual energy is really out of control.
These past two weeks were no exception...I was in bed alone when Jason Lezak won the Men's 4x100 Meter Relay, and was actually pumping my fist and cheering for the USA. Granted, the NBC announcers were prattling on about how Michael Phelps could still win 8 gold medals because of Lezak's swim and I was far more interested in watching the male swimmers help each other out of their skin-tight body suits, but I CARED. I was thrilled when Nastia Liukin won her All-Around Gymnastics gold medal, and was almost overcome when Shawn Johnson, in her final event of the games, won the gold medal on balance beam. I was so into the US for the past few weeks, I might as well have draped myself in an American flag and taken a lap around Carroll Gardens while handing out apple pie, chanting "Iraq Sucks!" and rooting for the Yankees.
Until August 23rd.
What happened on August 23rd, you ask? August 23rd was the final night of competition in Beijing; most of the events being broadcast were Track & Field, but one great eye-candy competition remained: the final of the Men's 10m Platform Diving. For those of you who don't watch the Olympics, diving is about as popular as oxygen over in China, and whenever the coverage moved to any diving event, the Beijing Water Cube was rocking like a Bon Jovi concert in New Jersey. And on this particular night, the Chinese divers were attempting to sweep the entire diving competition, winning gold in all 8 events, a number which NBC officials were sure to tell viewers at least fourteen thousand times was very significant in the Chinese culture. The audience had reached critical mass, and I was half expecting the fans to throw beer bottles at each other.
Diving also happens to be about as popular as oxygen in the gay community, largely because swimmers no longer wear Speedos, and water polo takes place underwater. Divers generally spend more time out of the water than in it, and also do things like run directly to shower next to other hot men in teeny-tiny little briefs before jumping right into a hot tub with their aforementioned compatriots. Believe me, I am not a general supporter of the plum smuggler as bathing suit...I tend to think that most people could benefit from more rather than less coverage. However, Olympic athletes tend to have the kind of bodies that can not only pull off the banana hammock, but actually just use it as a framing device for rippling abs and ripped thighs.
However, in addition to this, Diving was also the home to the only out male athlete competing in the entire Olympic games (naturally, softball and soccer had a few lesbians, but let's face it, the women are, by and large, much more sporty than us). Young Matthew Mitcham from Australia was carrying the torch for all of us. He has said that he doesn't want to be known as "the gay diver" but just as "an Australian diver who did really well at the Olympics," a request that I think most people can understand. Nevertheless, tough tits, Matthew was the only gay we had in the Olympics, and we in the community were glued to the TV watching him.
And as we were glued to the TV, the following happened. Matthew won. In the final round of dives, trailing China's Zhou Luxin by over a hundred points, Matthew hit his most difficult dive in the competition, earning the highest point total EVER awarded in the Olympic Games to get the gold medal. To say that I was beside myself would be an understatement. I was actually sitting next to myself, and looking at myself jumping up and down like a crazy person, for while my patriotism might be suspect, my gay loyalty is extremely strong. It made me want to drape myself in a rainbow flag and take a lap around Carroll Gardens while handing out condoms, chanting "George Bush Sucks!" and rooting for the end to the production of all acid-washed denim. I couldn't wait to listen to the NBC announcers talk about all of the hardships (depression! anxiety attacks! early retirement!) Matthew had overcome to end up one of the greatest stories of these Olympics. I was poised to see his medal ceremony, and ran over to my computer to make sure that "I Will Survive" was playing, so Matthew would be honored by both the Australian and Gay National Anthems. Eagerly, I awaited the inevitable post-dive interview where he would thank his boyfriend and his mother. I looked up from my computer, having cued up Gloria Gaynor, and saw...NBC had switched to another event. It was probably Michael Phelps winning his eight gold medals for the eighteen thousandth time (yes, we get it, he swims very fast). I quickly grabbed my TiVo remote and rewound, convinced that I had accidentally jumped ahead in the recording, but no. NBC had just cut away after Matthew won and spent no more time on the event or it's historical significance.
To say I had an acid flashback to when Crash won the Oscar over Brokeback Mountain would only be a lie insofar as I have never dropped acid. For all of the gay film-makers, actors, and writers, we as a community really produce some abysmal movies, many of which play directly into the stereotypes we spend most of our time fighting against. We get one movie, ONE, that truly deserves to win the Best Picture Oscar, and we lose to Crash, a pandering, obvious morality tale with all the shock and originality of Two and Half Men repeat. We get one athlete, ONE, that not only competes in the Games, but actually wins, and we get no athlete profile, nor any real broadcast time devoted to his event. NBC claims that they don't discuss athlete's sexuality, but they have no problem talking about the (female) track and field star whose boyfriend is on the New York Giants, or the Italian swimmer who stole her chief rival's boyfriend and coach in early 2008. So, actually, NBC just doesn't discuss athlete's homosexuality, as if they are afraid that they are going to produce the FCC's follow up to Nipplegate.
For those of you that may have missed Matthew's final dive, you can go here, and see the last three divers in the final round. And for those of you who, like me, wanted to see the medal ceremony, you can go here; just make sure you have your gay anthem of choice cued up! Oh, and I recommend watching the whole clip...at the end Matthew climbs up into the bleachers and kisses his boyfriend on the cheek, which was apparently far too much for NBC to show on national TV. They're right, the raw display of sexual energy is really out of control.
Wednesday, August 13, 2008
Like a Fine Wine
There have been a few outcries over the lack of new blog posts over the past few weeks, and all I can say is that I am sorry. Sometimes it's hard for inspiration to strike when I feel like I have 25 emotionally abusive boyfriends on the active roster of the New York Metropolitans. However, the requests for more posts warmed my heart, and made me feel missed in my absence, so I aggressively started searching for more inspiration to bring me back to the computer keyboard. And today, dear readers, I have found it. I found it in a place I wasn't expecting, from a person I don't think of often, at a time when I was sitting at work and really probably should have been doing something to at least pretend like I was earning my paycheck. Who inspired me, do you ask? Cloris Leachman. Yes, that's right, Mary Richard's old landlady pulled me from the depths of writer's block with this little gem on the Comedy Central Roast of Bob Saget.
First of all, allow me to say that I do not generally take in Comedy Central's roasts of various celebrities. It seems that the only more obvious way to announce that your career is over is to star in a VH1 reality show (I'm hoping the exception to the this rule is Margaret Cho). Also, generally speaking, I don't find them particularly funny...it seems like a bunch of comedians getting together to tell their most vulgar jokes and try to twist them around to make them about a specific person. However, Ms. Leachman has really broken the mold here. For one thing, her opener about John Stamos was clearly not a joke written for another purpose and reworked for the broadcast. With all the artistry of an old pro, Cloris really made me believe that she was going to to introduce dear old Johnny boy to the business end of her Oscar. Also, beseeching someone to clock her in the face so she could see some stars was sheer poetry in its brilliance, particularly coming right before of a close-up shot of Lori Loughlin (returning to TV this fall in 90210 Redux!), Dave Coulier (really Alannis? "You Oughta Know" was about this guy?) and a group of comedians that I would have difficulty naming.
Now, you're probably thinking to yourself, while this is funny (naturally), where exactly are we going here? Well, dear readers, we're going to discuss aging gracefully. Ms. Leachman is currently 82 years old, and has clearly aged like a fine wheel of parmesan, becoming sharper and more flavorful with each passing year. When I try to picture my 80ish relatives cracking wise about using an old award for a sex toy, an error message pops up and my brain crashes like a computer caught in a porn cycle. Since I'm approaching 30 (which is only slightly off of 82 in gay years) I find myself looking more and more to our older compatriots to see how they deal with getting long in the tooth.
This is obviously not something that is much of a concern for the Chinese women's (girl's?) gymnastics team. Half the world is crying that their athletes are not of legal age to compete in this year's Olympics, and admittedly they look to have an average age of about 12. Of course, all people accusing the Chinese of fudging birthdates are trying to make it sound as if they are protecting the rights of the athletes, when actually it's probably just sour grapes at the possibility of literally losing to a 10 year old girl.
However, far more relevant to this post is the story of one Oksana Chusovitina, the silver medalist in women's vault. This is by far my favorite story of the Olympic Games, and for those of you who missed it, get this. Chusovitina is 33 years old, and just competed in her 5th Olympics in gymnastics, a record for female gymnasts. She competed in her first Olympics in 1991, or a full year before Shawn Johnson was born. Pretty cool, but wait it gets better! She has young son, Alisher, who was diagnosed with leukemia in 2002, and when she brought him for treatment in Moscow there was no guarantee of care due to staffing shortages and a need for upfront payment. So she got a German Citizenship, and began competing for the German National Team in order to finance her son's operations with the prize money she received. And his leukemia is now in remission and he is training to become a gymnast. Needless to say, when this story was related to me while I lay in bed, shot up on Nyquil and completely exhausted, it caused me to have the same basic emotional reaction that Bambi did when I was 7, and cried myself to sleep wishing that my mother was around.
On the surface, there isn't much connecting these two stories. However, both are considered past their prime in their professions (even though one has about 50 years on the other), and yet both are still at the top of their fields. I think of Leachman like a delicious Sauvignon Blanc, crispy, refreshing and surprising in ways you never expect. Chusovitina is like a sturdy Shiraz, bracing and strong, a never-let-you-down workhorse. I hope to age like these women; after all, if I'm still in good shape and single when I'm 35, my attraction to 45 year old silver foxes will be much less creepy and much more pursuable. So here's to them...and here's to me having the opportunity to someday say on national television that my only purpose for being somewhere is to f*ck David Wright.
First of all, allow me to say that I do not generally take in Comedy Central's roasts of various celebrities. It seems that the only more obvious way to announce that your career is over is to star in a VH1 reality show (I'm hoping the exception to the this rule is Margaret Cho). Also, generally speaking, I don't find them particularly funny...it seems like a bunch of comedians getting together to tell their most vulgar jokes and try to twist them around to make them about a specific person. However, Ms. Leachman has really broken the mold here. For one thing, her opener about John Stamos was clearly not a joke written for another purpose and reworked for the broadcast. With all the artistry of an old pro, Cloris really made me believe that she was going to to introduce dear old Johnny boy to the business end of her Oscar. Also, beseeching someone to clock her in the face so she could see some stars was sheer poetry in its brilliance, particularly coming right before of a close-up shot of Lori Loughlin (returning to TV this fall in 90210 Redux!), Dave Coulier (really Alannis? "You Oughta Know" was about this guy?) and a group of comedians that I would have difficulty naming.
Now, you're probably thinking to yourself, while this is funny (naturally), where exactly are we going here? Well, dear readers, we're going to discuss aging gracefully. Ms. Leachman is currently 82 years old, and has clearly aged like a fine wheel of parmesan, becoming sharper and more flavorful with each passing year. When I try to picture my 80ish relatives cracking wise about using an old award for a sex toy, an error message pops up and my brain crashes like a computer caught in a porn cycle. Since I'm approaching 30 (which is only slightly off of 82 in gay years) I find myself looking more and more to our older compatriots to see how they deal with getting long in the tooth.
This is obviously not something that is much of a concern for the Chinese women's (girl's?) gymnastics team. Half the world is crying that their athletes are not of legal age to compete in this year's Olympics, and admittedly they look to have an average age of about 12. Of course, all people accusing the Chinese of fudging birthdates are trying to make it sound as if they are protecting the rights of the athletes, when actually it's probably just sour grapes at the possibility of literally losing to a 10 year old girl.
However, far more relevant to this post is the story of one Oksana Chusovitina, the silver medalist in women's vault. This is by far my favorite story of the Olympic Games, and for those of you who missed it, get this. Chusovitina is 33 years old, and just competed in her 5th Olympics in gymnastics, a record for female gymnasts. She competed in her first Olympics in 1991, or a full year before Shawn Johnson was born. Pretty cool, but wait it gets better! She has young son, Alisher, who was diagnosed with leukemia in 2002, and when she brought him for treatment in Moscow there was no guarantee of care due to staffing shortages and a need for upfront payment. So she got a German Citizenship, and began competing for the German National Team in order to finance her son's operations with the prize money she received. And his leukemia is now in remission and he is training to become a gymnast. Needless to say, when this story was related to me while I lay in bed, shot up on Nyquil and completely exhausted, it caused me to have the same basic emotional reaction that Bambi did when I was 7, and cried myself to sleep wishing that my mother was around.
On the surface, there isn't much connecting these two stories. However, both are considered past their prime in their professions (even though one has about 50 years on the other), and yet both are still at the top of their fields. I think of Leachman like a delicious Sauvignon Blanc, crispy, refreshing and surprising in ways you never expect. Chusovitina is like a sturdy Shiraz, bracing and strong, a never-let-you-down workhorse. I hope to age like these women; after all, if I'm still in good shape and single when I'm 35, my attraction to 45 year old silver foxes will be much less creepy and much more pursuable. So here's to them...and here's to me having the opportunity to someday say on national television that my only purpose for being somewhere is to f*ck David Wright.
Wednesday, July 16, 2008
A New York State of Mind
I really love New York. Today, as happens most days, I took the subway, and it was automatically a good day because the subway didn't smell like pee. While on the train, I sat next to an elderly couple, and next to them sat a young man who looked like a refugee from a Bel Ami video. If you don't know what a Bel Ami video is, consider the fact that I've been single going on two years and use your imagination. And while I sat there I was privy to the following conversation.
Old Lady: Tourist?
Young Man: What?
Old Lady: Tour. Ist.
Young Man: Sorry, English no...
Old Lady: Are you a tourist? Are you from here? Foreigner?
Young Man: ...yes...
Old Lady: Your wallet is showing. You can't do that. This is New York. Where are you from?
Young Man: ...Russia...
Old Lady: Russia! You don't know better than that coming from Russia!?
It's moments like these that you realize that sometimes this city, which seems to spend so much time stepping on your neck with a poo-stained boot, every once in a while will reach out and give you a little hug. It's like winning the ticket lottery at your favorite Broadway show, or having one of those extra sassy subway conductors that scold the people who hold the doors and delay trains, or getting to see a larger than life picture of David Wright sticking his tongue out as he plays with his bat when you walk down the street. This conversation brought me joy much like one of these events did.
For one thing, it's another example of New Yorkers automatically assuming that living here is something completely different than anywhere else. If this was, for instance, Chicago, the young man walking around with his wallet easily stolen would not be at all remarkable. In the Windy City people display their cash all the time, and all the strangers happily ignore the easy money while skipping off on their merry way down the street. In New York, however, that's gonna get snatched before you can blink, so be careful you stupid Commie!
It's also an example of that special kind of New York friendly that only comes from our fair metropolis. Only in New York does someone try to do a good deed by pointing out that someone else is an idiot. Why not simply say "Excuse me, but your bag is open," and go on about your business? No, it's far better to first determine if there is an even slightly acceptable reason for the bag being open. If you re-read the conversation above and substitute "jackass," "imbecile," or "quarter-wit" for the word tourist, you'll find that very little changes. I couldn't help but wonder what the woman would have done if the young man had not been a tourist, and had claimed to be from New York. My guess is she would have stolen the wallet herself, and left an admonishing note where it was saying something along the lines of "You aren't worthy of the name New Yorker. Get the hell out of my city, you nitwit." Bel Ami boy got off easy.
However, the real coup de grâce for our New Yorker here was the information that this man was from Russia. She had clearly been expecting a far more tame place of origin like Omaha or France, and upon learning that he had actually sprung from the center of the former USSR was almost too much. I half expected her to cry "I've got the vapors!" and collapse in her seat. Nothing gets the collective danders of New Yorkers up than willful stupidity. She thought that she had screened for this possibility by asking if he was a tourist, and then got blind-sided by the information that he was from a place where there actually is crime. To say the least, she was quite done with him after that, and didn't speak to him again, leaving him to make his own way. And I thought to myself, "Self, you belong here in this place of rude yet helpful people."
There was a time when I was not in love with the city. A time I didn't realize that there were dozens of movies released every month that never made it to my local movie theaters. When I didn't realize how much fun it was to have amazing cultural experiences at your fingertips and completely ignore them for the fun of rolling your eyes at the Midwesterners clamoring for a chance to get to the top of the Empire State Building. I get so much more reading done here, since I don't have to waste time with all of that pesky driving. And living in the city is possibly as far away from camping as one can get, which as far as I'm concerned is just icing on the home-made chocolate cake served warm with ice cream and whipped cream with just a sprig of mint for color and possible palate-cleansing. Stay Gold New York.
**My friend Janet just got a short essay published on Mad as Hell Club. Read her fantastic essay right here...it's short and totally worth it!**
Old Lady: Tourist?
Young Man: What?
Old Lady: Tour. Ist.
Young Man: Sorry, English no...
Old Lady: Are you a tourist? Are you from here? Foreigner?
Young Man: ...yes...
Old Lady: Your wallet is showing. You can't do that. This is New York. Where are you from?
Young Man: ...Russia...
Old Lady: Russia! You don't know better than that coming from Russia!?
It's moments like these that you realize that sometimes this city, which seems to spend so much time stepping on your neck with a poo-stained boot, every once in a while will reach out and give you a little hug. It's like winning the ticket lottery at your favorite Broadway show, or having one of those extra sassy subway conductors that scold the people who hold the doors and delay trains, or getting to see a larger than life picture of David Wright sticking his tongue out as he plays with his bat when you walk down the street. This conversation brought me joy much like one of these events did.
For one thing, it's another example of New Yorkers automatically assuming that living here is something completely different than anywhere else. If this was, for instance, Chicago, the young man walking around with his wallet easily stolen would not be at all remarkable. In the Windy City people display their cash all the time, and all the strangers happily ignore the easy money while skipping off on their merry way down the street. In New York, however, that's gonna get snatched before you can blink, so be careful you stupid Commie!
It's also an example of that special kind of New York friendly that only comes from our fair metropolis. Only in New York does someone try to do a good deed by pointing out that someone else is an idiot. Why not simply say "Excuse me, but your bag is open," and go on about your business? No, it's far better to first determine if there is an even slightly acceptable reason for the bag being open. If you re-read the conversation above and substitute "jackass," "imbecile," or "quarter-wit" for the word tourist, you'll find that very little changes. I couldn't help but wonder what the woman would have done if the young man had not been a tourist, and had claimed to be from New York. My guess is she would have stolen the wallet herself, and left an admonishing note where it was saying something along the lines of "You aren't worthy of the name New Yorker. Get the hell out of my city, you nitwit." Bel Ami boy got off easy.
However, the real coup de grâce for our New Yorker here was the information that this man was from Russia. She had clearly been expecting a far more tame place of origin like Omaha or France, and upon learning that he had actually sprung from the center of the former USSR was almost too much. I half expected her to cry "I've got the vapors!" and collapse in her seat. Nothing gets the collective danders of New Yorkers up than willful stupidity. She thought that she had screened for this possibility by asking if he was a tourist, and then got blind-sided by the information that he was from a place where there actually is crime. To say the least, she was quite done with him after that, and didn't speak to him again, leaving him to make his own way. And I thought to myself, "Self, you belong here in this place of rude yet helpful people."
There was a time when I was not in love with the city. A time I didn't realize that there were dozens of movies released every month that never made it to my local movie theaters. When I didn't realize how much fun it was to have amazing cultural experiences at your fingertips and completely ignore them for the fun of rolling your eyes at the Midwesterners clamoring for a chance to get to the top of the Empire State Building. I get so much more reading done here, since I don't have to waste time with all of that pesky driving. And living in the city is possibly as far away from camping as one can get, which as far as I'm concerned is just icing on the home-made chocolate cake served warm with ice cream and whipped cream with just a sprig of mint for color and possible palate-cleansing. Stay Gold New York.
**My friend Janet just got a short essay published on Mad as Hell Club. Read her fantastic essay right here...it's short and totally worth it!**
Wednesday, July 2, 2008
You Put the Pride in the Coconut
Carrie Bradshaw once said the New York City is a ghost town, in which you are constantly haunted by the ghosts of your past relationships. When I first saw the episode, I thought that a silly statement...Manhattan is packed with people, and if all you want to do is avoid one specific person, that shouldn't be too difficult. As I have aged, I have discovered how wrong I was. I have never run into someone that I fell out of touch with and have no baggage with and really miss (granted, the number of people who fall into this category is not exactly large, but they do exist). However, one specific ex-boyfriend? Sure, all the time, at least 2 or 3 times a year. He's a doctor. We'll call him, in honor of Ms. Bradshaw, Dr. Big. Picture it, dear readers, Gay Pride 2008.
The day started out with brunch. Now, the time will come in everyone's life where they are asked a stupid question. The idea that there are no stupid questions is a ridiculous adage continually repeated by elementary school teachers in a vain attempt to get children interested in learning. Some stupid questions that I've been asked in my time are "Would you like that pie à la mode?" (Who wouldn't?), "Don't you think Crash deserved the Oscar?" (No, and please do not darken my doorstep with the mention of that film again), and, of course, "Do you have an opinion on that?" (Yes, yes I do, and I'd be more than happy to share it with you. There will be no need for you to talk). The stupid question I was asked at brunch was "You can have unlimited drinks for an additional $8. Would you like to do that?" The waitress looked slightly aback at the animated chorus of "Yes!", "I would!", "Me! Me!" that met her from our table, but quickly adapted to our mood, and started regularly stopping by our table for refills from the pitchers of mixed drinks she was carrying around. As you can imagine, standing up for the first time was quite the surprise to everyone involved in the early-stage debauchery. With all of us having had at least three drinks served in pint glasses, hand-eye coordination was at a minimum; naturally we decided we needed to get to a bar post-haste, as we didn't want to lose our cheap buzz.
We made our way down to Chelsea, and found out that the parade had been rained on while we had been throwing alcohol down our throats like Jack Nicholson at the Golden Globes. Ultimately, after a few false starts and one slightly extended period of being rained on (not to worry, I was wearing a white shirt, so the rain was really only going to help me) we ended up at Gym Bar. After my last visit to that establishment (chronicled in my WWUBD? post), one might think that I would have been prepared for shenanigans to occur. I can only blame the drink for my own foolishness, because this is where the day really swung heavily into high melodrama. Once we packed into the bar like a group of homosexual sardines, I leapt into action to find my gay for Pride, greatly looking forward to celebrating the homosexual community by making out with a ridiculously good looking guy with no discernable personality (Chelsea is a hotbed of these types). Moving into the back of the bar with the all the grace and stealth of a tranquilized jungle cat, I scanned my options and came up empty; it was like all the pretty homos were afraid they were going to melt in the rain. Undeterred, I made my way up to the front of the bar, and that is where, like Moses parting the Red Sea, the mass of men stepped aside and I was presented with Dr. Big.
Dr. Big and I have had quite the tumultuous relationship, which I won't get into here. Suffice it to say, that when I returned to the group, and was asked who I had been speaking with, I seriously considered lying. However, given my somewhat compromised judgment in the moment, I opted not to get myself into trouble, and told the truth. Which caused 4 people to pop up their heads as if they were targets in a game of Whack-a-Mole, and stare directly at Dr. Big himself. Victoria then proceeded directly to frothing at the mouth, threatening violence, and loudly proclaiming to anyone in the group who wasn't up on exactly who we were speaking about that this was my Mr. Big (which is funny, cause I'm totally a Miranda). Needless to say, we quickly moved on from the establishment at that point, mostly because Victoria getting a police record for assault & battery was not high on anyone's list, and furthermore none of us had bail money for her after all the drinking.
We ended up at Vynl Chelsea, and I couldn't tell you why. This is because shortly after the bar, I informed Ben and Victoria that they would be making all of my decisions for the rest of the day, as I was in no place to make them for myself. I was in no place to make decisions because, naturally, Dr. Big and I had started a text conversation. Why is it, dear readers, that we do this to ourselves? Why must we constantly not learn from past mistakes? I would say that my texting with Dr. Big was the triumph of hope over experience, but if I'm going to be brutally honest (that's how we roll here), it was probably more like the triumph of stupidity over experience. So, in the midst of my Can!Open!Worms!Everywhere! texting, I made one of my better decisions of the day and handed over the reins to close friends, while making certain not to tell them just what was going on with my cell phone.
Luckily, Ben and Victoria took their respective jobs very seriously, because not 5 minutes after they were entrusted with my well-being, Ben noticed me staring at my phone with an expression that was probably somewhere between gobsmacked and comatose. "Who are you texting?" he sharply questioned me. "Ummm...I'm responding" I mumbled. Leaping to (correct) conclusions, he snatched my phone, read the text I had just received, weighed his options, and promptly dropped my phone into his underwear where I couldn't get at it anymore. This act has been met with much adulation from many who have heard this story; Ben has been offered numerous monetary and material rewards from both friends and family for his heroic act of phone-napping. Victoria, still in full pit bull mode, quickly got wind of the affair, got the phone from Ben and after a thorough alcohol rubbing of it read my entire text conversation with Dr. Big. Obviously, my phone privileges were revoked for the rest of Pride. Probably a good thing, as I continued to drown myself in margaritas. By the time we left, I stumbled home, went to bed and slept like a drunken baby. As for future conversations and encounters with Dr. Big, well, one of those texts that I got while not in control of my cell was a dinner invitation. Who knows if that will happen or not, for as we learned from shows like Sex and the City, one can never be certain exactly when or where an ex will pop up again. And despite clearly having learned very little from my past experiences with Dr. Big, I did learn one very important thing this Gay Pride.
It's good to know one has friends who will shove one's cell phone next to their junk to stop one from texting an ex. Especially when the aforementioned phone is on vibrate.
The day started out with brunch. Now, the time will come in everyone's life where they are asked a stupid question. The idea that there are no stupid questions is a ridiculous adage continually repeated by elementary school teachers in a vain attempt to get children interested in learning. Some stupid questions that I've been asked in my time are "Would you like that pie à la mode?" (Who wouldn't?), "Don't you think Crash deserved the Oscar?" (No, and please do not darken my doorstep with the mention of that film again), and, of course, "Do you have an opinion on that?" (Yes, yes I do, and I'd be more than happy to share it with you. There will be no need for you to talk). The stupid question I was asked at brunch was "You can have unlimited drinks for an additional $8. Would you like to do that?" The waitress looked slightly aback at the animated chorus of "Yes!", "I would!", "Me! Me!" that met her from our table, but quickly adapted to our mood, and started regularly stopping by our table for refills from the pitchers of mixed drinks she was carrying around. As you can imagine, standing up for the first time was quite the surprise to everyone involved in the early-stage debauchery. With all of us having had at least three drinks served in pint glasses, hand-eye coordination was at a minimum; naturally we decided we needed to get to a bar post-haste, as we didn't want to lose our cheap buzz.
We made our way down to Chelsea, and found out that the parade had been rained on while we had been throwing alcohol down our throats like Jack Nicholson at the Golden Globes. Ultimately, after a few false starts and one slightly extended period of being rained on (not to worry, I was wearing a white shirt, so the rain was really only going to help me) we ended up at Gym Bar. After my last visit to that establishment (chronicled in my WWUBD? post), one might think that I would have been prepared for shenanigans to occur. I can only blame the drink for my own foolishness, because this is where the day really swung heavily into high melodrama. Once we packed into the bar like a group of homosexual sardines, I leapt into action to find my gay for Pride, greatly looking forward to celebrating the homosexual community by making out with a ridiculously good looking guy with no discernable personality (Chelsea is a hotbed of these types). Moving into the back of the bar with the all the grace and stealth of a tranquilized jungle cat, I scanned my options and came up empty; it was like all the pretty homos were afraid they were going to melt in the rain. Undeterred, I made my way up to the front of the bar, and that is where, like Moses parting the Red Sea, the mass of men stepped aside and I was presented with Dr. Big.
Dr. Big and I have had quite the tumultuous relationship, which I won't get into here. Suffice it to say, that when I returned to the group, and was asked who I had been speaking with, I seriously considered lying. However, given my somewhat compromised judgment in the moment, I opted not to get myself into trouble, and told the truth. Which caused 4 people to pop up their heads as if they were targets in a game of Whack-a-Mole, and stare directly at Dr. Big himself. Victoria then proceeded directly to frothing at the mouth, threatening violence, and loudly proclaiming to anyone in the group who wasn't up on exactly who we were speaking about that this was my Mr. Big (which is funny, cause I'm totally a Miranda). Needless to say, we quickly moved on from the establishment at that point, mostly because Victoria getting a police record for assault & battery was not high on anyone's list, and furthermore none of us had bail money for her after all the drinking.
We ended up at Vynl Chelsea, and I couldn't tell you why. This is because shortly after the bar, I informed Ben and Victoria that they would be making all of my decisions for the rest of the day, as I was in no place to make them for myself. I was in no place to make decisions because, naturally, Dr. Big and I had started a text conversation. Why is it, dear readers, that we do this to ourselves? Why must we constantly not learn from past mistakes? I would say that my texting with Dr. Big was the triumph of hope over experience, but if I'm going to be brutally honest (that's how we roll here), it was probably more like the triumph of stupidity over experience. So, in the midst of my Can!Open!Worms!Everywhere! texting, I made one of my better decisions of the day and handed over the reins to close friends, while making certain not to tell them just what was going on with my cell phone.
Luckily, Ben and Victoria took their respective jobs very seriously, because not 5 minutes after they were entrusted with my well-being, Ben noticed me staring at my phone with an expression that was probably somewhere between gobsmacked and comatose. "Who are you texting?" he sharply questioned me. "Ummm...I'm responding" I mumbled. Leaping to (correct) conclusions, he snatched my phone, read the text I had just received, weighed his options, and promptly dropped my phone into his underwear where I couldn't get at it anymore. This act has been met with much adulation from many who have heard this story; Ben has been offered numerous monetary and material rewards from both friends and family for his heroic act of phone-napping. Victoria, still in full pit bull mode, quickly got wind of the affair, got the phone from Ben and after a thorough alcohol rubbing of it read my entire text conversation with Dr. Big. Obviously, my phone privileges were revoked for the rest of Pride. Probably a good thing, as I continued to drown myself in margaritas. By the time we left, I stumbled home, went to bed and slept like a drunken baby. As for future conversations and encounters with Dr. Big, well, one of those texts that I got while not in control of my cell was a dinner invitation. Who knows if that will happen or not, for as we learned from shows like Sex and the City, one can never be certain exactly when or where an ex will pop up again. And despite clearly having learned very little from my past experiences with Dr. Big, I did learn one very important thing this Gay Pride.
It's good to know one has friends who will shove one's cell phone next to their junk to stop one from texting an ex. Especially when the aforementioned phone is on vibrate.
Thursday, June 19, 2008
WWUBD?
A little while back, I made a decision; in an effort to change my life, I was going to start living as the main character in my own private sit-com. I've really given this some thought, loyal readers, and I've decided that the perfect genre for me is the newly minted hour-long comedy, à la ABC's brilliant Ugly Betty. This means that my minor problems will all be solved within 45 minutes, and any major ones will work out for the best in the long run, probably to a very good soundtrack, and with a helpful life lesson tacked on for good measure. Even better, once my life truly became the sit-com it has always resembled, men would begin chasing after me all the time! I come complete with the wacky friends, over-the-top co-workers and a colorful family...all I have to do is to start living like I'm actually in a television show. I decided that this plan was fail-safe, and vowed that the next time I was presented with an opportunity I would ask myself the question: "What Would Ugly Betty Do?"
This week, I attended a reading on Monday night that can at best be described as interminable at 2 hours and 45 minutes long. The play, which shall remain nameless, was 100 pages and three acts. Naturally, my dear friend Adam was a shining beacon of light that kept hope alive as my life irrevocably slipped through my fingers, but not even he was enough to keep me from mapping out possible escape routes should the evening have stretched into a fourth. Option one: fake a ruptured spleen, and excuse myself so as not to interrupt the show with groans of pain. Proceed immediately to a bar and drink heavily. Option two: act as if I'm hard of hearing, loudly ask questions about the plot to strangers around me, and aim to get ejected from the show. Proceed immediately to a bar and drink heavily. Option three: try to master the ancient art of sleeping with eyes open. Dream of proceeding immediately to a bar and drinking heavily. Fortunately (unfortunately?), the show ended after the 3rd act, and none of these last ditch plans needed to be put into action. Even more fortunately, we proceeded immediately to a bar and drank heavily. And it was here that I first the chance to let my inner television star shine.
As it happens, I've been in a bit of a dry spell with the boys. And I asked myself Monday on the way to Gym Bar, "Self, what would Ugly Betty do?" Well, Betty would no doubt down a couple of fruity cocktails for a little liquid courage, then march right up to a handsome gentleman and strike up a conversation. So there I was, talking to friends, quickly slurping down Stoli Razz and sodas, and watching the Met game while surreptitiously scoping out the bar for likely candidates (FYI, the Mets won 9-6...a good omen!). Two drinks in I was ready, marched my cute, Betty-inspired ass up the hottest guy in the bar and struck up a conversation. This is a loose term for what transpired, because, as luck would have it, Simon was from Australia, but born in Ireland, which gave him a sort of uber-accent. This meant most of what he said I responded to with some variation of "what," "come again," or the ever popular (and possibly overly loquacious) "I'm so sorry, but I'm a little tipsy and you're accent is totally hot, but I can't understand a single solitary word coming out of your extremely well-formed mouth, so would you mind just repeating it again, slowly and with extra emphasis on the consonants, thanks, you're a peach." Sadly, this is not a posting to report that I now have an international lover...Simon, as it turns out, was getting up at 6 am tomorrow morning to fly to Ireland, and our love was not to be. A sad ending to the first episode of the sit-com of my life, but hey, I still got to talk to a hot Irishman. And, obviously, the show ends with me and David getting married, so Simon was always destined to be a guest star.
Meanwhile, in another corner of the bar, the comic B-plot was shaping up nicely. The other boys had started talking to various gentlemen of their own, culminating in a rather sheepish looking Mark deciding he did not want to go home with his beau, but not knowing how to tell him. Enter Ugly Betty! Betty would undoubtedly say that honesty is the best policy in this situation and she always wants to help her friends, so Josh and I quickly offered to shed Mark's newly acquired and unwanted fat for him. Mark fled to the bathroom, and Josh asked me how we were going to do this. I downed the rest of my beer (did I mention I had switched to beer at this point?) and innocently replied "I was just going to walk up to him and say that Mark doesn't want to go home with you. Too harsh?" Josh (being from the west coast, and hence somewhat kinder in general) quickly took the reins of the operation, and walked over to the young man in the overly v-necked t-shirt to inform him that he would not be having all the homo sex that night. At least, not with Mark.
As we stumbled out into the early morning, and I imagined the camera panning out to a wide shot of us walking down the street giggling to each other while an extremely appropriate (yet still under the radar) pop song played, it occurred to me that Betty had served me well that evening. She had gotten me into a conversation with a hottie and gotten Mark out of pity-sex, so I gift this question to you, dear readers. The next time you are in a jam, just think to yourself, "Self...WWUBD?" I'm telling you it works.
This week, I attended a reading on Monday night that can at best be described as interminable at 2 hours and 45 minutes long. The play, which shall remain nameless, was 100 pages and three acts. Naturally, my dear friend Adam was a shining beacon of light that kept hope alive as my life irrevocably slipped through my fingers, but not even he was enough to keep me from mapping out possible escape routes should the evening have stretched into a fourth. Option one: fake a ruptured spleen, and excuse myself so as not to interrupt the show with groans of pain. Proceed immediately to a bar and drink heavily. Option two: act as if I'm hard of hearing, loudly ask questions about the plot to strangers around me, and aim to get ejected from the show. Proceed immediately to a bar and drink heavily. Option three: try to master the ancient art of sleeping with eyes open. Dream of proceeding immediately to a bar and drinking heavily. Fortunately (unfortunately?), the show ended after the 3rd act, and none of these last ditch plans needed to be put into action. Even more fortunately, we proceeded immediately to a bar and drank heavily. And it was here that I first the chance to let my inner television star shine.
As it happens, I've been in a bit of a dry spell with the boys. And I asked myself Monday on the way to Gym Bar, "Self, what would Ugly Betty do?" Well, Betty would no doubt down a couple of fruity cocktails for a little liquid courage, then march right up to a handsome gentleman and strike up a conversation. So there I was, talking to friends, quickly slurping down Stoli Razz and sodas, and watching the Met game while surreptitiously scoping out the bar for likely candidates (FYI, the Mets won 9-6...a good omen!). Two drinks in I was ready, marched my cute, Betty-inspired ass up the hottest guy in the bar and struck up a conversation. This is a loose term for what transpired, because, as luck would have it, Simon was from Australia, but born in Ireland, which gave him a sort of uber-accent. This meant most of what he said I responded to with some variation of "what," "come again," or the ever popular (and possibly overly loquacious) "I'm so sorry, but I'm a little tipsy and you're accent is totally hot, but I can't understand a single solitary word coming out of your extremely well-formed mouth, so would you mind just repeating it again, slowly and with extra emphasis on the consonants, thanks, you're a peach." Sadly, this is not a posting to report that I now have an international lover...Simon, as it turns out, was getting up at 6 am tomorrow morning to fly to Ireland, and our love was not to be. A sad ending to the first episode of the sit-com of my life, but hey, I still got to talk to a hot Irishman. And, obviously, the show ends with me and David getting married, so Simon was always destined to be a guest star.
Meanwhile, in another corner of the bar, the comic B-plot was shaping up nicely. The other boys had started talking to various gentlemen of their own, culminating in a rather sheepish looking Mark deciding he did not want to go home with his beau, but not knowing how to tell him. Enter Ugly Betty! Betty would undoubtedly say that honesty is the best policy in this situation and she always wants to help her friends, so Josh and I quickly offered to shed Mark's newly acquired and unwanted fat for him. Mark fled to the bathroom, and Josh asked me how we were going to do this. I downed the rest of my beer (did I mention I had switched to beer at this point?) and innocently replied "I was just going to walk up to him and say that Mark doesn't want to go home with you. Too harsh?" Josh (being from the west coast, and hence somewhat kinder in general) quickly took the reins of the operation, and walked over to the young man in the overly v-necked t-shirt to inform him that he would not be having all the homo sex that night. At least, not with Mark.
As we stumbled out into the early morning, and I imagined the camera panning out to a wide shot of us walking down the street giggling to each other while an extremely appropriate (yet still under the radar) pop song played, it occurred to me that Betty had served me well that evening. She had gotten me into a conversation with a hottie and gotten Mark out of pity-sex, so I gift this question to you, dear readers. The next time you are in a jam, just think to yourself, "Self...WWUBD?" I'm telling you it works.
Thursday, June 12, 2008
A Disrespectful Disagreement
I love Ellen Degeneres. She is, without a doubt, my favorite lesbian daytime talk show host. She dances everyday in the morning, she is completely unafraid to make fun of herself, and she is truly funny. The public persona that she has cultivated is the Queen of Nice, and I think she wears her crown well. Recently, Ellen hosted Republican presidential candidate John McCain on her show; you can watch the clip right here.
I am so tired of politicians and their "respectful disagreements." I now will write the response that I feel Ellen probably desperately wanted to give, but was too classy to do so on national television, and be perceived as the mean lesbian who beat up on the old man.
You know what, Senator McCain? There is absolutely nothing respectful about our disagreement on this issue. The word respect should not even factor into it...we can POLITELY disagree on it, which I suspect is what you meant to say. But not respectfully, because I have absolutely no respect for your opinion. Why should I? You clearly have no respect for me as a person, so why are we sitting here pretending? You don't believe that I deserve the same rights that you do, so you are, ultimately, a bigot. Unfortunately, you are a bigot on the public stage, so I'm forced to sit here and listen to this drivel spewing out of your mouth, and actually dignify it with a response. So here is my response, Senator McCain. You and the entire Republican party can suck it. How you got the nominee is a testament to how completely ridiculous the other Republican candidates were, since you are the single worst public speaker I have ever seen. Seriously, you could stand onstage and say "Baseball, Apple Pie and Freedom" and you would still manage to be about as charming as an unexpected colonic. Get off my show, and good riddance.
I'm fairly sure that's what I read behind Ellen's eyes during her far more measured, friendly and humorous response.
I hate politics. I really really do, and furthermore, I hate politicians. I know this whole country has been glued to the television watching the drama unfold between Barack Obama and Hillary Clinton. And by whole country, I mean the 3 million or so people who watch CNN. It recently ended, as I'm sure everyone knows, with Obama winning the nomination. Which means he will be the one I vote for in November, great glory hallelujah. Does he believe I have the right to get married? Nope. He believes civil unions are the way to go. I bet he's for, to quote Hillary, "a strong form of civil unions." He wouldn't get in the way of states giving us the right to marry, but will he support it? No, he will not. Well, congratulations, the first black man that we've ever nominated for president supports a policy that boils down to separate but equal. So our Democratic candidate doesn't support gay marriage. If that's true, he's a bigot just like Senator McCain. If not, he's just a coward, who's afraid to put out what might be a polarizing opinion. I suspect it's the latter. Isn't it the job of a leader to, oh what's the word that I'm looking for, oh right, LEAD? To do the right thing, and bring the people that follow him or her along? I guess that would be too much to hope for.
Please no one forward me Senator Obama's open letter to the LGBT Community. I've read it, and it's not enough. Please, everyone stop kidding yourselves into thinking that if he gets into office, he's going to do more for our community than he's promised. That's not how the world works, and it's definitely not how politicians work. He'll do the bare minimum he can to get our votes in 2012, which is very little, since he'll probably have to compete with someone along the lines of that old coot McCain. Remember Don't Ask, Don't Tell? Maybe when Obama gets into office, he'll get us civil unions, but we won't be able to tell anyone. The day he gets elected and disproves that I will happily write another posting on this website and eat crow. Until that happens, please, no one else send me any missives thinking that I might want to donate to his campaign, or volunteer to spread the word of hope, or give any of my time to promoting someone who won't stand up for one of my basic human rights. If you would like to, I'm glad. Truly, I'm happy you still have enough faith in people to believe in someone. I don't. If he wants my full support, he can prove himself worthy of it.
So yes, I'm voting for him in November. Not because I think he's the greatest thing since sliced bread. I'm voting for him because, when all is said and done, I guess a coward is better than a bigot. And Victoria will end me if I don't.
**My apologies (particularly to my dear friend Josh) for this posting not being the most humorous. But the Mets blew a 2 run lead in the bottom of the 9th (to lose their 6th game in the last 7) as I wrote this. I'm salty today. I'm a salt lick. I looked back at Sodom and Gomorrah and now I'm a pillar of salt. But enjoy the rant. I'll try to make sure the next entry is laugh-out-loud. Shouldn't be too hard. I'm very funny after all.**
I am so tired of politicians and their "respectful disagreements." I now will write the response that I feel Ellen probably desperately wanted to give, but was too classy to do so on national television, and be perceived as the mean lesbian who beat up on the old man.
You know what, Senator McCain? There is absolutely nothing respectful about our disagreement on this issue. The word respect should not even factor into it...we can POLITELY disagree on it, which I suspect is what you meant to say. But not respectfully, because I have absolutely no respect for your opinion. Why should I? You clearly have no respect for me as a person, so why are we sitting here pretending? You don't believe that I deserve the same rights that you do, so you are, ultimately, a bigot. Unfortunately, you are a bigot on the public stage, so I'm forced to sit here and listen to this drivel spewing out of your mouth, and actually dignify it with a response. So here is my response, Senator McCain. You and the entire Republican party can suck it. How you got the nominee is a testament to how completely ridiculous the other Republican candidates were, since you are the single worst public speaker I have ever seen. Seriously, you could stand onstage and say "Baseball, Apple Pie and Freedom" and you would still manage to be about as charming as an unexpected colonic. Get off my show, and good riddance.
I'm fairly sure that's what I read behind Ellen's eyes during her far more measured, friendly and humorous response.
I hate politics. I really really do, and furthermore, I hate politicians. I know this whole country has been glued to the television watching the drama unfold between Barack Obama and Hillary Clinton. And by whole country, I mean the 3 million or so people who watch CNN. It recently ended, as I'm sure everyone knows, with Obama winning the nomination. Which means he will be the one I vote for in November, great glory hallelujah. Does he believe I have the right to get married? Nope. He believes civil unions are the way to go. I bet he's for, to quote Hillary, "a strong form of civil unions." He wouldn't get in the way of states giving us the right to marry, but will he support it? No, he will not. Well, congratulations, the first black man that we've ever nominated for president supports a policy that boils down to separate but equal. So our Democratic candidate doesn't support gay marriage. If that's true, he's a bigot just like Senator McCain. If not, he's just a coward, who's afraid to put out what might be a polarizing opinion. I suspect it's the latter. Isn't it the job of a leader to, oh what's the word that I'm looking for, oh right, LEAD? To do the right thing, and bring the people that follow him or her along? I guess that would be too much to hope for.
Please no one forward me Senator Obama's open letter to the LGBT Community. I've read it, and it's not enough. Please, everyone stop kidding yourselves into thinking that if he gets into office, he's going to do more for our community than he's promised. That's not how the world works, and it's definitely not how politicians work. He'll do the bare minimum he can to get our votes in 2012, which is very little, since he'll probably have to compete with someone along the lines of that old coot McCain. Remember Don't Ask, Don't Tell? Maybe when Obama gets into office, he'll get us civil unions, but we won't be able to tell anyone. The day he gets elected and disproves that I will happily write another posting on this website and eat crow. Until that happens, please, no one else send me any missives thinking that I might want to donate to his campaign, or volunteer to spread the word of hope, or give any of my time to promoting someone who won't stand up for one of my basic human rights. If you would like to, I'm glad. Truly, I'm happy you still have enough faith in people to believe in someone. I don't. If he wants my full support, he can prove himself worthy of it.
So yes, I'm voting for him in November. Not because I think he's the greatest thing since sliced bread. I'm voting for him because, when all is said and done, I guess a coward is better than a bigot. And Victoria will end me if I don't.
**My apologies (particularly to my dear friend Josh) for this posting not being the most humorous. But the Mets blew a 2 run lead in the bottom of the 9th (to lose their 6th game in the last 7) as I wrote this. I'm salty today. I'm a salt lick. I looked back at Sodom and Gomorrah and now I'm a pillar of salt. But enjoy the rant. I'll try to make sure the next entry is laugh-out-loud. Shouldn't be too hard. I'm very funny after all.**
Friday, June 6, 2008
Why David Wright Should Marry Me
The ultimate question for all readers of this blog up to this point has been "Okay, so why SHOULD David Wright marry you?" It was certainly the first thought on my mother's mind (yes, my mother reads this blog), and the first thing out of her mouth upon her review. The second was that she didn't realize that Madonna had a song called "Like A Prayer," a revelation that actually succeeded in leaving me speechless. Other things that have left me speechless include the re-election of George Bush, Jennifer Hudson winning an Oscar, and this.
Also, the use of the term "marry" is slightly suspect. Our only real options would be to a) move to Massachussetts and actually get married, b) fly to California and get married before the population of that great state has the chance to write a basic inequality into law, then come back to New York and hope Governor Patterson's new bill passes or c) enter into a domestic partnership with many of the same rights and privileges as a marriage. In light of these difficulties, I was thinking of titling this blog Why David Wright Should Enter Into a Domestic Partnership with Many of the Same Rights and Privileges as Marriage (but Not Enough to Scare the Far Right Voting Base and Single-Handedly Lead to Another Republican Presidency) with Me and Other Stories, but that doesn't really roll trippingly off the tongue. So I went the expedient route, and just used marry.
But the question still stands: why should the Mets' All-Star 3rd baseman marry me? Well, outside of the fact that my love is pure, I can offer him one thing that none of the numerous women who have undoubtedly proposed to him can: if David Wright marries me, he can become the gay Jackie Robinson.
Jackie Robinson, for those of you who might not know (I know my audience, that's not a ridiculous statement), was the first African-American baseball player in the major leagues. He debuted with the Brooklyn Dodgers in 1947 and basically ended segragation in baseball. If you would like to know more, I suggest wikipedia, not a blog dedicated to convincing a (by all reports straight) professional athlete to take up homosexuality.
Being the gay Jackie Robinson would mean so many things for David. For one thing, he would become the first athlete to ever come out while still playing his sport. Billy Bean and Glenn Burke are both former Major Leaguers who busted out of the closet after retirement from baseball, and there are a few others from other sports. But David is already a star in his world, and the face of the New York Mets (and what a face it is!); for him to come out would rock baseball. Picture if someone in Hollywood, like say Tom Cruise, was gay. And he had decided to admit it right after Top Gun was released. This is what we're talking about people.
Secondly, he would inspire all those boys who want to play baseball but are afraid of public showering. I'm not going to say that I had an overwhelming desire to play sports as a young man, I was far more concerned with figuring out a triple time step. But I imagine that somewhere out there, a young 'mo in training dreams of stepping up to the plate and then gives himself a panic attack at the thought of the showers afterwards. For those few non-homosexuals reading this, public showers for gay guys are the equivalent of watching porn while running through a mine field: you're having a great time, but really can't just relax and enjoy for fear of your life. That statement excludes public showers in Chelsea. If David could show these young men to not be afraid, the whole face of baseball could be changed...in another 10 years or so, all of these lads would be looking to play in the majors. The tobacco and chaw industry would take a major hit, baseball uniforms would become much more flattering as a whole, and smacks on the ass would increase exponentially.
Finally, he would virtually guarantee a spike in Met game TV ratings, as homos all over the country suddenly start to care about the sport. There are few groups of people out there as rabidly fanatic about their icons then homosexuals. Tell the wrong gay that you think Cher is a plastic surgery nightmare, and you're going to find yourself staring down the wrong end of an epic hissy fit. Imagine how they would flock to David's banner, should he decide to not only accept them, but to join them! I'm picturing a Mets Float in the Gay Pride Parade, the hot dog vendors being treated as a visual gag, and a dramatic upswing in the gay population's understanding of The Infield Fly Rule.
All this is not to say that being the first gay baseball player wouldn't be hard for David. But luckily, he would have me by his side to get him through the hard times. Double entendre intended.
Also, the use of the term "marry" is slightly suspect. Our only real options would be to a) move to Massachussetts and actually get married, b) fly to California and get married before the population of that great state has the chance to write a basic inequality into law, then come back to New York and hope Governor Patterson's new bill passes or c) enter into a domestic partnership with many of the same rights and privileges as a marriage. In light of these difficulties, I was thinking of titling this blog Why David Wright Should Enter Into a Domestic Partnership with Many of the Same Rights and Privileges as Marriage (but Not Enough to Scare the Far Right Voting Base and Single-Handedly Lead to Another Republican Presidency) with Me and Other Stories, but that doesn't really roll trippingly off the tongue. So I went the expedient route, and just used marry.
But the question still stands: why should the Mets' All-Star 3rd baseman marry me? Well, outside of the fact that my love is pure, I can offer him one thing that none of the numerous women who have undoubtedly proposed to him can: if David Wright marries me, he can become the gay Jackie Robinson.
Jackie Robinson, for those of you who might not know (I know my audience, that's not a ridiculous statement), was the first African-American baseball player in the major leagues. He debuted with the Brooklyn Dodgers in 1947 and basically ended segragation in baseball. If you would like to know more, I suggest wikipedia, not a blog dedicated to convincing a (by all reports straight) professional athlete to take up homosexuality.
Being the gay Jackie Robinson would mean so many things for David. For one thing, he would become the first athlete to ever come out while still playing his sport. Billy Bean and Glenn Burke are both former Major Leaguers who busted out of the closet after retirement from baseball, and there are a few others from other sports. But David is already a star in his world, and the face of the New York Mets (and what a face it is!); for him to come out would rock baseball. Picture if someone in Hollywood, like say Tom Cruise, was gay. And he had decided to admit it right after Top Gun was released. This is what we're talking about people.
Secondly, he would inspire all those boys who want to play baseball but are afraid of public showering. I'm not going to say that I had an overwhelming desire to play sports as a young man, I was far more concerned with figuring out a triple time step. But I imagine that somewhere out there, a young 'mo in training dreams of stepping up to the plate and then gives himself a panic attack at the thought of the showers afterwards. For those few non-homosexuals reading this, public showers for gay guys are the equivalent of watching porn while running through a mine field: you're having a great time, but really can't just relax and enjoy for fear of your life. That statement excludes public showers in Chelsea. If David could show these young men to not be afraid, the whole face of baseball could be changed...in another 10 years or so, all of these lads would be looking to play in the majors. The tobacco and chaw industry would take a major hit, baseball uniforms would become much more flattering as a whole, and smacks on the ass would increase exponentially.
Finally, he would virtually guarantee a spike in Met game TV ratings, as homos all over the country suddenly start to care about the sport. There are few groups of people out there as rabidly fanatic about their icons then homosexuals. Tell the wrong gay that you think Cher is a plastic surgery nightmare, and you're going to find yourself staring down the wrong end of an epic hissy fit. Imagine how they would flock to David's banner, should he decide to not only accept them, but to join them! I'm picturing a Mets Float in the Gay Pride Parade, the hot dog vendors being treated as a visual gag, and a dramatic upswing in the gay population's understanding of The Infield Fly Rule.
All this is not to say that being the first gay baseball player wouldn't be hard for David. But luckily, he would have me by his side to get him through the hard times. Double entendre intended.
Monday, June 2, 2008
Popular Demand
This blog is but a week old, and there are already requests and suggestions from faithful readers about topics they would like to see taken on here. Since one of the points of this endeavor is to entertain those very faithful readers, it seemed a good idea to follow their lead. This also confirms the long held rumor that people are desperate to know my opinion on a myriad of different subjects. Anyway, we here on the "Why David Wright..." team encourage participation from all corners...you want to hear my opinion on something? Submit topic ideas in the comments section, and I'll happily throw in my $500 worth!
Gay Candy Bars
Submitted by Brooke
What, I ask you, is the gayest candy bar around? Well, before last night, I think the floor would really have been open on this, though my vote would have been for Twix. Two phallic rods with a sweet creamy caramel in the center, that usually ends up somewhere on your face while you eat it? That's pretty gay. And kind of hot. But move over Twix, you have been de-throned by a new candy bar on the block, which you can see right here. No, your eyes do not deceive you.
There is now candy bar just called Big Mo' .
Now, a bit of research and careful consideration of the punctuation will quickly reveal to the studied observer that this candy bar actually has nothing to do with homosexuals. It turns out NasCar star Dale Earnhardt Jr. has decided to launch his own candy bar, named after his hometown of Mooresville, North Carolina, and also his old group of friends who went by (and I'm not making this up) The Dirty Mo' Posse. If that's not begging to be the title of a gay porn film I don't know what is. Below I have posted, directly from the official Big Mo' Website, what can only be described as a mission statement (let's all put on our thinking caps, and hunt for gay subtext!):
What is Big Mo’? Sure, it’s a candy bar, but it’s also everything that Dale Jr. loves—including chocolate, peanut butter and caramel. Big Mo’ is racing. The way you need it like oxygen, because it’s in your DNA and if you’re not around it, you can’t keep going. Big Mo’ is your buddies. Hanging out ‘til all hours of the night crackin’ jokes, playing pool and just kicking back and having a good time like you always do. Big Mo’ is being true to yourself. When you get right down to it, that’s the only thing that matters—doing what you love because you love it and not needing any other reason.
At least we can all see that this candy bar clearly understands that people are born gay...after all you need a Big Mo' cause it's in your DNA. To round out this discussion, take a look at this classic Daily Show clip with Samantha Bee exposing the dark homosexual underbelly of Nascar.
Mandatory Sterilization
Submitted by Heather, Dorene and Lisa (popular topic!)
So I went to see Sex and the City, a little movie that could, which premiered last weekend to quite the successful box office. Unsurprising, since I think the entire population of Queens was squeezed into the movie theatre to watch the film when I went. I know going to see a movie like this on opening weekend was asking for trouble, but I refuse to have my quality of life diminished because people are trash. I was prepared to wait in line to get into the theater. I was prepared to have late-comers trying to squeeze into seats that weren't there. I was even prepared for people to talk through the movie and reiterate things that just happened as if everyone else in the theater had gone spontaneously blind, and they were the helpful health care workers helping the hundreds of sudden cripples get their $12 worth out of the film.
I was not prepared for mothers to bring their infants. To an R-rated movie.
I mean seriously, what is the matter with people? Can't the theater stop this? I'm not one of those people who thinks that kids are scarred by this kind of thing...frankly I would imagine that if a kid can't wipe his or her own ass yet, they can't really even comprehend what's going on. But seriously, I felt like pulling a Samantha and turning around to the woman sitting behind us with her crying baby and sweetly saying "That kid is an asshole." If there ever was an argument for forced sterilization, it was sitting behind me in that theater last night.
Unless you want to bring up Dorene's contention that crack-ho's should be spayed upon the birth of their second child, that they are trying to exploit for disability checks. Dorene works for a law clinic if you couldn't guess.
Or Lisa's belief that anyone who wears lamé spandex leggings should be neutered. It's not okay, and we as a society need to stop accepting it and turning the other way. Face it people, if you aren't part of the solution you're part of the problem.
Gay Candy Bars
Submitted by Brooke
What, I ask you, is the gayest candy bar around? Well, before last night, I think the floor would really have been open on this, though my vote would have been for Twix. Two phallic rods with a sweet creamy caramel in the center, that usually ends up somewhere on your face while you eat it? That's pretty gay. And kind of hot. But move over Twix, you have been de-throned by a new candy bar on the block, which you can see right here. No, your eyes do not deceive you.
There is now candy bar just called Big Mo' .
Now, a bit of research and careful consideration of the punctuation will quickly reveal to the studied observer that this candy bar actually has nothing to do with homosexuals. It turns out NasCar star Dale Earnhardt Jr. has decided to launch his own candy bar, named after his hometown of Mooresville, North Carolina, and also his old group of friends who went by (and I'm not making this up) The Dirty Mo' Posse. If that's not begging to be the title of a gay porn film I don't know what is. Below I have posted, directly from the official Big Mo' Website, what can only be described as a mission statement (let's all put on our thinking caps, and hunt for gay subtext!):
What is Big Mo’? Sure, it’s a candy bar, but it’s also everything that Dale Jr. loves—including chocolate, peanut butter and caramel. Big Mo’ is racing. The way you need it like oxygen, because it’s in your DNA and if you’re not around it, you can’t keep going. Big Mo’ is your buddies. Hanging out ‘til all hours of the night crackin’ jokes, playing pool and just kicking back and having a good time like you always do. Big Mo’ is being true to yourself. When you get right down to it, that’s the only thing that matters—doing what you love because you love it and not needing any other reason.
At least we can all see that this candy bar clearly understands that people are born gay...after all you need a Big Mo' cause it's in your DNA. To round out this discussion, take a look at this classic Daily Show clip with Samantha Bee exposing the dark homosexual underbelly of Nascar.
Mandatory Sterilization
Submitted by Heather, Dorene and Lisa (popular topic!)
So I went to see Sex and the City, a little movie that could, which premiered last weekend to quite the successful box office. Unsurprising, since I think the entire population of Queens was squeezed into the movie theatre to watch the film when I went. I know going to see a movie like this on opening weekend was asking for trouble, but I refuse to have my quality of life diminished because people are trash. I was prepared to wait in line to get into the theater. I was prepared to have late-comers trying to squeeze into seats that weren't there. I was even prepared for people to talk through the movie and reiterate things that just happened as if everyone else in the theater had gone spontaneously blind, and they were the helpful health care workers helping the hundreds of sudden cripples get their $12 worth out of the film.
I was not prepared for mothers to bring their infants. To an R-rated movie.
I mean seriously, what is the matter with people? Can't the theater stop this? I'm not one of those people who thinks that kids are scarred by this kind of thing...frankly I would imagine that if a kid can't wipe his or her own ass yet, they can't really even comprehend what's going on. But seriously, I felt like pulling a Samantha and turning around to the woman sitting behind us with her crying baby and sweetly saying "That kid is an asshole." If there ever was an argument for forced sterilization, it was sitting behind me in that theater last night.
Unless you want to bring up Dorene's contention that crack-ho's should be spayed upon the birth of their second child, that they are trying to exploit for disability checks. Dorene works for a law clinic if you couldn't guess.
Or Lisa's belief that anyone who wears lamé spandex leggings should be neutered. It's not okay, and we as a society need to stop accepting it and turning the other way. Face it people, if you aren't part of the solution you're part of the problem.
Mandatory sterilization. It's gonna sweep the nation.
Friday, May 30, 2008
Things That Make Me Gay
Good news everyone! The wind beneath this blog's wings, Mr. David Wright himself, went 2 for 4 last night with a walk. You can check out his two homers last night right here. Now, some of you might be thinking to yourselves "Bad homo! What kind of queer are you, following sports?" I now present to you, in no particular order, something that may become an ongoing thread here: things to reaffirm my homosexuality.
1.) I entitled a blog "Why David Wright Should Marry Me, and Other Stories." The only way that's not pretty gay is if I'm a woman. I titled this blog because I LOVE David Wright. And I'm not talking about one of those weird straight guy man-crushes that the breeders get on guys like Steve Wozniak who invented something incredibly geeky that allows them to watch Nicholas Cage movies in surround-sound on their IPod. In my head, David and I regularly pick out furniture at Pier One for our new Brooklyn brownstone, and then go home to host a dinner party. Our friends come over, we sit around drinking wine and playing poker long into the night, while regaling each other with tales of the latest hi-jinks and shenanigans that we've all gotten ourselves into. In this world, it's also always 75 degrees and sunny, my acting career is successful, and The Hills was never a hit. It's a good place. And it's very, very gay.
2.) I enjoy crosswords. And I'm quite good at them. Fantastic, actually, despite what the following story is going to make everyone think. However, recently I had a clue that read "[blank] Prayer." Five letters. Immediately, I knew the answer, scoffing at how simple a clue it was, certainly not worthy of the Sunday Times. Confidently, I filled in the blanks..."L-I-K-E-A," and took a break to rush to my computer to watch Madonna's classic video. Go ahead, and take a break from reading and watch it yourself, you know you want to. Where else are you going to get your daily quota of burning crosses and African-American-man-as-Jesus imagery? Okay, are we all back? Can we take a minute and just talk about how great Madonna looked with dark hair?
Now, as I'm sure many of you suspect, this was not ultimately the right answer. However, the first letter was indeed correct which really made it hard for me to let go. I fought with that puzzle for at least an hour, before I finally had to throw in the towel, and erase my homage to Madge. Slowly, the other letters filled in..."L_ _ _S." I had nothing, though I now suspected the prayer was going to belong to someone. "L _ R_ S." Hmmm... "Lara's Prayer?" That definitely sounds like an bad indie movie starring Scarlett Johanssen making the riveting acting choice of "I'm bored" the whole time. Maybe she should spice up her life by releasing an ill-advised album of Tom Waits covers. Oh, wait, she already did. Go watch another Madonna music video to get that image out of your head. Okay, back to the puzzle..."Lara's Prayer" is a bust, and finally I get another letter "LOR_S." Oh...they want "Lord's Prayer." Got it...a bit late. Is there anything more gay than mistaking Madonna for the Lord?
3.) I read comic books for all the wrong reasons. I certainly knew that I was interested in men in spandex, but had enough of an instinct for self-preservation to steer well clear of anything football. However, there was nothing safer than heroes in comic books...after all, they were perfectly proportioned, always good people, and physically incapable of actually beating anyone up since each and every one of them was fictitious.
I'm at least 50% sure that part of the reason that my mother claims to have known I was gay when I was 2 was my unhealthy interest in super-heroes. Other reasons that probably clued her in were my willingness to go to Girl Scout meetings with my sister, an inborn, deep-seated fear of getting pudgy, and the fact that I would notice if my favorite bank teller changed her hair cut. But mixed in there must have been how very intrigued I was by my favorite super-heroes, and not so much in the way that I wanted to BE them, but more that I wanted them to be real so I could hang out with them. And maybe more.
I fell out of touch with comics in late high-school and college, but a few years back I wandered into a comic book store and rediscovered how much I love them. Here's Colossus (biceps!), Black Knight (legs!), and my personal favorite Hawkeye (purple spandex and loincloth!). Ah, Hawkeye...I love you so, you inspire me to haiku...
Spandex and loincloth
Are quite bold, as is purple
But I still love you
And we all know, only queers write poetry about hot guys.
1.) I entitled a blog "Why David Wright Should Marry Me, and Other Stories." The only way that's not pretty gay is if I'm a woman. I titled this blog because I LOVE David Wright. And I'm not talking about one of those weird straight guy man-crushes that the breeders get on guys like Steve Wozniak who invented something incredibly geeky that allows them to watch Nicholas Cage movies in surround-sound on their IPod. In my head, David and I regularly pick out furniture at Pier One for our new Brooklyn brownstone, and then go home to host a dinner party. Our friends come over, we sit around drinking wine and playing poker long into the night, while regaling each other with tales of the latest hi-jinks and shenanigans that we've all gotten ourselves into. In this world, it's also always 75 degrees and sunny, my acting career is successful, and The Hills was never a hit. It's a good place. And it's very, very gay.
2.) I enjoy crosswords. And I'm quite good at them. Fantastic, actually, despite what the following story is going to make everyone think. However, recently I had a clue that read "[blank] Prayer." Five letters. Immediately, I knew the answer, scoffing at how simple a clue it was, certainly not worthy of the Sunday Times. Confidently, I filled in the blanks..."L-I-K-E-A," and took a break to rush to my computer to watch Madonna's classic video. Go ahead, and take a break from reading and watch it yourself, you know you want to. Where else are you going to get your daily quota of burning crosses and African-American-man-as-Jesus imagery? Okay, are we all back? Can we take a minute and just talk about how great Madonna looked with dark hair?
Now, as I'm sure many of you suspect, this was not ultimately the right answer. However, the first letter was indeed correct which really made it hard for me to let go. I fought with that puzzle for at least an hour, before I finally had to throw in the towel, and erase my homage to Madge. Slowly, the other letters filled in..."L_ _ _S." I had nothing, though I now suspected the prayer was going to belong to someone. "L _ R_ S." Hmmm... "Lara's Prayer?" That definitely sounds like an bad indie movie starring Scarlett Johanssen making the riveting acting choice of "I'm bored" the whole time. Maybe she should spice up her life by releasing an ill-advised album of Tom Waits covers. Oh, wait, she already did. Go watch another Madonna music video to get that image out of your head. Okay, back to the puzzle..."Lara's Prayer" is a bust, and finally I get another letter "LOR_S." Oh...they want "Lord's Prayer." Got it...a bit late. Is there anything more gay than mistaking Madonna for the Lord?
3.) I read comic books for all the wrong reasons. I certainly knew that I was interested in men in spandex, but had enough of an instinct for self-preservation to steer well clear of anything football. However, there was nothing safer than heroes in comic books...after all, they were perfectly proportioned, always good people, and physically incapable of actually beating anyone up since each and every one of them was fictitious.
I'm at least 50% sure that part of the reason that my mother claims to have known I was gay when I was 2 was my unhealthy interest in super-heroes. Other reasons that probably clued her in were my willingness to go to Girl Scout meetings with my sister, an inborn, deep-seated fear of getting pudgy, and the fact that I would notice if my favorite bank teller changed her hair cut. But mixed in there must have been how very intrigued I was by my favorite super-heroes, and not so much in the way that I wanted to BE them, but more that I wanted them to be real so I could hang out with them. And maybe more.
I fell out of touch with comics in late high-school and college, but a few years back I wandered into a comic book store and rediscovered how much I love them. Here's Colossus (biceps!), Black Knight (legs!), and my personal favorite Hawkeye (purple spandex and loincloth!). Ah, Hawkeye...I love you so, you inspire me to haiku...
Spandex and loincloth
Are quite bold, as is purple
But I still love you
And we all know, only queers write poetry about hot guys.
Thursday, May 29, 2008
Launch Party
Some people have expressed that they think I should have a blog. This is a hard thing for me to come to terms with, mostly as I have been known to go into rants about people who blog largely based on the thesis "Why do these people seem to think that I give a crap about who they are/what they think?" Come to think of it, that's actually a statement on which you could base most of my interactions with people in this world. So wouldn't it be horribly hypocritical of me to then start one? Wouldn't I be putting my opinions out there into the world in the exact same way I have so harshly condemned in the past?
Sure. But the public is clamoring for it, and who am I to deny them what they want? So, this is my blog.
But what exactly IS a blog? Quick, http://www.dictionary.com/ to the rescue!
BLOG (noun)- a weblog.
Well, that isn't helpful.
WEBLOG (noun)- A website that displays in chronological order the postings by one or more individuals and usually has links to comments on specific postings.
A bit more helpful, I suppose. And luckily, I've already included a link in this posting, so I'm one step ahead of the game. Furthermore, this really seems to leave the window open; in order to have a blog, it says is that all I have to do is post entries on a website. One of the people requesting this website sent me a link: http://www.blogger.com/ (you'll notice that I've included another link...you are probably thinking to yourself "Wow! Fast learner! I bet this guy is really intelligent!" and you would be right. At the rate I'm going with links, this is going to be the most successful blog ever). Off to this blogging hub!
Oh, I need a title. Well, this is the simple part. Victoria (she'll be a regular guest star here I'm sure...get to know the name) and I came up with a blog title back when this was just a sparkle in my eye...David Wright Should Marry Me and Other Stories. Who's David Wright you say? David Wright is the 3rd baseman for the New York Mets, the only sports team I really give a crap about. And he's dreamy. You can see that here. Oh, and here. And just for good measure, here. Quick, let's make sure no one else took the name!
So here it is...the blog that at least 4 people have asked me to start, officially started. What are you going to see on it? Who knows? Definitely a high percentage of snark. Maybe a look at the week in pop culture. I'm sure I will have to vent about the latest idiocy in the world every once in a while. So look forward to it. It's here. It's fresh. It's now.
Sure. But the public is clamoring for it, and who am I to deny them what they want? So, this is my blog.
But what exactly IS a blog? Quick, http://www.dictionary.com/ to the rescue!
BLOG (noun)- a weblog.
Well, that isn't helpful.
WEBLOG (noun)- A website that displays in chronological order the postings by one or more individuals and usually has links to comments on specific postings.
A bit more helpful, I suppose. And luckily, I've already included a link in this posting, so I'm one step ahead of the game. Furthermore, this really seems to leave the window open; in order to have a blog, it says is that all I have to do is post entries on a website. One of the people requesting this website sent me a link: http://www.blogger.com/ (you'll notice that I've included another link...you are probably thinking to yourself "Wow! Fast learner! I bet this guy is really intelligent!" and you would be right. At the rate I'm going with links, this is going to be the most successful blog ever). Off to this blogging hub!
Oh, I need a title. Well, this is the simple part. Victoria (she'll be a regular guest star here I'm sure...get to know the name) and I came up with a blog title back when this was just a sparkle in my eye...David Wright Should Marry Me and Other Stories. Who's David Wright you say? David Wright is the 3rd baseman for the New York Mets, the only sports team I really give a crap about. And he's dreamy. You can see that here. Oh, and here. And just for good measure, here. Quick, let's make sure no one else took the name!
So here it is...the blog that at least 4 people have asked me to start, officially started. What are you going to see on it? Who knows? Definitely a high percentage of snark. Maybe a look at the week in pop culture. I'm sure I will have to vent about the latest idiocy in the world every once in a while. So look forward to it. It's here. It's fresh. It's now.
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