Why David Wright Should Marry Me and Other Stories

Restaurant Etiquette

2012-01-31T17:42:00.000-08:00

I'm not claiming to be Miss Manners, but having waited tables in New York City for about 6 years in my twenties I think I'm fairly qualified to hold forth on this subject. It pretty much all boils down to this: don't do anything that would inspire your waiter to hock a loogie into your food. We all know the basics, like don't be a dick and try to consolidate your requests, but a few of these things slip through the cracks. I'm here to let everyone know about a rampant problem in restaurants today: loitering.

Restaurant loiterers are really the worst people. As a waiter I would have rather dealt with someone being a dick than someone refusing to get the hell out of the establishment, and that's for one simple reason: money. Waiters work for tips. If you're camping out at a table after you've paid your check, you're costing your waiter money because no one else is sitting at that table running up a bill for them to be tipped on. Obviously, if the restaurant is empty they don't care, but in that case they're probably not making much money anyway.

This past weekend, Vinay and I were out with our friend Hung when we ran afoul of a group of loiterers in the West Village. We were planning on eating around 9, so naturally we went to the restaurant at 7:30 to put our names down for a table; for all you non-city dwellers out there, yes, that is a normal amount of time to wait for a table on a Saturday night in the West Village. You are correct, it is ridiculous. But, hey, we knew what we were getting into...we put our names down and headed out to a bar to kill some time. It's important to note that I had had lunch at approximately 1:30 pm that day, and not eaten since. Just keep that fact in the back of your mind.

In any case, the time flew by and we received a text message from the restaurant telling us our table would be ready in approximately 10 minutes. Off we went, and checked back in at approximately 8:45. At this point we were told it would be a few more minutes, which we accepted with a shrug and ordered a bottle of wine at the bar. At this point, everything was smooth sailing. Cut to 45 minutes later, at which point I had officially been drinking on an empty stomach for two hours, and the entire group is about ready to turn on each other and have a real life version of Alive. And what was the problem you ask? Loiterers.

Admittedly, the hostess made a tactical error in telling the three of us that the people we were waiting to get up were sitting directly next to where we were standing, calmly sipping their water a full 20 minutes after they had paid their bill. I was pissed. I was minorly pissed for the wait-staff, but I was majorly pissed for myself and my poor neglected stomach.

"Ugh!" I said. "Table of three get UP!"

Now I'll maintain to the day I die that I didn't intend for them to hear what I said. It was a noisy West Village restaurant, and since their conversation was so riveting that they were willing to inconvenience everyone in their general vicinity by not getting the fuck out, I assumed that they weren't tuned in. I was wrong. I calmly went back to speaking to Vinay, while the loiterers asked Hung if we were waiting for their table.

"Well, not your table SPECIFICALLY." Hung lied.
"Whoever said that was obnoxious!" the woman at the table complained.
"Well, it wasn't me." Hung said, and turned back to our conversation. Meanwhile, I was drunk enough to completely miss this entire exchange.

Another fifteen minutes ticked by, and at this point we had finished our bottle. I flatly refused to drink anymore until I had eaten since I wanted to enjoy my dinner and not spend it projectile vomiting, so I went over to the hostess and very politely told her that we had been waiting two-and-a-half hours and we're hungry, so those people needed to leave. And when I say politely, please believe me that I was extremely polite. She apologized and gave me the "I know, I hate them too, but I can't say it" face, then slid over a few minutes later to ask them if there was anything else she could get them or if they were all done. They stood up, and the woman left first...making certain to step on Hung's foot and grind her heel into his toes.

Hung is an angry drunk on the best of days...so if you add in an actual reason to be angry you are going to have one pissed-off, 100 pound Vietnamese alley cat on your hands. Said woman got an immediate body block off of Hung's foot, a quick titty-grab and an extremely insincere apology. At which point, the following exchange occurred.

Man: "Do you want to get smacked?!"
Hung: "Yes, please, smack me right here in the West Village."
Man: "You want to get smacked??"
Hung: "Be civilized, sir! Be civilized!"

The loiterers were then escorted out of the restaurant, and we sat down and finally ate.

Three things can be taken from this story. One, if you're going to be bitchy about waiting for a table, you should to it with Hung around because he's apparently going to be the scape-goat for everything you do. Two, if you are done with your dinner, GET THE HELL OUT OF THE RESTAURANT. And three, "Be civilized!" should definitely be a go-to argument phrase in some reality show before the year is out, because it's goddamn hilarious, especially when being spouted by a tiny Asian man doing his best sassy black woman impression.

Oh, and don't sit side-saddle. You know what I'm talking about, the couple who sits a table of four next to each other so they can canoodle and do God knows what else under the table. Just stop it. Your waiter and all your fellow patrons hate you.

Adventures in Baby-Sitting

2011-12-30T10:20:00.000-08:00

There aren't many times in the world where I'm embarassed. Outside of the obvious "oops! I crapped my pants" variety of humiliations, I tend to avoid situations where I'm going to wind up red-faced with my pants down with a fair degree of success. So imagine my surprise when I was baby-sitting my two and a half year old nephew Joseph a few weeks ago and wound up nervously giggling while he looked blithely on, completely unashamed.

My nephew, and there's really no way to soften this statement so I'm just going to rip off the Band-Aid, is uncut. Au natural. As God, or whatever higher power you believe in, made him. As such, he requires a bit of extra cleaning downstairs. Now look, he's a kid and according to the doctors it's not as big a deal while he's younger, but nevertheless you want to try to instill strong hygiene habits on this kind of stuff from an early age. Joey, unfortunately, does not enjoy it when anyone attempts to roll back the turtleneck and clean underneath; in fact he hates it so much that he flatly refuses to do it. It's worth noting at this point that my other nephew, Jin (also two and change), is all about popping out to say hello, to the point where many a bath can degenerate into "Take pee-pee out!" and really lose focus on the whole cleaning aspect of the proceedings.

So cut to a few weeks ago when I'm watching Joey and bath time rolls around. My sister had already given me permission to give the kid some ice cream that night, so I bribed him into the tub by promising a surprise afterwards (I know, these are terrible choices for a parent, but I'm not a parent I'm an indulgent uncle) and started natural proceedings. At this point, Joey started asking me to get into the bath with him.

Now, I realize that there is nothing unnatural to the child in this request. There is, however, something incredibly weird to it for an adult. So I told him that I didn't need to take a bath. He countered with asking me if I wanted to be clean too. I told him I would get clean later. He wondered why I didn't get clean now. Realizing I was on the losing side of the argument, I took off my socks and rolled up my jeans and sat on the rim of the bathtub with my feet in the water, which actually appeased him for a few moments. I was foolish enough to think I had won.

The battle started up again when I asked him if we could wash under the crank cover. I was firmly rebuffed. I attempted a simple re-ask in hopes of a changed answer. He again pointed out that I should get into the bath. I balked, and told him it wouldn't hurt to look under the hood to make sure everything was working correctly. He balked and said in no uncertain terms that I was a liar and if I made a move towards his crotch cowl he'd kick me in the teeth .* He then played his trump card and said "You do it."

Well, that gave me pause. Again I realize that this request was not at all bizarre to him since he spends most mornings proudly shirt-cocking around the house, but in that moment I must say it was one of those moments for me where I was left speechless. For one thing, I don't want to overreact, jump out of the tub and cover my crotch with my hands while screaming "WHAT!?!? NONONONO!!" since that would very possibly a) make my nephew suspect that I'm a Never-Nude and/or b) set up a complex about nudity in him that would cripple him for the rest of his life, resulting in him becoming a Never-Nude. Nobody wants this. Secondly, was this a teaching moment? Was this something that I could help him understand and get over, since I was 99% sure I was the only male in his life that also sported the good hood? Thirdly, was his complete lack of embarassment enough to counteract the attack of nervous hysteria that was bubbling up inside me? I stood there in the tub opening and closing my mouth like a fish gasping for air while Joey's tepid bathwater lapped around my feet and my nephew looked up at me with a challenge for Naked Chicken in his eyes.

Ultimately, and I must admit right now that this is making me uncomfortable again just typing it, I decided that it might actually help him if I demonstrated that it wouldn't hurt. I tried to weakly bargain with him that if I showed him it wouldn't hurt, he would then clean himself. He stated an unequivocal no, but that he still wanted me to do it. I said maybe if I did it, he could at least try it. He looked at me with a mixture of scorn and pity. Finally I decided that if I was going to do this, I needed to just take the leap akin to jumping out of a plane to go sky-diving. I looked up to avoid any accidental eye contact took a deep breath and leaped. I have never had my underwear down and up so fast in my life. Joseph looked on, entirely unimpressed with my display and entirely unfazed by the uncomfortable sweat that was dripping down my forehead. He calmly returned to playing with his toys in the tub, let a few moments pass then looked up at me and commanded "Again."

Well, let it never be said that I don't know where to draw a line. Joseph was out of that tub and into pajamas in record time, as I was no longer confident in my ability to outflank him in a debate, particularly on the topic of his knob-warmer. I bundled him downstairs and we had ice cream and watched a not-so-vaguely racist episode of Thomas and Friends while I alternated between laughing about what happened and hiding my face in a pillow to mask how red my cheeks were. He calmly went to sleep and my sister has informed me that my attempt to teach has met with no success as he still passionately defends his right to keep his cobra fully hooded. Which means that the only good that can come out of this experience is the laughs it brings people, so I certainly hope that you enjoyed this.

*There is a chance that this conversation has been upgraded from baby talk for the purposes of humor. A slight chance.

"Smash"-ing

2011-11-25T13:27:00.000-08:00

So, it turns out that if I miss a month, people notice. I apologize, I wish I had an awesome reason for missing October, but in all honesty I think I just forgot. All the drinking is catching up with me. Or I'm just getting old. And as I look back, I realize that my post for last October was basically "nothing happened," so maybe October's just a bad month for this blog. In any case, let's let bygones be bygones, shall we?

This will be my second post in a row about television, and if you aren't into the medium I'm afraid you're in for a dismal read. That being said, I think I know my audience pretty well, most of you are TV geeks just like me and I believe you're all salivating at the thought of more posts about it. I'll just state up front that I'm currently reeling at the news that my beloved Cougar Town has been left off of ABC's mid-season schedule, fresh on the heels of NBC's announcement that Community was taking a knee come January as well. It's been a bad week for cult comedies (news of Arrested Development rising from the ashes like a phoenix not-with-standing). So let's talk about something completely different: NBC's upcoming Smash.

I am the target audience for Smash. It's true. It's a show about making a Broadway musical! As I often performed full productions of Broadway musicals in my bedroom growing up (my Pippin was truly something to behold), this show isn't going to hit my sweet spot; it's going to destroy it. It's going to follow a team of writers as they attempt to write a musical about Marilyn Monroe, complete with full production numbers each week. It's a TV show about New York that is actually filmed in New York! Jack Davenport's in it! Debra Messing's in it! Anjelica Huston's in it! And it's introducing Katherine McPhee! *record scratch*

Look, I've got nothing against Katherine McPhee. Don't know the woman. Never having been a fan of American Idol, I didn't catch the McPheever when she was on it; I know she sang "Somewhere Over the Rainbow" a lot and that she's real purty, which means she was probably Simon's favorite. I get that NBC is at the bottom of the ratings barrel, is desperate to come across any hit for their schedule and is probably hoping that there's some draw left in having a former Idol contestant headline their production. So I will do my best to give Katherine McPhee an honest-to-goodness chance to impress me with her performance. That being said, I'd like to kick NBC's advertising team in the taco.

They are not "introducing" Katherine McPhee. She got the job because she was the runner-up on American Idol. That may not be only reason she got the job, but it's a big one. Idol generally gets over 20 million viewers per episode and since she survived to the end, she was on every single live show her season as well as a lot of the audition episodes. I would say it's possible that more people in the target demographic of 18-49 that advertisers love so much know who Katherine McPhee is than know who Anjelica Huston is (I seriously just realized that fact, and it's making me a little sick. Everyone immediately go watch Addams Family Values or Prizzi's Honor and report back here when you're done). If NBC really wanted to "introduce" someone to the general public, there's only a couple hundred fantastic Broadway actresses that are completely unknown to America at large. Katherine McPhee's not one of them.

Again, I hope she takes this opportunity and proves to be excellent in the role so I can be completely lost in a Broadway musical once a week, cause my gay ass loves a good show-tune. But seriously, NBC? "Introducing Katherine McPhee?" Suck my left nut.

**As I was finishing this post, I was notified by Vulture.com that Harvey Weinstein is apparently stirring up rumors that he might mount a Marilyn Monroe musical on Broadway and wants Katy Perry to play Marilyn. Perhaps there was some memo sent around Hollywood that today was the day to try to give every New York Actor an aneurysm with one news story, because that's really the only excuse for this. I realize that the chances of this actually happening are basically nil and that Harvey's just trying to drum up business for his Marilyn movie with Michelle Williams, but seriously...I read that and almost burst a blood vessel. I'm lucky I don't have that bloody eyeball thing going on right now. Katy Perry headlining a Broadway musical...I think that might make me quit the business.**

Oh, Just Film in New York, Would You?

2011-09-27T16:08:00.000-07:00

Ah, Fall TV Season. 'Tis one of the best seasons of the year, up there with Baseball Season, Rabbit Season (Duck Season!) and, my personal favorite, Margarita Season. Fall TV Season is always a crap shoot; what new pilots will be canceled right after you fall in love with them (R.I.P. Lone Star)? What horrible pilots will inexplicably find an audience and continue on ad infinitum (Rules of Engagement, airing this year on Saturday night)? What new city can CBS put a carbon copy crime drama in (Tulsa)? But the most burning question I have every year is what fresh, hellish portrayal of my beloved New York City is going to be forced upon me by television producers. Dear Readers, I give you: 2 Broke Girls.

Let me say upfront that I actually enjoyed the pilot of 2 Broke Girls (the second episode not so much). It was reasonably funny and, given that it was on CBS, pretty risque. That being said let's go over how the sitcom, which takes place in Brooklyn, proceeded to get everything completely wrong about it's setting.

1) The "New York Subway"- The generic set that Max (Kat Dennings) and Caroline (Beth Behrs) meet up on during the morning commute was incorrect in just about every way possible. First of all, I know it's fun to think of New York as a disgustingly dirty pit, but that fact of the matter is that our metro system is no longer covered in graffiti. The set looked like it was from Coming to America...I half-expected Eddie Murphy to pop out and started talking about his royal penis. Secondly, if Max and Caroline are riding the subway during rush hour there would be a crush of people on that train so strong that they would be unable to move. Thirdly, if Caroline, as implied by the script, slept the night on the subway train there is no possible way she wouldn't have been woken up by someone sitting so close to her that her personal space bubble would have been forever violated.

2) The "New York Apartment"- The series is called 2 Broke Girls. At the start of the series, one of the titular Broke Girls lives in an apartment with her slacker boyfriend who does not appear to contribute to the rent. Said apartment that the girl (who you must remember, is broke!) is paying for all by her lonesome is a one-bedroom, with a separate living room and kitchen and...drum roll please...a backyard. Yeah, not so much. Not unless "broke" is code for "independently wealthy with a trust fund."

3) The "New York Smell"- I know New York smells. Among the things it smells like are street meat, roasted peanuts, the homeless, garbage, fresh coffee, fresh bagels, fresh danishes and urine. It does not, I repeat does not, smell like horse crap. The only time New York smells like horse poo is when you are walking directly behind a mounted cop. In any case, the second episode of the show repeatedly posits that Caroline's horse, which they're keeping in the backyard...oh, wait, did I forget to mention that the backyard is big enough to hold a horse? Guess what! The backyard is big enough to hold a goddamn horse. And naturally, the horse is leaving little gifts all over the luxurious outdoor space, which the characters have decided smells like Brooklyn. It. Does. Not.

Look, I get that this kind of stuff bothers essentially nobody. But it makes me nuts, and it's my blog so I can bitch about whatever I want.

Oh, and while we're on the subject, Prime Suspect? Yeah, I'm looking at you, Annual-Unnecessary-Adaptation-of-a-Far-Better-British-Original. 20th Street and 4th Avenue doesn't exist. 4th has already become Park that far north. You're welcome.

I Survived Hurricane Irene, and All I Got Was Scurvy, Rickets and Generalized Malnutrition

2011-08-31T09:38:00.000-07:00

Before anyone panics, let me assure you that I have not contracted any diseases that were stomped out a few hundred years ago. But come on, that's pretty damn good title. Hyperbole is the soul of blogging. Or at least of this blog's title.

In any case, I'm sure that everyone knows at this point that Hurricane Irene was actually Tropical Storm Irene in NYC and it was basically a non-event for us. A lot of anticipation for a really un-momentous climax. Like virgins having sex. I realize that it was awful in other places, and my sympathies to those people who were negatively affected. Is that enough? Have I acknowledged others sufficiently that I can go back to talking about myself now? Fantastic.

As I have told many stories on this blog about my current workplace, I'm sure I don't have to refresh loyal reader's memories that I work in a hotel in Manhattan that is run by what essentially amounts to an arrogant, moronic garden gnome and a cheap, evil ogre. In response to the forecast for the weekend, Gnome and Ogre decided that employees would have to stay over in the hotel in order to keep the place running; mind you, Gnome and Ogre were running back to their homes to stay with their families and take care of them. It was the little peasants that would be required to stay at work the whole time. Let me say now that I don't really have a problem with Gnome and Ogre staying at home; their presence could only have gummed up the works further, as neither one of them has managed to make an effective decision in their entire tenure. Getting one of them to do something useful is like trying to flush a floater: a waste of time and resources.

As I'm sure you can tell, I was one of the employees who stayed at the hotel. I actually didn't have a huge problem with this, as my boyfriend was stranded in LA due to flight cancellations and I obviously wasn't going to be able to do much with a hurricane raging through Brooklyn. However, the crux of the problem arose when I brought up the idea of the hotel providing a per diem for the affected employees. After all, since I was going to be away from my home during this time and would be unable to get food in the area, I thought it was reasonable that the hotel provide some sustenance for it's 30 workers that would be keeping the business up and running during a natural disaster. The hotel could either give everybody a small per diem and we could go get food to bring along, or they could provide food for us.

Well, Gnome and Ogre were having none of the per diem idea. GIVING money to WORKERS?? That's just insane! The hotel, of course, would provide food as it always does. Luckily, I was aware of the worth of a promise from the establishment and wound up packing food for two days and a wine supply. Let's jump ahead to 3 o'clock on Saturday. At this point, all stores in the area have closed, as the MTA shut down operations at noon. Most employees who are on the evening shift have arrived early, as the only way into work was the train and bus system. Cut to the hotel cafeteria, which would not be receiving any further shipments as, again, there was an act of God occurring outside. The hotel has thoughtfully provided the following for it's 30 employees for 4-6 meals each.

-Two (2) Ten Ounce Campbell's New England Clam Chowders
-Three (3) Maruchan Instant Ramen (Beef Flavor)
-Six (6) Two and a Half Ounce Velveeta Mac & Cheese
-Six (6) Hot Dog Buns
-The Bottom of a Crate of Tootsie Rolls
-One (1) Italian panini
-One (1) crate of apples (containing approximately 60 units of fruit)

I realize I should no longer be surprised by this place demonstrating a complete dearth of managerial skills. Yet, somehow, hope springs eternal. I think to myself "Self...I know that these people are the dregs of humanity and the fact that they make exponentially more than you is unfair in the extreme given their incompetence, maliciousness and generalized idiocy. But Self, even THEY have to eat! Even THEY understand that you can't have employees at work for 36-48 hours and not provide food!"

Surprise! They don't understand this! As I said, I had food with me (I didn't expect them to provide GOOD food) and I was fine, but I hope everyone else working there had the same instincts. I wrote an angry letter to the HR Department, the final paragraph of which I will reproduce for you below:

How [the food provided] is expected to keep a 35 person staff fed and healthy for at least another 36 hours is a mystery to me. I can only hope that most people had the foresight to pack food from home. However, I cannot help but feel as if this blatant disregard for a hard-working staff's time and health is anything but indicative of either a deep ignorance of the situation or a complete lack of caring. As I know the problem was brought up to the Executive Committee on Friday, with plenty of time to implement a course of action to avoid such negligence, I don't see how anyone could reasonably claim ignorance. Whatever the reason, the result is unacceptable and I, for one, feel as if the powers that be at this hotel owe their employees compensation and a heartfelt apology.

Bitch probably needed a dictionary to read that one.

No response as of yet! Let's see how long it takes before they acknowledge anything happened at all...I'm guessing I never hear a peep.

The European Gelato Conundrum

2011-07-28T10:57:00.000-07:00

I recently went to Spain. I saw Madrid, I saw Ibiza, I saw Barcelona and as is my tradition, I didn't see set foot in any cathedrals. However, after spending ten days in Spain, I'm left with one burning question: why can't the US get gelato right? Seriously, for all the money that's being thrown around for frozen treats during the dog days of summer, no one wants to step up and just figure out what, exactly, they're putting in this stuff across the Atlantic? No fewer than five new ice cream shops have sprung up in my neighborhood of Brooklyn alone in the last year, and not one of them has gelato on the menu. The only place with "gelato" is a small stand outside of a pizza place that serves their "gelato" in small paper cups that generally fall apart and can only hold a maximum of two scoops of their pale imitation. In Madrid, I was able to get a heaping cup with chocolate, pistachio and coconut gelato scooped on top of each other, and a solid transport system that could carry it while I strolled through the city streets, eating it at my leisure.

It's not as if America has a problem with treats that are fattening. We are a culture that keeps Paula Deen in the money as she shows us how to fry up whole sticks of butter, or make a deluxe hamburger with Krispy Kreme donuts serving as a bun. We aren't afraid of few calories, and those of us who are go to Tasti D-Lite, a self-described "frozen treat." So serve it up, America. I want all of the creamy goodness that I get in my Eurpean gelato to be imported directly to Brooklyn. Frankly, I would prefer my tax dollars be spent on this task than supporting organizations like the Boy Scouts. Make it happen.

Take a Look. It's In a Book.

2011-06-17T11:32:00.000-07:00

This post is inspired by my dear friend Amber, otherwise known as The Bookwench. If you'd like to read her consistently hilarious, salty musings on her time working in bookstores, head on over to http://bookwench42.blogspot.com/ and find her thoughts on everything from stupid people who can't count to her overwhelming need for a herd of attack ponies. Oh yes. Attack ponies.

But back to my point. This is about people who say the following statement:

"I'm SO EXCITED for the final Harry Potter movie!! I can't wait to see how it ends!!"

Really? Can you not wait? Are you SO EXCITED??? Here's an idea: read the books. The ending of Harry Potter has been spoiled since the final book was published in 2007. For those of you keeping track, that's four years ago. FOUR YEARS in which you could have borrowed them from a friend (because every person on the planet has a friend who owns the complete series) and read them. You are not that busy.

And the thing is, it's not like it's a chore to read the things. They're almost universally adored by everyone who takes the time; they fly by. It's not like I'm demanding you slog your way through Atlas Shrugged before going to see the movie, or insisting that you read Moby Dick before catching it on AMC one Saturday afternoon (side note: I haven't read either of these books, though I was supposed to read Moby Dick in high school and didn't...still aced the test, because my teacher wasn't the brightest). The Harry Potter novels are modern classics, written for a modern audience, at a low enough comprehension level that 10 year-olds can read them, understand them and love them.

I'd like to point out that I don't care if you don't want to have anything to do with the entire Harry Potter phenomenon. I mean, I think you're missing out and you're judging a book by it's cover, which is really not okay when dealing with an actual book (incidentally, it's totally fine when dealing with people). But whatever, you hate fantasy novels, you hate children's literature, you hate all things bright and beautiful...that's your affair.

I also don't care if you enjoy the movies and don't really feel like reading the books. And I happen to think the movies are excellent adaptations of the books. But seriously, people...you are not super-fan if you haven't ever bothered to look at the source material. And if you continue to insist on squealing as if you know what the hell you're talking about, I'm going to have to recommend you get punched in the neck.

Let's round this out with a haiku:

Not illiterate?
Fantastic! Now suck it up
And read the damn books.

What Did You Expect?

2011-05-27T17:05:00.000-07:00

Has everyone heard about the Northwestern University Human Sexuality class that was canceled after the professor had a voluntary, after class demonstration involving a non-student couple and their fucksaw? No? How this didn't blaze across the internet like the news of a Bieber shearing I'll never know.

It seems this past February, Professor John Michael Bailey invited a guest lecturer into class, one Ken Melvoin-Berg who runs the "Weird Chicago Red Light District Sex Tour" (I'm not making this up). The esteemed speaker proceeded to inform the student that there would be a graphic exhibition following class, which some of the students chose to stick around for. At which point, a couple (I assume they volunteered) climbed up onstage and the man proceeded to get his girlfriend off with the aforementioned fucksaw, while Berg narrated the goings on and held forth on topics such as proper usage of a fucksaw and how important it is to make sure you have the blessing of your partner before whipping it out. This went over about as well as you would expect and since, the class has been canceled and Bailey has been placed under investigation. I can't help but think that this entire situation could have been avoided if people had applied a little bit of critical thinking to the matter. Observe.

What did you expect, Professor John Michael Bailey? You invited some dude who runs an experience that he's named the "Weird Chicago Red Light District Sex Tour" to come speak to you college course, and apparently gave him carte-blanche to speak about and do whatever he wanted. Your course getting canceled was probably fated as soon as you heard the words "fucksaw demonstration" and that didn't raise any red flags for you. People support your school with donations and tuition; how many parents and alumni do you think would be thrilled to find out that they're paying for this? The alumni would be pissed that they weren't enrolled when this kind of stuff was getting offered, and most parents would probably prefer that their kids learn about things like power tool-sex toy hybrids in their spare time.

And further, what did you expect, students who stayed after for the demonstration that you had been warned would be graphic? There are three possibilities for how this shook out: either one of you complained, one of the people who didn't stay complained, or one of you told your parents about what happened and they complained. Since I sincerely doubt that anyone would want to tell their mother about an experience like this, that leaves us with a student as the culprit, and I'm guessing it was one of you, as someone who left really shouldn't be offended enough to pursue this. So you chose to stay for the show, and then afterwards wished you hadn't and decided that you should get your professor axed. Look, the guy clearly should have put the kibosh on this before the model climaxed all over your term papers, but it was voluntary. You should be glad it wasn't on the final. And what's up with a bunch of college students leaving when they're being told there's going to be a graphic sexual act being performed for their viewing pleasure? For shit's sake, you're what, 20? Where are your raging hormones? You all should have been GLUED to those chairs. All that free porn on the internet is de-sensitizing our youth.

And finally, what were you expecting, Northwestern University? That this story wouldn't be reported with glee as soon as one snarky blogger got a hold of it? Wouldn't it have been better to just give this guy a slap on the wrist and let him know that you don't think showing a bunch of college kids an orgasm is something that upholds the great tradition of your institution (although from what I've heard about straight college guys, there might be some women out there who are very thankful for the kind of education this may have provided)? Instead, you have a news story about it, and your school is going to forever be associated, at least by me, with the phrase "fucksaw demonstration." Seriously, I promise sweeping this one under the rug was the the better choice.

In fact, I'd say the only people who got what they expected out of this were the exhibitionist couple who performed for the class. They clearly got EXACTLY what they wanted, and are probably still getting it regularly at the thought of all those eyes glued on them, so more power to them. Also, that is one confident dude, as I don't know of any human pelvis that can match a rate of 2500 strokes per minute, which the fucksaw claims to reach. I bet they're a blast at parties. As the two most intelligent people who are a part of this story, I wish them and their fucksaw all the best.

The Wedding Bell Blues

2011-04-28T11:27:00.000-07:00

A few weeks ago, while in California, I stumbled across a report on NBC's today show. What was it? It was a hard-hitting expose on girls that were traveling to England and hanging out in pubs that Prince Harry supposedly frequents in hopes of bagging themselves a prince. Congratulations NBC, you've now validated a practice that sets women back further than Jersey Shore. Yeah, I said it.

What the hell is up with Royal Wedding Fever? RWF is like social herpes: it pops up in unexpected places and it won't go away. I would really love someone to develop some kind of Valtrex for all major media outlets. Let's actually say all minor media outlets as well; really anyone or anything with the ability to produce more "news" about this non-event should be treated. I'd buy it in bulk. I just found out that apparently ABC has produced a 3D animated breakdown of tomorrow's ceremony, and I barely managed to swill a large gulp of malbec to stop my head from exploding. Didn't a bunch of our ancestors fight a war so we wouldn't have to care what the British royal family did? I mean, not my ancestors...they were all scattered throughout Italy, Ireland and Germany during the American Revolution. Besides, we're lovers not fighters. But someone else's ancestors definitely fought for freedom!

For the record, I have nothing against Prince William or Kate Middleton. I'm sure they have beautiful souls. This is also not a "I can't married and I hate that they can" thing. I'm not a homo who begrudges other people their marriages. Go forth. Prosper. Don't procreate if you're stupid. If you're not sure if you're stupid, err on the side of sterilization.

But getting back to the upcoming nuptials, every time I hear someone saying that they're going to wake up at 3 am to "see the hats" and "eat scones" and watch this ridiculous pageant I want to punch them in the neck. First of all, who the hell ever wants to eat scones? They're a shitty dessert; it's like someone decided to take cookies, overcook them and throw in some bad fruit to try to make it "fancy." Furthermore, if you're going to do the party right, don't get up at 3 am, STAY up until 3 am. It'll be much easier, and if you just get completely schnackered you might not hate yourself so much for getting no sleep. Instead, you'll have a pounding hang-over, and hate yourself for that instead; luckily if you just strap on your boot flask in the morning a little hair-of-the-dog should get you through work. Don't even get me started on the people who are actually taking a the day off.

I realize that the Royal Wedding is, at this point, a gigantic snowball that is hurtling down the mountain at unimaginable speed. The most anyone can do is to leap out of the way and hope to not get splattered with too much unwanted detritus when it hits bottom and explodes. Personally, I'll be holed up in my room loving Parks & Recreation and The Vampire Diaries. Yes, I believe The Vampire Diaries to be a far more entertaining and intelligent way to spend time in front of the TV then this union.

Hell Freezes Over: The Ballad of Joan and Olga

2011-03-31T10:27:00.000-07:00

There are certain things I don't imagine myself doing. Competing in the 2012 Summer Olympics. Memorizing the formula for glue (anyone get that reference?). Long division. Then there are those things that not only do I not picture myself doing, but things that I under NO circumstances ever want to do. Eat salmon. Throw out good wine. Camp. However, this past week I was confronted with something that I never planned on doing, and in fact would have laughed at the thought of. What was it you ask? Why, this past week I helped a woman achieve orgasm.

Allow me to explain. The hotel I work, star of much past ridiculata documented here, has in every guest room a small pamphlet detailing items available for purchase. This pamphlet is known as The Pleasure Chest. The Pleasure Chest contains items ranging from vibrators to dildoes to butt plugs to a pair of rhinestone-studded handcuffs (because nothing classes up a joint like bedazzling some bed-time restraints). On this fine evening of which I write, a lovely woman, let's call her Joan, called down to Guest Services and requested Item #105 from the Pleasure Chest, which (for those of your with prurient interests) is a Rabbit Vibrator made famous years ago by Sex & The City. Joan was completely unashamed about her request, to which I say congratulations! Get your freak on! I told her I'd have it sent to her room and hung up.

This is where the entire operation starts to go slightly awry. Whose job is it to deliver sex toys to rooms, you wonder? Why, it's the Housekeepers' responsibility (though I always thought it should have gone to Room Service..."Your butt plug on silver platter, sir!"). So I get on the radio to inform the Housekeeper that we have an order.

"Guest Services to Housekeeping," I said "Room 1607 would like to order Item #105 from The Pleasure Chest."

"Copy!" the radio squawked back.

I happily moved on with my evening, which I'm sure consisted of nothing resembling work. Approximately fifteen minutes passed and the phone rang again. It was Joan and it seemed that the delivery of vibrator to vibratee did not go as planned. Apparently, when I passed on the message to the Housekeeping Manager, (let's call her Olga) the message was not received. Olga, you see, was born and raised somewhere in Eastern Europe and to say that English is her second language is generous. Olga, upon hearing my message, got right on her duties and promptly delivered an iron and ironing board to Joan. I'm sure somewhere out there, there is some housewife that has a dirty little secret about her ironing board, but apparently Joan did not wish to pleasure herself atop a pressing table.

In a display of patience unheard of among hotel guests, Joan calmly drew out the Pleasure Chest pamphlet and showed Olga just what exactly she was requesting. Olga, still somewhat confused, returned to the Housekeeping Office to try to find Joan's toy. After a thorough search, Olga conquered...she found a box with the Pleasure Chest logo on it! Proud of herself she marched right back up to Joan's room to deliver her prize.

Unfortunately, this was strike two; what Olga actually found was the intimacy kit (also provided by The Pleasure Chest, but not available in the pamphlet!) containing, among other things, condoms and lube. And really, if a woman is trying to have a pleasant night by herself is there anything more lemon-juice-in-the-wound than sending her a pair of condoms? Unless she's a lesbian. But for some reason I imagine lesbians traveling with their paraphernalia. Somehow Joan, who is now my favorite guest in history, still manages to keep her cool and calmly called me back and explained what had happened.

It's at this point that I really had to become involved. I called Olga up to the office and pulled out The Pleasure Chest pamphlet to again go over with her what, exactly, Joan was looking for. Olga professed to have no idea where all these sex toys were being kept, and kept shrugging her shoulders. I'm sure you can imagine how wonderful it is to be having an extended conversation about vibrators with a woman who acts like she was brought up in a small town just outside of Transylvania. Every time you say the word "vibrator," she thinks you're saying "vampire" and throws holy water in your face.

I realized fairly quickly that Olga was not going to be much help in this department, and had to start calling around the hotel to find out who, if anyone, would be able to locate the assorted items. Everyone I spoke to informed me that it was Housekeeping's job to deliver said items.

"I know!" I wanted to scream, "But, goddammit, Olga doesn't know where they are, Joan has been waiting for 25 minutes to get off and for fuck's sake this is the first hotel guest I've actually like in 2011! So if someone, ANYONE, has any idea where we can find a toy that locates a woman's g-spot, get it up to Joan's room so she can have her very hard-earned orgasm!!"

But I didn't.

Finally, we found a Bellman who knew where the toys were kept. Why he knew is probably a question better left unasked. It turns out the assorted sexual accoutrement were being kept in a locked closet in the gym, which I hope will make everyone pause before they go sniffing around your hotel's fitness area looking for a towel. I dispatched Olga to retrieve the vibrator and called Joan back.

"I'm so sorry for the confusion," I said "but your purchase is on the way right now."

"No problem!" Joan chirped, not skipping a beat. "I can't wait!"

Joan is my heroine. I hope that that vibrator gave her a night she'll never forget.

Spider-Man: Turn Off the Plot

2011-02-28T14:35:00.000-08:00

So this Saturday I saw the current Typhoid Mary of Broadway, otherwise known as Spider-Man: Turn Off the Dark. How does one turn off the dark you ask? I can assure you I have no idea, and the show makes no effort to tell you. We all know that the critics have almost unanimously declared the show a total disaster, which led me to have a slight hope of lowered expectations leading to a more enjoyable evening.

Before I continue, let me state for the record that I am the target audience for this musical. I love comic books. I need no deeper meaning in my musicals, I'm perfectly happy to enjoy it for pure entertainment value. I like the songs of U2. I generally am happy spending time with things that cost $65 million dollars to create. I went in wanting to be able to scoff at the critic's derision.

This musical is an unmitigated disaster. What follows, to be clear, is not an attempt at criticism. What follows is a rant from an outraged fan-boy.

At what point does one become so wrapped up in and blinded by one's own arrogance that one believes that the best way to present a beloved, almost 50-year-old pop culture figure is to rewrite his history to the point where it's barely recognizable? There are countless characters available for your use, whether the focus is on the romantic or heroic story-lines. Why invent new ones? And if you are using classic characters, why completely disregard the established history? And if you aren't draining them of their history, why do you then make them so bland and washed out that they display no personality whatsoever? Sure, the Green Goblin can talk with a Southern accent! Who cares if he lives in New York? Let's make up a super-villainess and then have her be played by a drag queen! It'll be funny! Never mind that Mary Jane is supposed to be a hot-tempered model with a body that stops traffic! Let's dress her in bland clothing and make her so boring that the biggest unsolved mystery of the show is why in hell Peter would ever be attracted to her in the first place!

And really, these are just scratching the surface of how offensively terrible this show is. At least three different decades are presented by the various costumes. The lead actor is so utterly devoid of charisma that he manages to make you mostly root for the Green Goblin, because at least the Goblin's having fun. There is not, in the entire two and half hour fiasco, a single hummable tune. Whenever even the creative team can't pretend that whatever is going on onstage isn't a gigantic steaming pile of nonsensical poo, they bring out the video screens and play videos of the super-villains doing super-villainous acts, all scored by music that can most generously be characterized as loud. The big eleven o'clock number, as performed on Saturday, was unintelligible from start to finish, and ended with a shriek so off-key that I actually recoiled in my seat and tried to plug my ears. The entire second act is a Julie Taymor fever-dream that inspired me to say "What the fuck is going on?" in complete bewilderment. I still couldn't tell you what happened in that second act. I think it may all have been an illusion. Except for the parts that weren't. Those were real. But everything else was an illusion. I think.

I could go on. I could talk about the number where Arachne (you know the one from Greek mythology?) decides the reason that Peter loves Mary Jane and not her is because Mary Jane has shoes on her legs. So she goes out to get shoes, and a corps of poor chorines are saddled with four fake legs strapped to their waists while they dance. You know, because they're like spiders. Only spiders have eight legs, so I guess we're counting arms as a pair of legs now. Something like that. Or other needless re-writes to the story, or other wretchedly bad performances or other ridiculously poor directorial choices. But instead, I'll move on and talk of the good things I saw.

Aaaaand scene.

I've Got a Pocketful of Sunshine

2011-02-01T16:19:00.000-08:00

There are many things that I've found in my pocket over the years. My phone. My keys. On one glorious day, a $20 bill. I've never found sunshine. Not once. This is partly because I'm not what one would refer to as an eternal optimist. This is also partly because sunshine is intangible light, and hence impossible to keep in one's pocket. However, I'm not here to parse the relative reality of Natasha Bedingfield song titles. I'm here to discuss how I've finally wound up with a "pocketful of sunshine." The quotation marks are there to denote sarcasm.

It seems that recently the Labor Board made a surprise visit to my place of employment in midtown. Now don't get your hopes up; this story sadly doesn't end with my departure from the hotel in a blaze of glory. However, the Labor Board was nice enough to let the Powers That Be know that doling out paychecks every two weeks was illegal, and hence I will now be receiving remittance for my soul every seven days. The Labor Board's flexing it's muscle had an unforeseen and unfortunate consequence for the very employees they were trying to protect: they scared the general manager. And when the GM, who's a useless little hamster if there ever was one, is scared he feels he needs to take action.

"Action" in this case could mean any number of things. For instance, if I was someone in charge of a group of dissatisfied employees who had just had my ass handed to me by the government, I would make an effort to improve working conditions. Perhaps offer an incentive. Buy lunch for the employees. Give people a raise which they haven't received in three years. However, the dirty little hobbit did none of these things. Instead, he had all employees come to one of three inspirational talks that I have no doubt he composed himself in a haze of delusion and self-importance.

I wish I could tell you that I had the forethought to record his ramblings. I didn't. I could try to recreate them here for you, but I don't feel I could even begin to do them justice without the help of a significant amount of mind altering drugs and large influx of douche into my personality. In essence, he spoke about how he knew that the hotel was going to make it in this struggling economy because of how wonderful all of his employees are. He pointed out how whenever he went into Duane Reade, he couldn't get the employees to smile at him and he couldn't understand why. Here's why: the Duane Reade employee is probably working two jobs and struggling to make ends meet and hence isn't interested in making small talk with an over-privileged asshole with all the charm of an unanesthetised limb amputation. He also told a story about how he "made a cab driver's day" by giving him a $3 tip on a $7 ride. Allow me to say that I routinely tip that much, and I don't make a six-figure salary...I've also never deluded myself into thinking that I made someone's day by tipping them $3 instead of $1 or $2; I really only do it because I'm too embarrassed to ask for such a paltry sum of money back.

However, all of this is just a lead up to the coup de grâce. Giving, he explained, was in itself the greatest gift of all for giving makes us feel wonderful. It was like The Gift of the Magi in midtown. And then he had the HR Director (who probably would have hung her head in shame if she possessed the slightest shred of intelligence or professionalism) stand up and hand out his gift to us. Below, you'll find a picture of said gift.

That's right folks. It's a dollar bill. But not just any dollar bill, it's a dollar bill that this hobbit took the precious time to draw a smiley face on. And what does that smiley face make it? It makes it magic. Oh you read that right. Magic.

This magic dollar bill, he informed us, was his gift to us and the act of giving it brought him huge amounts of joy. So he begged us to keep it safe, not to put it with our other money and look at it whenever we needed a little influx of happiness. And then, when we were through, he told us to give it to someone else and explain to them the magic of the dollar bill. We could look forward to a huge rush of joy whenever we chose to pay this magic dollar forward, for (again) the gift of giving is the greatest gift of all.

Where to begin? First of all, if I get a magic dollar bill it better be the kind of dollar that I can plant in the ground that grows into a tree that sprouts money. Second of all, I think my one-and-a-half year old nephews would have rolled their eyes and called bullshit at that ridiculousness. And at least they could have expressed their displeasure by throwing some half-chewed food at that gnome without having people think they were acting out of character. And finally, this is the way you try to return equilibrium after the Labor Board visits and tears you a new one is to tell a room of adults that you're giving them something MAGICAL? Is this the Hotel Hogwarts? If so, I've got a place for him to stick his wand.

Anyway, since then this magical money has been burning a hole in my pocket. And that's the sunshine in my pocket. It's the magic of giving. So wear your sunglasses the next time you see me. If I open my wallet you might be blinded by the blazing light of bequeathment. And I'm ending this on that awesome alliteration.

Rethink Possible

2010-12-31T08:56:00.001-08:00

I'm having to rethink possible right now. Is it possible that AT&T actually has the gall to use this as their slogan? Is it possible that I'm paying premium rates for a phone that only allows me to actually place or receive phone calls and/or texts about 70% of the time? Is it possible for me to rip down every single poster I see with this ad campaign on it and never get caught?

Probably not on that last one, but seriously, I resisted getting a smart phone for years. First of all I didn't want to be THAT available. After all, years of cultivating a man of mystery persona would all go to waste if I suddenly could get three different forms of contact from a device that fits in my pocket. Outside of that, I'm also...oh, how to put this...cheap. Not only am I cheap, I'm poor and cheap. This is a toxic combination when it comes to buying things that aren't necessities. And by necessities, I of course refer to food, clothing and wine. As such, years passed before I got my first cell phone. When I got a cell phone, I needed to be shamed into using text messaging. And finally, once I was a rabid texter, it took years before I cracked and got an iPhone. And by "cracked and got an iPhone," I of course mean got someone to buy me one for my birthday.

In any case, I may have resisted at first, but now I have a freaking iPhone and the fucker doesn't work. Really Apple? Really AT&T? Suck it. Why does it take 5 minutes for my e-mail to "download from the server?" When playing Words with Friends, why does the internet connection constantly time out? When I sit at work in midtown, how is it possible that my phone shows five bars of service and yet does nothing that I pay for it to do? The entire company is in need of cock-punch.

I'm gonna Rethink Possible your ass. And I don't care that that doesn't make sense.

Midwest Peace Talks

2010-11-28T18:23:00.001-08:00

I think my general distaste for the midwest at large is well-documented. I'm perfectly happy to live my life keeping the fly-over states just that: flown-over. However, this November, that was unfortunately not an option as my dear friend Dorene got married in her home town of Indianapolis. Dorene is one of those people that keep me from advocating for a mandatory mass-secession for all states that don't directly border an ocean; in fact, I would happily allow the ocean-bordering states to be the ones to secede. I don't care. After all, according to them, we aren't real Americans anyway. Dorene, however, having been born and bred in Indiana and currently living in Texas still manages to be a sane, fun person; she really throws a wrench in my easy stereotyping.

In any case, Dorene was getting married and I was going, so to the midwest I went. I'll just say in general that fun was had, though Vinay didn't enjoy it when I insisted on speaking in a Southern-fried accent as often as possible (despite his warnings, my homage to the locals never caused us to get our asses kicked). However, beyond that, I came back with some information that I think the coastal cities could use.

For one thing, don't emphasize form over function. Dorene had a simple, beautiful wedding cake...and it actually tasted good. I've been to many weddings, and by and large there appears to be a lack of caring about the actual flavor of the dessert. They've ranged from fairly decent to nearly inedible concoctions of dry cake, overly sugary icing and a healthy dose of fondant. Fondant, if you aren't aware, is the substance used to sculpt all of those grandiose elements that you often see on various desserts. It's disgusting. Dorene, however, was smart enough to make the cake look good and not sacrifice the taste. She had three different kinds of cake cooked into that bad boy...THREE! A yellow cake, a red velvet cake and a chocolate mint cake...I can't claim to have tried the first, because honestly who would waste calories eating yellow cake when you have red velvet and chocolate mint available? I'd never thought of a chocolate mint cake, and I hang my head in shame for the oversight...in fact, I'm now thinking about cakes in the flavor of each girl scout cookie. Well, Samoas and Tag-Alongs at least; a Trefoil cake is basically just a yellow cake redux.

Further, I constantly forget that the entire midwest has free refills on all drinks. Apparently, this is common practice all over the country except in New York, but it still shocks me every time I encounter it. In New York, in some restaurants, you can get free refills on coffee and tea, which is probably a result of people generally being afraid of confronting an under-caffeinated population. In Indy (and, rumour has it, everywhere else) you can get refills on anything. Well, anything except liquor; if they offered bottomless glasses of wine, Indianapolis would become a gay travel destination in about 25 seconds. But let me say, it feels positively sinful to have a waiter constantly refill your unsweetened ice tea. You feel like you're getting away with something. And it becomes even more fun when the waiter in question is clearly the only gay in the village and he's staring at your table and everyone sitting at it like they're made out of ham. It gets better, Zach!

However, the most fantastic thing that I found out in the midwest was the fact that grocery stores carry liquor. Not just a small selection of beer. Not a rack or two of local "wine." I'm talking about two complete aisles, fully stocked with enough booze to satisfy the biggest lush this side of the Mississippi. A wine selection from all over the world. Sweet tea flavored vodka. 24-hour service! Needless to say that by the time we were preparing to leave the fair city, the employees over at Kroger's knew us by sight. "Where's the party?" they would ask in wonderment, as we scanned our five bottles of wine through the self-check-out. "Wow, can I come?" one queried as we bought a bottle of vodka. "Again??" one let slip when Vinay returned five minutes later to buy another bottle of vodka after the first one fell out of the bag and broke on the floor of the hotel lobby.

In a side note, I think the few moments directly after breaking that bottle of sweet-tea vodka may be the closest I've ever seen my boyfriend to tears.

Of course, not everything about the midwest is perfect. For one thing, they may have a 24 hour liquor-I-mean-grocery store, but they don't sell ANY booze on Sundays! What!? I mean, I was shocked last week when I found out that I couldn't get a brunch cocktail before noon in New York City, but in Indy there's just a complete ban on it. That might be enough to ruin it's chances as a gay destination right there, even if it did offer bottomless glasses of wine...one doesn't get in between a gaggle of gays and their brunch drinks. But I think the whole trip was a nice step towards reconciliation; I'll no longer call for secession provided the entire section of the country keeps their noses out of my business. And who knows, if they lift that Sunday ban we might even become friends one day.

Divas

2010-10-25T09:46:00.001-07:00

I've never thought of myself as a diva-gay, by which I mean a homosexual who is constantly clutching at a non-existent pearl necklace when anyone mentions the name Barbra. This may be because my mother, who has probably shaped my personality more than any other person on this earth, always had a strong distaste for La Streisand, finding her arrogant and unlikable. However, after a recent spate of non-Babs Diva news, I'll be damned if I didn't find myself searching for some pearls once or twice in the past month.

First up, Madonna is opening a line of gyms. Let me say, before I get into this, that Madonna's body is not something I think people should be striving for...frankly, it's a little freaky. It's also completely unattainable to those without enough disposable income to hire a personal chef, a personal trainer and a personal cosmetic surgeon. Further, apparently there are no plans to open one in the US and she's partnering with 24-Hour Fitness, which Derek Jeter has already done. Guess what? I don't care. This is awesome. I mean, let's just get started and say would you rather go to a gym sponsored by Derek Jeter or a gym sponsored by Madonna?

Hold on a minute, back up...are you a straight male? If you answered "yes," why are you reading this blog? Of course you're welcome and we love your beautiful soul, but seriously this is really probably not a place where you're going to get your opinions expressed all that often, and you'll probably be subjected to as many stereotypes as I can heap on you in the course of one post, just to even the score a little bit. That being said, if you're one of those who loves a good laugh and some snark, so be it...join us! But I digress.

Of course you would rather go to a gym sponsored by Madonna! Me too! And this is outside of the fact that I hate the Yankees with a passion that can probably be qualified as genetic. Madonna's gyms will be called Hard Candy Fitness, and it is being claimed that "Madonna's touch will be everywhere." I'm guessing that any gym that is sponsored by Madonna is going to have a lot of touching in a lot of places, particularly in the steam rooms (see, I'll stereotype my own people for a laugh too). How amazing would the greeting be at Hard Candy Fitness? The front desk staff could speak in affected British accents, and dismiss clients as not worth their time. Most gyms strive to be welcoming...HCF could strive to be intimidating. I can picture the ad campaign now...a close-up of Madge's freakishly developed bicep with the tag-line "Sweat, bitches." A picture of her sinewy leg in a leather boot with the tag-line "This boot was made for kicking your ass." A picture of her abs with the tag-line "I've made up my mind. You're losing that food-baby." The possibilities are endless.

Then of course, there's always the upcoming Hollywood blockbuster Burlesque starring...Cher. Omigod, every time I see a preview for this, it's all I can do not to pee a little bit. I was slow in gaining appreciation for Cher; during my childhood gymnastics classes (I was killer on the floor exercise), "If I Could Turn Back Time" would come on and I freely admit that I thought it was sung by a man. Probably until I was in high school. That being said, with the onset of Will & Grace into my consciousness, my Cher-respect grew. Then I saw Moonstruck. And The Witches of Eastwick. And Silkwood. And Mask. You know, I think Cher is a better actress than she is a singer, but above all she is a fantastic entertainer. I cannot wait for this film; whether it's an epic train-wreck or just an epic, it's been announced that Cher will be performing a Dianne Warren-penned ballad "You Haven't Seen the Last of Me," and that's really all I need. There's already been talk of coordinating a bi-coastal viewing party, so I can bask in the glorious camp on display at the same time as my people out in LA. Every time Cher delivers a smack-down to Christina Aguilera, everybody drinks!

In a side-note, all of this Cher love is in no way to imply that I enjoy the song "Believe." Oh, you know it. Don't pretend. It makes my ears bleed.

Finally, I just found out how I will be spending my New Year's Eve: HBO will be premiering Bette Midler's Las Vegas concert "The Showgirl Must Go On" at 9 pm, which means I should be able to curl up with a glass of red wine at 8:55 and be asleep by 11:30, which is my preferred bedtime on December 31st. I find New Year's Eve to be one of the more pointless holidays on the calendar, right up there with Arbor Day, Flag Day and St. Patrick's Day (sorry Erin, love you!). All I can really see it as is an excuse for people to act like drunken idiots and scream a lot, while pretending that this night is some kind of major turning point in their lives. My guess is that if you didn't lose weight/stop smoking/get a job in the previous 364 days of the year, you're probably not going to do suddenly wake up on the 1st filled with unshakable resolve, simply because it's a new year.

Anyway, to avoid such tomfoolery I try to stay away from things like New Year's parties, and instead have a nice quiet evening at home. Last year, I had a glass of red wine and watched Jersey Shore. As enjoyable as I find mocking the dregs of humanity, I am far more excited about having a glass of red wine (hmmm, I spy with my little eye a common denominator) and spending the evening with Bette Midler. I love me some Bette Midler because she has one of the dirtiest senses of humor out there (ever hear her routine with the Sophie Tucker jokes?), she was in Beaches, The First Wives Club, and Hocus Pocus and at one point in her early career she offered to take off her top for a $5,000 pledge during a telethon she was hosting. And she did. Hear that, Janet? That wasn't even a malfunction. That was a full-on wardrobe function. It's Ms. Midler if you're nasty!

It's probably amazing to some people that I'm wrapping up a post entitled "Divas" without mentioning Tina Turner. That's because Tina falls under the term "goddess." Maybe someday I'll write a post called "Goddesses" and talk about Tina, Stevie Nicks and my mother. Who knows, it could happen.

Jin-coming

2010-09-26T12:23:00.000-07:00

I assume that I'm not alone in proclaiming that I've never been involved in an international adoption before. In fact, I'm probably not alone in proclaiming that I've never been involved in a domestic adoption before; let's face it, adoption doesn't happen so often that we're all experts. However, on September 29th, my new nephew arrived from Korea and I experienced first hand the lunacy that comes with the arrival of a 13-month old child.

First of all, why the hell would the agency only give the expectant parents notice 48 hours before the baby arrives? I don't know if this is actually the norm for all cases, but giving parents a picture of their child in February, telling them you don't know when their child will be coming home and then giving them two-days notice 9 months later is akin to Wil E. Coyote lighting the fuse on a crate of TNT. You light the fuse. You run behind a rock, plug your ears and think of how delicious flame-broiled Road Runner is going to be. Nothing happens. You sit up inquisitively. You think "How much longer?" You get frustrated. You walk out and stare at the TNT, arms akimbo while impatiently tapping your foot and scowling. And then it explodes in your face.

After the explosion, the immediate aftermath becomes a flurry of activity ranging from baby-proofing, to crib-building, to clothes-buying, the whole time staving off a deadly combination of blind panic and crippling nausea. Family and friends arrive in droves to help, and they are approximately 75% successful, the other 25% of the time offering well-meaning but ill-timed advice on your upcoming blessing.

Once the parents have successfully completed almost a quarter of what they wanted to get done, the day arrives. The agency has said that the baby might need time to adjust, so no one is allowed to visit the new family for a few weeks; instead everyone can go meet him at the airport, since he'll be so overwhelmed by the 15 hour flight that a few dozen more strangers cooing over him won't really cause any more of a meltdown than the one that is already going on. This means that the number of people to greet the baby balloons from two to the low twenties very quickly.

I've only been in a hospital for one birth, and while it wasn't the Waldorf Astoria, there was at least an attempt to make the room comfortable for the family. When greeting an international adoptee, one goes to baggage claim. An anxious group of caucasians eagerly staring at every person exiting customs into the baggage claim area is enough to draw a few odd looks from passengers. Even more scary is what happens when a person exits the plane with a baby that is actually their own; the baby is stared at, measured and dismissed while the mother nervously pushes her child through a group of people that are looking at him like he's made out of ham.

Meanwhile, as more and more people exit the plane, everyone becomes more and more tense (granted, it makes sense that getting a baby through international customs would take a while; it took me an hour to get through customs with a case of wine when I was coming back from Rome). The parents are afraid to go to the bathroom for fear of missing the baby's entrance through the gate. People who have nothing to do with the adoption push through the crowd and try to see gate information. Video cameras run out of batteries after 45 minutes of taping strangers appearing from Korean Air's pseudo-birth canal. Told to expect the appearance of the kid at 3 pm, when 4 pm rolls around everyone's anticipation is at fever pitch.

Finally, at 4:15, a Korean couple appears holding a baby. Who is this Korean couple you wonder? Why, they're a pair of enterprising people who have agreed to ferry the child across the world in exchange for a half-price ticket to New York City. They aren't employees of the agency, they might have no experience with children what-so-ever, but for that 15 hours they're solely responsible for keeping the kid alive so he can get home. They walk up to the parents (clearly having seen a picture of them) and happily hand off their son to them; since they don't speak a word of English, they smile awkwardly and are gone so fast it makes one wonder if they ever really existed at all.

So, standing in the luggage claim at JFK Airport, handicapped passengers shoving their way through the crowd, your family expands by one member, who can't be bothered to wake up from his trans-continental nap. And when he does wake up, he looks around and seems to say "Hey, white people," completely unworried about the fact that he's in a new country. His parents, meanwhile, are so keyed up that his mother decides in the first 13 seconds that he's not breathing (he was) and his father has been suffering a brutal attack of the gout in all four extremities for the past 72 hours. And they're worried about the kid.

Kandi Winters: Bachelorette

2010-08-29T08:30:00.000-07:00

If you're anything like me, you might every once in a while wonder about the casting process for reality shows. How do they find these people? Can you imagine what the casting notice for Jersey Shore looked like? Anyway, this niggling question came to a head this past month when my friend Lisa's family made the command decision that she should be the next Bachelorette on ABC's reality hit. Mind you, since the Bachelorette is almost always a popular contestant from The Bachelor, what is really needed is to get Lisa on as a contestant, have America fall in love with her, and then have ABC decide to have her as their next lead. Since Lisa is commonly known as not just a hoot-and-a-half but in fact two full hoots, the family figured once she got on the screen America and ABC would fall in line.

I found out about this little plot a bit later on in the process, but must say that I think it's a genius plan. For one thing, having a friend who's a huge reality star would be fun. Also, while I have never watched a single episode of the show, I'm fairly certain that the leading lady's snarky gay friend would probably get some screen time and I need to beef up my resume.

Lisa was willing to go along with the idea, but (fairly) refused to do all of the work. I volunteered to write her application for her, and hurried over to the ABC website. As I wrote her application, it occurred to me how incredibly generic the questions were...it was like writing a college essay. It also occurred to me how misleading the blandness was; these people didn't want a nice contestant! They wanted someone who would make headlines! Well, I filled out Lisa's application, and I must say that I would cast her on the show (remember: two full hoots!). Then, for fun, I decided to fill out an application for a villain on the show. Someone who could become America's crazy while Lisa became their sweetheart...the Alexis to her Krystle. The Veronica Lodge to her Betty Cooper. The Angelina Jolie to her Jennifer Aniston.

Below, please find the application for Lisa's nemesis on The Bachelor:

Name: Kandi Winters
Do you have a valid passport?: I have 3. Do I need one where I'm pictured?
How did you hear about our search?: Miss Cleo pointed the way. And it only took a minor charge of $226.73 on my last phone bill for her to tell me about it!
You currently work: Hard for the money.
Annual salary: Depends on tips.
What is your highest level of education?: My high school had four floors. I had numerous classes on the top level!
Degree(s)?: Way over 98.6, cause this bitch is hot!!
School(s) attended?: For learning? Lots of teachers are clients!
Are you a legal resident of the United States?: Yes. With dual citizenship in Thailand (CRAZY bachelorette party).
Where did you grow up?: I became a woman in the backseat of my high school boyfriend's car. With my high school boyfriend's best friend.
Have you ever been arrested, charged or convicted of a crime?: Yes, yes and no. Never convicted.
If so, please give details and dates: Let's just say I think the police arrest me just so they have a story to tell at the dinner table.
Have you ever had a temporary restraining order issued against you?: Not temporary.
If so, please give details and dates: Kid Rock's a pussy.
Have you ever filed for bankruptcy or Chapter 11?: No, but my ex did after I was done.
If yes, please explain: I took that bug-fucker for every cent he had and left him with the clap.
Have you ever been a performer, participant or contestant on television, radio or film?: Just direct-to-DVD softcore. And my boobs have radically changed since then.
If yes, please explain: ...I took the low-lights to some high-beams. Duh.
Do you drink alcoholic beverages?: Is a clam's ass water-tight?
Have you ever been married?: See above.
If yes, how many times?: Three times. One man.
If you have been married, why are you no longer together?: First time, domestic abuse (female on male). Second time, adultery (couldn't prove it). Third time, gave him the clap (see above).
How long have such marriage(s) been legally dissolved?: Depends on which state you ask. And I'm not entirely clear on the laws in Thailand.
Are you genuinely looking to get married?: Of course, getting married is great! It's marriage that sucks.
Why would you want to find your spouse on our TV show?: Well, I gave Jake Pavelka a spin a few months ago, and the guy's a total butt-pirate. I figure you owe me one.
How many serious relationships have you been in?: 3 marriages, 2 sponsors and a partridge in a pear tree.
What happened to end those relationships?: See above for the marriages. I realized 12-Step Programs are for people who couldn't hold their liquor or are afraid of a mild STD. And I still have my partridge.
What is the unique talent of which you are most proud?: I'm naturally immune to Rohypnol.
Do you have any tattoos? If yes, what and where?: 4. Lower back, arm, back of the neck and left boob. I used to have 5, but I lost one while I was in Thailand (you seriously would not believe this bachelorette party).
What accomplishment are you most proud of?: The most popular drink in Thailand is named after me: the Twisted Winter. It's like a Long Island Iced Tea, but not so watered down.
Why haven't you found the man of your dreams?: I have. As stated above, Kid Rock's a pussy.
Anything else you would like to say?: I feel like this goes without saying, but I have quite a fan-base in Thailand. Is The Bachelor(ette) shown there? Because I feel like I'm capable of giving you a ratings bump in central Asia.

Obviously, if Kandi actually existed she would have been the subject of a reality show already. Most likely on E!, and scheduled as the follow-up to some train wreck reality show like Denise Richards: It's Complicated, or some Kardashian nonsense. That being said, I would really love for Lisa to have a nemesis like Kandi when she becomes a reality star. No one makes America love someone like uniting in hatred. That, after all, is how Dubya got re-elected.

My Boyfriend, His Ambien and Me

2010-07-27T12:18:00.001-07:00

"If you close your eyes, it feels like you're in a room of small little porcelain tigers."

"It's like a candy story in here. Right now you're like chocolate pie."

"Let me cuddle with you...are those your balls?"

It's statements like these, proclaimed with the assurance of Dubya with a "Mission Accomplished" sign behind him, that let me know when my boyfriend has popped an Ambien. Vinay warned me early on that sometimes, when he has sampled his favorite sleep-aid, he does things like write an e-mail which tailed off into nonsense, or decide to reorganize his ramekin collection (yes, he has enough ramekins to qualify as a "collection"). However, I wasn't prepared for the speechifying at 1 AM.

I would like to take this opportunity to make it perfectly clear that I'm not complaining. In fact, I find it so amusing that if I'm feeling blue, I might take to crushing up a pill and sprinkling it over Vinay's ice cream before we go to bed just to give myself a good chuckle. I hate going to bed depressed.

In any case, not only do I find it amusing, Vinay only makes it worse when he acts insulted in the face of my glee. As I frantically type direct quotes into my phone, he calls me out for being mean, or tries to tackle me back into the bed. He's usually coherent enough to realize that I'm laughing at him, but not enough to stop the deliciously hazy bon mots from tumbling out of his mouth.

"They're trying to keep me off the team!" he once spouted.

"Who is?" I asked innocently.

"Those BITCHES!" he snarled.

Cue the boneless collapse, face-down into one pillow, while I attempt to smother my hysterics with the other. Please insert the "pillow-biting" joke of your choice here.

My relationship with other people on substances that I'm haven't partaken of is something I first encountered in college. I can remember when people would walk into acting class clutching their morning coffee to them like a frightened mother, and thinking "Man I wish I didn't hate coffee so much. They look so happy together!" I would periodically try coffee, and could never wrap my head around people's love of it. In fact, I've never really understood the idea of an "acquired taste" on a basic level. How does one acquire a taste? I personally think that salmon tastes like unwashed gym socks with a piscine twist...I don't foresee a time in the future where I will magically become enamored of the vile stuff.

As jealous as I was of coffee-lovers, I've still not really developed a relationship with it. Sure, when Starbucks started putting out those delicious blended frappuccinos I acted like a tween at a Justin Bieber concert, but we all know that those things are way more milk shake than coffee. And who doesn't love a milk shake? Particularly when they come with the extra on the side, and just send the calorie count beyond anything even remotely justifiable, becoming a delicious way to completely destroy the benefits of any gym visits you may or may not have made in the preceding days. With a dollop of whip cream on top. But I digress.

Coffee isn't the only substance I see people enjoying that I've never grown to love. In fact, I've never even tried a cigarette. I've never smoked up, or out, or whatever the hell the proper terminology is. In fact, looking back, I've missed a lot of opportunities to make bad decisions with mind-altering substances. I blame the movie Straight Up, which is completely unrelated to the Paula Abdul hit, I was forced to watch in middle-school health class. Starring future homo Chad Allen, the movie depicted a young lad who travels to magical land via something called The Fate Elevator, where he encounters anthropomorphized versions of different drugs like marijuana and cocaine. The Fate Elevator is manned by Louis Gossett Jr., who sings a song whose lyrics I remember to this day ("Take the elevator up...and close the gate! This is the ride that will decide your fate!") while wearing what appears to be a a cast-off costume from a high school production of Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat. He gives Chad a magical headband to protect him from all the different drugs, and it's usually at this point when I tell people about this that they start to really think I'm making it up. While I'm flattered that my imagination is given such respect, I promise you that I'm not. If right-wingers ever got a hold of this film, they could mount a credible case that you can actually identify the moment that turns Chad Allen gay: I, personally, think it's when Booze and Miss Pot perform a screeching duet entitled "Give Me That Headband," though I suppose the a case could be made for it being right as Louis Gossett Jr. starts to get him dancing in the elevator. This classic VHS is available for buy at Amazon.com. I just checked.

Anyway, the upshot of this is that after all these years of clean living, I'm truly tempted to take an Ambien and see what hallucinating is like. After all the amusement I've gotten from him, Vinay probably deserves getting to listen to me ramble on for a few minutes about things that make no sense.

"I see a village of houses. They have green roofs, and the normal ones are moving like they're on a train."

"What do you mean 'the normal ones'?"

"We're in a bird apiary!"

"Isn't an apiary for bees?"

"That's why I said it was for BIRDS."

"Ah. Of course."

"PARROTS."

I mean, you can't write this shit.

Zen and the Art of (Not) Getting Fired

2010-06-28T05:38:00.001-07:00

So I turned 30 this month. That probably means that this post should be all about how my youth is slipping through my fingers, and that I can feel the cold touch of death causing the hairs on my neck stand on end, but frankly, I kind of enjoyed turning the big 3-0. There was a fantastic party, and Adam and Josh flew a total of 6,000 miles between them to be there, which is approximately (on a scale of 1 to 10) how happy I was to see those two California defectors. However, if you weren't there I don't want to make you jealous by describing it in detail; suffice it to say that if I can ever successfully upload it to Facebook, there is a three-and-a-half minute performance of "Proud Mary" that I think would do Tina...well, proud.

Moving on, far more delicious is my continued quest to get canned from the hotel. This is not only my fondest wish, but has now spread to my entire department; we're currently working at approximately 30% efficiency, and regularly leaving our shifts one to two hours early. We're on the carousel of life, and we keep trying to grab that big brass ring called unemployment and missing it by inches. As I'm sure everyone knows, you can't just quit to get unemployment, you need to be fired. And you need to be fired in such a way that your employer can't claim just cause. This leads to a lot of passive resistance when one is looking to get the axe; you can't do something that you would really want to do, like urinate on the germophobic GM's desk after-hours or hauling off and kicking the slutty HR director square in the baby-maker. As satisfying as these things may be, they won't result in a weekly check from the government. Instead, you have to walk the tightrope of irritating everybody to the point of blind fury, but never, ever do anything that could actually be considered a fire-able offense. It reminds me of the way that my father can walk into the kitchen and get my mother to throw him out in about 15 seconds flat by doing almost nothing. The man is an artist.

Luckily, when trying to find an angle to do something like this, we felt we had an advantage: the rampant stupidity of the people we were trying to hose. They provided us with what we felt was a perfect opportunity, the details of which I won't get into here. Let me just say they wanted us to sign something that basically had us relinquish our right to be paid out our vacation time if we resign or were fired with cause. We felt that we shouldn't have to sign it, as our vacation time is earned; they bullied the rest of their employees into signing and we prepared to make a stand. The air in the department was thick with the stench of opportunity; the promise of a summer spent unemployed lounging on the beach was dangling in front of our collective faces like the proverbial carrot, and we were all showing just a touch of drool at the side of our mouths. We could taste victory...and we liked the flavor.

Once, they asked us to sign. We quietly ignored them. Again, they asked. Again, we ignored. They threatened our boss, and told him that he had to get us to sign it. We responded with a letter saying that we wouldn't be signing, and that they should leave our boss out of it. They called a meeting with all of us together. We calmly said that they could do whatever they wanted to us, but we weren't signing the policy. At this point, the executive office was abuzz with frustration. The useless HR Director called us up to her office to plead with us to sign it, frantic that she was going to catch hell for allowing it to get as far as it did. The gnome-like General Manager stalked around the hotel spouted off ridiculous statements like "There's an INSURRECTION in Reservations!!" Gleefully, we celebrated in our department, sure in our knowledge that we had them cornered. They couldn't NOT fire us after forcing the hands of every other employee in the hotel, and we were certain we had poked the sleeping lion enough that the GM wouldn't care if firing us would probably bring the whole operation crashing down; his pride and temper would take care of that. And when our unemployment claims went through, he could spend his time in his office chewing on his own liver.

Alas, we celebrated too soon. Somehow, someway, someone on the executive committee realized that they couldn't make us sign anything...I suspect one of those gibbering idiots finally called an attorney, who said something along the lines of "What are you, a complete fucking moron!?" Ultimately, we received a letter from the HR Director stating that even though we refused to sign the memo, we were still subject to the policy. That was that. There was no going down in a blaze of glory. No final middle finger to throw as we were escorted out of the hotel. The fact that, ultimately, we had won the argument was cold comfort indeed.

As Icarus taught us, when one flies too close to the sun, the fall from grace is tragic. In fact, if given the opportunity, there probably would have been a mass flinging of ourselves into the sea if we could have mustered the strength to get ourselves to the pier. The failure of our grand scheme to elicit a department-wide cleanse has sent us into a downward spiral of ennui, which has (if possible) decreased our production even further. And in the midst of this fog of boredom and soulless monotony, I received the following news:

I'm Employee of the Month.

I'm now going to sign off and repeatedly bang my head on a desk. Scratch that, can't hurt the money-maker. I'm going to sign off and drink heavily. Yes, that sounds better.

Bediquette

2010-05-28T10:44:00.000-07:00

There are a lot of rules of behavior floating around that completely baffle me. For instance, I don't understand why an invitation to a wedding obligates me to get a gift for someone if I choose not to go. Isn't the rule that you should buy a wedding gift to make up for the exorbitant amount of money that they've spent on your dinner? Well, they aren't buying me dinner, so I don't see why I should buy them a present. This goes double for any kind of baby or wedding shower, which are (in my somewhat limited experience) black holes for people to just throw money into. However, for all of the rules of etiquette that are useless, there appear to be large areas where there is no established guidelines.

I've been dating Vinay for about three months now. Things are going well, but there is one area where we just can't seem to see eye-to-eye: going to sleep. I first realized that we might be heading for a rocky future when, on one of the first nights we spent together, there was a rainstorm. My reaction was "Hooray!" His reaction was "Ah, crap!" I curled up, happily listening to the rain hit the air conditioner outside...Vinay put in his ear plugs in a vain attempt to drown out same. I routinely hope for rain while I'm trying to sleep...I practically have a Pavlovian response when a thunderstorm hits. "Crack!" goes the thunder, "snore!" goes Paul. Vinay, on the other hand, lives in fear. A drizzle will make him tense. A steady rain is worth a night's sleep. Give him a thunderstorm, and he's speed-dialing the pharmacy in hopes of some Ambien. We've managed to work through this little disparity...though the constant use of noise-deadening ear stoppers has caused some conversations to end with the statement "Take out your ear plugs. TAKEOUTYOUREARPLUGS!!!"

However, while we prefer different levels of white noise while trying to sleep, there are deeper issues that I think Miss Manners might want to weigh in on. For instance, I'm a warm person. I don't mean that I'm friendly to strangers (we all know that's a laugh), I mean that on any given day my body radiates heat at the approximate level of a white dwarf star. This means that a) I have EXTREMELY low tolerance for any kind of added heat around my person, and b) should I be over-heated, it's in all people's best interest to clear the area until I cool off. Hose me down if necessary...get out the hose like I'm going into County, I don't care, just bring an end to the droplets of sweat sliding down my back as fast as possible. Vinay, unfortunately, has a much lower natural temperature. Some people claim that his temperature is more "normal" than mine, but those are probably the people who say inane things like "cold hands, warm heart." More like "cold hands, sub-par circulation, why don't you get some gloves?" But I digress.

Since our internal temperatures don't match we have quite the problem when trying to sleep, which can be boiled down to a simple statement. My boyfriend likes to cuddle and I don't. Vinay would cuddle all night if he could; he's Snuggleupagus. Unfortunately, he had he bad judgment to enter into a relationship with me, and I'm perfectly happy to pretend the person physically closest to me when I'm sleeping is on a separate bed. In Siberia. What are the rules for this dilemma? Surely if someone will tell me that I have a year to send out thank-you notes after a wedding (and, honestly, who came up with that? I call bullshit), someone has thought to address this issue. And yet, I can find no assistance. As for now, Vinay has yielded the fight. Perhaps mainly because he doesn't enjoy going to sleep next to his boyfriend, and waking up next to someone that would probably most closely be described as a nasty, vicious bastard who would shank Mother Teresa for one good blast of air conditioning.

We went to Chicago for a weekend, and our sleeping issues came to a head in the Windy City. Friday night came around, and Vinay had indulged in a bit more wine than I had that night. Hence, when the time came to fall asleep, I was prepared to gently drift off in a red wine-induced haze; Vinay was prepared to pass out in a red wine-induced coma. Cut to about 4 am, when I awoke and needed to use the restroom. However, I had more pressing matters, as I found myself with the top 25% of my body completely off the bed, and my 6-inches-taller-than-me boyfriend sprawled on top of me. I really can't be sure if this was a case of snuggling gone wrong or pure, unadulterated ignorance of my presence, but regardless, it woke me up. When you open your eyes and see nothing but floor in front of your face it's a bit jarring.

I quickly took stock of the situation and realized two things. One, I was completely pinned, and could see no way to free my hands to gain any kind of leverage. And two, when I politely told him to move so I could get back on the bed, he didn't hear me because HE WAS WEARING EAR PLUGS. After letting out a string of curses that probably should have scorched the carpet, I resorted to trying to inch my way back on the bed enough that I could get my hands free and heave my still-dead-asleep beau off of me. I can only imagine that I looked like a turtle flipped onto it's back. A few squirms later, I managed to clear enough mattress to give a good heave, and the sleeping angel flopped over onto his back, giving me enough space to get my full body back on to solid bed. Relieved, I slid backwards and prepared to get up to use the bathroom.

Unfortunately, my slide back was enough to cause a Snuggleupagus attack. Upon contact, his subconscious mind reacted and decided to spoon. One moment I was relieved not be teetering on the edge of a face-plant, the next I was right back where I started, flattened in a precarious position. And I still had to pee. I adjusted my strategy and tried to wiggle forward, out from underneath, and this time had a hand free to keep me from eating floor. Once I got loose, I hoped that Vinay would readjust while I relieved myself. Luckily, when I got back to bed a patch of pillow had opened up and I quickly claimed it, firmly ensconcing myself onto the bed again.

Now, I realize that Vinay is not to blame in this scenario. He was, after all, unconscious. That being said, as anyone who has ever lived with me will tell you, screwing around with my sleep is not the best way to put me into a friendly mood. The following morning, he awoke a bit before I did, and tentatively reached across the de-militarized zone that I requested be kept between us at all costs while asleep. He touched my shoulder and I jerked away from him so violently he probably thought he had electrocuted me. He scooted closer in an attempt to get in a morning snuggle, and I whipped around and faced him in the fetal position. "That's not a good cuddling position..." he offered. "I know!" I snarled back, with all the charm of a rabid wolverine. Understandably a bit bewildered at his reception, he retreated and allowed me to exhaust my morning venom before attempting to speak again.

After I was awake, I explained to him what had happened the night before, all of which was complete news to him. My two valiant struggles for freedom, the cursing, the yelling about earplugs...nothing had registered. Luckily, he has a sense of humor and didn't take my morning impression of a vengeance demon personally. We have a few temporary solutions for our temperature differential, including me sleeping atop the covers while he's underneath, but the basic problem continues. And the question remains...when and where will Snuggleupagus strike again?

Sharing is Scaring

2010-04-25T15:18:00.000-07:00

Many people like to say "sharing is caring." I would like to qualify that statement, because as anyone who's been caught in the middle of a nasty couples' spat can tell you, there is most definitely something as too much sharing. Sharing some things, such as chocolate, wine or money is certainly very caring, while sharing other things such as unsolicited opinions, herpes or religion...not so much. Not every situation is as clear-cut at brownies and STDs, but I for one would really appreciate it if everyone at the work place took a "less is more" stance.

A few weeks ago, it came to my attention that a co-worker had lost her husband. Let's just surge past that uncomfortable moment and get down to specifics: while I have worked in the same hotel as this woman for over three years now, we are in separate departments. Contact is minimal, and the odd conversation usually has a forced congeniality to it, largely because the woman in question is the kind of person who will corner you somewhere to tell you the story of her latest pap smear. So when I heard of her loss, I calmly waited until our path crossed, and expressed my sympathy and hoped against hope that that would be the end of it. Well. It wasn't.

It seems like this poor woman had simply been bursting with the need to unload some gory details about her late spouse on someone, and my innocent offer of condolences was all the permission she needed. A few minutes after we first spoke, I received a phone call, asking if I could help fax some papers for her. I agreed and she appeared in the office in a trice, complaining that the fax machine in her department was malfunctioning. One look at those papers explained the technological issue: they looked like they had been crumpled into a tiny ball and sat on for the last decade. My colleague Melissa helpfully grabbed the papers, and started the extremely long process of trying to make them fax machine workable, which left me to converse with the bereaved.

It took only a moment for the widow to launch into her story. First up was the explanation of what we were faxing: turns out that her stepdaughters had filed an injunction against her two hours after the passing of their father, attempting to keep her from receiving any money. Usually the start of a story like this would be like cat-nip to me, but sitting at work trying to do some very important loafing, it just wasn't striking my fancy. I mumbled some half-interested platitudes, trying to send the loudest "I'm REALLY busy" vibes I could. She was having none of it, and plunged forward. I glanced at Melissa and saw that, at this point, she had only managed to force through the first page of the fax, and was attempting to smooth out another for feeding.

The next little tidbit to be revealed involved the gentleman's ex-wife, who it turns out was a racist who routinely referred to his Jewish second wife as a "k*ke." She decided that after his untimely demise, she wanted his ashes. Racist First Wife offered to take Jewish Second Wife over to the Diamond District and buy her any necklace she wanted with a locket at the end. Then she could put a few of her husband's ashes in that receptacle and Racist First Wife would take the rest. This would be the time for a joke about dangling the Diamond District as the carrot for a Jew, but I think it actually just writes itself. At this point, I could no longer maintain my facade of ennui, and Melissa could no longer act as if nothing of note was going on while she struggled with our ancient fax machine. Hence, we were both fully tuned in for the final act.

It seems that the Evil Stepdaughters swooped in and took over the funeral planning, despite the widow's protestations. Made to feel like a guest at her own husband's funeral, not given the chance to eulogize him, she went home to discover that her stepdaughters had actually claimed that their father wasn't even married to the banks in order to freeze his accounts. This was the straw that broke the proverbial camel's back...despite being the height of awkwardness, I couldn't look away. I fervently wished for a popcorn and a fountain soda (can we all just agree that fountain soda is AWESOME??), because as far as I was concerned this was better than a movie.

Fed up with the treatment she was receiving, our widow decided to play the trump card. Having sat on some information for the past 15 years of marriage, she decided that turnabout was fair play, called up Racist First Wife and calmly informed her that while in his first marriage their mutual husband had maintained a relationship with a black woman, with whom he had produced two sons. A few moments of silence passed. Then pandemonium.

This is the kind of shit that networks save for May sweeps. It's the kind of plot twist that intelligent viewers roll their eyes at, and say "No one actually HAS a second family! That is RIDICULOUS! Jump the shark much?" Only in this case, it's real, and it was happening in front of my face at work. I couldn't even enjoy it anymore, it was just too weird and awkward that I was finding out about it at all. Luckily, Melissa managed to wrestle the final page through the fax machine at that moment, and hurriedly handed over the confirmation. One quick showing of the death certificate later (yes, I've officially seen my first death certificate), and our storyteller was gone as quickly as she arrived, with this final bon mot:

"I've started a Facebook group with his other family, so people can hear! Check it out!"

This is most definitely in the category of sharing too much. It's just a little example, but I think it's safe to say that if your story involves the distribution of a spouse's ashes, the freezing of bank accounts or the revelation of a second family you should probably just keep that to your A-list friends. That way your family secrets won't be splattered all over the internet on a co-worker's blog...unless, of course, you choose to start a Facebook group detailing them.

La-La Land

2010-03-26T21:59:00.001-07:00

There are times where I struggle with what to write about. Then there are the times when the entry for the month really just writes itself...let me begin by saying in March I went to LA.

Now, almost every New York resident has an opinion about LA. The fact that the vast majority of us have never even been there really doesn't concern us; we know in our bones that it's an inferior urban sprawl good for Mexican food, bottle-blondes and little else. My personal opinion has been softened by both the large number of friends I have living there, and the knowledge that, should my "acting career" ever take-off, I would be required to spend a significant amount of time there. So I went to visit Brooke, Adam and company on the west coast and let me tell you, New Yorkers: we can be as arrogant as we like, but you cannot beat the weather. Also, if you fly out on Jet Blue, you might be treated to the amazing flight attendant that I had who sniped at someone in the bitchiest way possible to "Speak up! I can't hear you!" which had me giggling like a Catholic schoolgirl not wearing panties on a windy day. If I could have tipped him for it, I would have.

While in LA, I did many things. Most revolved around a strict schedule of get drunk, sleep, repeat, which is similar to lather, rinse, repeat but is much more expensive and somewhat less hygienic. However, without a doubt the most ridiculous thing I did was go for an overnight stay in a little town called Solvang about two hours north of the city. Thursday we piled into Brooke's car and the two of us set out for our destination, which it just so happens is situated directly in the heart of wine country. Brooke suggested it because a) she understands my sense of humor, b) she shares my sense of humor and c) we both REALLY like wine.

Solvang, as it turns out, is a town that sprang up from a Dutch settlement. Now when I say the term Dutch settlement, please don't confuse this town with, say, New York which sprang up from a Dutch settlement in the 1600's. Solvang was founded in 1911 which means that the Dutch "settled" a piece of land that had been part of the United States for more than 50 years. And let me tell you, I will go to my grave believing that Susan Harris, the creator of The Golden Girls visited Solvang while she was writing the pilot script and that the town inspired Rose Nylund's hometown of St. Olaf, Minnesota. I was half-expecting to be offered Eggs Gerfloofen for breakfast and invited to The Festival of the Dancing Sturgeons. Basically, Solvang looks like a Hans Christian Anderson storybook exploded all over it and no one bothered to clean up. There are windmills. Almost every store has a reference to Copenhagen, vikings or both. I was actually surprised I saw no one in a pair of wooden clogs.

One of the places that Brooke and I visited was a small shop called the Jule Hus (pronounced, if I'm not mistaken, as Yule House). The Jule Hus is a delightful corner store devoted entirely to the sale of Christmas paraphernalia. When we walked in we were greeted by the dulcet sound of Christmas carols...in March. Now, you might be thinking "A whole SHOP dedicated to Christmas ornaments and the like? That's crazy! There aren't enough things to make ornaments out of to make a whole store's inventory for the actual holiday season, let alone year-round!" Which is exactly what I was thinking...and let me tell you, we're all wrong. As it turns out, the owners of the Jule Hus are not fettered by such considerations as having their decorations actually have anything to do with Christmas. Instead, it looks like they basically walked into an episode of Hoarders, picked up as much crap as they could, threw on some glitter and a tree hook and slapped a price tag on it. Among some of the ornaments that we discovered: a zebra dressed as a referee (complete with whistle), a mechanic holding a tire (with extremely red lips, which led us to believe that the mechanic both female and a lesbian), a 3-D rendering of a Norman Rockwell painting with a child preparing to receive an injection (in the butt, which it's worth noting was rendered anatomically correct with a small crack peeking out of the top of his jeans) and a miniature Coke can (just for the taste of it). Needless to say, the adventure was crowned the moment when, while handling a 12-inch tall model of Santa, I caught my first glimpse of an employee: an elderly woman, dressed in traditional Dutch garb. Picture an over-sized, poofy white blouse under a bright blue dress, with colorful stitching to bring some excitement. I dropped Santa, and needed to give myself a time-out.

After our holiday adventures, Brooke and I got dinner; since Solvang is a small town, everything closes at approximately sunset, which left us with nothing to do but retire to our room at The Royal Copenhagen Inn and start into the various and sundry bottles we had purchased. It's important to note that, because of our early dinner we didn't real feel much of the first bottle. However, neither Brooke or I are particularly known for our high alcohol tolerance...once we got through about half of the second, things were looking considerably more hazy. We ended up watching The Marriage Ref on NBC...take it from us, host Tom Papa's laugh is so irritating you can't even pay attention to the completely unqualified celebrities offering questionable advice. We decided to practice a few songs for karaoke the following evening, offering our renditions such classics as "Does He Love You" and "Bad Romance," and yet somehow managed to not garner a noise complaint. We dove into a third bottle with gusto and somewhere around 3/4 of the way through with that drunkenly passed out in our beds at 1 o'clock in the morning.

At approximately 3 AM in the morning, I woke up having to use the bathroom. I can't say exactly what my decision making process was at that point, but suffice it to say that the idea that there was a bathroom in our hotel room did not cross my mind. Wearing pair of gym shorts and nothing else, I blithely walked out of our room into the 45 degree night, onto the second floor balcony. I wandered around for a moment or two, quite frustrated that the inconsiderate architect of the building had not made the public bathroom obvious. I couldn't say how quickly I realized that there was an easier way for me to take care of business...I'm going to be generous and say it took about 15 seconds. Deep down, I'm pretty sure it was closer to a minute. However, even this realization didn't faze me...rather than having a moment of "Oh, hell, what am I doing," I calmly returned to the room and found that by some miracle the door was open. I walked back in, did my business and passed out. The whole event was so common to me that when I woke up I wasn't even 100% sure it had actually happened which led me to a realization: while I enjoy being jaded about most things, I'm not certain that stumbling around drunk and mostly naked is something I would like to be blasé about. I feel like it leads to headlines and sex tapes.

After we returned from Solvang, our adventures continued. I sang karaoke, which is something I only do under the influence of a great deal of liquid courage. I ended up doing "Midnight Train to Georgia," though I sometimes forgot that I was supposed to be Gladys Knight and would slide into the role of a Pip. Brooke and I went to go see Cats, which had been the first musical for both of us many years ago. Turns out that Cats is not only a bad musical (which we knew), but is also chock-full of sexual imagery, including a feline orgy to round out the first act (which we did not). And ultimately, I landed in NYC out $600 as a charge for my own rampant stupidity, since I apparently can't tell the difference between March 21st and April 18th when booking a return flight. And making that reservation is pretty much the only thing in this whole post that I did stone-cold sober. You can draw your own conclusions from that...I'm going to choose to believe that I'm meant to have a delicious bottle of wine with me at all times. Even when not on vacation.

I Heart NY

2010-02-19T12:16:00.001-08:00

February, the month of the dreaded Valentine's Day. I know what you're all thinking: this is going to be an onslaught of bitchery at the level of Alexis Carrington on two hours of sleep and a heavy-flow day. Well, here's a surprising little piece of trivia for you...Valentine's Day doesn't bother me all that much. I know, it's supposed to be the day that all of us single people cry into our wine/ice cream/pornography, wondering where our love might be hiding. However, thanks to my time in the service industry, I've become completely jaded to the entire event. Ask almost any waiter and they'll tell you: Valentine's Day is depressing because it's the day that couples who should no longer be together celebrate their love. It's the event in which people who haven't said "I love you" for the past 364 days realize they've been lax, and decide to say "I LOVE YOU!!!" so loudly and often that they can get away with not saying it for another year. As far as I'm concerned, there are a million wonderful ways to tell someone you love them...these ways do not include dinner reservations, a brownie in the shape of a heart or a pre-fixe menu.

So this Valentine's Day was okay for me; I made cookies and danced to Tina Turner, which is pretty much guaranteed to put me in a good mood. And I started thinking about my life, and I decided that I'm actually pretty happy with it (don't worry, this short foray into rainbows, flowers and lollipops will be short-lived). And I thought about why I'm happy, and one of the reasons I came up with was "I live in New York!" Which is kind of awesome. I mean, not only because it means that I don't live in a fly-over state, or the suburbs, or the tenth circle of hell, but because I feel like after 11 and a half years here I can finally claim to be a New Yorker.

What makes one a New Yorker? I believe it's said that you have to live here for 10 years before you can call yourself a true New Yorker. However, I think there's something a little more difficult about being a true denizen of this city than simply managing to survive a decade living here. So I present to you, in no particular order, some of the reasons that I think that I'm a New Yorker.

I think that I'm a New Yorker because I was walking down the street yesterday, and I saw a man standing by a building, slightly hunched over, and I immediately assumed that he was urinating. There really are a million reasons that someone would have pulled over on the sidewalk...he could be texting, or reading a map (though we all know that people who need maps in New York generally aren't intelligent enough to get the hell out of the way while they use them), or trying to find his Metrocard. But do I think that's what he was doing? No, I think he's taking a moment out of his busy day to take a public leak on a freezing February morning in broad daylight. This is not normal. This implies that not only have I seen men pissing publicly, but that I've seen so many that I've actually become jaded to it and now treat it as, if not really a classy thing to do, at least something that doesn't give me much pause on Tuesday at 7 am. By the way, as I walked past, I noticed that he wasn't actually draining the main vein, he was walking one of those white, poofy, drop-kick dogs. It was so small I didn't see it until I actually passed him. How someone can feel even remotely masculine when walking a dog that could pull off the name "Fifi McFabulous" is completely beyond me.

I think that I'm a New Yorker because I know that in the Times Square subway station, right by the Grand Central Shuttle platform, there's a cell phone hot-spot where you can get reception to shoot off a quick "I'm late!" text message. Not in the "I'm late...and pregnant!" way...the other way. Look, I have no desire for cell phones to get reception on trains. Can you imagine the inane, shouted conversations that you would be subjected to if the general populace had the ability to get on the phone while on a noisy subway?

Representative of the General Populace: "Oh my God, I was like, I don't know, but I tried to call him and his phone went to voice mail, and I didn't know what to say, so I was like I'll just text him, but then I went to text him and realized that I didn't know his name, because I just put him in my phone as "Hot Guy," and I wasn't paying attention to his voice mail message, so I didn't get his name from that, so I was going to call him back so I could hear his name, but I don't know, what if he sees that I called him, like, twice in 30 seconds, and then he'll think I'm like a stalker or something, and I don't want that because I really like him, so like don't be mad, but would you call him for me and listen to his voice mail message and let me know what his name is, so I can text him, because I think he would make a really good boyfriend!"
Me: {takes out gun, shoots RotGP, looks around expectantly for a thank you}

Suffice it to say, I don't think anyone wants that. However, despite my happiness with the lack of cell phone reception underground, there are times when the ability to contact the outside world is more than appreciated. Granted, it's usually appreciated "because of an earlier incident," or "due to train traffic ahead" but nevertheless...appreciated. Just last week I was running to a table read, and "due to a sick passenger" (GROAN! SERIOUSLY!?) my train was delayed. I aimed for Times Square, shot off a quick text message and hopped on the shuttle. I was still 15 minutes late, but at least no one was surprised.

I think I'm a New Yorker because I appreciate intelligent graffiti, and conversely am disgusted by the moronic. I wonder if any taste for graffiti comes from having a freshman roommate who was a graffiti "artist"...but then I think about the fact that I didn't much like him and I doubt it. In fact, one day I will write a post about my freshman year roommates called 'The Witch, The Communist and Me" and I can get deeper into this whole tangent, but as a short appetite-whetter, let me say that one of them was a graffiti-artist and the other one admitted to watching me while I slept. Worst. Year. Sleeping. Ever. In any case, as I wander through New York, I find myself really enjoying clever graffiti. Obviously, this whole month was rife with promotions for the movie Valentine's Day, which, if you don't know, featured just about actor in Hollywood this side of Dakota Fanning. At the bottom of a poster, which listed something around 15 movie stars, someone scrawled "And a partridge in a pear tree!" I found this amusing. On a poster for It's Complicated someone wrote "Sophie's Next Choice!" Again, amusing with a nice pop culture reference. On the other hand, drawing male genitalia on the little girl who's on the poster for Jackie Chan's The Spy Next Door...that's just sophomoric.

I think I'm a New Yorker because I now prefer barren trees covered in LED lights to a good old-fashioned Christmas tree to get me in the holiday spirit. In fact, most of the time, I simply find the suddenly numerous displays of evergreens to be a real imposition upon a sidewalk that is already crowded with tourists, Greenpeace representatives seeing if you have a moment for them to guilt you into pledging $20 a month and the homeless. The sudden abundance of coniferous trees everywhere, while it does do something to mask the natural urban musk of the big city, is really simply too much for New York's spatial limitations. Not to mention the fact that it's impossible to actually remove all the stray needles from your house before the vernal equinox. I'm convinced that pine needles are the at the root of the "spring cleaning" craze. I vastly prefer my simple, bare trees, so drowned in lights that they look like holiday glow sticks speckling the avenues of New York. Even better if there's a fresh snow, which makes every corner look like an entrance into Narnia...I half expect a timid faun to greet me as I pass underneath, or an albino woman to ride by on a sledge tempting schoolchildren with Turkish delight.

I think I'm a New Yorker because I have way more use for a ""Bullshit-o-meter" and a "You'reAFuckingMoron-o-meter" than an odometer. I think I'm a New Yorker because I get irritated when TV and movies try to make other cities look like New York. And, most of all, I think I'm a New Yorker because I believe that thinking I'm a New Yorker warrants an entire posting on my blog.

Karma Chameleon

2010-01-27T15:22:00.001-08:00

I don't do much charity work. In an effort to get me to meet more people, my mother suggested a few years ago that maybe I should volunteer; I considered it, but then remembered that I find the majority of people to be as irritating as raspy toilet paper, and rejected the idea out of hand. However, a few months ago, my friend Lisa came to me with another idea: the Cycle for Survival. Basically, she wanted to participate in a charity cycling event to raise money for cancer. I agreed to join the team, thinking that this would be a nice thing to do and a good way to earn some karma points for the next time I tell someone that they are a pointless waste of time and oxygen, and should do everyone a favor and have themselves gelded to be certain they produce no progeny. I sent out my fund-raising letter (by the way, thanks to everyone who contributed! And for those of you that didn't, don't worry, I'm sure they don't really mean it when they say every little bit helps; cancer's barely a problem anymore), I cleared my schedule and when the day arrived, I got up at the butt-crack of dawn and rode an indoor bicycle for two hours. The experience itself was fun, but the expected karmic reward has been wanting.

First of all, ABC went ahead and canceled Ugly Betty. I wasn't surprised...after basically holding the series' head underwater for the better part of a year, I couldn't really be shocked when the suits finally put a bullet right between the eyes. However, while I understand the business reasons for the move, I can't emotionally accept it. Ugly Betty is (was! sob!) one of the most consistently solid dramedies on the air, good for a few laughs and tears every Thursday. However, America decided they would rather watch CSI: Tulsa or NCIS: Helena than support an awesome, ground-breaking show. And this, after I went ahead and donated my time to find a cure for cancer. Here's a cure for a lot of cancer: stop smoking, you fucking morons. You know what might help you get through that tough time? A great, feel-good show that revels in it's own sunny outlook, and where the heroine always comes out on top. Too bad that all shows with a modicum of heart and originality will be canceled by the time America at large realizes what they're missing. I tell you, between Ugly Betty, Pushing Daisies, Eli Stone, Samantha Who and the more-than-probable fate of Better Off Ted, ABC can claim responsibility for the dwindling ember of my optimism being snuffed out like the token black guy in a horror movie. Oh, in case anyone's wondering what ABC has in development...they're producing a sit-com starring Nicole Richie. A sit-com. Starring. Nicole. Richie. The only thing funny about Nicole Richie is how skull-crushingly unattractive she is, and let's face it, that's only going to get you so far. Having a mirror spontaneously shatter when your star looks into it, or having characters turn to stone when they make eye contact with her is only funny maybe two or three times. Otherwise, Comedy Central would have produced Medusa! years ago.

Amidst the news about Ugly Betty, I also went on a few dates with a cop. "Oooooh, hot!" you might be thinking. Unfortunately, as it turns out, this particular cop was about as hot as a luge track with the dating skills of a head of iceberg lettuce. First of all, I absolutely despise it when people make assumptions about you after having had half a conversation.

Me: Well, my friends and I all have fairly bitchy senses of humor.
Cop: I don't think you're bitchy.
Me: No, I am. You just haven't seen me on a tear.
Cop: You're not bitchy. You're sweet. You're a real sweetheart.
Me: (silence)

Seriously? I think the last person that called me sweet and meant it was my second grade teacher. I don't have a self-confidence problem...I can see many wonderful qualities in myself; sweetness is not one of them. And, if you don't mind officer, I think I might have a better handle on myself than you do, since I've known me for 29 years and you've known me for two hours.

Secondly, there is nothing romantic about complimenting someone as if you're composing a sonnet. A simple, easy "Oh, you look nice" goes significantly farther than something that requires four minutes for you to work your way through.

Cop: You know how you go to the country and you can see, like, a million stars? Then you go to the city and you can see, like, ten? You're one of the stars I see.

Holy choking back projectile vomiting, Batman. This is not a Nicholas Sparks book, I am not a slutty cheerleader, and you sir, are not William Shakespeare. This kind of thing went on for the majority of the time we were together, and I really tried to appreciate it. After all, it isn't every day that someone is going to heap compliments on you...however, when they're that over-the-top it really just starts to read as the desperate over-compensation of a person who knows that they are dating way out of their league. And here's a hint: if you've managed to bag someone who's dating down to you, the LAST thing you want to do is call attention to it. Act as if you always date people like them, and it's the most natural thing in the world for them to be with you. If you're good enough at it, you might fool them into believing it too.

Finally, when I do call you up to cut things off, and we've only been on two dates, I am not the person to pour your heart out to about your disillusionment with relationships. No, I didn't mean to dump you while you were in the grocery store, but you know what? These things happen. Sack up. You're in the grocery store, go to the ice cream aisle, buy a tub, go home and phone a friend. Do not, under any circumstances, operate under the assumption that I owe you a shoulder to cry on because you've convinced yourself that the two abysmal dates we went on were the stuff legends are made of. I've already done my charity biking for the year...you're not getting a ride as well.

After the cancellation of Ugly Betty and yet another date-for-the-record-books, I was fast losing hope in the promise of some kind of karmic reward for my good deeds. Then a real cascade of shots to the nuts occurred. I was up for a production of "Kimberly Akimbo," and lost out in the final call-back. Smack! The "Don't Ask, Don't Tell" hearings started and I was again forced to listen to politicians. Thunk! I perused a rash of online dating profiles in which hot guys claimed to be into "camping and the outdoors" (maybe you shouldn't live in New York CITY then, you stinking, indoor-plumbing-hating hippie). Whack! I've never in my life been so tempted to go into a sporting goods store and buy a cup.

Here's the thing, folks. I realize that in life, sometimes you take the elevator and sometimes you take the shaft. But I thought I might have been entitled to a little bit of good luck after swallowing my pride and trying to do something to help the world. But fine, universe. I get it. Good deeds are their own goddamn reward and that entire crock of shit. Now, since we've already beaten that dead horse into a bloody, unrecognizable mass, do you think maybe you could throw me a bone?

'Tis the Season

2009-12-29T06:00:00.000-08:00

I almost always enjoy a party, be it in my pants or otherwise. But, ah, December. The time where the spirit of giving is brutally commercialized to the point of non-existence, and the mad dash for $99 DVD players leads to people being trampled by stampedes of their own making. 'Tis the season, as they say. 'Tis also the season, it turns out, for awful holiday parties. I've managed to avoid this fruitcake-esque tradition for basically my entire adult life, but suffice it to say that this year I've made up for lost time.

Being uncannily popular has been my cross to bear for quite a few years now; however, through a series of service-industry jobs and a dedicated effort to avoid things that suck has kept me clear of such gatherings. Being a waiter means that you try to work the nights that most people throw their parties, as they tend to be the most lucrative. It also means that you are privy to the mind-numbingly boring conversation between co-workers as they try to act as if they actually like each other enough to have fun for a two-hour meal. They usually run out of things to talk about about half-way through appetizers, and spend the rest of the time trying to tell the same stories to the people sitting on the other end of the table, resulting in a deafening babble of small talk that is enough to make someone want to defenestrate themselves out of the 30th floor of an office building.

However, now that I've left waiting tables behind, I've also left myself open for far more of these invitations, including one from my very own place of work, a midtown hotel. After a banner year of laying off dozens of employees, decreasing the rate at which vacation is accumulated, no longer providing food to the workers at a 24-hour business and generally being all-around douchebags, The Powers That Be at the hotel decided that their staff might need a little morale pick-me-up. You really can't pull the wool over their eyes. So the HR Director sent out some invitations. The HR Director, it's worth noting, spends a third of her time banging the bellman, a third of it snorting coke with her boyfriend and a third of it on Facebook. You'll notice that none of those things have anything to do with her job. That is, unless you count letting the bellman lay some pipe as improving morale, but really that's only improving the morale of one person; the rest of us are just nauseated. These invitations promised that they would be awarding "THOUSANDS of dollars in prizes" to the lucky employees, and that no one should miss it. My friend Christopher quickly informed me that the "THOUSANDS of dollars in prizes" amounted to left over gift bags from last fall's abysmal Fashion Week, which means they would consist of hair products, cheap perfume and extra-large shirts that no one in the fashion industry is porcine enough to wear.

Luckily, I don't care enough about my job to actually have bothered to put in an appearance at this soiree. Also luckily, my friends Christopher and Nicole had to go, so I was able to laugh hysterically at the pitiful outcome. First of all, so few employees showed up that they were attempting to conceal extra bags of prizes under any furniture that presented itself as a possible hiding place. Then the general manager (a classic case of a Napoleon Complex leading to hair plugs) frantically kept polling the department managers asking if any of their employees were en route, probably while trying to determine whether he could return any of his "THOUSANDS of dollars in prizes" for cash at the Duane Reade. And finally, in the ultimate masterstroke of partying, Christopher and Nicole were sick for days following, probably thanks to the dim lighting not allowing for a complete inspection of suspicious foodstuffs.

But really, that's a party that I didn't even go to, so how worked up can I really get about it? Also, allow me to just say now that I did attend a few holiday parties this year that I thoroughly enjoyed. Most of those featured an appropriate number of people, excellent food and delicious wine. However, I did attend a few holiday parties this year that did not meet my exacting standards.

First of all, is it not the duty of the host to invite a number of guests appropriate for the space they have available? If I was throwing a party at my parents' house, I would invite all of my friends, tell them to bring along fun people, and hire a bouncer in case someone who sucks slipped through the cracks. On the other hand, if I was throwing a party in a one-bedroom Brooklyn apartment, I would take stock of the number of chairs I had available and invite accordingly. I would then make certain that none of my invitees saw fit to bring five more people along...not that I think Adam is going to attempt that again anytime soon, but that doesn't mean I'm going to let him live it down. He'll be hearing about that for the next decade or so. But I digress. What I would definitely NOT do is invite 35 people to a space that comfortably holds 15, and only seats ten. When I'm stumblingly drunkenly away from a blindingly boring conversation, I'd like to gracefully alight in a chair as opposed to face-planting on the carpet while holding a glass of red wine, hence wasting alcohol. And probably ruining your carpet, but in the immortal words of Sue Sylvester, I don't care so much about that.

Secondly, since you already have your guests packed into the room like sardines, is it really necessary to hire a waitress to further crowd the proceedings? Not only does it make the already packed to the gills feeling of the festivities even worse, now you have innocent guests introducing themselves to the waitress, then noticing that she's wearing an apron and helplessly fumbling through that awkward moment while she quickly scoots away from the creepy guy that she THOUGHT was gay but is now hitting on her. And not only is there a waitress, but the food that's being served is frozen appetizers from the local grocery store. Look: pigs in the blanket have a great place in American cuisine...that place is land-locked states. You can also add them to the list of things that should not be allowed within a twenty-foot radius of me; this list includes, but is not limited to, acid-washed denim, any movie with a pun in the title and Scarlett Johansson. But really, let's decide what kind of party we're having. Is it a party where the fine gourmet options include anything in nugget form? If so, your party does not need help. Rather, it does need help, it just doesn't need THE help.

And finally, I am not the entertainment. If I am there for entertainment, please contact me at least two weeks in advance and we can discuss my fee. Also, we can discuss the quality of food I will be expecting to be fed. But perhaps anyone who feels awkward in party situations should come with an index cards of fun topics that they can bring up and funny stories that they can tell should the conversation lag. That way, when I tell an interesting story, the only response is not appreciative laughter and then expectant looks as I'm expected to continue entertaining a group of people that should, ostensibly, have lives of their own. Take note, ladies: I'm gay, your tits do not entertain me. It was like being on a bad date with a group of straight couples who had somehow come to the conclusion that the time they all went to the ski lodge, got crazy on a couple of wine coolers and retired at 10:00 (PM!!) was riveting comedy. This does not make you a good conversationalist...this makes you your parents, only you're 29 and they're 60.

Ultimately, I survived the party by drinking heavily. However, it's worth noting a few other tidbits that I noticed during this holiday season. 1) Ladies, if you are, as Tim Gunn would say, a bit zaftig, it's a safe bet that you shouldn't wear a bubble dress. 2) When having a grab bag gift exchange, everyone should try to avoid politically themed presents. By this, I reference the fact that Sarah Palin's opus Going Rogue is not an appropriate gift; I don't put a Morning After Pill in there with a sign that says "For Those Nights You're Just Not Sure," do I? No? Then please keep your horribly offensive propaganda to yourself as well. And 3) can we all just stop sending Christmas cards? I see them and all I perceive is a gigantic waste of paper for no reason. Send me an e-card, preferably one that features the word "fuck," because that puts me in the spirit of the holiday.

Now if everyone can just learn something from these little tales, I think we can all become better party-throwers and party-goers next year. Or at least I hope so. If if doesn't get better, my heart has no chance of growing three sizes next year, and it could probably use it.

Insult, Meet Injury

2009-11-27T19:01:00.001-08:00

As is well-documented, I internet date. On one website, while giving responses in the "Random Questions" portion I came upon the following query: "In casual conversations, are you more forthcoming with detail of your sex life or your financial situation?" I blinked, as it struck me as a somewhat odd question for a dating website, but they did tell me that the whole section was random, so I responded. "I'm pretty open about either," I typed, "especially if one of those topics can lead to something humorous. Sadly, both usually can."

I'm nothing if not honest.

I know I complain a lot about my love life on this blog. Hell, I complain a lot about life, period, on this blog. But every once in a while there occurs a confluence of events so kick-you-in-the-crotch fantastic, it really makes me believe that heaven is probably just a comedy club, where whatever higher power you happen to believe in is headlining for eternity. Or maybe they all just rotate. Didn't like Buddha's set about wanting to compete on The Biggest Loser: Divinities? Just you wait, Jesus kills every night with his bit about getting out a stain that was wine and is now blood. Then, during intermission, the assemblage gets to stare down at the chaos they have wrought on this mortal plane.

That chaos came to a head for me a few nights ago on a little website I like to call Gay Harmony. Now you might know this website by it's real name, compatiblepartners.net, but as I have discussed before, I don't like that name, hence: Gay Harmony. I've been on Gay Harmony for quite a while now. I signed up for a 6-month free trial membership, and then paid for a month of service, both of which yielded nothing except the worst date of my life (Carrots! Coupons!) and the realization that if I keep slamming my face against a brick wall, eventually my looks are going to suffer. So I decided that I needed to take some time away from internet dating, a cleanse if you will, and see if (despite all evidence of personal history to the contrary) I might be able to find a date without the assistance of the interwebs.

Now, for those of you that haven't been internet dating (I'm looking at you, Mom), Gay Harmony is a website that doesn't allow one person to take a step in their "Guided Communication" process until the other person has also completed the step prior. While I understand their point in this, I find it infuriating. Sitting there, in limbo, while some moron I don't even know twiddles his thumbs and is too lazy to answer three short questions makes me want to chew nails. So, what does one do, when one has completed Step 3, and is waiting for the other person to do so as well? One drinks heavily, and then one "Nudges" the tardy party (yeah, I said it). The nudge doesn't actually accomplish anything other than to alert the other person that there is waiting going on.

So once I decided to leave the website, I started nudging people like it was my job. If I could have sent them a nudge with a message saying "Shit or get off the pot" I happily would have. Of course, all of my nudging was for naught. The expiration date came and went with nary a response to all of my efforts, and thus I was free of the internet dating world. Or so I thought.

Not a week after my membership expired, I got an e-mail from Gay Harmony. "We thought you would like to know," they helpfully wrote, "that you have received a communication from Jeffrey!" Jeffrey is one of the men that I had been waiting to actually DO something for about 4 weeks. Immediately I thought to myself "Self, get it together. You are free of this website, do not allow yourself to get sucked back in." However, despite this excellent advice, I remained torn. What if this worked out really well? After all, we had already gone through numerous steps together, there must be something there, right? Three days passed with me in a constant wrestling match with myself over what to do...I'm not good at letting things go, you see.

Finally, on the third day, I had had enough. I couldn't take not knowing any longer, so I got out my credit card and I signed onto the website. One painful, online transaction later and I was all set, with a renewed membership promising to bring me 30 more days of fruitlesss searching, or as the website calls it "new members every day." I quickly went to my new messages, and looked for the message that had cost so much debate...I will now transpose it for you here, in it's entirety:

"Hope you had a good holiday. Thanx for the nudge."

First of all, "thanx." THANX!?!? I mean, really. It's not easier to type an "x" than it is to type "ks." I say this with complete assurance, because everytime I go to type "thanx," I accidentally type it the other way first. What am I saying, "the other way;" the RIGHT way. The way the word is actually SPELLED. I mean, it wasn't even an abbreviation "thx," or "tnx," or Christ, even "thnx." No time was saved by typing "thanx," nor was there any kind of good impression given by it. All "thanx" says is that the person who typed it is either a) lazy, b) stupid or c) lazy and stupid.

Second of all, this is what took the better part of a month to compose? Did you send that on to all of your friends to make sure that it was leaving a good impression? For Pete's sake, the man is a singer/songwriter, he should at least have a general grasp on, you know, WORDS. It's not like I'm talking about some home-schooled IT professional who has the social graces of an adobe brick. And, yes, I have been on some dates with those people, and may I just say: I go prepared to be the loquacious one in the room. This man is an artist...he should not be sending me a two sentence, 10-word e-mail; he should know better.

And finally, is there any more clear way of just passing the buck? Apparently, he didn't feel like actually taking 5 minutes to compose an e-mail that might actually, oh I don't know, ask a goddamn question or start any kind of intelligent conversation. Instead, he'll just rattle something off, and then put the onus on me to respond. And in that response I can either follow his lead and say "Holiday was good. Your e-mail sux," or I can be this "bigger person" that people keep telling me about and actually try to invest effort into this thing I've already invested money into.

I think it's needless to say that at this point, I was livid. I was beside myself. I was actually sitting next to myself, and yelling at myself "THIS IS BULLSHIT!" and I was yelling back "I KNOW!!" Luckily, I had the presence of mind to step away from the computer before composing my reply. Otherwise, I probably would have written back "Seriously? You owe me $60." Instead, I wrote a brief, and yet quite brilliant message in which I a) responded to his unspoken question about the holidays, b) asked a question that he could respond to and c) managed to not even once make fun of him for writing "thanx."

But really, just one little delinquint correspondent on Gay Harmony does not a blog post make. Not to worry, more ridiculousness to come. The very next morning, I awoke from a quasi-restful slumber, rubbed my eyes and turned on the computer to check my e-mail. And in my e-mail box I had, would you believe it, another e-mail from Gay Harmony! "You have a new match," they excitedly informed me, "Sign on now and get to know him!" And really at this point, I should have known better. But, embodying the triumph of hope over experience, I blindly clicked the link and was immediately greeted with a profile for Dr. Big.

Who's Dr. Big? Oh, I'll just refer you to my You Put the Pride in the Coconut post from July of last year for backstory, but suffice it to say we all have exes, and then we all have Exes. Dr. Big is an Ex of the first degree. He's the uber-Ex. He graduated summa cum laude from Ex University. We're in a good place right now, but let me tell you, I did not need to be greeted by his profile at 7 am; a profile, it's worth noting, where he claims to be 34, says he's looking for a relationship and looks as good on paper as he ever did.

First of all, baby, you ain't 34. And if you're lying about your age, you're really probably not ready to be in a relationship, because if you DO meet someone that you connect with, you're going to have to somehow clear up the whole being 5 years older than you originally claimed thing. And frankly, I have no issue dating someone who's 39, but I would have a large fucking issue dating someone who lied to me for no reason; I'm guessing I'm not alone in that. And finally, WTF Gay Harmony!? Are there no other gay men in New York City?? For the love of George Michael, I don't live in fucking Tulsa!

Of course, the other side of this issue is that I really can't deny that they probably do have some rhyme and reason to their matching, as opposed to simply randomly pairing like zip codes with like genitalia. I don't think anyone can deny that Dr. Big and I certainly possess a large amount of...spark. But that's the limit for me. I'm done with Gay Harmony when this month is over.

Right after I finish communicating with Jeffrey. Hey, you never know.

Rocktober

2009-10-26T18:13:00.001-07:00

I find myself somewhat uninspired this month. It could be from any number of reasons, from simple exhaustion to the sneaking feeling that ABC is going to cancel Ugly Betty. By the way, a short public service announcement...should ABC cancel my Betty, I strongly recommend getting into a door frame. The fallout will be terrible, but an earthquake really only takes a few moments. Post-temper tantrum, I will need wine and pie ASAP. Take a memo, New York readers.

Anyway, as I examined my life over the last month and tried to find an angle that I wished to explore for a couple thousand words, I was at a loss. Which, of course, sent me into a spiral of panic. Could my life have really been that bone-crushingly dull over the last 3o days? Have my best days passed me by? Am I doomed to end up contemplating my existence, which will have become so drab that I might actually start to think that Dancing With the Stars is a respectable form of entertainment? Well, obviously, DWtS will forever be inferior to So You Think You Can Dance, so we don't have to worry about that happening.

However, I quickly realized that my life over the last 30 days had not been dull in the least...in fact, it's been jam-packed with so much running around that I'm still bewildered that nothing appears to have HAPPENED. And then I realized: it wasn't that nothing happened. It was that nothing ridiculous happened. It was as if, for one month, some higher power decided to take the "Kick Me" sign off my back, and not send me on any bad dates, demeaning auditions or straight bars.

Bad dates? Not a single one in sight. No good dates either, but after my last foray, I'll take status quo as a win. Demeaning auditions? Screw that, I auditioned for 30 Rock. Straight bars? I didn't even have time to go to gay ones! So the question becomes, what did I do?

Well, for one thing, I've been writing non-stop for OMGWTFTV.com. I'm writing recaps of So You Think You Can Dance and Brothers & Sisters. And it's kind of awesome. Seriously, if there could be some way for me to be getting paid for this kind of thing I could leave customer service and probably be a significantly more pleasant person to strangers. My mother has told me that I should volunteer my time in order to meet people; my response was that I didn't feel like volunteering to help people until a majority of people I met demonstrated enough intelligence to make them worth my time. However, volunteering my time to write snark-filled recaps of TV shows that I adore? Now, that's something I can get behind! So I watch these episodes two or three times each, cultivating each bitchy comment like a delicate flower, and generally try to make sure that I have more jokes in a sentence than punctuation marks. Afterwards, I feel like I've taken the edge off...they're like a little glass of red wine for my snark level.

I've also been shooting a web-series that, wonder of wonders, I'm actually proud of! Chaos Theory is wrapping this month, but I'm a series regular on it and I insist you all head over to PhoebeTV.com immediately and check it out. Because here's the thing...it's actually funny. All you actors out there know what I'm talking about. You go into countless auditions for "comedies" that are about as funny as a root canal. However, this web series...it's not only funny, it actually is funny in my favorite way: the ridiculous (see above stated adoration for Ugly Betty). We all have annoying bosses, bad dates and clueless friends. Well, if you've ever wanted to punch your boss, see someone on a worse date than you or simply ignore your clueless friend, go watch Chaos Theory.

However, besides being funny, Chaos Theory has one more wonderful thing going for it. The people involved are truly some of the best people I've worked with in this whole industry. And luckily, they came along at the perfect time. While I worked on the series, I was also dealing with the fact that the producers of Loaded decided to mount the Off-Broadway production without me. That's right...re-mount the show which I had been guaranteed first refusal on, and just toss me out of it like yesterday's trash. Bent me over the couch, no Vaseline. To say the least, I've been slightly salty about the whole experience, and I've spent many hours repeating my mantra of "Die in a fire." But the team over at Chaos Theory actually made me believe that there are good people around the world. So go over there and support them right now! And I promise to make it my personal goal to have an evening in November so ridiculous, I will definitely have something more entertaining to write about!

Carrots and Coupons

2009-09-28T18:18:00.000-07:00

I try to be optimistic. Well, that's not entirely true, but deep beneath my hard candy shell, there is something of a soft, optimistic center. It tastes like coconut, but that's entirely beside the point. The point is that I go on dates and I try to believe that the best possible scenario will result from them. Despite overwhelming evidence to the contrary, I force myself to not go into a spiral of virulent pessimism each time I meet a new person and instead try to think that maybe this will be a) fun and b) not something that will make me want to quietly slip into a hot bath at the end of the night and slit my wrists. If you can't tell yet, I went on a date.

My trials and tribulations in the romantic world are well documented on this blog; I've told you about exes who re-surface, websites that don't deliver on their promises and nights in bars that I would rather forget. However, I don't know that I've ever written about a first date. For one thing, I rarely have a first date that manages to be such a debacle that it warrants it's own posting. For another, I tend to be forgiving on first dates. I realize that that's extremely difficult to believe, but I assure you it's true. First dates are hard! Well, hard for some people, I've been told than I'm a stellar first date from start-to-finish by more than one person. And some of them aren't in permanent residence in my head. But in all seriousness, whether or not I have a good time on a first date, I try to understand that it's a nerve-wracking situation and often people are not at their best.

The particular date in question occurred a few weeks ago, on a Friday night in the city. One of my hard and fast rules of first dates is that meeting for coffee is more than sufficient. Let's face it, you generally know in about 10 minutes whether or not you want to see the other person again. Coffee is an excellent diversion that can easily be cut off after a half an hour, or extended to a meal if the urge strikes you. However, on this particular date, I was weakened in my resolve by an extended period of single-hood and complete exhaustion brought on by two weeks of constant running around like a chicken with it's head cut off. Dinner and show was proposed and I, in my stupor, accepted.

We met up at a restaurant in Hell's Kitchen. I'm not going to get into what he looked like, because it just seems unnecessarily cruel. Let's just say that he did not resemble his pictures, and I'm fairly certain that the entire staff of the aforementioned restaurant now thinks I'm a prostitute. As I said before, I was fairly certain it was going nowhere within ten minutes, but I thought to myself "Self...you're here. Try to at least have a good conversation." No sooner had I re-focused than the waitress appeared to take our drink orders. Even as I opened my mouth to order a glass of wine and hopefully grease the conversational wheels, my date jumped in and said he would stick with water. Feeling like a lush if I ordered alcohol, I changed my order to a soda and silently prayed that his conversational skills would be able to stand on their own.

Now, I'm a fairly loquacious person. I can talk about most things, and if I don't know anything about something I can at least fake attentive listening while someone else talks about it. I can actually sometimes talk about not knowing what I'm talking about. However, what I cannot do is talk to someone who doesn't talk back. Here's a little tip for all readers out there...when you are meeting someone, and they ask you a question, don't simply answer the question as quickly as you can and smile uselessly. The proper response is to answer the question, and then volley a query back their way to give them a chance to answer. Without this, what you have is a tennis match in which an ace is served every single point: you're impressed with one player and find the other one pathetic. It's like Roger Federer playing against a walrus.

When the waitress returned with my soda, we quickly ordered our meals (remember we had a show to get to!), and before she could walk away, my date pulled out a coupon. A coupon. He called it a gift certificate, but I know a coupon when I see it. Let me state right now, I have no issue with coupons; I have gone to restaurants with friends where coupons were used to bring down the total. However, I have never whipped one out on the first date. Believe me, it doesn't leave a good first impression, particularly when no warning has been given. I'm an actor. I don't mind going for cheap eats. But, please, just pick a restaurant where you can pay the total bill for the first meeting.

Even that I was trying to overlook. Tough times in the economy and all. However, it just put the final nail in the coffin for the evening, and I couldn't bring myself to really invest in conversation anymore. Which led to a tennis match in which it was the walrus' turn to serve to Roger Federer, who couldn't be bothered to return service, but was instead staring longingly at the bar in hopes of absorbing some form of liquor through sheer force of will. A sample exchange:

Walrus: Oh look! There's carrots! So healthy!
Roger: Yeah, they're really good for your eyesight.
(silence)

Somehow, we got through dinner. I spent a great deal of it shoving food down my throat to give myself a socially acceptable reason to keep my mouth shut, and my eyes focused somewhere else. Now, up to this point, you might be thinking "Come on, now. He's nervous. And poor. Stop being so judgmental. Weren't you just talking about how forgiving you are on first dates? Hypocrite!" And to you, I say "Wait for it." Because it was time for the check.

You'll remember the coupon mentioned from earlier? Well, you might be able to see where this is going, but HE ONLY APPLIED IT TO HIS OWN MEAL. So, basically, he picked a restaurant which was beyond his budget, so he brought a coupon to defray the cost of his meal...and assumed that my budget would be able to handle it no problem. Now, since I'm not an idiot, I had ordered within my resources. However, the sentence "So I'll just give you a few dollars for tip?" really just killed what little remaining glimmer of attraction had managed to survive the evening thus far. Who am I kidding? There was no remaining glimmer. What it actually did was ignite the first seeds of active dislike, which tend to grow with alarming speed within me.

After I paid the bill, we were off to the show. Obviously, this was something I was looking forward to, as it would be completely socially unacceptable for any kind of conversation to be had during a play. We barreled into the theater with minutes to spare, and I hurriedly introduced my date to a friend who happened to be working on the show; at which point, my date started worrying that he was nervous meeting my friend, and thought he hadn't made a good impression. It took every ounce of my will-power to not reassure him with a simple "Oh, don't worry, there's no way you're even seeing ME again, let alone HIM." He then remarked how often I smiled. And again, I resisted the urge to say "Well, it's either smile or let my real emotions show on my face. Would you like to see my face when I look at a train wreck?"

The show passed in blissful silence, and when it was over I had my eyes on the light at the end of the tunnel. I was out of that theater like I was fired out of a cannon, having planted the seeds of having to wake up early the next morning in our first conversation. As we walked to the subway, my date tried to extend the evening. He proposed I take a subway half an hour out of the way so we could spend more time together. I declined. He mentioned that he had a good time at dinner. I commented that I thought the show was well done. He made a sad face and said that he had to say good-bye to me. I helpfully stated that this was how dates work...they end. Even the ones that seem interminable.

After this, I was praying for a simple fade-away. And I thought I had achieved it. After a week had passed, I thought I was out of the woods. Alas, I was wrong. I received an e-mail, seeing if I wanted to meet up again, "either as dates, or as friends." I waited for three days to respond, purposely being rude to help my message along. I responded that I didn't feel a connection, completely ignoring the proposal of friendship. Ten minutes after sending that e-mail, I got another missive asking again if I wanted to "see a cheap show or get dinner as friends." It was at this point that I decided that I had no further recourse...it was either be actively rude and nasty, or simply ignore him. Which is something I really hate to do. I was at a loss as to what to do next, not wanting to stoop to cruelty, but also not wanting to deal with it anymore. So, naturally, I called my mother.

Me: It's like he's FORCING me to be rude to him. And I HATE ignoring people.
Mom: Well, I think he's being rude by not picking up obvious social cues. I say ignoring him is about the best possible response he can hope for at this point. Freakshow.

I love my mom.

So the email thread was deleted, and we've now passed four days with no further contact. I again hope that we are out of the woods with this. And should further pressure be exerted, I will actually send the email that I posted on Facebook earlier this week:

"While I found your company tolerable at best, I simply would not choose to waste anymore of my life in conversation with you. No hard feelings. Literally. Now please stop e-mailing me asking to be friends. I've done this the nice way. You know what way comes next. And, hey, we'll always have carrots."

The Questionnaire

2009-08-26T10:05:00.000-07:00

It constantly bewilders me how completely terrible I am at picking men. I can choose most things that I need in life, from the clothes that I wear to the food that I eat, with little-to-no ill effects. However, put me in a room with a group of men that I might find attractive, and I will, without fail, sidle up to the most emotionally stunted one of the group and leave the ones who might actually be able to carry on an adult relationship staring into the bottom of their beer pints. Isn't it funny how in this scenario, I've painted it as if everyone simply waits for me to arrive and once I have made my choice, the rest of them cease to exist? It's funny because it's true.

However, I can't take all of the blame on myself. Let's be honest, I never take all of the blame on myself. It's an important line that one must learn to walk, to always admit enough of an error to appear humble, but at the same time make sure that everyone else knows that you were far less culpable in whatever fiasco you have embroiled yourself than THAT person over THERE. So, as it turns out, it's not only the men that I choose that appear to be fundamentally damaged in some way, but apparently I'm giving off some kind of high-octane pheromone that only men with the emotional maturity of a 7-year old can detect.

Recently, my friend Lisa and I were consoling each other over our wine glasses when one or the other of us slurred something to the effect of "You know what we should do? Here's what [hic] we should do...we should make them fill out a questionnaire that what we should do. And then when they act like d-bags we can refer to their answers when berating them." And then the other one of us said something like "Yeah!" Then we both probably had another glass of wine. But the idea stuck. Wouldn't it be wonderful if you could just ask all the questions that would cut through all of the bullshit up front? I present you with Seven Questions that should help you weed out the losers, boozers and just plain crazies.

Question One: What's your name?

We're starting out easy, as there's really no wrong answer to this question. That is, provided they don't answer with the name of your father, mother, sibling or, worst of all, your ex. This has not happened to me that often, but it's always jarring when it does. And it's shocking how long a conversation in a bar can sometimes go on before names are exchanged...I've met men in bars whose names I never bothered to learn. Happily, I can also say that I've never dated any of them, but the point remains. When speaking to someone, finding out their name sooner rather than later can only help you...and delaying might lead to something horribly awkward.

Question Two: How long have you been drinking?

This is another baseline that should quickly be determined when meeting people in bars. Obviously, if you are meeting someone outside of a bar, you can continue on to question three. Unless they reek of alcohol, in which case it's probably a safe bet to say that you should just move on without further inquiry. Also, it's not unhelpful to ask yourself this question when talking to a romantic prospect. A foggy pair of beer goggles has often been the culprit in the missing of obvious red flags. Now, since you're in a bar, this is another question that there is really no horrible answer to...except maybe "yesterday." However, it's important to establish relative cognizance before administering the rest of the questionnaire. Get people too drunk and they will tell you whatever they think that you want to hear to get into your pants. People too sober might be able to prevaricate believable answers in the moment and slip under your radar. I think a nice buzz is the best time to pounce on people to get the most honest, open answers. So basically, if they say "10 minutes," buy them a drink and if they say "10 hours," take everything said with a grain of salt. One might even hold off on further questioning until a more useful level of sobriety can be achieved.

Question Three: What do you think is an appropriate mode of communication for "talks?"

Now we're getting to the meat. This is something that I never would have considered to be important before my ill-fated relationship with the Italian Stallion a few months back. Actually, allow me to re-phrase that...I would have always thought it important, I would never had thought someone could be dense enough to think important things could be discussed via text message. Or IM. Or e-mail. But, after several attempts at a relationship with The Guinea Prince, I'm forced to admit that not only do some people think this is not a problem, they actually actively try to avoid any other form of communication. This is really bewildering to me...the only way to properly discuss issues in a relationship is voice-to-voice, preferably in person though the phone is acceptable. Anyone with the maturity of stale bread should know this. However, after repeated experiences of receiving apologies, overtures and explanations being offered via the typed word, I'm forced to admit that people who do this need to be weeded out. Harshly. Completely. From the roots.

Question Four: Have your testicles descended? Both literal and figurative, please.

Now, this might seem like an intimate question to ask. However, I assure you getting definite answers on all implications of the query are of utmost importance. Obviously, we can assume that most of the male population have fully-steepable teabags. However, a friend of mine once was putting the moves on her date, and when she reached downtown had a nasty surprise waiting for her...or not waiting for her as the case was. When she snatched her hand back as if burned, and asked him if there was anything he wanted to tell her, he responded calmly:

"Oh, yeah. My testicles never descended."

That is, quite simply, not information to leave out. You don't need to lead with it (in fact, you definitely shouldn't), but if you're at the point that someone's about to find out for themselves, the polite thing to do is give them a heads up and prevent a scarring experience where someone thinks that they scared your nut-sac so badly it retreated into your abdomen. However, this interpretation of the question is not a deal-breaker...it's just good information to have.

The figurative connotation is the far more frightening. First of all, almost everyone thinks that they have balls of steel, so you'll rarely get someone who'll flat out admit that they're a useless coward. But if you watch closely, you can see when someone hesitates, or protests too much, or smoothly laughs off the question and never really answers. These are the ones to be on the watch for, and further conversation will allow you to gather more information. Some red flags of jewel-less wonders that I've noticed are living with one's parents (unless pursuing some form of higher education or life goal), a constant fishing for/giving of compliments and the inexplicable desire to gaze longingly into your eyes while blathering pointless romanticisms that are full of sound and fury and signify exactly nothing. It might seem flattering at first...I suggest you run in the other direction.

Question Five: Do you have any outlandish requirements for people you date?

This is a tough inquiry, for two reasons. One, because absolutely everyone has outlandish requirements for people that they date. Don't try to deny it, it's completely true. For instance, I categorically refuse to date someone who can't correctly tell me what the proper usages of "they're," "their" and "there" are...I also prefer them to be the crown prince of a small European country, but that's not a requirement. There's a difference. And two, because an honest answer rests upon a third party's ability to discern what kind of requirements fall under the umbrella of outlandish. The large range of odd behavior cripples us in phrasing...one can ask "Will you freak out if I breathe heavily when I sleep?" and receive an honest answer in the negative, but you're leaving yourself wide open to later find out that they can't deal with the fact that you like to eat ice cream out of the container.

Hence, we're forced to ask a vague question, and hope they have the self-awareness to understand what their odd pet peeves are. In my experience, it's best to offer one of your own outlandish requirements to break the ice, after the knee-jerk denial you are almost guaranteed. After they say "Of course not," I say something like "Really? 'Cause I won't date someone who thinks that camping is anything less than cruel and unusual punishment. So put that in your pipe and smoke it." You'd be amazed at the relieved confessions that tumble out of people's mouths when the opening is given. My friend Adam once dated someone who had a "decomposition table." The freak-show was making compost on his kitchen table. Gross.

Question Six: How do you like to break-up?

Some might think that this is a defeatist question. I think that those people haven't been dumped horribly enough times to have earned the right to an opinion. So suck it, optimists. Here's the thing...every single relationship you have ends, until you have the one that doesn't. I, personally, would prefer to enter that final relationship as emotionally intact as I possibly can, and the people I date beforehand have a great deal to do with that. There are many proper answers to this question...they do NOT include being nasty so someone else will do the dumping, disappearing without a trace or any, I repeat, ANY form of written word. There are good ways to break up with people...and none of them include a Post-it (thank you, Carrie Bradshaw).

Question Seven: The Freebie

This last question is to be filled in by the interviewer in the heat of the moment. If the prospect has passed up to this point, you have something special on your hands. I can say that every boyfriend I've ever had would have failed somewhere in between questions 3 and 6. The key here is to make it somewhat random, but also leading, giving an opportunity to showcase some sparkling wit, and proof of witty banter. Banter is essential in relationships. Without it, you're doomed to become the couple that no one wants around, because you're too busy cooing new pet names at each other to actually be any fun. It's usually best to bring the question out of the conversation you've been having...and if no questions can be borne naturally, that's a pretty good indicator that the dialogue probably sucked. For instance, if I meet someone watching the Mets game, I might ask something like "Now, you understand that I'm not willing to discontinue my torrid affair with David Wright for anything less than a marriage proposal, don't you?" On the other hand, if we've been talking about movies, I might say "My friends and I can quote Steel Magnolias for approximately 30 minutes without repeating ourselves. What movie can you quote?" You get the idea.

Obviously, these questions can't cover for every eventuality. The world is rife with the kind of crazies that even the most clever person can't sniff out before they're entangled in the web of lunacy. But if we can find some way to start tossing the bad pennies out before we even pick them up, then maybe they'll finally stop turning up in the first place. And I think the way to do that is to institute the kind of rigorous screening process that most people have to go through to be accepted into the CIA. The line forms to the left, boys.

**Short Public Service Announcement: Starting in mid-September, I'll also be blogging for the new website OMGWTFTV.com, where I'll be writing snarky TV recaps for So You Think You Can Dance and Brothers & Sisters. So, if you want weekly doses of me, you can head over there and read the posts...I promise a lot of sarcasm, bitchiness, and even a touch of honest, artistic criticism. Remember to post in the comments!**

The Baby-sitters Club

2009-07-27T11:08:00.001-07:00

When I was young, I wanted to do everything my sister did. This included, but was not limited to, playing with her My Little Ponies, going to Girl Scout Meetings with her and attending The JG Dance Studio. I must admit, the more I contemplate my youth, the less surprising it is that my mother had me pegged as a 80's music-loving, man-worshipping theatre queer from Planet Fabulous at the age of two. Incidentally, I played with some of my brother's toys as well...but my adolescent fantasies about the torrid love affair between his Hawk and Duke G.I. Joe action figures is the story for another blog. And, it's worth noting, enough to make me extremely excited for the live action film starring Dennis Quaid and Channing Tatum in the roles of my original Don't Ask, Don't Tell star-crossed lovers.

Another of my sister's activities that I picked up was an avid reading of the classic Baby-sitters Club book series by Ann M. Martin. These were not books that I read idly so I would have something to talk to Krista about. These were novels that I loved, was constantly fascinated by and could probably still talk about with some measure of authority (OMG, Logan and Mary Anne are meant to be! And Stacey's from New York...she so sophisticated!). However, despite my fascination with these American classics, I can't ever claim to have actually cared for a single child. This is perhaps largely because I have absolutely no interest in children that I am not related to by blood. Disgusting little creatures that should be seen and not heard as far as I'm concerned; and seen only because who knows what havoc they would wreak if allowed to be invisible. Nothing at all like my angel of a nephew, who was my first ever baby-sitting charge.

Krista took three months maternity leave when Joseph was born, and returned to work this past week. I had agreed to take care of the little guy one day a week, and while not exactly nervous, I approached the day with a certain degree of trepidation...after all, I was in no way truly qualified to care for a child. I sometimes feel like I just barely get myself through a day without causing bodily harm. However, my mother assured me that should I go into a panic, she would drive down and relieve me. Armed with this back-up plan, I set out on my mission with a hopeful heart. The day started out in calm enough fashion; the parents left, and I managed not to break the baby for about 15 minutes, an accomplishment I proudly recorded in the daily diary Krista asks Joseph's caretakers to notate naps, feedings and bowel movements in. After that, Joseph decided he was hungry, and I successfully fed him. I then put him down for his early morning nap, a nap that I had been told was coming, a nap that my sister had informed me would probably be lengthy.

Joseph's nap lasted an hour and forty-five minutes, approximately 30 of which I was able to enjoy. After that my over-active imagination proceeded to teach me exactly who was boss. In the course of the remaining hour and fifteen minutes, I managed to convince myself on separate occasions that Joseph had a) managed to crawl out of his crib (never mind that he can't move himself), b) passed on (he couldn't possibly STILL be asleep) and c) been kidnapped (a nightmare brought on by suspicious noises over the baby monitor that could only have been caused by my sister's nutso religious neighbors opening the window and sneaking in to steal Joseph...or possibly, perhaps by the aquarium in the baby's room). It's quite humbling to realize that, even when you pride yourself on being a calm, level-headed person (which I think I am as long as certain topics are avoided...), being in charge of an infant can cause you to act with all the assurance of a 16-year old taking his driving test drunk.

As it turns out, and as I'm sure anyone who has cared for an infant knows, when babies bless you with a few hours of sleep, you should be extremely careful to make certain that you use that time wisely. Lay back, perhaps watch some TV, have a bite to eat...if there was a way to dose oneself with exactly an hour's worth of Valium, this would be the time. Because when they awake, they are merciless dictators, little Napolean Bonapartes armed with diapers and an excuse for their behavior. It's not that Joseph is a bad baby; in fact, the proud smile he puts on every time he takes a titanic crap is enough to charm the pants off of Ebeneezer Scrooge himself. It's just that Joseph knows what he wants, and he wants it immediately.

After his nap, his highness was hungry. Now, while he is incredibly advanced, his command of the English language leaves something to be desired, so I don't feel that I can be blamed for not knowing exactly what his desires were in the moment. I was given approximately 45 seconds to ferret out what his grunts signified...and then Joseph lost his temper. Luckily, my mother and sister had prepared me for this moment, and had both told me that he wants one of three things: sleep, food or entertainment. As he had just awoken, and my bobbing him up and and down was not accomplishing anything, I am happy to say that I quickly realized that it was feeding time. However, the realization of what he wanted did not, unfortunately, cause a bottle to magically appear in my hands. Which necessitated the first Angry Baby Strap Down of the day. Babies are not easy to manuever in any case...however, when they are being denied what they want, they are downright contrary. They squirm, kick, scream and generally fight as dirtily as possible in attempt to stop you from getting them safely secured so you can go heat up some lunch. And then they start crying. I don't mean they cry out...I mean they produce actual tears, which roll down their cherubic little cheeks and make you feel as if you are not only a terrible baby-sitter, you are quite possibly evil incarnate.

By the time I had Joseph into his vibrating chair (which, shockingly, isn't sexual at all), I was so flustered I was running around the kitchen like a chicken with it's head cut off, desperate to somehow heat up the water, so that I might heat up the milk, so that I might experience an end to the tears. Then, in the middle of my frantic labors, a rather mundane and obvious thought occurred to me: there is no way that anyone could do this any faster than I was. Granted, Krista has the natural advantage of being able to whip out a boob in about 15 seconds, but since I hope to never lactate, the joy of breast-feeding someone is going to have to remain a mystery. As I was not actually bodily producing his lunch, he was going to have to wait until the water was warm enough to heat his milk, so his majesty would not have to suffer through a tepid feeding. The realization of this was akin to the first shafts of sunlight breaking through an overcast day, lifting my spirits and making me realize that I wasn't a miserable, useless excuse for a human being, despite what my dictator-like nephew was trying to make me think.

Armed with the knowledge of my own general competence, and the confidence of having officially navigated my first baby-induced panic attack, the rest of the day passed in a much more enjoyable manner. As I said to Joseph, "Scream all you want kid, this homo rushes for no man. Or baby." I couldn't help but notice, however, that the child really was supporting from his diaphragm; he was able to scream as much as he wanted with no noticable decline in pitch or volume. I look forward to my next day with him...though I can assure you, his long morning nap will not be something that I allow to stress me out.

That's what the boot-flask is for.

Birthday Boy

2009-06-15T15:32:00.001-07:00

This month, I turned 29. Now, as a general rule, I have a large celebration to mark my having successfully avoided making it onto the Darwin Awards for another year. After all, I feel that it's my solemn duty to not only give myself the good time that I deserve, but I want to spread it around as much as humanly possible. However, for whatever reason, this year's impending birthday didn't inspire much excitement in me. In fact, I would go so far as to almost claim a general malaise about the whole event, and surprisingly not from any fear of getting older. I've never had much fear about that a) because I'm a firm believer that, generally speaking, one's 30s tend to be a more fulfilling decade than one's 20s and b) because despite turning 29 I still don't look a day over 21. How do I know this? Well, for one, I still get carded at bars, but even more telling was a brief encounter I had with my ex, Danny, a few weeks ago. It went like this:

Me: Danny! Hi, how are you?
Danny: Oh my God, Paul how are you?
Me: I'm doing okay, how are you?
Danny: I'm good...you look...exactly the same...

Blood of puppies. It works.

Not only does my actual age not reflect itself in my face, I also received a little boost from an old friend right around this time. Tommy is someone I used to wait tables with down in TriBeCa...he was a good time, had a fantastically checkered past and was an unabashed slut. I signed into my e-mail account one day to see that I had gotten a message from him, entitled "Are you in South Carolina?" Now, anyone who knows me knows that I wouldn't be caught dead in South Carolina. The one time I was unfortunate enough to be forced into the state was when I was on tour in my early 20's, and was informed upon check-in to the hotel we were staying at the we were in time for afternoon mass. Caught between gagging and spontaneously bursting into flames, I was lucky that someone behind me was able to pick up the dialogue where I left off and get us registered. But I digress.

Tommy was inquiring as to my whereabouts because, as he proudly stated, he had been looking for casual sex on the internet (him not feeling the need to dissemble about this at all should tell you all you need to know about Tommy) and someone had responded to his ad...using my headshot and claiming it was them. Now I understand that this should probably cause a feeling of uneasiness. After all, a stranger is using my photo on the internet. However, the truth of the matter is that my headshot is out in the world; it's probably frightenly easy for many people to get their hot little hands on it. This is why we don't print home addresses on them. So, despite the fact that I'm sure my mother is going to be completely disturbed by this story, I have to admit that upon receipt of this e-mail my first reaction was nothing other than...pride. After all, there is someone out there who is PRETENDING to look like me. Even the most humble among us couldn't help but be flattered. And let's be honest, we all know that I'm far from the most humble among us...upon hearing the news, I preened like a peacock, even while the more grounded part of my brain screamed "This is WEIRD! BE OFFENDED!!" This two paragraph tangent can be filed under "Story That Is Too Good To Not Blog About, and So Must Be Shoehorned Into Whatever Paul Is Writing About This Month."

Anyway, I'm not entirely certain why I wasn't excited about planning a birthday bash, though I suspect it may have had something to do with spending the week directly prior gallivanting around Italy and drinking myself stupid. Unfortunately, I've found that there's a downside to regularly having a yearly celebration, and then one year not feeling like putting out the effort: people notice. It happened when I was unable to host the Oscar Party a few years ago. I foolishly assumed, that with no invitation e-mail going out in the month prior, people would simply realize it wasn't happening that year; however, it turns out that people tend to have two reactions when they don't receive an invite they are expecting. Some people assume that it's still going on, and plan on arriving at your door anyway. Most of my friends fall into this category. Other people assume that it's still going on...and for some reason that they cannot comprehend, they have been dropped from the guest list, causing a level of panic not unlike the one inspired in me when one suggests that I go camping. I find this level of insecurity to be a toxic cocktail of pathetic and insipid. There were a few of these as well...and for the most part, they no longer count themselves among people I invite anywhere.

Hoping to avoid another invitation debacle like Oscargate 2006, I complained to two of my best friends, Victoria and Lisa, that I didn't feel like planning anything, hinting ever so delicately that maybe they would like to step up to the plate and do the heavy lifting. Luckily, my friends are always quick to pick up on my intimations (I believe Victoria calls them anvils), and the two took it upon themselves to plan the entire celebration. They chose the restaurant, the bar, the schedule...all I had to do was forward them a guest list, and show up to look pretty. It gave me a taste of how addictive it must be to start having personal assistants. Don't feel like dealing with all the petty minutia that make up everyday life? Not to worry...let the assistants handle it, then you show up and take credit. Brilliant!

With the planning of my birthday successfully delegated, I happily continued on with my life, which in the days between Rome and June 4th consisted mostly of me attempting to ring out my liver to the point where I would again be able to imbibe alcohol. The day of the bacchanal dawned and my first order of business was to visit my nephew. I'm happy to report that he remains perfect, and while the reports of his activities may seem banal to the casual reader ("You wouldn't believe how he can throw his head around!" or "He belches like a man!" or "Oh my God, you put a hat on him and he looks like a little old man!") I assure you that they continue to send shockwaves throughout the entire clan. Joseph was very happy to entertain his uncle, presenting me with a big grin while he bathed, a nice large drool spot on my shirt when he passed out, and more than a few instances of diaper-shaking flatulence, causing both his mother and I to dissolve into uncontrollable giggles.

My birthday continued to unfold in a fairly predictable manner: dinner, drinks, tequila shots, gay bar and so forth. At least until the time came for the drag show to begin, at which point I have to say I ceded the role of star of the evening to my friend Erika. Now, you might now be thinking that Erika is a drag queen, and it's my solemn duty to inform you that this is not the case. The drag hostess of the evening was one Bianca del Rio, and if there is a nastier, bitchier queen out there today, I have yet to meet her. Naturally, I find her hi-freaking-larious. Erika, on the other hand is my Cuban spitfire friend, who you might remember from a few posts back as having brought me to Georgia for a wedding. She also, besides being hysterically funny, seems to naturally give off some kind homing beacon for drag queens, which causes them to hone in on her, call her onstage and proceed to become completely smitten with her in about 3 minutes. Seriously, bringing her to a drag show is like chumming the waters by the Great Barrier Reef.

So, naturally, Erika was called up onstage, alongside a young woman who appeared to be of Arabic descent about whom Ms. del Rio promptly made an off-color joke regarding her less than feminine amount of body hair. I would have felt bad for the poor girl, but she was wearing leggings as pants. Leggings. Are. Not. Pants. Accept it. The two young women were forced to compete in a game of naming TV theme songs from the 80's, a game that it turns out I am terrible at. Anyway, within a few moments, just as so many drag queens before her, Bianca del Rio fell completely under the sway of Erika, and mercilessly verbally shredded her opponent for criminal stupidity, much to the delight of my entire birthday contingent. After another few minutes of this, Leggings was banished off-stage, and it was here that I was unfortunately called up, as the birthday celebrant, to compete with Erika in a second round.

Needless to say, Erika destroyed me at this; not only was I about 100% drunker than she, my mother never allowed us to watch television when we were younger. I didn't (and still don't) know the 90210 theme song, which to most of my generation is the aural equivalent of comfort food. After that beating, we were then informed that we would compete in a dance-off to decide the final winner of the evening. Now, I may have been blitzed, but I was under no illusions that I had snowball's chance in hell of winning this. Erika at this point not only had Bianca eating out of the palm of her hand, but every gay man in that bar desperately wanted to be her best friend. Besides this, at this point I had had enough to drink that I was operating with the basic grace of someone with two left feet that were both fractured. However, I must admit I was not expecting the kind of A-Game that Erika demonstrated in that moment.

Bianca excitedly announced that Erika would be dancing to Black Velvet by Alanna Myles. When asked later what was going through her head at that moment, Erika said that she realized she had two choices: she could bitch out, or she could nut up. Well, I can tell you with assurance that when Ms. Villalba chooses to nut up, she straps on a pair of balls that are pure steel. She did not dance to Black Velvet...she performed to it, owned it and made it her bitch. In a whirl of inspiration that can only be described as an homage to the burlesque strip tease, she used her time to a) delight her audience, drag queen and lush alike, and b) remind me that my friends are AWESOME. So, even though my 29th birthday party started out as something I couldn't muster up the energy to care about, by the end of it I couldn't have asked for a better celebration.

And Erika gave me the $50 gift certificate she won at the bar. Drinks anyone?

Gays of Wine & Romans

2009-05-27T13:58:00.001-07:00

If I may just say right off, I had a hell of a time titling this blog post. And I am so proud of what I finally came up with. Now back to your regularly scheduled blogging...

I am not a well-traveled person. I didn't get a passport until I was 27, and my first trip out of the country was to Mexico, which many people hurried to inform me didn't count. I must admit to not quite seeing their point; as far as I was concerned, English was a second language, I had a stamp in my passport and I really didn't see what else might have been required. However, this May, I left the country for Italy: the land of 50% of my ancestors, the land that no one could claim did not count as an international trip, the land where Jarred, one of my very best friends (and who, at 6'6", is officially the tallest person in the country), worked for Wine Enthusiast Magazine. And as I sit here on a Saturday night, stuck at work, frantically trying to figure out a way to sharpen a plastic knife and put myself out my misery, I realize that there is no more putting admitting that I am back in New York, and no longer in Rome. Hence, I find myself able to write about it.

There are many wonderful things about Rome. The gelato, for one thing. Never again will I scoff at the people who say that gelato in New York simply doesn't compare with the stuff in Europe. The gelato in Italy is perhaps the most delicious thing I've ever had, clearly having been made with equal parts butter, cream and rainbows. I had it for lunch at least 75% of the time, and miraculously never felt sick from it...it's as if Italy is magically giving the gift of gelato to those minorly lactose intolerant. If you are there, may I suggest a chocolate, coconut and pistachio mix...it'll make a grown man cry.

Furthermore, the entire city of Rome shuts down at approximately noon, and stays indoors until 4 pm, in an attempt to escape the oppressive heat. I've heard of a siesta before but I didn't realize a) that it was popular anywhere but Spain, and b) the complete, unflinching, city-wide commitment to the practice. Perhaps it's a product of most buildings in the metropolis having a metal drop down gate, but at twelve o'clock sharp every day, every Roman retreats inside to have a tremendous lunch, a glass of wine and escape the heat. Which leaves outside...the idiot tourists who don't realize that there are no more Italian people to tell them how to get around. It literally becomes an overly hot ghost town; I wouldn't have been surprised to see a tumbleweed roll through.

Meanwhile, if you do happen to walking around while there are actual natives around, God forbid you walk at a pace faster than a leisurely stroll. Jarred and I spent a good portion of the trip trying to perfect what we termed the Roman Swagger. It involves bringing your weight slightly back, a kind of hip roll that I needed another few days to really nail down and a real macho arrogance. If one can really conquer it, all signs point to the fact that it will put an end to perspiration. I was in Italy for 7 days and never once saw an Italian break a sweat. And that's not the only benefit, because the walk is quite sexy, much like the Italian language itself. Everything you say in Italian sounds like an invitation to something...lusty. So while I don't think anyone said anything actually dirty to me while I was there, I was completely titallated when someone requested the time.

The Swagger, of course, also bleeds into one of the more difficult parts of Italian culture to adjust to...their inability to do anything in a timely manner. Rome is the Eternal City mainly because the Romans can't be bothered to change anything about it. Case in point, upon arrival, one of the bathrooms in Jarred's apartment had been gutted because of a leak. It was supposed to be done early in my stay...perhaps it's needless to point out that upon my departure, the bathroom was still not functioning. The most amazing part was that no native Italians seemed to think this was odd...the plumber and his team were there sometimes, and sometimes they weren't. I imagine a call to an Italian plumber would go something like this:

You: "Hi, I need help, my shower isn't working."
Plumber: "Oh, no! It's shooting acid, instead of water?"
You: "No..."
Plumber: "Fire?"
You: "No, of course not-"
Plumber: "Oh, I see...it's actually spitting lightning bolts?"
You: "No! But there's a leak."
Plumber (pause): "I see. Low priority then."

Overall the trip to Italy was huge success, with a few standout experiences. On one day, Jarred invited me to come to his work with him...at Wine Enthusiast Magazine. Being a rabid wine enthusiast myself, I jumped at the chance to spend time in a place where people drank for a living, hoping that somehow, the practice would rub off on me, and I could convince people in the US to take it up. Upon entering the offices of Wine Enthuisiast Magazine Italy, I realized that the small buzzing in my ear I had been experiencing since deplaning in Leonardo DaVinci Airport was the insistent beckoning of the mothership calling me home. Picture walking into a room full of wine. I don't mean there's a wine rack full of bottles. I mean a room FULL OF WINE. Wine on the wine rack, wine on the table, wine on the floor, wine on the stairs, wine on the desks...oh, what's that in the bathroom? That's right, it's wine! Bottles upon bottles of fermented grape juice, available for the taking, and, more importantly, drinking. It was then that I realized that the only thing that could make the day better was if Jarred and I were able to dress up like Lucy and Ethel and frolick around in a vat full of grapes; I figured two bottles and we would both be up for a re-enactment that would be the talk of youtube in about 12 hours. And that's when I found out what we had to do.

It seems that when the magazine wants to put out an article, they solicit wines that relate to the topic, in this case the wines of Sicily. Makes sense. It also seems that in soliciting Sicilian wines for review in the article, Jarred and his editor managed to acquire something close to 80 free cases of wine, all full of the Sicilian wineries finest vintages that they hoped would make the pages of Wine Enthusiast. Exciting! Finally, it seems that all vineyards send two bottles of each grape, one for review, and one for back-up in case the first should be corked or in some way have gone bad. So for those of you doing the math, that means that almost 100% of the time, Jarred and his boss are left with a bottle of wine that they have no use for other than their own private enjoyment. Which means that Jarred lives life in Italy with, for all intents and purposes, his own private wine store, in which everything is free.

Meanwhile, while I was discovering this, Jarred was regaling me with the story of how, the week prior to my arrival, he had spent 5 days in Tuscany, at a "Prosecco Event," hosted in an ancient castle by the Princess Isabella of Belgium. No, I am not making that up, and no, I don't know how I resisted slaughtering him on the spot. He informed me that the princess was completely enamored of his charms, demanded that he sit next to her during the dinner, and extended an open invitation to him to come visit her vineyard in Belgium. Luckily, I look good in green, because I was so envious I probably could have gone on for Elphaba in Wicked without a make-up job. At the end of the day we tottered out of Jarred's office, each with a case of wine under our arms, and a spring in our step as we looked forward to reviewing them.

However, my main priority in going to Rome was to have a gay old time. I have been on a few vacations now, and somehow I always wind up not going to any gay bars, and/or being surrounded by nature. This time, I was going to an urban center, and while I know Italy isn't exactly on the forefront of the gay liberation movement, I was determined to unearth the seedy gay underbelly I knew was seething just beneath the surface. Jarred, always a willing partner in crime, was more than happy to guide me on my explorations. On our first expedition, we went to an establishment that he had actually never patronized before, but was walking distance from his apartment. I was secretly appalled that he had a gay bar within walking distance in Rome, and I didn't have one in Brooklyn, but I swallowed my pride and we walked over to Frequency.

As we walked up to the bar, we knew we were in the right place from the tell-tale bass thumping through the large metal door. As we walked in (mind you, we had naturally already had a bottle of wine at this point), the gentleman at the desk and Jarred exchanged a few words in Italian, and then the doorman said, and I quote:

"Oh, you're American? Do you know it's naked night?"

After a short pause, I said "You mean, like, NAKED naked, or underwear naked?" and a helpful British couple leaned forward and leered "NAKED naked". Jarred and I allowed the eager Brits to cut us in line while we regrouped, and as the couple passed through the curtain, let's just say that we were met with incontrovertible proof that naked meant completely in the nude, plus a pair of sneakers...we must protect our feet, of course! Overcome with a fit of the giggles, we stumbled back out onto the street, and I couldn't help but point out that 1) it really wouldn't be hygenic to sit down anywhere in that bar, and 2) I was not nearly drunk enough to take off my clothes in front of a group of strangers and not be getting paid for it. Jarred got us into a cab and off we went to Hangar, another bar in city.

Hangar was slightly less seedy than Frequency, at least insofar as we were allowed to enter fully clothed. Once inside, the bar mostly resembled a normal New York gay establishment, with a few notable exceptions. For one, the lone go-go boy was ensconced on a platform high above the audience...and had a rampant case of varicose veins. Now, I'm not one to judge...oh, wait, yes I am. Hey, if you sit at a desk all day and wear pants, and you have a little vein bulge going on, it's none of my business. However, if you are presenting yourself as an object of desire, then I believe it is your duty to take care of yourself, and get a little minor surgery. What's next, porn stars with back hair? Furthermore, Hangar also gives you a card on which the bartenders mark what drinks you have ordered, and then you hand the card to the doorman on the way out and pay. Is anyone reading this aware of how easy it is to spend money when no one is taking it? They basically hand you a credit card that you are only able to charge alcohol on. Two vodka/lemons in, and I probably would have tried to use that card to pay my cable bill.

However, the main difference between Hangar and the bars that I am used to was the presence of a dark room. Allow me to inform you right now that a dark room in an Italian gay bar has absolutely nothing to do with photography. It seems that many bars in Italy have them; the reason for this being, as Jarred explained it, is that most unmarried young people in Italy continue to live with their parents. Since they can't bring their evening entertainment home, they need another venue, which Hangar is only too happy to supply. A small, pitch black room in which two young lovers can romantically do their business and then happily walk out into the evening just as heterosexual as their parents would want. It's a bit sad...unless you're drunk with your best friend, and then it's almost unbearably hilarious. We closed Hangar that night, and wound up back home at 4 AM, made ourselves pasta and collapsed into bed at 5 in the morning. And, thanks to the influx of carbohydrates and water, managed to wake up without hangovers. Magical.

There were many other adventures while I was overseas. I found out at Il Circolo Degli Artisti that I am just as good a wingman in Italian as I am in English. Granted my methods are bit cruder, and basically amount to shoving Jarred into a hot guy, but hey, I got the job done. Jarred and I met a lovely signora at Cafe Fantini who served us hot, chocolate-filled croissants on the mornings that we actually saw AM hours. I learned that Italian men, while for the most part quite attractive, a) almost always smoke and b) cannot dance for beans. It's a horror. I discovered that Italians mostly view public transportation as a pay-what-you-can proposition. I saw the Trevi Fountain, and spitefully refused to set foot in Vatican City. I even heard an Italian man coin a phrase in English...when asked if he was dating a guy he responded "I am...frequenting him," like the guy was a corner store for orgasms. But most of all, I had a blast for a week with my friend Jarred, so all I really have to say is...viva Italia e ti amo, Jarred!

Say Uncle

2009-04-27T14:22:00.000-07:00

There is a t-shirt that many people wear. It's one that everyone has seen...it features a scowling Calvin from the classic comic strip Calvin & Hobbes, and reads "Every day, I'm forced to add another name to the list of people who piss me off." The shirt itself is a self-fulfilling prophecy, because every person I see with it immediately takes their place on the list of people that I consider Slinkies.

Why Slinkies you ask? Because, like Slinkies, they are completely useless, but sure are a lot of fun when you push them down a flight of stairs. Sidenote: I truly wish I could take credit for that joke. Unfortunately, in the interest of honesty, I have to admit that I definitely heard it somewhere else, though I couldn't tell you where. Whatever. They thought of it. I'm popularizing it. There are many people who are on my Slinky List; white people with dreadlocks spring to mind, as do people who wear leggings as pants, and whoever it was at ABC that canceled Pushing Daisies. However, most people on the list are those who work against my beloved gay community, and with gay marriage becoming legal in two new states in the past month, and looking like it's coming to Maine, the list has gotten much longer.

Let's start with Maggie Gallagher, the president of the National Organization for Marriage, who produced The Gathering Storm, or as I like to think of it, the ad that launched a thousand parodies. I'm not going to get into it...I would imagine most have watched it already. I will, however, say that I loved the part where they referred to themselves as "a rainbow coalition." It was like they were trying to simultaneously scream "Look, we're not racist! We like black people and someone in our ad has an accent!" and "Let's take back the rainbow from those dirty homos!" But back to the woman at hand. First off let me say that she at least has the courage of her convictions; if you do a quick Google image search on her, you'll find staring back at you a woman who has obviously not let a gay man touch her hair or clothes her entire natural existence.

After Frank Rich skewered her ad in a piece entitled "The Bigots' Last Hurrah," she responded with a letter to the New York Times claiming that she has warned that her opposition to gay marriage would lead to her being called a bigot, but that she's not the only one against it. Um, yeah, Maggie, we know, remember Prop 8 passing? We know you're not the only bigot on the block. But if your only defense is that there's safety in numbers, that's really pretty junior varsity. Isn't there something else you can muster up about why, exactly, you aren't a bigot, because I'm pretty sure that claiming the view of the majority isn't a Get Out of Being a Bigot Free Card. It just makes you a bigot and a bully.

Meanwhile, as I travel through life, I continue to be assaulted with images, quotes and stories about Jim McGreevey. Can I just come out and say that I think this man is an idiot? Honestly, I would really appreciate it if he could do his best to disappear off the face of the planet. Seriously, Jim. Haven't you given enough fodder to the freaking right wing crazies who already hate us by cheating on your wife with a man, stealing tax payer's money to finance your boy toy, and just generally being a tool? The man is two steps above Perez Hilton and Chris Crocker on the "This Is Why People Hate Us Scale."

Now he actually attends the premiere of Outrage, the documentary about outed politicians at the TriBeCa film festival...in which his own scandal is discussed in detail by his ex-wife. Not so bad...until you find out that he dropped out of the panel to discuss the movie later, because he was unhappy with the final cut. It turns out he didn't know his ex-wife was being interviewed, and thought it was just going to be his side of the story, and he would continue his facade as a gay hero, finally able to live his "truth." Gross. I mean, I get to a certain extent that we have to attack the homophobia that creates these people not the people themselves. I also get that McGreevey is apparently a shameless fame whore that only sees his own victimization, and doesn't seem to really want to take any responsibility for his own actions. Hey, Maggie Gallagher...how do you think that the McGreeveys' daughter is doing right now thanks to the marriage between a man and a woman?

Anyone who reads this blog knows that people piss me off fairly regularly. I think what particularly upsets me about these two is that they either defend their arguments by hiding behind children, or are so wrapped up in their own lives that they might not be paying attention to what their confessions of torrid threeways might be doing to their own offspring. My sister Krista had a baby, Joseph, on April 15th. Naturally, Joseph is perfect. But I wanted to make certain that in this world with so many people who just further their own agendas, Joseph knew that I would be putting his well-being before my own. So, when I held my nephew for the first time, I leaned down and whispered to him the following:

"I'll totally buy you porn. The boobie kind, cause honestly that's probably what you're gonna be into. And I wouldn't buy boobie porn for anyone but you. And I'm gonna get you condoms too. Glove the love, kid."

Wisdom and porn. My nephew can count on that.

The Ides of March

2009-03-25T13:04:00.000-07:00

One of the many perks to working as a teaching assistant at NYU is the continued ability to enjoy a school year schedule. Despite having graduated from college almost 7 years ago (wow, does anyone else feel the need for a strong drink?), I still get to revel in things like having Columbus Day off, and get to look forward to the summer as a time where my workload significantly shrinks. Unfortunately, being an employee rather than a student means that with this decrease in workload comes a decrease in paychecks, but I find if one does their best to pickle themselves in tequila as soon as May hits, one doesn't really seem to notice the decreased income quite so much.

One of the times that I look forward to every year is spring break. Ironically, this was not something I remember looking forward to that much while actually in university. Sure, I would be excited for the hiatus from papers and lecture halls, but I never anticipated it with the same fervor as I have found myself caught up in over the last few years. Situated in mid to late March, spring break always seems to come at the exact moment in time where I think to myself, "My God, if one of these children cries just one more time, that's it. I'm calling in the SWAT team and having them all hosed down so I can have just a moment's respite from their...incessant...prattling!" This year was no different, as I gratefully left my final class, looking forward to a long week of no one needing to be coddled, burped, comforted or spanked. Although if it was a really good week, with a lot of alcohol, spanking might not be completely ruled out.

It coincided, coincidentally, with a renewed commitment to myself to seek a boyfriend. I tend to go through waves of action and repose when it comes to seeking out dates; loneliness catapults me into something like speed dating, a quasi-successful relationship crumbles around me, I decide that I will no longer allow people the privilege of dating me if they can't comport themselves like adults, and I remain single until the inevitable loneliness creeps up again and I sign up for a new dating website. As I stepped out into the dawn of my spring break this year, I was definitely on the upswing of one of these cycles, with my complete lack of faith in strangers being defeated by the boredom of always lying in bed by myself, and the impending beginning of my 29th year. So, I decided to use my free week to really try to put myself out there.

It started with Saturday evening with a birthday party. I was a peripheral invitee to the soiree, taking place at The Hudson Hotel by Lincoln Center, and hence thought that I might have a shot at meeting some other gay men who I didn't yet know. Upon hearing of the location, I steeled myself to be annoyed with the crowd, the employees and the pricing, put on a button-down and attended. As I walked in, I looked around at the crowd and was overcome with the thought "Wow, you really CAN'T polish a turd," and then and there decided that this would be the one and only heterosexual bar I would be attending for my week of vacation. Surrounded by coked-up, arrogant bankers and the two-bit trash that loves them, I walked up to the bar, and ordered a Corona, which I was promptly informed would be $9.

I. Gagged.

Allow me to say right now that I enjoy Corona. I like the lime, I like that it's light, and I find it very refreshing on a hot, summer day while I'm watching David Wright look pretty as he bends over and...fields ground balls. This does not mean that I am unaware that Corona is basically carbonated Mexican piss with a citrus twist. $9 for piss is something that's an add-on to your escort's bill at the end of a kinky night, not a game-opener in a lousy hotel straight bar. I swallowed my bile, paid up and vowed to depart the premises as quickly as possible. My friend Brian arrived, whom I immediately gripped by the shoulders and hissed in a whisper that probably could have been heard two states away "Coronas are NINE DOLLARS!" Being a man of decisive action and limited bank account, he quickly proposed a change of venue to a local homosexual watering hole, Vlada, where rumor had it Lynda Carter would be performing. I quickly agreed, though part of me wished that Lynda Carter would arrive my current location in full Wonder Woman regalia with her Lasso of Truth, round up a few people getting to know each other, and see what pearls fell out of their mouths, like "I'm only after you for your money," or "I'd totally fuck you...after a boob job," or "I have a RAGING case of crabs."

Excusing ourselves, Brian and I traveled over to Vlada, accompanied by two more refugees, a gay couple who were also interested in not having to sell a kidney in order to tie one on. When we arrived, we found out that we had missed Lynda Carter (BOOO!), but that beers were only $3 (YAAY!). Actually, we had another half an hour before that special started, but Brian unbuttoned the top of his shirt while ordering, and the the bartender was more than happy to help us out. A few hours in, after numerous drinks and extensive conversation, I decided to announce that not only was I drunk, but I was drunk enough to take just about anyone who would present themselves. And like I had purposefully conjured the exact opposite of anyone I would want to sleep with, next to me appeared a fey, elfin little man by the name of Dom.

While I had not noticed Dom earlier, my compatriots had, and Brian informed me that he had been circling us for almost the whole night like a vulture waiting for the sickly zebra to finally give up the ghost. Well, my announcement was apparently the equivalent of shuffling off this mortal coil, because Dom's face lit up like a kid at Christmas, and before I could turn around, I was caught up in a conversation with him. Once I had gathered my thoughts, I moved to make my escape...and was foiled by Dom's friend Alicia, who immediately launched into how much fun Dom was. Caught without my wits about me, I did what any normal person would do...I pretended that Brian had called me, and walked away without a word of explanation.

I woke the next morning, feeling slightly disappointed, but not defeated. After all, spring break was young and I had not yet begun to fight. So, naturally, I called my mother, and whined to her about how I didn't have a boyfriend. My mother is incredibly generous in this regard...she allows me to regress completely and throw what verges on a temper tantrum, all the while managing to continue to love me. I'm half convinced the woman's body naturally produces Xanax. As I wailed about the desolate state of my love life, my mother patiently told me that all I had to do was "keep living life, keep meeting people" and everything would work out fine. To which my response was "Really, Mom? That's what we've come to as far as advice on this topic? Don't die?" Amazingly, she managed not to hang up on me, calmly informed me that I knew exactly what she meant, and smoothly reiterated her stance on the matter.

So I decided to sign up for an internet dating website. Now, while I have the sneaking suspicion that I've already plumbed the depths of that extremely shallow pool, I really felt like this was the easiest way to meet people. And as I had no plans on dying, I would be fulfilling my mother's prescription for future happiness, and I have never gone wrong following her advice in the past. So I looked for some dating websites. One had a $29.95 start-up fee (we're in a recession). One was only available to citizens of Great Britain (cute accent, hell of a commute). One greeted me with a picture of a frightenly large erection on the home page (I don't need a website to meet a penis). And then I remembered that eHarmony, the mothership of all dating websites had been required to launch a gay site.

First of all, let me say that I didn't really want to give any money to Dr. Neil Clark Warren or any of his websites. He long refused to accept gay couples on eHarmony, and only finally launched an affiliate after being threatened with a discrimination lawsuit. To use his website seemed to be the equivalent calling someone who had repeatedly spit in your face your best friend. However, then I thought how gloriously spiteful it would be to find a husband on his website and send him regular updates on how fantastically our love was blossoming, and how he made it all possible with his website, and how the world is just a little gayer because of him. Needless to say, with visions of fairies (both sugarplum and otherwise) dancing in my head I gleefully went to eHarmony and prepared to sign up. Unfortunately, as it turns out, rather than simply including us in their website, eHarmony set up a new destination.

CompatiblePartners.net.

First of all, is there any more ghetto sign off to a website than ".net?" I mean, seriously. You have ".com" which is the default, and, it's worth noting, is the end of the URL for the eHarmony mothership. Then ".edu" has the advantage of automatically being associated with an institution of higher learning, and ".org" is a not-for-profit, which immediately seems noble. And while no one is particularly happy with the current state of the economy, ".gov" retains a certain level of respect. I realize that this is a completely silly complaint, but I'm just saying "CompatiblePartners.com" was available...I checked.

However, let's really get to the crux of the matter here. This website is the obvious equivalent of civil unions; something that places gay relationships in a separate category from straight ones. There is not one single good reason that eHarmony itself could not have simply started matching gay relationships. But no, we had to go and start up an entirely separate site for those dirty homosexuals. Suck it. Separate is not equal, you ass-hats.

Furthermore, the name makes my teeth itch. Straight people get eHarmony, and we get Compatible Partners? Anyone who has ever spoken to me knows how grating I find it when people, gay or otherwise, refer to their "partner." I realize that this is, for many people, the accepted vernacular, and that the people who created the website meant no harm in using it. But I really don't care, it makes me violent. A male spouse is a husband, and a female spouse is a wife, now everyone get the fuck over it. Besides this, we're looking for "compatible?" Really? It couldn't be LovingPartners, or LifePartners, or even HarmoniousPartners? I'm giving them the word "partner" on this one, and let me tell you it is chapping...my...ass. How many people think "Gee, when I get married, I REALLY hope we're compatible?" Compatibility is something I worry about if I'm buying new software for my computer, not the first thing that comes to mind when I think about the love of my life.

And after all that, they weren't even launching until April 1st, so I couldn't sign up anyway.

I admit to feeling a bit defeated at that point. Sure, there was more drinking to be done, but would I really have any more luck than I had in my first outing? I'm sure there were more websites to explore, but surely they too would only serve to piss me off. I sat there in front of my computer, torn between annoyance, defeat and boredom. And I did something that I always ALWAYS warn people against: I googled myself.

Now, we've all done this. It usually leads to results ranging from horrifying to boring, but almost never yields anything that can truly be categorized as a good thing. I clicked through the expected old theater reviews, and the hits for a gentleman by my name that is apparently a lawyer, and stumbled upon something I had never seen before: a blog written by an old college classmate of mine, someone who I remembered vaguely. In it, he confessed to having had a "palpable crush" on me (Clueless, party of one? That's me!), said that I looked like Edward Norton, and admired my "puppy dog eyes." His point was that he missed having crushes on people...now all that was left was dating, which was infinitely less fulfilling.

I can't claim to have had a crush on him in return. I was about 18 or 19 at the time, so I was probably too screwed up with all the hormones running through my system to know what I liked. But do I ever owe him a thank you for writing that short paragraph about me. It not only proved to me that there are people out there who do want to date me, it reminded me that sometimes the journey is better than the destination. Maybe I didn't meet anyone special on spring break, but I had a great night out with friends, a good temper tantrum about injustice, and discovered that there is someone in the world who would describe my eyes as "puppy dog." Having crushes is fun, and they usually lead to something silly happening...so that's my new goal for April. I'm not looking for a boyfriend anymore. I just want to meet a boy who gives me butterflies.

The Bitch Is Back

2009-02-11T17:09:00.000-08:00

Many times when something upsets us we are advised to write a letter to the powers that be and express our displeasure. Somewhere around my tenth birthday, I realized that this was completely futile, and that everyone who told me that "you wouldn't believe what a single letter can do" was either a) a kindergarten teacher, b) mentally challenged or c) Sesame Street. Mostly what an angry letter does is provide us with an easy way of deluding ourselves into believing that someone in power actually gives a crap what we think. We rant and rave, and proudly show our friends and family our written diatribe, all the while walking around with a great deal of pride in how proactive we are being in making the world a better place. I'm not trying to look down on the therapuetic value of a good rage...my mother always says that no one can seethe like I can. However, I think we all realize that nine times out of ten, these letters are promptly tossed into the garbage by the addressees, and that all of our righteous anger goes out with the trash.

After my last posting had an unusually high-level of heartfelt emotion in comparison to judgmental snarkiness, I received several explicit requests for something a little more pointed. Funny. Bitchy. It seems some readers come here to live vicariously through some of my more vicious observations. This is for you. Think of something that makes you angry, like horizontally striped spandex, vegan cookies or The Pink Panther 2. Hopefully it really chaps your ass, with just a dash of superiority, which should put you right in line with where this is going. For all of you readers who feel oppressed by the stupidity of the majority...these are for you.

Dear Women Who "Work-Out":

You might be wondering why you aren't losing weight. You go to the gym every day, and really exert yourself walking on that treadmill at a break-neck speed. You make certain that you're going as fast as you can without causing any perspiration that might cause the make-up you spent half an hour putting on before you arrived to run in any way. Furthermore, you have to make certain that you aren't moving so fast that you can't flip the pages of your Us Weekly...after all, when else will you be able to catch up on Jennifer's heart-breaking meeting with Brad and Angelina at the Oscars? Also, if you put that machine up to a pace too intense, you would actually need to buy sneakers. The wedge sandals, high-heeled boots and just plain socks would never be able to stand up to any pace over 3 miles an hour. Finally, if you go too fast, you'll never be able to continue the oh-so-interesting conversation that you're having with your friend who's walking on the treadmill right next to you. A conversation, I might add, that you're having so loudly I can hear every single word even though I have my Ipod turned up to the highest volume in an attempt to get Tina Turner to drown out your incessant prattling.

News flash, ladies (and while I am sure there are male offenders, in my experience this group is almost entirely composed of women): you aren't losing weight because you aren't working out. Simply physically being on a treadmill does not count as burning calories, and just moving your arms a lot so you look like you're speed-walking doesn't mean that you get to have a pint of Ben & Jerry's when you get home. Taking your lazy ass to the gym isn't going to do anything if you don't actually exert yourself when you're there. Here's an idea: take the time you use to make sure that you "look good" before you leave the house, and add it onto your time on the exercise machine of your choice. Then stop reading magazines, stop talking to your friends, and for God's sake, stop working out in your street clothes. Go to the gym, and work out until you vomit. You'll lose weight one way or another that way.

Dear Restaurant Canoodlers:

We, the public, believe that you are very much in love. This is our official position. Now will you please end the completely unnecessary habit that you have of sitting next to each other rather than across from each other at the table? First of all, it makes everyone in the restaurant, from the staff to your fellow diners, want to yell out "Hands where I can see them!" every time they walk past you. Secondly, no one wants to watch you nuzzle, cuddle, huddle, giggle, tickle, Eskimo kiss, really kiss, gaze into each other's eyes or feed each other while they themselves are trying to eat. It's repulsive, particularly when you are a person over the age of 25. At least the young ones out there can blame their raging hormones. After that, you just become the picture of a desperate person trying to prove to a group of strangers that you found someone who's willing to accept the fact that your ugly mug is going to be the first thing they see when they wake up in the morning.

How's this: if you really can't eat a single meal without being in physical contact with each other, order in. That way you can dry hump on your couch while shoveling take-out into your mouths, and we aren't treated to your delightful public displays of affection between courses. Everybody wins, especially the people trying to eat around you who will no longer have to fight crippling nausea as they attempt to eat their meals.

Dear American Apparel:

Stop it. Just stop it. Go away.

Dear Loud Subway Talkers:

Why must you sit across the aisle from each other and have a conversation? Why can you not sit next to each other like normal people and speak in a measured and quiet tone of voice? You are the exact opposite of our earlier offenders, The Restaurant Canoodlers, and yet manage to be just an infuriating. While most of these offenders are male (I can't sit next to my friend! We both have to spread our legs as wide as we can, cause our penises are SO BIG! And if we sit next to each other, our thighs will touch, and that's totally GAY! I HAVE A BIG PENIS!), this letter is being specifically addressed to the group of three women who surrounded me yesterday, and spoke of Jesus and alcoholism. The woman sitting next to me loudly proclaimed, "I used to drink. I mean, I didn't have a problem but I drank. And then one day, I was in a bar, and I woke up with my face on the toilet seat, and I just said "Jesus, I give it to you." That's what I said" seemingly unaware that the people around could hear her admit that her FACE touched a TOILET in a BAR.

Now you listen to me. If you were drunk enough to allow your face to touch the toilet seat of a bar, you have a problem. You have lost control, and you need to stop drinking. And deciding to "give it to Jesus," really presupposes the fact that Jesus is not as completely grossed out as the rest of us at the content of your story and the location of your face. Jesus has bigger issues to deal with, not the least of which being the fact that a large part of his followers are complete nutbags, so stop bothering him with your ridiculous whining. But the real issue here is that I don't need to know this about you...all you need to do is sit next to your girlfriends and keep your voice down. This will not only help me, but will stop half of a subway car looking at you like you're a toxic waste dump. And these are people sitting on a New York City train...our standards of cleanliness are definitely on the lower end.

Dear Agents, Managers, etc:

Suck it. I have tried to be polite to you. I've tried to not be a pest. I've tried to just sit back and let nature take it's course, tried to believe that eventually things will happen just because I got trained and I work my ass off. Well, no more. I'm performing in a show where, quite frankly, I'm fucking fantastic. Now get your asses to Loaded, or this ship is sailing out to fucking sea, and never again will you have the opportunity to hitch a ride. If you liked it, then you shoulda put a ring on it. Peace out bitches.

Regards,

Paul

Hey, Jude

2009-01-27T11:36:00.000-08:00

Last weekend, my naked show, Loaded, closed. I'll pause while those among you who weren't graced with the full-frontal can get a tissue and wipe your eyes, to rid them of the tears that are no doubt currently pixelating your screen. And not to worry, the play had an extremely successful run, and is getting extended in March, which means your chance to see the full monty has not passed you by. Hell, even if the play wasn't extended, all you would really need was a couple of margaritas and a twenty and your chance hasn't passed you by. And I really just put that bit in about needing a twenty as incentive to take off my pants in an attempt to sound classy. Upon re-reading...swing and a miss.

Anyway, as another play winds down and I return to the more low-key life of survival jobs and boyfriend-hunting, I find myself sinking into the somewhat expected post-show malaise. For those of you out there who may not have ever been bitten by the theatre bug, perhaps this seems odd. The schedule of running a show (particularly one that is not paying the bills independently of other jobs) is back-breaking, and I have never been involved in a theatrical production that did not come with some sort of soap opera-style shenanigans. One would think there must be some sort of release that comes along with the simple re-emergence of what passes for normalcy in one's life, and one would be right, there is. However, once the initial rush of a normal amount of sleep passes, I have never been able to escape a lingering sadness at the end of a run, and I find this hiatus (despite that fact that it is just a hiatus) to be the most palpable I have ever experienced.

I always grow very attached to characters that I play, something that I would imagine many actors experience. Maybe it's a result of my college acting professors beating into my head that the actor cannot judge the character (not judging, very difficult for me), and that the actor must love the character for who he is. The role in Loaded, Jude, was no different. Jude was a lost soul, a young man who had contracted HIV at a young age, who engaged in extremely dangerous sexual practices, and generally made extremely unintelligent decisions when it came to relationships. He was a puddle of need and want, a young man who wanted to love and be loved more than anything else, and yet had no idea how to go about actually finding it. As my director would say, "Jude goes to the hardware store looking to buy oranges." And despite his repeated defeats in going to that hardware store, Jude somehow continued to believe in love.

I'm not much for method acting. Whenever I hear about some Hollywood actor staying in character when not shooting scenes, I roll my eyes and wonder how the crew can stay focused and get the shots they need with someone walking around virtually masturbating and begging everyone to look. I do, however, spend a lot of time daydreaming about a character that I'm playing, and listening to music that reminds me of him. Now, as I put Jude to rest for a few weeks, I find myself missing him terribly.

Ultimately, I guess the purpose of this post is just to admit that for some reason I miss someone who never existed except in my head. Which is, of course, slightly insane, and sounds unfortunately close to something that would be given a 5-episode arc on Grey's Anatomy, complete with a stirring indie rock ballad upon culmination so the audience would know that this was the moment that the characters were learning something, and they're supposed to cry. I've tried to pinpoint exactly the reason that I continue listening to the "Judah" playlist on my Ipod, and, in fact, keep adding songs to it, and I think I've finally figured it out.

I miss Jude because Jude is the side of me that I don't allow most people to see. I play the jaded cynic in life, but just the other night I made a comment to my friend Adam about wanting to get married and he said to me "You see? You see? For all of your judgments and sarcasm, you still believe in love." With some of the things happening in this world right now involving gay rights, starting with (but in no way limited to) the passing of Prop 8 in California, it is very easy to be angry, and cutting, and bitter. It is very difficult to be optimistic. It is very difficult to pick yourself up, dust yourself off and not only fight for what you want and deserve, but actually believe that you'll win. Jude, despite all of his defeats in life, still believes in love, and believes that one day love will win out. And getting to say that onstage every night, getting to express that belief in front of an audience was not only liberating, it felt like I was flying.

This is not to say that I in any way plan on wearing rose colored glasses, preaching free love and hugging strangers. I'm just saying, I miss someone who doesn't exist. And I'm not going to judge that.

The Underground Pie Railroad

2008-12-23T14:42:00.000-08:00

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.**

The Actor's Diet

2008-11-15T13:12:00.000-08:00

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!**

Italian Orthodox

2008-10-11T01:00:00.000-07:00

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.

Mint Juleps and Honeysuckle

2008-09-15T10:50:00.000-07:00

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...

Brokeback 10m Platform

2008-08-27T15:40:00.000-07:00

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.

Like a Fine Wine

2008-08-13T15:22:00.000-07:00

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.

A New York State of Mind

2008-07-16T17:10:00.000-07:00

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!**

You Put the Pride in the Coconut

2008-07-02T08:06:00.000-07:00

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.

WWUBD?

2008-06-19T19:20:00.000-07:00

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.

A Disrespectful Disagreement

2008-06-12T10:00:00.001-07:00

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.**

Why David Wright Should Marry Me

2008-06-06T17:37:00.001-07:00

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.

Popular Demand

2008-06-02T13:25:00.001-07:00

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.

Mandatory sterilization. It's gonna sweep the nation.

Things That Make Me Gay

2008-05-30T10:34:00.001-07:00

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.

Launch Party

2008-05-29T13:52:00.000-07:00

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.