Monday, February 28, 2005

Much Ado About Not Much, Really

A question plagues me this Monday of Mondays:

Why are the Oscars growing more tiresome year by year?

Beyond bored, I couldn't even make it to the final big three awards. I knew Clint Eastwood would win Best Director, that Jamie Foxx would win Best Actor, and that Million Dollar Baby might win Best Picture. Faced with the fact that I knew this already, sleep was a far better alternative.

However, there was one truly astounding moment of hilarity that happened during the telecast.

For some surreal reason, Salma Hayek and Penelope Cruz presented the technical awards for Sound Editing and Sound Mixing. They were both coiffed in the same poofy up-do and both mangled the English language in the sweetest, most-es-Spanishesy way. They each had to read so much information and utter so many many names. Both cooed and fluttered over difficult nominee last names, yet banged and knocked the syllabic emphasis of words around like Hilary Swank in the final fight of "Million Dollar Baby." All I could think was: what cracked out faggot-ass producer decided to have the only two non-native English speakers up as presenters for the most convoluted, techy-mumbo-jumbo category? Were we to only gaze lovingly at their cleavage and ignore the content of what they had to say?

Well, try to say, anyway.

All the while, both women looked stunningly, um, too much like each other.

They also seemed a little perturbed at the situation. I was quietly hoping for the duo to get pissy with each other and start a raging, hair-pulling, name-callling, dress-tearing, nail-cracking, jewelry-flying, false-eyelash-popping, bitch-slapping, one-breast-showing, high-heel-breaking, muff-flashing, earrings-hurling, make-up-mashing, plastic-surgery-scars-revealing, no-holds-barred ladies-balls-to-the-wall catfight on stage.

Alas, my dream did not come true.

It was also nice to see Natalie Portman, presenting an award shortly after she lost to the more-deserving Cate Blanchett, not even fucking try to be happy or up-beat post-loss. Miss P. was pissed off, and wonderfully, amazingly not afraid to show it.

Sunday, February 27, 2005

Not So Hot For Teacher

I took a one-day humor writing workshop today through Gotham Writers Workshop. About an hour into the class, I was verging on a panic attack having to contend with the fact that I had to sit there - in a high school classroom - in an ass-torturing high school one-piece chair-and-desk unit for another six hours.

Not that I have a problem with ass torture, mind you.

Attending this class made me realize this: School Sucks.

I have never felt that way before, ever. I am a recovering over-achiever who was severely addicted to school, the attention of academic success and the ego-fluffing trappings thereof. However, sitting in a class today made me itchy, distracted and generally annoyed. I probably was feeling like most of the kids I went to school with back in the day.

Maybe now I can see too well what a construct school is, knowing that the world is in no way shape or form a meritocracy.

The class started with a quote from Carol Burnett: "Comedy = Pain + Time."

I was surely in pain today.

But the second the class was over, my friend Anne and I were out on the street, doubled over in laughter.

Saturday, February 26, 2005

Million Dollar Darling

Being Julia
uploaded by tm.
Fuck Hilary Swank.

I saw "Being Julia" this afternoon, cramming for the Oscars tomorrow night, and Annette Bening is beyond brilliant in this film. I am a film junkie to the nth degree, and I have to say that rarely does a single performance do so much in such an entertaining, grand and at times quiet and stunning way.

OK, I'll admit it: I'm a sucker for a great broad. And, a great broad is what Annette Bening truly is.

She more than carries this film. At times, she smacks it around, benchpresses it and commands it like an empress. This is superb acting in capital letters from an actor that is often not given her due as one of the best working today.

As a portrait of an often needy yet talented extrovert, "Being Julia" is telling in how it lets us inside to see the mechanics of vanity and how the urge to perform can often cripple true emotion.

The film closes with a triumphant revenge scenario - imagine what Margot Channing would have done if she hadn't let Eve Harrington "get away with it."

But, back to Annette. This isn't stunt acting (see: actors who gain weight, use facial prosthetics, etc.) or blunt impersonation (see: "Ray", "The Aviator", etc.). This is a performance that is lived, felt and thought about in great detail. This is a performance that barrels from the screen with a light and life that most actors can only dream of being able to project.

So before Hilary Swank enters the airy and rareified realm of multiple lead-category Oscar winners (hey, even Meryl-fucking-Streep doesn't own two Best Actress Oscars), let us pay tribute to this year's real winner.

Friday, February 25, 2005

Oral Cavities 101

I went to see "Inside Deep Throat" last night. What seemed shocking over 30 years ago, now seems as quaint and sweet as a quilt sewn by one's grandmother.

Paris Hilton, are you listening?

However, we are beyond the pale -the days of the 1970 near-innocent, naive style of pornography are long over. We are living in an age of impossible commodification, when it comes to sex and bodies and identity.

Erica Jong put it best in the film: "From a few people who were carving out their own trailblazing path, a very cynical adult entertainment industry emerged. They started coining money, hand over fist."

Nowadays, pornography is mass entertainment, and vice versa.

At least, the actors in adult films don't have any illusions about what they are paid for.

Halle Berry, are you listening?*

*Sorry, Halle, but weren't you paid, um, $50,000 per tit just to drop your top in the otherwise unnotable "Swordfish"? For "Deep Throat", lovely Linda Lovelace got just 200 beans for chugging some serious cock and for having the world think her clitoris was in the back of her throat.

She ain't got no damn Oscar, neither.

Thursday, February 24, 2005


Myself being overly obsessed with reading my daily horoscope online, I have learned far too much about how the sweet stars in heaven above dictate interpersonal behavior and personality. So, for no good reason: a short semi-astrological guide to the mens of the queer persuasion:

ARIES: Loud Slut
TAURUS: Slow Slut
GEMINI: Chatty Slut
CANCER: Crybaby Slut
LEO: Proud Slut
VIRGO: Clean Slut
LIBRA: Two-Faced Slut
SCORPIO: Secretive Slut
AQUARIUS: Ditzy Slut
PISCES: Indecisive Slut

Just trying to save y'all some time. It's really as simple as this:

Loud Sluts are a lot like Easy Sluts and Proud Sluts.

Slow Sluts like to bide their time with Clean Sluts and Cheap Sluts.

Chatty Sluts truly dig Two-Faced Sluts and Ditzy Sluts. Makes talking so much a lot easier.

Crybaby Sluts usually get Secretive and Indecisive Sluts' shoulders to weep upon.

And to complete the logic:

The Loud, the Easy and the Proud tend to choose the Chatty, the Two-Faced and the Ditzy to hang with, while the Slow, the Clean and the Cheap tend to gravitate to Crybabies, Secret Agents and the alluring Flip-Flopper, Hip-Hoppers.

(For those interested, I'm an Easy Slut that's Slow Rising. The placement of the moon in my birth chart also makes me a Crybaby; Venus and Mars make me Cheap and Indecisive.)

Wednesday, February 23, 2005

Bombay Hungry

I ate at a new Indian restaurant last night called Bombay Talkie. They should call that shit Bombay Hungry. I dropped $50 and left the joint starving. The drinks were good and the interior was interesting enough, but each plate had like 4 skinny girl bite-size pieces on it.

Maybe I have high, lowbrow expectations when it comes to Indian food. When you can kick it hardcore on 6th street in the East Village and gorge yourself for less than $20, why bother with the haute shit?

There should have been a disclaimer on the menu along the lines of: "Hey, Fatty: Hungry? Looks like your ass is always hungry. Listen, walk across the street, and get yourself two slices from Ray's Pizza. Then come back and join us!"

The waitstaff was also utterly confused. I was served by no less than five different people, all of whom had seemingly never worked in a restaurant before. Some of them were so nutty, I wasn't even sure they had even eaten in a restaurant before.

Saturday, February 12, 2005

Watching Paint Dry, Predictably

On a whim, I went to go see "Hide and Seek" last night. I was entirely bored. Luckily, my friend Ryan and I whispered and giggled throughout the film. Instead of being mindlessly entertained, I was mindlessly drawn to thoughts of Dakota Fanning, her current superstardom, and upcoming, naturally counterbalanced fall from grace.

I can already hear the E! True Hollywood Story voiceover script. At this point in time, we're moments, or at least one commercial break, away from when Dakota develops a prescription drug problem. Or a cocaine problem. Or a drinking problem.

One has to ask: is it wrong to want her to have all three?

The movie wasn't even good-bad, camp-wise. There were a few moments of giggle-inducing pleasure though: Academy Award Nominee Elisabeth Shue has so little to do here, her dewy cleavage upstaged her acting.

Yes, that's right. Her titties were dewy.

Friday, February 11, 2005

Mary's Fish Cramp

Last night, I finally ate at Mary's Fish Camp in the West Village. I have been stalking the restaurant forever, but have never made the dining plunge due, mostly, to the crowds and waitlist it usually attracts. I was having dinner with my friend J. and it was his heady and perfect suggestion that we go there.

The restaurant's also been a bit of a legendary place for me personally, in that Amy Sedaris, the funniest woman alive, still waits tables there from time to time.

Sadly, Amy wasn't working. To be honest, if she were, I may not have been able to eat, all things considered. I would have either been early toddler peek-a-boo shy, or I would have launched into my own one-woman rendition of all three seasons of "Strangers With Candy", whether Ms. Sedaris liked it or not.

However, J. and I did thoroughly enjoy the shit out of an excellent meal, right down to two separate hold-down-and-smack-somebody-this-shit's-good desserts. I had the Lobster Pot Pie, which was about a pound of melted butter, lobster, etc. hiding demurely under a bonnet of buttery, flaky, fatty goodness. J. and I both had serious entreé envy though, when our table-neighbors got their Lobster Rolls. Next time, I ain't fucking around. I know the real deal.

After dinner, J. and I hung out at his apartment. We were both a bit gassy from all of the creamy, fishy heaven we inhaled at Mary's. J. and I had a brief flatulence war, which J. won hands down.

"Whoa, " J. said just after emitting a minor anal aria. "That last one could kill somebody."

"Hold on." I quickly lit a match, and blew it out so the sulphur from the extinguished matchhead could do its magic. Unfortunately, the combination didn't work out so well; the sulphur did little in the way of absorbing the odor. In fact, it accentuated it, giving the air a smoky, violently savory scent.

As our faces torqued in horror, I said: "Dear Lord. Now it smells like a pork roast in here."

Thursday, February 10, 2005

Snatch It Up

I was walking one Saturday afternoon down Newbury Street in Boston with my friend Lucas. Lucas and I were giddy as schoolgirls for some reason or other that day. We passed a group of young, faux-punk (mostly likely entirely upper-middle class) kids who were panhandling. As we walked in front of where the group was sitting, the alpha-female of the group screeched at Lucas:

"HEY. Gimme your change."

Given my friend Lucas' nature, he wasn't about to just ignore these rich kids acting out, pretending to be on the skids. Lucas reached in his pocket and pulled out a subway token.

"Sorry, lady." Lucas replied. "All I have is a T token."

This only gave the surly young punkette good reason to get surlier.

"OK, " she barked. "I'll take that."

"No." Lucas said through a burgeoning wave of shits and giggles.

As the encounter seemingly came to an end, the punkette mouthed the word "fags" and gave us the middle finger.

"Lucas, that girl just flipped you the bird, " I said. The next thing I knew, Lucas is standing, arms akimbo, in front of the pack of punks, ready to school them in good manners.

"Hey, bitch. Did you just flip me off??" Lucas snapped.

"Sure did," their ample leader said.

"Oh, yeah?" At this point, Lucas turned to the punks, bent half-way over and grabbed his ass cheeks with both hands.

"Well, you can bite my ass you little snatch!"

The entire crowd of panhandlers then burst into a chaotic fit of laughter. As we continued our walk past them, Lucas waved to them and yelled out: "Hey, have a great day!"

As the punks, still laughing, waved back to Lucas, he turned to me and said: "See how easy it is to make new friends?"

Wednesday, February 09, 2005

It's Pattesia, Bitch.

Last night, I spoke to my friend Patty on the phone. Since she is one of the funniest people I know, I asked her if she had read my blog yet, as I was interested in her opinion, etc.

She replied: "Um, yeah. You make me sound like a fucking lunatic, bitch."

In my entry about my friendster testimonials, I chose one of the three I've written for Patty to include in my greatest hits. It was the shortest (and, OK, the most lurid) one that was a variation of a riff I once did with Patty regarding the oddest scene in a very odd film by Kathryn Bigalow called "Strange Days". In this particular scene, Juliette Lewis, after singing a set of PJ Harvey songs(!) to a fairly large crowd, walks offstage to her dressing room. JL is seriously sweaty, even though she is only wearing a 12x12 inch square of chain mail. As she enters her dressing room's bathroom, she removes the square of chain mail and inexplicably starts to wash her titties, even though she has make-up running all down her face and her hair looks as if it's been styled with an entire vat of vaseline.

Patty and I were howling about the scene and the idea that she was on the road with JL, helping her perform the crazy titty-wash. Out of this context, I realize now, it makes little sense. Hey, it could make even less sense with the explanation I just gave.

Anyway, back to the real story at hand. Here is, uncut, a more accurate (and less insane) picture of Patty:

Most people don't know this about Patty: in the very early 1990s, she was a muse to the artist formerly known as (now currently back to being known as) Prince. Prince tried to dub Patty "Chysanthemum Colitis" - but she honorably and sanely refused. "It's Pattesia, bitch!" was Patty's reply.

In a flurry of James Brown drum loops, spandex, and lucite heels, Pattesia was poised to be the next Apollonia, until one fateful night at a Minneapolis karaoke bar. She was kickin' it root down with the Paisley Prince - singing a lot of Stevie Nicks, Heart and Pointer Sisters hits. When Prince asked to have the microphone back from Pattesia to sing his own "Raspberry Beret", she once again, honorably refused.

"This is my show, bitch!!" Pattesia screamed. The crowd went wild. Pattesia then tore into her own gay-club-remix of a different version of Prince's song called "Ras-Pattesia Beret." To this day, it's rumored, the song now makes Prince weep for what could have been, but what never was.

Prince, humbled before his own people, on his own turf, then fled to a Cincinnati strip mall to take refuge in the flailing dance party USA arms of the then unknown Tara Patrick, an underage dancer who would later emerge from behind the Paisley Park palace walls as "Carmen Electra."

Tuesday, February 08, 2005

Body by Mom

Quite a few years ago, my friend Max and I were hanging out at his apartment. Max had a roommate then, and the roommate was also there, hanging out with us. We were drinking quite a lot of wine and somehow the conversation turned to the subject of Max's roommate's mother. Max's roommate got very excited when the topic of her profession came up. He raced to his bedroom to find some pictures of her. As Max's roommate tore through his room to find these pictures, Max and I were completely perplexed as to why we had to see photographs of her in order to find out or discuss what she did for a living. The roommate finally returned with pictures of a very tan, very musclely person with a toxic blonde bouffant hairdo in an aqua bikini flexing her guns in front of a huge trophy.

The roommate's mother was a professional body builder.

Max looked at the picture for at least a minute, then looked at me with a shit-eating grin. He then turned to his roommate and asked: "How come you never told me your mama was a man?"

Due to the amount of cheap red wine that Max and I had consumed that afternoon, quite naturally, a song emerged, a tribute to Max's roommate's mother. To be sung to the chorus of Tiffany's late-80s classic, "I Think We're Alone Now", here is, in part, the semi-original ditty, "My Mama's A Drag Queen":

Running just as fast as we can
Holdin’ on to my drag queen mama's hand
Tryin’ to get away into the night
And then you put your big man arms around me
And we tumble to the ground
And then you say:
My mama's a drag queen
There doesn’t seem to be any dick around
My mama's a drag queen
The sequins on her gown make the only sound

Monday, February 07, 2005

Blow Out (or, Thighs and Whispers)

In recent years, I have been known to be a little ripe - so to speak - in the body odor department. In certain situations, namely a certain few lower Manhattan bars, this has gotten me into the best kind of trouble. In other situations, however, this has granted me disapproving looks and scowls from women (mostly anyway) in public places who would otherwise probably give me at least the hint of a smile.

Since I go to the gym at the corner of 23rd and Fag, my ripeness there usually isn't that big of a deal. Occasionally though, an unsuspecting female will dare to use the Elipitcal trainer next to me. After a minute or so of basking in my sometimes-too-much stench, said random female will then, without doubt, make a horrid, judgmental face and dash quickly to another machine. One time a particular woman, who incidentally was wearing panty hose under her too-tight gym skorts, made such an awful face at me, her downturned face seemed to scream: "I'm certainly NOT paying my membership dues to endure this BULLshit!". Another time, a trainer was giving a tour to a very uppity young woman dressed for work in smart Ann Taylor separates. The trainer happened to pause for a moment in front of me, to explain something to the young woman. As her face began to curdle in disdain, I could hear the trainer say, even above the roar of my headphones, "Sorry, Miss. I guess he needs to wash his socks," as if my iPod classified me as a virtual deafmute.

I also used to take a class at the gym called "Total Body Conditioning" that was taught by a man who was so muscled, he was hard to look at. Not to completely fag-out, body conscious-wise, but he looked like he had been birthed as as a single hard, plastic piece via injection molding. I stopped taking the mostly-female attended class for many reasons (yes, the stink-and-scowl factor was a big part of it), but mostly because during my last class, I was wearing shorts that were too tight.

We were doing a set of oh, about 50,000 squats. Since my shorts were too tight, as I squatted, they kept catching on my knee (OK, also on my ass and thighs), until about half way through the set when a horrible explosion happened directly behind me.

I heard audible gasps from my classmates Bunny and Gretchen and Grace and Cheddar and Khaki and Chutney. More disturbingly, I could no longer feel the not-so-forgiving fabric of my shorts stretched taught across my ass.

"What the fuck?" I thought to myself. As the reality of a new cool breeze hit me, right past my exposed buttcheeks, I realized: I had just completely blown out the back of my shorts, beyond repair and dignity, right down the center seam.

To add insult to injury, I was wearing a jockstrap.

Sunday, February 06, 2005

Grunt and Moan-ials

I was once asked to compile the testimonials I've written for people on Friendster. The dude who requested the compilation wanted it to read on the crapper. Just in case you've gotta go, gotta go, gotta go, right now, here are some of my greatest hits from f-ster, in no particular order:

ON ROBERT: Your shamrock shake brings boys to the yard...and they're like "You Leprechaun whore...Damn Lucky Charms whore..." I could Sheela Na Gig you...but I'd have to charge.

ON AARON: My mother is queen of her coffee klatsch now that I'm best friends with Jason Emmanuel Gould.

ON AMY: Just thinking about Amy makes my ginie tingle...and then hurt so good. She'll rock for booze - that's why I love her.

ON BLOSSOM: I love to make Blossom laugh - she's got a great, luxurious laugh...the kind that explodes and rolls without making you (me) feel cheap and easy. She can also put the brakes on shit that's going nowhere in a hurry with a simple, understated glance.

ON AIMEE: Oh, Miss Aimee. Those hot, wet, sloppy sex-toy strewn goodtimes we had smoking, throwing food and terrorizing the less-fortunate in college...and that was just what we did in the cafe at lunch.

ON JESSICA: Hysterical...provocative...intelligent...delicious...and that's only from the waist down.

ON JOELLE: She may be a vegetarian, but she definitely gets her fair share of meat in her mouth.

ON JOAN: Joan taught me to climb ev'ry mountain, to fjord ev'ry stream, to follow ev'ry bi-way, until I got some cream. I followed her advice closely - and ended up deliciously face down in a pool of my own filth.

ON JUAN: I once caught Juan making out with Justin Timberlake at a party. When confronted about it later, Juan said: "Justin who?". That's how you know he for real.

ON MELISSA: I love your ginie. Especially when it's in the palm of my hand while we're slow dancing to Duran Duran's "Say a Prayer"...some people call it a one-night stand, but we can call it paradise.

ON PATTY: Patty is frequently on tour with Juliette Lewis' band The Licks. An avid groupie, Patty quizzes J.L. on topics like: "Facial Tics from 'The Other Sister'", "Strokin' Brad Pitt's Bone", and "How to Clean a Chain Mail Bikini With Woolite in a Motel Sink". When asked if and how much she was paid for such groupie antics, Patty replied: "Nah. I'm just in it for the tit-warshin'."

ON TORREY: Torrey (aka Courtney D'Amico-DeMarco) is the kind of tough, Tretorn wearing smart kid who never paid attention in class because he was either studying M Magazine, deconstructing the latest Charivari ad or fantasizing about his math teacher's socks. After getting busted for these mental antics, his reply would surely have been to - with much ado -saunter out of class to smoke. In short, he's my kind of broad.

Electric Youth

I have become slightly addicted to VH1 Classic. I know this isn't probably something I should admit publicly, but I can't help myself. Seeing videos from the great, big, trashy 80s makes me giddy and melancholy simultaneously - some videos trigger such a specific rush of memory, it barely feels like there's been 15 entire years between the end of that peculiar, particular decade and today.

For instance, seeing Samantha Fox's "I Wanna Have Some Fun" takes me immediately back to my high school's journalism darkroom, where I danced to it with ironic full tilt boogie with my fellow art-fag creative overachievers. The song was so unbelievably bad, it had turned itself inside out, and was thrown into the boombox pile of cassette tapes with the Pixies, the Cult and the Voice of the Beehive. I remember going to the mall with my friend Joan to buy the tape - we were laughing hysterically at the Record Town or the Musicland or the Camelot Music where we bought S. Fox's album of the same name.

We were also, probably, very stoned.

This past Thursday night, Debbie Gibson's "Electric Youth" video clammered its way onto my television screen. It was probably the first time it's seen the light of day since 1989, when it - and that decade's teen pop idols - fizzled out of sight for good. This was a song that could never have ironic camp significance - it was just too damned earnest to be anything but mildly funky background music to preteen dance recitials and Christian Youth group outings.

There was one tiny thing of note in the video: a man named Keeth Stewart.

Yes, that's two E's in Keeth.

Keeth Stewart was Debbie Gibson's choreographer and star back up dancer. How in god's name do I know this? Well, he happened to be an alum of the tiny high school I attended in Northeastern Ohio and, during his glory days as DG's main creative dance force, he returned to our high school perhaps too frequently to bask in his minor glory as a 4th tier MTV personality.

Keeth would occasionaly roar into our high school in a floor-length fur coat and Jackie O sunglasses, arms waving wildly, fingers snapping brazenly with the fierce attitude he employed in the choreography of DG's hit videos like "Shake Your Love". He also started something - creatively titled - The Keeth Stewart Talent Showcase, which was our high school's crude version of Star Search. The Showcase was only held once, I guess because Keeth's caché dwindled considerably post-Debbie.

The Showcase was considered criminal in my crowd since a jazz/tap dance duo (possibly choreographed by Keeth himself) won the competition, beating out the school's favorite stoner/underage alcoholic band Mental Floss.

Saturday, February 05, 2005

The Eatery Formerly Known as Fageteria

Once upon a time, when I first moved to New York and everything was shiny and new, I used to enjoy the mildly cheesy, über gay dining experience of what I then called "Fageteria". Since those early, heady days, much has changed in the way of my perception of things, but my view of Fageteria never seemed to rust - something crazy always happened there.

Like the time I went out to dinner with two former coworkers and left them for dead in the (successful) lustful pursuit of a hunky Israeli who was cruising me from the bar.

Or, the time I ate there with college friends and the following drunken discussion took place over too many Manhattans:

ME: "Amy, do you think we're..."
AMY: "Don't say it."
ME: "What?"
AMY: "Don't say the word."
ME: "What word?"
AMY: "Alcoholic. We're not alcoholics. We're funaholics. Things just happen to be more fun when you're drunk."

Or, the time my friend Ch'ien was in town from Boston. We were so drunk, Ch'ien fell over not one but two diners and tried to take his shirt off at the table. I made it out unscathed, save for having some man's phone number scrawled in black ink on my left hand. How it got there still remains a mystery. Needless to say, I never called the number.

But, I digress. The point of this is how now, I can no longer lovingly call Cafeteria, "Fageteria".

I ate there last week and was shocked at the number of young (I mean, seriously, young) straight women (seated two and four to a table with desserts and Cosmopolitans) that were cluttering up the joint. Had I been in a coma for a while? Or was this yet another odd by-product of "Sex and the City"? Since the clean white interior does resemble the diner Carrie & Co. are always kvetching at, maybe this was a haven for young wannabes to talk about blowjobs and failed relationships over cocktails and chocolate.

However, once we were seated to eat, I realized these girls may be attempting "Sex and the City," but what they were channeling was something closer to a failed MTV reality show.

On one side of the banquette, we had a bad knock-off of Ashlee Simpson, complete wth dyed black hair, faux-goth make-up and chipped dark green nail polish. Her dyed hair was kept in check by a knit cap. She talked steadily on her cell phone in a drone while her friend, seated across from her, looked desperately bored/stoned.

On the other side of the banquette, Britney Spears was in full effect...sort of, anyway. A big, blonde, blown-out mess of a girl in tight pastels, Britney Jr. was also gabbing away on her cell phone loudly, while her friend picked at a shared piece of cake, desperate for any attention B2 might occasionally drop her way.

When a waitress passed by B2's table, she screamed: "Hey! Heeeeeeey! We need to ooooorder some mmoooooore drinks!!!"

Given that B2's lung power could stop a freight train, the waitress paused at the table.

"Look, " B2 slurred, "I don't want to be a bitch. But we seriously, seriously need to order some more drinks."

"Ok." The waitress patiently replied.

"We need another...what was it? Oh, yeah, we need a, um, grape martini and another one of these - a pineapple mojito."

B2 held up a frothly glass that looked like a ball of cotton candy had recently committed suicide in.

I could feel their hangovers already.

I realized, as I recalled my fond, drunken overload memories of Fageteria meals past, that maybe I was Britney, a few years removed.

I also realized, what was once "Fageteria" to me, would know be forever known as "Straight-Girl-In-Need-of-A-Fageteria".

Thursday, February 03, 2005

The Upper Chelsea Food Court

Also known as the Boulevard of Broken Dreams, The Upper Chelsea Food Court has much to offer its varied and harried customer base in the way of grilled chicken, martinis, gossip, steamed spinach, poppers, lube and no-carb entrees that will bind you up for weeks.

On any given evening, a diner can choose from the following fabulous eateries:

The Fagroy
Fagging Horse
Le Singe Fag
Cuba Fagé
The Fagmire Diner
Fag Fagiovanni's
Fag Park
East of Fags
MaryAnn's Mexican Faggery
Bright Fag Shop
The Fag
Rue de Fags
La Belle Fag
Faggot Corner

For Diners on the Go:

Faggot Burger
Faggoty Kitchen
Fag & B
Krispy Fag (or, Faggy Kreme)
Fagway - Eat Fresh
Faggot BBQ

Recently Closed: Fagteenth and Fag
Recently Added: Diner Faggot-Four

Wednesday, February 02, 2005

All About Imelda

Whenever I return to Ohio to visit my parents, I stay in what was once my bedroom growing up. The room has undergone drastic sets of changes in the 15 years since I vacated it for college, including one particularly odd version (when my younger brother took over the room) that featured a late 80s pastel wallpaper that only a used-car dealer could love. But the most recent renovation caught me off guard.

Two summers ago, I made an extended trip to cheer up my mother, who had recently retired from her job as a speech pathologist and hadn't yet found her groove, so-to-speak, in her post-employment days. In other words, she was getting a little squirrelly with all that excess time on her hands. When I hiked upstairs for the first time to drop off my bag in my old room, which upon last visit, resembled a study/guest room, I was shocked to find that my mom had turned the former bedroom into something of a walk-in shoe closet. Sure, there was still a place to sleep, lots of books and the hint of a window, but an entire half of the room was filled with shoe boxes, nearly floor to ceiling.

I walked back downstairs, a little confused, and most certainly ready to give my mother a very hard time.

"Is the room OK?" she asked.


"Your old bedroom."

"You mean the Nine West Outlet that moved in upstairs?"


"I'd be in heaven if I could squeeze into a women's size 8."

My mother laughed so hard, she started to cry.

"Thank God you're here," she said. "I needed that."

"You also need to hold a clearance sale so I can get some sleep tonight."

Tuesday, February 01, 2005

Golden Shower

From the Mixed-Up Files of E-mails Past: Notes on the Golden Globes, January 2004:

Everyone won that should have won, nobody was too drunk and the Michael Douglas extended disco remix lifetime achievement hoo-ha was unbearable. "Here Michael plays ANOTHER scumbag with poontang on his mind - look at the versatility he displays as he goes down on Sharon Stone."

...and I'm only exaggerating the voice-over-film-clip a little bit. Danny DeVito kept calling him a gynecologist. Poor, older-than-she-says Catherine Z-J. Her ass was about to die with an extremely fake slapped-on smile that seemed to say: "Grandad, you owe me mo' bigga jewels for enduring this horseshit on live television."