I never made an official, I'm-walking-out-the-door-saying: "I need a drink, Roz" statement up in here declaring my nearly two-week long absence...so here it is...two weeks late.
Now that I've officially said that, I'll probably post ten things today.
Anyway, I'm resorting to my new favorite crutch - ye olde tyme "what the hell did people type in Google to land here?" entry:
Here's this week's list of ditties that you - the viewer at home - let your fingers do the walking all up and down and round and round and boy you turn me inside out on Google to get your asses here:
Fleshlight at Duane Reade Quick Cab Sex Idaho What to Serve for Three Kings Day? Films About Strip Poker "I Say Nothing" by Voice of the Beehive Aquarius Serve Slut Young Haircuts for Today Goo Goo Amateur Turban Porn* Buffalo Void**
And...my favorite...possibly ever:
Jane Fonda Suck the Chrome off a Bumper
Here's to being back in the [buffalo] saddle...
*Welcome Googlers from Turkey!
**Someone was actually trying to find BV. Go figure.
Yes, yes, yes. Eight days have rolled on by me without touching a thing about BV.
To make matters worse, I have nothing new to say today.
So, in lieu of bitching and moaning and moaning and bitching about not writing any further, here's a big little highly appropriate ditty that I wrote on December 13, 2005 originally titled J-J-J-J-J-J-Jing-Jang-Jang.
As the holiday season deepens and deepens and my yearly sojourn to visit my parents in Northeast Ohio approaches, one thought barrels through my head: how many times will my mother play Barbra Streisand's Christmas album?
Other classic holiday collections have entered her possession over the years, yet none seem to last in the CD player longer than a song or two. Once Barbra's album finishes, and the pregnant pause of empty, un-Streisand holiday air fills the living room, my mom will get a curious look on her face, like she knows a storm is coming or she has just witnessed the cat writhing in the corner, overdosed on catnip, or she has left her pocketbook neglectfully at the Clinique counter of the local department store (where she is wont to worship the latest shade or fragrance or anything that comes with a free gift with purchase). When she realizes it is just the absence of the ironic, heated flow of Christmas music from America's most famous Jewess, she never fails to lean in to me and whisper:
"Trev, honey. Go press play on the CD player."
She knows I will obey and let the insanity of that famously hyper version of "Jingle Bells" fill up the room one more time.
She knows that if she were to ask my brother or stepdad Joe to attend to the music, Frank Sinatra or Sammy Davis Jr. or any number of the other neglected stars of yesteryear would receive holiday airtime she's not willing to give up.
Every year, another new compilation of holiday music ends up in the stack of albums.
Every year, Barbra's triumphantly kitsch white fuzzy gown and Egyptian eyeliner steal the show mercilessly, giving my mom a spring in her step as she cooks in the kitchen (a very new past time) and a light in her eyes echoed by the bodily giddiness she exudes in having her two sons home for the holidays.
So, my newfangled weekly feature seemed to have hit the skids...until a set of random ass google searches perked me right up.
Here goes this week's list of Google searches that brought viewers like you to BV:
Lauren Cooper French Oral Exam Ice Ice Baby Rabbit Lined Hat Sexy Epileptic Aries Loud Slut Google Dolls
And...my personal favorite:
What Did Charles Say to Camilla On the Phone?*
*No cheating - if you know what this is in regard to and what dirty, dirty thing Charles said to Camilla that I - of course - had the tact and wherewithal to repeat here, post it as a comment. It's so good/bad I still can't take it.
I have a knack (some would say an entirely immature knack) for finding comedy in unexpected places.
Most of the time, I find some unexpected ditties in highly serious films.
Take for instance the Academy Award winning movie Monster.
At one point, the main character - prostitute/serial killer Aileen Wuornos as played by Charlize Theron - has an agitated conversation with a potential john/victim.
When the john in question questions the value of Aileen's, um, services, she says:
"That's the kind of money I deserve. I ain't no shampoo girl, alright? I'm the real deal."
That line got me to giggling and giggling.
I got to giggling so much about this line that I couldn't let it go...so I sort-of turned it into a catch phrase (that, naturally, only I use). For months and months after I saw the film, I found myself using that line all the time.
"Hey T$, do you want another drink?"
"Hells yeah, bitch. I ain't no shampoo girl, alright? I'm the real deal."
As always, I encourage you to use this line at your leisure/discretion. Since the holidays are now upon us, feel free to sprinkle it liberally at family gatherings:
"Oh, my darling Grandson, can you please pass the Christmas Pudding?"
"Back off, lady. I ain't no shampoo girl, alright? I'm the real deal."
I got tagged my ModFab to do a little Ten Tiny Tings Meme.
1. When you were born, how much did you weigh? I was huge - 10 pounds - 1 ounce. I was six weeks late - which I attribute to my not wanting to be a Scorpio. My mother reminds me of my natal tardiness and offensive birth weight every year at the exact time I was born...she's still bitter after all these years. If you saw her, you'd know why - she's 5'3" and about 100 pounds wet. I have no idea how she ever squeezed two 10 pound boys out of her teeny, tiny frame (my brother was a similarly late and large baby).
2. What's you're sugar poison? I'm a sucker sucker sucker for a good donut.
3. If you had to choose between meat and cheese for the rest of your life, which would you choose? Then be specific. This is a dirty, filthy question...but I will have to go with meat. Specifically, anything of the ground (burger, meatloaf, bratwurst) variety. Someone near and dear to me bought me a case of bratwurst for my birthday. Enough said.
4. What, is your opinion, is the worst song ever? Definitely that "I'm Proud To Be An American" country song. It is the epitome of American close-mindedness.
5. Who was your favorite teacher growing up and why? My seventh grade English teacher Mrs. Waltz and my tenth grade English teacher Mrs. Reith. Both instilled in me a love of language and critical thought...and, oh yeah, gay authors. I still can't believe I was turned on to Truman Capote as a twelve year old.
6. What personal activity, when performed in public, bothers you the most? Any kind of finger or toe nail maintenance. I once had a co-worker that trimmed his nails at his desk and the clippings flew everywhere. To this day, my stomach churns at the memory.
7. Ok, there's a $50 bill lying on the ground. You pick it up. Dumbfounded by your incredible luck, what do you selfishly purchase? I have always loved this quote by John Waters (I paraphrase): "To me, wealth is walking into a bookstore and buying anything I want without looking at the price." I'm a book junkie, so I'd blow it on any number of art books...of course, these days that would be more like a 50% deposit on one.
8. Do you have a recurring nightmare? If so, explain. I have a recurring dream...it's not necessarily a nightmare though. It involves being in a house that continually shifts and changes. I know it means something other than "I need to redecorate", but I've never quite shaken it.
9. Name one place on Earth you've never been, but vow to visit at least once. Mount Fuji in Japan.
10. You notice that question #9 wasn't really a question. You feel smart for catching such a small detail. What else can you do really well that reminds you how smart you are? I like to think of myself as a hardcore grammarian, but I'm really just arrogant. I did used to make a co-worker cackle with this overly correct usage: when I answer the phone and someone asks: "Is Trevor there?" I usually say: "This is he."
Here's this week's list of Google searches that brought the masses (uh...dozens anyway) to BV.
Have to say, these search queries keep getting quirkier and quirkier...
Centurians of Rome Sergeant Pepper Anderson Strips Teacher Lounges Drawing of Beautiful Girls Who Needs to Think When Your Feet Just Go Stewart's Shops Gift Certificates Tyra Good Pissy Dobbin Pickaxe Conquest Leukemia Sandra Clark Buffalo (ooooooh Jackee)
And since BV takes it's name - in part - from Neneh Cherry, here's her video (from the still most excellent album and DVD Red Hot + Blue) for "I've Got You Under My Skin".
I'd say enjoy...but that's a little antithetical.
I remember when Red Hot + Blue came out in 1990. As an album and accompanying television special, it was radical popular culture (back when such AIDS awareness and education was just barely being addressed by the mainstream media) - having popular musicians cover the works of a known gay composer (Cole Porter) for the benefit of research and education.
Hard to believe it's nearly 20 years old now.
Below: Annie Lennox performing "Every Time We Say Goodbye" - also used to great effect in Derek Jarman's Edward II (another early 1990s rumination on homophobia and the AIDS crisis)
I've mentioned having a couple of favorite words that I've stolen...namely the words shitbox and junkshow.
Recently, I myself coined a term that I've grown awfully fond of...so much so that I submitted it to one of my favorite websites for entrance into a certain downlow, down-n-dirty lexicon: UrbanDictionary.com
Click the links above to see its definitions and sample usage.
How I came to the phrase, I'm not entirely sure.
I do know I had the wherewithal to submit it to Urban Dictionary under duress from my friend Tarek.
Its a combination of the word hussy - always a good time - and this random story I have from long ago:
For some reason, my high school used this jingle to taunt a rival school:
Hookers in Tallmadge They Have Their Own Union Hookers in Tallmadge Are More Fun Than a Bucket of Pigs
Clearly I grew up in the Midwest.
Anyway, "more fun than a bucket of pigs" and hussy just seemed right together...hence hussbucket.
There you go - feel free to use it at your discretion.
And...for the record...Tallmadge really does have a lot of hookers.
ADDENDUM: I should have googled the term first...apparently, there's a cricket player in Australia who goes by the nickmame HussBucket...and it's on a few MySpace (hurl) pages...and hussbucket seems more and more like something that's been out there on its own, without aid of my invention.
After nearly three years of writing BV, I sort of stumbled on a weekly feature - equal parts rewind and Hardy Boys style investigation...
Here's this week's list of titilating, nearly-disturbing, vexing, and entirely random Google searches that brought folks here:
[Ron] Perelman's Jewelry Best Fudge on Long Island Goodbye Blue Monday Analysis Eyebrow Threading - Buffalo Real Air Steward When We Made Love You Used to Cry Midget Escort Aquarius the Slut jing og jang*
There's this guy - an older man - who yells at pedestrians on my street every day.
Most of the time, what he yells is nonsensical yet friendly.
He yells things like:
"Can you believe this fuckin' weather! Fuckbags."
"Fuckin' Yankees suck. How the fuck are you?"
But, this week, he's taken a turn: he's gotten borderline pornographic and way-more-than-friendly.
On Sunday, I overheard him telling a woman carrying her groceries home:
"Can you believe what I did? I went right up to this lady and said 'I want to cover you in whipped cream and lick your whole naked body and put a cherry on top.' Can you believe I said that to her? Can you?"
Clearly, the female stranger he was addressing couldn't - or didn't want to - believe it.
Stunned - she kept on walking.
Yesterday, I heard him yelling at another older man across the street:
"You know what I say when people ask me if I still get wood at my age? I say 'Every time the goddamn wind blows!' That's what I tell 'em. Every time the wind blows. Can you believe it? Can you fuckin' believe that?"
The other older guy flipped him the bird and kept on walking.
You know I'm waiting - desperately - for him to accost me just to see what he says.
Last night I finally watched the excellent (and frightening) documentary Jesus Camp. I realize I'm about a year behind the curve here, but what can I say.
Watching this film made me entirely grateful that I was raised in a tolerant family. I'm not against organized religion at all, but I am wholeheartedly against the hypocritical "license to judge" that sometimes comes with membership to religious groups (specifically the zealous Christian Evangelicals profiled in Jesus Camp).
Anyway, my point here is not to spew from my tiny leftist soapbox.
Growing up, one of my best friends went to church every Sunday. Occasionally, he would tell me about how fun Sunday School was. And once, after hearing such a tall tale of kickin' it with Christ on Sunday, I asked my mother:
"Why don't we go to church?"
My mother - ever the diplomat of child development - asked me:
"Do you want to go to church?"
"Yeah. It sounds like fun."
And so, to satisfy my curiosity, we went the following Sunday with my friend's family.
I'm not exactly sure what I thought was going to happen at Sunday School, but I'll just say this:
Instead of making me feel at ease in this new environment, my Sunday School teacher immediately started drilling me - the new kid - with questions about the Bible in front of the 20-odd children in class.
"Name the twelve apostles," I was quickly commanded by Mr. Sadist On-Sunday.
I broke out in a sweat, feeling the eyes of all of the other kids on me. I honestly had no clue where to start with the assignment at hand and my mind started latching onto the only Biblical names I knew:
At this point, I was ready to cause a distraction ("Look! There's Jesus!") so I could barrel out the door in a fevered jail-break.
All I could think was: "If I can't mind my mother upstairs, I'll just go stand outside by the car for an hour or two...or go get a Clamwich at the Friendly's across the street."
I was trapped - sweating - and hate-hate-hating this thing called Sunday School.
I went for broke with the only other Biblical name I could think of. I had seen a semi-glamorous TV movie with Victoria Principal somewhere around that time, so I said:
The teacher then called me - ever so sensitively - an idiot.
How's that for the love of Christ?
On the car ride home, my mom could sense something was up.
Last night, my friend Torrey had a leftover/Thanksgiving rerun party.
At one point - well past bottle of wine #5 - we were playing ye olde dinner party game of: "Which three celebrities would you like to have dinner with?" and my friend Anne - a little inebriated - said:
"Wait - whose turd is it next?"
At the very least, that's what everyone thought she said.
Not letting Thanksgiving stop me from my usual smartassery, I launched into a version of Miss Diana Ross's song "It's My Turn" reimagined as...
You guessed it...
"It's My Turd"
It's my turd... I thought I had to pee I hope you have T.P. This time's just for me
Because it's my turd With no apologies It might be a bit uncouth So please let me Febreze
Because it's my turd I stand and say goodbye I sure would like to flush And let that BM slide...
Yes, what would a holiday be without a little ditty about shit.
Up next: Joni Mitchell's "River" reimagined as "Turdie":
I wish I had a turdie so long I would teach my feet to fly Oh I wish I had a turdie I could skate away on
Last year, I was also in charge of carving the turkey and was issued a brokedown looking electric knife to use for the job. I found the blade, plugged the bitch in, and went to town on the turkey.
Just like every other busted tool in my mother's kitchen, the electric knife wasn't working either. The blade kept flying out of the socket when it was turned on, forcing me to keep the thing turned off while hacking away at the turkey. I finally gave up and used a regular knife to slice the meat from the bird.
After the mafia-like-shakedown I received when I complained about all of the other non-functioning items, I decided to stand mute on this one.
Later on, my stepdad was cleaning up the kitchen and doing the dishes.
"Hey, where's the other electric knife blade?" he asked me.
"Huh? What other blade?"
"There are two blades for that knife - they move back and forth together."
"Oh. I thought there was only one."
"You mean you carved the turkey with only one blade in it? How did it work?"
"You carved the turkey with one blade? Why didn't you say something?"
"Well," I said to my stepdad, "Since everything else in this so-called kitchen is beyond repair, I figured the knife was busted too - so I just went with it."
We started to laugh - hard.
Before I said anything more, I could feel my mother's presence just outside the kitchen's entrance.
"What are you laughing about?" she mock-growled.
Sensing another shakedown - we both replied in unison:
I'm behind (again) on stories (again) although I have a backlog of stories about food (again) and Thanksgiving (yes, again). So, in the meantime, here's something fast and furious...or slow and sloppy...depending on your taste.
As I'm chugging through work, my iTunes is chugging along via random shuffle, which is always a good time.
Well...sometimes it's a good time.
I had to avoid using random shuffle for a looooong while. One afternoon once upon a time, I heard Judas Priest's "Ram It Down" directly followed by Ethel Merman singing "If I Knew You Were Comin' I'd've Baked a Cake".
Some might say that's me in a nutshell...
Anyway, I just heard Zero 7's always lovely "Destiny" via random...and I forgot how much I love the video for the song.
I'm tempted to spend the next week (leading up to Thanksgiving) talking about food...
A decade ago, I worked for a small design company. Our office was housed in a huge floor-through loft space in an old underwear factory. My work space was in a shared grid of three other desks - all of which were occupied by women.
Two months after this set-up was configured, the three women's, um, cycles all, um, synced up.
I know this because they all talked about it - non-stop - when that time of the month came a-calling.
When Flo was in town, I would bait them with questions like:
"Did you know PMS is a social construct?"
"Did you know PMS only exists in Western Culture?"
"Did you know it's all in your head?"
I don't have to say - that line of questioning went over extremely well.
Anyway, the point of this story isn't related to women's reproductive health. This story's more about my own struggles with a certain personal demon...
Low. Blood. Sugar.
Now, my mother claims that my saying I have blood sugar issues is really a license to be a royal dick now and then. But I think it's more real than imagined.
You see, when I worked at this little design company, the three women I sat near collectively kept a drawer full of food (pretzels, nuts, protein bars) to fend me off when my maniacal, hungry side broke through.
One of them said - "We might all get PMS at the same time, but you're a bitch every damn day before lunch."
The food drawer in question came into being when I nearly reduced our office manager to tears over an order of recordable CDs. I'd asked and asked and asked her to order them day after day after day. After a week of no CDs, I finally confronted her:
"Are the CDs in yet?"
"Oh. They're out."
"Yeah. I called everyone."
"I find it hard to believe that the entire Eastern seaboard is 'out of CDs'."
"You're lazy. Step to it. NOW."
The whole event was witnessed by my three deskmates - thus, the drawer. Although they were impressed by my bitchery, they were more than a little scared.
After nearly two years of working with me, the three of them got a system down. Before I even had the chance to roll my eyes - or even think about rolling my eyes, I would be pelted in the head with sourdough pretzels or cookies or half a sandwich.
As the Thanksgiving holiday approaches, I find myself thinking more and more about food.
Of course, I don't need Thanksgiving as an excuse to think about food.
I also need to qualify that by saying "thinking more and more about food" I really mean "eating more and more food like it's Thankgiving every goddamn day."
That's another story.
So, last year, I went to see my parents for Thanksgiving. My mother - in a triumph of the human spirit - decided to cook the whole meal herself.
I also need to qualify that by saying "cook the whole meal herself" really meant "cook the whole meal with my forced assistance."
We both were terrified.
To add to the horror at hand, I should mention that my family's kitchen - while amped up with newfangled appliances, is a junkshow of broken accessories and worn-out hand devices. Basically, any time I tried to put my limited cooking skill to use, I was doubly challenged by having to work with tools that were busted beyond reason.
For example, the toaster oven has to practically implode to char or toast or heat anything.
And my mother's electric handmixer, despite being a lovely mid-century shade of avocado, is so brokedown, that both mixers no longer lock into the base - making anything close to "mixing" damn near impossible.
"Um, Mom. You should get a new one of these. This shit's busted."
"Just keep the mixer jammed hard into the bowl. It works. Trust me."
I shrugged my shoulders and worked that mixer (which I later figured out was a wedding gift to my mother...making the thing four years older than me) as best I could.
As we sweated and toiled and thrashed around the kitchen with various antique hand appliances, I asked:
"Hey mom. How about for Christmas I buy you a KitchenAid mixer and a new toaster oven and a new..."
Before I could finish the list of intended gifts, I got a hard pinch to my upper arm.
"Don't you dare buy me any new kitchen shit," she said through clenched teeth.
Wincing from the pinch, I wailed: "Why not? Nothing works!"
"Don't you get it - I can blame my not cooking on all this crap. If I get stuff that works in here, people will start to expect things."
"Like decent meals?"
"Exactly," she said. "Now, let's pretend this conversation never happened."
I laughed, feeling like I'd just been given the shake-down by a mob boss.
Since my mother is an educator, I know all about the first one. Yes, the clichés are all duly earned - Teacher's Lounges are nothing but smoke-filled dens of iniquity and hang-outs for wanna-be burlesque performers.
The second is just comical. Do men ever need to lay down, take a break, and "lounge" after they take a piss or use a stall...?
Er...scratch that. I really dig Men's Lounge all of a sudden.
Same goes for Ladies' Lounge...but after what I just said about its male equivalent, it doesn't seem as silly.
Wherever am I going with this?
Even I don't know.
I did post a page (accessible via the sidebar, clicking here or clicking the animation above) of past BV banners.
Yes, it's a lounge.
Well, it's really more of a graveyard...but lounge just sounds more appealing.
About this time of year...about two years ago...I got a breathless call from my friend Torrey.
"Quick - tell me your mailing address. I'm sending you a gift."
As soon as I rattled off my address, he hung up the phone - faster than greased lightning - before I had a chance to bug and pester and ask and ask and ask about what kind of gift I should be expecting.
Naturally, I forgot about said gift entirely.
Six weeks later, I got my first issue of...
I was so thrilled, I pitched the first issue into my on-street recycling bin without even tearing open the magazine's cellophane wrapper.
Finally remembering the promise of that gift, I called Torrey immediately to thank him effusively for such an appropriate present.
"Did you see who it was addressed to?" Torrey asked - cackling.
"No way. I threw that fucker out."
"Dumbass. Now you have to wait until next month. Next time, look at it before you toss it."
Four weeks went by...and yet another pesky issue of Teen Vogue showed up in my mailbox. This time, I checked the address label. It was my address, all right. But the person the magazine was shipped to wasn't me.
The Teen Vogue subscription was in the name of one Mandee Messersmith.
("She's my daughter. She's my sister. She's my daughter and my sister!")
Anyway, I called Torrey to applaud his bitchery and share the laugh that was now over two months in the making. I continued - diligently - to pitch Teen Vogue into the recycling bin unopened every month.
However, a few months after the start of my subscription, I started to receive other mail addressed to Miss Mandee. Nearly every two weeks, Mandee was invited to this-or-that shopping event at Barney's...this-or-that product testing at Bloomingdale's...this-or-that special concert for Teen Vogue subscribers. Mandee was getting free gifts and special deals and survey questionnaires like she was a real person.
I realized - as per the invites and gifts and Manhattan address - that Mandee was something of a Teen Vogue It-Girl - despite being decidedly fictional.
It all came to a head when Mandee was upgraded to a free subscription to Teen Vogue...and a free subscription to Lucky...and two free handbags...all for filling out a survey about what kind of, like, boys she likes and what, um, fashion she loves.
I just had to fill that out for her, you see.
Now, to add to my fictional family, someone named Chip Messersmith is now getting mail via my address too.
How I fit a family of three and a staff of four into my cramped apartment, I have no idea.
Thankfully, fictional folks take up less closet space than real ones.
Since I'm an unofficial member of Bulgaria's Gay Tourism Board, I feel compelled to post this...here's another video by Azis called "Nikoj ne mozhe" courtesy of Attempted Entertainment...not quite as steamy as that other video, but there are still some interesting things going on here...
As Miss Roisin Murphy is poised to be this year's great big gay sensation (well, in Europe anyway), I find myself listening to an awful lot of Moloko right now. iTunes finally has their greatest hits collection available...as well as the above video for "The Time Is Now".
I'm afraid LeBoobTube doesn't do it much justice - this is an exquisitely photographed video.
Below is Moloko's first video - "Fun For Me" - which still makes me laugh if only for this line:
"I dreamt that the boogeyman went down on Mr. Spock"
That and the fact that Miss Murphy was rocking deeply ironic acrylic nails way way way before anyone else.
I know I've been a lameass lame-o lamewad assmunch for not posting recently...so I apologize. I have lots to say, no time to say it, and a to-do list that gives me a panic attack every time I glance its way.
This afternoon my apartment was abuzz - literally - with sex (see photograph above).
I looked up at a framed picture to notice this...nothing got in these little dirty devils' way, either. Not only did I try to shoo them away (before I, um, realized what deed was in progress), these fuckers (hee) let me get this close to them to take this XXX rated photograph.
Of course, they did fly away before I could get them to sign a release form...so I can't sell this to FlyInches or FlyGirl or FlyBoy or FlyDate or FlyPaperForum or Hustler.
I've mentioned my brother here a few times...he lives in Washington D.C. and is, well, intensely heterosexual. He's a big, burly guy...he was in a fraternity...etc. etc. etc.
When he first moved to D.C. a number of years ago, I went down to see him as well as my friend Lucas who used to live there. The Friday night I was there, I had dinner with Lucas and a big group of his gay friends and my brother tagged along.
After dinner, the gays (naturally) were gearing up to hit a few bars. Knowing what was ahead, I turned to my brother and said - as diplomatically as possible:
"OK, dude. We're heading out - want to have brunch tomorrow?"
I got the surprising answer back:
"Where are you guys going? Gay bars?"
"Well...yeah. But I don't think you want to go with us."
Lucas and his friends - totally eavesdropping on our conversation on the street - were getting visibly excited.
"No, I'm serious," my brother continued. "I want to come too."
As the crowd decamped from the sidewalk outside the restaurant, one by one, Lucas and company pulled me aside to whisper things like:
"Omigod...is your brother gay??"
"Will you get pissed if I make out with your brother?"
I could only roll my eyes. I grew up with the kid, after all. While I was glued to Mommie Dearest on HBO and making things pretty, Jason was smashing toy trucks and watching sports and ignoring my mother. In other words, the guy is hetero through and through and through.
When we arrived at the first of several bars, my brother was grinning like a shit-eating cat. I asked him how he was doing.
"Oh, man. All these guys are checking me out. This attention is awesome, man!"
After a couple more drinks, we moved on to some sort of dance-ish bar (can't remember the name of it...) and after an hour or so, my brother completely disappeared.
I'll admit I was a little frantic. I was having morbid thoughts of one of Lucas's friends date-raping him after slipping him a mickey. I looked high and low and low and high for my brother until I finally found him...
Making out with a hot woman.
Naturally, what else are straight men to do in gay bars but that?
I left him there. Eventually, he found me and was - once again - grinning a grin to end all grins.
"So, you totally had an agenda tonight, didn't you?" I asked.
Here's a mini-sequel to yesterday's post about cooking...or rather, yesterday's post about not cooking:
My mother is a speech pathologist. She used to use board games with some of her students for practicing speech. Once upon a time, after a long day at some sort of education superstore, she came home loaded down with new games for use in her lessons.
She was super-excited. She showed me all the games she bought, and got even more excited about a game called...
What's For Dinner?
Why this one set her over the edge, I have no idea.
"Isnt' this one great?" She cooed.
Not one to let a good hook go unnoticed, I replied:
Yesterday's post about my semester in Europe got my memory to a-jogging...
When I was in Rome that Fall (eeesh...fifteen years ago), I got separated from my friends in the Vatican Museum. I ended up wandering outside and decided to wait for them in the Piazza in front of St. Peter's Basilica. I was strapped into my walkman and trying my best to blend in.
After a few mintues of waiting, I was approached by an older man.
A much, much, much, much, much, much, much, much older man.
He rambled and rambled on and on to me in Italian before I could stop him with my best "Uh...I don't speak Italian" in Italian.
Clearly, I can't remember that phrase - I probably barely knew it then.
Anyway, as I stumbed through that sentence, the man immediately switched to speaking English.
"Oh, are you an American?"
"Oh...what are you doing in Rome?"
The man had a sweet enough face, so I decided to let the conversation unfurl. It seemed innocent enough...until he suggested that I take a walk with him.
Now, I should mention I didn't really wrap up puberty until I was 30. I still have something of a baby face - and back then, I looked...well...I looked like a fetus.
Naturally, I declined his offer...trying to contain my horrified/nauseated/what-the- hell-is-happening feelings, sensing there was a made-for-TV movie scenario heading my way like a dirty, filthy freight train.
He then asked:
"How old are you? Fourteen? Fifteen?"
His eyes widened and he said:
"Oh, I thought you were much younger than that."
With that, he then sighed and ciao-ed himself out of the conversation and walked off.
I never could tell if he was disappointed in how old I was...or if he just realized I wasn't a hooker.
To this day, I have trouble believing I earned college credit tooling around the Mediterranean for four months.
At the time, the song "Rhythm Is a Dancer" (see below) was a huge hit...and in Europe it was completely inescapable. Every time we (as in the other fourteen 20 year-olds in my program and I) went out, there it was - pumping and lumping its techno-y way out of every speaker and soundsystem we encountered.
Also of note, Madonna's "Erotica" and Prince's "Sexy Motherfucker" were huge hits then as well. Both songs were aired in Europe unedited...which led to some surreal situations. I remember seeing a group of toddlers at a circus in Greece bobbing their heads unknowingly to the beat as Prince screeched:
"Come here baby...you sexy motherfucker..."
Anyway, I digress.
We heard "Rhythm Is a Dancer" every time we went out...and for underage Americans in Europe, that meant as frequently as possible. Once on the way out of a bar, "Rhythm Is a Dancer" was stuck in my head...so I continued to sing it on the way home. As I warbled the song's insipid lyrics, my friend Julie grabbed my arm in horror.
"Wait. What are the words to that song?"
"Rhythm is a dancer...it's a soul's companion...you can feel it every..."
"Oh my God." She said, still clutching my arm.
A split second later, she was doubled over in laughter.
"What is it?"
"I thought the lyrics were 'Reverend Jesse Jackson...he's got a coalition...you can see him everywhere.'"