Thursday, May 31, 2007

Just Have A Banana (Or, A Different Loyalty)

I often get made fun of for having a GNC (General Nutrition Center) Gold Card fob on my key chain. The usual gay workout jokes fly (i.e. "Oooooh. Everybody get their protein shake that day!") but the truth is, I'm brand loyal to the oddly evolved, not-quite-health-store for a variety of reasons. Most of all though...

I blame my mother.

Before the age of workout enhancers and protein powders and rip-your-ass-up supplements, GNC was kind of a hippy enterprise. It was a 70s superstore. I remember going there with both of my parents in the mid-70s where they bought things like Tiger's Milk and papaya juice and carob chips.

I thought carob chips were magic: they were chocolate I was allowed to have anytime. That's some crazy, dirty talk to a kid with a sweet tooth.

Whenever I'm in the store now, I think of a specfic incident from my adolescence. My mother dragged me into the store (which was then in the throes of a mid-80s jazzercise fiesta) since she had to pick up some multi-vitamins. She handed me her shopping list as she scanned the aisles for what she needed. Halfway down the list - written in all capitals - was a single word that jumped off the page:

POT.

My eyes lit up. I looked around, wondering if there was some secret marijuana superstore running out of the tiny vitamin bodega. My mother turned around to see me flushed. She grabbed the list back from me.

"Let's see - what else do I need?" As she scanned the list - she giggled to herself.

She pointed at the word POT. and asked me - "Can you ask for this at the counter? I don't think they stock it on the shelves."

My mouth dropped and I stood there stunned.

"Go on - just ask for it. No big deal."

I halfway turned to the counter - behind me, my mother's giggling now cascaded into full-blown laughter.

She grabbed my shoulder and stopped me.

"Sorry to excite you like that. I need POTASSIUM, honey - not weed."

Wednesday, May 30, 2007

What's the Matter Here? (Or, There Went My Neighborhood)

My neighborhood, formerly known as Gay Main Street USA, has been undergoing slight changes over the course of the last few years. Local businesses have been pushed out for a neverending supply of chain stores and Jamba Juices and Chipoltes and more and more heterosexuals have been taking up residence here. I don't have anything against urban heterosexuals, mind you. Except for one thing:

That breeding thing they do.

And...their insistance that having a child will not slow down their lives as city dwellers....not one bit. When in fact, child-rearing makes restaurants and stores and cafes in the city a living hell. A stroller the size of an SUV does not equate "fashion accessory" - no matter how expensive it may be.

Yesterday, walking down Eighth Avenue - formerly known as the Upper Chelsea Food Court and/or the Gay Boulevard of Broken Dreams, I saw a disturbing sight.

It stopped me dead in my tracks.

On the side of a phone booth - where - once upon a time - there would have been an ad for gay.com or gaysex.com or whyareyousogay.com or yourmommassogay.com there was...

An ad for a baby stroller.

Now, there has been some questionable shit posted in these phone booth ad slots...but nothing this bad.

A few years ago, there was a public service ad campaign that attempted to curtail Crystal Meth use in the gay community. The phonebooth ad marquees were choked with images of buff, grinning gay studs holding up cards that read "I'm Crystal Free and Sexy!".

Despite the earnest intentions of these ads, their message was really lost on me. Maybe because my idea of "drug use" isn't smoking something made out of boiled down Windex and Sudafed.

I prefer my Sudafed straight-up, see.

I frequently made up second lines to these "Crystal Free!" ads:

"I'm Crystal Free and Sexy...because I'm too busy being an alcoholic!"

"I'm Crystal Free and Sexy...because cocaine is a more expensive, classy drug!"

"I'm Crystal Free and Sexy...because I can't put my bong down long enough to get some!"

Goddamn, do I miss those annoying ads.

Hindsight's a motherfucker.

Tuesday, May 29, 2007

I Forgot My Mantra (Or, Notes on a Tuesday)


Some people quote the Bible.

Some people quote Buddha.

Some people quote Oprah.

If I could only have one source of inspiration - one Higher Power to tap for wisdom and insight and all that to quote - it would be...

Fran Lebowitz.

Also known as one of New York's sharpest wits.

I'd say "...America's sharpest wits", but I don't think Ms. Lebowitz would like that. Her book jacket bio usually says something terse like: Fran Lebowitz is a writer. She lives in New York. She shouldn't be allowed to live anywhere else.

Whenever the subject of gay marriage comes up in conversation, I whip out this quote of hers:

"It used to be that homosexuals were the most interesting people. Now, they're borderline boring: all they want to do is join the army and get married."

Kind of sums it all up for me, really.

Here are a few other quotes of hers that I chant to myself in the throes of deep meditation - when my own sarcasm is on the fritz:

"All God's children are not beautiful. Most of God's children are, in fact, barely presentable."

"Ask your child what he wants for dinner only if he's buying."

"Don't bother discussing sex with small children. They rarely have anything to add."

"Food is an important part of a balanced diet."

"Life is something to do when you can't get to sleep."

"My favorite animal is steak."

And...a personal favorite:

"When you leave New York, you are astonished at how clean the rest of the world is. Clean is not enough. "

Fonda Fonda (Or, Top Billing Baby)

So, yeah.

I went away for the long holiday weekend and haven't posted anything or haven't posted a "I'm not posting anything" entry or an "I'm writing this to say I'm not posting anything even though I'm still posting something sort-of" entry. I'll admit though - this is going to turn into an extended remix of that sort of lame-ass no-content entry anyway.

I can feel it happening already.

I'll say this quickly before work obligations call me to the recesses of my hard drive:

I saw Georgia Rule over the weekend.

I haven't been to the movies in quite some time - too long, in fact. But I have a deep committment to Jane Fonda and couldn't resist the pull of seeing her on the big screen. I can't say much about the movie - it was a total junkshow. It is sort-of notable in that it's a mainstream Hollywood "chick-lit"-ish film that hinges its plot on the battle between a rich child molester and an alleged pathological liar.

Thankfully, Jane is neither of the two characters. She plays the grandmother of the liar.

Jesus, writing this out makes me realize the story sucks so much harder than I let on.

Anyway, Jane's first line in the movie is a shit joke and - the best part of the film - she tells Lindsay Lohan to go fuck herself.

Despite being nearly 70 years old, Jane Fonda's still banging the zeitgeist like a badass motherfucker.

Thursday, May 24, 2007

Ten Little Indians (Or, An Oldie, A Goodie)


This is an ancient story, but one I have found myself retelling often. Here goes...

Nearly a decade ago, I was in Key West with some friends for a few days. The guest house we stayed at was located conveniently/inconveniently across from the local Ye Olde Sex Shoppe / Leather Boutique. My friend Lucas and I found ourselves tipsy with some time on our hands one afternoon, so we went in.

Close to the front of the store was a huge glass display case filled with a variety of dildos, vibrators, plugs, et. al. Lucas, never shy, stared agape at a huge molded rubber fist. He burst into laugher.

"You have got to be kidding me," Lucas said. "What the Hell are you supposed to do with that?"

The very serious sales representative behind the counter replied:

"What the Hell do you think you do with it?"

Lucas then got to giggling about the larger end of the molded, rubber spectrum of products on display. The super serious sales guy was, once again, not having his giggle fit.

"Hey, " the sales guy said to Lucas. "I have something that's more up your alley."

I'm sure he intended that pun.

Lucas scurried over to the other end of the display case as the sales guy got something out of a drawer behind him.

He pulled out a keychain that had a teeny, tiny, itty, bitty little dick attached to it.

If Malibu Ken had a dick, this baby pecker would be it.

"I think you should buy this, " the sales guy said.

"It's for people who forget they have fingers."

A Drawing (Or, For No Good Reason, Part 800,000)

Wednesday, May 23, 2007

The Heat of the Torment (Or, When Yogis Attack)


Well, since I've gotten back into doing Yoga again, I decided to try out going to actual classes instead of heaving and hurling myself around my very small apartment - naked - in front of open windows for the world to sort of somehow sometimes see to the beats of a brokedown, beat-down, worn-out VHS tape.

So, I went to a Bikram Yoga class last night...and...

I now know that Hell is indeed a place on Earth.

I also now know that all Yogis are not created equal.

Once upon a time, before I got hooked on my sad, do-it-not-quite-right-yourself VHS tapes, I took Yoga classes. And...

All of my teachers were the same in that sensitive, caring, do-what-you-can-yoga-is-a-practice kind of way.

Um, the way Yoga instructors should be.

Last night, over the course of a 90 minute class I was berated, belittled, and humiliated.

I was also called "fleshy" when I couldn't complete a pose.

The teacher I had last night was, well, how shall I put this lightly....

He was a cunt.

He also didn't know his right from his left...or the meaning of the word "forward". He also took out this lack of said knowledge on me by yelling at me everytime I followed his incorrect instruction.

Last time I checked, Yoga is supposed to zen your motherfucking ass out...not want to beat the crap out of someone.

Tuesday, May 22, 2007

A Drawing (Or, For No Good Reason, Part 800)

A Reprint (Or, A Political Moment)


Last year, I wrote about a great documentary about Barry Goldwater.

Last week, America's least favorite New Right asshole Jerry Falwell kicked the bucket.

G-d finally decided to punch his ticket.

Or was that someone else - someone downstairs maybe - who cashed his check?

Anyway, he's gone - and once again - to quote the late, in-hindsight-great Mr. Goldwater:

"I think every good Christian ought to kick Jerry Falwell right in the ass."

Let's hope whatever afterlife there is has a great big burly football team full of hot homosexual Christians to take care of that much needed ass kicking.

Pillow Talk (Or, Bed, Bath, And Beyond)


So, I've frequently discussed having various issues with neighbors and noise...this next story really tops them all.

This past weekend, my friend Jessica (also known as Chicago's Most Gaymous Lesbian) was in town for a visit. Saturday night, we rolled out to dinner kind of late with a friend of hers from Philadelphia.

Drinks, drinks, drinks were had.

I won't go into the details of this part of the evening, but at one point, Jessica asked if she could have the keys to my apartment so she and her friend could, um...get down.

Pun intended.

Being the good friend/host that I am, I agreed to go hang out at a bar for an hour while the get-down-get-down took place. I went to a bar, had a beer, and slowly made my way back home. I called Jessica's cell phone to make sure it was safe for me to return.

She answered the phone breathlessly: "Oh. My. God. You aren't going to believe what happened. Give me five minutes."

I gave them ten and called again to be let in my building.

I couldn't wait for this breathless story.

As soon as I got in the door, Jessica said, "What the fuck is wrong with your downstairs neighbors? They came up here twice! They're crazy!"

She continued: "I didn't answer the door the first time, but the second time they came up, I answered. This dude was yelling at me about how the noise coming from your apartment was unacceptable. We were being so quiet though - it was insane.

"I finally said: 'Look, nothing loud is going on in here. There can't be that much noise - we're just two Lesbians having sex. It's like two pillows talking.' "

That added clincher made me laugh all weekend.

Monday, May 21, 2007

A Drawing (Or, For A Good Redford, Part 1)


Sometimes, I feel like the world is missing something...

Today, the world needs more vintage Robert Redford...with a handlebar mustache.

Fascinating Rhythm (Or, Memories...)


My friend Jessica and I saw the always entertaining Kiki and Herb last night at Joe's Pub.

In a joke that's been dying, aching, suffering, yearning to be made: they titled their new show The Year of Magical Drinking after Joan Didion's harrowing saga of loss - The Year of Magical Thinking.

I won't go into the details of the show...but there was a joke that was made during the encore that I need to repeat.

Yes, need to repeat.

Sitting just behind us were two loud obnoxious queens who talked - full voice - through big chunks of the show. During the encore, one of them was loudly discussing how he was going to ask Kiki a question.

"I'm just going to yell it out to Kiki. I have to!"

After a song, there was a tiny pause in a monologue. I bristled. I knew the loud, drunk, dumb-as-fuck queen was going to seize his moment.

"KIKI! KIKI!" He wailed.

Kiki lurched our direction looking for the heckler.

"Yes?"

"KIKI! When I saw you perform in Philadelphia, you told a story about how one of your friends knows Hugh Grant...it was a funny story. Really funny! Can you tell us about your friend that knows Hugh Grant??"

Kiki paused. Her eyes squinted and she took a step backward.

There was a big, juicy, bitchy mental wind-up in progress.

Kiki replied:

"How...fascinating."

The crowd, clearly as hostile as I was toward the loud-mouth, roared with laughter.

After a moment, she continued:

"You know, I don't know what the hell I'm saying up here half the time. I really don't. I rely on people such as yourself to remember what I do say. I don't know anything about this Hugh Grant person...or this story I supposedly told about him...but I am glad that you remembered."

Another beat.

"You see, it's not my job to remember anything...I just have to be memorable."

Saturday, May 19, 2007

Meatless Wonder (Or, Is That Processed?)


This afternoon at the grocery store, the contents of my basket (no, not that one) kind of alarmed me:

I'm becoming a lesbian.

I bought soy milk, lots of fiber-rich, bowel-churning whole grain products, and enough hummus to feed the Israeli army. Granted, I am having a lesbian houseguest this weekend, but I realized that nothing I was buying was really out the ordinary in terms of my recent food buying patterns. Waiting in line with my package of "meatless" buffalo wings, I got to thinking about a time when I sort-of-not-really-by-accident verbally bodyslammed a female vegetarian/vegan/cruelty-free-eater.

No, she wasn't a lesbian.

I was out to dinner with a large group of co-workers and my vegan/vegetwhatever friend/co-worker was sitting next to our boss. Our boss ordered a bacon cheeseburger. When the burger arrived, mister bossman turned to miss vegan and said:

"Oh, I'm sorry. Am I offending you by eating this so close to you?"

Before anyone had a chance to respond - I belted out:

"Don't worry. Despite being a vegetarian, she gets plenty of meat in her mouth."

Did I mention the vegan was a slut?

Friday, May 18, 2007

Modumpa (Or, Dumpaholic: The Sequel)


It's been some time since I've addressed my scatalogical sensibilties...so, here's a rewrite of Madonna's semi-sort-of-hit song "Jump"

I call it..."Dump":

(spoken):

There’s only so much turd you can hold in one place
The more that I wait, the more shit that I taste

I'm tired of Metamusil paste, it’s time to make my way
I need to squirt some booty waste, but I’m afraid to spray
I want to pass a big load and I can make it alone
I'll work and I'll fight till I push a turd on my own

Are you ready to dump?
Get ready to dump
Don’t ever look back, oh baby
Yes, I’m ready to dump
Then wipe my ass
Get ready to dump!

Constipated from the start, my bowelies and me
Sat on the john to squeeze a fart, but could only pee
My turd's gonna plop on down like the limbs of a tree
It sways and it swings and it bends till you clench it free

Are you ready to dump?
Get ready to dump
Don’t ever look back, oh baby
Yes, I’m ready to dump
Then wipe my ass
Get ready to dump!

(spoken):
There’s only so much you can dump in one place
The more that I wait, the more shit that I taste

I'll work and I'll fight till I push a turd on my own
It sways and it swings and it bends until you get off the throne

I'm still stuck on the throne (my turdies and me) (repeat 7x)

Thursday, May 17, 2007

Sometimes a Loud Notion (Or, The Miracle Worker)


OK, so all of the good, recent stories are still kicking around my head, trying to find an acceptable, decent way out. While those cook and steam and blanche and grill and fry and deep-fry and fondue away on the back burner, here's an oldie but goodie that I often tell, but have never written out. It's a secondhand tale, but I love it nonetheless.

In college, a science study group was meeting in a dorm's lounge area. Around the corner, a (insert one: woman, womyn, female, genderqueer, girl, lady, homegirl) was talking on the dorm hall phone - loudly.

Very, very loudly.

Despite the study group's efforts to quiet her / mute her / turn down the volume on her inane and unavoidable conversation, the lady co-ed in question just kept talking and talking and talking.

Very, very loudly.

After a good ten minutes of throwing things, sssshhhhhhing, asking politely, etc. etc. A member of the group decided to kick the attempts at quietude up a notch.

Thankfully, the study group member - for no good reason, let's call her Shari - was even louder than the loud-talking phone-convo-holic.

What Shari said went something like this:

"CAN'T YOU HEAR US? YO, HELEN KELLER - SHUT THE FUCK UP!"

Wednesday, May 16, 2007

A Drawing (Or, For No Good Reason, Part 80)


Stories seem to be slow in coming this week...there's a mother lode of a backlog in the works...stay tuned.

Monday, May 14, 2007

Zen No Shade (Or, A View From Below)

Yesterday afternoon, in a fit of Zen-based need, I decided to do yoga in my apartment. I haven't been to a proper yoga class in quite a long time, but I have an old set of Power Yoga Do-It-All-Wrong-On-Your-Own tapes*, so I popped one in.

Since it was just me in the apartment, I did the hour-long class in the nude.

I have two windows that face the street - one faces a set of apartment buildings and the other faces a building that houses a women's labor group. Since it was a great, sunny day, I just pulled down the shade in the first window, since I could tell no one was working in the labor group building.

I had a perfect set up - sun and privacy.

Anyway, when the "class" was over and I was finally able to peel my naked self up off of the floor, I went over to my television, located dangerously close to the exposed window, to shut off the tape.

In my state of bliss/bodily tranquility, I kind of forgot that I was totally nude...and standing next to an open window.

Just as that awareness kicked in, I felt odd.

I felt like I was being watched.

I looked across into the empty building - still no one there.

I then looked all the way down to the street.

There, sitting on the stoop of an apartment building across the street, was an elderly couple. The man was pouring over a street map of Manhattan. And the woman...

Was staring up at me, mouth agape.

She made eye contact with me for a hot second then her eyes returned to where I first caught them...

The side view of my ass, balls, and, um, wurst.

*yes, the shit is so old it's on VHS.

The Proshiteration of Choice (Or, Intro to Marketing Paradoxes)


Last week I was shopping at my corner deli. I was itchy for a little carbonation - and I was lingering in front of the refrigerated case that was stocked with Coca-Cola products.

I'm brand-loyal, you see.

As I reached for a bottle of delicious, calorie-free, and (although totally unproven) deadly Diet Coke, I saw something that gave me pause:

There was a new blue themed Diet Coke bottle with a sort of rainbow motif.

That part didn't give me pause. I figured it could have been some new outreach-to-the-Gay-community sort of junked up packaging ploy.

It was the label that did it. It goes a little something like this:

"Diet Coke PLUS With Added Vitamins and Minerals"

I thought I was hallucinating.

The Coca-Cola Company, ever the front-runner in beverage trends, has decided to tear a page from the playbook of all of those pseudo-health beverages by adding "15% of your Daily Value for Niacin and vitamins B6 and B12 and 10% for zinc and magnesium" to its deliciously unnatural formula.

I hate to say it...but I'd rather take my cancer risk-factors straight up...without the side of sort-of-not-really-healthy.

Sunday, May 13, 2007

Showgirls: The Series (Or, In Front of a Live Studio Audience)


Everything's better with a laugh track...

Here's a recent YouTube discovery: Showgirls: The Series.

Thankfully, that live studio audience got the point of the movie too.

Smoke No Longer Gets In Your Eyes (Or, All Who Judge Are Blind)


One of the silliest things I've heard lately - maybe even all year:

The Motion Picture Association of America will now consider smoking cigarettes onscreen on par with sex and violence when it determines movie ratings.

Um, what?

Yes, we all know smoking is bad.

Yes, we all know that the youngsters think smoking is, like, totally cool because role models like Linsday Lohan and Britney Spears and Paris Hilton all do it when they're clubbing and coking and whoring.

And, yes, we all know that while smoking is indeed cool - well, looks cool anyway - it just happens to be deadly.

Come on though - is there absolutely no personal responsibility in America? Just because smoking is in movies, doesn't mean kids are forced to huff and puff away on Camels or Marlboros or Parliaments or Salems or Virginia Slims or Winstons or Misties or American Spirits or Benson Hedges Ultra Light Menthol 100s.

Look, I know what you're thinking...I'm just trying to rationalize my recent lapse in personal will power by lashing out at a perfectly ordinary measure of our fast-descending draconian society.

Not really though.

I watched Mildred Pierce this afternoon on Turner Movie Classics.

Hey, it's Mother's Day.

Gay shit happens.

Everyone in the film was smoking and drinking and drinking and driving and smoking and drinking and driving without a care in the world.

All I could think was that if it were released today within the proposed new MPAA measures, it could possibly be rated XXX.

Suddenly, I felt so dirty - all of this dangerously glamorized smoking filling up the tiny world of my apartment.

It felt criminal.

I couldn't help but to join in the festivities. I lit up and smoked while Joan Crawford carried on in a giant fur coat and matching hat, trying to keep her bitch daughter out of jail.

Like I said, it's Mother's Day.

Gay shit happens.

Friday, May 11, 2007

Work. (Or, More Notes on Camp)


Since this blog has blushed into an even deeper shade of gay this week, here's an old story about a former intern. The female intern, working just for the summer, described her morning decision making process to me.

It went something like this:

"Well, I think to myself before I leave my apartment - should I pack a bag and hit the gym after work...or...should I just walk to work in heels?"

Before I could say anything, she finished up:

"And...usually, I just walk to work in heels."

Sensing a chuckle, she shut me down:

"Don't laugh. It is so much harder than you'd think. You try walking 25 blocks in these motherfuckers."

Given that the internship in question was at a certain midtown employer where featuring vertigo-inducing footwear was a job requirement, I sighed and held back the nascent smartass commentary that was gurgling in my throat.

I Just Can't Hide Shit (Or, Shaved by the Spell)



This is ancient - but I feel compelled to post it today in keeping with this week's unofficial theme of, well, pure camp.

Here's a mash-up video of clips from Saved By the Bell (the episode where Elizabeth Berkley/Jesse Spano gets hooked on caffeine pills) and Le Tigre's cover of the Pointer Sisters' "I'm So Excited".

Thursday, May 10, 2007

Slap, Slap, Slap It Up (Or, Mourning Becomes A Bitchslap)

Now, I'm always fond of a good bitchslap.

This afternoon, after a funny email exchange between two old friends of mine, I found myself in dire need of the services of a certain website. Sadly, when I went to find the site in question, it was gone and one of those lonely and pathetic "this site has been reserved..." blah-blah-blah good-for-nothing pages was loitering there instead.

Once upon a time, there was a site - a magical place, really - called bitchslapped.com.

It really only served one purpose - you could email someone - anonymously or otherwise - a link to a fake "Someone sent you a great card!" type of website. Once you clicked through to the site, a nasty looking, 3-D rendered blonde woman marched out on screen, wound up, and gave a righteous smackdown to the screen while a booming voice wailed: "OOOOOOOOOOH! You're bitchslapped!".

When I first found it, I was so happy.

I bitchslapped everyone I knew.

I bitchslapped anyone I could think of.

I bitchslapped my often beleaguered colleague 5 times in a row.

I bitchslapped people I hardly knew.

I bitchslapped my mother.

And here I sit today - aching to bitchslap - and I just can't do it.

Oh, the failures of modern technology.

Wednesday, May 09, 2007

Longtime Reader, Longtime Wiper (Or, Mother Knows Breast)


My mother, ever the fan of this blog (um, duh) was alarmed by one of my recent posts.

No, it wasn't Barbara Walter's fascination with a transsexual child's snake.

No, it wasn't my recollection of beholding the wonder of Lorraine Bracco.

And, no, it wasn't my less-than-veiled allusions to drug use in Amsterdam.

She too was disturbed by the bowely stylings of Miss Sheryl Crow.

Linda Marie writes...

I agree, no one is going to tell me how much toilet paper I am allowed to use per visit to the bathroom. If they start putting limits in public places like restaurants, say in New York or Washington DC, I will just increase my bra size from THANK GOD I HAVE TITS, to THAT OLD LADY HAS LUMPY TITS. I could fill that sucker with a month's worth of toilet paper.

Anyone who knows my mother won't be surprised by this mash-up of bathroom humor and an "I ain't got no titties" joke.

Those who don't know her - there she is, in a nutshell.

I've said it before...and I'll say it again:

That whole Nature vs. Nurture argument is one hell of a motherfucker.

Tuesday, May 08, 2007

A Mighty Wind (Or, Appropriately Full of Something)



This is too good to be true...I only wish the 700 Club was ever this good.

Enjoy.

SoHo Homos (Or, Occasional Justice)


I went shopping on Saturday with Torrey. We ended up in SoHo after a long, iced-coffee fueled walk down Fifth Avenue, through the Central Village. One of the joints we went to was A.P.C. - which I gave up on a long, long, long time ago. The days of attempting to squeeze into slim fit, slim cut French clothing is far behind me.

As I sat on a couch, waiting for Torrey, two intensely skinny queens rolled in - up in arms and causing a commotion. They wrangled the first salesperson they could and one of them whelped:

"Um, I bought these 27s last week...and they're already SO baggy! Can you take them in for me? Can I exchange them for a 26?"

Not that it's perfectly apparent here - but the two numbers in question (27 and 26) are waist measurements.

I paused...thinking about how I get excited now about the number 33...and how sometimes - with the right amount of vaseline and alcohol - I can fit into pants with a 33 inch waist and actually move without blinding discomfort.

Before I could get to my own mental bitchery about the situation, the salesman - clearly as taken aback as I was - replied to them:

"You really should start shopping in our women's section. Those jeans would fit you."

As the two queens barrelled over to a women's rack - I caught the salesman's eye just before he let out a silent giggle.

Monday, May 07, 2007

Look Who Got Beat With The Ugly Stick (Or, Shitbag)


You might want to turn the volume down on this a bit if you're viewing this at work...at the dentist's office...in church.

This is one of my favorite scenes...from the criminally underrated and underseen Freeway.

Fuck June Carter Cash (rest her soul) - Reese Witherspoon should have picked up an Oscar for this film. She plays Vanessa Lutz...a teenage delinquent who takes pride in - among other things - being "no fuckin' trickbaby."

Always a motherfucking good time.

Fonda Lo-Blows (Or, Ringside Seats, Please)


I have some funny stories from the weekend...I'm too beat to beat them into shape...so this lameass ditty will have to suffice for now:

As the online gossip world spirals into yet another frenzy over Lindsay Lohan (She does cocaine? No shit!), my mind drifted to sunnier days...when Jane Fonda read Lo-Blow to filth for being a fucktard on the set of Georgia Rule.

I'd pay crazyass cash money for ringside seats for that particular Celebrity Deathmatch. (Anaconda Fonda vs. Lindsay Lo-Blo). It'd be a waste in some ways...since there's already a clear winner.

At nearly 70, I'm sure Fonda could wipe any floor with Lohan's freckly, bony, coke-addled ass.

Just sayin'.

Candy, Candy, Candy (Or, Timesaver)



Above: the only good joke worth repeating from last summer's Strangers With Candy.

Enjoy.

Friday, May 04, 2007

A Drawing (Or, For No Good Reason, Part 700)

The Merchant of Menace (Or, Natalie No-Pants)


I have a few stories about Natalie Merchant from my college years. She owned a house near the rural, upstate New York campus of my school and was frequently seen out and about. Given that the population up there is sparse to say the least, Miss Merchant was easy to spot at places like the local laundromat, the hippie coffee shop, running through open meadows, etc. etc.

I won't bother to retell all of the stories here.

The gist/punchline/dénouement of each of these stories is this:

She's an asshole.

The other night, I was having dinner with my friend Torrey and our conversation somehow bashed into the topic of Natalie Merchant. I'm sure my eyes lit up with the possibility of telling and retelling and hashing and rehashing and remixing and remolding any one of my many stories about the bleating voice of political consciousness of late-1980s/early 90s alt-pop.

I started in on one of my favorite ditties - a second-hand tale from a female friend of mine. My friend saw Miss Merchant in the college's gym...later, she saw her in the locker room changing and had the courage to go up to her and tell her how much she liked her music.

Merchant, ever the fountainhead of charisma and charm, replied:

"I don't know what you're talking about."

As I relayed this tale to Torrey, he seemed unimpressed by the implied, God-she's-an-asshole ending, so I kicked it up a notch:

"I mean - can you imagine? She's sitting there all naked and shit, clearly lying about her identity. Who does she think she is?"

Torrey rolled his eyes and replied, "The poor woman is sitting there with her bush hanging out, and some rich hippy college girl is up in her grill. Of course she would act that way. I would have hit the bitch."

I then tried to save face with other tales of Merchant's public pissiness - all of which got shot down:

ME: What about the story where she...

TORREY: Freaked out at the Mexican restaurant about the vegetarian entrees?

ME: Or the time...

TORREY: She ignored someone at the landromat?

I tried to go on, but I realized everything else I had to share, I'd already shared and shared and shared.

I found myself deep in heavy Natalie Merchant syndication.

I was my own fucking re-run.

Wednesday, May 02, 2007

Lorraine and Behold (Or, Hung Dinerette)


A number of years ago, I was at one of my favorite neighborhood spots, the Moonstruck Diner, nursing a killer hangover on a Sunday morning.

Moonstruck, while absolutely nothing to look at - unless you're into the various aqua and peach interior decorating motifs of 1985 - really gives it up in terms of quality, greasy diner fare. The Greeks running the joint turn the shit out.

Anyway, this particular Sunday morning, I was sitting in the back of the restaurant at a table with my friends Torrey and Anne. As we waited for our plates of onion rings, fries, burgers, Greek omelets, et. al. to arrive, I zoned out for a minute due to severe dehydration. In my blank, listless staring, my eyes settled on a very attractive, older brunette woman at a neighboring booth. I thought she looked familiar, so I let my gaze rest on her.

Before said minute was up, the woman, catching my stare, glared at me in disgust - like I'd farted or belched or pulled down my pants or tried to make off with her handbag. She made a sullen face and turned away from me.

Torrey - seeing the whole exchange - punched me in the arm and said through clenched teeth:

"What the fuck's wrong with you? Stop staring at Lorraine Bracco."

And, yes, Lorraine Bracco it was.

Tuesday, May 01, 2007

A Emotional Masculinity (Or, To Be Real)


I'm a sucker for Turner Classic Movies. If I had to choose only one channel, it would have to be it (Sundance Channel coming in a close second). Anyway, there's a great documentary on Marlon Brando on right now.

It's easy to forget that Brando changed film acting so radically in the 1950s. He was vulnerable in a way that was entirely shocking - he was unhinged and - for lack of a better term - real - when screen actors were expected to be affected (compare him to Cary Grant and you'll see what I mean). There's also the force of his sexuality...which is unstoppable.

String together A Streetcar Named Desire, On the Waterfront, The Wild One, and Last Tango in Paris sometime...you won't regret it.

20/20 Vision (Or, Baba Waawaa, Snake Charmer)


Last Friday night, Barbara Walters hosted a special 20/20 on child transsexuals.

Yes indeed, there's no end to America's newfound fascination with gender-identity disorder.

It was touching, sad, etc. etc. etc., but, I'm not here to report on that.

Oh, no.

I'm here to point out the shocking humor in an otherwise somber scenario.

At one point in the special, Barbara was interviewing a young girl named Riley (or, "Rywee" in WaaWaa speak) who was born a boy and who is still - biologically - a boy. Barbara was sitting close to the girl on her (frilly, pink) bed and was asking her (detailed, intimate) questions about her wish to be a girl - biologically.

In other words - her wish to get rid of her penis.

Le WaaWaa leaned in close to Riley and asked in a very hushed voice:

"Rywee. Let's talk about...your snake."

One only hopes that Riley has a boa constrictor or a python in a box under her bed.

Otherwise, Barbara's more guileless and, um, probing than ever.

Pump Up The Dam (Or, I Am, I Jam)

OK, OK, OK...I just don't have it in me to write like a fiend about Amsterdam. I'm boring myself writing about not writing about it - so here's a rough guide to the trip - fast and furious just like my long-but-too-short weekend:

Food: I ate a lot. No surprise there. Frites were hot and greasy and excellent and drowing in mayonaisse. Equally great was the upscale Indonesian food I ate on my last night there. Everything else - hate to say it - a little on the not so much side. Seriously...I was frequently excited, getting handsy and sloppy with various cafe menus, slobbering on myself in anticipation. Sentiments like: "Deep fried meatballs? Ja! I'll take a large order!" and/or "A hamburger with a fried egg on top? Why the fuck are you standing there - bring it on me!" were all for naught when the actual food showed up. The deep-fried meatballs in question were really sweet, mini-donuts with a teeny piece of flavorless ham inside...and the hamburger - although a taste sensation in theory - was as bland as all get out, despite being so greasy it was nearly impossible to hold.

Fashion: Two words: denim intervention. This is where bad jeans go to die. I have never seen so many rivets and tassels and appliques and patches and swirlies and doodles and pockets - all on a single pair of innocent denim pants.

Gay Nightlife: Again, I'll keep it short. Let's just say I heard "Strike It Up" by Blackbox...spun in a dance club without irony. At one point, my friend and travel companion Rob turned to me and said: "Wow. Everyone in here is so done up." to which I replied: "Yeah, we're the only ones in this place who don't look like back-up dancers for Ace of Base." I don't mean to be harsh...there were other bars we had a lot of fun in that were much more low-key and, um, more age-appropriate I guess. We were also photographed at one bar for their website. Lord only knows what I looked like at 4:30 AM with 10 drinks in me on no sleep.

Everything Else: Beyond beautiful. Beyond expectation. This was pretty hot too.