Wednesday, October 31, 2007

Tuesday, October 30, 2007

Fly on Fly Action (Or, Afternoon Delight)

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 FlyPaper Forum or Hustler.

Oh well...

O Brother, Where Art Thou? (Or, Brother Bandito)

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??"

and...

"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.

He laughed a low, mischievous laugh and said:

"Totally duude."

Monday, October 29, 2007

A Turban, A Towel (Or, Pissing in the Wind)


Here's another lift from a blog...I believe it came from Fabulon.

I know the song's from a while back...but I can't seem to shake it from my head this week.

Anyway, here's to a great video - Badly Drawn Boy's "Pissing in the Wind"...and the never fading cultural relevance of Miss Joan Collins.

Enjoy.

We Share Our Mother's Health (Or, Das Messer)

I'll step back to stories and drawings soon...

For now, here's a video for the Knife's "We Share Our Mother's Health"

Enjoy.

Interview Technique (Or, What Was the Question?)



I lifted this off of a blog a while back (I'd credit the original, but I can't seem to find it) and made a tweak or two...

Above is Colin Farrell, demonstrating...something...in an interview.

Enjoy.

Saturday, October 27, 2007

For No Good Reason #690 (Or, A Drawing)

Chef's Up, Phone's Down (Or, A Sequel)


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:

"What's in there? A phonebook?"

Friday, October 26, 2007

Someone's Not In the Kitchen With Dinah (Or, Le Menu)


As far as the nature vs. nurture argument goes, either way you cut it, cooking doesn't run in my family.

We simply don't do it.

That's not to say we don't love food - quite the opposite. We just don't like to get down and dirty with the culinary arts ourselves.

Last night, my mother called around 7:30 and I had to rush her off the phone:

"I can't talk now. I'll call you this weekend."

"You sound like you're in a hurry."

"Well, a friend is coming over for dinner."

"WHAT?"

Yes, my mother was that shocked. She continued:

"You're cooking?"

"Am I suddenly not your child? Of course not. I'm ordering in."

"Oh, thank God. I was worried. For a second, I thought it was something other than a Bring-Your-Own-Take-Out-Menu type of thing."

Thursday, October 25, 2007

Underage Appropriate Behavior (Or, Roman Holiday)

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?"

"Uh, Yes."

"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.

To.

His.

Apartment.

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?"

"No...I'm twenty."

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.

Wednesday, October 24, 2007

Rhythm Nation (Or, Reverend Nation)


Here's a little Hemingway for you...in two lines:

I studied abroad one semester in college.

It was a good time.

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.'"

Did I mention Julie was a drunk?

Who's Googling Who? (Or, Easy Like a Wednesday Morning)

I'm long on ambition and short on time today, so in lieu of something really really real - here's something really really easy breezy: a list of recent Google searches that lead people to this site (yes, yes, y'all - privacy is gone daddy gone).

I'm proud of a few turns of phrase...and kind of ashamed of some.

I'll let you decide which is which:

Penis in Fur
Ho Up
Panty Crickets
Creative Smoking
The F-Word Cartoon
Celluloid Film Strip
Gay Sex
Thank You Darlin
Pound Me From Behind
Dicking Daughter*

*I have to qualify that last one. In the context of the entry I wrote...it's really not what it sounds like here. It was from an entry called "Giving
Mildred Pierce Realness".

Monday, October 22, 2007

Mocha In Motion (Or, View From the Stew)


Excuse the spooky Halloween cobwebs...above is the flavor I baptized - Mocha Me Crazy - as seen in action in upstate New York.

I did have some difficulty ordering a scoop (of course, free with one of my many, many gift certificates to Stewart's Shops) - I think I mumbled my order. The woman working behind the counter had to ask me twice what flavor I wanted...which forced me to sort of yell:

"Mocha Me Crazy!"

To which I got the apt response:

"Mmmmmmhmmmmm."

When Signage Attacks (Or, Thank Heaven for Little Cameras)

I took this cell phone photo a while back...I'm not sure if the neon sign here was addressing all of Times Square or just me specifically.

Enjoy.

Grand, Rapid (Or, Keep It Together)

I was once on a road trip with my friend Rob and Madonna's "Keep It Together" slunk and funked its way out of the car's CD player.

As we fagged out to the Sly and the Family Stone flavored ditty, letting its overly earnest sentiments of familial importance wash over us, there was this fast exchange:

ROB: "God...Madonna is so..."

ME: "From Michigan?"*

*I said that without a hint of bitchery, since I'm a midwesterner myself.

Sunday, October 21, 2007

A Taste Sensation Sweeping the Nation (Or, Assumption)



As I mentioned here before (see also: A Coq Tale), I used to work at a university that had a super luxe cafeteria. I had a great and silly set of work friends when I worked for the school, and we'd often tear it up (and tear each other up) at lunch.

Around Halloween one year, a student in the cafeteria dumped a huge salad in her lap while whelping out a slow motion "FUUUCCCCCCCCCK" that seemingly went on for minutes. Instead of being staid, compassionate, and, um, mature, it was all my friends and I could do to hold back a wave of giggles. As we tried in vain to contain our laughter, someone in my group muttered under his breath:

"Guess she just figured out her Halloween costume. Bitch is going to be a salad."

One member of the lunch posse was prone to overusing the phrase "tastes like ass" as in:

"This sandwich tastes like ass."

Or...

"This sushi tastes like ass."

Or...

"I'm so hungover...everything tastes like ass."

One day, I decided to have a little fun at my friend's expense. As she tore into her lunch...she belted out the usual:

"God, this tastes like ass."

And I replied...

"So, do you mean it tastes like bad-dirty ass or good-dirty-sexy ass? Because if it's the latter, pass it over sister."

From then on, she thought twice about ranking on the taste of ass.

Saturday, October 20, 2007

Packing (Or, In The Company of Mens)


One summer a long, long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away...I worked as a landscaper.

It was a great job - my favorite summer job, actually. I spent most of the day alone mowing and weeding and trimming and sweating my ass off. By the end of that summer, I was in crazy great shape and was far, far too tan.

Every morning I had to meet in a garage with the other guys in my "crew". These fifteen minutes were the only time I saw my other co-workers...and each day I learned something new and delightful about the world of (intensely) heterosexual males.

That summer, for those fifteen minutes every day, I was an anthropologist.

My favorite findings in my unexpected research study go a little something like this:

One of my co-workers was porn-obsessed. For instance, he bought a Playboy calendar for the garage and once gave me the honor of changing the month from July to August. Of course, after I flipped the page over, I was expected to comment on the calendar's Miss August. I'm sure I mustered some sort of "Yeah...she's hot" with next to no feeling, mortified of being outed in front of the hyper-masculine crew.

The same porn-headed guy brought in a stack of old magazines he didn't want anymore and was pushing them off on the crew. The guy was quick to point out that one of his mags had a, um, spread featuring a busty, lusty, blonde transsexual (male-to-female, naturally) model. He passed the magazine around to everyone and exclaimed something like:

"Can you believe it? That chick used to be a dude!"

To which another co-worker responded:

"Whatever, man. She's fuckin' HOT...I'd fuck her so hard, I'd make her dick pop back out."

Friday, October 19, 2007

Self-Portrait in a Concave Cell Phone (Or, I Am A Camera)

I made this at the end of last year...a little video that's a compilation of nearly a year's worth of images I took with my cell phone's camera.

It's fast and furious...but for those interested, there are images of quite a few people that have been mentioned on this here blog...

Enjoy.

Stylin', Profilin' (Or, Camp It Up)


I have two posts in the pipeline...but before I step to those, I would like to thank Hello My Name Is Danny for posting a profile of my work yesterday at Gay Camp.

You can read it by clicking here.

I'm flattered and honored...thanks again!

-T$

Thursday, October 18, 2007

Feeling Gravity's Pull (Or, I Am the Lighthouse)



Thanks to Big Daddy, I had a little trip down memory lane today with The The...

So...

Here's the rather insanely sexy video for one of the sexiest songs ever...The The's "Gravitate To Me".

Enjoy.

Let Me Know (Or, Roisin The Roof)


I have post-meme laziness...so, in keeping up with the videos...here's Roisin Murphy's "Let Me Know".

Love the hat. Love the gown. Hope you win.

Oh yeah...her website is slammin.

Enjoy.

Possibly True Confessions (Or, A Memeium-Rare)


OK...so, I never do memes. I have been tagged a couple of times before, and I've...well, I've ignored the call to memetize.

So, in a first...here's my contribution to The Confessions Meme as tagged by Mod Fab:

Taken a picture completely naked? I confess.

Made out with a friend on your MySpace/Facebook page? I confess.

Danced in front of your mirror naked? I confess.

Told a lie? I confess.

Had feelings for someone who didn’t have them back? I confess.

Been arrested? Almost...twice. I won't confess the circumstances...but one of them was all Cops style, seeing as I was in my underwear at the time.

Made out with someone of the same sex? I confess. I've even made out with someone of the opposite sex.

Seen someone die? Thankfully - no.

Slept in until 5pm? I confess.

Had sex at work? I confess...but this isn't that scandalous for me. I work from home.

Fallen asleep at work/school? I confess.

Held a snake? I confess. More than once. I even had a boa constrictor draped on me. And - just saying - this is the dirtiest question here.

Ran a red light? I confess.

Been suspended from school? Despite the fact that I now look like an ex-con, I was far too nerdy for all that as a kid.

Totaled your car in an accident? I was rear-ended...badly. And - just saying - this is my dirtiest answer here.

Pole danced? Smoked? Yes. Danced? No.

Been fired from a job? Nope.

Sang karaoke? I confess. I do a mean "Private Dancer" - Tina Turner's enunciation included.

Done something you told yourself you wouldn’t? I confess.

Laughed until a drink came out your nose? I confess.

Caught a snowflake on your tongue? I confess.

Kissed in the rain? I confess. I've been kissed in the can too.

Sang in the shower? I confess.

Given your private parts a nickname? I haven't...but someone else did give a name to the beast.

Ever gone out without underwear? I confess.

Sat on a roof top? I confess.

Played chicken? Play as in "choke"? I confess.

Been pushed into a pool with all your clothes on? I confess.

Broken a bone? Popped one? Yes. Bent one? Yes. Broke one? No.

Mooned/flashed someone? I confess, I confess.

Shaved your head? I confess.

Slept naked? I confess.

Played a prank on someone? I confess.

Had a gym membership? I confess.

Felt like killing someone? I confess.

Made your girlfriend/boyfriend cry? I confess.

Cried over someone you were in love with? I confess.

Had sex more than 10 times in one day? I confess.

Had Mexican jumping beans for pets? Hells no.

Been in a band? I confess. It was called "Sex Monkeys With Tools". We had no songs, no instruments, no performances. We were the hit of Cannes and all of Europe.

Subscribed to Maxim? Who's he?

Taken more than 10 shots of alcohol? Yes. Ouzo. To this day, the smell of black licorice/anise makes me gag.

Shot a gun? I confess.

Had sex today? As much as I'd like to confess...sadly...no.

Played strip poker? I confess.

Tripped on mushrooms? I confess...those toadstools are indeed a menace to toes.

Donated Blood? Fuck that job.

Video taped yourself having sex? I confess.

Eaten alligator meat? Frog legs? I confess, I confess.

Ever jump out of an airplane? Hells no.

Have you been to more than 10 countries? I confess.

Ever wanted to have sex with a platonic friend? I confess.

Five bloggers you're tagging that you don't know how much you like their blogs?
I'm taking this means bloggers I don't know that well...so:

night is half gone...
ink2metal works it out
BaRou is the New Bklyn
A Life in the Day
All Things But None

Wednesday, October 17, 2007

I Don't Give a Damn Bout My Bad Education (Or, Todo Sobre Mi AraƱa)

This is so good, it hurts....

A trailer for Spider-Man 3 as directed by Pedro Almodovar...with clips from Bad Education.

Ancient History (Or, Possibly in Chicago)

I've had this ancient (and I mean, ancient) video hanging out on my hard drive forever...and I finally uploaded it to YouBoob. Here's a student film I made (in 1989...ouch) for the Smiths' "I Won't Share You".

I'm in it too...just past the edge of seventeen.

Enjoy...if you dare.

Employee Benefit Package (Or, Harassment)

Over the course of the last two weeks, I've written about sexual harassment in the workplace rather gleefully.

Guess that's what happens when you work for yourself - you romanticize what you don't have, the grass (or ass maybe?) is always greener, etc.

I was chatting with my friend Tarek about work and he asked the big question:

"Why don't you hire an assistant?"

I could only make excuses. I tried to explain that I don't want to hurt the feelings of my fictional assistant Darcelle. Even though she's practically illiterate and horrible at her job, she's awfully sensitive.

After more excuses and more enabling lies about Naomi, Darcelle, and LaDawna, I finally gave up defending my fictional staff:

"You know, I wish I had real assistants. I could stop sexually harassing myself."

Monday, October 15, 2007

The Cook, The Thief, His Wife, And My Hunger (Or, Gravy)


I have a habit that's hard to break.

I'm a middle-of-the-night eater.

Sometimes, I wake up for a cracker.

Sometimes, I rise to grab a cookie.

Last night, I got up to get down with an entire burrito, chinese leftovers, and some chocolate truffles...

I think.

I honestly don't remember housing the burrito...or the sesame chicken for that matter. I only realized it this afternoon, when I went to the kitchen to scrounge up a fast and easy lunch, only to find I had nothing at all to eat.

In my defense, I'll quote Dolly Parton:

"I don't do anything halfway. I live hard. I love hard. Hell...I even eat hard."

So, I'm chalking up last night's love affair with my refrigerator to living...and eating...hard.

I also feel the need here - for some reason - to repeat a little poem I wrote a while ago:

Gravy is great
Gravy is groovy
When I ain't got meat,
I drink it like a smoothie

Luckily for me, I had no such gravy-for-a-smoothie on hand last night.

Although...if I had, I might have had that burrito for lunch.

Sunday, October 14, 2007

Say It Ain't So (Or, When Bad Teeth Happen To Good People)


Fifteen years ago, Madonna made a gorgeously shiteous movie called Body of Evidence. Thanks to modern technology, said shitbox film now sits on my DVR where I can watch the best worst and the worst best parts over and over again and skip everything else.

After all, it's the time of the year for scary movies.

Watching this junkshow bit-by-bit over and over again, I realize that what I'm most disturbed by isn't Madonna's catatonic acting style or Madonna's catatonic sex acts involving candles or Madonna's catatonic overblinking....

I'm most disturbed by Julianne Moore's teeth (see above).

I love Julianne Moore to pieces...so I hate to report on such a thing...but seriously. Check those bitches out. Not only are her toofs gray...they could give Kirsten Dunst a run for her money in the fang-snaggle department.

Below - just for shits and giggles - is the worst bitchslap in the history of cinema. This capture is right when the sound of the slap hits...but, as you can see, Moore's hand is like ten feet away from Lady Madonna's grill.

So bad...it hurts.


Saturday, October 13, 2007

What's In A Name (Or, Wot Is He Like, Anyway?)



I was crusing new blogs a couple of weeks ago, and came across a very thoughtful entry asking about blog names and how writers/bloggers came up with them. People (ok, two) have asked me what "Buffalo Void" means, and I realized - although the combination of the two words made perfect sense to me - I sort of needed a slide presentation to explain it.

Since I'm clearly I'm at a loss for words this week...

See the animation above.

And see if you can name the four inspirations for the title Buffalo Void.



Thursday, October 11, 2007

Yeah, Yeah, Yeah (Or, Lemon Jelly)

Ok Ok Ok...I'm giving into the video feed today.

Here are so-cute-they-hurt videos for Lemon Jelly's "A Man Like Me" (above) and "Spacewalk" (below)

Enjoy.

A Word From Our Sponsor (Or, Way Out)

This week, it seems BV is dangerously close to becoming a video blog.

Anyway, here's the video for one of my very favorite songs from the last year..."Way Out" By Ellen Allien and Apparat.

Here's to kraut pride.

Enjoy.

Wednesday, October 10, 2007

I Didn't Evolve From You (Or, You Don't Cover Your Penis)

I love Jan Hooks...and I totally forgot about this clip.

Here she is as Kathie Lee Gifford singing "I Didn't Evolve From You".

Enjoy.

Smoke Gets In Your... (Or, Un Chant d'Amour)

I have a list of ditties to knock out...and next-to-no energy to do so.

So, instead of posting something less-than-half-assed, here's a whole-assed clip from Jean Genet's film Un Chant d'Amour.

This is a re-edited scene with a new soundtrack...but the gist is still the same.

Smoking never, ever looked so good.

Tuesday, October 09, 2007

Fiber Optics (Or, Eatin' Good in the 'Hood)


There's a grocery store in my neighborhood that I love, but hardly ever go to. It's a little too far south to be convenient, so I only shop there when I happen to have some extra time for a stroll. I won't name the store...but I will say this: their chicken salad is like crack. It drives me crazy and I can't get enough of it.

I'd turn tricks for it if I had to.

Also of note...once, in my haste to get my hands and face and mouth all over a batch of said addictive chicken salad, I bashed into Susan Sarandon in front of the deli counter. I tried to play it cool, but that was nearly impossible, considering how lovely she is in person...and how jonesed up I was for that damn chicken salad.

Anyway, last week I was able to hit the place for a fix of the chix since I had a client meeting not far from there. It was the middle of the afternoon, so the store was fairly empty. I was in line at the register behind a woman who had a python wallet inside another python wallet inside a python checkbook inside another python wallet inside a python bag inside a bigger python bag inside a python bucket tote, so I had to wait a while for her to disassemble and reassemble all of her python accessories.

I didn't mind the wait, since I was loaded down with a bounty of chicken salad.

However, the woman behind me in line was not having Ms. Python and her luxe version of a Russian nested doll.

The woman behind me began sighing and groaning very loudly as the accessories trade-show unfurled. After a solid minute of this groaning, she started pushing her cart back and forth and bending over as if she had some sort of abdominal cramps.

I wouldn't have noticed what the groaner had in her cart had she not bashed me with it a couple of times in her contortions.

Her cart was filled with bags of fresh spinach, containers of hummus, and enough whole grain products to feed the Israeli army.

While I paid for the chicken salad, I realized the poor woman was so high in fiber that she was about to burst at the, uh, seams, right there in line and all her groaning and cramping and sighing was a grown-up version of a kid's poo-poo dance.

And, no, the groaner wasn't Susan Sarandon.

Monday, October 08, 2007

B Is For Booty (Or, Stranded at the Drive-In)

I'll sound like that joke from Airplane! but...

Goddamn, I'm a sucker for a gladiator movie.

Beefy, bearded men in togas and sandals really get me going.

Mancake aside, I'm also a nut for most B-Movies from the 1950s and 60s. Quite a few years ago, I found a website called Brian's Drive-In Theater that's a super-extensive catalog of stars, filmstills, and general trivia about B-Movies.

I'll admit though - I hardly ever make it past "The Many Faces of Hercules". That section sucks me in and never lets go.

Anyway, I hate to say the site's not much to look at...but...the site's not much to look at. However, the film stills rock pretty hard (see below).

Assumption (Or, Jug Band)

Yesterday's post triggered a memory of an old story...from way back when I worked in a proper office and had proper (read: non-fictional) co-workers.

Here goes...

I worked with a woman who - for lack of a better description - loved fags. All her friends were gay and she was happy as happy could be about it.

This woman also had a phenomenally huge pair of breasts.

I'll get to that in a second...

Now, one day, I was innocently crawling under my desk - looking for a stray Pantone chip or some such thing. My female coworker had come by to say hello to me...and all she saw was my big man-booty hoisted way way way up in the air.

Instead of saying a proper hello...the woman in question, while smacking my raised backside, said:

"Where are you doing with that fiiiine ass...you dirty faggot."

I could only reply - ever so demurely...

"Yo jugs - what's shakin? Besides them triple-Ds?"

Sunday, October 07, 2007

A Loon for the Misbegotten (Or, Toots)

Adding to the pile of words I love...here's one sort-of-charmingly-sexist, outdated term that tickles me pink.

Toots.

Now, that's not "toooooots" as in: "I ate a lot of eggplant, broccoli, and garlic for dinner and now I have a bad case of the toots" or "Charlie Parker really toots on that horn".

It's toots (pronounced "tutz") as in short for tootsie.

It's one of those terms of endearment I like to lob at people (of course, men too) from time to time like:

"Hey toots, can you get me a coffee?"

Or...

"Pipe down, toots. I'm trying to watch Wifeswap."

Or...

"Wow, toots. Your tits look real nice in that top."

So, go ahead. Try using it in a sentence....or, better yet, sling it around at work like a drunken sailor on shore leave and get yourself fired for sexual harrassment.

I Have Two Beautiful Girls Before Me...(Or, Tyra In French)

This is too good...

Periodically Speaking (Or, MI)

Because...after the last entry...I need help with the funny today...here's the always great Catherine Tate.

Enjoy.

The F-Word (Or, Performance Anxiety)

I simultaneously dread and love the word "funny".

I love it for obvious reasons...and I hate it because it can be a death knell.

Whenever I'm introduced to a stranger by a friend as "This is Trevor - he's funny" - it's pretty much all over for me.

I'm toast.

When that word is tossed out, it generates expectation...as in: "Ok, monkey...perform now" or "He's funny...therefore he's about to spew hilarity at you in mere seconds." And...in me it generates panic. It's like I'm that dancing, singing frog from that old Looney Tunes cartoon that only performs for the sadsack construction worker that finds him in a shoebox on a street corner.

Anyway, all that aside, sometimes, I set myself up for such a disaster. There are points where jokes fly and riffs roll and witticisms rhumba without effort - but just as often, these flights and cha-chas crash and stumble just as fast as they happen.

Once I was on a long roadtrip with friends - I was working overtime on the funny tip and laughter abounded. But, then, I pushed things too far and rambled on and on and on thinking I was going to land at a punchline somewhere.

The landing never happened...so I gracefully tried to bow out and started mumbling to myself, hoping that those I was previously entertaining would somehow not notice that my story had no point.

I eventually just stopped talking and looked out the window.

And now, as I scramble to wrap this up...I realize...

This story has no punchline either.

In my attempt to make "not funny" funny here I sit...

Not. Even. Funny.

Thursday, October 04, 2007

A Lot of People Come Into the DQ (Or, Miss Brown)

Because after twelve years...it still makes me laugh...

And because...after twelve years, I can still do this whole thing - in character - verbatim.

Here's to the genius of Parker Posey as Libby Mae Brown.

The Dubai Brothers (Or, Never Coming to a Bookstore Near You)


Last night, I was at my friend Torrey's apartment for dinner. Somewhere along the way, someone brought up a book called Persian Girls.

I'm not sure why a simple statement led Torrey and I into the following booze-laced riff...but it did...

In our imagining of the book (retitled: Persian Girl), the author switched from earnest feminist writer to...

Jackie Collins.

Here's a snippet from a press release about the book:

"Persian Girl is the remarkable tale of Sheherazade Santangelo, a girl born into poverty to rise up the ranks from servant...to 15th wife...to second wife...to independent jetsetting capitalist mogul. Persian Girl is the first of the Sheherazade Santangelo trilogy...followed by the equally saucy novels Iranian Lady and Dubai Woman."

"Collins had this to say about her inspiration for the novel: 'I was shopping at one of the Versace stores in Dubai. My sister Joan asked me to get her a sarong for her thirteenth 60th birthday. I passed a display case full of gold armbands and I thought to myself...there's a novel or three right here before my very eyes.'"

Be sure to buy it for someone you love.


Wednesday, October 03, 2007

Major Minor (Or, So Good It Hurts)

I sang the praises of The Minor Accomplishments of Jackie Woodman here before...but it bears repeating...the show is my jam. Above is the show intro...below is a (ok, long) clip from an episode where Jackie and her best friend (and hotassmess) Tara take Peyote together.

Again, the below clip is long, but it's worth watching all the way through...the payoff at the end of their trip is fantastic. Enjoy.

Tuesday, October 02, 2007

What's In A Word? (Or, Two for the Road)

I have many favorite words...but there are two that I love more than anything.

I love them so much, I stole them.

The first is shitbox. It's a lovely compound word that I lifted from a certain Christopher Guest film. It has so many uses...and it really comes in handy...as in people, places and things:

"This restaurant is a complete shitbox."

"This shirt makes me look like a shitbox."

"Kathi is a total shitbox. She just lost custody of her kids."

Now, before I get ahead of myself and turn this entry into a shitty shitbox, my other favorite word is junkshow. I stole it from my friend Patty - who wields the word impressively and deserves due credit.

Junkshow is a lot like shitbox...but is somehow more descriptive:

"This store's OK...but who are they trying to fool with that sale rack? It's a junkshow."

"This bar is a junkshow."

"Kathi's weave is a junkshow. What did she pay - ten bucks for that hair?"

So, go ahead and use them at your discretion...impress your friends at parties with your saucy, salty wit and make your frenemies cry and beg for mercy.

A Little Less Conversation (Or, Thank You, Darlin')


OK...I did just eat a fried peanut butter and banana sandwich...so I guess I shouldn't be that shocked by this. According to a recent online quiz, if I were a dead celebrity, I'd be...

Elvis Presley.

I'm down with the King, for sure...and Clambake! is one of my favorite films. I also fondly remember while my grandmother was reading Priscilla Presley's book Elvis and Me, she muttered under her breath:

"She's a mess and she can't write. She should have called this book Elvis and Me Done Drugs."

However, I'm not so jazzed about the mini-Freudian analysis of my psyche that came with my Blue Hawaiian answer.

See below:


Which Dead Celebrity Are You?
Your Result: Elvis Presley

Multi-talented, but really strong in only one field. You tend to love beauty and opulence. More than likely, you suffer from a deep-seated guilt or anxiety that your mother may have contributed to. Visually, you are a striking figure and feel comfortable being "on-stage".

Lucille Ball

Marilyn Monroe

Which Dead Celebrity Are You?