Casserole Comfort

Nothing evokes personal memories of death more precisely than a chilling processional of "comfort food" casserole dishes piling up on the kitchen countertops of my childhood home in Cedartown, Georgia.

Sweet potato prayers, mummified macaroni and cheese, tuna helper tears, deathly chicken & dumplings, sorrowful sphaghetti, bereaved banana puddin, even sympathy spam casserole. As soon as anyone bit the dust (with the exception of drunk cousin Lavar who drowned in his fiancée’s daughter’s kiddie pool), countless, ceramic dishes and Tupperware bowls began their death-dirge down the linoleum hallway into our family’s lime green kitchen, seemingly on their own to settle, shellacked in a Saran wrap sarcophagi, for a grueling, month long consumption by my brother and I.

And I’m talking countless, endless casseroles! Everyone sends a casserole when there’s a death in the South. And the food keeps coming long after the deceased is well pumped through with chemicals, gussied up in a slit-down-the-back tux and buried as deep as ricotta in a bubbling, gooey lasagna.

The ”better” families (better meaning the ones of prestige … or those who want to appear prestigious, it’s a very fine point of distinction) send actual cookware with serving spoons. Most, however, offer their sludge of sorrow in simple aluminum foil dishes. No clean up and, most importantly, the sympathetic sender has absolutely no need to retrieve a piece of cookware from the bereaved, and thus be cajoled into offering additional assistance.

Because in the South, face-to-face with the survivors of tragedy, you absolutely must offer “is there anything else I can help you with?” And 9 out of 10 times it’s merely decorum. As a survivor of death you’re expected to accept the generous thirty or forty casseroles, however that’s the limit! Any assistance beyond that and you’re pushing into the accepted boundaries of public sympathy. You’re expected to bury your sorrow and needs until the public is out of sight.

Be thankful God's children gave you those casseroles and cry in private.

Dandy of Darkness

Darkness. There are times in everyone's life when the darkness that inhabits all our souls threatens to snuff the flame, the inspiration, the creation. But when those cruel, midnight tentacles reach from the ebon void, I take to them with the nimble fingers of Arachne and weave them into poetry both dreadful and beautiful, wicked and sublime.

Sometimes this dandy's life is absolutely null and void of Prometheus' cherished spark. Thankfully, any feeling, even those macabre and destructive, those of the secret world of mutilation and horror, can be used to inspire one to creation.

Rarely ever do I post my darkest poetry, my secretest words of woe here in this forum. Doing so presents my deepest emotions for open ridicule and scorn. For example, Michaud, (who is gay again - much on that later my dears), criticizes my poetic verse, saying its insipid and odiferous. Perhaps he was searching for beauty where he only should have been looking for pain. In Gayest Neil's darkest heart there lies often only the chilling, brutal terror of a single ragged voice screaming out for release into an empty, utterly empty, void...

Finger Paints

Would I could take an artist's fettling knife
and slice the tips of my fingers away.
And from each diced digit
different hues would bleed.

I'd view the page blank
and the sanguine syrup would flow into shapes
and forms of my mind's careful choosing.
There my pale hand rests, exposed as
rivers of color form a chromatic estuary.

A mallet in my right hand
I smash the left and
tiny bits of bone float along the current.
White sails released from a marrow marina.
They too flow into the vast ocean
covering the page,
adding textures and
irregularities across the form.

Mallet replaced by stiff haired brush,
I carefully dot the fibre into
the whites of my eyes.
Like a fluffy merangue,
my orb's foam scoops from the socket.
I dot the horizon,
eyeing those delicate clouds
with the remaining blue pigment held therein.

Would I could peel back the flesh of my calf
and dig into the sinew beneath. The stringed
meat of my leg makes a lovely meadow of wheat,
wouldn't you agree?

And from each foot, lucky toenails
plucked adorn as rooftop shingles
on a most stately, English countryhouse.

Into each window
of the house a tiny bubble
blown from saliva, transparent
and shiny. Glass blown into the viscous
mucus to the page, sticking into place.

From the knobs of my knees,
permanent bumps cut free,
they dot the landscape creating rolling hills.

I lean forward, to the fragrant
page, and sneeze
as though I breathed the spiciest pepper.
A flutter of golden
green butterflies fly across the page.
Their delicate wings ride the breeze
til taking root in my artwork's scene.

A saplings bark built from my very own prints.
Trimmed back oval lined finger.
Unique not only to me, cause now
they're shared with baby trees.

And a shaved head of hair
dusts the copse
with brown leaves. My crafty
corpse's deciduous decision
provides this artist his final glee.

Fucker or Cleaner?

No. For the fifteenth friggin time, I did not go to the Black Party. Some of my friends did, bravo to them, but Bryce and I spent the majority of the weekend sequestered in our Clinton Hill home welcoming the Vernal Equinox with an equally time honored spring tradition. We cleaned the house from top to bottom.

Again, I’m not disparaging those who attended the Bacchanalia at Roseland Ballroom. Perhaps I’ll go next spring. The tawdry tales I’ve heard of debauchery and lust among the grinding, black leather clad masses certainly cause this dandy to “spring” into action, but the whole affair strikes me as intimidating and crowded. That and the party doesn’t really start until 4:00 a.m. I transform into a pumpkin come 2:00 a.m. By 3:00 I’m a scowling Jack-O-Lantern. By 4:00 I’d be ready to assassinate someone.

Over Saturday brunch, our friend, Bacon-Boy confessed he knows the DJ who would be spinning the tunes in the Roseland’s converted bathroom/dungeon. The term bathroom/dungeon gives one an apt idea of why I didn't wish to attend.

Grunting and on my knees, my own bathroom felt like a converted dungeon come 9:30 on Sunday morning as I scrubbed the soap-crusted tiles free of mildew in our lovely home. I hate cleaning, but I love it when the task is complete.

Finally, after two months of living with cardboard boxes and partially unpacked house wares, the apartment feels “right”. There is a sense of potential for the new astrological year that is upon us. There is still much to do. Some pieces of furniture need to be bought. I want to paint a living room wall, for example.

Going into spring. Let’s discuss the two traditional rites of the Vernal Equinox: The Bacchanalia and the Spring Cleansing.

Bacchus, n.: A convenient deity invented by the ancients as an excuse for getting drunk. Ambrose Bierce

The term Bacchanalia isn’t solely specific to the Vernal Equinox. In fact, the earliest Bacchanalia were only attended by women and occurred three times a month at sacred groves of worship. It wasn’t until much later that men were invited to attend and then the frequency nearly doubled to five times a month. The Bacchanalia of the Vernal Equinox was a celebration of Bacchus’ rebirth and the absolution of sins committed during the prior year.

Bacchus, like Osiris, is a“sin-bearing” god, having been killed for his sins and brought back to life (in different forms through out several Pagan pantheons) on the pagan “Easter”, March 15th. The god’s ( whether Bacchus, Osiris, or Jesus) own death and rebirth symbolized the death and rebirth of life during this time of the year. The death/rebirth theme can be attended to many aspects of life, typically “sins”. In some legends this god descends into the underworld to challenge the forces there.

If the Black Party were the underworld, how many of the brave descended were there to defy such excesses or revel in them?

Thus joyful Bacchus, the patron of merriment and wine represents transformation and abolishment of past misdeeds via merriment. Just fuck the pain away.

Present day witches and neo-pagans celebrate “Ostara,” a lesser Sabbat (one of the eight holy days of the witche’s calendar) on the vernal equinox. The term Ostara is derived Eostre, the Anglo-Saxon lunar Goddess. She was believed to be a Goddess of spring, birth and the rising sun. The name Eostre is said to be further derived from the goddesses Ishtan, Astarte and Isis, who were portrayed as consorts of the sin-bearing death/rebirth gods Osiris or Bacchus/Dionysus. .

(On a side note, the rising sun is an important symbol for this time of the year. It represents the start of the Astrological calendar when the Sun enters Aries. The rising sun is neatly balanced by Libra’s symbol six houses away, representing the setting sun as fall fades into the darkness of winter.)

Ostara and modern Wiccan rites.

Much of today’s Easter pageantry borrows directly from pagan rites. People often ask, “What does a chocolate rabbit have to do with Jesus?”

Actually there’s a few different intertwining traditions that our ancestors practiced which now have found themselves dressed in fluorescent hues and housed in cocoa shells on the Duane Reade shelves every March.

The Oestre Rabbit. The rabbit or hare are symbolic of good health and good fortune (helloo, rabbit’s foot). A traditional sweet cake cooked during this time was the hare cake (not to be confused with the hare pie), a sweet bread decorated with almonds and currants and baked in the shape of a rabbit. The bread was eaten for luck and fertility. The euphemism “to fuck like bunnies” is attributed to this notion of the rabbit’s penchant for procreation.

The Oestre Egg. The shells of the eggs used to make the Hare Cake were not broken; rather the yolk was blown from within. The eggs were then decorated and bedazzled and hidden for children to find. Also on several days during the Easter season

"Boys went around ... with a mitten begging eggs and would get one or two from each family.... On Sunday a lot of them lit a fire in the hills and boiled their eggs near some plain green, threw up their eggs to see which ones would be longest unbroken, and then ate them."

Nasty. The distance of the throws and the "luck" inherent in the unbroken eggs were taken as omens of the growth of the crops and the luck of the year. And here we thought egging only occurred during Halloween.

More ancient “lucky egg” rituals involved the painting of raw eggs to insure good fortune during the course of the year. The idea being, you’re guaranteed luck so long as the decorative egg isn’t broken. However once it’s cracked your luck dissolves and your thatched hut is filled with rotten egg stink.

The “washing-rites” were another major spring tradition among European and Nordic pagans. Priestesses would drag everything, furniture, dishes, clothing, children all manner of belongings, and toss them in a fjord. The “washing-rites” are of course a precursor to the modern day baptismal.

I’m not against the fertility/Bacchanalia aspect of the Spring season, just ask Bryce. Wink-wink, nudge-nudge. But personally, the cleansing-renewal-healthy living aspects of the season are far more appealing than the Bacchanalia’s sin relinquishing sexcapades.

This is likely because of the more feminine/emotional elements (air and water) of cleansing, as opposed to the masculine/physical elements of fucking (fire and earth). Whichever your path, hopefully both if you abolished your sins in the dungeon/bathroom, may you have a blessed and prosperous spring.

Zima Skank

Wow. Who knew?

Texas... fuckin' Texas...

Texas is arresting people for public drunkeness ... in a bar. I only wish this was parody.

Intelligent Design

Applause goes out to Foxy and Fagat for getting me all worked up over Designing Women this morning. Designing Women is easily one of my top five favorite situation comedies of all time. The interesting thing about this revelation is that my love for the show didn’t happen as a teenager (although I watched every episode every week from 1986 to 1993), but rather as an adult, viewing the show through the eyes of an old Southern gal, a designing woman myself.

Fourteen Things Gayest Neil Loves about Designing Women
(maybe more if I feel so inspired):

1) Julia's righteous monologues, given.

2) The non-threatening black man antics of Meshach Taylor. I love you Hollywood Montrose! For the longest I thought he and Ernie Hudson from Ghostbusters were the same person.

3) Annie Potts (also from Ghostbusters) seemed so much more put together than anyone a Sugerbakers. I also kept hope alive her character would come out as a lesbo.

4) Oh poor, rattled Bernice. She was a scene stealer until she got a job at the design firm (this was during the dark B.J. Poteet and Allison Sugarbaker years, 91-93)

5) Jean Smart. She’s the best thing about 24 right now. My favorite Charlene line “[Julia] said she was going to hunt me down like a dog and hire blood hounds to rip my clothes off!”

6) The baby wig! The baby wig! THE BABY WIG!

7) Georgia. I loved that the show was set in my home state. It was a pretty accurate portrayal too. If you were a woman interior designer living in a mansion in the whitest part of Atlanta.

8) The tackiness of it all. Baubles, chandeliers, overstuffed pillows. The production design was so overblown. Love it. I’m installing a lanai so I can fill it up with Southern Victorian trashy furniture from Pier One and sip mint juleps while Ray Charles sings and enjoy my life of leisure all in gauzy soft focus.

9) OK… I’ll be one of a million when I say I loved Suzanne. Like Julia’s rants, everyone loves Suzanne’s wackiness, but what is there not to like? Suzanne Sugarbaker was the gay teen’s Karen before “Will and Grace” was. And kudos to Foxy. W&G is sooo played out. It feels older than “Designing Women”. Loved her pig, Suzanne’s not Foxy’s.

10) The AIDS episode where Julia’s HIV positive son arrives with a request for Sugarbakers to plan his funeral and dies like two days later. I’ve seen this episode several times and I come out of it with a different opinion after each viewing.

11) Was BJ Poteet a lesbo? I was always kind of frightened by her. She reminded me vaguely of my father’s girlfriend/mistress at the time.

12) Carlene, eh… ok. Of the three replacements, weird BJ Poteet, the reviled Allison Sugerbaker and kooky Carlene. I admit I liked Carlene the most. More so to the talent of SNL’s Jan Hooks than any inspired character development of Carlene herself. Ditzy country gal, check. Moving on.

13) The episode where the Designing Women have to beat up a bully biker who is menacing Anthony in his apartment’s laundry room. The best thing about that episode is the biker’s skanky girlfriend who’s suckin on a Zima. I love trashy girlfriends. I want to be a trashy, biker girlfriend when I grow up!

14) The episode where the Designing Women have to go undercover as white supremacists to rescue Anthony from the Klan. That Anthony was always getting into trouble.

Doldrums and Draggings

I contemplate this post with hesitancy. I give due pause, as the confessional contained herein could result in permanent, nasty impressions of my character; scathing opinions of yours truly which could reverberate across not only the meta-microcosm of the blogosphere, but well into my actual life of social engagements and affluent attendances.

Dandies, friends, and enemies… let’s talk about Dungeons and Dragons Online.

I have before, in jest, teasingly tossed tidbits of truthiness regarding my nightly forays into the realm of Eberron to battle hobgoblins and slay sorcerers intent on any number of malicious endeavors.

As the diminutive Halfling rogue, Raccoon Sly, I slink through the sewers and alleys of Stormreach, one of Eberron’s capital ports. I’m a mistress (yes I’m a girl) of intrigue. No hidden secret or sparkling treasure is safe from my greedy, little paws.

(Oh God I’m shaking as I type these horrible, horrible words!)

You may ask what is a Halfling? Well, think Hobbit but without the J.R.R. Tolkein trademark infringement. You may ask what is a Hobbit? Think Israel the midget stripper, but with out the stripping. Actually, I take that back. Raccoon has a propensity for dancing in her undies on the countertops of Stormreach’s shadiest bar, the Rusty Nail.

(Why do you debase yourself in such terrible manner Gayest Neil? Everyone loves you without the need to humiliate yourself!!)

Raccoon not only possesses the tricky cunning of a thief. She also understands the mystic arts of an apprentice wizard. Unlike her flashy contemporaries who toss balls of flame or bolts of acid, Raccoon prefers a more subtle approach. She manipulates magic, allowing herself to float gently from dangerous heights or deflect the attacks of slobbering monsters or simply cajole the beasts to stand blankly in their tracks as she weaves a hypnotic pattern before cruelly slicing their throats.

(No. No. No. Stop now!)

And the various weapons found or potions sipped add a giddy sense of customization to the game, which was never the case with other online diversions. Already Raccoon discovered a vicious dagger with an enchantment against reptilian adversaries. What a lovely knife to own while skulking about the depths of Stormreach’s crocodile infested sewers.

(My eyes are bleeding!!!)

Unfortunately, everything is not treasure and fighting monsters in DDO. (I wish it were) Much of this “game” involves standing around begging nerds to be your friend. And that sucks. That sucks a whole lot.

(Oh…this is better.)

When you log on, it takes a good fifteen to twenty minutes to find a group of players who 1) need your particular abilities in their mix of healers, warriors, rogues and wizards and 2) are attempting the same quest that you are willing to do.

Even when you join, it may take more time for them to continue filling out a “party” (group of adventurers) to a total of six players. But if only it were that simple. Once you join a party it’s all about the chemistry, and I’m not talking potion-making.

I can’t stand most the retards in this game. DDO supports an in-game chat function in which any geek can plug in and chit-chat on any various topic of his choosing.

And geeks love to talk. They love it like calculus or acne cream. Discussion usually goes in two directions. Either a chatty player becomes a stand-up comic (to everyone’s chagrin) or a chatty player turns into Bossy McBoss-Pants and proceeds command everyone what to do and how to do it. NO FUN.

And so much gender-bending in this innocent little game; I was advetnuring with a buxom, elfin lady named Galadrial. She was a boy. Her real name was Walter. They’re all boys. It goes without saying if you see a buxom, blond female elfin warrior with a huge sword… it’s a nerd in real life.

I play this game for fun, as a means to step away from reality for an hour or two. And, I’m sad to report, Dungeons and Dragons Online is more tedious than entertaining. (On a side note: why does every freakin’ dungeon have so many traps? How do these monsters afford to install these things?)

Sadly, much of the excitement that classic D&D afforded me as a kid was due to my very own imagination. Being told you’re fighting a horde of zombies, imagining flesh falling from their bones as they slumped forward to chew on your face is rather more fun than seeing four, identical animated versions while a bossy nerdwad shouts in your ear.

The game does have it’s high points. DDO is very beautifully rendered and the quests (although few in number) prove to be exciting and challenging. It also follows the game mechanics of Dungeons and Dragons to a tee, which tickles the rules stickler in me.

Unfortunately, this dungeon delving dandy’s immediate opinion is harshly swayed by the tedium of mission-finding. I’m not paying a monthly fee to socialize. I’m paying so my lesbian midget wizard can grab a quest, jump into the action and hoard the coolest loot. I’ll give it another month, but if you’re looking for a kick ass online game, go with City of Heroes and City of Villains.

Letter to the Editor

Vox Publica gave me a fierce shout out regarding a catty comment posted in support of lovely Heather Havrilesky's catty comments regarding America's Next Top Model. And even though I incorrectly posted the comment on The Fix and not I Like To Watch, Vox still suggested Salon hire me as an entertainment writer.

Classic American tale, eh? Young.....ish writer gets a chance at the big time after tossing out some cutesy bits about a fading reality tv program. I've certainly written about Top Model before: here and here and here infact. And let's not forget the epic multi=parter America's Next Top Strudel.

But life ain't that easy. So I won't get my hopes up...

Salon editors: Gayestneil@aol.com. Published reviews available upon request.

A Ballad for Trisha

Wrong Side of the Tracks
By Gayest Neil

Trisha was pretty in the way
A colt is pretty
Nice haunches, strong jaw
Sweet gal destined for the city
Beauty never Trisha saw

But the deck was stacked
Against Trisha’s favor
Born deaf she worked hard
With a momma who Loved her
Trisha played them cards

She signed Momma I’m gonna be
A beauty queen some day
I’ll win a crown
Hitch a ride or fly away
I'll leave this town

Trisha Walked on the
Wrong side of the tracks
Wish I coulda
Text’d her back
Get out of the way
Yer gonna die today

Momma took her down
To the Duane Reade basement
she cashed a pension
For the rat tails in them encasements
Trisha worked that extension

Lone Star Beauty Line
High heels, bathing suit, signin no talk
First time ever smiled no frown
The wave, the sash, she walked
Trisha won the crown

Them gems went to her head
Suddenly Trishas in a bad scene
Her gang turned pretty tough
Her Momma’s fingers lean
Couldn’t text her love enough

Trisha Walked on the
Wrong side of the tracks
Wish I coulda
Text’d her back
Get out of the way
Yer gonna die today

The girl nobody saw
The girl heard nobody
Was the toast of Texas
Peasant girl in princess body
Trisha’s crew robbed a bank

Momma was worried
She texted Trisha with fears
As mommas always do
Concerns fell on deaf ears
Trisha signed Momma F You

Textin her gang
Bout setting fire to the town
A train finally took her away
Buried with her crown
Fate plays a tragic game

Trisha Walked on the
Wrong side of the tracks
Wish I coulda
Text’d her back
Get out of the way
Trisha died that day

Train of Thought

Friends, I've written about women getting run over the past few days. And lo, a deaf Texas beauty queen gets run down by a train while text messaging her family.

Sigh.

Granted, she was run over a few days ago, but still… crisis of character here my darlings! Do I parody this horrible situation? Dare I wonder if there exists a gesture for "Girlfriend get the fuck off the traintracks. There's a train a-comin'!"

Why was she walking on traintracks? That's something hobos do, not Texas beauty queens, especiialy not DEAF Texas beauty queens. Nor, I'd imagine, deaf hobos. Man I feel sorry for her family.

Dire Fresh Bed

My landlady wants to host a wine and cheese social with Bryce and the tenants in our new apartment. We’ve only lived there a month, and already the place resembles a third world country.

I’m eagerly awaiting Angelina Jolie’s arrival to adopt one of us.

Do you think third world, peasant mothers imagine such a boon? Perhaps Ms. Jolie has become a folk legend among grain-chewing, tribal women. A pallid goddess will arrive to select her malnourished infant and take little Click-Click away to a life of Eastern European nannies, thousand dollar strollers and crazed photographers documenting the child's every move. Click-Click, indeed.

I too can only imagine such a fate. Sadly, no celebs will grace the door of 233 Greene Ave any time soon. And I am the only photographer beseeching Bryce for a few brazen boudoir pics to spice up our regimented rutting. Alas, he’s too camera shy in the bedroom, even while wearing his V for Vendetta mask au natural.

Speaking of the bedroom, we’re gradually making our way towards the back of our spacious apartment. We've moved from sleeping in the living room, to sleeping in the guest room and on Friday, a clean fresh mattress will be delivered for our bedroom proper. I’m quite excited. For far too long I’ve slept upon the creaky wooden slats and sandbag padding that is my deplorable futon.

Oh futon – you have served me well as both a resting space and a reclining space. Although I wrongly suspected you were infested with bedbugs, rarely ever have you caused me concern or discomfort.

Until now. I simply can’t stand the thought of you. There you lay, but a few inches from the ground. Sheathed in an old padding and draped with a dirty sheet, oh pitiful futon, my back creaks at the mere thought of you.

And it’s not like my neighbors and landlady will be snacking Camembert and Gouda, snuggled on my futon. Nonetheless, the terrible lounge’s presence throws shame on my household.

Foxy and I reclined on the sofa Friday night, enjoying DVR and Red Bulls and says to me, “You and Bryce live like little boys. There’s an old pot of rice on the stove. There are comic books everywhere, clothes on the floor. What is that V for Vendetta mask for?”

And, so, yes! I’m a slob. Without someone to fold my clothes, they just sit there. I’m considering hiring a maid service because I have neither the enthusiasm or the time to clean properly.

I am hesitant however, as my previoius (and only) maid, Svetlana, died the day after she cleaned my apartment. At the time she was moonlighting as a nanny for a lawyer’s family on the Upper West Side of Manhattan. According to the police, she was pushing the family’s thousand dollar stroller across Eighth Street when she became confused by the contraption’s global navigation instrument. As she fiddled with the controls she failed to see the oncoming Fresh Direct truck. The Eastern European nanny was killed instantly by a hurtling transport of organic, pre-made meals destined for working mothers who neither have the enthusiasm or the time to cook for their adopted babies..

Luckily the family’s adopted daughter, Zheenaya, survived. The stroller’s safety airbags deployed, protecting the little Kenyan-American’s life.

If only I had a safety airbag. The incident so rattled my nerves that I simply can’t imagine hiring another maid without seeing a nightmarish Fresh Direct truck hurtling towards me. Last week, Bryce said “Beep, Beep” and tossed a stem of aspargus across the table. I shrieked and very nearly felt faint right there in the restaurant!

And it sadly occurs to me that my life showcases so many women getting viciously run down by buses, trains and trucks. Is this symbolic of something greater? I’ll consider such while I toss and turn on my futon, dreaming of Friday’s bed.

Sob Story

When people cry in public, I always feel empathy for them. I can’t help but feel sadness when I see other people cry. On Wednesday night, exhausted from rugby practice, I waited for a downtown 6 train at Park and 34th. I wasn’t paying much attention to anyone. I thumbed through a science fiction novel I’d been reading about a little girl who travels to the North Pole to free some kidnapped children.

While I was reading, I heard a faint sobbing coming from the uptown side of the platform. I glanced up from my book. Maybe thirty feet away, I made out the long, dark coat and hat of a woman. She stood close to the platform ledge, obscuring her face, and wept. She kept herself hidden behind a tiled column, but couldn’t hide her heartbreaking sobbing.

I looked to see if any other passengers saw her, but either the few riders there didn’t hear her, or chose to ignore the pitiful woman in her black coat and felt hat. There wasn’t anyone around her anyways. She stood at the darkest part of the platform, nearly completely in the shadows of the entrance to the pitch black subway tunnel’s entrance. And she continued to weep. And no one else continued to hear her.

Strange? Then it dawned on me... duh.

I rolled my eyes. I was upset with myself that I didn’t figure “her” out sooner. I had given her too much of my sympathy and now a never-ending tale of woe, bolstered by my interest, would likely play itself out to some grisly conclusion.

At this point, I could have ignored her (probably should have) and gone back to my book, but based on such a distinct presence, this promised to be an entertaining, and chilling, show.

So, keeping my eyes locked on her heaving, thin shoulders, I casually strolled up the platform. Goose flesh raised on my arms. Her crying increased in volume. Set over the piteous whimpers, I heard her crying voice occasionally muttering the name “Timothy”. Poor creature. She was obviously very old. Likely left over from the twenties or thirties. And, again, how stupid of me not to realize it earlier.

I stood plainly in the center of the platform, facing the crying lady. I was careful not to allow myself to become a beguiled participant, so I chose to take an active course to draw her attention, rather than she continue to draw (or control) mine. I slowly removed a nickel from my pocket. I flicked the coin from my thumb. It did several somersaults in the air and landed near the feet of the cloaked figure with a metallic clink.

Her wailing increased ten fold. (Still none of the other passengers reacted.) The figure spun from the shadows and revealed – nothing. Her face was a moving, foggy blur. She was frail and clung to her dark, mourning dress. Likely Catholic, probably 1930’s, based on the style of dress, probably upper class. She screamed Timothy and then stepped backwards off the platform and disappeared under the wheels of the 6 train as it thundered into the station.

My revelry ended. I was panting harder than I had been during practice. Of course, noone else had seen or heard a thing. I boarded the train and hurried home. Once there, I lit a small white candle for “Timothy” and the tragic woman who mourns him enough to take her own life, over and over.

Faster Pussycat

Dandy Bandit

This week's Maudlin Report has some strangely similiar zingers tossed into the mix of usual no-name name dropping and bitter "clubland used to be better" bon mots. Hmph.

Imitation is a sincere form of flattery... I suppose. Can't help wondering when the Voice will find a fresh, new scene queen who actually engages partiers instead of skulking about the rafters, avoiding eye contact.

Oscar is Gay, Gay, GAY!!!!

Hello Darlings! This is Gayest Neil and Plastic Music and we're blogging live from the green sofa of our charming Clinton Hill home! So let's get the glamour and gaiety rolling!

6:42 Bryce is looking over the Hing Wong deliver menu. I'm thinking of General Tso's chicken. We're at a toss up over Won Ton Soup.

Alex Trebek is on the television with an Academy Award question: "This performer sweetened his resume by winning a Grammy and an Oscar." It was Eminem.

6:45 Bryce is going to have Mongolian Beef. We're amazed at all the homosexuals on television nowadays. Bryce rants at a mincing fashion queen's criticism of Reese Witherspoon's Chanel faux pas, "Whatever! Whats the big deal about wearing the same dress that someone else wore?!" We're wearing matching pajamas.

Bryce turns the channel before Alex Trebek's next Oscar Jeopardy question. Oh God. We see the rapper performing the music for "Hustle and Flow" tonight. Issac Mizrahi describes him as having the "Blingiest Teeth" he's ever seen. Bryce screams in revulsion at the jewel encrusted chompers. I personally love mouth jewelry.

6:50 Stevel Carrell (Forty Year Old Virgin) may be drunk. Either that or he's unusually tongue tied. He gives a shout out to Catherine Keener.

6:52 Bryce: Jada Pinkett Smith is short! Ok, JPS looks like she is on the Atkins diet. Look at how muscley her face is.

Oh my God Bryce! He's stealing the laptop from me while I order Chinese food!

Bryce: These people are retarded. Milling about the red carpet looking for people with microphones to stroke their egos. They should have just stayed home and jerked off in front of the mirror. Narcissistic idiots.

6:58 OK. Hey, Gayest Neil back again.

7:04 DOLLY PARTON! She's dressed like she's going to the Grand Old Opry. Aww Dolly. Her face is so tight. Neil, "Is she up for an Oscar?"

Bryce, "Transamerica, best song."

7:05 the excitement is growing on the red carpet. Here on the green sofa, the search for the beeping cell phone is growing. Only fifty five minutes until the Oscars actually begin.

7:15 Discussion of King Kong segues to a video collection of "Monkeys in Hollywood". It's going to be a long night.

7:23 Chatterbox movie critics (Leonard Maltin and two others) are giving their little blurb opinions of who is going to win the leading ac-- ooh the Chinese food is here.

7:29 George Clooney (three time nominee! oooh snap) says he'll be "the drunk in the back" when asked which nomination he most wants to win. That's some confidence there. Bryce wonders why he's so eligible and so single. Bryce sounds like George Clooney's concerned mother. Maybe Clooney is gay, gay, GAY! He should ask Oscar out.

7;31 Oh no. It's boring ass Jennifer Aniston! Bryce, "Bland. Boring!" Haha. I've never taken the time to listen or look at Jennifer Aniston. Wow she really is boring!

BUT NOT REESE WITHERSPOON! She's up on the carpet now with her WOOFY DELICIOUS husband, Ryan Phillippe. Aww what a cute couple. I hope she wins and Bryce thinks she will. Bryce hopes they will stay together adding, "You know what I mean?" Not really, but I nod and eat my General Tso. OHMYGOD! TIME CHECK!

7:35 Bryce just coughed and shot rice out his nose! I'm not kidding you loyal readers! Back to gay, gay, gay, gay, transexual, gay OSCAR!

7:36 Bryce has recovered from his rice expulsion and announces the video montages (Monkeys, Villains, Love Scenes) are irritating. I agree. He wonders how many savy film fans are actually going to the ABC website to correctly guess that Naomi Watts cuddling a CGI giant gorilla is "King Kong".

7:40 I went to the ABC website. I missed three romantic scenes and got most the monkey scenes correct. Felicity Huffman is watching a video good luck card from the Desperate Housewives. She fakes tears and says their support is a "blessing".

BRYCE'S TAKE: Something about the "we all love each other"/ Girls Club PR spin that ABC and the DP producers feel compelled to thrust upon us cynical TV viewers strikes me as completely phony. We all know that Teri Hatcher is a total cunt and that they probably all hate each other on the set of that completely overrated, silly show.

7:45 SEXY Jake Gyllenhunky admits that kissing a man is the same as kissing a woman. Eh. I don't know about that. I get more lipstick on my collar kissing Bryce than any woman I've ever kissed. Oh no. The trio of film critics are back to lets us know what a watershed movie "Brokeback Mountain" is. Oooooooook. Did anyone else know that Brokeback mountain is about gay cowboys?! CRRRRRazy

7:50 What the hell is wrong with Jamie Foxx's sister? She looks like Dee from "What's Happening?" Jessica Alba in gold Versace looked like an Oscar according to the fashion expert. I'd wager Michael Chiklis from "The Shield" dressed in gold Versace would resemble gay, gay, gay, gay, gay, gay Oscar before skinny Jessica Alba. oh well.

7:58 OSCAR! OK. I'm a big fan of John Stewart. I hope he does well tonight. Bryce thinks John Stewart is sexy.

Bryce's take: Little, greying Jewish men are hot!

Here we go! The gay, gay, gay Oscars starts with Billy Crystal and Chris Rock in the pup tent and George Clooney and John Stewart in bed.

John Stewart's opening monologue was wonderfully uncomfortable and received an expected chuckle from the gay, gay, gay Oscar "should we laugh at it?" audience mixed with a few moments of genuine laughter. Favorite joke: Bjork couldnt' join us tonight. She was putting on her Oscar dress and Dick Cheney shot her. Brava!

8:16 Nicole Kidman is gorgeous and presenting the Best Supporting Actor award. She's got the squinty eye thing going though. And the winner is... George Clooney! Ok. Good. I hope Bryce will .. ooh hang on. George Clooney is proud to be "out of touch!" His gay, gay, gay Oscar speech started out kind of self-depriciating and quickly became an uplifting thank you mentioning AIDS on the silver screen and Hattie McDaniel. Fabulous! Mmm.. He is sexy.

8:30 Bryce. Animated feature....it's going to be Wallace & Gromit. I hope it's Mike Johnson for Corpse Bride cuz I used to work with him and he's super nice.

8:32: I knew it! Wallace & Gromit. No big surprise. I'm not fond of the look of Aardman/Nick Park animation, honestly. Oh well.

Bad bowties on the Brits.

EWWWWW! Naomi Watts?!?!?! Why?!?!?! You are wearing a shreaded rag!

8:35 Yay!!! Dolly Parton is on now! Travelin Thru is nominated for best song.

Damn. She is super skinny. I have no idea how she can support them titties.

Sorry, Dolly, but this song is kind of boring. The lyrics are good, but this song is in search of a hook. Nonetheless, I hope it wins cuz Dolly is the fucking queen of all time. Who doesn't love Dolly?!?!! She is too damn cute.

8:42 Thank you Bryce. I agree. I love Dolly. We come back to John Stewart lecturing the audience about Scientology. Funny, but it's not gay, gay, gay, GAY enough for this Oscars. The Owen and Luke Wilson are here to present short live film whatever award. I'm not into gay, gay, gay incest. But if they were to make out a little I certainly would not switch the channel. The winner is a cute Irish bloke. Is he gay, gay? He sounds it. But it may just be the fact that he's Irish.

8:45 UUGH Chicken Little and Abby Mallard (animated creatures) are presenting and Bryce is groaning audibly. Animated Short award goes to "The Moon and the Sun, an Imagined Conversation." YES! GAY GAY GYA OSCAR! THE winner thanked his LIFE PARDNER. The first out fag of tonight's Oscars is John Canemaker. Maybe it should be Canesucker.

8:48 Jennifer Anniston looks like she fell asleep in her tanning bed. Yay for costume design though! Gay, Gay, Gay Oscar for Gay, Gay, Gay Costumes goes to Memoirs of a Gaysha! The winner also won previously for gay-favorite "Chicago".

Bryce's Take: Why are they playing music during the acceptance speeches? Lame!

8:51 Damnit. Fucking Russell Crowe. What a prick. I can't stand Russell Crowe. He's totally a douche. A telephone tossing douche. So now we have a video montage of famous folk who have been portrayed in the movies. "No Wire Hangers" confirms this is the gay, gay, gayest Oscars ever. Clips of Eileene Wournos, Evita Peron, Abraham Lincoln (gay) and Marie Curie tickled me too. Commercial break. I'm happy that prick Russell Crowe wasn't allowed anymore airtime to fire up my temper.

8:54 Russell Crowe breaks gay Oscar's nose after a rough trade bj in the back of a deserted alleyway. Russell Crowe spits on gay Oscar and calls him "Faggot" while he zips up his dungaroos.

8:56 Makeup! Steve Carrell and Wil Ferrell present Howard Berger with a the gay Oscar. He's so freakin' woofy! Funny bit with them wearing bad stage makeup. Men in eyeliner: GAY! And a funny comment about Russell Crowe getting into fights. Good for you John Stewart.

9:02 It's time for the nerd tech Oscars at the Hollywood Motel Six breakfast bar. One bagel per nominee thank you. Some tech geek won for best gaffer. ... gayfer that is.

9:03 Hollywood's eloquent older statesman Morgan Freeman, just stumbled over his words. I hope Catherine Keener wins for "Capote". She's like a cool, kooky chick I would have wanted my dad to date when I was a kid. Bryce thinks Rachel Weisz will win. OK. It goes without saying. The high paced frenzy of this entry allows for sloppy spelling. I hope Michelle Williams wins. And the gay gay Oscar goes to:

RachelWiesz. Bryce now thinks that Brokeback isn't going to win an acting awards whatever. The "Constant Gardner" has no gay angle I can possibly exploit here. Therefore I shun her win. Goodbye Rachel Wiesz. Your eyebrows were a little mannish looking, but not mannish enough to be considered gay, gay, gay.

9:11 Miss Lauren Bacall is discussing Film Noire dressed in a not so slimming Noire pant suit. She's really bombing. The whole audience is quiet. They totally hate her. And she's crashing and burning! OH NO. Poor Lauren Bacall! What was she talking about? Bryce loves Film Noire. He especially loves "A Touch of Evil." And on cue I touch him. Wow. Lauren Bacall totally bombed at the gay, gay, gay Oscars. She looked like an old drag queen too... as though there were any other kind.

9:15 HILARIOUS parody of Bush campaign ads. More later. Probably not actually. Moving onward.

9:19 I really wish there was some way for us non-Holloywood types to see the short films that are nominated. Here come Cherlize....

She looks sorta oily.

Documentary time. My money is on the Penguins. Just cuz everyone loved it so much.

I knew it. The filmmakers just walked on stage with stuffed animals. French guys who can't speak English very well. How horrifying for them, I'm sure.

9:23: Ew, here comes J Lo. Yikes. She looks awful. She is presenting the second song, "Into the Deep" from Crash. It sounds totally Lilith Fair-esque. The woman singing looks like Sissy Spacek in Carrie during the pig blood scene. There is fire all over the stage and an incredibly tacky faux car wreck scene with bad modern dancers. What the fuck is going on?!?!?! That song put me to sleep. God! What a bunch of boring songs this year so far.

9:28: Coming up...a surprise performance. Could it be Willie Nelson doing his "Cowboys are secretly fond of each other" song?

9:33 Art direction presented by Sandra Bullock and Keanu Reeves. And Memoires of a Gaysha wins. Snooze. Ok about Sandra Bullock, why is this woman a movie star? She looks like a middle school science teacher. Kind of hot, I guess. The shop teacher would have banged her. eh... This is a long post.

9:36 I see Samuel L. Jackson and I hear "genocide", "rascism" and... fade into the video montage of movies affecting social change! eh... I like the monkey montage earlier. WHAT? THEY JUST showed a clip from "The Day After Tomorrow" as an example of a movie bringing attention to the world's environmental plight? The obligatory scene from "Philadelphia".

9:41 And now the President of the Gay, Gay Oscars. "Everything we do on Film is based on the most Human of Arts; the Art of Storytelling." I take notice they're not playing music during his little speechifying. Bryce is surprised Mickey Rooney is still alive as the camera pans to him. On a side note, there are six major movies filming in New Orleans AS WE WATCH THIS SHOW! It goes without saying the craft services table is off limits to the hungry homeless still displaced by that pesky ole Hurricane.

9:44 Jeez. This thing is really on til eleven? I gotta take a break... Bryce it's all you if you want it.

9:48: Ugh. I think it will be on really late. Itzak Perlman just played all the original scores. I did really like the BBM score. I thought it had a nice leitmotif.

The score for Brokeback Mountain won. First win for the gay cowboy movie. I think this movie was amazing in how it seems to polarize everyone....including gays.

9:51: They just showed the best picture Capote clip. I haven't seen it. I love Philip Seymore Hoffman, but I wonder if I could listen to him talk like that for 2 hours. EEEK!~

Neil has quit watching the Oscars and has now begun playing video games with his brother online.

Yeah! Jake Gyllenhunky is on now. Cute!!!! But crooked bowtie. Old films montage #567 of the night. Ha Ha. Jon Stewart is making fun of the montages.

10:01 Thanks sweetie. That was very brief. Wow. Gay, gay, gay Oscars is like a gay, gay date that has gone on too long. Cocktails before dinner was nice. You used your funniest bits to charm him. Likewise Oscar's smile took your eye early. Dinner was nice. A little political chat tossed in to show you read Salon.com. But dinner wore on. Conversation grew tired. You kind of just want to go home and go to bed, but your friend Foxy told you what a great lay Oscar was. So maybe you should stick with it and see what's at the end of the night... eh... Ok. Let's go for post dinner cocktails. Gay Oscar better be worth it come 11:00 p.m.

10:03 Lesbian Lily Tomlin and gay friendly Meryl Streep are presenting a funny bit in honor of Robert Altman. I think they're drunk. Are they drunk? Oh. They are making a parody of Altman's film making process? Oh well. if I were as fierce as Meryl Streep I'd get up and there and lay a turd on the stage. Perhaps that's why I'm not.

And on to montage #568 of the gay, gay, gay, gay Oscars... sigh.

Robert Altman comes on stage to accept his lifetime achievement award. I really like his films. Seeing montage #568 makes me want to go to Netflix and rent them all. My stomach hurts from the General Tso's chicken.

10:12 The close ups of the audiences faces are hilarious. At this point they're all nodding off. I'm lucky I don't have a close up on my face right now. I'm reminded I need to shave before work tomorrow. I need to put out my clothes before tomorrow. Why does Robert Altman not get the orchestra playing during his gay, gay, gay Oscar acceptance speech. Bryce asks me what I'm writing.

I'm not really sure at this point...

10:18 Bryce's take: Ugh. "It's hard out here for a pimp?" I think it's probably harder get your coochie banged by a dozen strangers a day to be quite honest.

(Not really.)

This song sucks, except for the female vocal bits. Angry black men chanting. Sounds like every other song I hear in my neighborhood. Neil thinks this performance is like a Saturday Night Live performance. I guess these guys are dressed in jeans and t-shirts because they would look weird performing this song in tuxes? I guess I just don't love most urban/hip hop music?!?

We are hoping for Dolly. She lost to the Hustle and Flow song.

Not since Elliott Smith lost to Celine Dion have I been so totally not shocked.

Ebonics overloaded acceptance speech leaves 3/4 of America scratching their heads.

10:26 Pimps lovez gold. Moving forward in this Live Blogcast of the Gay, Gay Oscars! Holy cow Jennifer Garner is totally preggers! Her boobs are huge. Bad gay Oscar, no boobs. So we're on to Sound Editing and King Kong wins. Wow these guys are nerds. It's hard out there for an audio nerd.

10:30 Gay Oscars I wish I could quit you! Now it's time for the dead Hollywood portion of the show. I pour a 40 oz on my hardwood floors in honor of Noriyuki "Pat" Morita. Wax on, Wax off my friend. Wax on, Wax off. Who else died? Anne Bancroft, Shelly Winters, Sandra Dee a whole bunch of Producers and Richard Pryor. I actually thought he died longer than a year ago.
Although we saw him alive in the audience earlier tonight, Bryce is certain Mickey Rooney died. Neither of us want to work tomorrow.

10:38 Wil Smith takes the stage, does some pointless foreign language schtik and reminds the audience and the viewing public that his role as Hollywood's young African-American go-to actor has been usurped by Terrance Howard and Jamie Foxx. Viva Africa, Viva! "Tsotsi" wins Best Foreign Language Film.

10:41 Film Editing and the Asian actress from "Memoirs of a Gaysha" give the award too the "Crash" editor. Zzz

10:44 Hilary Swank (who has totally stolen the role of Hollywood's most mannish actress from Jennifer Garner) and suddenly we're at Best Actor! G'mon Gay Oscar! Don't fail me now!!!! Wow there's some big guns up for this award. And the Gay, gay, GAY Oscar goes to:
PHILIP SEYMORE HOFFMAN! He's a great actor, but he's got the speechifying charisma of Peter Jackson (pre-weight loss) and Michael Moore rolled into one sweaty, trembly ball. For God's sake Philip, stop putting that card infront of your face!

You told me I looked like Philip Seymore Hoffman earlier today!

Oh whatever. I didn't mean it in a bad way...

10:54 John Travolta is here to give an award for cinematography. Bryce says with certainty it will be "Brokeback Mountain". I'm partial to Wally Fister for "Batman Begins", if only for the guy's name. We're both wrong. "Memoirs of a Gaysha" wins. Thats easily the 20th technical award for this movie and atleast the 5th audience pan of a winner's Asian wife/girlfriend/concubine.

10:57 Jaime Foxx takes the stage. Time for Lead Actress. We both love Dame Judi. We both hope Felicity Huffman wins. C'mon, c'mon! I think Reese is gonna win... wow, there's some great performances here. And the kinda gay Oscar goes to:
REESE WITHERSPOON! I'm pleased, but man I wanted Felicity Huffman to win. Reese thanks the writer for creating a role who is a "real woman". Is that a unintentional jab at Felicity's role? Do I care at this point? Is anyone still reading this? Bryce doesn't want to blog anymore. Aww. Reese Witherspoon is totally America's sweetheart now.

11:06: I am happy that Reese won. I think she's totally awesome. Here comes Dustin Hoffman! I love Dustin Hoffman. Tootsie, Midnight Cowboy, Kramer vs. Kramer.
Any relation to Philip Seymour? Doubtful.

Best Adapted Screenplay...if Dustin ever gets on with it. Tony Kushner wrote Munich? Another gay. Brokeback Mountain wins. No big surprised. Larry McMurtrey is wearing blue jeans. Tacky. The gays are taking over Hollywood.

11:13 I just had a "crash moment". 11:14 and Crash win for Best Original Screenplay. How many of these Hollywood heathens are going to have to spend eternity not in the burning fires of damnation but in a never ending award ceremony...

11:17 Tom Hanks is here to present Director! Finally. And the Oscar goes to:
ANG LEE!!!! Brokeback Mountain's director gives a "I wish I knew how to quit you" joke to his shiny Oscar. Stop being coy Ang. Kiss Oscar on the mouth. And now we have ANOTHER audience pan to a winner's Asian wife/girlfriend. He gives a shout out in a language I don't understand and suddenly I have a hankering for more General Tso's.

11:22 Jack Nicholson and the Best Motion Picture of the Year! C'mon Gay, Gay, Gay Oscar!
and the Oscar goes to!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
CRASH! Oh my god. ... hmm... I'm bummed out. The entire audience is up on their feet. Crash moment indeed. Oh well. Race relations beat out gay awareness tonight.

Gay, gay, gay Oscar has been living on the Down-Low. Who knew?

I want to thank all of my readers. I wouldn't be writing this at 11:25 if it wasn't for all of your support. I want to thank my mom who bought me a computer. I want to thank Ms. Anderson, my ninth grade typing teacher. I especially need to thank my pardner, Plastic Music, who without his love and support, I'd neither have the stamina to blog all evening, nor the delicious chinese food. There's so many other people to thank. Oh wait, I also need to thank--

Gayest Neil is ushered off stage as the orchestra swells. Goodnight.

Diary of an Obese Dandy

Yes. It is true. The internet told me so. Now the internet has told you so.

Bingham Blogged.

Maslenica, Girl You So Ashey!

Yesterday Catholics and Protestants burned palms leaves and smeared the ashes (mixed with olive oil for fixture) across their foreheads in a sign of penance for sins committed during the previous year. Some smeared the sign of the cross while others simply had an ashey mess slopped on their brow.

Regardless of the shape or density of the penance plaster, everyone looks like a bonafied koo-koo cultist with that mess on their face. Who came up with this idea? It can’t be good for your skin.

Speaking of skin care. I own the most delicious smelling facial scrub in the world. My cutey-patootey stylist Enrique is always turning me on to new skin care regimens. His latest concoction is a chocolate scrub that smells like Cocoa Krispies! I’m beyond tempted to eat a fistful of it every morning in the shower.

However I won't eat my facial scrub because temptation is bad. Rather I'll rub ashes on my face. I wonder if St. Patrick’s Cathedral has a year round ashes and oil stand for us critical cases in need of constant retribution?

Every year I’m so very impressed by the dedication some of my co-workers show taking time away from work to go, repent and have an old priest smear putty on their faces. The cynic in me, however, does see a bit of a double standard. This is a religious holiday, granted, but why are they allowed such vigorous leeway to portray their beliefs via makeup and costume? Come this Pride, I’m showing up to work dressed as Cher.

Just you wait. Which takes me to the story of Maslenica the Butter Woman.

Maslenica (Mah-sweh-NEET-sa) "the Butter woman" is both a feminine idol from Slavic pagan history and a time of games and contests. The name is derived from the word Maslo which means butter.

Originally it was practiced at the Vernal Equinox but later was celebrated the week before lent. Maslenica, was a celebration of the returning light of Spring. Several of the contests included horse racing, fist fights, sliding and mock battles. It was a time for protection and purification rituals and also a time of gluttony, obscenity and dissolution. Sounds like fun.

There were two means to represent the Butter Woman. Either a life sized corn doll would be made as a personification of the holiday (the doll would be invoked and welcomed by the proper name Maslenica) or, my favorite, a drunken peasant was chosen and dressed in woman's clothing sewn all over with bells. His face would be smeared with soot and he would be seated on a wheel resting on a pole within a sledge. I think a sledge is a contemporary wheel barrow.

The fun doesn’t stop there.

Wine and pastries would surround him and as many Slavs as could would accompany him in other sledges. Crowds would follow on foot, laughing, dancing and singing ritual-songs. Corn "Maslenicas" were also driven around in barrows, wagons or sleighs accompanied by crowds of celebrants.

I think I was a Butter Woman once with the Radical Faeries in 2002. I honestly can’t remember, too much wine and pastries, however this Slavic pagan holiday certainly rings of aspects of Mardi Gras and the following period of atonement, lent.

The word lent is depressing. Lent. I simply can't say it with enthusiasm. Lent.

But not Maslenica! You can't help but smile when you say Maslenica "the Butter Woman". Maslenica reminds me of Pride but without the atonement, well there is purification tossed in there, but who cares when you have a Butter Woman as your parade's emcee!

Maybe Cher is our people’s Butter Woman. Maybe instead of elaborate floats and muscle boys dressed in feathered masks, all we need is a drunk dressed in bells sitting in a wheel barrow and some laughter.

All we need for that ashey forehead is a little cocoa butter.

Cosmic Buffet

Gravitas smorgasbord! Sometimes the cosmic buffet piles so much buttery corn, creamy creative endeavors, succulent turkey and gravy, precious physical exercise, delicious candied yams and social activities that we simply don’t have room for peach pie or a love life! And of course as we head back to the dinner table that hot bread bell rings and we’re forced to make room on the plate for a doughy clump of undercooked flour, yeast and margarine – (or God forbid, a personal tragedy or illness).

Oh magnificent, hot bread. Nothing inspires a stampede of chaffing, blubbery thighs like the ringing of the hot bread bell at Ryan’s Family Steakhouse in rural Rome, Georgia.

I’ve been damn busy this week. The beau and I enjoyed a decadent evening at Nowhere Bar on Saturday. We discovered a mutual love of karaoke. Already a year and we’re still making discoveries. So sentimental.

There was no eating of a buffet, but many a beverage was consumed. Sunday found me befuddled in a narcoleptic's daze, passed out every thirty minutes enjoying a fifteen minute nap. Staying out til three a.m. really drains a dandy of his vigor and colour.

Monday found me with the frightening (and cherished) return of gay rugby. Ah my buddies. If ever there were a group of gluttons who could clear a cosmic buffet it’d be the Gotham Knights. These guys are some creative, social, professional and busy New York gayfers. They make the time for the team, as do I.

Also piled on my plate are those filthy personal effects, shopping for groceries, taking out garbage. Laundry is an entire plate itself! Smelling it to see what is clean, what is wearable and what must be washed, washing, drying, folding and hanging! All necessities of modern life, all require time.

Not to mention the job that keeps my roof over my head. Which I rarely do.

In addition, I’ve been asked to write for a local paper’s entertainment section. Brava! Alas, in my diviner’s astrolaboratory, tediously charting all of gay New York’s destinies for my fabulous astrology section in HX Magazine, I often worry that I don’t even have the time for a simple horoscope column, much less additional freelance writing. But I make the time, because my cherished readers rely on my advice to lead their busy lives.

Should I try the meatloaf or the salmon? "Gayest Neil quipped critically of ground meats sauced in ketchup. Salmon it is!"

So I do it for you, my gentles. But wait! My hectic schedule isn’t over yet. Add to my selection the invent of a new drug, a new addiction, alas, a new online role playing game!

This seemingly innocuous invention is Dungeons and Dragons Online. OH GOD. How? How did a dandy of such esteemed social sitting fall into the devious demise of a geekwad’s Friday night? Perhaps I failed my savings throw versus traps? Where once on a weekend night I would mutter, “Darling, fetch me a martini.” and “Oh no she didn’t”, I find myself whispering (without any hint of irony or shame) “He’s a N00b. Gank him!” and “Lvl 2 mage LFT farmz ok” into a plastic microphone, recording this dandy’s delicate voice cooing to an audience of acne crusted nerds wearing Klingon foreheads and last year’s fashions. Eek!

Yet again and again that teetering Tupperware tray lands on my table. Slices of rare roast beef bleeds into my strawberry shortcake. I hungrily devour the entire portions of rugby, work, creativity, social affairs, computer games and, happiest, love. I push my dirty plate away and loosening my belt, lean back in my chair. And, eventually, return for seconds, thirds and fourths. What’s the use of a buffet if we don’t gorge ourselves on it?