Diary of a Contemporary Dandy

That Was Easy

2007-07-25T17:23:00.001-04:00

I want to be pretty. Goodbye blogger. Now how do I get all my old posts off of here and over there?

Closed for Renovations

2007-07-25T12:55:00.000-04:00

Am I my blog?

Easy to read? Used to be witty, but now kind of sad? Black?

Goodbye. Hopefully we'll be back if the Man gets off my back.

Hell Burns a Little Brighter

2007-05-15T15:35:00.000-04:00

In honor of Jerry Falwell's passing...

I'm offering Bryce anal tonight!

Check back for the live blogcast later this week.

Farmer Frost #1

2007-04-29T15:51:00.000-04:00

Hello Strangers.

My webcomic has been posted via HyperComics!

Regardless of whether I win the contest, this might become a monthly thing based on all the great feedback I've gotten from the City of Villains community.

Hope you guys enjoy a glimpse into my nerdier alter-ego, the arrogant, sadistic, prissy Farmer Frost. Actually, that sounds a lot like me...

Gushy

2007-04-03T18:06:00.000-04:00

Dreaming in the new apartment has been an exhaustive trip across brand new dream scapes largely informed, i believe, by the expansive east-facing window only two feet away from where i rest my head.

This moring I awoke in the earliest hours of dawn. My internal clock is still set to anticipate the droning buzz of that alarm clock -- how many times I've instinctively slammed the broad snooze button -- only for the revelry, painful and nonstop, to summon me again from the ethereal court of Hypnos every seven minutes.

Seven is a mystical number.

But here, in our new room, my dreams have been so very vivid and so bordering onthe worlds of illusion and reality, I've been having difficulty determining where one path ends and where the other begins.

For instance, this morning i dreamed of Angels. Rarely do I dream of Heavenly icons or figures, but in my waking hours Angels, three of them resplendent in billowing white robes, androgynous, beautiful, brilliant metallic, white wings hovered outside the window. they sang in unison and awoke me to the most awe inspiring sunrise I've seen in quite a long, long time.

The sky was overcast, but the low lying bank of clouds, normally ashen grey, were the color of pink cotton candy tinged around the edges with saffron, golden mist. The entire sky appeared to breath as the colors pulsated in that rapid escalation when the glorious sun chases away his sister the moon and her ominous secrets, forgotten during slumber.

And then I fell back into sleep and my dreams took me to a carnival where I was wearing stilts and performing for a cheering crowd. I was decked out in the classical outfit of the Harlequino, yellow and red patches, and my body seemed to glow much like the morning sunlight that filled our bedroom. The jingling of the bells around my ankles turned out to be the alarm clock. I opened my eyes and now the sky was a silver-pale blue. Had I dreamed the warm, pink sky earlier. I felt as though I could have flown into it.

It was time to return to my neatly pressed button on shirt and navy pin-striped suit. A brand new pair of low cut leather Oxfords completely my ensembled. Standing in the elevator at the location of my 9:30 interview I felt as foolish as Harlequino, everyone around my was reporting to their work in jeans and t-shirts. How I envied them.

I had an interview with a high-profile entertainment firm this morning, like seriously a big deal. I have to admit, I initially approached the opportunity with a little skepticism. the job duties would be much of what I was doing at my former position: assisting lawyers in all manner of their professional endeavors, but my ego and my viability as a professional, Executive Assistant have been greatly boosted this past month as I go on more and more interviews and I'm given such positive feedback regarding the clout my past employer affords me in the present job market for someone with my skills. I certainly am not letting any of the compliments go to my head, the job hunt hasn't even begun in earnest (maybe only at 30% max efficiency so far), but for so long I've felt a sense of dread. That idea of status returns; that a lowly Executive Assistant isn't a worthy long term career goal, am I going to be essentially a secretary at 4o? 50?

But then, out on the market and going in with over three years of experience, I'm realizing the same job I did at my former company can land me easily 150% more in base salary (not including overtime and bonus) at a competing firm, a more casual atmosphere, reporting to far less people, and will create an exciting career path in a media or creative firm, exactly what my goals were in saying (a mutual) goodbye.

And I owe so much of that to the most special man in my life, my Bryce.

He hates the public affections, and I'm certainly known for my embarrassing temper tantrums and copious groping and flirting with any manner of bearded gentlemen interested in seeing the early morning sunshine of our former Brooklyn apartment.

But now that my day gig is unpacking boxes and interviewing and emailing potential leads -- that sentimental, old Neil has moseyed his way back into my being. He's a casual guy who tries not to worry so much. He accepts love and, above all else, he trusts in that love. And he accepts his own weaknesses and the weaknesses of the boy who he'd move a mountain for, fuck mountains -- I'd move an entire continent for him.

(Well, once my stamina returns after this weekend's move, of course.)

Gay Moving Day

2007-03-31T07:56:00.000-04:00

Nerd Alert ... Total Nerd Alert

2007-03-30T15:46:00.000-04:00

I once felt ashamed of my nerdiness, ashamed of those countless hours spent online playing roleplaying games.

But I am no longer ashamed. Spring is here. Renewal and rebirth are fresh on the calm breeze dancing through my window. It is now the time to embrace all things which give me pleasure in my life because I've come to discover (much in thanks to being released from my job) that spending time discussing unhappy things really, really sucks.

It really sucks.

So I've recently discovered an online Comic Book Creator! And there is a nifty contest sponsored by my addictive online game City of Heroes and the makers of the Comic Book Creator in which you get to create your own comic based on the brave sacrifices or dastardly misdeeds of your very own hero or villain. The grand prize is nearly a thousand dollars worth of graphics arts hardware and applications.

Of course I'm submitting my villain. Introducing: Farmer Frost. He's a manipulative cyborg who is a leading expert on cryobotany, the twisted science of fusing the destructive power of ice with the deadliest of nature's flora.

I love him. He makes me happy. So I'm working on my very own online comic book based from in-game screenshots. Even if I don't win, perhaps I'll start a monthly series.

Here's a few screenshots to whet your appetites for villainy. When my submission is done, I'll certainly post the link here.

"Destiny blooms slowly, much like a seedling in a frozen grave." Farmer Frost

Here is Farmer Frost in his battle armor with his giant flytrap, Coldsnap.

Here is Farmer Frost working on either his Evil Blog or his Kittens Blog.

And here we have Farmer Frost pondering his sexuality with a gang of evil bears. Hot!

Does Flavored Meth...

2007-03-28T09:32:00.000-04:00

Rot your teeth faster?

CNN's expose on the rise of flavored meth failed to address that point. Just something to consider on this beautiful spring Wednesday.

Thank you, everyone, for your kind cards and letters of concern. I have not tossed my plump form from the highest of bridges into the turbulent upswell of a murky New York river...

Nor have I lain myself across a thundering subway rail, eager to finally be the damsel in distress instead of the moustached villain time and time again...

Truth is, the warm sunshine, the budding leaves, the annual return of the dirty Hipsters to the rooftop across from our (soon-to-be-former) apartment has summoned a certain amount of cheer to my demeanor. Also, my clown class did indeed begin.

Will check in with you in April, with renewed job hunting vigor, with new apartment joy, with cute as pie boyfriend love, with clown class hilarity (week one featured a Brazilian talk show hostess named Gigi who was there filming a video segment about clowns, seriously!) and more happy stuff from your's sincerely, Gayest Neil.

Til then my loves,
xoxoxo

Booger Holler

2007-03-19T18:13:00.000-04:00

An aforementioned funk has fogged my field of vision ahead and to the left and right. Hardly any help, my rear view mirror has become a miasma of mocking memories; things I should have done, or ways I could have bettered myself, or loved ones I could have better cherished. Yet seeing my failures again and again, narrated by a distorted smiling ghoul, like something you’d see in a broken funhouse mirror. I can’t seem to point my throttling engine in the right direction.

I was driving through the fog in our family car on a misty, winding road. It was Booger Holler Road to be precise, a country lane barely two vehicles wide and full of blind turns and stomach-tickling drops. Booger Holler was named after the legend of a malevolent spirit that haunted the hills of that old country road. He’d scream from deep among the twisted oak trees and strangely ashen grey flora, occasionally dragging road kill into the hills to feast upon. My car’s headlights barely cut through the fog. I didn’t need to see a thing. I heard it screaming. I was the one screaming.

I scream at people in my head on the subway. I scream at people as they are walking slowly in front of me. I scream at people when they stick their books, bags and arms into the elevator to hold it for them and their friends. I scream at people who ask me how I’m doing.

“Fine. You?”

“Just fine!”

I scream at her. I scream like that wretched monster, hunkered over the carcass of a white tailed deer. I scream into the broken red ribcage. I scream at the slowly beating heart. Through the fog a pair of headlights slowly idles along the road. I scream into the night, my steaming breath like a cloud of broken glass snowflakes coated in blood. I scream again into the night. I scream because I can and no one will hear my monstrous voice for miles and miles, except someone does hear it. I hear it on that night.

From where I sit amongst the bushes and red clay, I can see myself in the car. From the car I see myself in the wild. I’m not afraid of the beast squatting, covered in blood, with yellowed talons digging into the still warm deer flesh. I’m more ashamed. I pity the beast.

I scream into the night. I lay both hands on the horn. My monstrous wail matches the car’s horn. They soar into the night. I hit the gas pedal and fly down the road, blinded by the fog. I focus completely on the rear view mirror. I see the lumbering form of green skin and red, bloodshot eyes. I’m chasing myself, screaming at myself. I hold the horn firmly in place and suddenly the car is in the air.

The deer carcass is lying across my lap, black glassy eyes staring into mine. Broken, bloody glass surrounds me. My drenched, slippery feet barely keep the gas pedal floored. And still the heavy, steel car is flying over the hill as light as a snowflake. Through the fog the form of a white tailed deer appears. It starts to bolt, but doesn’t have enough time. The car comes crashing down into the delicate looking, yet surprisingly stout, animal. I’m thrown through the windshield.

I lay there, screaming in the winter’s night. Askew headlights are chopped into a pulsating strobe-like beam as the revenant stalks the fog infront of the wreckage. It continues to scream but refuses to follow me out of the mist and into the clearing.

I stand and slowly walk forward into the morning. I try not to slip in all the blood. I try to ignore the screaming behind me. I'm thankful I can see again. I have a long road ahead of me.

Bamboozled

2007-03-19T12:15:00.000-04:00

There used to be a bamboo patch next to our home where I grew up in rural Georgia. It was a strange little bamboo patch. It felt odd sitting there among the pine trees and poison ivy dotting the road that ran adjacent to our property. The bamboo patch served as my secret hideaway when I wanted to escape from my family. As such I had the "rooms" of the bamboo pimped out with rusted folding chairs and an old red wagon which served as a table.

The bamboo patch did indeed have rooms: spacious chambers of worn down earth covered with yellow, fallen leaves. Hidden "doors" lead to winding tunnels which criss-crossed the interior of the bamboo patch offering secret access to our neighbor, and tom-girl, Kiley's yard. The doors were nothing more than simple, narrow spaces between the bamboo thickets choked with green leaves the shape of daggers, but to my childhood imagination they were elaborate portals through which I could disappear into a hidden world.

I can remember laying there during those Spring afternoons, my clothes a little wet from the soggy ground, my first dog, Possum, sitting beside me (you never really get over your first dog when you're a boy from the country) and listening to the birds, watching the blue sky high above me through long, thin bamboo stalks, smelling the nature and my good ole wet dog... Everything was so quiet and so peaceful and so traquil.

Living in the city this time of the year really gets me down. I'm longing to return to nature. I often feel panicky and anxious sitting in the subway surrounded by strangers. Other stresses in my life have certainly played a major role in my terrible funk lately, but above all else -- I think I'm just ready for Spring.

Maybe I'll buy a little bamboo stalk from Chinatown for the new apartment.

Foley's New Intern

2007-03-08T10:38:00.000-05:00

Sanchez Moi

2007-03-08T09:27:00.000-05:00

Matt Sanchez turned me gay!

Or was it Rod Majors? Or Pierre von Cockenstein? Or Donkey Dick Chainey?

So many pseudonyms for a straight man.

Oh, Matt Sanchez. You were one of the first erotic film stars to which this developing dandy dutifully diddled daily. My online boyfriend, Jason, mailed you to me in a college era care package consisting of a t-shirt, a few hand written love letters and a Kristen Bjorn video starring: YOU!

You were known by your French nom de saucisson. I remember thinking, a French-Hispanic hustler; this IS an exotic, erotic adventure; good for Mr. Bjorn and his multi-cultural casting. Brava!

I’m embarrassed to admit: I’m still uncertain as to which actor you were exactly. Were you the manhandled mounty (mounted is more like it) or the horny hunter?

I so rarely look at the faces in those kinds of films. I could not miss the faces of your cast mates, however, lodged as they were squarely on either side of your casting coup, grunting and smooching and very much turning me gay, gay, gay, gay.

Mr. Sanchez you turned me gay! How many other impressionable, sexually curious college juniors have you turned gay: tens, dozens, trillions!?

You’re a college junior yourself, at 36. This gives you even more access to impressionable, sexually confused college juniors (strangely like yourself) to turn gay.

… … Oh my, it has suddenly dawned on me.

Mr. Sanchez. We are the same!

You are me, but from 11 years ago and with a much better body and Latino and hated by all of gay America and with a way, way, way, waaaaaaaaay smaller penis. I think so.

I don’t hate you Rod Majors. I don’t hate you Pierre Blah Blah Blah. I don’t hate you Dirty Sanchez.

I applaud you for your continuing efforts turning America’s college juniors gay. It’s people like you, with your constant efforts in the male erotica empire, who make gays like me possible.

If not for your starring roles, how many of us would be trapped in unhappy marriages; stranded in trailer parks across the Midwest? Sure, they’d be tastefully appointed trailers, nonetheless your efforts sent so many of us fleeing to the gay ghettos of Chelsea and Castro and the homo homesteads of West Hollywood and …

Well, there’s no where else.

I salute you Mr. Gay Porno Republican Guy! You may hang out with Republicans – oh scratch that. You may have once hanged out with Republicans. (Psst, they don’t want you anymore), but be assured you’ll always have a home with – oh, damn, scratch that too. You really aren’t much wanted by the gays, either.

Damn Mr. Sanchez. You’ve kind of burned your bridges in both camps. Sorry, dude!

I’m sure you can make porn again… But that weird kind of porn that’s more freak-show-snuff-porn than the upscale, international porn you used to do.

Anyways, thanks!

2007-03-07T16:08:00.000-05:00

Hello. You might be visiting because of my caustic take on the DC bear scene so generously presented over at Joe.My.God.

Sorry I didn't clean the place up. It's been a wacky month.

If you like comics created with MS Paint and a biting wit, here's a glimpse at my prior comic: Mission Accomplished.

You can check out an archive of all 61 here. Maybe next time you stop by the place will be spiffed up a little better.

Oh and Foxy, you can rest easy. My clowning class was cancelled.

America's True Top Model

2007-02-06T08:31:00.000-05:00

I heart Elyse Sewell.

Then:

Now:

From Hero to Zero

2007-01-30T12:35:00.000-05:00

I watch too much television. Good television, but too much. Weekly I watch: Rome, Battlestar Galactica, 30 Rock, The Office, Melrose Place (Foxy and Bryce, I curse you), SNL (although I fast forward half of it), cartoons (many), 24 and Heroes. That's not even counting old television shows on DVD like Alias, Six Feet Under and anything by Joss Whedon.

I'm a nerd, but I own it.

Of course with so much competition for my squinty little eyes, I inevitably end up dropping a few shows. Who would have guessed the show most likely to be dumped has turned out to be Heroes on NBC?

Certainly not I.

Oh, Heroes. You were a delicate soufflé that baked too quickly and fell flat before your first season was even finished. You achieved in the course of a few months what other cultish, fan obsessed shows do over the course of six seasons.

That being: 1) start off quirky with shaky but committed legs, 2) create a limited, but rabid, fan base, 3) through word-of-mouth become a phenomenon that reshapes a particular genre and 4) eventually alienate the original nerd core fan base due to sloppy writing, jump the shark premises and a corporate desire for bigger and better ratings.

I blame NBC. I blame our instant-access media culture. I blame myself (for everything). I blame the actors who are so full of themselves its hard to watch them. “Ooh we’re on NBC's it show.” But above all else I blame the fact that NOTHING HEROIC HAPPENS. Nothing heroic happens. Nothing heroic happens.

Nothing.
Heroic.
Happens.

The fat cop who can read minds? He “comes out” about his mind reading to his cheating wife, fixes his sink (with a wrench, not his mind) and discovers she’s pregnant when she tells him. Of course it’s not going to be his, because she's a cheater. But whatever.

The cheerleader with super healing? (No. Not Buffy) She searches the internet for her birth mom and helps her brainwashed (and suddenly not gay) friend to re-discover that she has healing powers.

The mayoral candidate who can fly? He does nothing except fret about his side-mouth-talking (that’s not his power, but his disability) brother who can suck other people’s … powers..

The online stripper with dual personality disorder? She sits in a padded cell and whimpers to her Oprah-Look-Alike psychiatrist about doing nothing with her powers.

The son of the stripper who can talk to ATMs? Again, nothing but he reveals to us that he can talk to ATMs, which we knew already. And seriously, he has turned into one arrogant, little child actor. He was so precocious last autumn.

The ex-con husband of the stripper who can walk through walls? Useless. He can’t feed his child, rescue his wife or advance the storyline. Phase shifting is such a passive power anyways. Lame.

The recovering heroin addict who can paint the future as comic book panels? He does nothing but paint exposition which then the characters discuss. Stop explaining everything to us!

I’m NOT making these characters up. And I’m barely half way through the list!

The Japanese nerdlet with phallus issues who can stop time? Hid under a van the entire episode and seeks an ancient samurai sword to focus his powers. Also discovered his dad is Mr. Sulu from Star Trek. (In his defense he was the #1 most likeable thing of the show, but now his shtick stinks like an old California roll.)

The best friend of the time traveling Japanese nerd? So useless except as an eventual casualty. Note to the actor playing him: Dude, your job has a bull’s-eye painted on it the size of Hiroshima. Start looking for work asap.

The Indian scientist with a weird power that lets him see a little boy in his dreams? Yeah. He’s so annoying. His only use is fifteen minutes of “scientific” exposition per episode.

The red headed waitress with the photographic memory? Before she mysteriously died her only function was the same as the Indian’s: regurgitation of crap we learned from last episode. Get me some pancakes! She will be back.

The Haitian man who can erase people’s memories? Useless except as a means to wipe people’s memories so they can spend an episode re-learning what we’ve already seen.

The cheerleader’s (no longer gay) best friend? Got memory wiped and had to re-learn that people have GASP powers! And yeah, he was totally gay in one episode. Like he came out to her. And now NBC has snipped that from his personality.

The side-mouth talking male nurse who can mimic other people’s powers? Bryce can’t stand looking at him. I can’t stand hearing him. Our powers combined form utter disgust for him. Guess what? He’s had like eight dream sequences where he blows up and nukes New York City. The psychic painter has painted him blowing up New York. Everyone has talked about him blowing up New York. Is he going to blow up New York? What? I must have missed that…

The cheerleader’s creepy dad with cool glasses? He has some sort of power. I don’t know. My fingers are sore from listing these lame characters.

The homeless man who can turn invisible? He steals cell phones and wants to train the male nurse how to use his powers better? He was also in “28 Days Later.”

The psychotic villain who eats people’s brains to gain their powers? He’s been doped up on a research table, then he died, then he came back to life, then he killed a researcher and now has a spigot stuck in the back of his head.

And there’s even more!

Mr. Sulu? Was Nichelle Nichols booked?

The cheerleader’s birth mom who can create fire? Handy because she smokes cigarettes.

The radioactive man who sits in a log cabin and glows all alone? That’s all he does.

Doctor-Oprah mentioned above? Seriously, this woman looks more like Oprah than even Oprah looks like Oprah. Maybe that’s her power?

The mind-reading cop’s, angry, lesbian FBI agent-friend? She’s played by Clea DuVall.

And Mr. Muggles? A Pomeranian puppy that obviously has powers not yet revealed.

And they won’t be revealed. Nothing will be revealed on Heroes because NOTHING HEROIC HAPPENS on Heroes. They’ll talk about it happening, but it simply won’t happen.

I’m giving it one week to shape up, but seriously, with so many characters you’d think the writers would have a field day weaving intricate plots and storylines. No. The show is nothing but two or three person scenes in which the characters talk about what has already happened, which is nothing heroic, which on a show named Heroes strikes me as powerfully ironic.

No Comment

2007-01-29T17:27:00.000-05:00

I’m hilarious.

Seriously, I’m the funniest person I’ve ever written for.

But there are times … darker times, like when I’m feeling a little blue, kind of alone, and I’ve stress-eaten a half dozen Hostess cupcakes and I’m not showering or taking my medications or even speaking or wearing clothes for weeks. Well, sometimes I just can’t pound out the same zany level of outrageous OH-MY-GOD-did-he-just-write-what-I-think-he-wrote-oh-he-did-because-its-written-and-I-can-read-it-again-and-verify-that-he-DID-write-what-I-thought-he-wrote-in-the-first-place-OMG-LMAO-ROFL entries on my usually incredibly popular and highly commented upon web-blog.

Its times like that especially when I find refuge in the many other popular blogs that litter the virtual landscape. Sometimes I’m just happy forgetting about my own blog and exist simply to make someone else’s blog better by posting LOL-worthy comments.

And I post a lot of comments on other people’s blogs. On one very popular blog alone, last month I posted 47,283 comments, over half of them exceeding two thousand words in length.

Of course I don’t have time to write my own blog; I’m too busy writing everyone else’s! LOL ROFL LMAO LOL WTF?

Recently, in my flights fantastical across the inter-web, I discovered an online contest held by bloggers for bloggers to determine which bloggers have the best blog!

The notion took me back to 1989. I remember an afternoon in fifth grade spent with Mr. Stephanie, the audio/visual teacher. I had to watch his “edgy” homemade video about redneck ninjas and assure him it was “art”. As a result, he assured me that I was “smart” and “with-it” and “handsome” and had “nicely developing calves”; all requisites to spend late afternoons alone with him as part of our elementary school’s A/V club.

Win-win situation! But back to the blog awards:

I eagerly reviewed the many listings for a Best Comment category. Certainly by now someone will have noticed my tireless efforts and awarded me with a nomination in the rapidly growing, cutthroat world of Blog Commentary.

Nothing.

Not only was I not nominated, there wasn’t even a single category for Best Comment to be found on the entire contest. Can you believe that? I was once chosen as an editor’s pick for a comment on Salon.Com, for crying out loud; an EDITOR’S PICK and on Salon.com! Sheesh. Where would blogs be without their reader’s comments? Where would I be without my commenting? I tell you where: lonely, stuffed with cupcakes, unwashed and naked. That’s where!

So in the spirit of making up awards and awarding those who make stuff up, I hereby present to you, my loyal readers, the First Annual Commentitties!

All this week, I’m going to search the internet for the best comments, some of them may not even be mine. Once we have five finalists I’ll bring them to you and we can vote.

And by we I do mean I. I'll be the sole judge and jury. But feel free to send me your submissions. Suddenly I'm Mr. Stephanie, and your comments are a trembling eleven year old desperate for any replacement of his absentee father figure.

Fun! Maybe I’ll even develop subcategories, like Most Poignant, Angriest Comment and The Worst of the “Firsts!”

Stay posted. The Commentitties are on their way!

Peggy! ShAT on me

2007-01-25T14:58:00.000-05:00

Peggy!, my staffing firm agent, needs my SAT scores.

MY SAT SCORES!

SAT, you dread letters summon memories of an early morning spent filling in your tiny bubbles with my #2 pencil. My mediocre results (very mediocre but good enough for early enrollment in the state school) were supposed to stay hidden for the rest of eternity.

But now the good-enough results of my sleepy, graphite scribbling returns to haunt me like a spectral marking from some dead (average) ghoul.

My staffing agent, Peggy!, always says her name with an exclamation mark, but with a name like Peggy! how could you not? Anyhoo, she indicated many top companies are requiring candidates SAT scores these days.

Who ever heard of this? I nearly threw up from the wave of nausea I felt.

I crisply remember that day in late Spring of my Junior year of High School. I stood at home and with trembling, pudgy fingers opened my SAT results.

They were, as mentioned, adequately middle-of-the-road. However, taken into account my minority status (gay, poor, fat teen) I was able to parlay the run of the mill results into a senior year with little cares other than planning as many Senior dances as possible.

Which I did with relish. That’s both enthusiasm and copious amounts of chopped pickles and onions; see above gay, poor, fat teen.

Those days weren’t too long ago that I settled for less than perfect or rather more than whatever is was to just barely get by. And now I’m ruing the very day. That day is actually still now, I guess. I do have Peggy! as my agent.

And Peggy!’s name on her business cards isn’t even Peggy!. It’s Margaret. I don’t understand how she gets Peggy! from Margaret.

Why now must Peggy! besieging my psyche with such vulgar requests to revisit a very hurtful and not-as-fabulous time of my life? Oh why Peggy!? Why?

And she also wants my G.R.E. scores! G.R.E. say what, Peggy!? Oh Peggy! I thought we had a connection as I sat in your uncomfortable folding chair and lied to you that I can type 87 words a minute. Here I go, Peggy! Watch me fly:

Al;skdvja;lskdjf;lawkjvoqeib;laekh;alefb,.vb,.mvxl;ihueophjwo;bmzd
;lfhjae4thiojae3lkyal;rhigsklca asdl;vjao3pirt;q3kh azs;lvkjpml’;snlk;rky3rk;ltnq;3kga;lkvja;jkldg;l23;jtyiq3;oi5 yj;lke
ag;lamdsg

And … done!

Does Peggy! also need to know that I finished a not-good-enough THIRD in the Mister Metrocub Contest?

Do you Peggy!? Do you need to know all of my average aspirations and kinda, sorta, maybe accomplishments but really they’re stuff anyone could do if they applied themselves with little to no effort?

While we’re at it, I ate three helpings of asian snack mix, the kind with the yummy, dried seaweed, last night because I got nervous that the heat wasn’t turning on. Yes. I also binge-snack when faced with the possibility of hypothermia, Peggy!.

Are you happy now? Are you pleased this request has so shattered my “eh, it’s ok I guess” mentality?

In all fairness: Here is the actual email I sent to Peggy! regarding my scores. And yes, I shamefully told her my numbers:

From: James,Neil
To: HIDDEN,Margaret
Subject: re: scores

Hey Peggy,

My SAT score was NOWAYYOUBITCHES.

I took it my junior year, scored high enough for early enrollment into my state school and didn't bother taking it again because my family couldn't afford it.

No GRE

Thanks,
Neil

Don’t you love that!? “Because my family couldn’t afford it.” There I was that fateful morning in 1992 wearing my coat-of-many-colors with no pencils of my own. Instead, I filled in the test bubbles with the grime and dirt from under my fingernails. A simple, little ragamuffin seeking a higher education with only one opportunity to keep me from the cruel hardships of a north Georgia coal mine.

OH MY GOD! OH MY GOD! OH MY GOD!

How did this turn into a live post?? This just popped into my email. Seriously, no joke:

From: HIDDEN,Margaret
To: James,Neil
Subject: re: scores

Hi Neil,

I just wanted to let you know that COMPANYWHOHATESGAYS went with someone else. I will keep your resume on file and let you know if we have anything of interest for you. Feel free to get in touch with me if you get anxious for a change.

Thanks, Peggy!

Kiss of death. Goodbye, Peggy!. And what did she mean by get anxious?

What's Her Problem?

2007-01-12T11:51:00.000-05:00

Drama Queen. For reals. Some people think they have "hardships" in their life, so they can just cry and complain and act like a baby and the world will give them whatever they want. Seriously, what is her problem?

Who cares if she toiled six hundred years ago in the mountains of present day Peru and was sacrificed in the tomb of her mummified mistress? I know I don't. Not. At. All.

I look at that photo, and all I see is a genuine, grade-A drama queen. And she wasn't even a real queen, that beeotch was the maid.

The maid!

Can you believe that? You don't see Naomi Campbell's maids acting like a crazy fool and screaming and covering their faces from cell phones and ritual daggers. Do you?

Hells to the no. They sue, but they don't embarrass themselves. I mean sure, mummy-maid's wrists are tied (and she's being stabbed to death) but baby, I gots to file my taxes and (in addition to everything else going crazy in my life - see below) just found out that me and my man have to move out of our apartment in May. In May!

Yes. Our beautiful Clinton Hill apartment is being sold by our landlords. Thank you very much, outrageous finders fee. I'm sooooooo happy that we paid all that money to secure a lease for only fifteen months. <-- and yes that's sarcasm. I'm not happy about it at all. Not. At. All.

But you don't see me making a fool of myself.

I'd be mortified (actually, I guess I would be) if future archaeologists dug up my bones to find me all screaming and pitching a fit. Puhleez, lady. You were a maid six hundred years ago. Doesn't it go without saying you're going to die tied up and poked with a dagger? She should have come to peace with that employment clause the first week on the job.

Tied up and sacrificed in honor of your boss may suck, but having to stick around til 3:30 on a 2 o'clock early close Friday sucks pretty hard too. Happy long weekend, ya'll!

Hobos Appreciate Global Warming

2007-01-11T10:43:00.000-05:00

Very few people know this about me.

I graduated from my liberal arts college with my drama degree and no true direction in my life. All I had was my actor’s makeup kit and a dream to be on daytime television, be it a soap opera or a talk show. Sadly, doors were closed left and right.

Apparently the soap opera world cares not for the erudite excellence of a bachelor of arts carrying, classically trained actor from rural, northeast Georgia. Eff you, Passions. Eff you.

So after “no thank yous” from Montel, Maury and, again, effing Passions, I took to traveling the rails between New York and Georgia disguised as a dancing and singing hobo.

A classically trained hobo, that is.

I took the nom-du-hobo of Saggy Britches Sammy, and with my hobo sack full of Ben Nye Makeup (for my fake stubble beard), I became one of the most celebrated hobos to ride the tracks during that winter and spring of 1997.

Night after night, my hobo pals would cram into boxcar eight for my performances.

Boxcar Eight was MY BOXCAR. Don’t you let that crap-head hobo Chuckles O’Leary tell you none different. He sold me that box car for three cans of beans and a mighty nice comb and full square of wax paper. Those beans were awful good and had a full chunk of pork fat in every one! So you tell Chuckles to back off or I swear to God I’ll string up his cat, Eisenhower, like a goddamn mandolin!

Sorry. That ass Chuckles O’Leary sure used to get my goat … I’d given him my heart too, if only he wanted it…

Where was I?

Back in the day all the finest hobos would cram into Boxcar Eight for my nightly show. I’d light a cozy fire in my trashcan with some gasoline and whatever dirty newspaper was left over from my morning squats. The hobos would form a semi circle around me. And right there in the crudest of settings I’d bring the characters of the Bard to life. I treated these modern day groundlings (and their pets) to the most classical of the classic characters studied by this classically trained actor turned louse ridden hobo. (Whew, did I have lice? Thousands.)

I usually started the show as … Ophelia!

Her descent into madness upon learning the death of her father, Polonius, served as a fantastic opener for my show. My whooping and hollering and singing never failed to hook their attention. The several mentally unstable hobos, Talks-To-Himself-Jonesy in particular, loved the Ophelia bits.

From Ophelia’s suicide, I’d follow the dark path into the vengeance and jealousy of Shakespeare’s finest villain, Iago from Othello.

Ah, Iago: so angry, so envious, so manipulative, so desiring to get up on a hunky, straight, black man. I’ve always felt a special kinship with that infamous role.

Then I’d lighten the mood with a back-to-back helping of two fools: Bottom from A Midsummer Night's Dream and Cathness from Macbeth.

Cathness isn’t really a “fool” role. In fact he only has one line in Macbeth, but that’s the only role I got that year in my classically trained education, so I built an elaborate back story for Cathness in which he was a court jester, but through a series of elaborate pranks (and his lust for a hunky, straight, black man) he managed to assume a position of influence among Macbeth’s royal court.

Most theatre goers fail to realize the immense preparation that the classically trained actor pours into every role, regardless of whether it's one line or a million-billion lines.

Of course my monologue as Cathness was rather short. It was only one line; three words I think.

Next, I’d do a variety of modern interpretations of Hamlet from Hamlet: Hamlet as Rocky Balboa, Hamlet as Ronald Regan, Hamlet as Dolly Parton and (my favorite) Hamlet as Patrick Stewart as Captain Picard in a Holosuite aboard the USS Enterprise as Hamlet. <-- that’s what we classically trained types call “levels”.

Please understand that’s the beauty of Shakespeare: the various themes (incest, assassination, shipwrecks, ghosts) are so very universal that anyone, be it a hobo or a delusional undergraduate actor with no real future prospects, can parlay an experience through the Bard’s words that any audience will appreciate and relate to.

And how those crazy, stinky hobos loved my Shakespeare. They loved it! They loved me, and I tolerated them so long as they loved me. I sure miss acting.

Those were some good times.

Do You Slow the Muffin Man?

2007-01-10T10:35:00.000-05:00

I try not to watch the re-runs of Curb Your Enthusiasm when browsing my HBO on Demand. I love the show, but invariably I end up behaving like a curmudgeon, like Larry David. So last night I watched CYE for lack of anything else to do.

And this morning the employees (and customers) at the Rockefeller Center Dunkin' Donuts paid the price.

I was running late for work and the donut lines at the Dunkin' Donuts, some twenty people deep, snaked almost into the B train itself. But I was determined to get a banana walnut muffin and large coffee with cream and sugar, so I'd happily wait. Anyways, I was already running behind schedule. A few more minutes wouldn't hurt.

So I waited. The cashier slash donut dealer was a young man of Indian descent. He had a handsome face (as most Indian men do) and a noble moustache. Ahead of me, a smiling lady had a laminated card punched when she purchased her small coffee. Oooh, a frequent drinker coffee card! I took mental note to ask about getting one of those myself.

And the line shuffled forward much faster than expected. The experienced Dunkin' Donuts crew yelled out coffee and donut requests, and I hungrily eyed the banana nut muffin tray. Beautiful, plump muffins adorned the slightly slanted metallic shelf except for one shriveled, deformed muffin segregated from the others. "I'm totally going to be handed the leper muffin," I thought to myself.

And finally it was my turn to order.

"I'll have a banana nut muffin and a large coffee with cream and sugar please."

"Coffee with milk and sugar!"

"Cream. I asked for cream."

"What?"

"You said milk. I prefer cream."

"Cream! Make that coffee and cream!"

"Don't forget the sugar."

" ... and sugar."

"Thanks."

And the barista turned from his cash register and, as predicted, put his hand directly on that nasty, shriveled banana walnut muffin. I cringed. Why oh why does the essence of Larry David overcome me in these situations?

"I'd prefer one of the others, please."

"Others?"

"Other muffins."

"You don't want banana walnut?"

"No. I want banana walnut, but one of the others. It looks sickly."

Yes, I personified my muffin in public.

"But these are all blueberry. That's the last banana walnut."

And this was when I heard the twenty people in line behind me rolling their eyes. Hearing the eye rolling of twenty people is a fabulous thing, by the way.

Moved by the eye rolling, I acquiesced to the lesser muffin, "OK. I guess I'll take that one, but why are those blueberry muffins sitting in the banana walnut section?"

He quietly stared at me with dead, customer service eyes and turned to get the pitiable muffin.

But it was gone.

While he wasn't answering my valid question, a coworker had snatched the tray of blueberry muffins (and my shriveled banana walnut) and moved them to the proper blueberry area. My muffin man hadn't seen the relocation. And now he searched in vain for the missing muffin.

Behind me twenty eye rolls turned into twenty loud-enough-so-I-can-just-barely-hear-them sighs of impatience. The muffin man turned back to me, "It's gone. "

"No it's not. He moved it right there," I pointed to the displaced tray and my muffin of misery, but nothing short of a miracle was going to help me get my once-despised-now-sought banana walnut muffin back. The coworker who moved the former tray now slid the banana nut placard beneath it's neighbor. Banana walnut was gone. It was over. Time to move on.

No more huffin' and puffin' for my missin' Dunkin' muffin. <-- That's wit.

Defeated, I pointed at the orange cranberry tray adjacent to where the banana walnut had been. I'll take that one. He put it in my baggie and I paid. I turned to leave when the essence of Larry David surged. I suddenly remembered the lady with the frequent coffee card.

"Do you have any cards? Like for customers who come here often."

An audible you gotta be kidding me jabbed the back of my head. But such rudeness only spurred me onward.

My best buddy, the muffin man, stared at me blankly, "You mean gift cards?"

He held a shiny plastic gift card for me to inspect.

"No. A frequent coffee drinker card thing. A lady before me had one punched," I pantomimed hole punching with my right hand.

DOACD goes interactive!

Everybody try to convince the muffin man to give you a coffee card!!!!

1. Hold your right hand in front of you as though you're giving the muffin man a thumbs up.
2. Now move your fist in a punching motion away from your body.
3. And finally, bring your thumb down onto your index finger over and over.

And that, my little Helen Keller’s, is Hole Punching. Not to be confused with Ho-Punching. Fun!

It goes without saying the guy had no clue what I was doing or saying as a small, blond woman pushed me and my pantomime aside and ordered her coffee and donut(s) <-- plural I might add.

So I left the line. But I did not leave the Dunkin Donuts!

Oh no.

I went straight to the "special orders" waiting area (where you pick up your lattes, bagels, microwaved sandwiches, etc…) to complain to someone that my large coffee wasn't filled to the brim. Seriously. I was possessed.

But in all fairness the cup was not filled to the top. It was barely a medium! The second muffin man inspected the lid to assure himself I hadn't secretly sipped away Dunkin' profits and quickly filled me to the brim. As it should have been in the first place.

And finally satisfied, I walked to work.

And at my desk, I unwrapped my muffin.

And it was a big, beautiful banana walnut. I'm totally serious.

Tip The Scales We All Fall Off

2007-01-05T15:25:00.000-05:00

The scale tipped at 219.

I'm much chubbier today than I was at the cusp of rugby-fueled 2006. Not quite losing-sight-of-my-feet fat, but definitely headed for double-chin territory. The megamorphosis, while greasy and disgusting, has been quite comfortable. The great macaroni and cheese bake off of 2006 was one of the happiest and greasiest memories of last year.

Unfortunately, happy times were few and far between in 2006. It’s time for a change, several changes. I don’t particularly enjoy change, but when I go for it, I go with gusto.

I typically modify my life every three to four years. And 2007 finds me right on course for a vast upheaval in my creative, financial, physical and emotional realms. When Libra’s scales tip, everything falls into the floor where it’s easier to pick up the best pieces.

Assuming I can see what’s laying at my feet. Change is a good thing.

First off, I'm being transitioned out of my pays-the-bills job because I’m not “meeting expectations”. And to think I just bought a new wardrobe of plus size button downs and elastic waist slacks. More on this later in the year.

Speaking of jobs that don’t pay the bills; or pay at all; I'm probably ending my astrology gig. They haven’t paid me since July. It doesn't take a magical "third inner eye" to see that some brutal karma is in store for that magazine.

On an unrelated side note, did you know fortune telling in New York is a class B misdemeanor? Check it out:

Under New York State law, S 165.35: A person is guilty of fortune telling when, for a fee or compensation which he directly or indirectly solicits or receives, he claims or pretends to tell fortunes, or holds himself out as being able, by claimed or pretended use of occult powers, to answer questions or give advice on personal matters or to exorcise, influence or affect evil spirits or curses; except that this section does not apply to a person who engages in the aforedescribed conduct as part of a show or exhibition solely for the purpose of entertainment or amusement.

I'm not sure anyone was ever entertained or amused by my horoscopes. I'm headed for the big house. Better not drop the soap. Fascinating stuff nonetheless?

Perhaps my lack of payment for my published prophecy is more a rich blessing disguised in beggar's robes. I wonder if beggar’s robes come in plus sizes. Beggars are typically so very fashionably skinny.

Those of you who know me in person know I’ve developed a terrible habit of staying up until day break during the weekends and spending an awful lot of time in the shadowy corners of this city’s seedier gentlemen’s bars talking and talking and talking and talking and talking and talking and talking and talking.

This is my primary change for the New Year: No more of that incessant, distracting talking. Instead, I will probably start drinking. At least with drinking if I end up with a bloody nose, I likely deserved it.

Oh… I nearly forgot! I’m gay again and my honey and I are boyfriends and lovers and sweethearts, as per usual.

My sexual orientation reassignment therapy from Transitions Retreat didn’t really schtick. I went to Equinox gym upon my return to Brooklyn (to help shed my extra chin) and instead of hitting the cardiovascular machines, quickly relapsed into my prior lifestyle and trolled the steam room for two hundred and sixteen consecutive, sleepless hours, dropping the soap and talking and talking and talking and talking. “Never talk with your mouth full,” mother used to say.

So much honesty in this entry! There’s a change, indeed. Of course my boyfriend doesn’t know a men’s steam room is where I was for nine days. He’s so sweet. He frantically placed a Police Missing Person’s Report on my behalf and stapled signs with my photo around Clinton Hill. The photo looked nothing like me; I used to be so fashionably skinny.

I’ve said enough as it is. Time for action. Wasn’t it Whitney who famously said talk is cheap?

Beary Brycie

2006-12-18T09:02:00.000-05:00

Having come back from Transistions Retreat, I was surprised to find out that the boy-friend I remember is gone. I suppose I have changed too, being straight and all, but Bryce has completely lost himself to the "Bear" lifestyle. And I fully blame myself. If only I wasn't so selfish.

Here he is at a recent Bear gathering. It's a close-up, so you may want to increase your monitor's resolution.
There are other photos. But he's naked in all of them. Why do bears always end up naked when dancing at a pool or in the woods.

Sobbing now.

Transitions

2006-12-14T10:11:00.000-05:00

Absence really does makes the heart grow fonder. I gave my roommate and boy-friend Bryce a firm handshake, a pat on the shoulder and we drank a few beers (and swallowed two Vicodin) upon my return last night.

Full disclosure for the few of you who have noticed my being away. I said goodbye to Transitions Retreat yesterday. I carried my knapsack full of prescription bottles. My farewell gift bag included Ambien, Xanax and Klonopin. (I'm no long supposed to discuss gift bags, they're now just gifts or bags but not both. The words together create a phrase more used among certain circles. i.e. hair dressers and party planners than by guys like me, a reformed party planner, of sorts.)

You see, my dudes, I've been living a life of indulgences for far too long. It struck me at 5:30 a.m. on the Wednesday before Thanksgiving in the backroom of an East Village bar surrounded by nameless, drunk, leering men of a certain lifestyle choice.

My family was visiting all the way from Georgia, but I had no time for their love. Frequent calls from them went ignored in favor of the companionship of drooling serpents, temptation and hanging apples ripe for plucking. I was an instrument of the Goat-Boi, his lavender hoof branded my forehead as a sinner. No longer. Hallelujah!

I am rinsed clean of all sin which once clung to me like the filthy stink of three leather daddies, Cuban cigars, strong cologne and engine grease, after a long, sweaty work-over under the axles of a broken down Chevy pick-up truck. It's the kind of stink that lingers all day long. You can smell it under your work clothes. It's exciting and arousing. That's the kind of stink it was.

I have been cleansed by the powerful spray of Jesus' holy hose! Transitions Retreat doesn't have a baptism tub as bathing is for sissies. They have a garden hose which is used for cleansing sin.

My Transitions sponsor (or Trannie as we jokingly call each other), Blaire St. Christof McMartin, suggested I move into a halfway home instead of my apartment with my friend Bryce. But my place in Clinton Hill is just so fabul-- nice that I couldn't resist returning to such a comfortable abode.

My boy-friend is gay, but I am not. Yes, Bryce and I are still boy-friends, but … he is friend enough to disregard the boy part as I embark on this inspiring journey of self-renewal, honesty and khaki pants paired with blue button down shirts.

I am still Gayest Neil. Gay means happy. And I deserve to be the Happiest Neil possible.

My Transition is complete. Now begins the journey. I love you all, but not in that way.

Amby's Show

2006-11-17T12:32:00.000-05:00

Neil Squared

2006-11-14T07:59:00.000-05:00

Kidnapping. I was terrified of being kidnapped as a tot. There I'd be, little Gayest Neil of age 3 or 4, looking fabulous in light brown cords and sporting (at the time) a delightful fall of big, blong ringlets. My coal miner mother would turn her back on me at the new Riverbend Mall to buy an Orange Julius, and thats when the kidnappers would strike!

Before I could whisper "Lindbergh Baby", I'd be whisked away to a third world country where toddlers with blond curls and blue eyes fetch more money than the local lil'uns.

Surprisingly, I'm not very needy. (Also: Bryce's bithday was yesterday. I bought him a record player that records MP3's. I love Bryce so much. Have I mentioned Bryce. His blog is here. He mentions me sometimes too. Well, sort of...)

So, it was with obvious reservations that I set out to kidnap Neil Patrick Harris at Rockefellar Center while he taped Celebrity Jeopardy.

That's the problem with kidnapping a celebrity (or anyone I supponse), what do you do with the person once the nefarious deed is done?

It reminds me of this terrific 3-way Bryce and I enjoyed several nights ago. The seduction went off without a hitch. Thank you GHB. But the morning after, once our cubby conquest woke up and decided he'd attend brunch with us, egads, what to do with that extra body?

I had no plan for the morning after with Neil Patrick Harris, much less the ride/kidnapping into Brooklyn. I had no real plans to kidnap him, aside from a sack ala Borat style. Of course I had no sack, I was just getting out from work.

I had no ticket to the taping either. I had nothing. So I'm back to square one. Still the #2 gayest Neil in the world and that damn cubby won't stop calling me. Says it was the best night of sleep in his life. Hah, he should see the photos!