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!

2006-11-13T13:34:00.000-05:00

Jeopardy!’s catch phrase for this season’s Celebrity tournament is “The Star’s Come Out!”

Oh no they didn’t.

Carson Kressley, Isaak Mizrahi, Gayest Neil Patrick Harris and … slobber Christopher Meloni round out the cast of assembled “stars” to answer in the form of a question.

"Alex, I'll take failure to perform for $600!"

"You answer is: Lack of focus."

"What is the quality that will keep me way less gay than Neil Patrick Harris?"

"Correct."

My plans to abscond with NPH are suddenly secondary to the mandatory booing of Mizrahi and Kressley and tertiary to anything (I mean ANYTHING) that Christopher Meloni would have me do.

Of course Meloni would kick my butt for looking at him.

So back to Mr. Harris. I’ve discovered via the World Wide Web that he is taping TONIGHT! My apologies to Humanity, but my own selfish concerns take precedence over the dissing of two mincing ninnies.

Neil Patrick Harris is once again my sole focus. Tonight he shall be mine!

Unless Christopher Meloni says otherwise, duh.

He's smarter too...

2006-11-13T08:05:00.000-05:00

There he was, on my television, dressed in a snazzy suit, head of blond curls, that darling grin, and standing behind a podium.

Neil Patrick Harris will be on Celebrity Jeopardy! They are filming at Rockefellar Center, around the corner from where I work.

Was the commerical a message? The answer in form of a question? What is my only means to regain my status as the gayest Neil?

This week, dear dandies, I'm kidnapping Neil Patrick Harris. I think the show tapes on Thursday? Guess I need to find out.

Also, Bryce and I are also looking at bedroom sets, I'll keep you posted if we go Provencial or Modern.

Faith in my Faggotry

2006-11-07T10:05:00.000-05:00

I know I'll never be gayer than Neil Patrick Harris. I am a broken husk of the cracked shell of the lisping Louise I used to be. What's even worse, I had such a crush on him when I was a kid.

I can only work harder at my gaiety. Sage advice. Lesson one: Bitchery and Divattude.

Case study Divattude: Faith Hill at the Country Music Awards. Upon hearing she's lost to an American Idol, check out the split second change in demeanor from Fake Gratitude to ABSOLUTE SCREAMING BITCHERY.

Wow. So instructive and destructive.

No longer the gayest Neil...

2006-11-06T14:48:00.000-05:00

Deaf Defying Tale

2006-10-17T08:17:00.000-04:00

Who knew a deaf leatherman contest could be so poetic?

I certainly didn't, but as I stood in awe, watching these obese, handcapable Tom o' Finlanders pantomime for the silent approval of their peers, well, I knew I had seen something greather than myself.

Here's how it went down.

Bryce came scurrying back to me as I casually surveyed the lower floor of the Toolshed in Washington, D.C. "Neil, you won't believe what happened upstairs!" My curiosity was piqued. As we sipped our whiskey shots, Bryce told me that the upstairs was filled with leather daddies, full on chaps, harnesses, chains and boots, but no one is speaking to anyone. And how when he broke the eerie silence, the group simply turned their heads to stare at him and noone offered a hello, or even a cocktail! Curiosity moved beyond piqued and into obsessed.

"I think they're deaf," surmised my brawny boyfriend. "They were talking in sign language."

Jinkies, a clue!

Well. I was not about to let a deaf leather bear convention pass my sociological observation. So I downed my whiskey shot, gave my lover money for another round and sashayed up the creaky staircase to investigate.

I was not disappointed.

The upstairs billiards room was packed with chubby guys (and a few ladies) all signing and gesticulating up a storm. I wonder. Much like when the din in a room is too loud, do you think the deaf are distracted by words they see in their periphery? Like, "Hey buddy, can you sign with a little less flamboyance? I'm trying to talk with my friend here."

Of course he'd have to sign that to him. It's fascinating.

Well. I stood apart from the group and held a respectful pose with my hands hidden behind my back. I didn't have any leathergear on, so I was afraid I'd get tossed out. But for the most part they just ignored me as the skits began.

I eyed the jukebox and wondered if playing some tunes to accompany their meeting would be crass.

I've been in a leather pageant before. As far as the talent portion went, all I did was walk around in a jock strap. I failed at that. So when these deaf leather bears began pantomiming for the crowd's amusement, well, suffice to say, I was impressed.

One involved an older deaf leather daddy capturing a leather g-string clad, deaf gent in the woods. I don't know if he was in the woods. I only assume that if you're in a leather g-string and you end up captured, you're likely skulking about in the woods somewhere. Am I right?

Anyways, the leather daddy proceeded to bind his prey with chains while moaning loudly. Then he pantomimed guzzling a bottle of merlot and the bitch passed out!

Does he not watch Lost? You can't pass out when you tie someone up! Drink some waaaaa not wine.

This was obviously a bad plan, because the deaf hostage freed himself, tied up the evil leather daddy in his own chains and proceeded to paddle him with a concealed board he'd carried with him into the woods.

The end.

It wasn't Shakespeare, but it got the crowd stomping and banging on tables.

A skinny, leather, deaf otter (he looked like Borat) in sneakers, handcuffs and a black thong proceeded towards the stage for his talent portion and I returned to the lower floor where another whiskey shot and my doting cubby were waiting for me and my observations.

Semper Fine!

2006-10-13T17:58:00.000-04:00

The Marines have a 2007 beefcake calendar. All I'm saying is I know why October is my favorite month.

Slobber.

Saved by the Smell

2006-10-13T16:45:00.000-04:00

Dustin "Dirty Sanchez" Diamond is due to splash across wide screens everywhere in his pornographic debut with two skanks in tow. I tried finding it on YouTube to no avail. The vanilla scented trailer is available however.

Instead enjoy some classic Will Ferrell in an Inside the Actor's Studio sketch with Tobey MacGuire.

On a creepy side note, the poster of this clip goes by the name SimonAdebisi.

Lately I've been raving to Bryce all about Simon Adebisi, or more accurately the actor who plays him, Adewale Akinnuoye-Agbaje.

Simon Adebisi was by far the scariest prisoner on OZ. And his portrayal of Mr. Eko (Lost) steals that show as well.

Kids These Days!

2006-10-12T14:18:00.000-04:00

32. Now that I'm way old, I'll be reporting on the wacky antics of the young and young at heart.

Enjoy some mushed peas, turn on the Wheel of Fortune, and prepare to hear about the crazy things young-uns are doing in our neighborhoods and across the globe.

#1 Flashmobbing

Man do I hate hipsters and this shit reeks of their infernal meddling:

Hipster Uno: Dude, how totally sweet would it be to get a bunch of people in a public space wearing our i-Pods ... (inhale gurgle gurgle exhale) ... and like totally all of us dance to our own music, right there in the freakin' subway stop dude!

Hipster Dos: Sweet, dude. Pass it.

Hipster Uno's Girlfriend (Probably named Moonbow): Wow, that's a great idea. It's totally transcendent, merging the public and private, the corporate and the celebratory...

Flashmobbing apparently has it's roots here in New York City, very likely in Moonbow's apartment where Hipster #1 is crashing while he works out the idea he had for his graphic novel. You know. The graphic novel about the robot samurai who totally kicks ass with the katana given to him by the first robot emperor of Japan? What do you mean I haven't told you about it? Oh shit, dude. Sit down. I gotta tell you this idea I had. It's going to blow your mind. I'm totally working it out lately. Like really putting some good ideas down on paper and stuff.

Exactly. One of those brands of hipster. Hate them. I'm so off-topic right now.

Anyways, flashmobbing has migrated to the London underground scene, literally. Hundreds of lonely people (and Jimmy Carter) descended upon the London subway to listen to their MP3 players and dance while mildly amused commuters meekly asked to be let by.

Of course the celebrants were wearing headphones, so they ignored them in the same way we all ignore the pleas of the homeless when we're wearing our headphones on the New York subway. So fair enough.

I only assume the flashmobbing craze is the United States' retaliation for the Spice Girls.

You could not get away with this crap in New York City. My pulse quickens simply thinking of pushing my way through throngs of weirdos dancing in silence during my afternoon commute. Seriously, I need a Fresca to settle my nerves down.

And how the hell do they get away with this in London of all places? Don't the London police, like, shoot people on the subway?

Said one observer, "It was entertaining, if strange to see all these people gyrating to their own beat. It was the Soul Train arriving at platform one."

Oh. So. British. I've seen Soul Train, madam. That's not Soul Train. That's train wreck.

Happy National Coming Out Day!

2006-10-11T09:03:00.000-04:00

I write about sleeping and dreams, a lot. Somnambulistic overtones of my writing are certainly not lost to the one doing the typing and dreaming. Today is my thirty second birthday.

I fell asleep last night a little after midnight. I cuddled into my softly snoring, furry pillow, my Bryce, and hummed “Happy Birthday” to myself. I fell asleep shortly after.

I overslept this morning, hitting the snooze over and over, yet somehow I made it to work on time. Bravo. My shirt today smells like it wasn’t dried thoroughly enough. And my mom called me moments after I stepped out of the shower. I smiled and listened to her annual tale of how (insert age here) years she traveled to the hospital in a rickety green pickup truck and gave birth to a darling naked, baby boy. It was nice talking to her this morning, although I was naked. I hate talking to my parents naked. Happens more often than you'd expect.

And yes, that's indeed a princess fairy birthday cake pictured above.

Finally dressed in my slacks and work shirt, I scolded my mom for not packing up her boxes quickly enough. She’s moving from her current home (in Cedartown proper) to a much nicer house (in the country close to our old homestead). I worry about her incessantly. Will she pay off the new home? Will she even move into the new home? And suddenly, I’m thirty-two. Should I worry about my own ambitions yet?

Bryce bought me a terrific book, Making Comics by Scott McCloud. I’ve read the entire chapter regarding “Clarity”. Do I have the patience for an endeavor like making a comic? Well. I guess I do. I keep forgetting I made a comic strip for forty odd weeks. Yes. I know weeks is a far cry from years, but progress is progress.

Potent stuff birthdays are. One day out of the year you get to eat cake, receive hilarious cards and foresee your ultimate doom at the smooth, ivory hands of the Grim Reaper.

Ultimate doom … well, at least there’s one superlative in this dismal existence. I’m kidding, of course.

Plans tonight? I don’t think so. The majority of my partying was accomplished Saturday via corn mazes, dim sum and karaoke. Tonight I think we’re ordering take-out and catching up on the dozens of television programs choking our DVR.

Still. Must. Finish. “Lost”. DVD. Before. Watching. Season. Three.

Crap like that. Holla thirty two. Bitches beware.

More shocking IM's found!

2006-10-04T08:53:00.000-04:00

Maf54 said at 9:39AM: Back

CandyDandy69 said at 9:39AM: That was a long time. Where’d you go?

Maf54 said at 9:39AM: Doing work from home.

CandyDandy69 said at 9:40AM: What do you do?

Maf54 said at 10:23AM: Rather not talk about that…

CandyDandy69 said at 10:26AM: I’m an astrologist. Well… I write an astrology column.

CandyDandy69 said at 10:26AM: I like IMing w/ you. You sound like a pretty sane guy.

Maf54 said at 10:28AM: Hardly

Maf54 said at 10:31AM: I have a confession to make. I’ve never told anyone… But you seem like a pretty OK guy too.

CandyDandy69 said at 10:31AM: I have a confession too!!!

Maf54 said at 10:46AM: Oh... well want to hear mine first?

CandyDandy69 said at 10:47AM: Mine is pretty good.
C
andyDandy69 said at 10:50AM: You there?! You don’t want to hear mine?

Maf54 said at 10:55AM: Sorry work. OK! Jesus, what’s your confession!?

CandyDandy69 said at 11:00PM: No. Nevermind Mr. Snippy. You go first. You brought it up I guess..

Maf54 said at 11:02AM: Ok. I’ve never told anyone this.

Maf54 said at 11:03AM: When I was a kid, like 13-15. A clergyman… well he… he was inappropriate with me… Very inappropriate.

CandyDandy69 said at 11:04PM: LMAO! Is that it!? Man, mine is way better than that. I thought you were gonna tell me you killed somebody or something. Here’s mine:

Maf54 said at 11:04PM: ........................................................

CandyDandy69 said at 11:04PM: Like I was at the Gap and I went into the dressing room and totally flirted with a salesman and he gave me a free pair of jeans! ISN’T THAT AWESOME?! Removed the tag and everything. It was before I met my sweet and loving boyfriend.

CandyDandy69 said at 11:10PM: U there/

Maf54 said at 11:34PM: Hang on. Chatting w/ friend.

CandyDandy69 said at 11:35PM: I’m eating a sandwich on foccacia bread

CandyDandy69 said at 11:35PM: didn't realize is was going to be so greasy

CandyDandy69 said at 11:35PM: kind of like a pizza hut deep dish pizza, but it’s a sandwich. OMG! Have you seen that Lasagna Pizza. That’s crazy nasty. But I bet it’d be good.

Maf54 said at 11:36PM: Maybe when you’re in dc for session we can get a hotel room. If they wonder, tell them it’s a dinner thing.

CandyDandy69 said at 11:36PM: What?!

Maf54 said at 11:37PM: Sorry………………… wrong box. Gotta go.

CandyDandy69 said at 1:36PM: Uhmm ok bye.

IM in trouble now.

2006-10-03T09:00:00.000-04:00

Message history for Apr 28, 2006

Maf54 said at 8:58AM: Good morning.

CandyDandy69 said at 8:58AM: Hey.

CandyDandy69 said at 8:58AM: Whats up?

Maf54 said at 8:58AM: Are you sixteen?

CandyDandy69 said at 8:59AM: Eww.

Maf54 said at 9:01AM: Just joking. So what’s up?

CandyDandy69 said at 9:01AM: I asked you first.

Maf54 said at 9:01AM: Sure. Nothing. I saw you in the chat room. Nice stats.

CandyDandy69 said at 9:01AM: Yawn. Zzzzzzz!

Maf54 said at 9:03AM: Are you sleepy? Slip into something more comfortable…

CandyDandy69 said at 9:04AM: Whatevs. My name is Neil. I’m a Libra and living in NYC.

CandyDandy69 said at 9:04AM: I like dancing and poetry and water colors.

CandyDandy69 said at 9:04AM: Before you ask, I do have a boyfriend, but we’re kind of in an open relationship.

CandyDandy69 said at 9:04AM: Well… not really I guess. But I can like chat and stuff with guys..

CandyDandy69 said at 9:05AM: Prolly shouldn’t though. Cause like we both have tempers. Well he doesn’t. I do. Once I got so angry I tossed over an entire bookshelf of books. Like heavy books! And then I threw myself into the bookcase and gave myself a black eye. I told everyone it was rugby related. Was pretty dramatic! I wish I had my camera going at the time. Would have been great to put it on YouTube.

CandyDandy69 said at 9:05AM: I’m also a non-practicing Wiccan and an astrologist. I don’t do black magic though because a few years back I was pretty into the dark arts, as it were. I think for several eyars a malevolent spirit was chasing me. Maybe the ghost of a serial killer? Dunno. What are you wearing?

Maf54 said at 9:06AM: That’s a lot of info.

CandyDandy69 said at 9:06AM: Wearing?

Maf54 said at 9:06AM: Shorts and a t-shirt.

CandyDandy69 said at 9:07AM: Hot.

CandyDandy69 said at 9:07AM: I’m in socks.

CandyDandy69 said at 9:07AM: Just. Socks. Striped socks.

Maf54 said at 9:08AM: yeah. That’s it. Sounds nice.

CandyDandy69 said at 9:08AM: Is this Foxy?

CandyDandy69 said at 9:08AM: Foxy, is that you?

Maf54 said at 9:08AM: Who?

Maf54 said at 9:13AM: I don’t know Foxy.

Maf54 said at 9:13AM: Friend of yours?

CandyDandy69 said at 9:13AM: Yeah.

CandyDandy69 said at 9:14AM: He plays pranks.

Maf54 said at 9:14AM: I love pranks. Like tricks?

CandyDandy69 said at 9:15AM: Sure. Who doesn’t.

Maf54 said at 9:16AM: Do you like dinner?

CandyDandy69 said at 9:16AM: It’s a little early for dinner…

CandyDandy69 said at 9:16AM: But yeah. I love free food.

CandyDandy69 said at 9:16AM: Doesn’t matter what it is. If it’s free I’ll eat it.

Maf54 said at 9:17AM: Well maybe we can get dinner.

Maf54 said at 9:19AM: You ever make it to DC?

CandyDandy69 said at 9:19AM: Once there was the bucket of meat in college

CandyDandy69 said at 9:19AM: It wasn’t rotten, but noone else was gonna eat it. So I was like, well it’s free. I’ll take it home and fry it or freeze it for later. It wasn’t rotten. They said it wasn’t.

CandyDandy69 said at 9:19AM: Man did I get sick! Hospital for three dyas.

Maf54 said at 9:20AM: Hold on phone.

to be continued...

I'm back I guess.

2006-10-02T11:25:00.000-04:00

Hello.

Been a long time. Almost two weeks. I've been through a rough patch. But I think the worse is over. The storm is clearing. I think my subconscious assured me of this with a dream.

Saturday night I dreamed of lightning striking trees. The woods where I grew up exploded and shattered lumber landed in smoldering heaps around my screaming family. One particularly frightening image involved my mother nearly being crushed. But she was safe. And still the lightning boomed and destroyed those familiar trees of my childhood.

I had another frustrating dream where I was lost in my local grocery store. I wanted to make chocolate chip cookies and couldn't find the proper ingredients. The following morning I bought a tube prepackaged dough and spooned it onto a metal sheet for the simplest (and cleanest) baking possible. Baked from scratch cookies would have been great, but the simple cookie dough brand still provided a needed resolution to the frustrating dream.

I think I also had a seizure in the night. Not a dream, but I vaguely remember the physical sensation of it, giving myself into it in the safety of my bed. Enough about seizures and cookies; back to the main event: lightning and trees.

Changing colors on Autumn trees never fail to get me thinking about missed opportunities or things I've done wrong.

October is always an introspective month. I love autumn’s sensations: brisk, earthy, chilly, but still there's that nagging feeling that your's truly is a big ole failure. Howdy.

Between the yellowing branches and my seasonal malaise, the Fall is here in full force friends. That nightmare lingered with me well into the evening on Sunday. I had a flashback of it while Bryce and I sat in the tiny seats at Town Hall watching Sufjan Stevens in concert. An image of chopped wood appeared across the giant video screen behind the musicians. It was eerie too that Sufjan discussed lightning hitting a tree and setting his house on fire. I've been known to have prophetic dreams before.

In my dream, following the destructive storm, I returned to my home to find long lines of chopped wood. My father (and I'm certain my grandfather in whatever capacity he can help at his advanced age) had gathered all the shattered wood and neatly chopped it and arranged it for the approaching winter.

I used to hate chopping wood, lugging the smaller logs to be split atop our chopping stump, balancing them on one end, hefting a maul: one side blunt, the other sharp, a heavy tool. These days want to feel that exertion, the roughness on my hands and the practiced steadiness of the chopping, again.

I want to be a provider for my family. To build a fire for my mom's comfort. To have a task, something I can put my hands on, to occupy my mind. Instead I often feel like a troublemaker with too much freedom on his hands. What’s that proverb about idle hands? I am a troublemaker.

I know I have ample household chores to finish. I once saw chopping wood as an obstacle between me and my Sega Genesis, as opposed to a means to protect and comfort my family. Today such chores (laundry, dishes, and changing light bulbs) stand between me and my computer. It's eye opening to realize I haven't changed much in fourteen years. There are so many things I can do to show love to my sweetheart. But I want to do household chores not as simply a means to be able to fight villains online, but as a show of support and love for the home we have together. But lately, the latter motivation isn't "cutting it" for me. And this makes me panicky and frightened.

At least there are chocolate chip cookies, right?

From CNN:

2006-09-18T17:47:00.000-04:00

"The Amber Alert describes the woman being sought as white, between 30 and 40 years old, about 5 feet, 8 inches tall and weighing around 200 pounds. Her dark or black hair was pulled under a baseball cap with a worn bill, authorities said. She was wearing a gray or brown T-shirt and blue jean shorts. She appeared to have a female mustache."

And sure enough:

THEY DREW HER A MUSTACHE!

I love it! Absolutely brilliant! I think that's hilarious.

...

Aaaaand that's all I have today folks. Thanks for coming. Try the meatloaf.

Nine Twelve

2006-09-12T11:18:00.000-04:00

In remembrance of the fifth anniversary of the day after … 9/12,

9/12/2001 started out like any other day following a national tragedy, so long ago, five years ago today. I woke up. Hit snooze on the alarm, NPR was abuzz still with incoming information regarding the tragedy the day before. But 9/12 was, otherwise, fairly ordinary. But aren't all days fairly ordinary until disaster strikes? You never hear, "That day was unlike any other ... and then Little Johnny was crushed by the pick-up truck. But what will always stand out was the unique day before that happened."

I wiped the typical sleep from my usual eyes and slowly shuffled my nonchalant way into my same-as-it-ever-was kitchen. There was nothing to eat for breakfast. I panic binged everything in my cabinets and refrigerator the day before: Little Debbies, cereal, a pint of coffee ice cream, two dozen scrambled eggs, frozen waffles, tomato juice, all of it gone, never to return for the day after … 9/12.

I think about today, five years ago, and the nostalgia washes me like a blood red river begging for a sanguineous baptismal. Hallelujah! I fall backwards into the river - Its deeper than it looks. I plummet for 10 seconds at 150 miles per hour into memory before waking up again, startled and sweating.

NPR was on. It's still 9/12 and I was dreaming of five years ago. No one reports on 9/12. The bobble heads nodding up and down, solemn soothsayers, and our prophets on the steel and glass mountains who failed to see the glint of those planes in the morning sunshine; those reflected rays from the jetliners now replaced by towers of manmade light shining upward from the blackened Earth illuminating the nighttime clouds in a beautiful, elegant testament to the horrors of that day before 9/12 five years ago.

On 9/12/2001 the world remained changed for the worse. Did we lose our naiveté or our innocence the five years and one day earlier? The two words mean the same thing but have vastly dissimilar connotations. I stood in my empty kitchen, chilly from the approaching fall morning of 2001 and looked into those barren cupboards. The wall rips open and the nose of a airplane slams through my kitchen.

The cabinets explode. Steel shatters like glass and glass slices into me like sharpened steel and the liquid fire, molten lava, burns me, burns my kitchen, every square inch becomes the inferno. Is this what Hell is like; the fire, the pain, the fear, the screaming and choking into my cellphone as an angel's voice assures me help is on the way and to remain calm. I must call my mother and tell her goodbye...

There’s those lights again.

Those beautiful, elegant columns of light, beacons in the firestorm guiding those innocent souls upward and beyond on 9/12/2001, five years ago today. I step into the column and I feel heavy as a feather. I’m lifted in an updraft and I’m floating. The world transforms from bleak gray, red and black into a thousand shades of blue and finally pristine white, the color of egg shell and yogurt and cream cheese and fluffly merangue…

I closed my refrigerator and my kitchen was dark once more five years ago on 9/12/2001. Still nothing to eat: no peanuts, no pretzels, no box cutters. Simplicity was key to my diet five years ago. I followed the food pyramid and knew what major food groups to include and which to eliminate. Everything seemed simpler before 9/12, the first day after. Memories where the music is played through a creaky Victrola and occasionally a scratch or damaged frame mars the audience’s view of the action movie. Happy Americans contently munch their popped corn and gasp when the turban wearing man sneaks up behind Gayest Neil in his very kitchen!

The brown skinned man holds a long, curved dagger and wears a long, curled moustache. The screen goes black, white text appears:

“In the name of Allah I will kill this chubby American in his very kitchen!”

And again the audience gasps in fear, but they know it’s not real. They’re safe in the movie theatre, one hand greasy with butter the other numb from their ice cold, Diet Coca-Colas with sliced lemon.

Unwittingly, Gayest Neil opens his cupboard and it smacks the terrorist in the head. He’s knocked unconscious and our hero sees him lying sprawled on the floor.

More words appear on the screen: “What is this? I didn’t order delivery falafel and shawarma!”

Neil sheepishly shrugs. And the audience goes hysterical.

Their unwitting hero, their dumb captain, their lucky soldier has won the day again simply by his own innocent words and naive gumption. The man in the turban is carted away by men in black suits and red stained cuffs.

Balloons and confetti and a "Mission Accomplished!" banner fall from the ceiling. Neil is now wearing an Air Force flight suit and eating a hearty American breakfast of steak and eggs, pancakes and a big tall glass of ice cold milk; white milk.

And the audience cheers!

And four more turbans pop up outside the window and with devious, dark eyes stare inside at our hapless hero.

And the audience gasps.

And Neil closes the window and unknowingly catches the terrorists' matching beards.

And the audience guffaws!

And the movie theatre explodes as a jetliner crashes in through the wall and that liquid fire drenches the seated viewers. And they keep laughing and laughing and laughing. Their blackened bones crackle and cackle and they stuff their charcoal briquette bellies with popcorn and bubbly soda pop.

And the audience watching the audience...

Five years ago I flipped through channels all day long, channel surfing on what proved to be a placid pool of water. My remote rests on the Food Network: barbecue ideas for celebrating the fifth anniversary of 9/12! Wonderful. Distraction over reflection, grotesquery instead of refinement. American pride brand-labeled and sold to a morbid popcorn hungry audience wearing cardboard 3-D glasses in the colors red, white and blue.

Did America make it into that column of light five years ago on 9/12/2001 or are we still living in that scorched pit?

Surprise! Not.

2006-09-06T17:14:00.000-04:00

Kiger moved to Seattle a few months ago and New York City is a much less hysterical place. So sad. Everyone misses him. But Greg H. is celebrating a birthday on the 15th, so instantly my clever cranium began working overtime devising a means by which Bryce and I could crate in some Kiger for a surprise visit of everyone's favorite gaysian, not to mention one of Greg's bestest Bettys.

No such luck. Kiger is in Europe that weekend so my delicious scheme was ruined, much like a cake left in the rain.

But you lucky few can still witness my climactic schematic:

Monitor Wizard?

2006-09-05T15:10:00.000-04:00

Anyone know how to diagnose a broken computer monitor? My flatscreen turned off early Sunday morning and refuses to turn back on. I've even begged.

Power cord? Check. Monitor cord? Check. That third cord, the blue one? Check.

Aaaannnndddd that's my computer-know-how right there! Anyone have a laptop we can hook it up to? Suggestions?

Ma Vie en Rose Cinemas

2006-09-05T11:46:00.000-04:00

BAM Rose Cinemas is proud to present highlights, award-winners, and sold-out shows from the 2006 NewFest, featuring the best in gay/lesbian/bi/transgendered cinema. (And yes. I cut and pasted that blurb from their website. It was a long weekend.)

I love the BAM Rose Cinema. It has the feel of a small town movie theatre with a consistently excellent and thought provoking selection of independent and blockbuster films. And it's a fun date night with a great little restaurant across the street.

I’ll definitely be there on the 8th to see “For the Love of Dolly”. Check out BAM Rose Cinemas website for their daily movie showings and NewFest’s Best (and gayest) lineup:

Boys Shorts Showcase (Shorts Program) 100min
Fri, Sep 8 at 4:30pm; Sun, Sep 10 at 2pm
Various directors
Gay male relationships, dating, and sex are at the center of this program, which features Available Men, winner of the 2006 NewFest Audience Award for Best Short.

Available Men (2005) 15min
Directed by David Dean Bottrell
Two men mistake each other for the person they were supposed to meet.

Hustler WP (2006) 19min
Directed by Craig Cobb
A pair of unlikely buddies living their own queer underground are on the hunt for drugs and sex.

Pablo, Did You Put on the Washing Machine? (Pablo, Has Puesto La Lavadora) (2004) 3min
Directed by Javier Haba Navarro
A beautiful portrait of a couple in their daily life. Spain.

Dinner Conversation (2005) 4min
Directed by Jim Cashman
The first 'I love you' in a relationship sets some boundaries.

Patriotic (2004) 9min
Directed by David Burns
A meditation on intimacy, dependancy, and control.

Eggs for Breakfast (Huevos, Besos Brujos Y Mucho Amor) (2005) 5min
Directed by Claudio Sodi Zapata
A simple breakfast underscores the difficulties a gay couple have in their relationship. Mexico. In Spanish with English subtitles.

And I Do Not Know Even When (Y No Se Hasta Cuando...) (2004) 15min
Directed by Eduardo Soto-Trillo, Ion Arocena, Laura A Cancho
Two ex-boyfriends run into each other night after night in a gay bar. Spain. In Spanish with English subtitles.

The DL Chronicles (2005) 30min
Directed by Quincy LeNear, Deondray Gossett
A married African-American man lives a double life.

Cruel & Unusual (2006) 67min
Fri, Sep 8 at 6:50pm*
*Q&A with the directors

Directed by Janet Baus, Dan Hunt & Reid Williams
This illuminating documentary looks at the horrific plight of transgendered women forced to serve out their prison sentences in men’s prisons, because prisons place inmates according to anatomical sex, not gender identity. Winner of the 2006 NewFest Audience Award for Best Feature.

For The Love of Dolly (2006) 60min
Fri, Sep 8 at 9:15pm*
*Q&A with the director

Directed by Tai Uhlmann
Country legend Dolly Parton has amassed a remarkably devoted fan following over the years. In this delightfully smart documentary, meet five of her most ardent followers, both men and women, who display quasi-religious devotion to the performer.

In the Girls Room (Shorts Program) 86min
Fri, Sep 8 at 2pm
Sat, Sep 9 at 2pm

Various directors
This collection of shorts examines young women coming to terms with their sexuality or gender, and features Peace Talk, winner of the 2006 NewFest Best Short Award.

The Black Plum (2005) 16min
Directed by Meredyth Wilson
In a unique fairy tale, a young girl finds herself in a strange place.

Doors (2004) 13min
Directed by Mandra Waback
A young girl finds solace in the company of her lonely next-door neighbor. The Netherlands.

Bye Bye Antonia (2005) 15min Directed by Isabella Gresser Toni is coming to terms with her gender. Germany. In German with English subtitles.

Being A Boy (En Kille Som Jag) (2004) 10min
Directed by Mia Olsson
Hanna is 15 and uncomfortable with her female body. Sweden. In Swedish with English subtitles.

Peace Talk (I Fred) (2005) 14min
Directed by Jenifer Malmquist
Two young girls discover each other through playing war. Sweden. In Swedish with English subtitles.

Katie and Kasey (2005) 6min
Directed by Kyla Tomlin
Kasey is coming to terms with her inability to show affection to her girlfriend, Katie, in public.

Open (2005) 12min
Directed by Teale Failla
Through intersecting timelines and modern ideas of monogamy, an open relationship turns the lives of three women into a whirlwind of betrayal, bingo, and sex toys.

Camp Out (2006) 78min
Sat, Sep 9 at 4:30pm*
*Q&A with the director

Directed by Larry Grimaldi & Kirk Marcolina
This entertaining and enlightening doc shows what it’s like to be young, gay, and Christian in America. Camp Out follows campers at the first overnight camp for gay Christian youth. Winner of the 2006 NewFest Showtime Vanguard Award and of the 2006 NewFest Best Documentary Award.

Rag Tag (2006) 98min
Sat, Sep 9 at 6:50pm

Directed by Adaora Nwandu
Young black British boys Rag and Tag share a close bond—perhaps too close. After a trip to Nigeria, they must reconcile their love with pressures from family, friends, finances, and bigotry. Propelled by a fantastic hip-hop score, Rag Tag is a lyrical film about love and friendship set against a cultural backdrop that has never before been seen in gay film.

Boy I Am (2006) 80min
Sat, Sep 9 at 9:15pm*
*Q&A with the directors

Directed by Samantha Feder & Julie Hollar
For some within the lesbian community, the act of FTM (Female to Male) transitioning is viewed at best as a naïve social trend, or, at worst, an anti-feminist rejection of butchness and female power in favor of male privilege. This documentary uses the engaging stories of three NYC-based FTMs to explore this controversy and get to its historical and cultural roots.

White Shadows (2006) 82min
Sun, Sep 10 at 4:30pm*
*Q&A with the director

Directed by Mialyn Hanna
An inspirational story of survival and transformation, White Shadows profiles Dalee Henderson, a famed African-American hairstylist from the deep South living in California. Henderson is diagnosed with AIDS and must reconcile himself to the changes the disease affects upon his body and mind.

Mom (2006) 70min
Sun, Sep 10 at 6:50pm*
*Q&A with the director

Directed by Erin Greenwell
Brooklyn filmmaker Erin Greenwell (21) puts a fun and sexy lesbian twist on the classic buddy comedy formula. Mom follows a pair of market researchers as they conduct interviews in a small town. Uptight Kelly wants to finish her job so she can prepare for an important interview, while carefree Linda finds reason to take her time when a bored housewife enters the mix.

Pick Up the Mic (2005) 95min
Sun, Sep 10 at 9:15pm*
*Q&A with the director

Directed by Alex Hinton
Queer rappers performing queer hip-hop: welcome to the underground world of homohop, a living, breathing contradiction. Hinton embarks on an odyssey to uncover whether there is room for diversity in an industry plagued with misogyny and homophobia. Pick Up the Mic embodies what hip-hop should be representing—unconditional acceptance through music.

Sand Trap

2006-08-28T11:19:00.000-04:00

I traveled to the Hamptons on Saturday night. It's not fun anymore, going outside the city. What used to be an adventure now feels like a commute.

Slide that key into the ignition. Throttle the engine. Whip around curves, through crowded, nighttime borough streets, into that final tunnel separating Manhattan from the world that isn’t New York City. Look out the window? Soon. I’m so anxious to emerge into the morning light on the other side. But now the tunnel is longer and darker. How much is left? The morning gets here so fast now. There seems to be such little time to enjoy the ride. I remember enjoying the travel. No more.

My weekly summer excursions once offered so much to chat about. Outside the windows of my rental (It’s always a rental. I’ll never own this), captivating memories were sparked by rural, roadside attractions. Blurs except for a few crystalline still shots where suddenly everything freezes and I can explore the entire landscape: cow, green hill, apple tree, farmer, red barn, and then everything blurs until the roadside minutiae sparks the memory once more. Turn on the radio? Soon. And another tale from the road is spun from a delicate thread which always snaps before the trip is over. I can’t help but cringe as days following I see a manic explorer running from cow to hill to tree to farmer to barn, reveling in each to his own amusement. I see the moment that thread unravels. When the end approaches and it’s time to drive home.

Turn on the radio. Flip the dial to AM/PM, any tune played once sent me into a finger snapping fit of karaoke worthy mimicry. Now it's just the incessant buzz of radio static. I need to get some sleep. I’m flipping that dial, static, and static, and static. I can’t stop flipping channels. The further I drive, the less there is to listen to. I guess.

So I sit there in the driver’s seat and watch the gas go from full to empty. Once the trip has finished, when the sun is high in the sky and I’m low to the ground, I see my wheel marks. I didn’t go anywhere. I’ve driven a sooty black circle for hours and hours. Let’s listen to the radio again. And following, I sleep until the early afternoon, exhausted from a night now spent scrutinizing my fuel bar, instead of enjoying the journey. It used to not be this way. Or was I fooling myself, enchanted by that beautiful scenery, the radio, the conversation?

It’s a restless sleep. I sleep with my eyes half closed, half open, sweating in my Brooklyn apartment with the air conditioner on full blast. And I have a fitful dream of grinding those gears again, spinning wheels against a highway made of sand next weekend.

Gurl Fight

2006-08-18T14:46:00.000-04:00

A little old lady on the B-52 bus kicked me, coughed on me but was ultimately trumped by my wit. It was weird. It wasn't pretty.

Here's what happened.

I was playing Tetris on my phone, ignorant to the world outside of colored cubes and digitized Russian music.

(On a side note: Know why those little cubes move so fast? Cause they're Russian!)

So there I'm standing in the aisle of the B-52 bus ready to balance my way back to my Brooklyn apartment. When I feel a soft-but-not-soft-enough-to-merely-be-an-accident kick against my left ankle. And then again.

And again.

I look down and a little pointed woman's pump is being kicked against my ankle. I follow the leg up to a modest dress, modest blouse and wrinkled little hands holding a clutch purse and a pursed, wrinkled little face hidden under a terribly ratty wig.

This little old lady was kicking at my ankles and making eye contact while she did it!

I was astounded. I replied to her, "Miss, excuse me." My tone was firm but not nasty. And I slid a little down so she wouldn't kick me. However I confess, not far enough so that it would appear as though I relented.

Anyways, it was a jam packed bus, where was I supposed to go?

The B-52 got to rolling and all during the ride she started, like, totally fake coughing at me at me. And the scrunching up of her face in my direction increased tenfold! It was so bizarre, I was certain the dread spirit of Galina Stoeva had possessed this innocent black lady. But no. Now I know this woman was just plain ole evil. Or perhaps mentally deranged.

Well. I was upset by her weirdo coughing at me. So I began to fake cough back at her!

Which only increased her fake coughing at me.

So there we were. The stocky white boy in a tie and slacks and the little be-wigged grandmother angrily fake coughing at one another.

I needed different ammunition. Ah! I'll play on her homophobia as a passive aggressive tool to piss her off even more.

How did I know she was homphobic? My own racial assumption that all little old ladies in my neighborhood attend Baptist church and therefore hate me. Just a different form of angry coughing.

So I flip out my phone and declare, "Hay gurl! Whats up? Did you buy that new hat? I bet it sure is pretty!" Something along those lines.

It must have worked cause Ms. Fanny Furious began angry coughing, scrunching her face and rolling her eyes. She also started kicking at my ankles again!

Well I was going to angry cough at her in retaliation, but my apartment was rapidy approaching. I finally gave up. The absurdity of it melted any remaining hostility. I chuckled and simply turned to leave the bus.

That's when she turned her entire body, in her seat, and began kicking my ankles WITH BOTH FEET!

I simply couldn't handle this insane behavior any further.

Laughing (but with a hint of WTF? frustration) I asked aloud, "Miss, will you please stop kicking my ankles?"

And she replies in a high pitched voice, "Kicking you?"

And I reply, no longer laughing, "Yes. You've kicked me like five or six times."

And she replies in that annoying high pitched voice, "Five times?"

I couldn't deal any longer. The bus had stopped. I had to get off. I laughed. The young lady standing next to me who'd become witness to the latter half of absurd incident laughed. I was leaving.

Then the old biddy interrogated the back of my head, "Why don't you act like everybody else?"

Oh. No. She. Didn't.

Without missing a beat I tossed over my shoulder, "Why don't you buy a new wig?"

And the entire front of the bus erupted in chuckles. I won.

I WON! I WON! I WON!

I'm certain she's going to stab me with scissors this afternoon.

Meandering

2006-08-15T14:58:00.000-04:00

The superstars of the gay New York blogeratti arrived to celebrate unicorns, get trashed and make out last Friday night. I promptly realized I need more friends.

I’m kidding! Thank you everyone for showing up. Those who didn’t: shame on you.

The night kicked off to a fabulous start. Bryce and I trucked across the Manhattan bridge from Brooklyn in an exhaust smoking deathtrap with a driver who practically laid in my lap. His seat was very reclined and his braids were awfully ratty.

Upon arriving in the East Village, I stepped into a deli for a Benadryl and Red Bull cocktail. The pink tablets were for my sinuses, I have a summer cold which will not go away! The Red Bull was to pep me up, I had worked all day in my new Clinton Hill recording studio, signing and recording the freshest talent Bulgarian folk music has to offer. More about that in a moment.

All this creativity had me feeling a tiny bit sluggish, hence the Red Bull.

Unfortunately, little did I know Benadryl causes drowsiness and Sudafed was the nose, throat and ear panacea for those looking to enjoy the wee hours without a stuffed up cranial cavity. Oh well. The drowsiness was no bother. My state of consciousness was already altered due to a unique little trinket hanging around my neck. It was a pickled raven’s claw which my darling client, Galina Stoeva, had made for me.

Galina is the oldest woman I’ve ever met. She’s a little over four feet tall, doesn’t speak a word of English and makes evil eye symbols every time I approach her. But the woman can work some Bulgarian folk music! She plays a mean tambourine and with the proper cross-marketing could take the U.S. Bulgarian folk music scene by storm!

She better, I paid a lot to have her smuggled here. Anyways, as a gesture of goodwill she presented me with this pickled raven’s claw charm and her usual evil eye gestures. The necklace has so much character and the smell of it creates a sensation of dizziness. I love me some Galina Stoeva. Much to my chagrin, she refused to come out that night to Nowhere Bar Friday night.

Everyone else made it, however. There I was with Bryce and Landry, Amber-Lynn, Dalyn and Peter, Foxy, Mike P., Eric, Paul, Damien, hilarious new acquaintance Vinnie (good luck in Seattle, tell Kiger we miss him!), and so many others. From there the party sashayed across 14th street to Crocodile Bar for pints and free pizza. Yes, free personal pizzas sans toppings/ I didn’t find them to be very edible. Of course I had no appetite.

I chatted up the pizza chef while waiting in line for the photo booth with Dalyn. Turns out Crocodile Bar doesn’t deliver pizza or beer. I suppose it was not a very exciting conversation. I found it riveting at the time. Equally dull was the horrendous wait in line for the expensive ($3!) photo booth.
.
Dalyn grew bored and left the line for more pizza. Therefore I sat myself alone and offered four flash-bulb poses before exiting and sliding the strip of photos into my pocket, without looking at them.

Our quick bite of pizza turned into additional beers before the party hopped into taxis and sped across town to Chelsea for a “welcome to New York” party hosted by Jerry and Patricio. The guests were there to welcome a dashing Spaniard, Guillem, who knew nothing about Bulgarian folk music, but enough about European black magic to glance at my crow’s foot necklace and begin making evil eye symbols of his own in my direction!

I was shocked. Had sweet Galina given me my talisman out of malice? I was feeling woozy and giddy-headed. I attributed the sensation to my Benadryl, not the skeletal talon bound to my throat by coarse, suddenly scratchy, string.

Eventually the party took to the roof and we all enjoyed the uncommon coolness of a beautiful August night in New York. I met so many fascinating people. Chief among them was CC, also an Atlanta refugee who once lived above the Fox Theatre! He’s an illustrator of male erotica. Absolutely charming! I traded phone numbers and said we’d have to enjoy a drawing circle sometime soon.

The night continued and each time I glanced in the mirror of the pristine restroom, I caught a strange quality in my reflection, as though an unusual aura hovered in the periphery of my vision. Finally, my memory suggested I look at the photos I paid three dollars for earlier that evening.

I couldn’t believe I had forgotten about the expensive photos taken in lieu of free pizza. I tentatively withdrew the strip from my photo and turned them over. I gasped! There in the photo booth with me was Galina Stoeva giving me the evil eye symbol! I screamed and opened the bathroom door falling to the floor.

Jerry was outside waiting for me to exit the restroom.

“Evil eye!” I shrieked. A gracious host, he helped me to my feet and examined the photos I thrust into his hands. He gave them back to me with no reaction. I glanced them over. Galina was gone. It was simply me, mugging alone. The filthy raven’s foot still hanging around my neck.

I freaked out and began tearing at the filthy charm. “Get it off! Get this Bulgarian bird foot offa me!!!!”

Well Bryce came down from the roof and coaxed my mood from psychotic hysterics back to carefree chattiness (as he does at every party) and the evening continued with little fanfare. But still that dread image of Galina Stoeva haunted me each time I returned to pee-pee in the restroom. I dared not take out my photo lest she return to startle me once more.

Then the party went to Rawhide. Talk about boney and pickled! We hung out there for an hour before the cutesy boys went to Barracuda and the beefy boys went to the Phoenix. We closed down the Phoenix and Bryce and I enjoyed an uneventful cab ride home to Brooklyn.

The following morning (aka later that day) I awoke to find the hideous necklace and the terrifying photo gone from my possession. I’ve asked Bryce if he’d seen them, but he too has no idea where they disappeared to.

Well. I was beside myself with curiosity. So I called the number that Galina Stoeva had given me as her contact telephone. Her great nephew Sturgo answered the phone.

I asked for Galina, and only heard silence. I asked again, and again, and again, and again. I asked five more times and beat my cell against my desk and shouting obscenities, asking two more times before Sturgo finally answered me, sobbing, that his great aunt Galina Stoeva had died that very morning one hundred years ago!

She had been eating pickles, enjoying a walk in Bulgaria when she was attacked by hungry ravens and pecked to death! Ever since her family had been cursed with the evil eye.

I am terrified. I haven’t played the hours of recordings I did with the old lady for fear of what I’ll hear.

You're Invited Today!

2006-08-11T08:43:00.000-04:00

Cup of Ambition

2006-08-09T09:07:00.000-04:00

The green pitch was expansive. It extended as far as the horizon. The ivory goal posts stretched higher than my eyes could see. Their painted tops disappearing into the starry night above. Along the edges of the field, light posts illuminated the rugby players under blue-white fluorescent light, their movements made more crisp somehow by the sharp contrast of colorful jerseys against the twinkling nighttime sky. The lush grass looked so very soft. As the massive men slammed into one another, they fell into the field as though it were a feather bed.

And there I slept on my feather bed, dreaming about rugby.

I believed any remaining doubt in regards to not playing rugby this season was erased. I was at ease with my difficult decision. The Bingham Cup was a suitable bookend to two years of unexpected fun. I like bookends. The brief period spent on the pitch had been quality time and now I was ready to rest.

Who knew my rest would be interrupted with a rugby dream so convincing and so alive that I awoke this morning yearning for the brutal sport once more? Who knew a scant midnight vision could evoke those missed memories, that pesky feeling of friends lost. Who knew a dream could channel the raw thrill of this sport into my sleeping mind for me to savor and reflect upon the entire morning?

And who knew Dolly Parton could play rugby?

Yes.

Dolly Parton was my dream guide as we watched games and then played rugby together. She was so cute too, decked out in a pink and white track suit. Her hair was huge. Platinum blond and done up like a giant swirl of cotton candy. I didn’t notice her trademark “assets”. I think she left them at home in respect of visiting a gay man’s dream about him missing rugby and beefy men.

But there we were at this enormous field, just talking about rugby and the many laws governing it. She glanced at the field, at the game in progress and suggested, in her darling Tennessee mountain twang, “You wanna play rugby with me? Let’s go!”

And before I could protest, Dolly and I were kitted up, myself in my muddy shorts and jersey and she’s jump-the-shark adorable in a lavender and cream rugby jersey and pink short shorts. She wore teensy, pink rugby cleats with sterling silver spikes. She took a long moment to pose as I admired her darling outfit.

Work Dolly Parton. Work!

Dream guides often represent your “true self” or how you want friends and family in the waking world to see you. They can take any form. Perhaps a cat, slinky and mysterious, leading an awkward woman to a secret chamber to find her lover there, so very sensual. Or perhaps a widower, furious but controlled, will see distant tornadoes inviting him to unleash his anger, his fury.

Well here was Dolly Parton in pink beckoning my gay ass to play rugby again. Sigh.

At first I was all timid and trying to do most of the work to keep Dolly from getting tackled or having to run around. She's like eighty years old, and seriously, she is the size of a Bratz doll, including the giant noggin’ and lack of nose.

But Dolly Parton was a monster in her knee socks! She was out of control!

She’d tackle someone then get up, tackle someone else, get up, push through five hulking men and then tackle someone else before punting the ball and chasing it to pass back to me!

We were both running around the pitch (it was our team of two against a standard team of fifteen) doing amazing feats of physical fitness. I did question the reality of it at all at one point, but she scolded me for not paying attention to the game. Then she passed me the ball and I slammed through an opponent and scored!

Wooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo!

Dolly ran to me and hugged me. We jumped up and down and the score board began to buzz, buzz, buzz, buzz, buzz, buzz, buzz, buzz… fucking alarm clocks.

Good morning.

Note: And yes you homos, no need to mention her special guest appearance as Charlene's Guardian Movie Star on "Designing Women". It was such a strange, real dream. I'm still mulling over all the imagery of playing rugby with Dolly Parton. Needless to say, I'm ordering pink knee socks this morning.

Splendead in Your Coffee?

2006-08-08T09:08:00.000-04:00

What did I miss? Did the FDA release a dreadful report on my favorite chemical coffee sweetener, Splenda? I only ask because I’ve received four back-to-back Splendagrams this morning.

The first came in the form of a letter from Splenda the organizer of Shitkickers, the lesbian cowgirl party at Cattyshack. But I get these emails all the time. So no heed paid.

The second struck as I tore that distinctive yellow pouch and a harpy in the coffee line tsked at me. She freakin’ tsked at me! Then she turned to her friend and loudly whispered, “Don’t use the Splenda. Didn’t you hear?”

The third was at Salon.com while perusing the letters to the editor section of an article written by a formerly 571 pound woman. I mostly prefer the submitted letters, if only for their speling and grammar errors. I read this: at what weight can I try to lecture you on the dangers of Splenda?

And the fourth portent (in less than an hour) was a blurb written at Television Without Pity: Ah, Keith Michael, we've waited for this day. Not just for you, but for all those jerky designers in need of a heaping helping of comeuppance. How sweet it was. I shouldn't have to ask, but that was made with Splenda, right?

WHAT IS GOING ON?! Have my little, lemon-hued packets become the scourge of coffee drinkers everywhere?

Let’s go to Wikipedia and find out. Certainly some diligent cyber-darling has updated the listing, lest the rest of us be unaware…

Hmmm. Checking it out.

Well. First off this shit is called Sucralose. That is not a very sexy or sugary name. Sucralose. It doesn’t exactly roll off the tongue. What does this shit do to your body?

Science, science, science, blah, blah, blah, oooooh a link called Criticism. Lets go there!

Wow! There’s been no long term studies of the effect of Splenda on humans. Even more scandalous. There’s a website: The Truth About Splenda. I’m feeling so Erin Brokovich right now.

OK. The Truth About Splenda looks fairly manipulative. Here we have a precocious, pigtailed girly-girl regarding a plate of cookies with horror. Sorry, don’t buy it. You can put poop cookies infront of a child and they’re going to devour one. Especially if the child is 571 pounds.

But I’m piqued nonetheless. Moving on in this Diary of a Contemporary Dandy Special Investigation: Splenda Less Than Splendid.

The website mentions chlorine and sucralose again, something about sucralose being made of chlorine. Blah, blah, science, science. I really want to get to photos of people suffering long term effects here. Like this photo of a tumor that grew on someone's throat after he smoked cigarettes.

What else?

Hmmm. This website reads like it was written by the Sweet N Low's CEO. So apparently there have been no long term tests of Splenda on humans, but then again there’s been no evidence sucralose is bad for you.

They admit that much. I don't understand. Over and over this website stresses that Splenda is not sugar and that it is a chemical.

I was already well aware of that. Is there a problem here? So much of my diet consists of chemicals as it is. Without chemicals, would the brawny chicken gracing my plate be as muscley? Would my celery be as lush and stalky? How ever would my face keep such a healthy glow?

Chemicals pumped into our bodies is as much a part of our rich, American heritage as Freedom of Speech, drunk starlettes or air conditioned porta pottys. I'm actually quite dizzy from my coffee and lack the wit to neatly end this investigation.

Shake, Rattle & Roll

2006-08-07T09:38:00.000-04:00

The funk after kind of bogs me down. Especially me for some reason.

And 24 hours straight, nonetheless. The sun rising on Saturday morning, or was it still Friday night? I wasn't sure. Certainly I am tired this Monday morning, tired all weekend actually. I rarely ever stay up late. I'm always the first boy to bed. The first one to leave the bar. The first one to beg Bryce to leave. And he obliges, even though I’m sure he’d like to stay out later with our friends.

I was recording my voice as the sun crested outside my window. There I was, speaking into my desktop microphone, when I recorded a seizure.

It’s not very riveting podcast theatre, otherwise I'd post it. Waking seizures (also known as partial seizures) don’t really have an audio component. This one was silence with occasional smacking of chewed gum or a little moaning and heavy breathing. But there it is, right in the middle of a spoken recollection of a childhood memory. A naughty waking seizure tip toed into my brain, onto my recording. And it was a long one. Usually they come and go quickly. I remember Saturday morning's lingered for what felt like forever. I clutched onto my desk expecting to lose physical control. I never did.

Have I discussed my epilepsy here? Maybe in passing...

It's a condition I'm a little reluctant to write about here. Specifically, I’m not ashamed of it. Far from it. I’m quite fascinated by it. But, this isn’t quite the proper forum. And I need to invest the right words to explore it. I realized during my late night sojourn that there are so many subjects which I need to invest in. There’s just so much on my mind lately.

I used to think my periodic phases of disconnection were some form of gateway to a world beyond this one, a metaphysical bridge. When I was having the most seizures, four, five or six a day, I’d try to inhabit them, attempt to feel out the phantom smells and curious sensations my brain was sending my body. Of course I could never remember the unique sensations following.

Modern medical science has effectively closed that metaphysical bridge. They built a locked gate with a little pill called Trileptal and those discerning waking seizures and the accompanying sensations quickly became a thing of the past.

Good thing too, I guess. While I’ve had numerous (countless) waking seizures, I’ve also experienced five grand mal seizures. Those are the kind where you fall down and shake and pee yourself. And bite people. Sorry Dan. I don’t mean to make light of them. They’re actually quite frightening. My third, in particular, was very bloody and very terrible.

My seizures are triggered from lack of sleep. So pushing my brain over a marathon 24 hours of no slumber isn't exactly the most prudent choice for an epileptic. But I’m so sick of always being the cautious one. The one who gets sleepy because my medicine reacts poorly with alcohol. The one who has to leave. That third seizure, the one that resulted in new teeth, changed something in me. It made me so cautious. It made me worry about everything. Again, I need to stop this post and search for the correct words. These are all wrong, but you’re reading them anyways.

This is something which needs to be explored more properly, but it’s been nagging at me all weekend. So much is nagging me right now, like an incessant alarm clock. That alarm buzzes and you know it's time to finally get your ass up in the morning.

How many years have I hit the snooze bar? Sleep is the prudent choice, but I've slept for far too long.

Fat Pink Regret

2006-08-03T11:19:00.000-04:00

An attempt to bring a little levity to Joe.My.God’s absolutely morose Thursday open thread, “Regrets Of Our Lost Youth and Not Connecting With Our Abusive Dead Parents” proved quite delicious when Maryland blogger John Sherwood took my bait and chastised me for regretting wearing my FAT PINK SHIRT to work instead of bemoaning my lost youth and not connecting with my abusive, dead parents (they’re both alive and weren’t really as abusive as I thought they were at the time.)

In John's defense, he made fun of my man-titties. Ouch. In a later statement he said I should own them. Sorry. Can't own 'em til I pay for em. Thank you Mastercard! These bazoombas cost me a pretty penny.

Sigh. And yes. I’m quite upset I wore my FAT PINK SHIRT to work today. I look like a lavender sausage, but while the work day is long, life is too short to regret past choices.

I'm feeling soooooooo Carrie Bradshaw right now. Don't you gay bloggers just LOVE that feeling? What witty simile can I dispense while sucking on a Pall Mall and wearing $300 panties?

Ooh! I got one.

Regrets are like dominoes. You tip one and invariably another one falls, then another and another, and before you know it you’re lamenting the night you got trashed on a Grey Goose and 7-Up and groped a stranger in the bathroom at a private "after-hours" party whose host turned out to be the boyfriend of the stranger you manhandled in their coral accented lavatory. So what if you got "black listed"?

I say you're a rock star or Lyndsey Lohan or me!

Be proud of that, don’t regret it. Faster than you can say “Joy Luck Club” the dominoes of regret are tumbled across a gymnasium floor and an elaborate, fire breathing dragon appears ready to gobble up your present and future while you fixate on and lament a few stupid choices in the past. And even if that stupid, fucking choice is a life altering choice, well baby, congrats! For better, or for worse, your life was altered. Move on.

Life is in the present. Live it, don't regret it.

Morena Baccarin!

2006-08-01T17:55:00.000-04:00

Oh please, please, please let it be so!

Freedom or Don't Cry

2006-08-01T10:08:00.000-04:00

It was nine vodka tonics and an Ambien that got me into a screaming match with the burly security professional at Masa. It was a nasty tempered judge who smacked her gavel and sentenced me to one day of community service. And it was Fate that brought Boy George and I together to pick up trash along that desolate Manhattan highway on Monday.

Not that I was star struck or anything. I was quite ambivalent when I learned Boy George would be helping to beautify the West Side Highway. If only Officer Stacie had the same laissez-faire attitude. No. This perky police officer was absolutely beside herself.

“Oh mah Gawd! I can’t believe Boy George is here picking up trash. Boy George! I watched you on the MTV when I was a six years old! Everyone its Boy George!!”

George O’Dowd (a.k.a. Boy George) hid his eyes behind seven layers of black face paint and avoided everyone’s gaze. He furiously stabbed discarded newspapers.

Tito (a rough neck gangsta who murdered his family of twelve over a disputed game of Parcheesi) looked over from his plastic bag of crumpled beer and soda cans, “She’s pretty. Was she in Banarama?”

I rolled my eyes at Tito’s obvious lack of 80’s music knowledge, “No. That’s Boy George.”

I whispered, “He sang Karma Kameleon and … what else?” I rolled my eyes at my own obvious lack of 80’s music knowledge.

“If Officer Stacie hadn’t confiscated my cell I could ask my boyfriend the other stuff he sang. He knows everything about pop music”

Tito winked back, “You can borrow mine sugar tits.”

“No thank you mister. I watch OZ. I know what happens when a newbie prag borrows an illegal cell phone from another inmate, especially one as cut and virile as you Tito.”

I paused, “OK. Give me your cell.”

I dialed Bryce’s number, but got no answer.

The day tediously wore on as we shuffled our way up the West Side Highway collecting the city’s refuse. I thought we’d receive a reprieve from the oppressive heat and humiliation when Tito shiv-ed Tony “the Giraffe” Maretti. (There was an extra pimento cheese sandwich left over after lunch and Tony called dibs on it but Tito stabbed him in the kidneys instead.)

Alas, no. They carted Tito back to NYPD headquarters, Tony to St. Vincent’s and the rest of us were back to trash duty.

And the day came to an end.

Jersey City and Hoboken were a golden shade of pumpkin orange. The setting sun shined on us illuminating our bags of waste, our sweaty brows, our sore arms and beleaguered souls the same color as the prison jumpsuits we all wore. For a brief moment Boy George and I, the convicted, the prisoners, the criminal element were the same color as everyone else.

As early evening descended on the work detail, Officer Stacie removed our shock collars, returned our personal articles and we were free to go again to our lives outside the brutal prison system. Overwhelmed with love for life on the outside, my eyes began to water. As salty tears rolled down my cheeks, so did the earlier ambivalence towards the flabby 80’s icon. Boy George and I were hardened ex-cons now, but we had survived. I glanced at him with unashamed, crying eyes. I smiled and held out my arms for a hug.

He glared back at me, “What are you looking at you poofster?”

Gayest Neil reveals that he's gay

2006-07-26T12:57:00.000-04:00

Dandy tells Soap Opera Digest that he's in secret relationship with ‘Survivor’ winner

NEW YORK - Gayest Neil, bitter dandy, says he’s gay and in a "not very stable" relationship with a reality show star and prison convict.

Neil, who writes the critically ignored blog "Diary of a Contemporary Dandy", tells Soap Opera Digest that he didn’t earlier disclose his sexuality because he didn’t want to affect his blog's popularity.

"I knew that like I was gay from since I was born. But there's like more to myself than my sexuality. Like I'm an astrologist for H/X and I have all these great friends. And. I forgot. What was the question?" he tells the magazine.

"Diary of a Contemporary Dandy" is known for its weird fiction including stories of time travelling gorillas and poems about Gayest Neil's eating habits. He also bitches about rugby sometimes. The blog has had a dry period lately and Neil blames this on his secret relationship with reality television villain, Richard Hatch. Neil has also found popularity by simply being the boyfriend of musician Bryce Edwards.

Gayest Neil says he wondered if his coming out could prompt "the end of his blog." He explains, "This piece of crap certainly isn't like a Joe.My.God. No way. And he's out. Is he? I don't know. I think he is. He looks gay, and I'm talking Village People gay, but maybe he's closeted? Not me though. I'm out and proud now. Are you recording this? I hope he doesn't take me off his sidebar. Turn off that recorder please. I said turn it off, bitch!"

The humorist says he’s in a "not very stable" relationship with 62-year-old evil-dooer Richard Hatch, winner of season one of reality television show "Survivor."

"Yeah. Like I love Bryce, totally in love with him. But [Richard Hatch] is so darned sexy. And he's a millionaire. But Ricky's in jail now. I'm sending him cookies and dirty pictures and stuff, undies, you know. Gay relationships can be hard, especially when there is tax fraud, another boyfriend, celebreality and all the drama that goes with that involved. Coming out sucks. Can I take it back?"

"The thing is, I’m not ashamed — that’s the one thing I want to say," Neil says. "I don’t think it’s wrong, I’m not devastated going through this. I’m more liberated and happy than I’ve been my whole life. Gay means happy. I’m just happy. These are tears of joy damn it."

On a related note: congratulations Lance Bass.

Showering with the Cast

2006-07-26T10:59:00.000-04:00

Crisis! Janeway sits sidesaddle in her captain’s chair as Voyager is snared by a Borg tractor beam. Cutting lasers begin to slice through the hull of the ship Janeway, her hair a disaster, orders a complete evacuation of the ship! Luckily nanobots from Seven of Nine’s boobies are beamed into the Borg Cube. They disable the lasers. Crisis resolved!

Crisis! Janice Dickenson is out of blood for her daily sacrifice to T’Leetulukakamonashar, the demon queen of eternal youth. Oh no! Janice and her retarded son (She shoulda put the pipe down during her preggers. Tsk Tsk) head out to a mall for another “casting call”. Height, weight and virginity are all subjects of discussion. Three virgins are promptly sliced open and before you can say “botox party” the world’s first supermodel is doing the backstroke in a bathtub of blood. Crisis resolved!

Crisis! Jack Twist is being chased by Injuns intent on scalping him of his L.A. Looks shellacked tresses. He rides with no saddle on a thundering mustang. The brutal bucking bruises his delicate thighs and buttocks. He can’t last much longer! Is this the end of gay cowboy jokes? Never! Over the horizon rides Ennis del Mar and that cowboy from the Village People. They shoot them Injuns dead real good and then enjoy an ethnic meal of maize and grilled buffalo followed by a threesome. Crisis Resolved!

Crisis! The world is melting because of our indulgent, air conditioned lives. In only ten years Manhattan will be submerged under twenty feet of water. Al Gore showed me the PowerPoint presentation to prove it! The world’s mightiest army (ours) is locked in a quagmire “war” in a nation-state surrounded by nuclear missiles, terrorists and fields of flammable oil. George Bush is our president! Americans pray. Crisis resolved!

Crisis! Gayest Neil sits quietly and stares at a blank page of paper… He is frustrated lately. He cries into his pillow and consumes waffles and fried chicken in bed, under the covers. He gets tubbier; the greasy chicken gives his face a sheen similar to that of the aforementioned Iraqi oil field. Still that blank page stares him down. In the mornings Neil makes funny voices in the shower. Not a sign of insanity, rather an indicator that Neil craves more waffles and chicken and a creative outlet, preferably one on a stage where he can perform funny voices for an audience instead of his bathroom mirror. He plugs a microphone into his computer… He assembles a box of sound effects devices… Crisis resolution pending…

Email Between Friends

2006-07-21T09:00:00.000-04:00

Foxy,

Within three seconds of playing Fantasia's BEAUTIFUL single "I Believe".

Bryce goes, "This is corny." THREE SECONDS!!!!!! THREE!

The first lyrics! I'm all ready to get my church on and he's like, "Corny." SIGH. Anyways. We listened to a third of it before he played me a single by some all girl, French Canadian, pop quartet from the sixties. They were good. He showed me their picture and they had totally cute hair.

Sigh.

Foxy, when can I come over again and listen to top 40?????

Lick,
G.N.

PS Did you ever get your MTL postcard?!??!

Panoramic Rugby

2006-07-20T15:07:00.000-04:00

Ever wonder what it must be like in a scrum?

It's much like this. Except these boys are way much cuter.

Lament of the $9.27 Salad

2006-07-19T15:18:00.000-04:00

Lament of the $9.27 Salad
By Gayest Neil

Such pleasing greens
With teasing yellows
My crispy charade
Selections so mellow

A plastic bowl my canvas.
Unto which piled I edible hues;
Succulent spinach and
Pungent cheeses of bleu

Chicken Cajun spiced,
Sprinkled with corn so sweet
So fresh, so nice.
“NEXT?!!” Hector cried!

Thusly eyed I via sneeze guard
Urged on by my Mexican tosser
Broccoli verdant and gourds?
“Hector NO!” (Squash is softer)

Zounds! Free choices four:
Croutons, red onion, scallions
One more? Soy sprouts? “Doubt it.
Vinegar & oil, please!" by the gallions

“What karat is that veggie?” Kidding,
And more, "Orange you gonna add
A bunny's treat to mine
Lunch?" My latest diet fad.

Exercise I duly received upon
Hefting mine profound veggie bowl
"Did river rocks I order Hector?"
The salad weighed heavy like this dandy’s soul.

Unto the petite cashier
Lugged I my leaden legumes
She glanced at my construction
Glanced into my eyes, and resumed

Fingers so quick flew cross keys
A drzzt drzzt brrr drzzt ripped
Handed I the printed receipt
Fainting from consciousness, I slipped!

I came to thinking t’was
All but macabre nightmare
A fool’s poem of vinegar tossed veggies
A warning for kids to scare

Hector rocked me in arms so strong
The deli crowd’s sorrowful pity
Whilst that ticket scorched my hand
Beguiled by fucking bacon bits so itty so bitty

Paid I the nine dollars terrible
With twenty seven cent sacrament
Unto my hungry luncheon gluttony.
(Even free bread failed to ease my lament.)

Country Time

2006-07-18T09:56:00.000-04:00

The heat and humidity, hot flashes of lazy memories in Georgia, those sweltering sweaty summers, languid days laying on the trampoline begging Mother Nature for the slightest breeze, nothing.

That black synthetic material, space age fibers designed to propel trailer park children into the heavens; during those lazy afternoons, this husky boy was very much grounded. I’d lay there for hours and stare into the sky, our revolving cast of dogs and cats beneath me in the shade.

In the periphery of the country noises: birds in the trees, the rustle of trees as that begged for breeze briefly blows, a lonely pick-up truck rumbling down our narrow, two-lane lane; my brother’s own imaginary world at his monkey bars is alive with sounds of tumbles and trapezes, the gym set creaking and a bamboo pole striking metal, his hyperactive imagination displayed through the thick calluses on his hands from hanging upside down every Summer afternoon; my own hyper inactivity displayed through the thick midsection comfortably settled on the trampoline.

Those slow summer days, so in a hurry doing nothing, a frustrated teenager, strange crush on Jennifer Capriati, but unsure why I fantasized being friends with her and not more. Sometimes I’d stand behind our house and practice pelting tennis balls into the brick. The wall became a pattern of orange and red squares decorated with random circles of grey powder from where the tennis ball bounced into our dry, dusty yard, off my father’s broken racquet and against the wall, over and over and over, until the heat compelled me to relax on that squeaky trampoline, typically with a Country Time lemonade.

Return of the Queen

2006-07-11T10:22:00.000-04:00

My Montreal vacation utterly consumed my will to consider any of the daily chores which existed prior to sitting in an eight bear Jacuzzi. Thoughts of treacherous Michaud, my daily grind here in New York, friends and family and work, everything dissolved in the warm fudgey lava of a bubbling chocolate fountain.

This included, sadly, my initial goal to daily blog the lovey dovey adventures of yours truly.

As the days slowly rolled on, Bryce and I settled into a most comfortable routine of waking at eleven, a groggy but cheerful brunch with the various guests (some new, some old), a day’s excursion (amusement parks, museums, walking, sleeping), an early evening dinner and then nightly carousing at one of a handful of St. Catherine’s gay bars (with new Canadian friends thanks to Bear411), all usually followed by a bowl of poutine (drunkenly devoured and lovingly burped).

I’m still in the vacation mindset. Digging through hundreds of work emails does not compare to counting endless varieties of roaches at Montreal’s Insectarium. Hearing the screams of a blood soaked homeless man as he is forced from my neighborhood B-52 bus does not compare to the thrilled cries of roller coaster riders at Montreal’s parc amusée, La Ronde. Bryce grunting and panting as he carries luggage up our staircase certainly doesn’t compare to his grunting and panting during our lascivious, nightly Quebecois humpathons.

Ah. As much fun as the vacation was, nine days were more than sufficient to clear my mind of stressful memories of how dirty, humid and loud New York is in the summer. I was very eager to return (a sign of a successful vacation, I believe) and during the cab ride home I took in the chaotic sights and sounds of Times Square with the wide eyed wonder of a red state tourist.

Ms. Poutina la Fromage

2006-07-03T13:34:00.000-04:00

Big Boy’s Guest House is, to put it plainly, awesome. Montreal is equally grand, but thus far our experience has been greatly colored by the wonderful hospitality of our generous hosts Will and Stephane.

Big Boy’s feels less like a hotel and more like a home. This is understandable because the owners (who live in the top floor) treat their guests less like customers and more like family.

Every morning all the guests gather in the second floor dining room for a delicious breakfast of spicy sausages, sautéed potatoes fresh croissants, sliced cantaloupe, cured hams, variety of cheeses, fruits and juices, cereals, yogurts. This week’s posts will feature some major food porn.

Brunch each morning would run at least 25$ Canadian dollars at a restaurant. When considering the quality and yummy-tummyiness of their daily feast, the true value of this unique B&B gem really shines.

But beyond the money, starting the day off with all the other bears here is quite nice. Everyone catches up on what they did last night (or who). Breaking bread with friends is a nice way to begin a day.

In New York I never have the time to sit down and enjoy a breakfast; usually its coffee in front of my computer, a bagel resting on my financial reports. The other guests here are hilarious.

There are three burly gents from Portland, Oregon. Bryce has had a blast gossiping with them about the city and what bars are closed or opened.

Also staying are a prissy Dallas couple. They are hilarious and so square, but a simpler perspective is refreshing when stepping foot outside the too-cool-for-school box that is my totally happening and hip life.

So? Who have we slept with? Oh my. Sorry my dandies. No sleeping with anyone (expect Bryce) has been achieved.

We did meet an adorable young man named Jay at Le Stud. (Le Stud is the neighborhood bar masculine.)

OK. My train of thought just derailed! Everyone aboard the dirty bus.

The cruising in this city is awesome! Men stare at you like there’s something on your face. Typically it’s another man’s goatee. I’ve never enjoyed so many hard looks. Both Bryce and I have shared swollen egos the past few nights. Strutting through le Stud or Aigle Noir as furry Canadian eyes lock their target on the fresh meat in town.

Whew… So anyways, yeah Jay. He’s totally cool, 30, furry, knows music and found us the best plate of poutine in the city.

I grew up fairly atheist. My family, despite living on the buckle of the Bible belt, didn’t have religion in our home. This trip has made me question my lack of faith. I now believe there is a higher power, and this deity is responsible for the munchy miracle that is poutine.

Poutine is French fries smothered with brown gravy and cheese curds.

Poutine is ever so delicious. Especially at 3:45 a.m. Especially when you’re drunk. Especially when you’re on vacation. My new drag name (formerly Ms. Phoenicia Potts) is Ms. Poutina la Fromage.

Next: Bryce and Neil go to a fancy restaurant with multiple forks and see the world’s largest collection of bugs at the Insectorium!

Also: book your Montreal adventure at Big Boy's Guest House.

Travelin' Man

2006-07-01T12:10:00.000-04:00

“Madam, the trays on back of these chairs are made within parameters of an average person. I’m very sorry your knees don’t fit within those.”

I snidely tossed my remark to the lady behind me. Montreal the Vacation was only one hour underway and already I’d found an archenemy.

I deserved my ire. She was kicking and shaking my seat like a kindergarten student. All because I had leaned my chair back while her tray was down and it scraped into her bulbous knee. Whatever.

Highlights of the trip so far.

Earlier that morning I had shaked and kicked the seat in front of me in our car service vehicle. Hah. Karma!

Our driver did not like us. He was a tiny Indian man with an honorable moustache but terrible body odor.

At the Hudson news in Penn Station a married man read Black Inches while I read PC Gamer, a peeked over his shoulder.

Microwaved ham, cheese and egg English muffin sammies have very little hint of chemical preservatives.

At 9:08 a.m. a frizzy haired blond lady was passed out, face down in the dining car, with two half empty glasses of chardonnay in either hand.

OH FUCK! We just found out a freight train derailment has terminated all train service beyond Albany. So they are bussing us to Montreal. I hate changes to plans, but we’ll get into Montreal an hour earlier than planned

Man I hate changes to plans. Well, the optimist in me is thankful that it wasn’t our train that derailed. The pessimist still wants to rumble with that big knee’d lady behind me.

Later that evening...

Travel turns ordinary, God fearing citizens into feral beasts. I talking the jostling and jockeying for position in the ticket line. I’m talking the greediness as little packets of pretzels and crackers are handed out to crazed passengers, “Miss! I didn’t get my peanuts!!” I’m talking the terrible moments where humanity must exist together prior to the salvation of their individual destinations; their reward for the sweaty hours of hunched, cramped travel.

This is why Bryce and I chose to ride the train. There is one line. The immigration agents come to you when crossing the Canadian border. Contact with other passengers is minimal.

Then the train before ours derailed. And Amtrak informed us we were being put on buses in Albany to continue our ride to Montreal.

“Bryce get out bags. We’re going to be the first ones on that bus!” It was the Bingham Cup all over again as I shouldered my way off the idle train and to the front of the bus line.

I don’t know where Amtrak found our bus driver. Perhaps behind the trashcans near the train station? He was a stocky, older man wearing big sunglasses. I wasn’t sure if his wisp of hair was real or fake. Great toupee if that was the case.

I cannot offer the same compliment of his driving. At one point he struck an orange highway can. Left to right to left, he weaved a perilous path crossing highway lines in defiance of the giant semi trucks roaring down the interstate next to us. Upon reaching the Canadian border, our driver killed his engine. Another line of three buses stretched before us. “Can you turn on the A/C?” The temperature of the bus began to bake as the setting westward rays illuminated wet brows and growing sweat stains on t-shirts. “No.” He replied. “Got to keep bus turned off.” As we waited outside customs, Bryce fanning himself with Spin magazine, myself with PC Gamer, other passengers had to rouse him from slumber as the Canadian officials knocked on the door of our sweltering bus. Arguing that Amtrak should have hired someone to help him, he begrudgingly tossed everyone’s luggage out of the bus’s belly for inspection. When we finally made it to Montreal (five hour bus ride, two hour custom’s check) he refused to unload our luggage in the rain and proceeded to smoke cigarettes and glare at us. I called him a fucker to his face.

We made it to Montreal! Not before I was sent to level two of Canadian customs for further questioning regarding the nature of my visit to America’s northern neighbor.

A pretty redhead with freckles and a heavy French accent asked me so many questions:

“What is the nature of your visit?”

My answer: Vacatioin/pleasure.
Real answer: Cheap prescription medicine, great weed and orgies with lumberjacks (with my boyfriend bien sur!)

“Where are you staying?”
My answer: What?

“Where are you staying?”
My answer: What, I’m sorry?

“Where are you staying?”
My answer: Oh Montreal.

“No. I mean the hotel.”

My answer: What? (the lady had a terribly obstructive accent.)

“the hotel.”

My answer: Oh! We’re at Big Boys Guest House!

I out-ed myself to Canadian customs. You think I’d get honorary citizenship for my bravery. No such luck, although her immigration associate, a petit young man with shellacked hair did toss me a sassy smirk.

And so the comedy routine continued. My fellow unwashed masses were allowed to file one by one out of the level one immigration area as Crepe Suzette and I played mind games back and forth. I felt like Hannibal Lector being interrogated by Clarice Starling.

During the course of my interview it was revealed I was born in Georgia, moved to DC, then California, then Georgia then New York. I have had no DUI’s or DWI’s. “I don’t drink. I live sober!” However the unfortunate incident of my arrest in Atlanta at Blakes nightclub was revealed. Suzette told me to bring my dismissal documents the next time I visit Canada and bid me a bon voyage with a stamp on my passport.

My reply: What?

Later: Big Boys Guest House is actually full of big girls!

I'm sorry...

2006-06-28T09:22:00.000-04:00

Over the course of nine smart cocktails at my favorite happy-hour bar, a terrible secret was revealed to an on again, off again enemy of mine, Michaud. Yes, that Michaud, from my former life as a socialite dandy, before I met my dear Bryce, and way before my friend Foxy turned me on to the bear/cub lifestyle.

Michaud always shows up during my weakest moments to cajole hidden truths with compliments and vodka martinis. The secret he wrestled last night from my Kettle One soaked lips will destroy any shred of dandy-cred left among my former friends, Etienne, Gerard, Dumas, et al.

Already I've received an email from Etienne that Michaud is spreading a nasty rumour about my “new life”. Therefore, a preemptive confessional is in order.

After all, this entire affair wasn’t even my idea. You see my dear friends (specifically my new bear and cub friends, like Foxy), I am easily manipulated. I am not ashamed of it. I trust much too easily and therefore in relationships I’m often tricked into doing horrible, horrible things I would never do under my own volition.

And Bryce is so persuasive, wonderfully persuasive, but his charms often have darker motivations. You see, the secret that slipped to Michaud last night, during those endless rounds of dry vodka and bitter olives is . . .

Bryce and I, we are not going to Montreal as we’ve enthusiastically told all of our friends.

I’m sorry I’ve lied to all of you.

We are going to rural Wisconsin. And Bryce is forcing me to participate in a week-long, live action role playing event at “Huzzah!” an outdoor camp where obese people with horrible skin conditions fight one another with foam rubber sticks and pretend to cast spells by throwing bean bags.

I’m crying onto my toasted, flat sesame bagel as I type these dreadful (yet raw and honest) words.

Perhaps this entry, my personal therapy, is needed to prepare for the onslaught of chunky suburban nerds in aluminum foil helmets and sweat-pants armor. How many bad cockney dialects can a person stand in one week?

Perhaps Bryce won’t be too upset by my confession.

He’s attended “Huzzah!” for nine years straight. He’s a twenty third level Knight-Lord. He owns his own castle there! (Well, it’s a cabin, but it has little castle flags on it so the other players know he’s nobility.)

He said if I ruined this for him I wouldn’t have the privilege of being his squire. I’d be forced to portray a monster and have nerds chase me through brambles for eleven days.

Running, running, my own sweat pants catching on the thorns of scrub-brush Wisconsin fields as out of shape rogues and acne scarred warriors hunt me down. They’re throwing foam rubber daggers at my fleeing form. I trip and fall painfully into a shrub. A bean bag lands near me! That was a lightning bolt cast by an elfin wizard (a fat girl with Spock ears). Flee! Whew, that was a close one.

And the "monsters" are forced to sleep in a cave and eat only oatmeal!

I’ve dreamed of Hell and this is a fate worse than even those nightmarish visions. I’m so very sorry Bryce.

Micha, Micha, Micha!

2006-06-27T21:39:00.000-04:00

Feeling all ACT-UPpity!

2006-06-27T15:28:00.000-04:00

Just in case I'm coming across as too Pride preachy, here's one of my favorite film clips EVER: <

Fairy Facts

2006-06-27T13:09:00.000-04:00

I found a brightly colored brochure among some scattered documents following Sunday's Gay Pride Parade. It contained a little quiz which I think is an excellent review on our state of affairs at home and abroad. I was surprised at how many I didn't know right off the top of my head. (Highlight the space below each question for the answer.)

Q1: What was the estimated buying power of the U.S. gay, lesbian, bisexual and transgender adult population in 2005?

A: $610 Billion.

Source: Witeck Combs Communication and Packaged Facts

Q2: When did the American Psychiatric Association remove homosexuality from its official list of mental disorders?

A: 1973

Source: American Psychiatric Association

Q3: The origin of Pride Month can be traced to what 1969 event in New York City’s Greenwich Village that transformed the gay rights movement from a small number of activists into widespread protests for equal rights and acceptance?

A: The Stonewall Rebellion

Source: Gay, Lesbian and Straight Education Network (GLSEN)

Q4: What is the name of the national organization with more than 200,000 members that was inspired by Jeanne Manford’s march with her son in the 1972 New York Gay Pride Parade?

A: Parents, Families & Friends of Lesbians and Gays (PFLAG)

Source: Parents, Families & Friends of Lesbians and Gays (PFLAG)

Q5: Gay and lesbian youth constitute what percent of youth completed suicides in the U.S.?

A: 30%

Source: Gay, Lesbian and Straight Education Network (GLSEN)

Q6: How many U.S. states do not have any laws or policies prohibiting discrimination on the basis of sexual orientation or gender identity?

A: 22 states: Alabama, Arkansas, Georgia, Idaho, Iowa, Kansas, Mississippi, Missouri, Nebraska, North Carolina, North Dakota, Ohio, Oklahoma, Oregon, South Carolina, South Dakota, Tennessee, Texas, Utah, Virginia, West Virginia and Wyoming.

Source: Human Rights Campaign (HRC)

Q7: On October 11th, 1987, 500,000 people marched on Washington, D.C. for gay and lesbian equality sparking an annual commemoration. What is the name of the annual commemoration?

A: National Coming Out Day. (Bonus trivia, 10/11 is Gayest Neil’s birthday.)

Sources: Human Rights Campaign (HRC) and Gayest Neil

Q8: How many states still do not have laws that address hate or bias crimes even after the murder of Matthew Shepard galvanized attention on the lack of such legislation in 1998?

A: 5 states: Arkansas, Georgia, Indiana, South Carolina and Wyoming.

Source: Matthew Shepard Foundation and the Human Rights Campaign

Q9: What is the origin of the pink triangle which was reclaimed and used by the gay community to symbolize the gay liberation movement?

A: It was the symbol used in concentration camps to identify gay men.

Source: United States Holocaust Memorial Museum

Q10: Who said: “Gays and lesbians stood up for civil rights in Montgomery, Selma, Albany and many other campaigns during the civil rights movement. These courageous men and women were fighting for my freedom at a time when they could find few voices for their own – I salute their contributions.”

A: Coretta Scott King.

Source: Chicago Tribune, April 1, 1998, sec. 2, p. 4

Q11: How many children are being raised by same-sex couples in the U.S.?

A: More than one million.

Source: The 2000 U.S. census

Q12: How many countries recognize civil unions and/or same-sex marriage?

A: 23 Countries: Andorra, Belgium, Canada (Quebec, Nova Scotia and Manitoba), Croatia, Czech Republic, Denmark, Finland, France, Germany, Greenland, Hungary, Iceland, Israel, Luxembourg, Netherlands, New Zealand, Norway, Portugal, Slovenia, South Africa, Spain, Sweden and The United Kingdom.

Source: Human Rights Campaign (HRC)

Q13: How many states restrict marriage to “one man and one woman” either by law or constitutional amendment?

A: 45 States: Alabama, Alaska, Arizona, Arkansas, California, Colorado, Connecticut, Delaware, Florida, Georgia, Hawaii, Idaho, Illinois, Indiana, Iowa, Kansas, Kentucky, Louisiana, Maine, Maryland, Michigan, Minnesota, Mississippi, Missouri, Montana, Nebraska, Nevada, New Hampshire, North Carolina, north Dakota, Ohio, Oklahoma, Oregon, Pennsylvania, South Carolina, South Dakota, Tennessee, Texas, Utah, Vermont, Virginia, Washington, West Virginia, Wisconsin and Wyoming.

Source: Human Rights Campaign (HRC)

Q14: Do same-sex civil unions provide the same federal rights, benefits and responsibilities as marriage?

A: No. There are more than 1,000 Federal rights, benefits and responsibilities that are afforded to married couples in areas such as employment, taxation, immigration, social security and veterans benefits not afforded to partners in a civil union.

Source: Human Rights Campaign (HRC)

Q15: Which U.S. state expressly prohibits gays and lesbians from adopting children?

A: Flordia

Source: Human Rights Watch

Q16: How many U.S. states currently have legislation in place that prohibits the positive portrayal of homosexuality in schools?

A: 7 States: Alabama, Arizona, Mississippi, Oklahoma, South Carolina, Texas and Utah

Source: GLSEN 2005 National School Climate Survey

Test Anxiety

2006-06-26T12:44:00.000-04:00

My office is immaculate. I strive to keep it clean. I feel a clean office is important. Three pencils, all sharpened to the same length, all neatly lined up.

Funny thing is that I only write with pens. But still, never know when you’ll need a sharp pencil. I’m nervous. I shouldn’t be. It’s my job to be a reassuring presence to these kids. I don’t know. Today will be my first…

Maybe I should lower the blinds? They’re nice. Bamboo. I hope it’s not too bright in here. But then again, if it’s too dark, that could leave a bad impression in the kid’s mind. I don’t want his moment to be about me. This isn’t about me or the bamboo blinds, it’s about my patient. Patient.

I’m a counselor, hardly a doctor. Patient is too clinical. I know better. I have to related to this young man as my friend.

I keep rubbing my hands together. They feel sweaty. I’m nervous. I shouldn’t be. Imagine how nervous he is. Or maybe not. Maybe he knows already. I read an article in which sixty percent of patients, friends, know before they are told. It’s the clinical confirmation that’s needed.

Joanne our intern just told me Jeremy has arrived for his results. He’s early. I can’t make him wait in the lobby. How do I tell him? Do I get right to it? Jump right in? Do I smile? How do I reassure him? Fuck, again this is not about me. This is about Jeremy, a young man, he’s twenty-two, a baby and when I look at him and say “I’m sorry the test came back positive”

“Good morning Jeremy. I have your test results. The news isn’t good.”

No.

“Your test is . . . No. You are positive?”

“I’m sorry.” Of course I’m sorry. Genius.

Floyd County College is a small liberal arts college. We fought hard to have testing and counseling available in our medical center for the students, and now I regret all of it. I don’t want this responsibility. I don’t want to tell Jeremy his results. I’m in over my head. I’m a coward who sits at a shiny desk with bamboo blinds and fucking brochures and bowls of condoms.

Jeremy is sitting in the lobby. I can’t keep him waiting. “Joanne, send him in please.”

Yum

2006-06-23T11:18:00.000-04:00

One cutesy game little Gayest Neil has enjoyed playing since the moment Momma James sprung him from her loins has been the Gross Out Game.

With anyone, my family, my friends, my lovers. I've always loved playing gross out. Here's my latest attempt at gross out friends via electronic mail in response to a dinner party being cancelled.

Egg Salad

"Well isn't she special?

SIGH. And here I slaved for six hours last night perfecting a DELICIOUS Feta cheese and roasted garlic egg salad to serve at tonight's fete. I guess I'll have to take it from under my desk and eat it all alone, tonight.

Me, a big rubber spoon and a tub of slightly higher than room temperature egg salad, all alone on my sofa. Glumly shoveling the strong Feta chopped, yellow yolk chutney into my mouth as I dream of the dinner party that could-have-been.

(Who am I kidding? I simply couldn't wait! I've been sneaking spoonfuls of my extremely fragrant egg salad all day long from under my work desk. So very eggy and mayonaissy and garlic-ey and scrumptious.)

But now none of you will ever know the yummyness of my garlic infused, boiled chicken ovum delight. I can barely chew as I swallow entire mouthfuls of my mashed, hot egg salad. YUM! It's been sitting at room temperature! Incubating itself from the inside out.I wish I had warm butter milk to wash it all down! "

No Advantage...

2006-06-23T08:44:00.000-04:00

Play On...

Friday, Pride weekend. It is supposed to rain during the march.

Last Saturday's drama is officially a non-issue. Water under the bridge. The Board is working on a statement.

And when it's released, I'll add it to the record of what happened.

If you're curious:

OutSports Article and The Advocate's follow-up.

Can't wait to go to Montreal.

Mission Accomplished! #63

2006-06-15T08:27:00.000-04:00

About "Mission Accomplished!"

Nearly three years ago, I began to collaborate with my buddy Fink on his political parody site, Fink Tank 3000. Being that we were both single, lonely nerds (of different sexual orientations) we spent alot of time in his basement apartment playing Risk, drinking 40 oz beers and getting freaked out by the nation's state of affairs.

It was during one such melting of minds that my pseudonym came into being.

Fink: "What's the gayest name you can think of?"
GN: "Gayest Neil."

In addition to having a gay style column, I created a weekly cartoon based on our adventures. Thus, "Mission Accomplished!" was born. Fink Tank 3000's old format was published every Tuesday. Now he updates daily.

Anyways, a recent break up on his part and a renewed focus on my website (and rugby) led to an extended hiatus of a few months on both our parts. Now, Fink is living back in the old neighborhood. He finally has cable again, so Fink Tank 3000 is up and running.

Check out Fink Tank 3000 every day. And while you're there take the time to look at the 62 other Mission Accomplished! cartoons. I want to build a website specifically for the comic, but want it to be really cool. Currently I'm lacking the skill or time.

Saturday Social

2006-06-14T10:57:00.000-04:00

Polka dot scarf, polyester, plaid leisure jacket, my jaunty, Bowery boy cap and we were off for a night to Ginger’s in celebration of Brooklyn Pride.

There’s very little I remember from that liquor soaked night, but I remember my outfit. Rather my second outfit. My first, before going out, was a neatly pressed Hawaiian shirt and olive green cargo shorts. This was my entertaining attire. Bryce and I decided (on the spur of the moment) to host a little afternoon gathering in our well appointed Clinton Hill home. The guest list was very casual. Our parties always are. Pretty much whoever we remember to invite (at the last minute) and whoever they’d like to bring along.

What a peculiar and thrilling evening of festivities. Indeed, blame the full moon.

The party itself at Grand and Greene started off slowly. Please note I said “the party” started slowly. The hosts, on the other hand, were well lubricated by the second banana daiquiri blended in our terrible little mixer long before the first guest arrived.

Oh that mixer. It’s something from a Spanish Inquisition torture room. It hisses and smokes while attempting to crush ice. Press the blend button and instantly you smell the acrid, metallic scent of burning iron and hear the grating whine of gears shaving themselves into wheels. Terrible. The banana daiquiris were delicious, however.

“Oh Bryce, these banana daiquiris are great! We’re going to make them for everyone!” Not a single daiquiri was made. The blender frightened everyone except Tim.

I arranged a lovely snack bowl brimming with Yellow corn tortilla chips, Funyons and Cheezos. Cheezos are the poor man’s Cheetos. Imagine Chester the Cheetah living as a rabid alley cat, addicted to crack-cocaine and scratch offs, and then you have Cheezos.

My homemade Guacamole was exquisite. I ate none of it, only sampled one dab. In fact, Bryce and I had nothing to eat that entire day save a croissant from our neighborhood patisserie Choice Market. Thus we were both so very loquacious after only two frothy drinks.

I love it when reminiscing resembles a hazy album of cluttered snapshots and obscure half-memories. Some of my favorites from the evening:

A peculiar yellow parakeet was hanging outside our apartment. It kept looking in the kitchen window. Then on the rooftop it nearly got on my hand until it flew across the street.

Bryce and someone were smoking cigarettes out the window in our lime green boudoir! For shame! For shame!

Did I really cry to Bryce about how much I love him, locked away in that same bedroom? Do I always cry when drunk? Actually I’m rarely drunk when I cry… I must speak to my pharmacist about this.

Darling Tim continued making me frothy, colorful drinks in the treacherous blender with elaborate names like “Long Island Tractor Pull” and “Golden Shower Can”. They were all delicious.

Who knew the Farmboyz are so very charming? They used to live in Montreal and gave Bryce and me many suggestions of where to go and what to do. Oh, did you hear we’re going to Montreal and staying at a bear bed and breakfast? Foxy? Did you know this?

Someone kept telling me I was so skinny. I love him. No! Damn. They were telling Foxy how skinny he is. I hate her.

Joe arrived with a 40 oz. The presence of such beverage was so very unsettling, so very gangsta, so very 718.

Rugby boys showed up! How I love spending time with my peeps. They’re like little brothers to me, little brothers who can injure and maim me.

Our dark and lovely downstairs neighbor Angela attended. Her girlfriend couldn’t make it, but having a neighbor at the party helped create a sense of community at our boisterous affair.

I remember being thrilled that the Empire State Building was spotted from our rooftop. The excitement was lost on the rest of the assembled.

Community was replaced by shame, however, when another neighbor spotted Bryce and I and … a friend skulking up the stairs at 5:30 a.m. You see, our friend had … forgotten his jacket at the party and needed to retrieve it before taking a taxi home … Yes, shame.

I could go on and on, including all the fun we had at the four Brooklyn bars the mob traipsed to and from, but once the mind’s hazy photo album transforms into a grainy, out of focus quick time video, the kind usually awash with the green glow of a tawdry nighttime camera, well, it’s usually best to stop talking and typing and merely leave the night’s events to one’s imagination.

In such films there’s rarely any talking anyway.

My Emergency Contact!

2006-06-08T10:24:00.000-04:00

Gregory Bryce Edwards. Our address. His cell phone number. I did not include his email address. And then, the most crucial element of the questionnaire, our relationship. I typed the word slowly, feeling the weight of it with each keystroke.

Partner.

Ick. I hate that word. It feels sterile and corporate. As though we closed the deal with a firm handshake instead of the sloppy kisses which led to his Long Island City bedroom and then here, nearly a year and a half later.

Partner. It’s more fun to pronounce it with a Texan drawl. Pard’ner removes some of the clinical coldness from the word. Regrettably doing so harkens back to last year’s national obsession with the gay cowboy persona. And gay cowboys are still too fresh to be kitsch. I couldn’t exactly write pard’ner on my passport renewal.

What the hell is going on? I’m a 31 year old gay man. I am born on National Coming Out Day! I have a gay website. I eat, breathe and poop gay. Friend of Dorothy? I line up the bitch's pills!

And suddenly I’m finding myself too nervous to list Bryce as my partner on my Department of State Form DS-82 for passport renewal so I can traipse to Canada, stay at a gay bed and breakfast and partake of drunken orgies with the hottest gay lumberjacks Montreal has to offer, with my partner, of course. There's also some sort of jazz festival.

Eww there’s that word again, partner.

I admit I’m spooked by the Senate’s recent gay marriage ban sideshow.. The last few days have genuinely stressed me out. It’s not that Bryce and I have any forthcoming plans for marriage. Nor am I renewing my passport so we can jet off to Namibia for a baby or two (see above Canadian orgy commitment).

In middle school I did a report on the Constitution. I was dressed as Thomas Jefferson. We were a poor family so all I found as a costume was my Aunt Sue’s wig tied into a Revolutionary pigtail.
So there little Gayest Neil was. Decked out in a Panama Jack t-shirt and Aunt Sue’s wig regaling my fellow Cedar Hill sixth graders about the greatest document of our country and how this simple piece of paper gives us more freedom than anything else on the planet. And this week, bigotry could have been written into it.

All the little boys who wore their auntie’s wigs (you know you did) may have had their dreams of a big, garish, gay wedding snuffed out right there.

Yeah, I know there are many other steps involved: House approval, State approval, etc… but still, the very potential has me on edge.

Which is ironic, because we’re living in a very gay America. I suppose I can thank the gay cowboy and Jay Manuel for that. But still, I’m fearful the rubber band is going to snap back with dreadful consequences.

In order to enjoy my Montreal vacation (and the eight bear hot tub at Big Boys Guest House), I first must have my passport renewed. Stupid Amtrak and their rules.

So at the last minute I dashed to my mail bin. I retrieved my renewal package containing my Department of State Form DS-82, and I deleted all of my sweet partner’s emergency contact info. I erased my partner. I took no chances.

I resubmitted my form with nothing. Aunt Sue’s wig is gone.

6/6/6 : 18

2006-06-06T10:11:00.000-04:00

The shadows which perpetually cover my black linen sheets offered not their usual comfort. Alas, today is my birthday. I am eighteen today.

I crept from my bed towards the bathroom. My usual routine: poop, shower, towel off. I brush my pointed teeth. Mother bought a new flavor of toothpaste, Wintermint. It’s refreshing.

Eighteen. So I’m a man now. My reflection in the mirror looked older somehow: same dark ringed eyes, pale skin, dark hair. Boo! I saw a glimpse of a cursed soul hovering behind me. She was there to spook me. No good. I’ve seen too much evil in my damned life already. Go back to my father’s domain foolish ghoul. You’ll not scare the son of Satan on this special day.

My mother, always trembling and apologetic, offered a meek “Happy Birthday” as I left the bathroom. I just pout at her. She just wept and escaped to the kitchen, saying that she made my favorite breakfast for my special day: French toast with bananas and powdered sugar. It is my favorite. Although everything I eat tastes of ashes.

What to do with my special day? High school is over. It ended last week. No loss there. It’s not like I had any friends. They’re all dead. Everyone who talks to me dies. Everyone who looks at me dies. They usually jump off buildings or get run over by big black cars. My best friend, Dalyn, was eaten alive by cockroaches our sophomore year. They just swarmed out of nowhere and chewed him up, right down to his bones. Sucks.

I’d prefer to not put so many people in harm’s way, I guess. So lately my mother and I have been sitting around the house and seriously getting on each other’s nerves.

She says I should take a high school graduation trip to Panama City Beach in Florida. I said no. Again, misery follows me like the weeping mob stalking a fresh coffin. I went to MTV Spring Break two years ago. Big mistake. Some young ladies became possessed of an animus rage befit the denizens of Hell, not three girls named Mandy, Cindi and Christi. They tore at each other’s long hair, completely ripping the skin from their scalps. Their acrylic nails rendered one another’s scantily clad bosoms into red rivers of torn flesh and exposed silicone. Girls gone wild, indeed.

My dad sends me dreams, well, more nightmares, I guess. He speaks to me through the images of the world’s dead dictators and sociopaths. Last night the head of Hitler wished me a happy birthday (strangely enough in English). Then the head of Jeffrey Dahmer floated into the vision and told me I could never ever live up to my father’s expectations and that my devilish ascension into manhood would only shame our family! Like my dad is so bi-polar. Wish he’d just send a Hallmark card, maybe a little cash.

Sucks when your dad is el Diablo.

I guess I’m a little apathetic about the whole apocalypse thing. There’s a lot of pressure to do well, to succeed when your dad is so famous. But honestly, I haven’t done much in the eighteen years I’ve been here. Like I said, it feels like things just sort of happen around me.

When I was younger, I took to the weirdness by standing around all creepy and quiet. I did a lot of staring. Nannies would jump off the rooftop, all of them actually. The milkman hung himself on our porch when all his milk turned to blood. Family pets inevitably managed to turn themselves inside out. You think your pet makes a mess in the house? Let me tell you. Wait until you see Fluffy’s guts on the kitchen linoleum, then come talk to me, ok newbie?

But now that I’m eighteen, I’m not afraid to admit that I’m not really responsible for any of this crap. And I don’t want an apocalypse to destroy mankind. I’m kind of over it all. Maybe the cultists who read this blog will be upset with my decision. I mean, keep up your blood sacrifices and you rituals, my dad appreciates them. But, wow this is harder than I thought it would be.

I’m over it, all of it. Oh, and the 666 on my left shoulder? It’s not a “mark of the Beast” like all of you say it is. It’s just a unique birthmark, a freakin’ birthmark! Dr. Jenkins, my dermatologist, said so. Shame he had his eyes poked out by ravens. He had a nice demeanor about him.

I’m so sick and tired of everyone telling me who I am and what I’m destined for! This is going to be the crappiest birthday ever! Last week, Ronald Regan’s head told me (in another stupid dream) to expect a rain of fire and brimstone today. He also said a plague of rats would devour mankind and the four horsemen would ride at noon, at which time I’d ascend a throne of human bones and take my place as the scourge of humanity.

Whatever. I’m going to the mall.

Battered Rhyme

2006-05-31T15:15:00.000-04:00

Finally, my big toe has stopped oozing
stinky puss;
my big toe nail trimmed far, far, far back
and swabbed with alcoholic astringent (and copious curses).
My left shoulder no longer a bulbous Quasi Modo’s hunch,
although to rest upon it causes a deadly moan ah.
Oh, nevermind, Desdemona was in Othello.
Esmerelda was the hunchback's dame.

My first injury of Bingham,
a thunderous fall on my left thigh
(such impact rattled my vainly beefy leg
right into my femur bone)
has finally diminished into a grey/green bruise
the size of a storm cloud.

Hidden on the backside of my ear
dermal scarring, no cauliflower but crudités
nonetheless.
Both knees scabrous burgundy bubbles of
mashed, marred skin placed above
shins, a splattered mosaic of brown/blue/red splotches,
wounds from various kicks/scrapes/cuts achieved
during two hundred and thirty five minutes of rugby played.

A novice sleuth may easily deduce
the violent, violet handprints crossing my
biceps and pectorals. Tackles attempted
(and failed, thank you).

Deep inside, hidden from eyes,
lays a strained string of muscle,
snaking along my stomach’s underside.

And as I type, my hands
(once mirror images) appear distorted
as though seen through a carnival’s glass.
The right, as normal as ever it was.
The left, a sickly mustard yellow flecked
with six crimson abrasions from an
aggressive rugger’s spiked cleat;
his attempt to mash my precious lefty into ground meat!

clay d lang

2006-05-25T10:44:00.000-04:00

A Face for Radio

2006-05-24T14:23:00.000-04:00

Tune in to Sirius Radio 106 OutQ tomorrow morning to hear moi discuss my forthcoming gender reassignment surgery!

Hahah! I totally fooled you.

It's actually to discuss *gasp* GAY RUGBY and THE BINGHAM CUP!!!!!!!!!

I'll be on at 10:05 with some of my fellow Knights and hunky host Larry Flick.

EDIT: Oh well. We've been bumped. That's showbiz. One second your hot, hot, hot. The next you're old news.

Consolation: Larry will be coming down to the field to record some interviews for Monday's show.

This is going to be a long weekend. Is it the Closing Party yet?

Bingham Cup Information!

2006-05-23T11:20:00.000-04:00

New York Gay Rugby Fans! Here’s the low down for Memorial Day Weekend’s Bingham Cup.

Where are the Games:

The 2006 Bingham Cup will be played on Randall’s Island from May 26-28, 2006. Matches are free and open to the public.

Matches will start at approximately 9:00am and end at 4:30pm. Food and merchandise vendors will be on hand to meet your needs.

To get to Randall’s Island, take the 4, 5, or 6 train to 125th Street and transfer to the M35 bus to Randall’s Island.

Gayest Neil Says:

Ya’ll this bus, affectionately referred to as the “crack bus” will be filled to capacity with gay ruggers, the homeless and Methadone patients. Hooray for you if you fit all three criteria!

On the weekend, the 4 and 5 train have been running LOCAL and the buses are infrequent.

If you plan on seeing a particular match or, especially, if you plan on playing, GET THERE EARLY, EARLY, EARLY!!! You’ve been warned!

Also: Upon crossing the Triborough Bridge to Randall’s Island, the games are the FIRST stop on the island. Look for signs upon getting off the M-35 bus.

When are (Gotham Knight’s) Games:
The home team(s) play at the following times:

Friday the 26th
10:20 a.m.Gotham Knights (B) vs. Phoenix Storm
11:10 a.m. Gotham Knights (A) vs. Manchester Village Spartans
2:10 p.m. Gotham Knights (A) vs. Los Angeles Rebellion
3:50 p.m. Gotham Knights (B) vs. Amsterdam NOP

Saturday the 27th
9:30 a.m. Gotham Knights (B) vs. Minneapolis Mayhem
10:20 a.m. Gotham Knights (A) vs. Sydney Convicts (A)
11:10 a.m. Gotham Knights (A) vs. TBD
1:20 p.m. Gotham Knights (B) vs. Sydney Convicts (B)

Sunday the 28th
Playoffs: There are a slew of playoff and qualifying matches following. You’ll simply have to show up and find out who places for the added drama on Sunday from 9:30 a.m. to 3:00 p.m.

Where are the parties?
(a.k.a. Gayest Neil can you get me on a list?)

Now we’re talking! and no, I can't get anyone on a list.

Unaffiliated Events:

Tu, May 23 - 8pm - 10pm
Sydney Convicts
Gym Sports Bar,167 8th Av. btw. 18 & 19 St. (Convicted)

Wed, May 24 - 7pm-10pm
San Francisco Fog
Slane Irish Bar,102 MacDougal St. at Bleecker

Wed, May 24 - 8pm - 10pm
Gotham Knights
Gym Sports Bar,167 8th Av. btw. 18 & 19 St. (Rally Knight!)

Fri, May 26 - 8p-10p
Los Angeles Rebellion
The Eagle NYC,554 W. 28 St. btw. 10 & 11 Av.

Fri, May 26 - 8pm-1am
MetroBears
The Dugout,Christopher St. at West St.

Sat, May 27 - 8pm-10pm
Washington Renegades
View Bar,232 8th Av. btw. 21 & 22 St. (After “Showers” Party)

Affiliated Events:

Thursday, May 25 - 7pm-10pm
Bingham Cup Opening Night Party from 7pm to 10pm at Spirit, (530 W. 27th St.) Guests will be welcome to stay at the venue past 10:00pm when Spirit will open their doors to their normal Thursday night audience.Tickets for non-registrants, $50; VIP Tickets, $65. Includes 2 hours of open bar and dinner.

Sunday, May 28 - 7pm-11pm
Bingham Cup Closing Night Partybegins 7pm at Webster Hall, (125 E. 11th St.) Guests are welcome to stay at the venue to take part in the XXL afterparty which commences at 11pm.Tickets for non-registrants, $65; VIP Tickets, $80. Includes 2 hours of open bar and dinner.

Monday, May 29 - 3pm-5pm
Going Away Partyat the Eagle, (554 W. 28th St.) This is a cash bar event with drink specials.

Gayest Neil says: The Closing Night Party is going to be a blast. Well worth the $65. The fee will include an open bar, dinner and a snarling segue into XXL’s afterparty. You also get to see Gayest Neil the drunkest he’s ever been! EVER!

What can you do to support the Gotham Knights?

Aside from attending the games, I ask all my fellow bloggers, particularly if you are in the NYC area and plan on attending, please give a brief shout out and link to this posting. The more people who have quick and easy access to the schedule and dates for the Bingham Cup, the better.

And I’ll make sure to hook you up with a sexy, international, gay rugby hunk at the after party. Sunday night everyone gets loving! I've decided Bryce and I are getting three or four! Woooo!

AND... On a personal note. I'm so thrilled to be playing this weekend. The Bingham Cup (and Plate) is the Holy Grail of gay rugby. I've been training two exhausting years for this opportunity and hope all my friends can make it to see our fabulous team play and, hopefully, win.

Don't forget, this is YOUR team New York City! Get out there this weekend and cheer on your mates! Thank you and see you at the Bingham Cup.

Fifteenth, the Conclusion.

2006-05-22T12:11:00.000-04:00

Previously...

For the celebratory buffet to follow the big event, Miss Bethany Chester modified her classic “Crazy Shellz N Cheez Cazzerole”. Instead of pasta shells she substituted elbow macaroni and loaded the cheesy dish with jalapenos and salsa. Voila! Miss Bethany’s "Macareni Madness Casserole" was born.

Practically all of Cedartown gathered to witness (and participate in) the WGAA Macarenathon 1996. At least five hundred people, yours truly included, were assembled in that old cow pasture to dance the Macarena for as long as it took to get Cedartown into the record books. We were also gathered to witness the hopeful conclusion of the infamous Chester family feud.

Which pregnant Chester daughter would out-dance the other and earn the right to name her son Chester DuBois Chester the Fifteenth?

I spied over my right shoulder, three people deep, the sisters were standing side by side in matching tangerine outfits. Their bulbous bellies were held aloft by fanny packs stuffed with water bottles and granola bars. The Chester suspense (and the smell of cow patties) was killing everyone assembled.

Celebrity Hostess.

Cookie and Caitlyn Chester stood nervously side by side. They felt everyone’s eyes on them. The sisters tried best they could to ignore the attention and focus on the nameless fetuses nestled in their tummies. Nonetheless they fidgeted in their sterling white Reeboks stuffed with swollen ankles and neon socks. Their anxiety was soon forgotten as people began to point and cheer. A wave of star-struck wonder washed over the assembled dancers. The event hostess slowly hovered into the air above the crowd, held aloft in the repair box of Cedartown’s sole public utility truck.

Elvira, Mistress of the Dark, had arrived!

“Helloooo you devilish dancers! Are you ready to Macarena my mummies?” Elvira purred into a megaphone and pressed her bosom against the steel bars of the utility box.

My brother and I were absolutely thrilled that Elvira, Mistress of the Dark, was hosting the WGAA Macarenathon 1996. We were longtime fans of her late night horror show, Movie Macabre, on channel 14. Her 1988 feature film only cemented her awesomeness in our minds.

But many of the more Christianly townspeople thought her inclusion in this event was demonic and pornographic. About ten percent of the assembled dancers (mostly society ladies) held aloft signs declaring Elvira (real name Cassandra Peterson) a witch and harlot. Despite the controversy they still showed up to dance. Ole Chester DuBois Chester preened like a celebrity himself. His wheelchair placed for optimum views of daughters’ progress and Elvira’s fishnets from beneath her perch.

“Alright fiends. Let’s murder this Macarena!” Elvira jiggled seductively (her utility cage jiggled frighteningly) and everyone cheered. A wall of speakers thumped with the familiar music of El Macarena. Finally it was time to dance.

Heeeeeey Macarena!

First set of 4: Extend Right Arm straight out, palm down on count 1.

Cookie gave her younger sister a look of defiance and began to dance.

Extend Left Arm straight out, palm down on count 2.

Caitlyn returned the stare and mimicked the motions precisely.

Rotate Right Hand (palm up) on count 3.

Cookie smiled and moved her arms outward as a reporter from the Cedartown Standard edged into the mob for a photo of the competing sisters.

Rotate Left Hand (palm up) on count 4.

Caitlyn passively nudged her sister to the right. Cookie cursed (but kept smiling) as her new sneakers mashed a cow patty missed by the event organizers.

Next set of 4: Touch Right Hand to the top of your left shoulder on count 1.

Cookie was already breaking a sweat going into the second hour of the dance, but she knew her baby’s future rested on her persistence. Caitlyn had assumed this would be an easy win. She stepped up her zeal and gleefully wailed, “Hey Macarena!”

Touch Left Hand to the top of your right shoulder on count 2.

An official from Guinness World Records milled about the perimeter of the dancers. He officially numbered off dancers with a hand counter. A second official announced the three hour mark as the dance continued on and on and on. . .

Touch Right Hand to the back of your head on count 3.

Elivra, Mistress of the Dark, repeated the moves above the crowd. She moved vigorously. The carriage which supported her shook vigorously from side to side as she danced.

Touch Left Hand to the back of your head on count 4.

Caitlyn willed her legs to continue moving. She relied on her training as a Cedartown High School cheerleader to push her through the pain of stiff joints and aching calves.

Chester DuBois Chester stole sips from his silver flask. He giggled and salivated at the littlest glance of the Mistress of the Dark’s black satin panties.

Next set of 4: Touch Right Hand to the left side of your ribs on count 1.

Cookie’s competitive spirit would not be undone! Her baby would get the family name. The fourth hour was announced and a renewed strength invigorated her body. “Dance, dance, dance!” Cookie began chanting to herself.

Touch Left Hand to the right side of your ribs on count 2.

Elvira’s heels hurt her feet. She questioned the choices she had made in life which brought her to this moment, doing the Macarena atop an old electric company truck in front an assembled town of rednecks and Christian protesters.

Move Right Hand to your right tush on count 3.

Suddenly, a gush of warm water soaked Caitlyn’s legs and ankles! She looked down in horror! She had dropped her water bottle.

Move Left Hand to your left tush on count 4.

An official announced the fourth hour had been achieved. Only thirty more minutes and Cedartown would win the title of largest and longest Macarena in the world! Considering the popularity of the Macarena at the time, I still can’t believe a mere five hundred dancers and four and a half hours was all it took to win an international record.

Next set: Swing once to the right on count 1.

More and more exhausted dancers began to stagger from the crowd. The organizers frantically asked everyone to keep dancing. Only fifteen minutes remained before Cedartown made history. Even my own resolve was fading as the cursed music continued to play.

Swing once to the left on count 2.

Cookie barely moved. She shuffled and repeated the moves and stared blankly at the ground. Caitlyn did the same. Miss Bethany watched from near the buffet table. She appeared worried for her daughters.

(Well, all except her second eldest Marjory. She had gone home within fifteen minutes of the event to instead catch a rerun of Matlock. So very dull.)

Swing once more to the right on count 3.

Only five minutes remained! The entire town cheered and joined in the Macarena madness. A renewed vigor cleansed the dancers of their prior fatigue! Elvira danced and jiggled. From his pervert’s post Ole Cripple Chester panted and laughed like a hyena.

Turn 90-degrees to the right on count 4 and repeat from the beginning.

All of Cedartown’s dancers and spectators began chanting a count down to the four and a half hour mark. Ten. The din was so loud no one heard the creak and groan of the twisting metal until it was much too late. Nine. Hands, originally raised to the Heaven in celebration of the Macarena, became pointing fingers. Eight. Smiles became stilted gasps of horror. Seven. All eyes turned to the carriage holding Elvira. Six. It slowly unhinged itself from its metal arm and began a slow, almost snowflake like, descent to the Earth. Ole Crippled Chester looked straight upwards and promptly kussed.

Chaos ensued.

When I was much younger, my grandparents often took my brother and I to Callaway Gardens in middle Georgia. It was a sprawling botanical complex used for weddings and picnics, lovely, lush, verdant. They had a mock Japanese garden among the various sculpted paths and lawns. There was a little pond hidden among the carefully raked pebble paths and serene shrubbery.

This coy pond was not so calming. It was an angry aquatic pit of brightly hued fishes snapping at one another for the tiniest morsel of kibble sacrificed to those hundreds of whiskered, watery mouths. The coy pond terrified me. I imagined drowning in it, being eaten alive by the jostling Japanese fish.

The resulting bedlam of Elvira’s terrible tumble made the coy pond tranquil by comparison: jostling hillbillies, screaming society ladies, hands and elbows everywhere. Cookie, Caitlyn, the stupid Chester name, nothing mattered as my brother and I led our mother to safety. Finally when the confusion died down, all eyes turned towards the spot where Elvira had landed.

She was standing with the help of a paramedic. The Mistress of the Dark had a bump on her head, but otherwise seemed ok. The utility box she’d been dancing in was crumpled on one side and rested next to Chester DuBois Chester the Fourteenth’s wheelchair.

Miraculously, still in his chair, sat Chester. He was alive. He was white as a ghost. He’d peed his pants. Otherwise, the old coot was ok.

Resolutions.

The Chester daughters resolved their conflict shortly following the potential tragedy. They recognized the absurdity of their argument and agreed that whoever had the first son would get the fifteenth Chester DuBois Chester and whoever had the latter delivery would name him the sixteenth Chester DuBois Chester. The fifteenth was eventually born to youngest daughter Caityn and the sixteenth was born to eldest daughter Cookie.

Miss Bethany published a cookbook of small town recipes featuring her Macareni Madness Casserole along with an autographed photo of a bandaged Elvira enjoying the now famous pasta dish.

Following his fourth near death experience, Chester finally changed his ornery ways and became a model of civility. He died from liver failure related to his longtime alcoholism a year later.

Cedartown never won the Macarena World Record. We failed by four seconds.

Jaded

2006-05-17T16:14:00.000-04:00

Tyzilla names her sixth Top Model tonight.

I hope Jade wins.

She’s a mess. I’m talking an absolute freaking mess. She makes Foxy look downright put together. Here are three of this cycle’s best Jade moments brought to you by the funny folk at YouTube.

Jadebonics. Words can’t express how ignorant Miss Chia Head is. And Ms. Chia Head can’t exactly express words. This clipette is positutely awesorrific.

Ace of Shady. Watch as Jade resorts to shady attacks against her fellow wannabe models during a light-hearted improv contest; one of many examples where Jade’s deep rooted insecurity turned into aggression towards the other young ladies. Or I should say younger?

At 26, Jade is the 2nd oldest contestant in Top Model history!

Wiki-Who? Jade has a Wikipedia entry! Gayest Neil sure don’t have a Wikipedia entry. Tyra crown her tonight!

JadeSpace. Here is her overwrought personal website full of mystikal poetry and her heaviest, personalest ideas and expressions. This girl deserves to be a Dandy!

And finally. The best ever moment of America’s Next Top Model ever! Jade flubs her CoverGirl commercial. I needn’t say any more.

HUMP DAY HIDDEN BONUS! A close 2nd for best ANTM moment ever is when Tyra went ape shit all over Ms. Beer-Weave a few cycles back. Hilarious, heart breaking and cringe inducing.

Rugby Rumination

2006-05-16T10:36:00.000-04:00

Typically for longer stories here at Diary of a Contemporary Dandy, the entire frame is constructed way in advance. All that is left is the heavy handed slapping-on of muddy leaves and dried animal skin. Once built, my crude world wide wig-wam is slathered with rough colors and rudimentary furniture, maybe a stool or shelf. Inside it I dwell for a few days, tossing off a witty remark here or a quip there.

Like a modern era, native storyteller, I elaborate on the oral history of my people. Sadly, no matter how much time I’ve spent in this makeshift hovel, my recollections of the WGAA Macarenathon 1996 is presently lacking in both clarity and inspiration.

One third of my wigwam is missing its roof and a downpour of thoughts dreadful has stolen my focus.

What’s flooding my mind on this rainiest of days?

Gay rugby.

Oh accursed rugby! Oh blessed rugby! My Libran scales are set to perpetual wobble as thoughts of this sport, both brutal and elegant, both social and at times, personal, weigh against itself.

I remember distinctly in Spring of 2004 I was at the Dugout and cruising hard on a woofy young cub whose name escapes me. All I remember is a pair of beautiful eyes and the fact that he was on the Gotham Knights rugby team.

He suggested I should come to their spring boot camp. I scoffed and sipped my watery light beer. The very notion that I could summon such a primal physicality was, at the time, amusing. It was also the last thing I desired in my life. I desired a night of naughtiness with the cubby rugger. No such luck. I took home his dumpy friend.

But that seed planted itself. (The rugby not the friend, thank you) I began asking myself questions. Could this darling dandy do such a thing? Join a ragtag gang of gay rugby men? Dig deeply into myself? Commit every Tuesday and Thursday night and all of Saturday to practices and games. Did I want a competitiveness previously undiscovered and, most importantly, entirely unsought?

When fall blew into town, I attended the Gotham Knight’s boot camp on a lark, and I had a terrific time. If nothing else, I recommend everyone attend the boot camp. It’s great fun. (Oh, and cubby wasn’t there. I haven’t seen him in my two years on the team.)

Following boot camp, I attended practices and discovered I had a knack for chasing men and taking them to the ground. I was entirely lost and confused on the pitch (the field). For an entire season I had no idea what was going on during games. I hear the same complaint from several of the rookies on the team now. Their worrying makes me more than a little nostalgic for those earlier days.

Now the Bingham Cup, hosted by my team, is coming to New York City on Memorial Day Weekend. Forty gay teams from around the world will be here to compete and make out. I’m thrilled. It is going to be an exhilarating tournament brimming with emotion for the participants and the spectators. It is one of the only sports where watching is as exciting as playing.

So here is my spiel: come watch some fantastic rugby Memorial Day weekend. Come support the Gotham Knights on Randall’s Island. We’ve put a lot of heart (and injury) into this raucous recreation. I sincerely hope everyone who enjoys this blog can make it out. All of your support and cheers will be greatly, greatly appreciated.

The parties are going to be fabulous as well.

Fifteenth Part Two

2006-05-12T11:05:00.000-04:00

To read part one click here.

The First Grandson.

Who knew dowdy Marjory would be the first to give Ole Cripple Chester a grandson? In 1984 Marjory fell in love with an astoundingly dull ophthalmologist, Dr. Jacob Weisberg, and the two of them married at the big gazebo in Peek’s Park. The mother of the bride was heard whispering, “That’s an awfully terrible waste of a perfectly fine dinner glass, but they have their customs, I suppose.”

Then in 1986, Mrs. Marjory Chester Weisberg gave birth to a six pound baby boy. It was rumored she didn’t cry a peep during the delivery. Marjory simply sighed and it slid right out of her.

So very dull.

All of Cedartown waited for the news that the fifteenth Chester DuBois Chester (albeit Weisberg) had been born. Fittingly, ornery ole Cripple Chester refused to “waste” his name on his dullest daughter’s infant son. He had his hopes for a second grandson riding firmly on Caitlyn’s perky bosom and her quarterback boyfriend's vigorous handshake.

Chester DuBois Chester’s reservations were indeed prudent. Young Jacob DuBois Weisberg proved himself to be the dullest young man ever born in Polk County, Georgia, ever.

Whatizzit?

Georgia rouged herself up and stood center stage in the International spotlight. The 1996 Olympic Games had finally made their way to Atlanta. Remarked Ole Cripple Chester, repeatedly, “Last time a damned Yankee carried a torch into Atlanta, ’twas my great, great, great grandpappy who shot him dead. Right ‘tween the eyes!”

The excitement of the Olympic Games set pulses and fevers racing across Cedartown.

Miss Cookie was inspired to do something about her loneliness. At forty-eight, she got herself an America Online account and found an internet boyfriend in one of those “big girl chatrooms". She visited him in Ohio a few weeks later. He even flew her out in an economy-business seat. It was her first time on an airplane. She had such a wonderful time. Cookie was in love.

At seventeen, Caitlyn the cheerleader and Bryan the quarterback officially started going steady and swore vows of virginity at First Methodist Church. Caitlyn was in love.

Both sisters were pregnant within a month.

Both sisters were expecting baby boys. Both sisters’ men, upon hearing their fatherly obligations, fled to parts unknown. Both due dates were guessed to be within days of one another, and both baby boys would be taking the Chester surname.

Ole Cripple Chester acted like he won himself a gold medal.

Not only was there a baby boy to take his name, and only his name, but there’d be a spare baby incase something went awry. This was the happiest he’d ever been in his pissy, old life.

But which grandson would get the honor?

Mami Melee.

Unbeknownst to the family, and Cedartown, a bitter sibling rivalry had developed between the elder and youngest daughters. Cookie and Caitlyn both lived with mom and dad. Cookie more so to help the aging Mrs. Bethanny and Caitlyn cause she was still in high school. Three decades separated the single, expectant mothers, yet you’d never guess it the way they fought over absolutely everything.

Caitlyn dropped out of her senior year at Cedartown High School. Cookie turned over Broadway Hair management duties to her best friend Mark. (As a kid, I loved getting my hair cut by Mark. We shared a peculiar fellowship as he gossiped about the goings-on of Cedartown’s society ladies.)

Relations between the sisters were bad enough when they had day-to-day obligations to occupy their attention. Now, with nothing to do but sit and look at each other's swelling bellies, the snippy comments became full on maternal mayhem. Accusations of deceit and jealousy were tossed. Caitlyn blistered Cookie for trying to ruin her baby’s chance at having the family name. Cookie fought right back. She was eldest; her baby deserved the prestigious family name. Caitlyn countered at least she wouldn’t be in a nursing home by the time her baby made it to high school. Cookie countered at least her baby would graduate high school!

The ruckus would quiet down come time for “All My Children”, but soon as those credits rolled, it was back to fighting. Something had to be done. A decision had to be made as to which grandson was going to be named Chester DuBois Chester the Fifteenth.

Who knew mousy Marjory would be the one to set things straight? It happened while the three sisters were on an emergency snack run to Winn-Dixie. Cookie had a hankering for ice-cream sandwiches lined with dill pickle slices. Caitlyn wanted Nutter-Butters and Mellow Yellow. Both sisters were eight months pregnant and neither was allowed to drive. They called Marjory for help.

Right there in the parking lot, during the middle of a heated argument over which sister’s sonogram was the cutest, Marjory freaked out, and I mean she freaked the fuck out.

“Will you both, will you both please be quiet? Please?”

You have to remember that for Marjory, this was indeed a major freak out. Ten year old Jacob Weisberg sat next to his aunt, eight years his senior, in the backseat, quietly staring at his knees the whole time.

Marjory brought the car to a soft idle in the deserted parking lot. The pregnant sisters looked at her agape. Marjory was tired of hearing them fight. They had to consider how upsetting it must be for the little babies in their tummies. She suggested they settle the debate once and for all at the WGAA Radio Macarena-thon 1996.

It was by far the most exciting notion Marjory Chester had ever come up with.

Sweeping the Nation!

In 1996, Cedartown was snared in the lethal grip of two national sensations. The first being the Olympics, as mentioned, and the second being the Macarena. The two seemed rather synergistic. No sporting event, be it a Braves’ game or horeshoes, was complete without stadiums of obese Southerners following the Hispanic-lite dance addiction of Los del Rio. Who didn’t love the Macarena in 1996?

Marjory’s solution to determine which would-be mother’s son would become Chester DuBois Chester the Fifteenth was a simple one: a Macarena dance-off was being organized for that Saturday night by the local public radio station. WGAA planned on playing the infectious tune nonstop over the air and the entire town was asked to show up and do the Macarena in the old farm lot near the Big Cedar Creek. Someone said a representative from the Guinness Book of World Records would be there to count the dancers. Cedartown history was in the making.

Chester family history was in the making too. The sisters agreed. They’d Macarena and whichever sister was last dancing would earn the right to name her son Chester DuBois Chester.

Immediately, additional rules and clauses were tossed onto the table. Caitlyn was an unfair advantage because she was younger. Caitlyn countered that her big sister was fatter, so had more energy to burn. Cookie offered to break Caitlyn’s leg. Caitlyn said she’d still win the contest. The arguing lasted well past bedtime that Friday night and continued the next morning as the sisters fought over who would wear what to the big dance. Apparently both of them wearing a tangerine maternity top with purple Capri pants constituted a fashion no-no.

Practically all of Cedartown showed up for that 1996 Macarena-thon. Only a third of them were there to dance. The rest arrived to see the expectant sisters Chester dance and brawl.

And dance they did. And brawl they did too.

to be continued...

The Fifteenth

2006-05-11T15:39:00.000-04:00

Chester DuBois Chester the Fourteenth was the angriest man who ever walked the fair streets of Cedartown Georgia, until, that is, he returned from the second World War with a Purple Heart. Then he rolled the fair streets of Cedartown, even more hateful, kussing up a storm at anyone who offered him the briefest bit of attention.

And although a right sinister novel could easily be written about Ole Cripple Chester, this ain’t it, exactly. This story is about his three daughters, and the contest to determine which lucky grandson would be heir to his very name.

That Damned Name.

In 1516, the original Chester DuBois Chester was accused of being a French spy in the court of King Henry the VIII. He was executed two years later for treason. His son, Chester DuBois Chester the Second was exiled to Paris with his mother. In 1541, at the age of 28, he met John Calvin. Many years later, following his friend’s death, he returned to Britain as one of the first preachers of Calvinism.

In 1628, Chester DuBois Chester the Fourth, a royal scientist, helped discover how blood circulated in the human body. A hygienic man, he lived to a then unheard of 90 years of age and bore six children, including the Fifth Chester DuBois Chester who became a lawyer.

In 1732, the Sixth Chester DuBois Chester sailed aboard the first ship from England when Oglethorpe founded Georgia on the sandy shores of Savannah. Ole Cripple Chester was always quick to point out that his ancestor was a naval officer, not a debtor. In 1780, Chester DuBois Chester the Eighth led a band of Creek Indians against the British during the Battle of Augusta. He died of syphilis.

Chester DuBois Chester the Tenth, was a successful Dahlonega miner who in 1828 discovered the richest vein of gold in Georgia’s history. It was during this time the family settled permanently in the north Georgia area. In 1865, the twelfth named Chester DuBois Chester was present at Appomattox Court House when General Lee surrendered during the War of Northern Aggression.

His son, the Thirteenth Chester DuBois Chester, moved to the Cedartown area and established the town’s first gun store in 1899 where once there existed a Cherokee Indian pow-wow site.

War Hero.

In 1921, our Chester DuBois Chester was born. They say he was so mean he bit the doctor and spanked the nurse. Chester was drafted to fight the Japanese in 1941. Six months later he received a hero’s welcome home. A Purple Heart was awarded for his injuries received during battle. A parade was thrown in honor of the valiant soldier who sacrificed his legs killing three hundred Japanese deep in the heart of enemy territory.

The Chester DuBois Chester name had lived up to its proud history.

Until two months later, when the truth was revealed (over a contentious game of bingo at the Veteran’s Hall) that in fact hero Chester lost his limbs not from storming Emperor Hirohito’s private bunker, but when a comrade accidentally dropped a grenade on him. Chester DuBois Chester had never seen combat. He had never so much as even picked up a rifle.

This was when Ole Cripple Chester got his nickname, and his sour mood turned rotten as a September pear left for deer to eat.

Save for the Grace of God, his childhood sweetheart, Mrs. Bethanny Atkins-Chester, had the soul of a saint and the patience of a mountain. She cared for him and loved him more than any person on the planet could.

Mrs. Bethanny would joke, “Well, some gals prefer flowers. I guess I don’t mind hugging on a cactus. Even a cactus has flowers if you get close enough.”

Mrs. Bethanny bore a tremendous burden at the expense of Ole Cripple’s temper. More than anything Mister Chester wanted a son to carry on his proud name, his family’s fourteen generation legacy. Bereft of his legs, with no joy in his life, that heavy name was all the poor, pitiful man had. Unfortunately, no boys would be born, only girls.

The Daughters.

In 1948 Bethanny and Chester had their first baby girl. They named her Cookie in honor of Bethanny’s widow aunt. Perhaps they should have considered a name like celery or carrot.

Cookie was born a skinny baby, but soon became a rather plump girl. She grew and grew. As the size of her stature expanded, so did the size of her personality. Cookie was the friendliest gal you ever could have met. The society ladies of the Women's Club always commented on "what a pretty face" she had.

Cedartown hardly believed such an out-going young woman came from the loins of such a bitter old coot. And that old coot sure loved Cookie. Her demonic daddy doted on his sweet-cream dollop of a daughter, even as he openly told the entire town how he regretted the fact that she wasn’t born a boy.

Mrs. Bethanny gave it another try (with the help of Chester) six years later. Marjory Chester popped from her oven. A baby sister delighted Cookie (she relished eating her pureed veggies) but infuriated Chester. Still no boy.

Marjory was a pretty enough gal, but soon proved to be the dullest young lady ever born in Polk County, Georgia, ever. Some folk privately questioned if she was a bit touched. She often sat alone. If ever a society lady asked young Margery how her day was going, she would stare blankly in the sky.

It was quickly assumed that portly Cookie had gobbled up all the family personality, leaving Miss Marjory starved of any womanly charm.

Chester formerly declared he would have as many babies as it took to get himself a son!

Shortly following, Mister Chester DuBois Chester was diagnosed as sterile. His job mopping at Cedartown’s chemical plant had exposed him to gases which rendered his soldiers “unfit for duty”. That was as dark a day as any he’d seen; darker even than that terrible night at bingo when the truth of his war deeds came to be exposed.

Chester DuBois Chester the Fourteenth was defeated. Many a night their gloomy home rattled with the sounds of his sobbing; mother and daughters quietly knitting downstairs as depressed daddy drank himself into a stupor.

By this point, Chester had given up hope of even a grandson to carry on his legacy. As mentioned, Cookie was a bit on the heavy side. Sure she knew how to cook and keep a neat house, but despite her sense of humor, was absolutely tongue-tied when speaking to boys. And poor Marjory, except for school and the briefest of appearances at the family dinner table, spent her entire young life in her bedroom tending to her collection of ceramic kittens.

Eventually Cookie went to beauty school and opened her own salon on Broad Street called Cookie’s Broadway Hair. Marjory went to nursing school and ended up working at Polk County General Hospital, suitably enough as an anesthesiologist’s assistant.Despite their successful careers, the two ladies continued to live with their parents in that sunken home on College Street well into their late twenties.

It was in 1978 that an unexpected spark ignited the old kindling boards of that dismal house. At the age of fifty-three, Mrs. Bethanny Louise Atkins-Chester was having a third baby! Like the Sons of the Confederacy, Mister Chester’s soldiers had never given up the fight. Chester DuBois Chester wheeled himself up and down Main Street crowing like a rooster. He bought a case of cigars in anticipation of the birth.

The cigars would never be smoked. In October of 1978, another daughter was born to Mr. and Mrs. Chester. Turns out Chester the Fourteenth’s “soldiers” were actually Amazons.

Mister Chester DuBois Chester would have tossed himself off the Rockmart Highway Bridge if he’d been able to roll himself to the top. People waved from their cars that rainy Tuesday morning as he sat in his government issued wheelchair, crying pitifully. For the first year of Caitlyn’s life, her elderly daddy refused to acknowledge her very existence.

Father’s opinion began to change as Caitlyn grew into a stunning young lady. She possessed the women of the family’s trademark blonde curls (except Marjory who always wore her dull flaxen hair in a severe bun). Caitlyn was funny too, some said funnier than big sister Cookie. And above all else, Caitlyn had a string of young, able-bodied boys snaked out the door eager for a date to the balcony of the Cedartown Cinema.

Daddy finally had a chance for a grandson and an heir to his vaulted name.

To be continued...

Assaulted Cracker

2006-05-09T17:03:00.000-04:00

Stephin Merritt is not a racist. Thought provoking article nonetheless. Can a racial prejudice be determined based upon what kind of music a person listens to?

EDIT 5/10/06 12:39 pm: You have to read Bryce's take on the entire debate. He's so awesome.

Packing Heat

2006-05-09T09:09:00.000-04:00

The two plain clothed cops began a litany of questions. I answered each. A patrol car pulled along side their unmarked van. Shortly after, an NYPD van slowly stopped alongside the deli where I had been buying flowers. As I quietly gave them answers, I had a question of my own.

Was Gayest Neil going to jail?!

Again?!

Yesterday’s commute home was innocent enough. I jumped on the C train, managed to get a seat for the long ride into Brooklyn. A young mother with a pointed nose harshly shushed her baby as he playfully screeched. Recent graduates in purple and white sat laughing, holding their folded, shiny robes.

To Kill a Mockingbird was in my rugby bag, at home, so I stared at my feet the whole way home. I was simply content to have a seat after twisting my ankle during Saturday’s game.

The train stopped at Lafayette Avenue. I toyed with the impulse to get off and go buy flowers rather than ride to Clinton/Washington, my usual stop. It was a nice day. A slow stroll down Greene Avenue would do my ankle well.

And I wanted to give Bryce daisies.

I stepped from the train, my first time getting off at that particular stop. I remember the ledge between the train and platform was a weathered board with nails in it. I ascended the subway stairs, took an immediate left and found the deli with the brilliant display of fresh cut flowers. A psychedelic “Fresh Juice” sign hung overhead.

Cash. Inside the deli I withdrew sixty dollars and stepped back outside to buy my flowers. No prices were listed. A quick consult with the Hispanic cashier, “seeex dollars and up”, and I was all set to brighten my apartment.

Yellow daisies. I took the flowers and turned to reenter the deli. In my peripheral vision two men in sweatshirts and jeans quickly entered my personal space. I glanced up. One was a beefy Italian man, young. The other was a short Asian man, young as well.

“Can we talk to you sir?” The beefy Italian, lets call him Bruno, asked.

Great. What do these guys want? Donations for charity? To save my soul?

“I’m busy…” I mumbled something evasive. These two guys were still encroaching on my personal space.

Now the exact events are a little hazy at this point. Suddenly they were both within kissing distance of me. They revealed badges around their neck. They informed me they were NYPD and asked if I had a concealed firearm.

A concealed firearm?!

Bruno asked if he could pat me down. Sadly, my wit was diffused by sheer police-in-my-face panic. I numbly complied. Bruno softly manhandled my chest, waist, pockets and legs with the delicateness of a kitten making a bed on a feather pillow.

And I quipped not a single word. No concealed weapon was found. It was at this time the questions began. Name? Address? Do I live in the area? Can I see a picture ID?

The backup arrived at this time.

The Asian police officer, let’s call him Sam, spoke into a radio to “call it off”. He told me an anonymous caller tipped off the NYPD that he/she saw a man matching my description with a concealed gun. Somehow discussion of my “description” came up.

“Bald, white male, black jacket, khakis, mid-forties.” It was certainly a match, except...

“I’m thirty one!” I declared with mock disdain.

My wit had returned. Sam and Bruno chuckled and asked a few follow-ups like had I argued with anyone on the train, had anyone looked at me funny, etcetera. They told me the call had been placed only a minute and a half ago. Roughly the time it had taken for me to disembark the train and peruse the flowers.

I think it was a prank call. After a few more minutes the officers bid me goodbye, and apologized. I think they apologized. I remember telling them my heart was beating. I dumbly walked into the deli to buy flowers following my good cop/bad cop frisking.

I was a Clinton Hill folk hero for fifteen seconds as people in line quizzed me concerning what happened at the flower stand. An older black lady in a fashionable skirt and matching hat expressed surprise that they thought I had a gun. The Latina cashier told me the same thing happened to her cousin. I was still numb from the whole experience.

I’m still a little spooked by how quickly they had appeared from nowhere and cornered me in seconds.

Red Window

2006-05-08T08:53:00.000-04:00

I imagined myself peering from inside a glowing red bulb on a decorated Christmas tree. A lonely, gaily decorated cedar among a field of stark white trees powdered with December snow. Regardless of the time of year, it was always the holiday season in my jeweled jail on Penn Avenue.

I peered beyond my hued windows to the vast emptiness outside. I knew there existed locales beyond that empty field (bars, dinner, theatre, movies, friends, a social life, a dating life) but nothing in my strength could coax me to grip the doorknob and simply turn. Beyond the copse of trees there were eyes spying back at me.

The siren of too many glowing screens enchanted me oh so willingly. Lashed to my own mast, the fog swirled and her song kept me happily alone. My weekend's sole interaction: the cold repetition of my location to the Chinese girl answering the Mexican take-out hotline.

The shuffle of feet, the opening and closing of doors, comings and goings of roommates into the night, as I sat inside my genie's bottle waiting to be rubbed. My paranoia became my own mythology. Eager to grant wishes, yet panicked at the world outside my colorful pot, synonymous with bottle.

That was years ago. He was a different dandy. So I thought. Suddenly I sense those eyes peering back to me from outside the windows. High above the ground, a fourth floor flat, those phantoms float. My apartment is turning red. My safe space already splashed with so much red.

Too many distractions threaten to keep me inside, to keep me away from libations and forced conversations. Those ghostly eyes fixate on me as I quietly stand, like a museum’s armor in the corner of the bar.

“Is he angry? Why is he so quiet?”

Or as I try too hard…

“Is he a buffoon? Why is he laughing so loudly?”

That’s my voice speaking, however.

And though the gentlest soul, a soul I love and trust, has managed to coax me from my window, there are nights my chest physically vibrates from the anxiety and the tension as the clock strikes twelve and the night becomes morning and more and more I’m peering at the world through a hexagonal casement of melting ice-cubes, as much a prison as that paralyzing red window once was.

The anticipation of his weekend departure leaves me filled with trepidation. A weekend alone and I’m again prepared to chain my ankles, to lock myself in Hannibal’s cage and wheel myself onto my big green sofa, waiting for him to return and set me free. With the utmost sincerity, he’s asked his friends to take me out while he’s away.

I’m a puppy who needs walking…

Not a big deal, seriously. Much appreciated, but awkward, nonetheless. An act coming from kindness, but still awkward. Everything he does comes from kindness. I’m the one who perceives the awkwardness. No less awkward, I suppose, than cementing myself behind a wall of discarded pizza boxes for five days.

My Cask of Amontillado is a liter of Fresca. It is certainly easier to write fantasy instead of non-fiction: a simple tale about a man in his red window, unlocked and free, still unable to leave.

When Casey's Burned

2006-05-05T11:13:00.000-04:00

When Casey’s Food Store burned to the ground every resident of Cedartown had an opinion regarding who the pyromaniacs responsible were.

The assumed culprits were “the blacks”. For most larcenies in Cedartown, Georgia the go to villains were always “the blacks”. Even as a tween, I approached such racially fueled notions with skepticism. Why exactly would “the blacks” burn their own grocery store to the ground?

Casey’s Food Store was located on South College Street near the train tracks. It was the closest grocery store for both Cedartown’s African-American community as well as my own, "the country folk".

Thus as a suspicious member of "the country folk”, and a bit geeky, I was convinced “the grunge kids” had set fire to Caseys. The “grunge kids” wore black, were fans of Seattle rock music and smoked doobies behind the bowling alley. I never participated in any such misbehavior. My brother and I were too busy feeding quarters into the best video game ever, Gauntlet.

“Valkyrie needs food, badly!”

And of course "the Baptists" were convinced it was "Devil worshippers". Nothing happened without "the Baptists" blaming "Devil worshippers". Nowadays there's alot less random finger pointing in Cedartown. Everyone, regardless of race, class or religion, pretty much blames "the Mexicans" when things go awry.

Happy Cinco de Mayo, ya'll!

Who did the deed soon gave way to what was to be done with the resulting burned rubble. The only thing that mattered was the aftermath: Casey’s enormous clearance sale of the fire damaged food.

Nothing inspires a rural Southern community to join as one like a good ole-fashioned clearance sale.

All of Cedartown, the rich and, especially, the poor, descended on the smoking husk of that 60’s era grocery store for a half day of bargain price, blackened sundries. People of all races came together that morning to browse over the scorched edibles in the hopes of finding a pearl among the ashes.

Not much was salvageable. Despite that, my thrifty mommy procured eight cases of what came to define that enitre summer: TaB. The familiar pink cans were burned as black as tar.

I never drank TaB as a kid before that summer. Our neighbor, Monie Landrum, would drink TaB’s as she and my mom sunned at Johnson’s Lake Swimming Pool. For hours they’d slather on sunning lotion, smoke a carton Pall Malls and drink TaBs. This fact, combined with the pink can, instilled the instant impression that TaB was a girly cola. I never drank the stuff.

But now that lispy, lavender label was scorched the color of death. Also, many of the aluminum cans were bloated as though the contents had exploded due to the extreme heat.

Neither my brother or I had any concept of how the fire damaged diet soda should have tasted. Monie refused to taste test for us, no matter how hard we pleaded with soot covered hands and charcoal ringed mouths.

"No tellin' what that fire did. You gonna get cancer drinkin' that mess." Monie would warn between long drags of her Pall Malls.

The ashen residue over every can of TaB was the most pleasurable aspect of our fire-damaged summer beverage. Smudges of soot and coal coated everything a distended can of the blasted TaB neared. My brother and I, eager for a sugary fix would drink two or three and chase one another around the yard. We resembled a 1920’s flicker film about Africa, tossing bamboo spears with our blackened faces and hands.

Only recently I told my mom how much I had loved that summer with the burnt TaBs; how neat they were. She told us how embarrassed she had been buying the second hand soft drinks. It was all she could afford at the time.

They never caught who burned down Casey’s.

Consequences

2006-05-04T08:10:00.000-04:00

To read Part Three.

I had been too late to stop the Kinachi assassin from firing on JFK's motorcade. My final desperate lunge came up several feet short. There wasn't enough time. I wilted to my knees. Ahead of me lay the discarded shell casing and the prone body of the fourth assassin. He was slumped on his side. Electricity crackled from a jagged gash through it's metallic spinal structure.

Behind its crumpled form stood a pair of familiar leather shoes and brown khakis. My eyes trailed up the pressed, short sleeve button down and to a face I knew very well, my own, the Handler.

Consider the temporal universe as an infinite number of highways running side by side, but never crossing. For the most part the highways are identical. Occassionally one car will be of a differnt color or a traffic jam will clog up several lanes in one, but not the others. My job is to traverse my "highway" backwards and forwards cleaning up roadblocks and fixing flats, so to speak. That's the easy part, travelling backwards and forwards.

The hard part is crossing from highway to highway. Its rarely done, only as a last ditch effort to save a failed mission involving outside influence. Doing so requires a tremendous amount of resources and results in a timestream bereft of a Handler. There is no going back from where you crossed.

The Handler was holding an ion dagger. He still glowed green from his emergency cross-jump. My clone regarded me disdainfully. A hole marred the wall above the window, that history-changing bullet lodged in red brick.

“You failed in your task Handler.” He admonished me.

“I wasn’t fast enough Handler. I’m sorry. Please don’t.” Marilyn lumbered to my side. He put his mammoth hand on my back and gently kept me from standing. I shuddered with his touch. I could feel his breath on my neck.

“You know I must. You have cleaned up an alternate's mess on one occassion in this timeline just as I'm cleaning up your's now. This comes with the job.”

The cheering continued outside. The thirty-fifth President of the United States had been saved, but not by my hand. He was saved at a tremendous cost by one of my many alternates. Or was I his alternate? For so long, time had little meaning. After a century of patrol I had forgotten that a few seconds can take everything away.

"I'm sorry Handler." He regarded me with apologetic eyes, “Marilyn. Maneuver Delta Echo Delta.”

In one quick motion Marilyn snapped the failed Handler’s neck.

In my submitted field notes, I remarked that the Handler before me served his timestream proudly for one hundred and eight years. He was an inspiring leader to his animal agents and during his term of service saved forty seven temporal dignitaries from certain assassination.

It was with great respect that I time-tossed his corpse to Handler Prime for a hero's cremation. The Kinachi bots were sent as well. Oswald's body was arranged to appear as though his death was a suicide. How exactly he cut his throat with a rifle will be left to this era's conspiracy theorists. The Handler before's report regarding the First Lady's uncanny prescience will be of interesting note for our temporal researchers. I included it for review as well.

On a personal note: adjusting to this new timestream will be difficult at first. The nostalgia-wave resulting from an emergency cross-jump can be disorienting, to say the least. In this job, nostalgia is a curious condition.

How does one know that for which we’re nostalgic even really existed?

Marilyn Monroe and I had no time for such philosophical notions as my chronometer began to beep. The display read July 13, 1793, France, Jean-Paul Marat.

“Ah. The French Revolution! Marilyn, how do you feel about a corset?” My gorilla comrade roared approvingly as we leapt into the green glow of our next mission.

The End.

Or was it the Beginning?

Second Thoughts

2006-05-03T08:05:00.000-04:00

To read part two.

Now was the time for fists. The interior room of the dusty book depository imploded as Marilyn Monroe ripped through the locked steel doors; the chain and padlock security might as well been made of dental floss when matched against Marilyn Monroe's brute strength.

“Quickly! To the sixth floor, eastern side!” Marilyn roared and charged up the stairs. I followed behind calibrating my chronometer to allow for a proper transition from the established timeline into an alternate temporal reality. Assuming we get to Oswald in time. Only four minutes remained. This was going to be close.

Missions of this magnitude always are.

As I dashed up the stairwell I could hear the roar of the crowd outside. The frenzy of cheers confirmed my worst fear: the Presidential limo was on its way toward the corner of Houston and Elm street. My thighs burned as we made it to the sixth floor. Images of the First Lady scrambling backwards, grabbing parts of her husband's head rushed through my mind. No.

Those were ghost images. The temporal reality was resisting change. History actually prefers to repeat itself.

I concentrated on the stairwell and did a quick scan with my chronometer. A heat signature registered behind the wall. “Marilyn! Manuever Alpha, Gamma, Echo!”

Marilyn rolled into a compact tumble and using his immense body weight slammed a gaping hole straight through the warehouse wall. As the dust and plaster settled, I saw a body firmly beneath the gorilla’s massive feet. It was would-be assassin Lee Harvey Oswald.

And he was dead!

“Marilyn, you killed him! That wasn’t part of the plan.” Marilyn howled in defiance. I looked closer. His throat was slashed. It was a fresh kill. This mission was going to be tougher than I had anticipated. “Marlyn! Prepare for incoming!”

Perhaps mankind has more instinct than I sometimes give credit. Marilyn and I immediately assumed combat stances back to back as we were assaulted by a trio of robot-ninjas!

“Handler…this…timeline…will…not…be…saved!”

This spinning android assassin thrust its katana arms in my direction as I deftly deflected the blades with a found biology textbook. In my periphery, a robot ninja with a high powered rifle took aim out the window and waited for the perfect angle for a precision kill.

You see. Changing timelines is a dangerous business. Not only does time itself try to fight you, but there are many players in the temporal game with invested interest in how mankind's future turns out. The Kinachi Robot Ninja Clan is but one of humanity's persistent enemies. For Empress Kinachi to dispatch four assassins was as much an honor as it was a royal pain in my ass.

I needed more than a text book for defense. The robot ninja caught me in the jaw with an aluminum roundhouse kick. I rolled backwards with the kick's momentum into a squatting position and tossed a magnaton marble. Even the robot's hyper processed reactivity matrix couldn’t adjust fast enough to save it from the marble's detonation. The electric explosion filled a precise radius of one foot and caught the ninjabot square in its chest leaving a gaping hole of sizzling circuitry. The ninja robot collapsed inward. My jaw would certainly have a bruise in the morning.

The iconic image of JFK Jr. saluting his father's casket flooded my senses. I felt dizzy. Ghost images. I took a deep breath and staggered to my feet. I had to focus on the mission.

“Marilyn, you ok?” I glanced over to see Marilyn. His white satin gown was shredded to ribbons. He gripped the crackling, inert forms of two ninja robots in its beefy hands and smashed their heads together like beer cans. Marilyn roared in triumph.

“Good boy!”

I dashed toward the final assassin who held the rifle. The din of the crowd below the depository was deafening. John Fitzgerald Kennedy's motorcade was in position. The alarm on my chronometer beeped. It was 12:30!

“You…are…too…late…Handler!” The emotionless robot ninja seemed to mock me.

Indeed. I was too late.

With an expansive forty feet between myself and the final assassin, I watched helplessly as the assassin's trigger finger flexed. A sudden green flash filled the sixth floor room. The assault rifle fired one shot. The delicate tinkle-bell of the shell casing hitting the plywood floor seemed much louder than the explosive bang of the firearm.

I had failed my mission.

To be continued...

Pre-hysterical!

2006-05-02T14:24:00.000-04:00

To lessen the gravitas of my four part, time-travelling, cross dressing gorilla, sci-fi/espionage novella, I offer the following brief interlude:

What dinosaur are you?!

I'm an iguanodon. How lame is that?

Pink Pill Box

2006-05-02T08:23:00.000-04:00

To read part one.

Marilyn and I were in Dallas, Texas on that fateful day, November 22nd 1963 to save a man's life, but not just any life. We were there to save the President’s life; President John Fitzgerald Kennedy.

As we dashed further away from the crowded parade route and towards the infamous Texas School Book Depository, my mind recounted the dead end which had led us to these perilous seven minutes counting down to history.

Earlier that morning we had attempted to gain entry into Fort Worth’s Hotel Texas. The President and the First Lady were enjoying a chamber of commerce breakfast following a speech in the adjacent town square. If Marilyn Monroe could create a media frenzy at the breakfast, perhaps the disturbance would cause the President's ensuing Dallas trip to be delayed. We could sufficiently reroute the timestream without resorting to violence.

No such luck.

Marilyn and I padded quietly, as quietly as a mountain gorilla can, across the service parking lot towards the delivery bays. We were almost there when the grey door opened and a silhouette in bright pink stood before us. It was Jackie Kennedy, and she was alone.

From my vantage point she resembled a cherry blossom fallen on a vast concrete sidewalk.

“And what are you doing here, you pill popping harlot? Here to destroy my husband's presidency? Here to terrorize my children? Here to ruin my life?!” Jackie Kennedy wasted no time screaming accusations at the blonde-bombshell-undercover-gorilla-agent.

Marilyn Monroe lumbered forward menacingly. His gorilla's arms pulled the door from its hinges. He hurled it behind him, almost hitting me. Jackie Kennedy stepped in front of Marilyn, unconvinced of the starlet's strength.

I had to act fast to stop the ensuing pummeling. “I’m sorry First Lady, but we’re here to see the President, not you.”

I stated the fact with calm urgency.

“Neither of you are welcome. Especially not her. Please leave. Or I’ll have to remove you myself.”

Marilyn bristled at the challenge, his silver back fur stood on end completely burying his opalescent pearl necklace. A low growl rumbled from deep inside Marilyn's chest.

The First Lady blushed the same hue as her iconic pink suit and matching pill box hat. She pursed her lips. Her narrow eyes squinted as she scrutinized Marilyn's simian face. Had she sensed something was amiss? Blowing Marilyn's cover would result in failure.

“Marilyn! Down!” I hissed and pulled the gargantuan beast back to my side.

“OK First Lady. You win this round. But we won’t give up trying to contact the President.”

Jackie Kennedy disappeared from the doorway, as though in a slight daze. She was promptly replaced by two secret service agents. Their identical suits seemed to morph together forming a wall of navy pinstripes topped by two heads. Our opportunities to delay the Presidential motorcade indirectly were exhausted.

Marilyn and I sat out of view to determine our next course of action. A light drizzle misted the crumpled leaves on the pavement. The silver-back directed his soulful, brown eyes towards me.

I scolded in return, “Don’t you give me that look. Sometimes words succeed where fists don’t, Marilyn.”

Inwardly, however, I admonished myself. As the Handler I know better than to second guess my animal friend's instinctive choices. But I resorted to intellect. I had to. Sure, punching Jackie Kennedy would have delayed the motorcade, but part of our job includes subterfuge. Absolutely no one can know we exist.

The First Lady had sensed something was amiss. She was obviously relinquishing her torpor. I couldn't risk her seeing Marilyn's true form. I also wondered how she knew we would arrive at that particular door. Curious.

Nonetheless, I concluded we should immediately make our way to Dallas. Now was the time for animal instinct. Marilyn Monroe and I would take the fight to JFK's would-be assassin!

To be continued...

Gold! I Tell Ya! Gold!

2006-05-01T07:14:00.000-04:00

Preamble: What originally was a tiny paragraph, based on a silly notion, suddenly became a four part opus.

My chronometer read 12:22. We were running late!

Marilyn Monroe and I pushed our way through the throngs of cheering Texans, most of whom dumbly stared as the star of Some Like It Hot sent the crowd flying on their flabby keisters. I hated to rely on shoving, but the future of the United States, nay, of the world, teetered in the balance, and we only had a scant eight minutes to change a great man's fate.

“Holy cow. I think that was Marilyn Monroe!” a lady in a pointed beehive gasped from alongside the parade route.

“She sure has got some hairy arms.” offered a man with a thick Texas drawl.

We’d made it this far in our mission without the civilians catching on to our deception. I was actually quite surprised. On such a drizzly November morning, I had expected Marilyn's makeup to have washed away hours ago.

My associate wasn’t actually the movie star everyone thought “she” was. Marilyn Monroe was actually a 5 foot 6, 400 pound, silverback mountain gorilla disguised as Marilyn Monroe.

An improperly disguised animal companion can ruin a mission from the very start. I thought we had failed when we disembarked our airplane and Marilyn immediately began thumping his chest and tossing waste at a bomb-sniffing German Shepherd.

In my line of work there is a harsh penalty for failure.

Luckily, “celebrity” carried a different weight in 1963 than it does in the 2000's. The guards at the airport ignored Ms. Monroe's quirkiness when I, as her “publicist”, told them the sex symbol’s nervous exhaustion from a recent coo-ing tour had prompted her misbehavior. Fortunately, the fools bought it. Unfortunately, the misunderstanding had cost us critical minutes. If I've learned one thing from this job its to always view the glass as half empty. That and women's wigs were never designed to be worn by gorillas.

“Marilyn, adjust your hair!”

I was thankful for my rugby legs as I charged ahead of the lumbering gorilla. He pulled the golden wig into place over his tiny ears and followed behind me. The Texas School Book Depository loomed ahead of us.

A glint of metal was barely visible in the sixth floor window. I ran faster.

Instinct: it’s the tangible that separates the beasts from mankind. Geese migrate because of instinct. The cheetah hunts because of instinct. Even the platypus does stuff because of instinct. Instinct keeps the animals humble.

Mankind has no instinct. Our intellect changes us. With every generation intellect makes us weaker and weaker. As we move further away from our animal natures, we become more dependent on technology; the world of man, the world of intellect. Great men die because of intellect and the power that corrupts them.

Instinct will keep animals here for many millennia long after mankind destroys itself. Trust me. I've already seen humanity's fate. And it really, really sucks.

You see. There are crucial points in mankind’s thread where a little outside assistance is needed to straighten things out. Think of it as a knot. Well that’s where I come in. I’m the guy who unties those knots with the help of my time-traveling, animal friends dressed as cultural icons.

I am the Handler!

To be continued...

Ghost Writer

2006-04-28T11:42:00.000-04:00

With so many fans now, thanks to Joe.My.God's sterling endorsement of my kitten billboard, I am certain to crack under the pressure of power blogging. I don't know how such luminaries do it, day after day, month after month!

My bar graph spiked. I was overjoyed and utterly terrified! I wept at my typewriter last night. I sat and stared at the keys. A chill wind blew in through my open window. My scented candle flickered. I saw a shadow dart up the wall. It was then a key clicked and black ink struck the paper:

N

And more.

E

And more. My hands were on my lap and the keys were moving!

I L :

And even more!!

T H I S I S T H E G H O S T O F B L O G G E R S P A S T !

I screamed!!! The words typed themselves! I gulped my Makers and soda and shrieked again as the keys moved themselves again.

W H A T A R E Y O U G O I N G T O W R I T E A B O U T T O N I G H T ?

I screamed again and rolled away from my desk. Still the keys continued clicking rhythmically, like a funeral drum!

P E R H A P S Y O U C O U L D W R I T E A B O U T A C H I L D H O O D M E M O R Y ?

I howled in terror and threw myself to the floor in a fetal position!

O H R E M E M B E R W H E N Y O U R L I T T L E B R O T H E R F E L L O U T O F T H E C A R ? T H A T W A S S C A I R Y A N D S T I L L F U N N Y .

I pulled at my hair and wept. My typewriter was possessed by a malevolent entity! Oh gloom and doom? How did this horror creep into my world?!

Y O U S A W A T R A N S E X U A L O N T H E T R A I N B E F O R E R U G B Y . T H O S E A R E A L W A Y S F U N S T O R I E S .

No! I gathered myself from my sobbing pile and clawed my way into the kitchen. I opened a drawer and frantically found a butcher knife!

H O W A B O U T L A S T N I G H T W H E N Y O U C R O S S E D T H E S T R E E T W H E N A Y O U N G M A N O F A D I F F E R E N T R A C E W A S A P P R O A C H I N G Y O U ? W A S T H A T D U E T O A N A C T U A L S A F E T Y C O N C E R N O R P E R H A P S S O M E S O R T O F I N T E R N A L I Z E D S T E R E O T Y P E ?

Tears continued to fall down my cheeks as I grasped the butcher knife firmly by the handle ... and began to slice onions for a lovely avocado and apricot salad. And still the typewriter clicked away independent of me. It was getting kind of annoying by now actually.

O H ! I G O T I T L O L ! Y O U S H O U L D W R I T E A B O U T H O W Y O U S O M E T I M E S F E E L A L I T T L E C O N N E C T E D A T T H E H I P I N Y O U R R E L A T I O N S H I P W I T H B R Y C E . I M S U R E H E W O U L D N T M I N D . H E H A S E X P R E S S E D T H E S A M E T O Y O U .

I nibbled my salad and reviewed Ghost Blogger of the Past’s last suggestion. “Oh whatever Casper. Do you think I’d bring up crap like that on this public forum? There’s enough lesbian jokes and what not about our relationship. I don’t need to give Foxy anymore fodder.”

N O N E E D T O G E T U G L Y . W E A R E B R A I N S T O R M I N G H E R E .

“Ok. Sorry. Hey by the way, you misspelled scary up above. There’s no I in it. And all caps is really hard to read.”

D O Y O U H A V E A N Y I D E A H O W F U C K I N G H A R D I T I S T O B L O G F R O M B E Y O N D T H E G R A V E ?

“Geez. Sorry! You’re a real jerk.”

F O R G E T T H I S . T H E R E A R E S O M A N Y O T H E R B L O G G E R S W H O D E S E R V E M Y H E L P M O R E T H A N Y O U .

“Hey! I said I’m sorry Ghost Blogger of the Past. Cut me some slack. I’m drunk and all I have for dinner is salad.”

O K .

“So what is Heaven like?”

Y O U A S S U M E T O O M U C H M O R T A L .

I flipped channels from my desk watching the television in the living room. “Oh, so you’re in Hell I guess?”

F O R E T E R N I T Y .

“That sucks. So this is your punishment? Helping bloggers come up with creative ideas for posts?” I finished my salad and put the bowl in the sink for Bryce to wash, “So what’s Satan look like?”

R E D G U Y H O R N S G O A T S F E E T .

“That’s not very creative.”

G U E S S N O T .

L I S T E N M A Y B E I S H O U L D G O . I G O T S O M E O T H E R B L O G S T O W R I T E . . .

“Oh, ok. I guess. Well, thanks Ghost Blogger of the Past. Maybe I’ll use some of your ideas. I was going to write about a gorilla that dresses like Marilyn Monroe and helps me prevent the assassination of JFK.

T H A T S O U N D S R E A L L Y D U M B .

“Goodbye. Thanks again.”

And that was it. True story.

Secretary of Offense

2006-04-27T10:29:00.000-04:00

My personal assistant Daphne is the surliest young woman I’ve ever met. She’s brash, hard-headed and rude. Nonetheless, she gets me what I want, when I want it. Therefore, I’m grateful of her service, even if it comes hand-in-hand with “yeah, whatever, stupid sissy.”

Hooray for National Secretary's Day! I so love a made up holiday, none more so than National Secretary's Day.

This holiday, started in 1952. is an opportunity for a boss to impress his help with gift certificates to Applebee’s or wilted bouquets of perfumed petunias or imported truffles. However, as advised by my deceased secretary, Annabelle, chocolates are never a welcomed gift, not so much due to the calories, but because of the unspoken assumption that the recipient must share her coveted chocolates with the other secretaries; the pitied ones with stingy bosses who weren’t so lucky and received nothing.

Therefore in selecting a suitable gift for my petulant assistant I immediately ruled out all edibles, say a giant, frosted cookie or a platter of hot wings with celery. I considered a gift card; perhaps an iTunes prepaid card or a gift certificate for an electronics store? Unfortunately, Daphne’s barbaric bluster stomps well into her use of modern day wireless devices. She often strikes me as a Luddite in the way she mangles the Blackberry I bought her. She has no computer skills, therefore a gift of such technology seemed an ill decision.

Perhaps jewelry? No. This too would be a bad choice for crude Daphne. I don’t even believe the girl has pierced ears (much less anything else). The only sparkle ever to grace her scowl was on the High Holy Day of the Feynastra del Cuombo (it’s a fairy thing). I traipsed into my PR firm and blessed Daphne with a fist full of silver glitter. Little did I know Daphne has a rare mental illness in which she scratches herself violently should things touch her skin! I tried to wash her down with my Fresca to no avail. Daphne refused to get my dry cleaning for an entire week. Nor did she appreciate (completely with good intentions) my mummy jokes.

Q: How do you know King Tut is afraid?
A: He cries for his mummy!

With gemstones and food marked off my list, I was at a loss considering what a modern-day city gal would want for National Secretary’s Day. That is until I watched the Style Network and it occurred to me. I would buy her a makeover at one of New York’s finest salons!

I asked Daphne to compile a list of New York’s finest salons. I stressed New York’s finest salons when I asked her. I also winked at her. I think she knew what I was up to because she rolled her eyes and replied, “ugh.”

I visited several Salons yesterday. I’ve never felt so buffed and scrubbed. After six hours of commuting from pedicure to facial to aura cleansing, I decided that the Pilo Arts Day Spa and Salon (in Brooklyn) was the nicest choice for my quirky secretary. And so I bought a full day’s treatment for her and presented it this morning. And can you believe her response?

Daphne yelled at me, “Administrative Professional’s Day was yesterday you ninny!” I was aghast! I looked down the line of secretary's desks and sure enough, all of them were covered with flowers and jewelry and hot wings, and there on Daphne’s desk was an assortment of scavenged sweets and a plucked rose from a generous colleague's radiant bouquet.

I felt absolutely terrible. I immediately gave Daphne the day off to enjoy her spa treatment, after asking her to pick up a few groceries for my dinner this evening.

Who are you?

2006-04-26T09:16:00.000-04:00

I am Sahara Sunsabre. I am a 49th level warrior-priestess and leader of the Falcon Guild in the nation of Fylledria. I am the fairest of races, the Fire Elves. My people have defended these enchanted forests from the vile Serpentes Hoardes for three millennia. I vow to personally slay their wicked leader, Ssslitheron by my own mystikal blade. I’m so hot. I’m totally stacked too. I love my bikini plate mail armor. And I have some killer combos. I have nineteen costume-mods too. More than anyone I know. One with purple hair going all the way down my back. Been busy grinding out a new sword enchantment. Not fighting many Ssserpents today.

I am Tyler Sneed. I’m 35 and divorced. I’m dating, well seeing, a girl named Mandy. She’s pretty nice. I think on Sunday we’re gonna go on a movie date, something romantic. I also have a daughter, her name is Princess Diana. Everyone always asks, “You named her after Princess Di? That’s so nice.” Duh. Yes, she’s named after a Princess Diana, but not the British one. Geez. My Princess Diana is Amazonian. She’s named after Wonder Woman. Duh! She’s in my bedroom eating her breakfast. I went to Mickey D’s this morning and then played some Sword Quest Online. I play a sweet elf chick. Hopefully I can upgrade her sword this morning. I have this blog about her and make little web movies starring Sahara killing stuff. I get ok hits, nothing big. Whatelse? Oh, yeah, I totally want to see that new horror film about the little girl with no mouth on Sunday. I think Mandy will like it. What’s it called?

I am "Princess" Diana Sneed and I am nine and a half. Why thank you all for coming to my breakfast. Miss Betsy Wetsy don’t spill your tea. And Mr. Beary Tuggins, you seem beary cross this morning. Would you like some of my hashbrown Mr. Beary Tuggins? Ding-Dong! Why everyone, we have another guest arriving. Hello Frogshow, welcome to my tea party. Would you like juice? I wish daddy would come for tea. Frogshow, you brought biscuits! How delightful.

I am Beary Tuggins and it’s a beary stupid frickin day! I’m trapped at this beary stupid tea party with her royal dimwit and the bladder-challenged Betsy and (lucky me) Mr. Show Business Frog himself managed to get here late and he’s got cookies. How beary thoughtful of him. Show-off. Jesus! Every single day we have a frckin’ tea party. Why can’t we go to the park or maybe even a ride in the car? She takes Betsy everywhere and all I hear about is how beary beautiful everything is and how bad she’s got to take a pee. I’m sick of this! I’m feeling beary, beary anxious. I want to rip my stuffing out. But that wouldn’t be beary polite for such a social gathering I suppose. Man I need a cigarette, but I’d probably go up in flames. “Made in America” my fuzzy ass! Maybe I should start drinking rum.

I am Jiang Li Ju. I am 68. I am staying at a hospice in Tsim Sha Tsui in Hong Kong. I will die here. My son, Jan, is 36. He is a successful businessman, perhaps too successful to visit his dying mother. I am hopeful, however, that he will see it fit to come to this area of the city. I know he is ashamed. Cough. Cough. I ring for the nurse, but she won’t stop by. She’s too busy with the others. So many workers. Cough. All of us are infected, our lungs mainly, by the chemicals rinsed through the fibers. Funny. The chemical to make the toys safe for the American children is what made us so ill. My name means River Chrysanthemum. My mother told me when she was expecting me, her family visited the pandas, along the Pearl River. There were Chrysanthemums in bloom. It was spring. The thought of Pandas, any bears actually, makes me cry now.

You don’t know who I am? You obviously don’t follow fashion. I’m Jan. I'm 26 and I’m the hottest new designer to hit the Hong Kong runways. I’ve had all the top models in my couture, Kiki, Elyse, Sun-Ji, everyone who is it on the HK scene. My styles are tight. So my new line, like, imagine Elves. Elfen warrior girls with big hair and thigh high boots and big collars and puffy sleeves. That’s it. Colors everywhere. Flatten the trim on the boots! Attitude and magic and, wow I’m overcome by my vision. The show is in fifteen minutes and everything is total chaos. You get up there and make sure the spot is ready! I’m excited. My muse? She’s huge here and some fatso doesn’t even realize it, Sahara Sunsabre. Her angles, her lines and her poses, she’s incredible. I want to weep she’s so beautiful. Digital is now the only influence of the world of the material. Jan is at the forefront of the revolution. I said bigger hair!

Meow

2006-04-25T14:11:00.000-04:00

Poulet Tart sur le Pot

2006-04-24T22:22:00.000-04:00

At Issue: Bears!

2006-04-21T11:40:00.000-04:00

At long last, H/X magazine has tossed us bears a bone. The first ever bear issue. In addition to my weekly astrology column, in this issue you'll find my charmingly critical review of New York City's best bear bars. But you'll have to get a copy and read it yourself, because the website only hosts their feature articles.

Also included is a preview of the quickly approaching Bingham Cup. In one month this city will be jam packed with gay ruggers from around the world. I expect all of you to root for the Gotham Knights. You can have your pick of our competition once the tournament is done.

Also, check out Bryce and I. We're listed #3 in the top ten of Manhattan's influential "power bears". Just kidding.

Yay! Now that I have hairy man-flesh on my site, maybe I'll start getting hits. Hairy Manflesh is the best name ever for a bear porn star.

And so there is no confusion, that is not me on the cover. Stop asking!

Cinematic Arrest

2006-04-21T10:31:00.000-04:00

I refuse to see Mission Impossible 3. Why? Cause of him. But not because of Philip Seymour Hoffman, who is playing the movie's villain and certainly not because of J.J. Abrams who is the director. Abrams is also set to direct the next Star Trek installment which will focus on Kirk and Spock at Starfleet Academy. I hope they make out. I hope Nnenna from America's Next Top Model plays young Uhura. I hope Joss Whedon casts Kate Beckinsale as young Wonder Woman. Who will play young Gayest Neil in my 2009 film biography, Myth, Mirth and Murder: the Legend of a Dandy? (Title pending actual homicide.)

Yikes! Uhmm? Sheesh. Woof. No. Sure.

Back to MI:3. I'm bummed out that these quality entertainers are attached to his movie. I'd watch Phillip Seymour Hoffman read a grocery list, nude. I've been of fan of J.J. Abrams since Sydney slapped on her first wig, even though Alias has lost my dedicated viewing, I've found a new J.J. addiction in the series Lost. Matthew Fox's nickname is (alledgedly) "pendulum" on the set. Drooooooooooooool.

Speaking of Alias, the stop animation series Robot Chicken did a hilarioius parody of the spy thriller with a short bit titled Whalias. In it Sydney Bristow is a killer whale wearing an evening gown and purple wig. Just like the series, she's a kung-fu fighting super spy. Killer whale indeed.

I love links.

So yeah, I'm boycotting Mission Impossible 3. Hand me a giant pacifier, I'm done.

Gay Family, Part Two

2006-04-17T10:15:00.000-04:00

Jesus Christ ambled slowly from the darkness of his sepulcher into the blinding light of the daytime sky. The women who had been there to anoint his corpse fell to their knees and began to weep and pray to God. Jesus took teetering steps in his worn, leather Hushpuppies. More villagers came running up the dusty hill to meet their Savior; and quickly dropped in prayer, speechless. Why would no one meet Jesus’ benevolent gaze? Oh. He was dressed like a little schoolboy in a blue and white cap, matching rugby tie, Sunday whites and short shorts with woolen socks pulled up to his knees. Wow. Jesus felt like such a royal asshole.

As did I, at a scant twenty-one years of age, in my petit ecolier ensemble, stepping from the darkness of that White House holding cell and into the orange glare of late afternoon, Easter 1995, liberated from the Secret Service and my four day “adoption” by bossy Ernesto and emotional Chance, my two gay “dads”.

“Hey little guy, maybe we’ll meet the President. You’d like that, huh? I brought your favorite baseball. Maybe he’ll sign it and… where’s my Sharpie? Ernie did you bring the Sharpie?” Chance began searching frantically through the pockets of his vest and the glove box. His voice pitched higher and higher as he couldn’t find the permanent marker.

“I don’t have your damn pen. Clinton won’t be there anyways. It’s just an Easter egg hunt.” Ernesto had a knack for cutting to the chase and crushing all optimism.

“Roll. It’s an Easter egg roll. And Clinton will too be there. He’s going to welcome all us gay families as an example of his administration’s promise to celebrate America’s diversity. It’s going to be so beautiful.” Chance bit his knuckle and gazed out the minivan's shaded window smiling … and … actually he held it together. His eyes got watery, but he didn’t cry.

I sat in the backseat tediously leafing through a colorful edition of “The Little Train that Could” and munching on animal crackers. Occasionally I coughed on Ernesto’s cloying cigar smoke. I wanted to ask are we there yet?, but didn’t wish to encourage the familial façade any further. After the egg roll I’d be heading home on the first Greyhound I could find. Well, once I was out of my little schoolboy uniform.

“Ok. We’re here.” The minivan veered to the left and sidled adjacent to a Secret Service checkpoint. Ernesto placed a colorful egg placard on our dashboard and we followed a winding concrete drive toward the south lawn of the White House. Already the guest parking was jammed with minivans and families. Tiny girls in frilly pink dresses and little boys dressed in corduroy and bow ties were already lining up for the annual Easter event.

Great. Not only was I dressed like a loser, I wasn’t even wearing the correct “drag”. This whole outing was doomed from the start.

“Neil, did you put sunscreen on? Let’s get the camera. Oh, did we bring the frozen water bottles?” The three of us gathered our belongings and began walking towards the iconic front lawn, towards the other families, when four imposing men in black suits and matching sunglasses stepped in our path. Twisting white ear buds gave away their identity.

“I’m sorry gentlemen, may I help you.” A mustached agent delivered his question as a statement, not a question.

“Yes. We’re a GAY family and we’re here for the annual Eas—“

Chance had no time to cry, much less finish his reply as all three of us were grabbed by our elbows and quickly, discretely, pulled out of sight and into a Secret Service holding stockade. As we were lead away, I could see agents searching the minivan. One of them placed a Sharpie into a plastic baggie and handed it to his colleague.

The hours passed. One by one we were taken into a separate area for an interrogation. Turns out the Secret Service believed we were radicals there to disrupt the proceedings and make a political statement. Little did they know Ernesto and Chance didn’t have the wherewithal to plan a picnic, much less take down the White House on the day of Christ’s resurrection.

And so we sat in silence; silence punctuated by fits of hysterical sobbing. With no cigars, Ernesto became jittery. It’s amazing the secrets you learn about people when held for questions by the Secret Service. Turns out Ernie had some shady international connections and was facing possible deportation. Chance had $800 in delinquent parking tickets and was facing a night in jail. With no fathers, falsely adopted, but otherwise vindicated of being a political activist, I was free to go.

The mustached agent held the reinforced glass door open for me to leave. I stood to exit, then paused. I turned back towards my “dads”. For four days, regardless of what the White House (or America) may think, we were a family; a family like any other, with good times and bad.

A wave of memories washed over me: Chance monogramming a dinner bib with G.N., Ernesto scolding me because his black boots weren’t polished brightly enough, the first time Chance cried over nothing and I thought it was kind of weird, the amusing way Ernesto berated Chance that he was lucky he had him because Chance was a basket-case and couldn’t get anyone else.

Ernesto had an uncommon softness in his eyes as he stared at me. Chance wept quietly and avoided my gaze. I bit my lip. I wouldn’t cry. They deserved better than that.

“Will you guys mail me my shit?” And I left. For fourteen hours, in short shorts and stockings I rode the bus home and replayed the day’s events in my mind. As the bus rolled into Athens, safely home, I vowed to never again speak of that bizarre long weekend.

I’m not certain why I've broken my silence. Perhaps a recent paternal rumbling of my own has sparked my springtime nostalgia. Paternal rumbling, you ask? Yes dear readers. Yes, indeed.

Bryce and I have decided... We’re adopting a kitten.

Gay Family. Part One

2006-04-13T12:51:00.000-04:00

I skipped to the train this morning filled with a peculiar optimism. Have I finally shaken off my funk as of late? Along the route I inhaled the floral fragrances of the lovely trees decorated with fresh white bouquets on every limb. I strolled beneath the branches and refused to break into my customary dash, even as the C train’s rumble could be heard approaching down the block.

No treacherous cavern of metal gates and greasy, morning commuters would dare steal my enchanted state. I was lost in a moment of open air, of the day's first rays of sunshine, of white cherry blossoms and a long forgotten memory of my two gay “dads”, Easter 1995, and being arrested at the White House.

During this time, Easter 1995, I was being raised as a kept “boy” by a Maryland couple, Ernesto and Chance. Ernesto was a swarthy, Mediterranean muscle man. He was 41 and had been partnered with Chance, 34, for three years. I had responded to their online ad seeking to adopt an adult “son”. Well being twenty one and a struggling Haiku student, I thought the world was full of possibility. I'd hop a bus to Maryland. Get to know these guys, move in and begin classes at the Maya Angelou Poet's Academy, recently opened following her moving words during Clinton's innaguration.

I hopped on a bus to Maryland. Met them at a lovely lesbian, organic coffee shop in Takoma Park, The Nut Grinder. We chatted for fifteen minutes, and they adopted me right there. I moved in with them the same day.

The situation was awkward from the very beginning. Chance, who enjoyed the role of good “dad”, wanted to spoil me, lavish me with clothing, cd’s and fitness magazines. Ernesto (strict “dad”) would have nothing of the sort. I was to wear a little white t-shirt and rugby shorts and cut cigars for him. Ernesto also demanded I say "please, sir" following any request. He was a partner at his lobbying firm and was accustomed to having his requests met, always. So annoying.

Sleeping in my race car bed, I’d pull my stuffed dinosaurs around my head to block the piteous sobbing of poor Chance as my two “fathers” argued regarding the proper way to raise me.

“You spoil him!” Ernesto would bellow, his thickly accented voice echoing through the walls of their (our?) suburban townhouse.

“But he’s my son too!” Chance would cry and cry. He was kind of a pussy, I guess. I journaled my feelings that night. My hairy feet hung over the front bumper of that tiny racing car bed while my emotions poured into my worn diary:

One father’s Ernest pain
Took a Chance on springtime sighs
Shadows stab my heart!

Well, after our third day as fathers and son, I began to seriously reconsider this whole “moving 600 miles away to be the "son" of two emotionally unbalanced leather daddies” thing. This epiphany arrived as Chance was making chocolate chip, banana pancakes with whipped cream and chocolate sauce and Ernesto said I only be allowed to have cream of fucking wheat; not even with cinnamon!

I furiously pouted as I clipped Ernesto another cigar.

Mind you, dear readers, I understood the situation into which I had willingly placed myself. Also, I absolutely was not some sort of sex slave. Such base behavior was never expected, or asked, of me. I had my bus ticket home, and planned on using it should the bizarre familial situation grow any more hostile.

Haiku was my muse. My obligations were to her, not the paternal affections of two middle-aged sissies. I ate the cruel cream of wheat and asked to be dismissed to my room. Please, sir.

An hour later Ernesto and Chance came to my room. I looked up from my Magic the Gathering trading cards. Chance’s puffy green eyes indicated he’d been crying, again. Ernesto held a single, foil wrapped, chocolate egg.

“My son, tomorrow we are treating you to a very special day.” Ernesto handed me the peace offering.

“Can you guess what we’re doing, little guy?” Chance, the ever eager parent, dropped to one knee so we were at eye level. I imagined shoving that chocolate orb into his ridiculous, smiling face. But I couldn't bear to hear him cry anymore.

“I don’t know. Can I just, like, read? ... Please, sir.” I cut my eyes up at Ernesto.

Ernesto gruffly admonished me, “Don’t talk to your father that way!”

This sucked. “I don’t know. Going to the zoo? See a movie? It’s Easter, what’s going to be open?”

Chance began crying tears of joy. “We’re going to the White House Easter Egg Roll. And we’re doing it as a gay family!”

Oh shit.

To be continued…

New Links!

2006-04-12T09:46:00.000-04:00

Finally, some house cleaning on this dusty, digital diary. I've added links to a few of my newest (favoritest) daily reads:

Me love all you blogs long time!