That Was Easy

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

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

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

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

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

Nerd Alert ... Total Nerd Alert

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...

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

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

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

Sanchez Moi

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!

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.