I heart Elyse Sewell.
Then:
Now:
February 06, 2007
January 30, 2007
From Hero to Zero
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.
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.
January 29, 2007
No Comment
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!
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!
January 25, 2007
Peggy! ShAT on me
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?
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?
January 12, 2007
What's Her Problem?
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!
January 11, 2007
Hobos Appreciate Global Warming
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.
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.
January 10, 2007
Do You Slow the Muffin Man?
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.
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.
January 05, 2007
Tip The Scales We All Fall Off
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?
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?
December 18, 2006
Beary Brycie
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.
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.
December 14, 2006
Transitions
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.
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.
November 17, 2006
November 14, 2006
Neil Squared
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!
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!
November 13, 2006
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...
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.
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.
November 07, 2006
Faith in my Faggotry
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.
November 06, 2006
October 17, 2006
Deaf Defying Tale
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.
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.
October 13, 2006
Semper Fine!
The Marines have a 2007 beefcake calendar. All I'm saying is I know why October is my favorite month. 
Slobber.
Slobber.
Saved by the Smell
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.
October 12, 2006
Kids These Days!
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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)