Awkward Hug and Nervous Giggle

NEW YORK, THIS IS YOUR LAST CHANCE!

2007-01-05T07:41:00.000-08:00

I haven't really been updating this blog at all. Mainly because I'm trying to go for some high-powered journalism internships and I really don't want a written document about me fucking Brazilians and talking about doing drugs with Alison and watching shit like Monster-in-Law to surface. So during break I was planning to delete this blog and save all the previous entries for posterity. So of course I haven't done it yet.

Why?

Because I haven't gone to bed yet. It's now 10:41AM.

Why haven't I gone to bed yet?

Good question.

I've just sat on my ass for the past four hours watching complete episodes of Rhoda on Youtube.

I LOVE Rhoda.

I fucking HATE Mary Tyler Moore because I hate quivery voices. The piece de resistance. The coup de gras. The raison d'etre of MTM was on the Rhoda focused episodes. Because I love Jews and decorative head scarves. So when I discovered the magic that is the spin-off Rhoda, I was in hog fucking heaven. When I was a middle-school faggot with no friends I watched Rhoda every night on Nick at Nite. And now here I am, ten odd years later, STILL watching Rhoda. Even watching the reunion show on Sally Jesse Raphael from 1996.

It never was the same when Joe and her got divorced.

Color me heartbroken.

Anyway, blame Rhoda for me not posting anymore.

You know what's awkward?

2006-11-18T13:59:00.000-08:00

Yeah.

You know what's awkward? When my mom does mine and my sister's laundry at the same time and I open my suitcase up at school and find random panties and sexy thongs intermingled within my clothes.

You know what else is awkward? When I'm in the middle of class and I REALIZE that there is a g-string stuck inside the middle of my sleeve from static cling.

That's an awkward movie.

I had kind of a cray cray week. It was very Suddenly Susan as I still took a break to get frosted tips and pal around with Kathy Griffin. It was very Lois and Clark: The New Adventures of Superman. Teri Hatcher NOT Margot Kidder or Kate Bosworth. I just acted like a total bitch and occasionally pursed my lips and in-toned "Clarrrrrrk" every once in a while. Needless to say, it was a cray cray amount of information in a cray cray short amount of time. I only had the opportunity to molest Shayna TWICE and this was a PRODUCTION NIGHT, for Christ's sakes. And I had to do it subtle by putting my hand on her thigh under the table while we conducted a hard-hitting interview an entire Christian fellowship. I also had to resist the desire to blurt out random proclamations like "The people have a right to know!" But I did get the opportunity to say "we are giving you the opportunity to defend the claims against you" a coupz times, so it was still a fun movie.

But LAST NIGHT, I went to my friend Alison's boyfriend's friend's "show."

Now.

As we all know....

I don't go to "shows"

There was like a few times during that whole high school "What am I going to be?" crisis that every faggot with acne and braces goes through. And yes, there was this AWFUL, very Baby-Sitter's Club-esque incident where my mom went with me to an Eve 6 concert. But that was all very high school angst.

HOWEVER, we were at a jam band rap session at a very awkward venue in AP. You couldn't swing a cat without hitting a heterosexual. And like blatantly. Like, all the girls were Keds. And the guys had ponytails, which would have make my dad nuts. There is nothing the world he hates more than ponytails and my sister's boyfriend has one and it think it's slowly killing him. ANYWHO, but as I was thrust into this scene, I had a very Carrie Bradshaw-esque question popped into my head via a close-up on her computer Microsoft Word document.

Despite the horrible shoe choices and music taste, when it comes to love, aren't gay people the same as straight people?

Namely in the nightlife. Everyone was pretty much talking to each other and saying the dumbest things and holding the DUMBEST conversations about things like the Rutgers football team and their cousin who's in a band and has dated Scarlett Johnason. And, granted, I did have to endure a conversation that involved the other party's personal belief in the possibility of mermaids as well as an interactive text message. But when fags do it with a certain sense of regalness. You need to hold courts with the help of your friends and wait until someone comes up to you and makes a proposition you find promising. Straight people don't give a fuck. They just want to do it. They walk up to each other and it just happens. Which is happens with fags too.

Another interesting thing to note is the concept of entertainment. For faggots, it's the awkward Asian gay guy with his blouse off backing it up on some pole. For straight people, it's LOCAL BANDS. They fucking LOVE local bands more than CSI: Crime Scene Investigation and Will Ferrell comedies COMBINED.

So Alison and I are there, noticably uncomfortable. She had worn her sexy red negligee and curled her hair and I was just a huge faggot as always. So, we leave after about fifteen minutes.

And there's a dance floor right in front of the band's stage and straight people are dancing. Really badly too. And these weren't just straight people our age or a bunch of awkward guidos: they were late-twentysomething people who have already given up and just want to fuck the first people they meet. So they are awkward straight people dances, snapping their fingers, pressing their wrists out. So Alison, of course, has to hold this long conversation with someone in the middle of it. And it's like a close personal conversation. So I'm all awkwardly standing there. And everyone is drunk off their Millers Lites and boogying their PANTS off. And she's still talking. And I really am not feeling the band. And I didn't know what kind of dancing the situation warranted. Should I get into it? Should I kick my legs out? I decided to do the knee bounce to show that I'm involved but with minimal effort and not show any overwhening pride. So I'm doing it and SUDDENLY this girl comes up right in front of me. Her back is to me.

And I didn't know it could be possible...

I didn't know it could happen outside of Basic Instinct or Cruel Intentions...

But she tried to entice with the aid of a SEXY DANCE.

Yes, friends. She gave me a SEXY, ELURING DANCE.

You know the kind. There were lots of shoulders above the head. Shiveling hips. Dark, pentrating stares as she looked behind her to see how I was reacting.

Now, I'm TOTALLY loving this. The only other time someone used their dancing skills to entice me was the time at the faggot dancing establishment when this Mexican gay RAPED ME WITH HIS ASS PRESSED UP AGAINST A COLUMN, therefore rendering it impossible for me to escape.

But the reason why I listed this last is so that you can SEE that it is the ULTIMATE reason why straight people and gay people are exactly alike. Because, despite the fact that there was no handlebar mustache, gestapo hat, or leering out a plate glass window, this bitch was fucking CRUISING me.

And straight people have AIDS now too.

So...

That's it.

TEAM PAM 4 LYFF

2006-11-14T18:33:00.000-08:00

Karen (9:21:30 PM): question for you
Karen (9:21:33 PM): ARE YOU
Karen (9:21:37 PM): team pam or team karen?
Me(9:21:43 PM): UMMMMMMMM
Me(9:21:45 PM): TEAM PAM
Me(9:21:47 PM): 4 LYFFFFF
Karen (9:21:51 PM): THANK YOU!!!!
Me(9:21:58 PM): I HATE TEAM KAREN PEOPLE
Karen (9:22:01 PM): i got in a big fight with my friend peter who's team karen
Me(9:22:10 PM): UMM NO
Me(9:22:11 PM): NO
Karen (9:22:14 PM): they're all "she's got spunk" and i'm all "she's a whore"
Me(9:22:21 PM): fucking TRAITORS
Karen (9:22:24 PM): jim and pam have LOVE
Me(9:22:30 PM): we've seen Karen for what, SIX epsiodes?
Me(9:22:39 PM): HOW COULD THEY TURN ON PAM SO QUICKLY???
Karen (9:22:44 PM): right?!
Karen (9:22:52 PM): they're just bitter about how things ended with jim
Me(9:22:57 PM): NO
Karen (9:22:57 PM): and i feel it, but pam had issues
Karen (9:23:01 PM): she was engaged to white trash
Karen (9:23:07 PM): she had to get her shit together
Me(9:23:15 PM): SHE NEEDS TO BE AWAY FROM HIM TO REALIZE THAT SHE LOVES HIM AS MUCH AS HE LOVES HER
Karen (9:23:55 PM): just wait
Karen (9:24:05 PM): you KNOW that they're gonna fall back in awkward love this week
Karen (9:24:07 PM): but
Karen (9:24:37 PM): my friend peter says that he read in the synopsis that ed helm's character (the other guy at jim's office) asks jim to set him up with pam
Me(9:24:49 PM): hahahah
Me(9:24:57 PM): well he KNOWS that Pam would never go for him
Karen (9:25:08 PM): totes
Me(9:25:09 PM): It'll totes be a Dwight like prank
Karen (9:25:17 PM): oh i can't wait
Me(9:25:21 PM): ME TOO
Karen (9:25:24 PM): i knew you'd be a pam girl
Me(9:25:35 PM): I WANT JIM AND PAM TO FINGER FUCK
Karen (9:25:52 PM): i want them to have children
Karen (9:25:57 PM): and a porch
Karen (9:26:03 PM): with a swingset in the front lawn
Me(9:26:09 PM): OMG
Karen (9:26:15 PM): and jim to put his arm around pam as they watch their kids play
Me(9:26:19 PM): they're little sarcastic kids!!!
Me(9:26:23 PM): AWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW
Me(9:26:28 PM): IM MENSTRUATING RIGHT NOW

UMMMMMMM...

Case in point?

Look at how forced Jim/Karen is and how AMAZINGLY AMAZING Jim/Pam!

Team Karen can suck it

SIZZLER: More Tribulations in the Tale of Bad Relationship Asian

2006-11-08T21:58:00.000-08:00

I can't believe I didn't tell you guys about this before. Since I broke my foot, I haven't been able to go to the gym so there's no way I can report about the comings and goings of Bun-Wearing-Bulimic. And I love Bun-Wearing-Bulimic and I love her stupid oversized t-shirt. But there are privledges of being a shut-in. And that privledge is Bad-Relationship-Asian.

Oh, Bad-Relationship-Asian. How I love thee. Bad Relationship Asian was god's little gift to me. And I feel horrible reporting on it but I have no choice.

Bad Relationship Asian is a Korean guy on my floor who stands in front of my doorway and talks on the phone with his girlfriend, because I'm at the end of the hall and he obviously needs the service there and doesn't want his roommates to know about his bad relationship. I guess he doesn't have the oversight that I can hear every word he says to her with my ear pressed up to the door, laptop in tow, and writing down everything he says VERBATIM (I swear to fucking Hecate that none of this shit was elaborated on or made to sound more dramatic) and posting it on my blog.

Here are some highlights from the conversation he had with her a MERE moment ago:

"All you do is call to ignore me.Jackie, you do this. You DO this to test me. To make sure that I would die for you. But I would never die for you. But there's no way... Jackie. There's no way.
Can we stop this now? Truce, Jackie? Truce? You want me to cry? What kind of person are you? Why have you turned into such a horrible person? Why are you such an angry person? I'm not saying this to dis you, I'm telling you this as your boyfriend, I think you have some real problems with anger issues. You have a bad temper, a bad mouth, you're a horrible person, you call me gross, you call me fat, you call me fucking disgusting, you say I'm not your boyfriend. Now, I'm starting to get really scared of you. I don't want to marry you because I'm afraid I might stab you. I hate you, Jackie. Your way of trying to hurt is to try to degrade me. To try to put me down. You're so cool, Jackie. You're 19. When you're 30, you'll be studying at Brookdale. Do you think this is funny? This is retarded No, I don't love you Jackie, because you're a fucking cunt"

It's conversations like this that makes me homesick and miss my parents

:(

From the Hate Mail Bag

2006-10-30T15:31:00.000-08:00

This past week, I got my first hate mail for the semester about the article I wrote that said Kristy from the Babysitters Club was a huge lez. It's not one of the best articles I've written, in fact I'm a little disappointed in how it turned out, but still...Who could have POSSIBLY taken it seriously? It's about a thirteen year old fictional character in a CHILDREN'S BOOK series.

Here's the letter (the article I wrote is pasted after it so you can see what he's talking about):

Dear Editor,

Thank you for the incredibly insightful and thought-provoking article
on Kristy Thomas in your Entertainer of the Week column. I'm so glad
that in this, the 21st century, we can have such an openly
misogynistic and homophobic point of view and pass it off as
entertainment. Thank you for perpetuating stereotypes and having no
sense of social responsibility.

Yes, we all love to poke fun at pop culture, but you have taken this
too far. Regardless of whether or not the article was pure
entertainment, it does nothing to enlighten your readership about the
absurdity of stereotypes. It promoted the stereotypes so many of us
work tirelessly to combat. Humor like this gives us a carte-blanche
to continue to perpetuate ignorant and outdated modes of thinking.

Before you write me off as an angry feminist, (but first consider the
fact that I am a man) think about what would happen if you rewrote
the article attacking a particular ethnic group. Do you think that
nothing would happen, that no one would be offended? I'm sure you
would immediately put a stop to it, but you feel that an article that
objectifies women and stereotypes lesbians is fine, apparently.

Oh, and please continue to use the word "slut" in your paper as much
as you want. It doesn't matter that such a word is as offensive as
"nigger", "spic", "fag", or "chink". Your recent expose on the
definition of the word "slut" was very insightful, especially since
no woman was interviewed and you took the uninformed opinions of two
skate-shop employees and a psuedo-intellectual as gospel.

Misogynistic speech lets our society continue to objectify women and
treat them like property, making violence against women permissible.
Or do you believe it's okay to tell a woman that she's a slut, and
that all a lesbian really needs is a man, but raping a woman is
crossing the line. All of it comes from a belief that women are
inferior. It was socially irresponsible for the Montclairion to have
printed this.

Stop hating women.

Sincerely,
(Name deleted for fear of Google searches)

Isn't that awkz?

Here's the article:

"The Baby-Sitters Club: Kristy and the Mystery of the Closet Case Lesbian"
With 131 books, over 200 spin-offs, a television series, a feature film and a delayed aging process that A-list actresses and trophy wives would trade their adopted third-world infants for, the time has come: Kristy, come out of the closet already. You're not fooling anyone.

Case in point: "Kristy's Krushers," the little league softball team you started. Do you think it was hard for us to figure out that that's the only bat you'll ever handle? Krushers jersey aside, let's take a look at your everyday wardrobe, shall we? Much ado was made about your uniform of jeans, t-shirt and baseball cap. Just add a flannel zip-up, oversized key ring, a case of Coors Light and we know you'll be first in line to see the new Angelina Jolie movie.

As evidenced by your status as founder and president of The Baby-Sitters Club, you clearly have a love for politics and bureaucracy, which invites the inevitable Mary Cheney comparisons. If you add the overweight millionaire father aspect, you're two steps away from being outed by John Kerry during a presidential debate and causing a minor political upset.

Politics aside, your motives in starting the BSC seem questionable. Do you really love to babysit kids? Or did you just want an opportunity to stay in close quarters with Stacy in case she goes into diabetic shock and needs you to administer an insulin shot in her butt cheek?

On one hand, we know that if Lifetime movies have taught us anything, it's that lesbians love child care. Whether it is If These Walls Could Talk 2-style epic quests to track down the perfect sperm donor for artificial insemination or domestic dramas surrounding prohibitive gay adoption laws in Florida, kids often rank along with Eagles tickets and Tori Amos albums in the scheme of lesbian priority. On the other hand, Stacy is pretty hot. Diabetes aside, she's a sophisticated New York City girl with a cutting edge perm. And lesbians love perms.

Do you think that all this denial is fair to Bart? Getting him all hot and bothered with your overzealous soccer mom calls to "hit the dirt" while the two of you coach your respective little league teams side-by-side and then resist his masculine wiles and promises of official BF/GF status? I'm sure he has inkling; we all have inkling. Technically, the two of you have been dating for twenty years, so he's bound to be a little suspicious. We've seen the book jackets. We know he's not an unattractive fellow. He has the same sharp masculine features and wind-swept surfer cut as K.D. Lang. He's not Katie Holmes and you can't keep him hanging by that one shred of heterosexual hope forever. Like going to a wake and seeing the dead body of a loved one, he needs closure to move on. You need to tell him that the only man for you is Mary-Anne Spier.

Now let's take a moment out to take a good, hard look at Mary-Anne too, okay? Two words: lipstick lesbian. With the combination of her shyness, quiet introspection and suburban Connecticut repression, Mary-Anne seems the ideal candidate to one day become a sensitive and socially-conscious lesbian singer/songwriter who plays alongside Ani DiFranco at sold-out Lilith Fair concerts.

Also, let us not forget when she 86'd her distinctive handlebar pigtails in favor of a bowler-cut. Perhaps she got tired of you wearing the relaxed-fit Bugle Boy pants in your "friendship" and decided to fight testosterone with testosterone. I agree she shouldn't have done so by taking a note from the book of Rosie O'Donnell post-talk show cancellation when she showed her true lesbian colors by making a terrible hair faux pas. But even though the two of them looked more like the lead singer from Flock of Seagulls than any of us were comfortable with, we all got the message loud and clear: did you?

Now, before you throw down the "serious relationship with Logan Bruno" card, let me remind you of a few things: A) He was a male babysitter B) He loved to give makeovers C) His group of friends consisted mainly of preteen girls and D) He dated a girl who was hestitant to even hold hands with him. Kristy, I'm sure you go to school with a lot more open-minded and free-spirited (i.e. loose) girls who would jump at the chance to take advantage of his Southern Belle charm. This is middle school, after all. I'm sure you've seen Degrassi: The Next Generation or Lifetime's "preteens with syphilis" epic She's Too Young. I bet you anything that somewhere, Liza Minnelli and David Gest are screaming "Marriage of convenience!"

Of course, not every one of your friends in The Baby-Sitters Club is gay. This is Connecticut, after all, not Thursday night at the Colosseum. Stacy is a total heterosexual slut and Jessi and Mallory love books about horses, which will probably cause its own set of relationship foibles with men later in life when they feel an unnerving sense of disappointment. However, you are definitely gay.

Naysayers may make the argument that you're only 13 and can't have such a realization. Said naysayers clearly haven't done the math. If you were 12 when the first book was published in 1986, then that would make you roughly 32 years old by now. The "of drinking age" actress who played you on the television show and the drawings of you on the book covers where you look more like Bea Arthur than a girl about to graduation from middle school have done nothing to dispel this claim.

Don't worry Kristy Thomas, a lot of people come out late in life, so don't suffer in silence. If you really are only 13 and somehow have the ability to celebrate the exact same summer break 14 different times and 14 different ways, then you're definitely a mature 13. You run a business, a little league team and go to school full-time. Why not add P-FLAG meetings and board game night at the local gay and lesbian center to the list?

Give Bart the boot, tell Mary-Anne how you feel, stick the hypodermic needle in Stacy's fanny and, for God's sake, give your audience something new to read about in the second chapter of your books.

St. Louis? More like...St. AWKWARD

2006-10-29T14:58:00.000-08:00

(If you look close enough, I'm a block away at T.G.I Friday's being ridiculous AND adorable)

So I did end up going to St. Louis, bum foot and all. It was pretty P.I.M.P. We had limo transportation to the airport, from the airport to our hotel, from our hotel to the airport, from the airport to our school. Unfortunately, no one could get the moon roof open for one of our female editors to pop out and show their tits to passing traffic at 7:30AM. It was very prom, except no one get date-raped in the back of the limo.

The hotel was pretty sexy too. We had a kitchen, living room, and main bedroom. My faghag Shayna and I played house and would crash together. There would be bras all over our bed and I would pass out while she still read the paper. We were a stone's throw away from blaming each other for our dissatisfication and stretch marks a.k.a suburban bliss at its finest.

What wasn't good? The fact that we flew to St. Louis in a tin can. I swear to God, I was fucked up on all the painkillers for my foot and half-asleep from sleeping for two hours and I was still wide-eyed and shuddering like I had been doing meth the entire night before, terrified that we were going to crash to our demise. And on the way home, I got stuck in between two rows of children, like I was the fucking Pied Piper. There was the worst mother in the history of the world who gave disaffected shushes to her screaming baby and she was so nervous about the turbulence that she refused to get up and change her baby's diaper. Let me just say, the only thing than sitting through high winds and major turbulence is sitting through it while the smell of shit quickly wafts through the entire airplane. Vomit city: Population? One college newspaper staff.

Also, there were no fucking trolleys. None! What were cheeky faggots accidentally in town on vacation supposed to do when they wanted to be irreverent? I couldn't leap up and sing as I intended. Ding ding ding, didn't go the trolley. Ring ring ring definitely didn't go the bell. Know what they gave us instead?: Straight people and the world series. I don't care about the world series when I'm in NYC and I definitely don't care about it in St. Louis. Everyone was so fucking jazzed for the Cardinals that they all had to wear the team's colors. The entire city was awash with red. It looked like a fucking tampon factory exploded. You couldn't swing a cat without hitting someone who looked like a period stain. Even the fountains were dyed red.

As for the conference, it was a moderately fun movie. I didn't go to as many classes as I should've because we all got accidentally stoned numerous times. There was one class called "Entertainment Editors are Journalists Too!" which is perfect for put-upon faux journalists such as myself. But when I got there (stoned) it was this scumbag guy throwing out issues of various tabloids to blood-hungry vulchers. Now, for as sensationalistic as I am, I wasn't ready for the dark side. I did, however, go to a gay and lesbian panel discussion with all the other fags who couldn't give a rat's ass about LGBT issues and just wanted to get fucked on vacay. And I DID meet an aggressive, self-loathing Alpha gay with no ethics and, clearly, I had sex with him.

I'm back at school and now and entering into hell week for the play I'm doing. It's opening on Thursday so if anyone wants to see me be a classically trained actress and watch my big return to the stage, shout a holler to my little life. I just hope it doesn't crash and burn like Jane Fonda's foray back into show business via Monster-in-Law. But I didn't get Vietnam P.O.W's killed, so I'm expecting a slighty better outcome. I think the rest of the cast hates me, but I don't care. Some people just can't appreciate a good laugh cry.

I'm also really skeptical about whether or not I'm going to even pass my classes this semester. I missed a shitload of important mid-terms and papers when I was out with my foot and then in St. Louis. I have notes and shit from the Dean and the doctor, but shooooot. Now with the paper and tech week this week, I'm only going to get further behind. I guess updating my blog and not doing any homework doens't show much for my motivation, but whatevez. I've also been awkwardly listening to Sufjan Stevens' "Holland" on repeat and feeling emo. It's very gauche, I know.

STRAIGHT FROM THE COUCH: This Season in TV Entertainment

2006-10-23T22:19:00.000-07:00

Since I don't have anything to do, I've decided to check out TV Entertainment in its natural habitat to see what's going on first hand. Report from the field.

Having a broken foot really sucks, friends. You have to take showers with your leg wrapped in a plastic bag. You have to maneuver down steps. It's really fucking gay and awkward.

Speaking of gay and awkward, I finally watched the series premiere of Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip and I found THAT awfully gay and awkward. All the panaramic shots of people looking they are ready to change things around at the ol' NBS network. Amanda Peet as the underdog who has to prove her stuff. Matthew Perry and Bradley Whitworth as the Vicodin and Cocaine addicted underdogs who have their prove their stuff if they don't DIE first. And then Judd Hirsch at the beginning to symbolize their greatest programming period? And having him diss shit like Fear Factor? Why you gotta kick a gangsta when it's down, Aaron Sorkin? NBC is trying. Friends just kicked the table out from under them. And you're right, some it's their fault. They weren't even trying. Veronica's Closet? Suddenly Susan? The Naked Truth? Please. Not everyone in the world is a girl reporter at a sexy magazine. Maybe my life would have turned out a little differently if you had switched up your programming a little bit during my cognitive learning process, mothafuckaz.

Aaron Sorkin is such a little bitch. Everything he writes is just a model of his thoughts and "opinions" with lots of flooded lights while people walk around in long extended moving shots. The "Aren't you fucking special?" move that filmmakers such as Sorkin, Robert Altman, Martin Scorsese and Brian DePalma all use where they follow people all around for a long extended period of time without ever cutting and make a big to-do in front of the camera in the (Greenwich) Mean Time. He's probably pissed off his pansy ass West Wing got kicked off the air, like a cop kicking a wounded dove. And savagely acts out with the stunt casting of Judd Hirsch. Bring a fucking book. I hate you.

Oh, in other news, the new and improved Lifetime is looking pretty sexy. I watched Mom at Sixteen and Why I Wore Lipstick to my Masectomy were on back-to-back tonight. Which resulted in a back-to-back four hour orgasm for me.

Mom at Sixteen? Oh, Mom at Sixteen. Lifetime, do you really think that middle school girls are THAT slutty? Please. You need to cool it for, like, five seconds. Chill out with the Marcia Gay Hardons. Stop with the Mercedes Ruehl. Your budget needs to be used for more important things. Such as Why I Wore Lipstick to my Masectomy. They don't want to do this shit. We dib;t want to do this shit. I did love that Jane Krakowski was in it. I love that they got some theater bitch to do it. Because bitch knew what's up. She knows that all her bitch fag fans are out there with broken feet and she just goes crazy. Totally Lifetime-ing it up. I wouldn't be surprised if she started beating up her hot husband. If she was gonna do a Lifetime movie, she was gonna do a Lifetime movie. It was a real hoot and a half. There was an awkward sister who was jealous of all the attention her slutty teenage mother sister was getting so she spray painted her hair and went to an arcade and pretended to smoke a cigarette. She spray painted her hair. And hitchhiked too. Bring up a book. Adopt a substance abuse problem. Snooze city: Population You.

Oh, BTW, I'm copyrighting BLANK City: Population BLANK. I'm going to get it on all the maps. So, if you want to use that, you have to pay me money. I'm serious. You need to get a check and send it to my dorm and give me eleven dollars. I will NOT hesistate to take you to Divorce Court with that lady.

Anyway, Why I Wore Lipstick to my Masectomy? It was pretty good. It had that chick lit kick. I'm still trying to capture that chick lit kick so I can one day write fag chick lit. There were lots of giggling girls and Cosmopolitans and handsome doctors. She had the "I don't wanna lose my tits" plot line that I love in breast cancer storylines. There was a fun montage where she tries on different wigs with a bunch of drag queens. I give it a FOUR star rating. Socially conscious flirty-fun.

I go to the doctor tomorrow at 10AM. I'm going to try to watch as much of the A Nightmare on Elm Street series as I possibly can before I pass out.

Bii curiousi

Save that shit for Blackplanet

2006-10-23T00:05:00.000-07:00

Before I can begin, before we can even start this entry, there's something you need to read in its entirety first:

The "Get The Fuck Outta Here" rules:

*1) I just saw u before i got in class and soon as we get outta class, 5 minutes later you tryna dap me up, say whats up or give me a hug again......GET THA FUCK OUTTA HERE!!!!

*2) How u gonna wear a damn mini skirt with a long sleeve shirt and some damn ugg boots......GET THA FUCK OUTTA HERE!!!

*3) It's 20 degrees outside, raining and you got on a raincoat wearing some damn flip flops...GET THA FUCK OUTTA HERE!!!

*4) So you pay $700 for ya car but you spent about $15,000+ on your system and rims......GET THA FUCK OUTTA HERE!!!

*5) When you try to holla at me through facebook like this shit is a dateline or something. keep that shit on blackplanet. GET DA FUCK OUTTA HERE

*6) When ur a super super senior and ur old ass is still tryin to holla at freshmen, u need to sit ur ass in ur room, study, graduate so u can GET THA FUCK OUTTA HERE

*7) I say hi to u one time and now u friends wit ALL my friends on facebook....GET THA FUCK OUTTA HERE!!!

*8) When you at a party and u give a guy your number, then he starts followin u around and gets feelings when u dance wit someone else...You Aint my Man- GET THA FUCK OUTTA HERE!!!

*9) When u wanna know who Im calling and when I'm calling who I'm calling on MY Ga Dam cell phone and u know u aint make one payment on my Sprint bill .... uhm GET THE FUCK OUTTA HERE

*10) Naaw when they be like," yo I know you, I seen you talking to my friend before!?!", Who Is your friend?HELL NO, Get the Fuck OutttA here!!!

*11) When I'm doin my 1 2 step in the club, and you wanna talk and gimme ur life story with som toasty ass breath, do me a favor and just get the fuck outta here.

*12) you in a facebook group "aint nothin like a black woman" but i steady see your ass wit a white chick...get the fuck outta here wit that bullshit

*13) When shorties be like eww a dick i would neva suck that... when she done sucked my boy's, my boy's boy, and my boy's boy's boy's stepbrother's cousin's dick, you need to fall back close ya mouth and get the fuck outta here!!!!!!!

*14) When somebody that work in the RATT, BLANTON, SC, or the BOOKSTORE stay tryin to holla at you....Tell em: GET THE FUCK OUTTA HERE!!!

*15) When someone ask to be your friend on facebook......but you know they be talking about ya ass behind your back. First REJECT, Then... Get The FUCK OUTTA HERE!!!!

*16) People say they don't like you, but never talked to you a day in they life......GET THE FUCK OUTTA HERE!!!

*17) People steal your clothes out of the laundry room...Get your own shit....Get The FUCK OUTTA HERE!!!

*18) When you at work, but you doing all the work because some ignorant person feel as though they don't have to do shit....Get THE FUCK OUTTA HERE!!!

*19) When you at the Doobie shop and you been under the dryer for a hour and 15 minutes and your hairdresser say "No mommy you not dry yet.....15 more minutes".....Get THE FUCK OUTTA HERE!!!!

*20) When I'm in my room doing what the hell it is that I do, and sum nosy ass person come to my door, like "Um can I come in and look around, I hear noises????" No Bitch, do I come to your room wanting to come in, your what we call a SNITCH or a UPD groupie,,, GET THE FUCK OUTTA HERE!!!

*21) I don't think I ever seen you on campus.....So what.....your point exactly is....? Get the FUCK OUTTA HERE!!!!

*22) You got a nice ass car with a portable dvd player but no cell phone....Get the FUCK OUTTA HERE!!!!

The creator of these rules is also responsible for such gems as "Yea.....my Hair Is Real!!! ▪ Hot Girls ▪ Chandelier Earring addicts!!! ▪ Beautiful Black Women ▪ U Know U B Gettin' Crunk 2 Dem Hood Songz ▪ I*Wish*a*Bitch*Would!!! ▪ F**k a Dime... B***ch Im Priceless.... ▪ DIVAs Inc. ▪ Still I Rise ▪ N.I.G.G.A.S (Never.Ignorant.Girls.(and)Gents.Achieving.Success ▪ From da Brickz and Lovin it------->(973) ▪ Don't Be Bias.......I Am The Flyest!!!!! ▪ Pssst...shawty...ayo! Yo Ma...are Not Proper Greetings For a Young Lady(msu Chapter) ▪ I Love Sexy Black Men (Montclair chapter) ▪ Fuck Yo Couch ▪ Go D.J. Dats My D.J......CALICAL... ▪ H0p 0ff D@ \/\/o0 \/\/o0 ▪ Get the F**k Outta Here!!!!!! ▪ Caribbean Students Organization (CaribSO) ▪ The Blacker the Berry, the Sweeter the Juice! (sexy Dark-skinned Ladies Who Deserve their Shine!) ▪ Damn Son....im Pretty as Hell ! ! ! ! ▪ I'm No Thug....I'm In College (msu Chapter) ▪ Dem Brick City Chicks ▪ Shabazz Heads ▪ I'Ve Always Been Hot, So Sorry I Can'T Relate To You or Mike Jones ▪ The True Beauties @ Msu ▪ NASO ▪ The Caucasian Sensation Is My Boy!! ▪ Imma Slappa Nigga ▪ Ima Cappa invited me to a panel discussion in the new building about fuck buddies.

How she knew I was her number one go-to man, I'll never know you.

She's always been hot.

So, sorry, she can't relate to me or Mike Jones.

Anyway, I'm fucking jazzed and will go no matter what.

When I told Sarah about it, all she had to say was "if boyyy be callin yo ass at 3 am after you be done gettin yo drink on ..you know he be afta one thingg so tell that friends with benefits wantin mofo to save that shittt for black planet and GET DA FUCK OUTTA HEREEE"

So, I'm going to start the "Awkward Hug and Nervous Giggle sponsored first annual 'Get Tha Fuck Outta Here' Sweepstakes!" That's right, mothafuckaz! Leave your own personal 'Get Tha Fuck Outta Here!' rule after the jump and the best ones will be read aloud at an important panel discussion after the friends with benefits ones. And maybe. Just maybe. One will be added to the Facebook group.

Maybe.

Local Faggot Breaks Foot in Dance-Related Accident

2006-10-22T05:12:00.000-07:00

It was the shittiest possible end for the shittiest possible week.

Ummm....

Last night, I broke my foot.

How did this happen, one might ask. Was I playing an intramural sport? Did I drunkenly fall down flight of stairs?

Answer: I was stoned and dancing to the Wedding Singer: The Musical soundtrack in my dorm room at 3AM and when I did this leap toe move, I crashed down with too much weight and all of a sudden I heard a loud cracking noise and intense, mind-numbing pain shot through my foot.

So I didn't know what to do. My suitemate/R.A. had just IMed me fifteen minutes earlier to tell me to turn down the fucking showtunes. And I did NOT want to be known as the guy who broke his foot listening to the Wedding Singer: The Musical soundtrack. I might as well have herpes. No one would EVER have sex with me again.

After a half hour of Faglex telling me that I need to go to the hospital immedz while my toes turned purple and the large mass of bone sticking up from my foot began to swell, I decided to see if I could walk on it and go downstairs to smoke a cigarette. And I ended up hopping the entire way. The desk assistant saw me and asked me if something was wrong. She called the police and the EMS and all of a sudden everyone starts asking me over and over and over again "How did it happen?" I had NO CHOICE but to lie and say that I tripped over my chair and I could tell that they totally knew I was lying. Just another faggot breaking bones while listening to Musical Theater. But I was probably just high and paranoid.

The worst part was that I just had my mom do my laundry TODAY and I was wearing the same pair of socks for two days in a row and my feet smelled SO BAD. It was all so humiliating. Everything told me that when they got the call they expected me to be bombed out of my mind. And I really wish I had been because THAT would have been less embarassing than a dance related accident. It wasn't even a respectable musical. If I injured myself dancing to Sweeney Todd, it would be a little more acceptable. My secret is out there now: I secretly like the music from Wedding Singer and now my journalistic integrity is at stake because I panned it. Someone from New Line Cinema Broadway who reads second-rate state college newspaper A&E sections is definitely sticking pins into a voodoo doll with my face on it.

They put me on a stretcher and brought me to this ghetto fucking hospital in Patterson. The whole to-do was so embarassing. My roommate was an old blind Mexican woman with MS and her daughter had a bleached blonde mullet. At one point one of her weeping daughters actually called out "Santa Maria!" which I thought people only say in bad Telemundo soap operas and awkward Mad TV sketches. And then the doctor asked her to "spread her legs." I had a male nurse assisting me. The radiology technition didn't put that metal binkie on me so I'm probably going to grow another head. It was so ghetto. No one knew what they were doing. I was left alone for about three hours in this silent room with NO TV while the blood pressure machine thing attached to me would awkwardly go off every fifteen minutes and start squeezing my arm to get a good read.

I had to call up Shayna and her boyfriend to come fetch me from the hospital at 7AM this morning while I waited outside and some old drunk came up to me and tried to make conversation about how I'm an English major. I don't know why but the whole fucking hospital staff jizzed themselves when they found out I was an English major. The doctor even wanted to hire me as a tutor for when he writes his thesis. They also jizzed themselves over the fact that I was stone cold sober when I did it and that I tripped over my chair. If only they knew the truth.

This sucks.

This sucks so much.

I have no idea how I'm going to go to St. Louis. I have no idea how I'm going to do the play. Having a broken foot from a Wedding Singer: The Musical dancing related accident totally does not go with my character arch. Let us not forget that I also go to school on a MOUNTAIN and that the dorm is the furthest building and lowest elevation on campus and I spend a majority of my time at the exact opposite side and highest elevation.

I knew that buying the Wedding Singer: The Musical soundtrack would have it's repercussions.

I just didn't know it would be this.

Meet Me in St. Louis (Gossett, Jr.)

2006-10-20T18:00:00.000-07:00

Exactly one week from now I'll be in St. Louis. You may be asking yourself: WHY, exactly, am I going to Missouri? Does the one drop of testosterone I have compel me to see the Cardinals play and watch the guy with the same name as Sugar Ray (gauche) in some fucked up ROID RAGE send a bunch of balls into the audience for awkward preteens with baseball gloves to catch while sound clips from Austin Powers and Pat Benatar blast on intermittantly? Do I want to take advantage of Midwestern hospitality and get tied to a fence and pistol whipped for being a huge fucking faggot?

Two words: Business trip.

Isn't that so professional? I feel like there should be palm pilots, styrofoam tri-fold visual aids with pie charts on them, and escorts sent directly to our hotel room.

Best part of a business trip?: They pay for everything. Everything. Even the plane fare. I feel like Angelina Jolie in Gia when she was being flown first class from Paris to Milan for modeling gigs. Except really low-rent, business class to a Midwestern city for a college newspaper conference. Still, it won't stop me from sitting back in a heroin-induced stupor and looking out the window vacantly through a pair of oversized sunglasses.

The thing I'm most excited about all the "Meet Me in St. Louis starring Judy Garland" jokes I'll be able to make when I get there. My dad and I have been making them all night. He gave me a hint of where my kicky faggotry comes from and asked me to find out if people really sing on mass transit there.

It's also a great way for the editorial board and myself to regain momentum. Sure, we'll learn lots of ways to make our sections more hard hitting and become better journalists, but seeing as the paper also takes focus off our schoolwork and eliminates all possibility for a personal life or romantic relationship, it'll probably be the first time in a long time that any of us are going to get laid.

The sexual frustration is definitely apparent now, leading to lots of unnecessary interoffice meltdowns and constant, fevered cigarette breaks. My roommates and I are even alloting one hour room vacancy breaks in case one of us gets lucky. Which we should, because it'll be the first time ever that we'll be able to talk to new people about shit we actually care about (constant copy editing errors such as commas following 'and' in a sequence, up-style headline capitalization and layout formation) without the other person's eyes glazing over in boredom.

And the Arts & Entertainment Editor classes I'll be taking? Please. You might as well just tape a sign onto the conference room door that says "Gay Bathhouse" on it. And you know all of them will be just as sexually frustrated as we are.

In other news, remember that play I was doing? I kind of just remembered I was doing it this week and start to really crack down and TACKLE the material. And the hypothesis I reached?: being a classically trained actress is hard work. It isn't all waving to the paparazzi and trying to get your sex tape from being leaked to the internet. If my Musical Theater teacher from New York taught me anything it's that acting is all about choices. There are some you want to make and there are some you have to take. And as hard as it is, I had to make a few sacrifices.

Namely the laugh cry.

R.I.P the laugh cry.

I kind of realized that my character is not a drug dealer soccer mom who accidentally fucks a DEA agent after her husband drops dead. I'm actually a peripheral character in a lesbian romantic comedy. And lesbians won't have the laugh cry.

Anyway, I think the play is coming along well. Hopefully I won't have to run a story in my section that says I suck. That's all I ask.

I also have a startling confession to make. And it's really hard. And embarassing. A few weeks ago my family went to go see The Wedding Singer. And I hated hated hated it so much. I reviewed it and gave it one star. Which is my bitchy judgmental gay way of shitting on the producer's faces via the reader community of exactly two students. But then this one song kept ringing in my head. So I went to the website to hear it. And then a few days later, it didn't go away. So I went to the iTunes page for it and listened to visual clips. And then I realized I liked more than one song. Three in fact. And then a few days later all three songs were trapped in my head. I didn't know how to handle this. At first I tried to deny my feelings and think of it as an irony based song crush. But it wasn't. I looked at a few torrent sites to see if I could find it.

But I quickly learned it was something deeper: I liked it. I liked it like I love honeydew and peppermint. I went to every possible illegal websites. I generally liked this shit. In fact, I have thought on SEVERAL listenings of taking one of the song lyrics out of context and posting it as an italicized AIM away message. I needed to listen to this shit. I even signed up for a message board. I couldn't download it. I couldn't possibly admit to anyone that I wanted to listen to it so I couldn't ask any of my theater fag friends to send it. I tried to pass it off. A fleeting interest, like my plan to rent awkward movies like The Towering Inferno after reading the IMDb page for it. But it wouldn't go away. To the point that Wednesday morning, I woke up and said to myself "I will go and pay money for The Wedding Singer" soundtrack. I haven't paid for a CD or music in an over. So I walk ALLLLL the way across campus to my car. Brave congested mid-afternoon highway traffic. Went to Best Buy. Threw down money. And I have been listening to it on repeat since then. I'm listening to it now.

I fucking hate myself and Wedding Singer: The Musical.

The end.

The print made Zebra is watching you, Michelle...and she is PISSED

2006-10-17T00:36:00.000-07:00

Okay. So I'm clearly checking out Facebook. And I clearly go to my Updated Friends List.

And I'm greeted with this:

"Status: Michelle is Sleeping, then tomorrow she has Counciling, Then Voice, then Printmaking, then Glee, then Design, Then Porn Nation, Then Casino Night, Then working on her stuff."

I'm sorry Facebook friend but no.

I won't ACCEPT this

I won't STAND for this.

My number seven pet peeve is people who bitch about how busy they are, whether it be in away messages or Facebook status updates. Because it means we're douche bags because CLEARLY we aren't going to Porn Nation and running the whole damn event by ourselves. Filling up the Blow-Up Dolls with helium. Organizing the penis cookies you and your friends baked last night, amid much girlish laughter and fucking frivolity.

And then Casino Night because you just KNOW Jim will profess his undying love to her.

Case in point: she has PRINTMAKING and then GLEE and then Design.

Okay, I know I go to a crappy school. But still: what self-respecting person can read a synopsis of GLEE and then drag and fucking drop it to the add/drop box. Show up to the bookstore with the course code written on a little strip of crumbled up notebook paper, walk up to the fucking register, and drop that fucking shit down. I would LOVE to take Glee. I would fucking love to show up for that class and just spread glee like it's Hepatits C and I'm Tommy Lee. Love it. And you know why I won't? Two reasons: 1.) Social code forbids it and 2.) Because I actually want to be able to get a job. And I really don't think that the editors at the local town bugle will take much kindly to me having "GLEE!" written on my resume.

But it's everything. The whole kit and kaboodle. She even has voice, for God's sake. Those Sister Act 2 piano medleys sure aren't to learn themselves. What will the theme from Ice Castles do if you aren't there to totally phone it in? It will die. Just like that baseball player. It will fly into a building causing a moderate amount of scare, and then ultimately just be an overpaid athlete with a pilot's license from the treasure chest at the dentist's office.

'I DON'T NEED TO SEE THAT!' -My official public statement against the heterosexualizing of faggot dancing establishments

2006-10-15T02:31:00.000-07:00

Um, BTW, I think you should all know that the LEAST sketchy faggot dancing establishment that DOESN'T have leathery, anorexic, elderly people with cosmetic surgery sashaying across the dance floor towards you is turning into a HETEROSEXUAL faggot dancing establishment. I DON'T NEED TO SEE THAT!

Imagine our surprise when Faglex and I rolled into the parking lot last night to see an array of cars, thinking that Fridays were a hit. Right off the BAT you could tell it was straight night. There was a FOLDING table. They were giving out ol' timey carnival ride tickets. They had those plastic snap wristbands that you need a razor blade to get off of you. Ugh, this AWKWARD drunk guido came up to us and asked if we come here a lot. We awkwardly said yes and I was almost sure that he was going to tell us it isn't gay night and make the situation even awkwarder. But then he made it even awkwarderer by telling us he was a CLUB PROMOTER and that any time he we want a discount, ask for Vinnie.

Now, do I have to say it's gauche? Do I? Club promoters? Please. Stop putting fliers for your clubs in between the wiper blades on my windshield that make the most ANNOYING slapping sound when I don't realize they're there. Stop handing me your shit in front of the Student Center. I DON'T NEED TO SEE THAT!

And stop filling your empty nights with fashion shows. I'm tired of the fashion shows. I can't take it anymore. I can't look at anyone else's phototags on Facebook that has pictures of them in a fashion show. On said folding tables. For the local community college associate's fashion degree final portfolio. NON DEVO VEDERE QUELLO!

This was all a disaster. Every girl had straightened her hair. Smoky-blacked her eyes. Every guy was wearing a button down Express dress shirt. There was a metal detector. Some angry bouncer yelling at some drunk guy to obey the rules because "they got to worry about the Puerto Ricans waiting outside with razor blades." He actually said that. Bi seriously. ¡cNo NECESITO VER ESO!

It was a shit show. We didn't even go in, we just left. And we paid five bucks on parking to have our senses fucking ACCOSTED.

We were so devastated that we had no choice, NO CHOICE, but to smoke and watched Fried Green Tomatoes. Because when the shit hits the fan like this, you have choice but to watch a lesbian romantic comedy. Fried Green Tomatoes, Kissing Jessica Stein...it really doesn't matter. It's beating out the usual mix of Lifetime and self-pity sad faggots like us and middle-aged divorcees. Drinking alone in the dark is out; Lesbian romantic comedies are in. Maybe I'll write an article about it, maybe I won't. All I know is that I won't be able to write about faggot activities on FRIDAYZ anymore.

At least tonight we were able to see some Awkward Hug & Nervous Giggle favorite: That Thing and his Mexican Fag Friend with the 1997 Preteen Male Haircut. The leathery elderly homosexual who booty dances with whom I mentioned before. No sign of the Brazilians. Slanty face indeed. Some new characters: Best Actress, this pretentious fag in a trenchcoat and long wavy hair with a lot of scarves who looks like he teaches a high school drama class. And Sips His Drink, who is this one favorite that you think might be attractive for half a second before you realize he looks like a melted groom candle on a wedding cake. Everything's melting. He's getting older, a little broader. He's sipping his drink disaffectedly. Like he's Alicia Silverstone in Clueless circa 1995. Some eighty year old man stared me down and bellowed "NICE ASS" in my ear and then awkwardly followed Faglex and I out to the patio and stared at us from up against the glass windows inside until Faglex glared him down.

Yeah, he's definitely a new favorite.

And I got to see the Thriller video on in the awkward old people room. And a brief scene from Grease 2.

So it was still a fun movie.

Color me HARASSED

2006-10-13T10:48:00.000-07:00

So, like, five minutes ago, I was walking back from the parking deck from settling a dispute. Now, I'm on my merry way. Throwing daisies out from my basket. Skipping. Whistling. The uzoosch. And all of a sudden the ENTIRE African Student Organization attacks me and asks if I'm registered to vote. So I'm all "Yeah" and then start to walk away and this other guy is like "You know you need to constantly update your status, it'll only take a minute" and I'm all "I have class" i.e. "I have The View and ready taped for me back in my dorm room and need to go to the office and molest the News Editor" and he's all "It's cool, I'll watch with you." So I accidentally give a really uncomfortable look and say "It's okay, some other time" and I start to run off.

BUT!

BUT!

I get stopped AGAIN not even thirty seconds later by this little tiny Mexican man. He was 4'11 at the most. Basically Colin's wet dream. And he be all "Excuse me, sir...Do you know what Passover is?" And I just draw a blank. I know there's something about blood on doors and it involves a lot of Mannashevz and shit is kosher for it or whatevez. I gave up my whole faux jew thing AGES ago and I can't remember the research I did except talk about my Holocaust survivor relatives and how much I love Woody Allen. But I'm still all "I have the knowledge. And the power."

"Are you Jewish?"

"No"

"Then what religion are you?"

"I was raised Episcopalian and Catholic"

"So you believe in the Lord and Jesus Christ?"

Now, this is a complete stranger, remember? Someone who should be wearing a peniclled in goatee and passively aggressively dragging their new awkward boyfriend in front of you in a club. And The View was waiting for me. And Shayna surely wasn't gonna molest HERSELF. So I make the worst possible decision. I say the one thing that can kill any dinner party. Any family outing.

"Well, I'm Atheist now"

There we go. I don't know what I was thinking. Did I think he was just going to accept that and go? That I wouldn't have a Virgin Mary shoved up my ass six hours later?

SO ALL OF A SUDDEN, I'm having this theological discussion with some LEPRECHAUN and the Student Center was still like a THREE minute walk for me. Having to defend myself. He be all "DON'T YOU WONDER WHERE YOU CAME FROM?" and I be all "THE STORK FUCKING BROUGHT ME OKAY?." He's all "What do think is the cause of your suffering then?" And if I wasn't such a pussy, I would've told him it comes from bite-size Mexican men harrassing me in front of the parking deck. But he won't elt it go.

So all of a sudden I'm getting in a FIGHT.

A FIGHT.

So he starts pulling me over with him, "Just give me ten minutes of your time. I will prove that God exists"

Part of me wanting to go with him to see what he was going to do. Were we gonna sit on a soccer field and if the groundhog came out and saw his shadow then we would know if God exist? Was he gonna pull him out of his sleeve like a magician's handkerchief?

But I ran off again, much to his chagrin.

What are these, Jessie? CAFFEINE PILLZ?!?!

2006-10-12T13:13:00.000-07:00

I've been up since 4AM Tuesday night. That's not fucking sexy at all. If it wasn't for the massive amount of amphetamines I took last night, I would have clearly crashed by now instead of sitting in my dorm room listening to "Do Me A Favor" from Carrie the Musical. CHECK OUT THIS MOTHERFUCKING SHIT. I had to go to the gym (Bun-Wearing Bulimic is back, don't worry, she's not dead yet), went to class, then went straight to the paper at 10:00, wrote an article, wrote another article, did corrections, had to go to some STUPID ass SGA meeting at 3:00 to listen to people read off legislative BILLS so that they could have $26 dollars out of their accounts to have money for a pizza party. It was a Bring a Book City, Population: Me, my jew hag, and literary greats like Charles Bukowski and William S. Burroughs. Not to mention really awkward people with bad skin who wear newsies caps.

I'm really glad our paper stopped covering these bullshit meetings as much, because the only thing sadder than people who try to shoot down some awkward organization's bill because they think that three bottles of Coke at an interest meeting is way too excessive are the people who write about their every move. Maybe if they got a hotter legislature we would give better courage. Because Shayna and I don't want to fuck guys in WINDBREAKERS. Gauche alert, unless you live in a walk-up apartment in Keyport or go on the Maid of the Mist in Niagz Fallz. Either that or let us write up appropriations bills for an eight ball of coke and a copy of American Psycho to snort it off of. We have more important priorities in college than a pumpkin carving concert. Some of us aren't TOTAL losers and have to spend a total of 27 hours straight holed up in the basement of the Student Center and going to the back stairs every fifteen minutes for a cig break, making sure that we don't accidentally violate MLA format and accidentally punctuate a comma with a comma signal instead of an arrow. If you mess that shit up, those MLA editors will come to your house and fuck you UP with a broken 40 and rape your wife while your tied up and force you to watch. So we need to take every precautions necess(pool)ary to ensure that shit didn't happen.

Any fucking whoodles, I get out of that meeting at six o'clock. Realize I have rehearsal at seven. Go to rehearsal and find out its not until 9:30 (my life is a life of excitement, isn't it?) Do more corrections on my page. Start to crash. Tell my assistant director I can't make it to play practice tonight. Which I felt really bad tonight because I was going to do the Mary-Louise-Parker-Squashing-Her-Youngest-Son's-Apprehensions-About-Her-Drug-Dealer-Career-
By-Grabbing-The-Top-Of-His-Collar-Pulling-Him-In-Closer-And-Staring-At-Him-Straight-In-The- -Eye-To-Prove-Bitch-Ain't-Fucking-Around-Move.

I totes think it would have killed.

But I had more important things to do.

I had to go to the fag group diversity dance in the Ballrooms. Where everyone comes to celebrate their homosexuality but really fuck someone they don't know in the bathroom. But I'm too classy for that shit. And it was like a fucking leper colony there. This was my dating pool to choose from for the rest of the year. I guess I won't be getting any head this semester. That's really cool.

When my Filippino gal pal and I get there "Gasolina" comes on, we do a really slutty and completely inappropriate (i.e. heterosexual) grindtastic dance, and then book the second the song was over.

It was around this time that the amphetz started to kick in so I started my 5 page paper that was due in 12 hours, finish my corrections, and somehow steadily worked throughout the night writing the paper. Now I wasn't twatting around. I was ALWAYS working. But somehow the paper I started at 2AM wasn't finished until 3PM the next day. I missed two class.

Oh, I also did a radio show this morning, but it was boring and all I made was some half-hearted comment about how Matilda is beat now and Will Arnett and my moment in New York last week.

That's really it and I'm starting to feel the Xanax kicking it.

Alright, peace out.

BABY'S GOTTA SPARKLE!

More like....FAGLEX Trebek

2006-10-11T00:59:00.000-07:00

So before I get into the whole Celebrity Jeopardy dealie, let me give you an appetizer. A half-priced appetizer after ten at Applebee's that trashy guidos from North Jersey scarf down to sober up before hitting Rt. 46 and drive home to their awkward duplexs in Passaic. Something to whet your palate.

Nana has become addicted to eBay. Totes addicted. Miniature glass figurines and knick-knacks are her heroin and eBay is her supplier. So recently she wins an auction for a miniature glass figurine of a chipmunk and she's corresponding with the seller and at the end of the email writes "The check is in the mail." And then she remembers it's a famous lie. So she decides to be cheeky and add something else that people say to each other when they're clearly being manipulative and disingenous.

So she writes "The check is in the mail..."

"...And I won't cum in your mouth."

She then follows that up with a smily face.

Let's take a moment to analyze this. Let's take a moment to look at the enormity of this statement. This is a complete stranger. And she's making the reference to a complete stranger, probably another 70 year old woman, that when you're performing fellatio on a gentleman caller he tells you that he won't ejaculate in your mouth. But they always, ALWAYS ejaculate in your mouth. Whether this is something from personal experience is clearly something I don't want to know.

So, needless to say, the seller doesn't send her the glass minitature chipmunk figurine. And Nana gets fucking LIVID. Because she's fucking wet for that glass miniature chipmunk figurine. So she goes on the attack, tracks down the seller's personal information, and leaves screaming messages on their machine threatening to "destroy them" and saying that "They will never be able to sell on eBay" whenst she finishes with them.

So, on, Sunday, when we were all getting ready to go up the city to see The Wedding Singer (Not my choice, believez), she walks into the house, shaking her little glass miniature chipmunk figurine and chanting "I got it!" in her Keith Richards, whiskey-drenched barrell of a voice.

Okay, now for the real post...

I was totes late for the trip because Montclair doesn't have departing trains on the weekend. It turns into fucking Dawn of the Dead at 6PM on Fridays and it's not fucking cool. I didn't find this out until the last fifteen minutes. I had to go to HOBOKEN and take the PATH with all these garden-variety plebez. So I'm running hella late. Hella late to the point where I'm running down the streets of New York like the sixth season premiere of Sex and the City when Carrie needs to get to the stock exchange on time to ring the bell. Thank GODS I didn't wear my high-top Manolos. So I breeze past these Southern tourist who say "Look, it's another New Yorker in a rush." My better judgment told me to stop dead in my tracks, crank my head around like a robot and bitchily retort "ACTUALLY, I'm a classically trained actress on my way to see Celebrity Jeopardy" but I just didn't have the time. So I'm running and running and all of a sudden, I collide head on with this guy. I say a quick sorry and I hear this really deep, gravelly voice bark "Watch where you're going", so I turn around and I look. And then I fucking realize. I just, literally, RAN INTO Will Arnett from Arrested Development. I have the worst celebrity fucking track record ever. Why can't I just meet one in a normal fucking setting? Why do I have to BULLY Max Weinberg off the shoulder press at the gym? Why did Richie Sambora have to walk into me making out in the bathroom of a bowling alley? Why did I nearly throw Will Arnett into oncoming traffic on a busy NYC street?

Life = Awkz

Celebrity Jepz was a hoot and a half though. I made it in the nick (elback) of time. There was a shitload of ridic people like Isaac Mizhrahi, Carson Keesly, Mario fucking Cantone a.k.a Faglex, the Honorable Margaret Spellings, and my fave, Nancy Grace who straight up KILLED A BITCH yet a fortnight ago. But of course, Colin and I have the worst fucking luck ever and we get: Some emo fuck from Crossing Jordan (I didn't even know that show was still on), the announcer from A&E (Totes starstruck), and some fat guido from The Sopranos.

We had to sit through the rehearsal with the guy we called Fake Faglex. Who was Faglex Trebek's stand-in. Who wasn't as savvy as Faglex Trebek in hiding his disappointment when he realized just how fucking retarded actors and television personalities really are. But he and the rest of the "Clue Crew" thought they were the mothafucking shit. There was this cheap blonde clue crew member who totes was trying to mack it on Fake Faglex. Social climbing whore.

BUT DISASTER STRUCK THE RADIO CITY MUSIC HALL:

Faglex Trebek lost his glasses.

HOW COULD HE READ THE CARDS???

HOW COULD WE RELATE TO HIM?

We had to wait like twenty minutes for him and the (Greenwich) mean time the awkward announcer a.k.a Red Jacket because he wore this ridiculous red Jeopardy jacket conducted an awkward Q&A that Colin and I spent villifying his every move while he stood a literal ten feet in front of us. Nothing like a team of bitchy fags to knock you off your high horse.

We didn't let Faglex Trebek get off either. IT WAS WEIRD. There were times when I felt like I was seeing Santa without his beard. He was also doing this awkward thing where he tried to be a guinea because of the fat fuck from The Sopranos. And there was a column of question themed "Fuhgetaboutdit" and he kept saying that in an awkward Jersey guinea voice and I wanted to die. And then at the end he said "Hey guys!" in said accent and only came out sounding like he was proclaiming "GAY GUYZ!!!" I was all jazzed that our witty banter caught his eye when he was answering questions from opportunistic little girls who want to be on the show. But alas...

All in all, it was a kicky evez.

I know other shit happened, but I forget. If there's more I'll write another post. I'm going to beat this Faglex Trebek shit like a dead horse more than Mary-Louise Parker and Carrie the Musical if you give me even HALF a chance.

P.S. Bun-Wearing Bulimic wasn't at the gym today. Heart attack on the treadmill, mayhaps? MayYES.

A Nightmare on Mary Louise Parker St.

2006-10-04T20:10:00.000-07:00

Today I finally beat Bun-Wearing Bulimic at her own game and got on the treadmill first. Take that bitch. I got off and saw her sitting directly behind me on an awkward bench, waiting with baited breath. How do you like that, you bun-wearing mothafucka? She immediately scampered on and did her desperate run. I only had to get up at 6:30AM to beat her.

Slanty face.

I then went into the office and watched the Thriller dance on Youtube. Why, you ask? Because there was no one there. And I COULD.

In doing so, I came upon this gem. Enjoy.

But today wasn't all blowjobs and lollipops. I took a nappy pooh and had an awful nightmare and woke up in a cold sweat. I don't usually like talking about my dreams because I hate when other people do. But sometimes you have dreams that are ridic (i.e. my sex dream about Sandra Bernhard) and you have no choice but to blog about it.

In said nightmare, Mary Louise Parker was my acting teacher and told me that I was her biggest disappointment because I didn't get up at 6AM and run like Brad Pitt. Even though I do. But she wouldn't have any of that shit. So we went back to practicing our play in the lobby of a hotel.

Clearly, this was my reaction:

No, fuck YOU Bun-Wearing Bulimic

2006-10-03T05:16:00.000-07:00

There's a new character I'm obsessed with at school. And not in a "I-love-you-because-you-are-ridic" Joanne/Le Bag kind of way. In a seething hatred kind of way. And that person is Bun-Wearing Bulimic.

Let me take you back two weeks to give you the origin story of Bun Wearing Bulimic. I'm at the school gym, doing my regime at like 7AM. Now, there's a certain way I like to do it. I like to do ten-minute elliptical cycles sandwiching twenty minutes on the treadmill. Now, I'm not an unreasonable man. If I must alter things, I do. So I did. Because there are only three fucking treadmills in our piece of shit school gym. And one is always broken. And the new high-tech rec center, which was supposed to be ready by this semester, is not. But that's awkward university affairs shit I bitch about with my co-workers at the paper and not NEARLY gay enough for this blog, even though we are talking about a gym, which is basically gay church.

ANY-fucking-WHOODLES. I end up doing twenty minutes on the elliptical. Doing a minor lifting session so I don't look bloated and not jacked as I learned this summer when I was training to be a heavyweight. By this point, no one has left the occupied treadmill yet. So I go up to the desk and ask if I can sign up on the list for the treadmill and the girl says to me "You want a treadmill? I can get you one now." I say that's fine and I don't want to get anyone kicked off. Which isn't true, I would totally have liked someone to be kicked off but I don't want to be THAT guy who asks the gym attendant to kick someone off the treadmill. I do have a MODICUM of pride. And she goes "It's fine....That girl has been on the treadmill for the past two hours"

And so begins the fucking tale of Bun-Wearing Bulimic.

She kicks her off. Bun-Wearing Bulimic says she just needs to cool down. Takes her another fifteen minutes to cool down. And I finally get on.

Now I see Bun-Wearing Bulimic all the time. And I like to judge her and everything. But nothing with any particular malice, because I usually get on when there's an empty one next to her or SHE has to wait for ME. Sometimes I try and pay her back by staying on longer, but I usually can't spend even a single minute on the treadmill longer than twenty minutes, so there's a fly in that fucking ointment.

But now there's an even greater threat at the sad little school gym: Bun-Wearing Bulimic's BF. I don't think he's really her BF, as his desperation comes off a little too strong, but I had a little alliteration thing going on there that I wanted to keep up. But now I have this fucking douche bag on the only other available treadmill, making chatty conversation with her like "Hey, I like your oversized t-shirt", and basically trying to keep up with her so that he can get laid. And she's on it for two hours. So he is too.

Listen, Bun-Wearing Bulimic's BF. I want to get laid too. Why do you think I'm at the gym? Do you think it's fair to relegate me to the exercise bike where I burn a whopping ten fucking calories for ten minutes of work and sit there in seething rage and glaring over at you being a chatty cathy?

And listen Bun-Wearing Bulimic. I get that you have an eating disorder. I get that you wear an oversized t-shirt because you think you're fat. But why do you think everyone else is here too? You're not cute. You look like Macaulay Culkin's ex-wife gone anorex. And who wears a BUN anymore? Are you teaching Laura Ingalls Wilder at a fucking one room schoolhouse? Or going to your senior prom? Ingest a tapeworm like everyone else.

GOD!

I was SO livid today that I saw Random Foreign Gay Acquaintance That I Haven't Decided Whether or Not I Want to Have Sex With and had to bitch at him about her for five minutes. And, in doing so, somehow developed a New York accent.

I will seek vengeance on you, Bun-Wearing Bulimic.

Evil IS coming, MOTHAFUCKA

2006-10-02T23:37:00.000-07:00

Remembr My Blog?

Because I do.

We just had a fire alarm at 2AM. Some bags of douches lit the common room on my floor on fire. So the first thing I do is grab my cigarettes (priorities, people) and a pen and paper. I think I've fully crossed over to the side of mudraking journalists. I'm officially Suddenly Susan but with less developed man shoulders. So I'm outside with everyone in my dorm and there is firetrucks and craziness and I just draw a blank. Because the article I wanted to write was about how ridic the shit people wear to bed is. Everyone was wearing Target pajama pants and trashy little hoodies. And oversized blouses with kittens on them. And stupid velour shit. And then some douche bag comes out with fucking Pink Floyd pajama pants and a fucking guitar. It was that guy. You KNOW that guy. That guy who is so desperate to get laid that he learns "The Rain Song" on his guitar to play to uncomfortable girls sitting across from him in his otherwise silent dorm room who is desperately hoping that he'll end soon but he doesn't, because it's "The Rain Song" and seven minutes and thirty nine seconds. That is the one perk of being a huge fucking faggot. We don't have to worry about that guy. We just have to listen to our faggot boyfriends talk about the plays we are in.

Speaking of which, Stop Fuck is going pretty well. I'm trying my best to evolve past Heather Grahaminess but it's fucking hard. Karen and I rented this Heather Graham movie on Friday partly because it was ridic and clearly abysmal but I figured it would also give me a little motivation to work harder so I don't like a complete asshole a la H. Gra. It was called "Blessed" and it was about the second coming of Beezelbub by way of Heather Graham's vagina. Basically Rosemary's Baby times twelve in awkwardness. There was the crazy next door neighbor. There was the tortured artist husband. There were even ANAGRAMS in it. It should've been called Clothesmary's Rabies. But I guess that's why they make the big bucks and make fun of it on my stupid blog.

In other news, I was standing outside with a few chunky Goth girls and they were discussing, surprise surprise, their favorite place to go corset shopping. Charlotte Roos. Break easily but they are cost effective.

I also quit doing shit for the gay group at my school. I didn't get to sing "Eva's Final Broadcast" though, unfortch.

*sigh*

Unfortch, indeed

OH! And I'm going to audition for The Simple Life 5. I just got the slip in my electronic inbox and I'm totally gay for it. Paris Hilton and Nicole Richie + Me + Dorm Room = Recipe for Success. If anyone else wants in, let me know.

Mary Louise Parker's Final Laugh Cry: A Goodbye to AHANG's Favorite Drug Dealer Showtime Half Hour Sitcom

2006-09-28T03:57:00.001-07:00

I know I haven't posted in a while, but both of you can suck it because I'm busy, okay? I have a non-paid job, okay? I listen to early 1990's television theme songs and sexually harass the News Editor. Do you think it's easy to give her the top headline of your section on a Post-It that you fold up and slip into her cleavage? It's hard fucking work. And I was lucky to get a role in that play I auditioned for but I'm busy. I have to keep-up to the stilted, half-brain dead standard of Heather Graham. And I have to throw on a pair of rollarskates and show off my gine to do it, then the devil may care. Because I won't.

I also went to a Christening this weekend. No, no one got shot in the middle of the glasses. But there was this four year old girl in a leopard print, come-fuck-me dress which was completely inappropriate, not just for life, but for a church. Even I know better than that. I don't dress like Leroy from Fame and you don't dress like Jonbenet. End of fucking story.

So I was looking to kick back. And I may have stumbled upon a LJ community devoted entirely to Weeds. I wanted to download an episode and see if anyone shared my enthusiasm for Mary Louise Parker's most recent laugh cry.

But they did.

http://community.livejournal.com/weeds_sho/

Dear god, they did.

My favorite is this girl: http://kateof9.livejournal.com/

Make sure to read her Nancy/Celia slash FAN FIC about a moment that might have been. And her notations on the various aspects of the show. At first, I threw back my crown and twirled my separ and laughed at her from my ivory tower of magic and judgment. And then I realized:

I have the same blog too.

Let's think of this as a send-off of me ever talking about Weeds again.

A classic moment:

Mary Louise Parker's most recent laugh-cry: the ol' Regret The Choices I've Made While Smoking Marijuana Laugh Cry.

Au revoir, Weeds. You have gone the way of Carrie the Musical. I have seen the error of my ways. I only wish you a prosperous future and constant media attention from a bunch of teenage lesbians with LJs.

Mary Louise Parker's Final Laugh Cry: A Goodbye to AHANG's Favorite Drug Dealer Showtime Half Hour Sitcom

2006-09-28T03:57:00.000-07:00

Jim and Pam Turn Me Into A Twelve Year Old Girl

2006-09-23T17:00:00.000-07:00

Me: it was lolerton city
Me: population:
Me: me
Karen: too kewt, right?
Karen: now that i know jim and pam have a future i'm so happy
Me: BUT DO THEY?????
Karen: puh-lease, eventually they are so gonna fuck
Karen: but the whole oscar coming out was a funny story
Karen: with meredith licking the purell
Karen: i DIED
Me: HAHHAHA i know
Me: i love meredith and phyllis
Me: they're too ridic
Karen: i know
Karen: i rewatched the season finale before the premiere
Karen: and i forgot how teary it made me
Karen: my friend saw jim on the street!!!!!!!!
Karen: she says he's adorable
Me: OMG!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Me: i want to MARRY him
Me: i like that's not that cute
Me: but like SOOO cute
Me: you know?
Karen: i know!!!
Me: lol
Karen: when he has those tears rolling down his face when he tells pam he loves her
Me: we are thirteen year old girlz
Me: I DIEDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDD
Karen: i weeped
Karen:
Me: AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!
Karen: just to make you wanna fuck someone even more
Karen: TRUE LOVE
Me: 'I wanna be MORE than that'
Me: i am plotz fucking CITY
Me: SHES SO IN LOVE WITH HIM TOO
Me: SHE JUST DOESNT KNOW IT
Karen: i know!
Karen: you can't see the tears on youtube!
Karen: but there were SILENT TEARS!!!!!!!!
Karen: the only thing better than me and jim together is jim and pam together
Karen: awwwwwwwwww
Karen: that pause
Karen: OMG
Me: I LOVE CRYING
Karen: that pause
Me: the only thing better than jim and pam is me and jim
Karen: that clip just makes me wanna mestruate and have babies
Me: I KNOW!!!!!
Karen: no no, you have to admit, jim and pam are the IDEAL couple
Karen: they're the only vanilla couple that everyone is rooting for
Me:
Me: i know
Me: i know
Me: i know
Me: i know
Karen: weeping!!!
Karen: awwwwww
Karen: jim and pam
Karen: i couldn't love them more
Karen: they make me happier than amelie and that dude she sleeps with
Me: they make me happier than rainbows and DEW DROPS, for fuck's sake
Karen: hahaha
Karen: when he kisses her and his cheeks are all wet from TEARS OF LOVE
Karen: oh my gosh, i could cuddle up with that clip and cry myself to sleep
Me: COULDNT WE ALL???
Karen: i'm so happy you watch the office

Stop Kiss? More like...Stop FUCK!

2006-09-22T09:31:00.000-07:00

So I'm sitting here in my office. Listening to the theme song from Step by Step on repeat. Waiting with bated fucking breath for the cast list to get posted so I can drive home and make my mom give me money and do my laundry. What's that you ask? Mr. Shush is an actress again? In a word: Yes. Think of it as my answer to Jane Fonda's return to the silver screen in Monster-in-Law. Only really low-rent.

How did this come about, you're obvies asking yourself.

I will tell you: During production night, I ran to the john to drain the snake and ran into this guy I had a tawdry one night stand with and he said that he was auditioning for the play and that I should too. I knew I was going to be in the student center all night anyway. Getting out at 4AM is only if you're lucky but I'm sure we could cut down to about midnight if we 86'ed all the molestation and Youtube powwows at 2AM. So I threw caution to the wind. Say "DEVIL MAY CARE!". Signed up on the sheet and "got into character" i.e. texting people to tell them that I was back to being an actress.

So I was the last person on the last day. Didn't have a monologue. So the director decided to play a theater game that I didn't understand and made him repeat himself like, four times, proving to him that I can't take direction, while he got noticably more aggitated.

It did NOT bode well.

But seeing as I have a dick and I'm auditioning for local theater, I got a call back. But it was for Peter Straus. We all know that's incorrect. So I start freaking out and checking out Facebook to see if there's a Peter Straus who goes to MSU and auditioned for a play. It couldn't deal with going to the call back in front all these bitchy, judgmental FAGS, finding out I didn't get a call back, and have to leave i.e. Advanced Tap class at AMDA when I got thrown out because allegedly fucking a tap dancer does not count as "tap experience" and I had to walk out quietly with tap shoes on while everyone looked ahead standing in a line. Very faggot boot camp.

Luckily, I got it and read the script and found out that it is, pants down, LAUGH CRY CITY. Population? Mary Louise Parker and me.

BAM!

BAM!

I counted like twenty different opportunities for each of the characters to laugh cry. That's a sexy probability.

So I go to the call back, read once, and he does the infamous numbers tactic that has resulted in many tears, eating disorders, and suicide attempts. We each had to wear a number as we went in. Very Showgirls. Very A Chorus Line. Everyone sits in the audience and he calls numbers. If you're number gets called, you go onstage and stand in a line. My number gets called and I go on stage. And then you have to stare straight out at the people in the audience as the director tells them that "They did a good job" Ouch "And that he wishes he could have a cast of thirty" Double ouch. Needless to say, everyone was trying to hide their disappointment/soul crushing as they walked out the door.

Which, of course, freaked me out even more. Because that meant it was getting down to the wire. After two more series of cuts, I was in the second to last group and got to read the biggest laugh cry scene in the script I had been studying and preparing for all day.

So I blow up there and fucking WENT FOR IT. I did the MLP bottom lip bite. The unexpected pauses at expected moments. The "look up so that you really can't tell I'm crying move".

So I hope I get it. God, I hope I get it. How many people does he need? (How many people does he need?)

Okay, I'm going to stop now because I see fags and theater girls running amok and I'm going to go check it out.

More files from my career as a child actress...

2006-09-20T07:00:00.000-07:00

I really don't have the time to be updating my blog. Wednesdays are production day, which means I'm in the office from 10AM until 4AM on Thursday morning. This week there was a blackout on Monday and all of a sudden, the investigative reporter inside burst out in a sea of ejaculate and confetti and I started running around with a notepad, getting witness testimonials and harassing the cops. Ordering the graphics kids to get a camera from the office and take pictures of the people evacuated from all the academic buildings. But then my journalistic glee wore off and now I have to actually write the article about it and now I'm all limp and just want to roll over and go to sleep. Luckily I'm emailing all my important interviewees because, if we learned anything from the athletics interview last week, my journalistic integrity is so shaky that if any of the guilty parties are mildly attractive, all impartiality will be thrown out the window. I'm just starting out with the news thing, so I'm not really Lois Lane yet. Think of me as Susan from Suddenly Susan.

ANYWHO, lets ignore the digretion and get down to the real through line of this entry. I was in class before and bored out of my mind. My professor made an awkward 1992 pop culture reference regarding White Men Can't Jump, which gave me a mild chuckle, but not enough to sustain an hour and fifteen minutes of complete boredom. I looked around the room and saw this girl who looked familiar. Turns out she was a spitting image of this girl I did theater with when I was twelve and had a "crush" on. Which lead me to thinking about the show we did together. Which uncovered a memory that I'd thought I'd smoked away. A memory that is a tale of love and honor in a time ravaged by war. A memory that made me literally LOL in class.

Come along with me as I impart the tale...

Picture it: 1996. A production of Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat. I am one of the kids of one of the brothers in the play. Lots of down time. All the children's choir in Joseph do are singing the "La La La's" during "Close Every Door." So it's me in a dressing room with ten other prepubescent latent homosexuals. Basically, the cast of Mean Girls gone chunky and shrill voiced. Some were the products of overzealous stage mothers. In my mom's defense, my career as a child star was completely and utterly driven by my undying need to become Michelle Pfeiffer. I worry for my kids because I know if they even have a slight hint of an acting bug, I will go all Mama Rose on their asses and sing "Rose's Turn," much to their chagrin.

Now, there were two boys I did theater with. There was one named Rich that would totally become a straight acting gay in a few years that I thought was super cool. Which means that I had a big gay crush on him and wanted to do him up the butt. And another one named Will who's parents were on the Board of Trustees of the tehater company. He thought he was the fucking shit. He played a lead role in Fiddler when he was thirteen because of nepotism, luckily the local news RIPPED APART their decision to cast him and called a spade a spade anyway. He was a bitch. A big repressed gay bitch who thought he was fucking Liza Minnelli in Cabaret when he was really just Sofia Coppolla in Godfather III. Now, Rich was kind of a dick. This is a crush that would foreshadow all the rests of my crushes for the rest of my life. And he was really kicky and sassy. And would always put Will in his place. And everyone would LOL. This fucking bitch deserved it.

ANYWAY, one night...Somewhere between "A Pharaoh Story" and "Benjamin Calypso," Will was being a real bitch and judging all these other people who were in the cast and saying that they had no talent. So Rich got on his sass horse and said "Yeah, because having Daddy as a board member doesn't help land a role at all."

So there's an awkward silence...

Will's face goes blood red

And he SLAPS Rich across the face.

Now when I say he slaps, I don't mean a gentle tap. Or even a masculine push forward of the cheek.

I'm talking FULL ON, JOAN COLLINS ON DYNASTY FUCKING BITCH SLAP.

And Rich had a fucking RED hand print on his cheek for the ENTIRE finale.

Now, THAT's theater.

There's a funeral inside my brain...

2006-09-16T09:51:00.000-07:00

I really haven't been updating my blog as much as I should've. I've pretty Busy Concarne at school and I haven't even had time to do my homework for class. Since I've given up booze and I'm trying my hardest to cut out my other vices, I've applied my addictive personality to the paper and been stacking up close to 40 hours there a week. On Tuesday and Wednesday, I went in around 9AM and stayed until 4AM. I'm totes a workaholic now.

But I wouldn't want to subject both of you to all my work drama. There is nothing more bring a book. Needless to say, I got fucked over royally by a few of my writers and photographers this week and I've been in the middle of a gay hissy fit for the past four days.

Frowny face to the fact that the add/drop period is over! I learned that the hard way when I had an intricate schedule change that involved three classes being flipped and started by trying to change the time I go to Sociology and saw that I accidentally withdrew from the class and now need to go to the Bursar's office to fix the error. Truth be told, that Creative Writing class is kicking my ass. I mean, yeah, the people in it are totes awkz and it's lots of funny blogging material. But last week, we had to write a poem centered around a list of abstractions (i.e. "love", "hate", "sorrow", "pain") Now, don't get me wrong. I've written some emo shit in my time. I wrote a ruthlessly self-indulgent play about my inner pain. But I only made three people read it. But a poem. Come ON. I hate poetry. If I'm going to write a poem, it's going to be a dirty limmerick.

With the exception of Elizabeth Vandiez D, I hate the people who write poems. Case in point: This summer, I went to go see Open (Insert Offensive Term for a Jewish/Lesbianic Person That Rhymes With "Mike" For the Purpose of Puniness Here) Night at our local friendly coffee house and I was kind of in hog heaven with irony. But that was under controlled circumstances. I was able to text Colin across the table if something ridic happened. We could have left anytime whenever we wanted to. But we chose not to. Why? Because there was a T girl "rapping" about how she was chain smoking and swilling down coffee at a 7-11 before laying down on the train tracks because some guy "she" dated stopped liking "her". Come on, sir. Just pick up a copy of He's Just Not That Into You like the rest of us. There was some angsty guy talking about how a Goth girl asking him if she could keep her Hot Topic boots on during sex was the sexiest thing he ever heard. Ridic shit. The best was the level of pretentious artistic self-depreciation which is the highest level of narcissism out there. Someone would compliment someone on their poem and they'd say shit like "Yeah, I only wrote it in ten minutes. I think it sucks." To add this level of intrigue to the poem. And try to masturbate more praise out of you. But again, controlled circumstances.

But now? I have to be graded on this shit. And being kicky doesn't help. Oh, no. I tried to be cheeky. We had to do a poem on simile abstractions on words he gave us. So I wrote shit like "Happiness is like a blood-stained carpet" and "Laughter is like a person's wooden leg." Went over like a lead turd.

BUT fortunately, there IS a continuing ed student in my class. Now, one of the major things that gets my goat in this class is that we have to read published poetry. To those of you not in the "know", Creative Writing workshop is supposed to consist of the teacher giving you a suggestion, say a title like "Travelling Through the Dark" and you have to weave a poem/short story/dramatic scene using that title. Or you can do whatever you. Whatevez flies. You bring it in, you read it out loud, and then everyone gives you constructive criticism or (what I do) suppress my inner feelings and say "I LIKED it." You don't read. But if I HAVE to read an Emily Dickinson poem, there's no better way than hearing a middle aged North Jersey housewife with the thickest Jersey accent you'll ever hear read aloud about the "funeral in her brain." That is the real reason that sexy has been brought back.

Anyone who knows me knows that my favorite part of college is the continuing ed students. If there's not a hot guy in the class to fixate on, fantasize about, and basically think about constantly to avoid listening to the teacher, I dive right for the continuing ed student. I wonder what their story is. What the inciting incident was that brought them back to college. My favorite is the housewives. A part of me has contempt for them. They are living the life that I'm going to college to lead. To meet an ugly, old man with lots of cash who will support me so I can sit around all day eatin' Bon-Bons and watching The View. Why would they want to go BACK and give that up??? Are they divorced? Did their husband find someone younger and prettier i.e. me?

My two faves were Joanne and Le Bag. Joanne was in my film class and absolutely shouldn't have been there. She was sixty if she was a day. She had two loves: Fried Green Tomatoes and Sleepless in Seatle. Now don't get me wrong. I love Fried Green Tomatoes. I do not think it's technically a good movie, but Mary Louise Parker cries in it so I watch it constantly. But I think she thought the class would consist entirely of Nora Ephron's oevure. So when she saw people eating keys and being strangled to death with seaweed, I knew I was in for a treat. Every five seconds she'd frustratingly turn to whatever was next to her and whisper "I don't know WHAT is going on." The prof hated her. I loved her. To the point where I would sit behind her every class and whisper in her ear "Joanneeeee. I can see you Joannnneee. Joannnnne, why are you saddd?" She'd look around inquistively and I would sit back in my seat, free for yet another moment.

And then there was Le Bag. Oh man, Le Bag was the shit. She loved those Kiss concert t-shirts unironically. She had these big bug-eyed glasses. She was 40ish. Probably lived in Little Falls ::nervous giggle:: Loved scrunchies, wind breakers, and Lady Foot Locker basketball sneakers. The kind of dame you'd expect to have lipstick on her teef, perpetsch. And a big bag that said LE BAG on it in big gold letters.

I'm hoping this dame stays in the same rank as these dames. If not, OMG, AWKWARD HUG CRUSH ALERT. Let me paint you a picture: Fire-crotched Israeli exchange student who speaks little English and has to constantly check his portable electronic Hebrew to English dictsch and writes from right to left in his notebook in all kinds of kooky symbols. Is he a fag? I don't care! I never do. All I know is that we're going to get married and adopt oodles and oodles of kooky symbol writing babies.

That's all I really have to say.

I am TOTES Lois Lane

2006-09-12T20:04:00.000-07:00

So today I began my career as an investigative journalist. I made our new Editor in Chief send out for fedora hats with "Press" stitched on the outside brim and a sexy secretary we can call "Toots" and slap the ass of. My friend is news editor and had to do a story about this athletics team that threw a "rager" with over two hundred people on a residential street and that resulted in over one hundred arrests. Our investigation included snooping around the house and taking pictures and getting witness testimonies, but to me, the real preparation came in making fun of the arresting officers names and rocking out to "Ring My Bell" in the car on the way over.

Now, it's hard to be an impartial reporter. You need to look at the story from both sides of the spectrum. So we get there and I'm all ready to be a subjective listener.

But this wasn't fair. Because I had to listen impartially to athletes.

Attractive, STRAIGHT athletes.

A.K.A My Kryptonite.

Any journalistic integrity that I still had immediately went out the window.

I spent the entire ride back to the office trying to convince her that they were "good guys" who were just "trying to blow off steam." Making sure that she included every single defense they made for themselves.

I will never move beyond writing fluff pieces about Kaity Tong.

In other news, I had the most tediously boring class tonight. It was an environmental science about disasters, which is already bring a book. But the class started off with a TEN MINUTE explanation of how the professor didn't understand the tricked out new lecture hall we were in and had to have his son explain to him that the lights turned on, not with a switch, but with a touch pad. I knew then that I was totally fucked. Bring a fucking graphic novel. And he's an adjunct. How garden variety. The lecture hall was really sexy though. It looked like a set from the college episodes of Smallville. Very UN, with a little microphone in front of me. Which I used to mimic the singing CGI cartoon at the beginning of American Idol and did the "Bwa Wahh". Much to my neighbor's chagrin. I plan to preface every statement I make on it with "Hey bitches..."

The class was so boring that I had to write out an itinary:

5:41: He's explaining now that the syllabus is the student's way to find out what they missed if they didn't come to class so they could make it up. An ingenious fucking topic. Does he also teach mentally handicapped little girls what to do when they have their first menstruation? Is this school even ACCREDITED?

5:47: Someone just jumped ship. Said they had a "job interview" in ten minutes. Everyone looks pretty pissed off. No one else can leave until the break or else things will look suspicious.

6:01: He just said "Global warming is a hot topic right now." And then smiled. I want to die.

6:09: OMG, my old black RA/suitemate is in my class! 2QT2BSTR8

6:17: Global warming is kind of scary, actually.

6:18: Did Al Gore gain some weight?

6:22: Ten-minute break a.k.a half the class and I run for the hills (Or:The Hillz, the new LC MTV reality show.)

In other news, I need your guyses advice. How do you break up with a friend? Not like you started dating a friend. Just a friends thing. You just want them, like guys who believe in mermaids and random guidos you meet at clubs, to never come near you again. Do you have to tell them it's not them, it's you? Or do you do what any rational person would do and just ignore their calls and IMs? Do you think you could get Shannon Doherty to come and do it? It IS the Oxygen Network for Christ's sakes. They'd probably air her telling a beloved family dog that they were putting it to sleep because it's health problems are proving too costly. Most of my friendships have ended because of a big blow-out or an eventual loss of touch. Do people break up with their friends? Give examples and possible theories in the comments page below.

I Want to Vomit On Everything Ever

2006-09-11T20:19:00.000-07:00

Today was gay. So gay. Gayer than a musical sequence during the Academy Awards.

First off, I had the gayest Creative Writing class ever. Now, let's not lie, creative writing is gay to begin with. People sit around in a circle and try to impress each other with muddled metaphors about their own inner pain and how it is deeper and more dimensional than anyone else's. Bring a book. Written by Sylvia Plath. And then this one guy wrote a poem with the title of "Prozac and Percosets." Throw in a few razor marks on his arms and a bouncing Livejournal mood icon and you have the destruction of my soul. The professor was the ultimate in gayness. To the mood where his last name is "Gay." And I swear to god I'm not making dat up. He asked people what the most beautiful thing they've seen recently was. He looked off wistfully a lot. He shared a story of some old lady with Alzheimer's who couldn't remember her own name but still knew all of Walt Whitman's poems by heart. And then he wanted us to share similiar stories. What the fuck was I going to say? Tell him the story of the time when I walked into the Lord and Taylor men's room and caught an old man pulling his pud in there? That the beauty wasn't in the breakdown but in the fact that he couldn't remember his own name and he still knew how to ejaculate in his pants? Thank God there's a continuing ed student in there (i.e. orgasm alert) otherwise I would've dropped this class like a sexy potato.

A lot of really gay things happened today. I did run the school's gay group meeting. And I did have a conversation with this Argentine fag exchange student about the Kabbalah. And I know you're going to hate me. But I had to throw in an Evita reference. Madonna and someone from Buenos Aires? Even a straight frat boy would ask if he knew all the lyrics to "Your Little Body's Slowly Breaking Down."

But the ultimate was Your Cute!!! Now kiss me!!! Guy. I'm going to leave out what happened this weekend. All I'm going to say is that was watched a movie together. But made out the whole time. But then he asked me if I want to do another movie night this weekend. And I agreed. But then he said "Only this time we'll actually watch the movie. And eat dinner. Only then can you have dessert." Dessert? Come on. When Faglex was dating a Hindi bloke he once wrote a cheeky email that included the phrase "I had Indian for dinner and Indian for dessert" and we have not stopped tormenting him for two YEARS now about it. I can't do this. I'm going to have to cancel. Regardless of how hot he is. My dignity can not stand it.

What really topped off the conversation was...Okay. Don't blow this out of proportion. But things may have gotten a little intense. And he may have almost, ACCIDENTALLY, broke my nose at one point. That's all you'll get. But then when we discussed it tonight he said "I blame you. You wanted me to break your nose. So that I'd have to make up for it ;)"

Needless to say, I broke off the date.

SO FUCKING GAY.

Jim + Pam = 2QT2BSTR8

2006-09-08T18:08:00.000-07:00

I have a new addiction to watching to poorly edited Jim and Pam from The Office romantic montages set to OK Go songs on Youtube. I didn't post any of them, but I'm posting the cutest clips I could possibly find of Jim and Pam. They are totes the new Ross and Rachel for the new millenium. I have the biggest crush on Jim but I won't do anything about it if he finally ends up with Pam.

Black to School

2006-09-07T15:52:00.000-07:00

Hey there sexy bitches. Sorry I haven't updated in a while. The school internet server decided to reject my 2003 Dell laptop and myself from membership. It was all very that scene from Pretty Woman where a whoreish Julia Roberts goes into a Rodeo Drive boutique but they won't let her in because they can see the cum stains on her leather boots. Only this time the Rodeo Drive bitches were the sassy black students who work in the IT center. To log onto the internet server, my computer had to have 52 updates done at the center. And I wasn't allowed to leave. So I had to sit there from 2:15-7:00 waiting. They tried to liven things up by playing movies, but all the technicians were so busy that after Minority Report ended we had to watched the DVD menu play over and over again for a half hour. If I ever see Tom Cruise cry or a Pre-Cog open it's eyes dramatically while John Williams swelled in the background and "Play Movie, Special Features, and Scene Selections" flies across the screen, I'm going to fucking kill a bitch. They also showed Bringing Down the House, which was weird because the last time I "saw" Bringing Down the House was when my friends and I watched a golden shower bondage gay porn and told our parents we were watching Bringing Down the House. The real movie kinda sucks. And there's no sex scene in a San Francisco pastry shop. The only thing that makes fags more sexually aroused than anal sex is San Francisco pastry shops.

So, I always equate the first few days of school with the season premiere of your favorite television show. You can tell which actress was told by the network that she's too fat and has spent the entire summer working out with a trainer and having prepared meals and looks amazing even though her kidneys might be going into shock. You can tell the other actress who's spent the whole summer doing a concentration camp movie for HBO and is now wearing a kicky wig. That's a lot like MSU.

And there's always that excitement in the season premiere. That little extra kick to show that they're back in business and eager to whet your palate for the character arch most prevalent in the new season.

This year was extra season premiere for me. My parents have stopped helping me move my shit into school and think I'm perfectly capable of moving my things in and out. Which I am. But I'm more lazy than capable, so when I found out I had to move out the night before my appointment was last semester, I called up my boyfriend at the time at 4AM, woke up him, made him come to my school, had him help me pack up my things, and made him carry it all out and pack up my car. I guess it's not surprising that he and I aren't seeing each other anymore. But I'm still lazy and in need of help, so I called up "You're cute!!! Now kiss me!!!" guy and made him come and help me move in. So I spent the first hour back at school hardcore necking with him in my room.

And then this is where the season premiere mayham comes in. The night somehow goes from me getting started with my section at the paper, getting massively inebriated, committing grand larceny, and somehow ending up at a hip hop recording studio downtown and chilling out with the record producers of Alicia Keys and the Nutty Professor 2 soundtrack. Can you believe that shit? That soundtrack was groundbreaking in its portrayal of the music overweight black folks who like to fart and clap their hands at a dinner table listen to. It was absolutely ridic, but it was a good time and I may have been offered a job writing black film criticism at a black fashion magazine, but I'm not (HIV) positive. I was in the middle of a Woody Harrelson moment.

The next day I was at the paper from 9:30AM until 2AM. It was fucking not fun. Especially since when I got home the night before I couldn't go to sleep because I had to register my computer for internet so I could load up my schedule to know what class I had and where it was at 8:30. So I spent the entire night in my room listed a Meditation from Thiad and Matchmaker, Matchmaker from Fiddler on the Roof and watching Fried Green Tomatoes, trying not to pass out.

So I crashed around 2PM in the afternoon. I had used my exceptional research to find screen grabs from every episode of Weeds of scenes where Mary Louise Parker cries and laid out my article listing the top five crying scenes. That takes a lot of work. So I pass out on the couch in the office. Now, as we all know, when a guy goes to sleep, sometimes he'll have an impromptu boner. Or what we in the business refer to as, "morning wood." But you can have morning wood hours before you wake up. So there I was sleeping. Face up. In khaki pants. Might as well have been a pair of sweatpants. While my crew of 12 has been mulling about. And the entire Information Technology staff had come in fix our big computer screw up. And the entire SGA eboard came in to wish us a good new year. And there I was all passed out. Boned up.

Slanty face, indeed.

I never see public boners. The only time I've ever seen a public boner was this 30 year old Hispanic guy who I did theater with would always freeball in a pair of sweatpants and hit on the 65 year old bald gay guy with a goatee and an entire wardrobe filled with Barbra Streisand concert tees, telling him he loved "daddies" and say shit like "You know what website I logged onto last night? 'Daddies 'R Us' " Where you can be SURE that the mascot was not a giant giraffe. And there he'd be. Sporting wood. It was really traumatizing.

Rock on, Caroo! Rock the fuck on

2006-09-01T09:42:00.000-07:00

Readers of this blog are fully aware of my mom Caroo's obsession with mix CDs. So there's very little need for exposisch in this entry. Now, since American Idol (a.k.a Caroo's heroin) is on sabbatical until January, Caroo needs to find other means to satiate her addiction to competitive TV talent shows. The answer? Three words: Rock Star Supernova.

I don't know if it's the charm of Dave Navarro or the penis size of Tommy Lee, but my mom is fucking wet for Rock Star: Supernova. To the point where she's making me download all the songs they sing and burn them to a CD for her. Now, we all know that she loves her Luther Vandross. Her Lionel Richie. Her Amy Grant. Basically anyone that's ever had a song thats aired on LiteFM. But all of a sudden, Rock Star: Supernova has unleashed the strung out, Hepatitis C diagnosed hard rocker inside of a 54 year old Italian woman from North Jersey. You should see the list of songs she had me download. First off, the title is "Rock On!". Because Caroo is fucking bad ass and gives the rocker devil horns to greet and dismiss acquaintences she runs into. The tracklist includes "Lithium" by Nirvana. Is she going to start wearing plaid and making me download Janeane Garofalo's stand up act off Limewire? She has been humming "I don't care, I'm so horny. That's okay, my will is good" all the live long day. And "Creep" by Radiohead??? Is she going to put away her copies of Just Like Heaven and You've Got Mail and kick back and watch Kid A synced up with A Nightmare Before Christmas with me after a long night of doing Jager shots?

But the coup de fucking gras is that she made me download not one but TWO versions of "Santeria" by Sublime. SUBLIME? Is she a frat boy who watches downloaded episodes of Family Guy on her laptop after she doing a keg stand and date raping a drunk freshman on the porch swing out front? Will she start hot boxing in her car outside of her job as a social worker for the mentally disturbed? Sublime?? Are you fucking kidding me? The worst part is that "Santeria" is the song that my friends at school would put on while we sparked up a Gotti and did bong rips out of a plastic Poland Spring bottle. Now I have to hear it while she's snapping her fingers and singing around the house.

But anyway...In other new...

I feel really awkward saying this. But I have to get this off my chest. It's really wrong of me to do in such a public forum. But I know guys will appreciate tonight...

So tonight Colin and I went to yet another faggot dancing establishment and I met this really hot guy. And we were necking. And he requested my presence for a date on another day. So I gave him my number. And he told me he was going to text me with his number.

So we were leaning up against this pillar. Taking a break from making out. And he moves his phone so I could see what he was writing. He writes "You're cute!" Which was especially flattering since he used an exclamation point...

But then...Sigh...

He writes "Now kiss me!!!!!"

And sends it.

And I comply

...

I don't know what to say. I don't know how to deal with that. He was so nice and aesthically pleasing. But come on...NO ONE can that and get away with it. No one. Not even Chad Michael Murray. You can't just do that. Life isn't an episode of DeGrassi, as much as we wish it was otherwise.

But since I have no spine, we're going out on a date something this week.

Le sigh.

Le fucking sigh.

BTW...

2006-08-31T02:02:00.000-07:00

In case you were wondering what my preparation process includes before I go to said faggot dancing establishments, it goes a little something like this...

Don't Hate Da Playa, Baby...Hate Da Game

2006-08-31T01:05:00.000-07:00

When you spent four out of seven nights in the week frequenting faggot dancing establishments, it's bound to get tiring. There are always the same twenty fags mulling about. Occasionally wearing the same blouse that you saw them in the other night at yet another faggot dancing establishment. The same crystal meth addicts with HIV lesions on their necks trying to make eye contact with you. It can get a bit monotonous, but there are the select few that you always look forward to seeing. Since it is a faggot dancing establishment, there are always some ridic people. Case in point, the security guards. There are few uncomfortable straight guys, but the best are the sisters who are doing for themselves. There's this one security guard who is this huge dyke with a mullet and large, ripped guns that she proudly displays by rolling up her shirt sleeves up to her shoulders. She, single handedly, brought sexy back. The other security guard is this flaming fifty year old fag with a relatively good body and an earring who, literally, SHASHAYS across the dance floor to make sure that everyone is in good fettle. It's hard to figure out what he would do if someone needed to be escorted out of the club. Would he pull someone's hair? Scratch them with his perfectly manicured fingers? What would be his secret weapon? Bitchiness? Would he insult someone's last season Express hoodie and get them to leave by making them weep and run out into the parking lot and throw their body in front of a car? I'd be scared of the dyke. She's all of 5'5 but I know she could kick my ass from here to next Tuesday. But the fag? All I would need was one Dynasty-esque bitch slap and he'd crumble like a piece of tissue paper.

But the real attraction of the gay club are the pack of Mexicant's. To properly empathize their place, let me start by saying that even the Brazilians have a distant relationship with them. You can forget RufiOMG. He'd sooner have his sensual masseuse license taken away from him and have to swear upon his mother's grave that he'd never have another sex party before he'd talk to dem. They are the Marla Hooch of local faggot dancing establishments. But Colin and I are fucking OBSESSED with them. There's this one guy who about six feet tall but really matronly. He's got the breasts. The child birthing hips. All topped off with the parted down the middle 1997 men's haircut. With blonde highlights. Always mincing across the patio with a drink in one hand like he's Liza fucking Minnelli. His best friend is the local faggot dancing establishment's answer to Pat from SNL. We call him "That Thing". It wears ballet slippers in case of an emergency and it is struck with the urge to perform a solo from Giselle. And has a pencilled in goatee and wears a sloppy, punk rocker tie. But has more delicate features than Reese Witherspoon. Basically, I'm in love.

We met them the first night of the Brazilian plot line. But we didn't realize what we had till it was gone. They paved Paradise. And put up a parking lot. The urge to reinstate a friendship was shot down through neglect. Color us disappointed.

But things changed tonight...

Because when I was chatting it up with some random homosexual, Colin decided to tempt fate and talk to the Mexican'ts. So they're all drinking and having a few laughs when they go outside. And when they go outside this Puerto Rican bum comes up to them and starts talking. And "That Thing" starts to JERK OFF this random BUM OFF THE STREET in front of a RANDOM HOMOSEXUAL DANCING ESTABLISHMENT while it's equally androgynous partner starts to barf in the middle of the street. After "That Thing" hits on Colin and grabs my dick.

I couldn't ask for anything more.

Now, because I am as self indulgent as I am, I'm going to switch gears and say what happened on my side of the spectrum. This guy came up to me and struck up a conversation. Really attractive and nice, it was one of my better catches. He's an elementary school teacher and really sweet, but I just didn't know what to do in that situation. Because I fucking hate kids. I hate their voices. I hate their desire for candy. I hate that they learn about the dangers of littering and won't let you throw cigarette butts out into the street and FORCE, fucking FORCE you, to go to the side of the house (a.k.a East Bumblefuck) and make you THROW OUT your butts. Like it's Nazi fucking Germany. I mean, I plan to have kids someday when I'm older but that day is not TOday and therefore I can bitch about them all I want. And kids have the same level of disdain for me that I have for them. One night, all my cousin's kids (all under seven) sat in a line and each of them told me they didn't like me. So I did what any rational 21 year old man would do: I burst into tears and made my mom come into my room to console me. It fucking hurt my feelings! What do THEY know? They can't even EJACULATE yet. But whatever, it's not exactly like I did anything to win them over.

I babysat once for twenty minutes during Thanksgiving. So I'm chilling out with this one chick. She was six if she was a day. So we're sitting in her playroom. And she's being all judgmental that I want to play Barbie with her. Because I'm a "boy". Fucking homophobic little cuntrag. So she whips out this picture she drew of a big dragon. So I'm all like "That's sexy. Where's he from?" and she's all "Oh, he's the dragon from Cinderella." Now I'm still pissed off about her heterosexist remarks and I'm LOOKING for HALF a reason to start some shit up with her. And I know my shit. There is NO dragon in Rapunzel. So I say to her "Bitch. There ain't no dragon in Rapunzel" and she be all "Yes der is." Everyone else lets her get away with this shit. But she's fucking with a bitter gay. Who won't take that. So I get up all in her grill piece and say "The only place you'll find a DRAGON, Molly, is in bad fantasy novels and Chinese New Year floats. Not Rapunzel." "You're wrong!" she exclaims, getting all pissy. "No, YOU'RE wrong" I yell. So she says "I'm not" and playa BURSTS into tears and runs out of the room weeping.

Now. I do have a SHRED of morality, so I feel a little bad. I didn't mean to make her cry. I just wanted her to know the repercusch of such slanderous lies. So I go up to her mom and ask her "Is there a dragon in Molly's version of Rapunzel?" and she says, "Yeah, actually...Isn't that weird?"

Wasn't my face red!

So, clearly, this courtship with this guy was doomed. But I wanted to make out so I kept things going. But at one point, he went up to the bar to get another drink so I went outside to smoke a cigarette. So I'm smoking and this one random homosexual comes up to me, introduces himself, and tells me that his friend thinks I'm "beautiful." His friend was this guy I was having eye sex with earlier in the evening. Kinda nerdy. Kinda bashful and insecure. Bookish in a way. A.K.A my kind of guy. I like a guy who has really low standards and expectations. So he and I start chatting it up and I'm working my mojo when the teacher from earlier comes outside.

Now, given the situation, I had very little options. I could have ignored the teacher and kept talking to the new guy. Or I could've ignored the new guy and started talking to the teacher. But there was also another option. So I decided to try fate and take a risk: I invited the teacher to join the new guy in a conversation with me. It was very much like my group interview for Abercrombie and Fitch. Then, I went inside when the teacher came back in to tell me he was leaving and asked for my number. After that, I went back outside and the new guy was leaving and asked for my number then too.

It was time effective dating.

With that kind of luck, I can almost guarantee that neither of them will call.

Sisters Truly Are Doing It For Themselves

2006-08-28T03:10:00.000-07:00

So, about a month ago, my boyfriend and I decided to call it quits after roughly four months together. Since then, I've found myself in an emotional predicament that is best illustrated through the character my friend Sarah created for our recent boxed wine and Tequila fueled swaree, called (appropriately enough) "Divorced Women and Weekend Dads."

After ringing the doorbell, we opened the front door to see Sarah standing before us. "I'm single and back on the scene!," she exclaimed as all of our friends laughed and the words echoed throughout my brain. Single, single, single....Scene, scene, scene....The, the, the. It was like a fevered dream sequence in an after school special after a teacher told me if I didn't shape up, I'd be expelled, expelled, expelled. It rang close to home.

The character was a real hit. Look at that get up. It SCREAMS divorced woman back on the scene. She had a rough marriage. You can tell that her husband was a real brute. Kept her on a tight leash. Made her feel less than worthy. Now she's had the first taste of freedom. She goes to the bars on Friday nights after her ex-husband picks up the kids. Gets plastered on too many Malibu Bay Breezes. Uses her kid's child support payments to pay for a cab ride home. Probably fucks a lot of guys who work in the construction and have a receding hairline. One night, she meets a divorced Wall Street broker who is knocking back a few cold ones after a long day of screaming "Buy! Sell!" into his cell phone. He has kids with his former wife but doesn't have time for them. When he does, he does what every divorced weekend dad does to win back their kids' love. He brings them McDonalds.

They meet, hit it off, she goes back to his place. They have really nasty misogynstic sex where he slaps her really hard, calls her a "dirty little bitch", and pushes her head down when she's giving him a beej.

She doesn't really mind. He would be a perfect new father for her kids. Financially secure and whatever. She calls her girlfriends and tells them all about it. They ask her to go out with them that night. But she turns them down. He said he'd call her today. She stays home all night. No word. She stays home the next night. She sacrifices her pride and looks up his number in the phone book. And gets his voice mail. He still doesn't call her. The next week, she goes to the same bar to look for him in a dress she blew an entire week's worth of salary on. He walks right past her and pretends to not know who she is. She bursts into tears and runs out of the bar quickly. But she feels great about it. She's seen the butchered Sex and the City reruns on TBS. She's hip. She knows what's going on. She likes that "Hips Don't Lie" song. But she IS divorced. She isn't totally with it. Hence the scrunchie.

Anyway, she's totes me. My friends and I are single and ready to mingle and have since been hitting up the faggot dancing establishments like they are going out of style. New York. Toronto. New Jersey. Sisters truly are doing it for themselves. A few weeks ago, I met this guy at one of the clubs. He was incredibly good looking and came straight up to me to talk so, clearly, he was out of his mind drunk. He's slurring his words. I'm pretending not to notice. Since I do have a shred of morality left, I don't hook up with him. But since he does have a good body, I give him my number. He gives me a call the next day and I am faced with a horrific revelation: He wasn't drunk at all last night. That's just how he sounds. But I never learn my lesson. Ever. So I agree to a date with him. I have absolutely no resolve when I'm sexually frustrated.

Let me give you a quick synopz of topics we covered on the first date. His favorite movie is Mrs. Doubtfire. He quotes it for me. I bite my tongue. Awkward silence. I somehow go on a ten minute rant about EZPass in a last ditch attempt at making conversation. He bites his tongue. Awkward silence. He brings up SexxxyBack. I tell him I found it disappointing. He tells me that he understands my pain as he had high hopes for Promiscuous but found his dreams shattered when he heard the finished product. I tell him I hate Hips Don't Lie. He tells me he loves it. We both bite our tongues. We clearly have nothing in common yet we both clearly want to hook up so we make plans for a second date.

We decide to go for a walk on the boardwalk. It's a good plan. Intellectually stimulating conversation over cigarettes and a cup of coffee did not work for us. Nor would seeing a movie as I had no desire to go see Material Girls starring Haylee and Hilary Duff because I hate matronly upper arms. The walk would be short and brisk and then we would go on to the beach and make out. Of course, the second we get to the boardwalk, we are greeted by a girl. Let me give you a mental picture. Seventeen years old. Skinny. Weathered. Drunk off her fucking ass. She comes up to us and asks, "Are you guys going for a walk?" We say yes and, secretly pray she won't ask to come along, she asks "Can I come along?" So we're walking with this stinking drunk girl and she's slurring her words, grabbing onto our arms, and feeling massively uncomfortable. Hoping she'll break away soon enough. Then all of a sudden, judging from our lascivious grins and lisping girl voices, asks us "Are you guys...GAY?" He says yes. I say yes.

And then she asks us the question that everyone wants to hear on a second date when you're still pretending that the two of you are "hanging out" like "buds" before you've both admitted your attraction to each other by tempting fate and making a first move: "Are you guys...BOYFRIENDS?" We say no, as both of us are assured at this point that we won't ever be furnishing an Asian art deco townhouse together. Then she asks "Well, are you guys on a...DATE?" He says no, which elicits my insecurities later on when figuring out whether or not to make a move. "We're just friends," we say. But playa won't let it go. "Are you guys...FRIENDS WITH BENEFITS?" So things are getting pretty awkward. She tells us we're hot for gay guys. That she does theater and dance and knows tons of gay guys if we ever want to get set up. Then her boyfriend comes up to us. A clearly straight skater boy and hoping she'll drop the fucking subject. As confident as I am as a cocksucker, I'd rather not have every random person I meet on the boardwalk at one in the morning know that I listen to a lot of Kelly Clarkson remixes at club every Saturday night while grinding up on a Brazilian hairdresser. So when he comes up to us, the first thing she says is "Hey Chris, these guys are GAY." "Really?," he says, moving his stupid emo bangs away from his eyes, "Are you guys boyfriends?"

...

"Are you guys on a date?"

...

"Friends with benefits?"

Somehow we escape their grasp and make our way onto the beach. We're sitting around and again we're stuck for conversation. The best we can manage is Rachel Ray from the Food Network. That's it. After yet another sexual tension filled silence, we look out onto the ocean and see a few lights in the water. "I guess those are boats," I say, expecting it to tide me over for a few more minutes. "Yeah, or little people out there holding up lanterns. Or mermaids" I elle oh elle. But then he's not ready to drop the subject. Oh, no.

"Do you believe in mermaids?," he asks me.

I don't know what to say. I contemplate not saying anything. I have a feeling what he's going to say. And it's not good. How could I live with myself if I made a move after he says it? How could I look at myself in the mirror every mirror after knowing the enormity of my actions? The guilt would kill me.

But then there's that curiosity. Maybe he won't say it. Maybe he will. Maybe I need to hear the truth. Let it be a cold shower on my raging hormones. So I open my mouth...

"No"

I gringe.

"Do you?"

There's a long silence as he looks out into the water. Letting a handful of sand slip through the space between his fingers.

"I like to believe they're out there"

At that moment, I do the only thing I can do to stop myself from screaming. From storming off the beach in a rage:

I make out with him.

Frowny Face Indeed

2006-08-23T03:24:00.000-07:00

After the cancellation of The Comeback, I am down to exactly one television show that I make it a point to watch. After a year of too many Golden Girls and That's So Raven reruns, I was super jazzed for the second season of Weeds to premiere. Weeds is a great show. Think of it as Scarface if he brought orange slices and water to his kid's soccer game and had a "My child is an honor student at..." bumper sticker on the back of his car. I loved the first season but I found myself in a pickle of a fix. I don't have Showtime at home and my computer is far too backed up with internet pornography to download the new episodes off iTunes

So I found myself doing what any rational, cheap, and oversexed college Arts & Entertainment Editor would do in my given situation: I used the power of the press to meet my personal agenda. I wrote a pretentious letter to the website moderators of Sho.com in which I stated my position. I alerted them to the large, devoted cult of Weeds fans around campus. Whether or not such a cult exists past me and some stoned guy in Blanton who downloaded a few episodes off Limewire and never bothered to watch them is beyond me. I let them know that the paper has a circulation of 20,000 students who recieve it on a weekly basis. He didn't need to know that a large majority of them are bundled in the front lobby of the Student Center and when a student does pick up a copy, it's generally as a last resort for drug-crazed grasshoppers in desperate need of a rolling paper. I finished the letter by telling them I wrote a glowing review of the first episodes and it would "behoove" them to send me the first four of the new season. And an invitation to a press conference so I could sexually harass Mary Louise Parker. They never got back to me.

So I really don't feel bad that I watched the press freebie DVD of the first four episodes after a friend of mine illegally downloaded it off a torrent site. I got what I wanted. Showtime will just have to deal with repercussions of their neglect. You can say no to a five star review of the next season of Fat Actress from this outraged journalist.

All bitterness towards Showtime aside, I'm kind of disappointed with what I've seen. In the cliffhanging season finale, we discover that Nancy's new boyfriend is a DEA agent. And she's a drug dealer. It's all very Tevye's youngest daughter Chava falling in love with the Russian shtetl terrorist in Fiddler on the Roof. They come from different worlds. Will their differences bring them closer a la Chava and Russian shtetl terrorist? Or will they forever be a mismatched pair allowing for hilarity to ensue, not unlike Blaki and Larry on Perfect Strangers?

They seem to think it's the former. Which I'm medium about. I know Mary Louise Parker is really hot and a great crier to boot. But people don't just become DEA agents because it was the only thing other than secret shopper listed in the classifieds. They generally don't like drugs. And they generally think that selling drugs is morally questionable and, even worse, they think it's gauche. Which is why they bring down meth labs and throw dealers in prison. So, when her boyfriend tells her that he knows she sells drugs but still wants to try to work things out, I kinda want to cry and vomit on my neighbor's yard with Mary Louise Parker. They resolve this by getting married in Vegas so that he can never testify against her in court. And bringing her to the shooting range so that she can kill off a few of his DEA colleagues if she ever gets caught. Why he does this is beyond me, even if I have contemplated hiring a hitman after one too many long conversations about last night's episode of American Idol around the water cooler in the office.

What adds insult to injury is that Mary Louise Parker has only cried once these past four episodes. And it wasn't even a good one. Not a tear dripped down her face. There was no desperate smile battling against the pull of her quivering frown. All we got was some welling up eyes, darting eyes, and shaky bottom lip. Color me underwhelmed.

Don't get me wrong, Weeds is still better than most other TV shows airing, but I expected more of the show that made their wisecracking, zany next door neighbor a sociopathic, abusive PTA mom named Celia Hodes (Elizabeth Perkins). Celia, Weeds' answer to Kimmy Gibbler, put laxatives in her overweight daughter's chocolate stash and told her other daughter that she wished she had an abortion after she destroyed the hidden camera she had stashed in her pantry. Last season, they gave Celia cancer and she was nice for about an episode, but fortunately they put her back on the right path this season to make Mommie Dearest look like Winnie the Pooh. Making her run for public office was a good decision because not only can she impart her critical and judgmental views on a town of suburban airheads but she also has to worry about keeping her lesbian daughter out of the public eye, a la Dick Cheney. Good move, sitcom writers.

Hopefully things will change after episode four. There are still eight more opportunities to have Mary Louise Parker. But if not, Weeds is still a good show to look into.

Cockerbunni: A Legend Uncovered

2006-08-23T02:42:00.000-07:00

So I've decided to start a new series on this blog. I've tried a few. Sweet Potato Brad quickly became Steve Urkel of Awkward Hug and Nervous Giggle and is in talks to spin-off onto another blog where he moves to L.A. to make it as an actor. The Brazillians story line went over pretty big. It was rich in character development. We watched as Wellington evolved past me as he moved on to an Army sugar daddy. We watched as Roderigo evolved past Faglex to romantically link himself with Lucas who was since envolved past his interest in Colin. The circumstances of the plot (i.e. Me and everyone I know feeling ultra uncomfortable when we run into each other at the club) reflects the development on the characters.

I think with all that good luck, I can make the risk of presenting you a somewhat controversial idea. Now, I know that Youtube clips on a blog is something that a lot of people have on their list of pet peeves, under driver's who make left turns but over "negative people". I was, for one, forlorn to watch as You Can't Make It Up descended into cute puppies videos.

But I have decided to present you with my life. My spirit . My struggle. Told entirely through Youtube clips.

Now, to know me, you need to understand my essence. My soul. My heart. In under :40 seconds. Note to reader: this clip will be played on a projector over my rotating disco ball coffin at my funeral as a substitute for an elergy.

Struggling in my career as a child actress

My parents struggle to understand my pecularity (i.e. latent homosexuality)

The only way you can succeed is not as somebody else. It's as yourself. This clip uses the struggle of inner city youths to overcome the obstacles in front of them (poverty, racial prejudice, Jennifer Love Hewitt in a supporting role) by staying true to their roots as sassy, rap-hip hop-gospel divas who wear bright early 90's neon shirts and baseball caps. Although I didn't have the supportive hand of an unexpected role model, this clip illustrates the relief and acceptence I felt as I finally realized I was a huge fucking faggot.

To be a fag, you need to have sex with men. Some of us like bois. One of us wants something different. (That means me, by the way)

My job at Macys, Express, and Lord 'n Taylor

The tragedies I've seen and it's effects on my spirit

My thirteen year old alter ego's struggle with weight and temptation.

My many tumultuous romances played against an acoustic Country Western ballad sung by Pink Ranger alumness Amy Jo Johnson

My character's descent into a darker themed story line to fully develop the plot and make my character richer and more three dimensional. Performed by Liza Minnelli.

Dealing with the scar of a broken heart

80's-tastic Dance Sequence Lalapalooza

2006-08-21T23:39:00.000-07:00

Let be h-onest here for a moment. I really only updated my blog so I could show this clip from Carrie the Musical. What you are witnessing here is the splashy production number that opens the big prom sequence before Carrie does them all in. 80's disco ball style. I think it's really sad that finally the American public is appreciating irony and camp with the release of Snakes on a Plane and I have no desire to see it and I'm still obsessing over Carrie the Musical. Which, granted, was probably the Snakes on a Plane of its time. But I greatly doubt that Snakes on a Plane had faggot chorus boys with 80's-tastic mullets in white leisure suits doing the infamous John Travolta "Check out THESE forearms!" dance moves.

So I decided, in honor of the opening weekend of Snakes on a Plane, I decided to give my predominantly faggot readership their own anal sex-happy alternative to current craze of irony. And how will I do as such?

BAD 80's DANCE SEQUENCES!

Consider the final five minutes of Stayin' Alive. Not only is it cheesy, smoke machine-happy, and lousy with Satanic themed catsuits, it also features of a shirtless and greased up John Travolta, waay before he got paunchy and made awkward movies like Swordfish. This was director Sylvester Stallone's take on Dante's Inferno. Think of it as a reinvention. With jazz hands.

Now I love the Electric Light Orchestra. And I love glowing people. So this video = big orgasm. And throw in a dash of slow motion dancing and you've found the best sex I've had in years. Whatcha covering your eyes for, Olivia Newton John? Show us your pretty face. Keep your eyes peeled for the sassy black dancer with the phallic hairstyle. My fave part is when they start shooting in the skies like Skittles. Or rollar skating up to the guy from The Warriors and start to randomly make out with him.

I know it's gauche to post two Xanadu clips, but I fucking couldn't pass this shit up.

Okay, but I saved the best for last. This is the coup de gras. Now, just to warn you, this video has unsexy full frontal male nudity and was clearly filmed in a gay dance club on a Saturday morning. So I might get kicked off Blogspot, but I can't say for sure. So I'm risking my blog on this because I care about you bitches so fucking much. So you have to watch it. And just try...just fucking TRY to get that song out of your head. It's really fucking catchy. I was whistling it in my cabin in New Hampshire with my dad and sis around during our entire vacay.

My Trip to the DMV

2006-08-21T09:17:00.000-07:00

On Friday night, I went to a homosexual dancing establishment in New York City. At some point in the evening, whether it was before the perks of a two hour open bar bit me in the ass or after I made out with some long haired guy who goes to Notre Dame, I lost my license. I'm really hoping that some Mexican immigrant is showing my pursed lipped ol' timey New Jersey provisional license to try to get a job as a server at Chilli's in Times Square. So this morning, I had to trek out to the DMV and get a new one.

Now, the DMV and I have a very sordid history. There were the six times that I had to go in there to take the written part of my driver's test. If I failed one more time, I would've gotten a free vanity plate. I know that's really fucking sad. But in high school, I firmly held to the theory that studying is awkward and that driver's manual, while exciting when I recieved it because it was free and had a glossy cover, is so mind numbingly boring and has no fun possible scenerios starring people like Jose and Margarita. And I was lazy and leafed through it once. Which is the kind of thinking that lead me to going to a prom and drinking the night before the ONE time I took the SATs. Which is why I go to a state school. Anyway, whatever, stop judging me. I passed the road test on the first try and didn't even fail parallel parking.

But I also had to take my old car into inspection three times in one summer. Now, my old car was a piece of shit. There was the huge dent in the back bumper that I got backing up into a telephone the first day that I had my car. Only three of the doors opened after some girl crashed into an open door in the parking lot of a 7-11. There was a gas leak which was slowly killing everyone inside of my car. But the worst part was that my tape deck REJECTED my use of a CD player adapter and I was forced to listen to cassette tapes. Like it was fucking 1988. So when I went in for inspection, I drove up my car to an attractive blonde girl who only looked a few years older than me. I mean, yeah, she MAY have had dumps like a truck. Thighs like what. What what. Baby move your butt. But I felt like she might be more forgiving. So the second I get there, she barked "MOVE UP!" in the dykiest growl this side of Ms. Gaze and FAILS me because my trunk brake light had burned out. Which is the shittiest reason to fail inspection. The trunk brake light is like foreskin. You don't need it. It's only there for decoration.

And I know that this isn't uncommon. Nobody likes the fucking DMV. But nobody else is me. And me is all I care about. So, therefore, I feel personally put upon by the Department of Motor Vehicles. Especially because there are no hot guys there. Because when I'm put in a situation where I'm bored and have to sit (such as the DMV waiting area or a class at school) the only thing I can do to pass the time is develop a crush on somebody around me. I think of us flirting. Going on a first date for drinks at Chilli's. Seeing Talladega Nights together. Going to Bar A for the second date. Having sex in their apartment. Their cat accidentally licking up fresh ejaculate out of their sheets. There are occasions when the guys are genuinely attractive. But in a Fiction class at MSU, your standards drop a lot. The worst of this when I was at this Holocaust Colloqium at Brookdale and I fell in love with the guy in front of me, even though all I saw was the back of his head. It was a really sexy back of his head. The fantasy had launched to the point where I envisioned our bitter breakup in the rain in some random parking lot. And then when it was over and the survivor stopped talking, he turned around and he was ugly. No, correction: Fugly. It was tragic. And my life is filled with tragedy. And death.

Anywhoodles, the lack of hotties was really starting to get to me. Hot guys clearly have driver's licenses. Where do they go to get them? Do they go to some special Studio 54-esque DMV where they have to put their name on a list and pay a fifteen dollar cover? But luckily they renovated the DMV so the waiting period was pretty short. I was soon called up to the receptionist's booth. I think that with the renovations they brought in a whole new crew. To reflect their new image. Which is, I suppose, is Latin chic. I was sad to lose the John Waters looking guy and the weird guy with Tourette's who judged me on my driver's test. But this was just too fucking sexy to pass up. Because now the receptionist's booth is manned by three sassy Latina girls no older then me. Chatting it up on their Razor cell phones, twirling their T-Boz strips on their index fingers, and talking about boys. Think of them as the Plastics of the DMV. They have their own lunch table and on Wednesdays, they wear pink. And what did they wear today? Let me tell me: One of the girls wore a graphic tee that read "Soon to be Famous" in big letters. Because the DMV is the most important stepping stone in someone's career as a serious actress. They directed me to line twelve and I ended up getting my license and don't look too awful in it, so I didn't cry all that muchly.

So that was my trip to the DMV. In other news, I've been watching The Simple Life a lot lately, which is an obsession I've been trying to fight for quite sometime. Anytime I look at some fag's Facebook or Myspace profile and they have it listed as one of their fave TV shows, I say "Snooze" and click "X" on the window. It's really gouche to love Paris Hilton and it immediately makes me dick wilt. But that show is fucking funny! Case in point:

Now, as we grow older, we learn that the world is full of grey areas. Whether it morals and rules or simply behavior, you start to realize that black and white is really just a myth. But there are times when you are given a line and you are forced to make a decision. Sometimes these are the hardest decisions we'll ever have to make. Israel or Palestine. North or South Korea. Republican or Democrat. Top or Bottom. I wasn't able to realize this until recently and found myself in a moral quandry. Which side would I choose? And I've finally made my decision:

I'm definitely Team Nicole.

I mean, Paris is more aesthically pleasing and has the ridic voice, but Nicole is much funnier and sociopathic and would make a much funner faghag and that's all that matters. But I wish these two girls would just work it out! And if not, at least spill the beans on what happened!! All Paris has said is that "Nicole knows what she did."

But what did Nicole do???

Did she sell the copyrights to the "Sadasa" song?

JUST TELL US ALREADY

Ahoy Matey!

2006-08-17T21:03:00.000-07:00

It should come to no surprise that I fucking LOVE bad theater. Love it. Real, good theater is aiight. You get "moved". It's "effective". But if you see a play with an important message of "tolerance" that helps you to see things in a new perspective, it only lasts for a night and the next morning you wake up and call someone a faggot. But bad theater can make a lasting impression that will influence everything you do. It's why I listen to the bootleg soundboard recording of Carrie the Musical in my car every time I drive somewhere.

So when Colin called me up a few nights ago at 6:30 and asked me if I wanted to see a middle-school aged summer arts production of The Pirates of Penzance at 7:00, I rushed through dinner, took the fastest shower imaginable, and made it to his house at 6:45. Because not only would it be a musical with awkward, hunched over, acnecated, mosquito bite breasted tweens trying to adjust to their changing voices and new bodies, BUT it was ALSO Gilbert and Sullivan which meant that they were to tackle difficult material that is also mind-numbingly boring. There was no question as to whether or not it would fail. But would it fail valiantly? That was the question on our minds when we showed up to our former high school to see the show.

It's weird to go back to the place you spent every day for four years straight and not have a clue where the bathroom or water fountain was. I definitely smoked away all those memories. But I still felt this crippling wave of teen angst as I walked inside. All of a sudden I wanted to throw a chair at my parents and get my GED. So we sit down and listen to the overture. The fifteen minute overture. On a single piano. In order to marry visual with auditory pleasure, they had a few kids move cardboard cut-outs of boats across a wooden, sponge painted ocean. For fifteen minutes. All the while the ships are jolty and falling backwards. And then when one of the ships would make their way across the ten foot ocean, the actor holding them up would walk out in plain sight. Throw the ship backstage. Lean on one hip. Smoke a cigarette. Then SWITCH ships, and the same thing going in the opposite direction. There were several times that I thought that the ships would crash and we'd be treated to Titanic the Musical. But alas..

After a month later, all the pirates came out and sang their first number. With all the enthusiasm of a waiting room at a methadone clinic. We were treated to a bunch of characters. Bunch of awkward songs. But the real magic didn't come until we were treated to the real star of the musical. Our leading lady was absolutely charmless. She wasn't pretty, she couldn't sing, and she had all the stage presence of a floor mic. Everyone's eyed were instead fixed upon this AMAZING girl with out of control red froey hair, possible hare lip, and large (and in charge) glasses. I felt really bad for her. You could tell that she was Kirstie Alley circa Fat Actress era of the arts camp set. They kept hiding her behind all these cast members. Pieces of scenery. When the show let out, Colin and I fucking SCOURED the lobby until we saw her and then spent the next half an hour stalking her every move. Her parents seemed none too pleased at her performance. I kept imagining her dad pissily throwing her costume in his truck, brake lights blinking as he unlocked the door, and angrily intoning "Couldn't even get one line, could you Meredith?" And her going home and writing about it in her Lisa Frank diary. And where is her home? Muchpout City. Population? One Awkward Girl. I would've gone back if she had played the Keira Knightley role and not that other bitch. There was also this androdg kid who played the midget night watchman that compelled us to ask two separate (yet reliable) sources as to the gender of our little friend. One said male. The other said female. Color me confused.

All in all the night was pretty amay may. No one could act. No one could sing. The show was so condensed that it was absolutely impossible to figure out what was going on. None of the costumes matched to the point where there was a slew of police officers all in dark blue denim skirts and black pants. And one girl wearing a brown skirt. And one hip little chica wearing leather pants.

And I wouldn't ask for anything more.

Welcome to Awkwardia! Population? Three Faggots

2006-08-13T01:49:00.000-07:00

This past weekend has thus far been a special treat. Faglex has been spending the summer in Rochester, NY working as a sassy black receptionist at the School of Nursing at his University. His focus isn't in nursing so his get-up doesn't include a smock with tumbling kittens or Rugrats characters. Muchpout indeed, but he drove down on Thursday so that we could hold Fagfest 2006, which includes him, me, and his twin brother Colin going to the gym and the beach every day, Colo on Thursday, Paradise on Friday, Paradise on Saturday, and culminates in their annual summer fiesta on Sunday where we all get too drunk and do things we regret the next day when we sit at the Inkwell in awkward silence.

The theme this year is Divorced Women and Weekend Dads, which bodes for a night of fun and magic. I'm providing lots of cheap wine and the CD of songs that the divorced woman played at her wedding that she listens to when she drinks alone in a dark room. You won't be surprised to find that Kool and the Gang's "Celebration" will be making a cameo appearence.

The past three days have been a fun movie but tonight the fun launched into awkwardia whenst we arrived upon the entrance of Paradise. Without further ado, I would like to present to you An Awkward Moment in Four Measures.

Measure One: Running into my manager at the gay club. Making out with a random homosexual not three feet away from me.

Measure Two: Colin running into Air Quotes Brian, the Brazillian day laborer who has since become an Award Hug & Nervous Giggle pseudo celebutante, with his new awkward boyfriend.

Measure Three (and my personal fave): So the past two nights, Faglex has been a mouth slut on the prowl. On the first night at Colosseum, he made out with some random Costa Rican faggot we have sinced dubbed Daniel Homosexual since Faglex always needs to put someone's last name in his cell phone. Tres unoriginal, I know, but seeing as we're lucky if we know the first name of the random guys we make out with and let stick their hands down our pants at clubs, we had to work with what we knew.

The next night at Paradise, Faggot made out with the same Brazillian twelve year old girl he made out with a few weeks ago (These fucking Brazillians are WET for us). So, he made his best attempt at becoming a playa by inviting Daniel Homosexual to Paradise with us despite the fact that we know the twelve year old girl (who's name is Roderigo) will be there. Colin and I were fucking jazzed to see the shit that would get started. What ended up happening was something beyond our wildest imagination.

After half an hour of Daniel Homosexual and Faglex trying to find each other in the club, mine eye catches quite a sight. Daniel Homosexual and twelve year old girl Roderigo standing next to each other. Being Chatty Cathy's. Faglex strolls up, all cocksure and big headed that he pulled one over on these two homosexuals, and I watched as his face went grey. Colin and I were in Hog fucking Heaven. I have this image in my head of how the conversation went. Daniel Homosexual making his way up to Roderigo. Roderigo asking him how its hanging in poor broken English. Daniel Homosexual telling him that he's meeting up with some hottie with a bottie. Roderigo saying ditto and asking what the guy's name is. Daniel Homosexual tells him Faglex. And Roderigo says the same. And they both realize they are wearing the same dress to the senior prom. Daniel Homosexual ended up winning over this evening though, which may be partly due to the fact that Roderigo ended up making out with this other Brazillian faggot named Lucas who pulled Colin aside in the bathroom to tell him that he wanted to kiss him from the moment he saw him. Which really skeeves me out on a really profound level. That Colin and Faglex could have possibly made out with two guys who would eventually make out. It's way too Flowers in the Attic.

Which brings me to another important decision: I am done with the Brazillians. Done. Well-Done. Got my hair done. It seems that none of them will rest until they each respectively have hooked up with all three of us. I don't know if it's because they smell a green card or what have you, but I want to go back to the old days of really generic white boys.

But I digress...

Measure Four: After gay clubbing, there's a ritual where we all go to a diner and stuff our face after fasting all day so we can button up the fly all the way on our skintight leopard print Dolce & Gabbana capri pants. And the guy sitting behind us tonight? Two words: Cray Cray. Belligerantly talking to himself cray cray. He might have also been drunk or a war veteran, but it really didn't matter. He kept on farting and out parking out shit like "Fuck all the Iraqi soldiers!" and "Waiterrr! Waiterrrr! More coffee! WAITTERRRRRR". He was thirsty Josh. And because we love to kick people when they're down, we had Colin take some pics of him with his camera phone and get reprimanded by some no good do gooder scenesters who neglected to consider the fact that it was a moment of pure blogging genius.He was all tuckered out. And so am I. So I'm going to hit the hay now.

Save Kaity Tong

2006-08-10T00:02:00.000-07:00

For a while I tried to deny my feelings. The summer's a long time. I won't have to realize the truth until after one too many sunny days. But the time has, indeed, come. I am now forced to make a decision on how I feel about the WB and UPN combining their programming for the uber television conglomorate, The CW. Now you can watch a double dose of Girlfriends and Reba back to fucking back. It seems like a match made in classic TV history. But there's something that's been bothering me for awhile. The program schedule looks pretty solid. I can finally see that Veronica Mars tricks seem to be wet for without enduring the shame that is turning to Channel 9. They're still making Smallville, so I won't have to worry when I'm trying to masturbate at 2 in the afternoon that I won't catch a glimpse of Tom Welling, shirtless and tied to various objects.

But what will become of Kaity Tong?

To those future job interviewers of America who are reading my blog to find out something that defames my character who aren't within the tri-state area, Kaity Tong is the fucking shit. How about a little tutorial?
Did you see that hottie with a bottie popping open the cork and getting this party story for some ass-kicking journalism?

Times have changed a little bit. She's a little bit older. A little bit wiser. She rethought the hair. She moved to the WB News at 11. I think that she was hired when Connie Chung was all the rage in world of television anchorage. The local ABC affiliate wanted a piece of the pie and asked Tong on board. Somewhere around the time that Chung retired or married Maury, ABC lost their use for Tong and shipped her off to the network that aired The Parent 'Hood. Because, let's fucking face it, the WB will take anything it can get. They would take the homeless guy who threw water bottles filled with his urine at me outside of Gray's Papaya around the corner from my AMDA dorm if he had an equity card and taste for broadcasting.

I was interested in what caused the Great Schism to occur so I looked on Wikipedia. Read it and weep:

She was one of the first high-profile Asian Americans in local television, and is known as a quick on her feet, articulate, pleasant and professional anchor. Her firing from WABC-TV in 1991 caused considerable outrage, especially since she was replaced by Susan Roesgen, who came from a small Midwestern station and who never adjusted to New York. Her discomfort appeared immediately and never dissipated; she barely cracked a smile during her entire tenure. Roesgen lasted only about a year on WABC-TV before being replaced by Diana Williams in 1992.She has a son, Philip, from her first marriage to Robert Long, who is currently the news director and a vice-president at KNBC-TV in Los Angeles.

I even love that she fucked her way to the top with her producer first husband. I love Kaity Tong but I feel so bad for her when someone hears her name. "Connie Chung?," they exclaim. Packing their bags to move on up. Be a chatty cathy with CBS' answer to Oprah. And then they hear "No, Kaity Tong" and go soft. But not me. I better fucking get interviewed by Kaity Tong someday even if that means I need to go on a 7-11 robbery spree in Brooklyn to do it.

I'm just really really worried. Will they go younger? Will she be Asian? And what about Mr. G, the weather man? Will he be on line at the local unemployment line? Or working as a personal assistant to the weatherman on Comcast?

And I have another important question. Is the local Comcast a local station? Or does the whole country know It's Your Call with Lynn Doyle? Comcast is pretty widespread and On Demand is becoming all the rage in Milan. How come Lynn Doyle isn't dished about in the Enquirer? I bet she has some fucking skeletons in her closet.

Ooh! And Seeking Solutions with Suzanne. Who the FUCK is Suzanne? I know I love her. She's a hundred if she's a day. She asks the hard hitting questions like "What is Thai Chi?" But is she the Irene Miracle of TV talk? Was she always a success or not? Weathered old lady. Fell for a hot 60 year old man with a salt and pepper beard and tiny grey ponytail who's now working as her sunglass wearing manager. Get's her a prime spot on cable access and ribbon cutting ceremonies at Curves in West Long Branch. Is he gonna go all Dorothy Stratten's husband on her ass, find himself jealous and tormented by the roar of her success and the failure of his own and dispose of him and her in a murder-suicide shitshow? Will it be just like Star 80? I really want to watch her show. But I think it's on Sundays at like 5PM. After her over 80+ demographic wants to kick back after a long afternoon game of Bridge. Struggling admirably against Murder, She Wrote reruns on A&E. I'm usually working one of those hellish open and close shift at work.

But again, I digress. This fall, I'm going to use all my juice imaginable and see to it that Kaity Tong will remain as she stands. I will use the power of the press. Start a petition. Suggest a MSU centered BAN on the CW. Other editors like to shed light on corruption. Help those in need. This is what I need to do. This is my legacy.

I will save Kaity Tong

Torontotes '06: We be on vacay

2006-08-07T21:40:00.000-07:00

I was supposed to leave at 11AM on Wednesday after noon. To beat the summer heat. I had a whole plan to wake up early, go to the gym, get some color for a nice base tan at the beach, get my oil changed, my car washed, and arrive in Schenectady no later than 3 o'cell phone. It was a really great idea in theory. But, let's call a spade a spade. We all knew I would go to a sketchy bar in New Brunswick with Breannerbunny, down a shitload of 2 dollar Long Island Iced Teas, try a few new drugs, and somehow stumble home at 5AM. So, let's do a dramatic cut to me the next day. Falling out of bed at 2PM. Missing the prime beach weather, trying hard not to faint from the lack of electrolytes while frantically running on the treadmill, making it to Jiffy Lube fifteen minutes before it closed, spraying down my car at the car wash long after sunset, and arrived in Schenectady at close to midnight. It would have been a good idea for me to get a good night sleep to prepare for the seven hour drive to Torontotes at 7Am. So, of course, I smoked weed with Colin's friend and stayed up the whole night tossing and turning in anticipatsch.

The seven hour car ride up wasn't as hellish as we all thought it would be. Because we had lovely brown girls in the car with us. You know that we fucking rocked out on the way up. Luckily, musical theater faghag Mandeep and I were in the front seat, so we had control over the CD player. But after playing "Out for Blood" from Carrie the Musical too many times, our attempt to put on the second act of Evita was completely thwarted. We ended up putting on a jazzy mix and rolled up to the Canadian border singing along to, appropriately enough, "I Want to Live in America." But when we put on the African tribal music, we had no idea what we had gotten ourselves into. Despite the almost near death experiences we faced when Mandeep swirved into traffic after attempting a complicated dance move that required her to let go of the wheel, what happened was far worse. We literally BLEW OUT the speakers in my car because we were rocking so hard. Because there were fags in there. And Brown people. And a Mermaid Princess doll that I won at an arcade in New Hampshire after playing 25 games of Skee Ball and brought back for Colin as a souveneir.The makers of 2005 Nissan Sentra just weren't ready for this jelly. They tried. But they just were not successful. We drove home having to listen to barely audible music to avoid having our eardrums blown up from the static hiss. Slanty face indeed.

We had booked a hotel until we discovered that Mandeep's (a Torontotes native) grandpapi passed away and her family would be flying to India for the funeral. Since we got it off Priceline, you're locked into the deal and have to pay regardless. So, being the budding sociopaths, we all are we had Mandeep call up and use the excuse to get us out of the room, and totes went and stayed in her Casa de los Babys. The best part? Pictures of random Indian people around the house.
This is her dad lying in a field of tulips in the 1970's. Footloose and turban free.Here's Colin's dramatic reinterpretation of the text. Isn't it totes the shot for shot color remake of Psycho? Gone totally racist?

After taking a disco nap so that the evening didn't end in bloodshed, we went to the faggot district of Torontotes and had ourselves a ball of a time. We went to this one drinking pub called Zelda's where a waiter tried to seduce Colin with sensual, illegal immigrant wiles. This picture was our attempt to capture the waiter showing off his posterior for posterity when he awkwardly figured out what we were doing and scampered off into the woods.

The rest of the night we went to the bar Woody's they went to on Queer as Folk. Which had awkward gay porn playing on the TV's and really lackluster drag queens and a douche chills inducing Best Chest contest that made us check out the ugly fag bar across the street where there was a transvestite who looked JUST like Taline Alexander dancing around with a kicky bob and some special needs faggot with an Elmo backpack (Is it 1995?) freaking out on some club drugs. It = garden variety.

The one downside of Torontotes is that the drinks they put NO alcohol in the drinks. So, after spending roughly a 100 dollars each the night before on drinks that we didn't even get drunk off of, we decided to be ghetto and buy a 20 dollar bottle of Bacardi and mix it into McDonald's sodas and pre-game on the streets of Torontotes outside of the Lord of the Rings musical. That = bad idea. There was much drunken debauchery to be had, including Colin hooking up with an elderly club promoter with a cubic zarconia Gay pride medallion at a West Indian party and me not being allowed back into the club when I went out for a cigarette. And discovered I was fresh out of cigarettes. It was very O. Henry. Very Gift of the Magi. I drunkenly stumbled into some Dunkin' Donuts and asked if I could use their bathroom and when they told me I could only use the bathroom if I bought something, I got a cup of coffee. Only to discover they locked it. And wouldn't give me a key. So I had to storm out of there, coffee scalding my arm, and sit out on the street waiting for the rest of them for, like, two hours.

But all was well when the next morning when Colin and I discovered Mandeep's period stained underwear soaking in a bucket in her basement and took a picture and posted it on Facebook and my blog.This isn't a great pic. Her endometria is showing.

Despite the lack of good speakers and Mandeep, the ride home was a fun movie. Mostly due to the prescence of Mermaid Princess, who Colin stripped naked and gave African braids to. And pretended to eat her out for the benefit of the group of college girls driving by who did not appreciate it at all.
For those of you who stuck around to read this biblical entry, I have a special little treat for you. A real water cooler moment. Here is the brand new interview with an in character Lisa Kudrow as Valerie Cherish discussing the cancellation of her reality show The Comeback they shot for the just released DVD. It perfectly encapsulates how great the show really was and how it's cancellation made me lose the will to live. It has every single Comeback related out of context quote I use. It even has a Hurricane Katrina joke. I deleted all my Sean Cody shorts off my computer. Because this is what I'll be jerking off to for the rest of the summer.
"You can't get raped all day and there have nowhere nice to eat at night"

I love Mary Louise Parker

2006-08-07T13:38:00.000-07:00

I like her more than most people I know. Isn't that sad?

Keep it tight, keep it tight, keep those muscles tigh-gh-gh-gh-t

2006-08-02T00:24:00.000-07:00

I know that one day I'm going to run out of Carrie The Musical clips to show when I don't really have anything of substance to say, but that day is not TOday. Isn't this the bee's knees? I wish my high school was like that. We didn't have togas or Debbie Allen choreography. There was no sassy lady to belt an inspirational workout anthem to us. We just, like, walked the track. And forgot to bring our gym clothes every day. There wasn't even a musicalized period shit fit that I know of.

So I didn't hear back on any of those articles. I don't think they're ready for this jelly. The state of Ontario though? They be ready to make some PB&J's. I'm super jazzed for this trip. Unfortch in New Hampsch, no one had a digital camera. Just my sister's camera phone and the only two pictures we have are of this deflated mint sorbet cone that my dad said "looked like a Martian vagina" and one we took of this picture my dad drew of a 1950's baseball team. They look really happy in it. Hopefully for this trip we will have some photographic evidence I can make a jazzy slideshow of.

The itinerary thus far includes a day spent at the Caribbean pride festival and mayhaps West Indian night at the fag club they shot Queer as Folk at. It will be a very multicultural vacay. I've been feeling very multicultural lately. Last night, my friend Sarah with the afro and I went to a party with straight boys there. It was awkz. Because they don't want to have sex with men and still use the word "phat." And then tonight, I went to a straight bar with Breanne and do you know what they had there? Darts! Isn't that just the way? They had that Megatouch thing too but I didn't use it because they didn't have the Adults Only games on this one and I wanted to find the difference between both pictures of the guy in the leopard print thong. They just had this Fantasy Sports jazzy that wouldn't let me program "Cuntcunt McVagina" in as my user name. Straight bars suck.

So anyway, I don't think I'll be posting for a few days. So feel free to check out Youtube if you want to watch more Carrie the Musical clips in the (Greenwich) mean time.

Highlights From My Career As A Child Star

2006-07-31T23:39:00.000-07:00

So I've really been feeling this desire to blog. A lot. But I'm trying to prepare these freelance articles so that I can have money without having to pick up dresses for eight hours straight a day. Which totally sucks because now I've mixed business with pleasure. The whole theme of this series I'm writing is about how working retail sucks. And now I HAVE no desire to post about how working in retail sucks. It's all very David Lynch.

Working full-time is really weird because you can longer fade into the corner. You're suddenly plunged head first into this weird interoffice community. The closest thing I've ever encountered to this was working at the school paper. But, for some reason, I don't think an office bounding session at Lord & Taylor will include a drunken party where I make out with two girls and play Spin the Bottle with the rest of my co-workers. Instead, we throw birthday parties for the elderly people who work with us and eat pretzels and drink Nestea. Bring a book.

But I have bounded hardcore with this sassy girl I work with who lives in Asbury Park. We are now an inseparable duo. We just sit behind the counter, fan ourselves, and made WILD proclamations like "Yo, FUCK this job" and "Get that bitch to do it. I'm going on a fifteen." The other day we were hiding out in the stock room when she told me that her weave was itching her. And that she gets her hair done in Newark. "I'm gonna get a doobie", she said scratching like a (diary of a) madwoman and then went on to say, "A doobie is..." I cut her off right there. I am ALL too aware of what a doobie is. And I fell in love with her a little more at the moment.

It reminds me of the time when my sister was a rapper. Yes, Miss Shush. The lover of guinea pigs who has an MA in Elementary Education. Last December, she became friendly with a group of rappers who worked with her at the hospital and started "laying down tracks." On my first day home for Christmas break, I walked into her room and saw her sitting at her mirror. Brushing her new blonde weave. I was shocked and disturbed to say the least. But, still, it was better than the time that I came home from school and was greeted by a soiled, crusted maxi pad laying on her bed. Unfortch, Andrea soon learned she was no Lil' Kim and that the guys just wanted to fuck her. Which isn't surprised. Not just because Andrea and I have HUGE fucking asses, but we always end up in these entertainment scams. When I was in the middle of Requiem for a Dream diet pill frenzy and was walking around with wide eyes and the tiniest waist this side of Lara Flynn Boyle, I was solicited by a "modelling company" that wanted to feature me in an online photo gallery. For anorexic gay porn. Now, I'm not exactly sure how this was going to go. Would I be using a peen to help gag myself to throw up? Would their be fetishists wildly masturbating to a close up of my prison bar looking rib cage? I never did it so I guess I'll never know.

OH! And I was almost in an after school special about child molestation when I was nine. But my parents 86'd that idea when they couldn't figure out whether it was educational or kiddie porn. Needless to say, I was already an over-the-hill theatrical diva who hadn't been able to achieve the same success that came with my leading role in the critical and commercial blockbuster Mame at the local high school. I literally ran into the bathroom WEEPING when I discovered that my attempt at a comeback had been thwarted.

For some reason, every one of my big breaks as a child actor had a strange sexualized feel to it. In my motion picture debut in Finding Forrester, it was MY crotch that they used to unveil the presence of classically trained, Academy Award winning acting legend F. Murray Abraham.

NEW Hampshire? More like GAY Hampshire!

2006-07-29T21:05:00.000-07:00

I would've updated sooner but I started working straight coming back from New Hampshire. There are a lot of reasons why I have love New Hampshire. My family has a quaint summer cottage. Sure, it's very ethereal. We spend a week in the woods. Kayak. Swim. Go for long walks in the woods. Think deep philosophical thoughts. My dad, my sister, and I use this time to be creative. My dad draws pictures, which end up looking like selections from an art exhibit featuring the works of serial killers in prison. My sister draws reproductions of pictures from Kevin Acquoin books (total faghag) and I try to read a book a day. But don't worry, I wasn't trying to uncover the metaphor in the use of trains in Anna Karenina. I read The Devil Wears Prada. And ate Tostito's and salsa dip. And when I wasn't doing that, I was writing stories about getting arrested for drawing naked women peeing in cement when I was twelve. It's all very California Dreamin'. The moon is in the seventh house and jupiter aligns with Mars.

But the REAL reason I love going to New Hampshire?Three words: Summer Stock Theater.

Yes, kiddies. My family and I get the divine pleasure of seeing summer stock theater every year. First on the list? West Side Story. Now, I'm sure you're thinking. You can't fuck up West Side Story. It's a national treasure. So, in order, to sufficiently understand what I'm about to say I need to present you with a mental image. The summer stock theater is a converted barn. With no air conditioning. The stage is about the size of a dining room. The orchestra consists only of a piano and a drum. There are four Jets. Four sharks. None of them Puerto Rican. All of them fags.

Needless to say, it was an epic tale of wonder and woe. There is nothing more entertaining than watching two Midwestern musical theater majors who look like Nick Lachey and Reese Witherspoon fucking ROCKING OUT on their maracas singing "America." I didn't think my former suitemate's whistle and french horn edition could be surpassed. But it has. And mightily, at that.

And "Stay Cool"? Three more words (Or Two Words & A Letter): Preparation H commercial. After watching all those face squeezes, popped out jazzed hands, and "Zabang!" outbursts reminds of this cast party I went to for Fiddler on the Roof at Casa Comida where we were all served with a bad batch of Beef Nachos. The one downside was that this time I didn't lose ten pounds.

So then they did La Cage next and I was in for some fucking fun. Because New Hampshire is a red state. And La Cage has S&M transvestites belting out Jerry Herman showstoppers. You need to go to a court of appeals to do that shit. So, Andrea and I are all jazzed, ready for the most awkward thing we will ever experience, and what happens? Everyone fucking loves it. They give the S&M transvestite a fucking standing ovation.

But all was not lost that night. Because there is a song sung by an aging transvestite. Through a large mirrorless vanity. Where he slaps the bottom of his neck. And presses up his forehead to hide his crow's feet. And then fucking breaks into song.

A.K.A Orgasm Alert

I climbed a mountain too! Isn't that so heterosexual of me? I was doing a lot of heterosexual things! I was swimming. I went kayaking every day. Like an Ivy League crew member. In a really shitty alternate universe. Of course that all went to shit when I saw the Goddess Workout commercial for Lucille Robert's and felt my unwavering sense of desire and need to adopt an alias to go.

But I climbed a mountain. I thought I would be fine. I do the elliptical at the gym. Let me just tell you, climbing a fucking mountain is nothing like watching The View with skinny housewives while trying to burn a hundred quick calories. It's like the last scene of Taxi Driver with less cleanup and better hair. I feel under stress when I raise the resistance to anything greater then ten. On a mountain, it's like 180. My dad and I thought it would be fun and more challenging to go up the streep side where we have to climb rocks. So, of course, I'm bitching and moaning the whole time. Chain-smoking. Wearing sunglasses. All BITCHILY. I took like seventeen breaks and at one time I lost my spirit. I was going to go back down. I would never ford this mountain. It would the greatest regret on my bedside if my life were an Austrian melodrama from the 1930's. But all of a sudden I hear this yap-a-yap-a and I froze for my life. There was a child on it's way up. A happy go lucky child who kept screaming things like "Moommm!! Come faster!" And begging. BEGGING for a fucking Capri Sun. Like a common street urchin. And I knew that if he came any closer, I'd have to put out my cigarette on his tongue too.

So I made a run for it. And everytime I wanted to stop, I'd hear "Look it's a frogggggggggg!" and I'd get off my ass. I could probably climb Mount Everest if you played a copy of Raffi's Greatest Hits on a set of speakers at the very bottom.

Because if you see them, you have to smile at them. At least give them the stiff bottom lip acknowledgement smile. Which is so creepy for me. Because everytime they look at me, I'm terrified that they're going to go all "I saw the devil with Goody Peter." Same thing with animals. I don't like anything with the keen enough insight to know I'm a douche bag. I've worked very hard to keep up that charade to have it be foiled by something that has to fester in their own feces and be attended to by other people and a moist toilette. Give me SOMETHING to work with.

But I made it to the top and accomplished the hardest cardio workout I've ever done. Which was rewarded with the five pounds I'd gained eating Tostito's and reading chick lit.

But it was all good. The downtime was a nice set up for the busy week ahead. But my sister and I do get a little cabin fever. We don't go all Shining, though. We chat and bond over the citronella candle out back and put wax on our fingers and tap them on the deck. It's the same thing every year though. We have the back porch light on. All the moths come up to the door. We have to run out on the count of three and slam the door shut quickly behind. Because if not, the moths get in and I have to chase them with a phone book for the next hour until they're all dead. Because if I don't, they will flutter up to my computer screen later on when I'm trying to masturbate and I totally lose my boner.

This gets tedious after a while. So the other thing we do to pass the time is obsess over one person in the cast at the summer stock. We walk around introducing ourselves to imaginary people using their voice. Hold entire conversations with each other as this person's character. And shout out random direct quotes from their bio in the program, such as their personal thanks to their initialed "domestic partner." This year, we were obsessed with the new artistic director and were fucking jazzed to discover she would now be there every year and give a speech before every production. Even make a cameo appearence. Very that substitute teacher who starred in Les Miserables.

Ooh! And Weirs Beach! Oh man, Andrea and I are OBSESSED with Weirs Beach. This seaside town that's conviced that they're in the deepest of the South. There is an ARCADE their. A country-western restaurants. And more Billy Ray Cyrus shirts than you can swing a fucking cat at. Andrea and I were late to seeing Superman Returns at the drive-in (I think I liked it but I'm not sure if it was because Superman was hot) because we have to always pillage the gift shop like the Macy*s One Day Sale. Last year, I got a shirt with dogs dressed up in couture that said "Pampered Puppies" and my sister got a Git 'R Done t-shirt with a gun, Confederate glag, and deer's head on it. This time around though, the BIG to-do was over this shirt that had a picture of a pig riding a motorcycle with a chicken in his hand that read "Ridin' Hogs and Picking Up Chicks." Get it? Literal AND figurative. I like to imagine the moment of excitement that the T-shirt designers felt when they came up with that one in their Paco Rabon scented mobile Carnie trailer office with wood panelling. My sister got that one. She also picked up a shirt that said "Honty Tonk Badundadunk!" and I got something even more amazing for a friend of mine. But I won't spoil the surprise until after he sees it.

It was at this tourist shop that I ran into a rare breed of citizen. The white trash Asian. These bitches were fucking wet for their turquoise jewelry and bedazzled visors. This one chick even bought a "Weirs Beach Is For Lover's" shirt and put it on immediately after she bought it to show it off on the town. It was quite amazing.

I was going to talk about work and dish a little gossip about my friends' personal life but you've probably already stopped reading by now and I'm tired and still a little high and have to get up early. But I'll fill you in later.

I'll give you a little preview: I have a new work faghag. And her name?

Kamisha.

Put THAT in your pipe and smoke it, mate.And on that note, to finish you off is a picture of Derby in the Evita shirt I made her wear to the gym the other night.

Bye (curious)

I'll make a real post later...I promise

2006-07-28T21:53:00.000-07:00

Department Stores Are For Sexual Perverts

2006-07-23T23:05:00.000-07:00

So today I'm at work. Nothing fairly eventful was going on. I spent two hours on making sure that all the tie tables were perfectly organized which was completely pointless. If the Greeks weren't spending all their time painting crappy murals and adding lots of statues and pillars to diners that were only meant to be a safe place to sober up before you drive after a night of drinking and overpricing the coffee to compensate for the waterfall in the fucking waiting room, they would have rewritten that Greek myth. You know the one I'm talking about. Where that guy is a douche and is sent to hell. But his hell is he's pushing a boulder up a mountain and the time it gets to the top, it falls off and he has to do it over and over again for the rest of eternity? I'm not sure if that's even a Greek myth (my only knowledge of Greek mythology comes from Xanadu) but if it were told today, it would be about a twentysomething faggot working in a low-rent department store and spending all his time organizing ties only to have them completely demolished five minutes later by a customer. A.K.A the movie of my life. Starring Mary Louise Parker as me.

Anywho, I'm taking on a 40 hour week so that I can have enough lira to go to Toronto next week with Colon and smoke some semi-legal weed and giggle when someone says "oot". Which is a big change from my usual nine hour week, which is hellish enough. Retail is so tedious but I've found a good way to pass the time. Sneak out the back door and take as many cigarette breaks as you want and call your friends to gossip about people you work with.

So I'm coming in from my break today and I go to the John to powder my nose. So I'm washing my hand and there's this elderly guy standing next to the paper towels, about three feet behind me. So I look up and see this guy shove a paper towel in his fly.

AND THEN STARTED FUCKING JERKING OFF IN THE MIDDLE OF THE LORD AND TAYLOR MEN'S RESTROOM.

I SWEAR TO G-D

He must've been at least 80! How could he still get it up? Was masturbating in front of an awkward department store sales associate the only thing that can get his engine to hum?

It was like those aborted fetus posters outside of Planned Parenthood. It disgusted me, yet I couldn't look away. The only perk was that I didn't serve into oncoming traffic and accidentally kill a prepubescent girl on a bike (So much for pro-life).

At first I tried to think the best. Maybe he was just trying to clean up. Maybe he had a little pee drop spot. It happens. You shaked but sometimes you just didn't shake enough. But for this theory to have worked, his pee drop must have been so big it drowned a bunch of people on the coast of Asia the morning after Christmas and had Anderson Cooper flying in to cover the damage.

He was totes jerking off.

Why?

Why oh why?

Why couldn't it have been the kid from high school who I work with? Why couldn't have been the heiress to the Italian Ice fortune?

Why must it always be ME who catches the elderly masturbating when all I want to do is powder my nose?

But alas...It could've been worse.

Story time, kiddies:

There's a tale that my sister Andrea and Nana told me when they were working at the cosmetics department at Macy*s, long before either got a job telling patients it's considered impolite to masturbate during group therapy on the children's ward of the local mental hospital or got fired for abusing the Asian department manager (Long story).

One day, a transvestite came into the department to get a facial. It's not surprising. Most of the cosmetics girls used to be boys anyway. So she makes a B-line for a plucky salesgirl. In my head I picture Breanne. Now, this is an image that works for me. Some of you may not know Breanne, so try to picture someone equally sweet and Aryan who giggles nervously.

So the trannie in question asks for Persian eyes. Because all cats run around bulky calf muscles and superior math skills. So the salesgirl is doing her makeups when the trannie in question starts to shift back and forth in the stool. Salesgirl thinks nothing of it. Rogue ball hairs get stuck. Shit happens. Then the trannie in question starts to buck like a wild horse and then, all of a fucking sudden, a huge jet of cum shoots out from under her G&G leopard print skirt and hitting the salesgirl's white lab coat and starts to drip down. Now the salesgirl doesn't know what to do. This is no stiltedly acted training video from the 90's starring a fallen Dawn French about what to do if a transvestite were to ejaculate all over you.

So she just rings up the trannie in question's makeup while his cum makes it's way down her uniform.

Now THAT, my friends, is what we call a strong work ethic.

The most important blog post you will ever read

2006-07-22T11:17:00.000-07:00

I would like to apologize to my loyal readers (both of you) for not posting for awhile. I was going to write about my trip to New Hampshire when I made a shocking discovery on Youtube that elicited the most powerful orgasm I've had in years. Seriously. I had to throw my underwear into the woods.

I found, get this, VIDEO CLIPS from Carrie the Musical.

To those of you not in the know, in the 80's, the writers of Fame and Footloose decided to musicalize the Stephen King novel/Horror movie classic starring Sissy Spacek. Which sounds like a terrible idea from the start. But words cannot describe the outcome. I'll let this, the NASTIEST TV review I have EVER seen, do the talking for me:

I have enclosed a few highlights for you. You need to PROMISE me that you will watch every single one of them. And if you're a lying jezebel, you need to watch AT LEAST the last one. It will whet your palate for the rest...

Because if you don't, you will NEVER know true pleasure.

The first clip is a song called "And Eve Was Weak." The only time in musical theater history that a girl's first menstruation (and child abuse) has ever been put to song and sung by overtrained, warbling West End theater matrons.

Next is the musical finale where one of Carrie's nasty schoolmates dumps pig's blood on her and she goes fucking BUCK NUTTY and kills every one of her classmates. And hits that all-too-rare G note we've all been desperate for.

But I've saved the best for last...

There's nothing I can say to sufficiently summarize the magick that this clip holds. All I will say is that this is the sequence where the bitchy classmate throws on a red pleather catsuit and brings her black leather daddy boyfriend and his shirtless chorus boy friends to a pig farm to slaughter a pig. And how does one slaughter a pig? With 80's tastic dance routines and lazer lights choreographed by the one and only Debbie Allen.

Enjoy ;)

When Brazillians Attack Part Deux

2006-07-15T00:33:00.000-07:00

Okay, before I begin, let me warn you that I'm drunk, exhausted, and need to get up for our annual family trip to New Hampshire in an hour and a half. But I had no choice but to update.

I should've known. Colin went back up to school to do research for a month. Faglex just got back from studying aboard in Italy for the past seven months. If I haven't mentioned it before, Colin and Faglex are faggot twin brothers. The kind you would expect to ride a bicycle built for two. While cattily bitching at each other to pedal faster.

Tonight I learned that a desire for foreign cock is genetic. Somewhere along the line of eye color and the ability to play music well.

I thought that I had seen the end of the Brazillians. However, Faglex and I went to Paradise tonight and who should we run into but Wellington, the Brazillian drag queen whose ID I used to sneak into the club when I was an underage lad yet a fortnight ago (i.e. three weeks ago). I became acclimiated with all the Brazillian homos yet again. There was Leo, the cleaning lady currently working for Queen Latifah. And "Brian", Colin's biggest fan. His hair may have been trimmed but his highlights were still there. The whole time he gestured the glasses gesture and asked about Colin, much to the chagrin of his newly attached sad fag boyfriend.

So when Faglex started making out with another of the Brazillian's, I shouldn't have been surprised.

You can't fight city hall, I guess.

I'm not (HIV) positive, but I think I may have just gotten sexually molested at the gym

2006-07-13T10:34:00.000-07:00

I went to the jim today and plotzed when I saw that Starting Over was on while I was doing my cardio on the elliptical and the treadmill. And it was a fucking great episode. In an attempt to help one of the women get over her past demons, the sassy black therapist held a wake in a funeral home and made the woman say goodbye to what ailed her. The lady had tit cancer and if know bad self-help therapy reality shows at noon like I know bad self-help therapy reality shows at noon, there would be symbolism. She was weepy and had to throw a bra in there to mourn her tits. She had mourn her alcoholic abusive father by throwing in a bottle of Jack Daniels. But when the sassy black therapist brought out the baby doll to help her mourn her barreness, let me just say, there wasn't a dry eye with me or any of the other Jewish homemakers all tuned into Starting Over in the long row of treadmills.

I'm also happy to report that right now they are rerunning the season with Jill, the Awkward Hug & Nervous Giggle sensation who so valiantly battled her addiction to cupcakes. And they have yet to air the infamous "cupcake" episode yet. So tune in.

In other, more awkward news, I was at the pull down bar today. Working out. Minding my business. Yo Salt, I looked around and I couldn't believe it. I swear, I stand, my niece, my witness. The brother had it going on with something kind of, uh, wicked, wicked. Had to kick it. I'm not shy so I asked for the digits. A ho? Oh, no! That don't make me. See what I want, slip slide to it, swiftly. Felt it in my hips, so I dip back to my bag of tricks, then I flip for a tip. Make want to do tricks on him. Lick him, like a lollipop should be licked. Came to my senses and I chilled for a bit. Don't know how you do, the voodoo, that you do. So well it's a spell. Hell! Makes me wanna shoop, shoop, shoop.

Anyway, this guy wants over to me and starts to try to catch my attention. Now I'm not lying or exaggerating in the littlest bit when I tell you this guy is a spitting image of Gandhi. So much so, that when he came over, I half expected him to ask me if I wanted to help him spread awareness of local industry and help limit Indian dependence on foreign labor. Maybe even join him in the historic dandee march for withdrawal of the salt tax. It happens fairly often that my life parallels that of a Richard Attenborough movie. A Chorus Line, anyone? I have the dance belt and neon teal leotard to show for it. But he opens his pie hole and says "Do you think I could work with you for a minute?" I figured he meant "working in", this awkward phrase that some of the hot guys at the gym say to me to use the machine between repetitions. That I never understand because I'm trying too hard to contain my quivering loins.

But then he says, "You're doing a good job. But let me give a tip to make it more effective. Lean back on a 10 degree angle so your chest presses out". So I do. Totes uncomftz. And then he sticks his fingers in between my shoulder blades, stroking them and saying "Move it so that your shoulder blades meet my fingers." So I do. And then he says "Ooh, yeah. That's it. Purrrrrrfect." So now he's going from Gandhi to Eartha Kitt.
"Nice. Beautiful. You're really working it good"

Now. Okay. I'm hyper judgmental. We know this. But is it weird that I was totes uncomftz with this? Was he just trying to be nice and helpful? Is my uncomftz reaction just a sign of the downfall of society? Where we keep to ourselves and become anti social? Is it wrong to think the worst of a man who's only trying to spread the awareness of how to make your time at the gym most effective? Much like his predecessor did when he fasted until death to stop the slaughter of British troops by Indian mobs?

Or did I just get molested by Gandhi?

A Critical Analysis of Basic Instinct 2

2006-07-12T00:08:00.000-07:00

I've been deciding whether or not to add to take up an additional Film Studies minor to my English and Writing major at Montclair. I like movies. I like writing about movies. So I may have had a little blip when I bombed my Contemporary Film minor. There were reasons and circumstances. It was Thursday at 11. If I wasn't already passed out, I was clearly not coherent enough to sit down and watch two hours of French people swallowing keys and strangling themselves to death with seaweed. It could happen to anyone. And I have a great idea for my final thesis. It will shake the English department to their academic core.

What will it be on, you ask? Godard spearheading the French new wave movement? The use of still photography in Brazillian cinema?

I've got three words for you: Basic Instinct 2.

I loved the original. So much that I bought the Special Edition DVD that came with a movie tie-in ice pick pen that I used in copy down notes in class for two months in high school. I'd been dying to see this movie for months but no one would see it with me. Luckily, Faglex got home from Europe today and with the addition of Breanne and drugs, I finally got my wish.

But what am I trying to propose with this picture?

That gays love a fucking bitch.

Did you go to Paradise two weekends ago? Crickets. Did you go to Colo two weekends ago? Crickets. Why do you ask?

Because it was opening night of The Devil Wears Prada.

The movie almost kicked the ass of Superman Returns. And Superman Returns had a gym bunny in a body sock.

Why they let Basic Instinct 2 slip out of their moisturized and manicured hands is beyond me. Sharon Stone has breast implants and a chicken goblet. I thought all you'd people be at home sharpening your razor sharp claws like the opening five minutes of A Nightmare on Elm Street. Making this movie fifteen years after the first one is like trying on your wedding dress for your thirtiest anniversary and accidentally bursting the back zipper and the seams under your arms. And shamefully bringing it to the tailor wearing sunglasses and a Groucho Marx mustache.

Luckily, with all her facelifts, Sharon Stone always has that vampiric look of sociopathic glee, so you're able to trust that she'll bring in the mayham. And she does with winning grace.

She smokes where there's a 'No Smoking' sign. Bitch.

She interrupts other people's therapy sessions. Bitch.

She says shit like "You know what I like about you? You enjoy being in control. Like me." Bossy bitch.

And she kills a bunch of people, which is bitchy, but something we'd never do. Because blood is the surest way to ruin a mesh shirt from Armani Exchange. And real bitches don't do laundry.

As a community, we can't find representation in characters like Stanford Blatch from Sex and the City. He's bald. If he existed in the real world, he'd be shunned by even the saddest fags at the fluroscent lighted Gay & Lesbian Community Center. And trolling webcams on the internet would be the only action he'd ever get.

It is in Catherine Trammell that we see ourselves. She's a writer. I'M a writer. She doesn't wear underwear. On laundry days, I don't wear underwear. She crashed off a bridge in a sportscar going 110 miles per hour because she was getting fingered by a drugged up black guy. I crashed off a bridge in a sportscar going 110 miles an hour because I was getting fingered by a drugged up black guy.

And judging by her love of anal sex, Catherine Trammell isn't just me. Catherine Trammell is all of us.

I know you people like to think that Brokeback Mountain is the most telling story of our lives. Would it be as telling if Rip Taylor and Charles Nelson Reilly played Ennis and Jack? The only Jake Gyllenhaal and Heath Ledger's that are fags are the straight guys we molest when they pass out drunkenly at a party.

I think the greatest stride that Hollywood has taken in helping us gain visibility is not even BBM. Or even Logo.

It's Basic Instinct 2.

Death by Poor Quality Polo Shirts

2006-07-10T01:53:00.000-07:00

The other day I had to go into a nine hour shift at Lord & Taylor. Anyone who's ever worked in retail knows that retail time is science fiction time. Where you get the stop watch, click it, and look at everyone around you frozen with their ties flying in the air, while you rearrange the people or sexually molest them. So when my manager gave me a large task to do, I didn't mind at all. Back at Express, we would orgasm when we found out that we had a shipment to unload. A short five hour shift became unmanageable when there's no customers in the store. We would jump everytime a graphic tee would be placed back in disarray upon the pile.

When he first showed me what I was supposed to do, I didn't realize how daunting it was to unfold, remove the tissue paper, remove the placement clips and two needles from 1,826 shirts. I just thought it was a fast way to make the nine hours slip by. Cut to three hours later, my knees aching, my fingers bleeding, wiping the tears away with only 65 shirts finished.

Of course I was working with someone who found their four hour shift to be the most impossible thing to manage in the entire world and kept slipping in the back to sit down and throw back a Mountain Dew. So I had to keep stopping my job to help the customers in my department. It was another one day sale, which only added insult to injury. Because they would get two shirts, hand over a coupon, and the shirts they picked wouldn't be valid on the coupon. Which quickly became my fault.

Before that day no one ever DEIGNED to check out those Grant Thomas polo tees. Which is why we took them out of their bunker and put them on the discount rack. But all of a sudden. after watching a frustrated faggot desperately trying to put them on the rack, they had this undying NEED to see which colors we had underneath all 1, 500 of the top layers. They had suddenly become the forbidden fruit and everyone's appetite was peaked. They began to storm the bunker. It became like the scene in Jesus Christ Superstar where the lepers attack the King of the Jews begging him to cure their respective ailments. I desperately threw out damaged lime green polos, fighting back tears, in a last ditch attempt to keep myself from being devoured.

After four hours of working on this madness COMPLETELY alone, my manager came up to where I was putting them on the rack. I was trying to work as time-effectively as possible by putting up twenty shirts, then sizing and arranging them by style. So when he saw that everything was out of order, he caustically noted "Just so you know, you need to have all the hangers facing the same way. And these all need to be sized. What are you thinking?" At that moment I felt my face drain of life. Pure undigested rage is a chilling cool, like an ice cube running down your spine.

I felt everything I learned in friendliness training slip away from me that very moment. Like a slippery water balloon. And the catty fag inside of me burst throw the cage, mouth dripping with the blood of the innocent. I didn't care anymore. When all the customers were mulling around the rack like ghouls, I bitchily noted to my co-worker "I love how no one had ANY interest in ANY of these shirts into now". When Mountain Dew went into the back yet again to sit their with a thumb up his twat, I fucking FOLLOWED his white ass back there and said "'If you leave me alone at their to sort these shirts AND deal with all these customers, I'm gonna rip your tits off."

I would've gotten fired if Jennifer didn't come to help me. I am in LOVE with Jennifer. She is winning as all get out. She reminds me of Whoopi Goldberg in Girl, Interrupted. I want to hire her as my personal assistant in life. I think it would make for a wonderful sitcom scenerio. Sassy black Men's shoe saleswoman and a neurotic, overprivledged and self-obsessed white faggot. It's a recipe for comedy gold. She would hose me out of bed in the morning and say "Boy, get your white ass up and get to work." I will only respond to sass. The other day she made me realize something I never understood in three years of retail. When the customer asks you a stupid question, they know the answer. They know how to find the ties. They just need mothering. The real world for adults is cold and calculating so they come to us for the mothering they so desperately need. When Jennifer told this, it helped me regain my Christian work ethic. My job doesn't seem so unfortunate now. No, it doesn't. Because this isn't merely a way for me to pay for cigarettes and pot. Oh, no. It's domestic training for me to become a strong black matriarch, not unlike Mother Winslow from Family Matters.

And that makes everything all right.

NOTE TO SELF: I DO need to see that

2006-07-08T00:50:00.000-07:00

Okay. I'm very inebriated right now. I had a whole plan to masturbate and go to sleep when I stumbled upon a groundbreaking realization. I just discovered that Lisa Kudrow just got nominated as Outstanding Lead Actress in a Comedy Series for NONE OTHER than The Comeback. Last summer, The Comeback was my fucking bread and butter. I would watch it every Sunday night at 10:30. And when I missed it, I would spend all night reuploaded the HBO On Demand page until it appeared. The week I went to New Hampshire I was dying because I knew two episodes of Valerie Cherish mania was awaiting me. I didn't unpack when I got home until after I watched them.

I tried to make it happen. I tried to wave up my hands and say "Note to self: After a long day if work, I DON'T NEED TO SEE THAT!". I answered my phone "Hello hello HELLO!". But people were just not having the Valerie Cherish nuances. They just didn't get why I loved some half hour fake reality series raw footage of some middle aged actress being humiliated every week. Sometimes they'd throw me a "MUST HAVE CUPCAKES! MUST HAVE QUESAEEEYAS". But their heart just wasn't in it. Regardless of many times I'd make them get stoned and watch the Palm Springs episode.

But all of a fucking sudden. A YEAR after it was cancelled. It's making a big stir. Entertainment Weekly's calling an "unappreciated gem". I know it's unsung. I fucking tried. They let sitcom gold SLIP out of their hands, like a bar of slippery soap in the shower, and THEN they bitch about it.

As jazzed as I am about her nomination, I don't know how to fully react. Because Mary Louise Parker from Weeds wasn't. And she's the BEST crier ever. But Kudrow's Valerie Cherish. Star of "I'm It!". Imagine if they were nominated against each other. It would be the hardest and most mind numblingly difficult decision of my entire life next to that aborted fetus I left outside of the prom.

The Comeback comes out to DVD in August. Check out the one that slipped away.

GYMMY EAT WORLD PART DEUX: When Gay People Attack

2006-07-06T06:03:00.000-07:00

I need to make this quick because I have to get ready to go to work but I had NO choice but to get this off my chest. I have work from 9:45-6:15 tonight and, seeing as I didn't go to bed last night, I knew that if I didn't go to the gym before work it wasn't going to happen today. And, as we all, know, I have an addictive personality, so that wasn't a choice. The situation could be worse. I could be doing coke. But luckily, I was able to stumble onto a new addiction that doesn't eat up my bank account and makes me look better naked. Even though coke does that too. Whatever, I don't get nosebleeds.

I thought it would be a nice change of pace too. I wouldn't have to run into Sweet Potato Brad or Fire Crotch, the overzealous red-headed circuit trainer. Who, EVERY NIGHT, paces back and forth in front of whatever chest machine I'm using and makes me anxious until I finally give up and surrender the machine to him. He's fucking WET for chest machines. Anywhoodles, I figured it would be a lot of businessmen and people going before work. I should've known better. Because 8AM can only be described as alternative sexuality hour.

That's right. Paradise let out and there was a mass exodus to the gym. Of course, going to the gym is the top priority of many fags and dykes. Why wouldn't it be first thing in the morning? Besides, they can't go at 7PM like me. Because that's when Access Hollywood airs. 8PM? American Idol

And it wasn't just a random fag here and a wayward dyke there. All you needed was a few dirty martini's and a Sondheim melody and it might as well of been a fucking piano bar. There was even, and I promise I'm not a lying, a dyke in a Lillith Fair '98 official concert tee. Totes serious.

Now before you label me as a self-hater, let me clear the air. I have gone above and beyond the call of duty to help my people. I am the VP of my school's gay group to spread community awareness. GRANTED, I may have had ulterior motives and MAYBE I did it just so I could get laid. But it doesn't matter anymore because I have a boyfriend, so it's just being noble. And I suffered death threats when I did the gay Jesus play Corpus Christi when I was seventeen because I knew it was IMPORTANT that the world see a saucy make-out between Jesus and Judas. I mean, granted, I had a plumb role of not only Jesus' high school faghag but as a homeless black woman too, but that's beside the point.

Anyway, I am king pro-gay people. But not at the gym, people. I'm insecure enough with my strained attempts to lift ten pounds on the shoulder press. And when there's a group of gays you know that it will become social hour. Which it did. And the last thing I need at the gym is a bunch of bitchy gays judging everything I do.

Luckily, they just dished about their disdain for the change in equipment over the past couple of weeks. And their Asbury time shares. But there was very little working out going on. Which meant there were a bunch of middle aged homos sitting on all these machines, calling each other "Mary", while I paced back and forth desperately trying to figure out a way to use the Bicep Curls machina. The worst was this one dyke in a Harley Davidson shirt who looked like Dawn Weiner from Welcome to the Dollhouse. From the moment I got to the gym, this bitch set up fucking shop on the Dual-Pulley Rower. So I somehow manage to do everything else in my regime and she's still sitting there. Chatting with some homo with Zach Morris/gay porn star hair. At least the other fags did about six repetitions with 20 pound weights on the other machines.

So cut to me, angerly stomping on the Elliptical, and saying out loud (in my lispiest, bitchiest, most cocksucker voice imaginable) "WELL, I GUESS I WON'T BE DOING LOWER BACK TODAY!"

But it wasn't all bad. Because I got to overhear the most wonderful out of context quote I've heard in days from an aging gym bunny in a Key West tank:

"So I just threw on my short tight blue rollarskate shorts with big stars on it, threw on the tiara, and just jumped into the hot tub with them"

That = Verbatim.

The Devil Wears Prada...And She Is PISSED

2006-07-05T21:16:00.000-07:00

I just got in from seeing The Devil Wears Prada. Don't worry, I'm ashamed of myself too. But I didn't invest money and time in the book and I certainly didn't read it on the beach in between screaming out to my kids to watch out for that undertow. And I'm a big fag. And as we all know, the only thing that fags like more than anal sex is a big bitch. And Meryl Streep was a big bitch. Needless to say, I was the only person in the movie theater that had a penis. I'm dead serious. By the end of the movie, everyone was on the same cycle.

Also, sometimes you need to see a movie if it speaks to you on a personal level. As a journalist in an editorial position myself, I have trouble relating to many of the images of my professional life reflected on the silver screen. Take All The President's Men for example. Robert Redford and Dustin Hoffman as two motivated journalists who want to shed light on the Watergate scandal. Let's be honest here. I never went into journalism to cover the big stories. To help the disenfranchised. To be the one man who asks the hard-hitting questions. Use my integrity to help alert the world about the corruption around them. I just want to throw my fur jacket on my assistant's desk and write bitchy columns about Tyra Bank's ass fat.

So often my tale is untold. So often is my plight ignored by Hollywood bosses. How could I possibly turn down the opportunity to see myself reflected on the silver screen? Because Editor-in-Chief of Vogue = Arts & Entertainment Editor of a college publication. Part of my job description includes throwing galleys around and villifying the copy editor. It's the sassiest position you can have, next to feature editor.

Therefore, I had no choice but to see The Devil Wears Prada. Now, I liked it. But there are a few bones I'd like to pick with it. Namely the transformation of Anne Hathaway's character. She went from frumpy, garden-variety, pretentious, irritable "noble" reporter with a cute in a dirty kind of way BF to a top-drawer, sexy, stylish, saucy fashionista with an intelligent and HOT famous author tracking her down. And we're supposed to be disappointed with this transformation. I'm sorry, but I HIGHLY doubt that anyone who would EVER buy a chick lit novel would be preoccupied with "morals" and "nonconformity". Chick lit novels are what you read while in the waiting room of your plastic surgeon's before you get two liters of cellulite pumped out your thighs. I think I speak for everyone when I say that I liked the new her much more than the old.

As far as big bitches go, Meryl Streep succeeded with flying colors. Her nonverbal acting was totes hot. I'd be LUCKY if I had a big bitch like her as a boss. Every single person I know is like Miranda Priestly. So why are we supposed to think she's the devil when clearly she's an angel sent down from heaven? I mean, yeah, she won't let people make eye contact with her. But I don't let my assistant make eye contact with me at the paper. And I'm just a lowly A&E editor. Where were the cigarettes being put out in people's eyes? Where was the cocaine in her compact mirror? If I were in the focus group for this movie, I would have made it ABUNDANTLY clear that if this movie were to really work, there HAD to be a sequence where a drunk and coked up Meryl Streep is held down by some of her fag editors while she screams and yells at Karl Lagerfeld for forgetting to fax over the galleys of his new line.

That is all

1st Annual Fourth of July/Divorced Woman Night Shenanigans

2006-07-04T23:34:00.000-07:00

Last night was the annual fireworks extravaganza KaBlam! in Red Bank, not to be excused with KaBloom, the trendy flower shop in Upper Montclair, NJ. It's when there's a mass exodus to the river to see shimmering gun powder and hear "Mysterious Ways" by U2 blasting out over enormous speakers. And Janis Joplin cover bands. Most people treat this event as a low-rent Mardi Gras and wear decorative scarfs of the American flag and get tanked on Pina Coladas on the midway. The only difference being that, this morning, I don't have to worry about showing up on the next Girls Gone Wild commercial, drunkenly wagging my tits and screaming "Check out these lady liberties".

I had the offer to go with Karen to the Molly Pitcher and stand outside on the pier with a lot of people in golf clothes, swilling back Martini's. I think I made the better and more realistic decision to split a bottle of Jack Daniels with Josh, mix them into Big Gulp cups, and stumble around Red Bank with Alison and Taline, who split a bottle of rum and Cherry Coke. Because it would have just been awkward for me to awkwardly bark at some yuppie boeugeois society matron about how I just passed my STD test and I have a clean bill of health.

Needless to say, we ended up getting tore up and I ran into this guy who used to date my sister. So I say hi and, in a fairly frivolious mood, asked "Remember when you used to date my sister?", expecting a joyous and jolly Santa-like laugh and "Yes. Yes I do" Like if I asked him whether or not he remembered Mona from Who's the Boss or the sassy grandmother from Family Matters. It's whimsical. I don't think he found it as whimsical. He kind of just stared at me for a moment.

Today I was really hung over so I spent the day laying in bed and watching clips from Starting Over on Youtube. So I was in the divorced woman space when I got a call from Derby and we decided to christen this forth of July as Divorced Woman Night. So we got Breanne and Josh in on the festivities. We bought Mint Chocolate and the ultimate divorced woman pint of Ben & Jerry's Chocolate Chip Cookie Dough. A bag of Cheese Doodles. A bag of popcorn. And a box of wine. Yes, blog readers, BOXED wine. The divorced woman's answer to Capri Sun's. Just stick a straw in and dig in. But the stretchy pants? It was BYOSP.

I got all dolled up in black stretchy pants and my ex-husband's white undershirt. The one you wear every night, spray with his cologne, bring it up to your nose, take in his scent, and burst into tears. And a kimono. Because you're not just a divorced woman in a kimono. You're a divorced woman with a cocaine problem. Who passes the time by spraying the Mexican cleaning lady with a can of Windex filled with battery acid.

Breanne starting out with a t-shirt that reminded her to have fun and smile. It said "Have fun and smile". The kind of shirt a divorced woman would pick up at the 24K race her PTO organized. That she ran to prove she can overcome obstacles, give her a renewed sense of self respect, and get rid of some of that ass cellulite that can survive a radioactive drip and outlive even a cockroach. That she throws on after he loses the "I Feel ____" smily face magnet and can longer greet the day with the inspiration of circling "I Feel Flirty" and watching as the sexually suggestive smile preens back at her.

After that she changed into a negligee. The kind a divorced woman changes into at around 2AM on a lonely Saturday night of drinking raw whiskey alone in the dark of her living room. She digs out all the Chanel wedding makeup. Smeared lipstick across her teeth. Hair done up nicely as she looks into the mirror and says "Let me show you my home!" and "I could never imagine a rich, handsome businessman like you could love a simple girl like me". And then has the moment of realization and falls to floor a sobbing mess and passed out amongst the lit candles.

But Derby had it going ON. She had the tight negligee under a bathrobe. The kind you fling of when the pizza man comes to your front door or you wear when you want the job as Assistant Manager at a Petco and bring him the 20 year old sales clerk to get drunk on Schnappes with and further seal the prospect of getting hired. It was very Diane Lane in Unfaithful. Diane Lane is the fucking patron saint of divorced women. Must Love Dogs? The meltdown at the chicken counter in the supermarket? Classic DW. Under the Tuscan Sun? Buying herself a house and rediscovering her roots in a foreign country? Classic DW. Unfaithful is like PORN to divorced women. Desperate and need in some rough, quick sex in a bathroom stall while their friend's eat lunch twenty feet away.

Breanne rolled a joint on my copy of Sleepless in Seatle. We drank some boxed wine and decided it was time for the obligatory rom-com. I brought over four of the most divorced women movies ever: Dirty Dancing with sweaty Patrick Swayze and lots of 80's musical sequences, Sleepless in Seattle, At First Sight (hot disability sex with a blind Val Kilmer) and The Object of my Affection, which we chose, pants down.

The Object of my Affection has been my favorite movie since I was a chunky 12 year old. I don't know why I love it so much. I'm not a frumpy faghag. I spend all my time at the paper seeing really pretentious art house movies in dilapadated movie houses, below "Hate it!", and write nasty reviews using phrases like "a poor attempt to recreate the French New Wave moment" and "The failed attempt at realism left THIS reviewer cold". Then I go home, crawl in bed, and weep as Jennifer Aniston gives her monologue about how she wants to start an alternative family with Paul Rudd. Maybe it's because the reality of the film is the only reality in which I could have the chance to fuck Paul Rudd. And the real world is just not a place I went to live in. Unless it's the Real World: Austin house and Wes is naked and tied to a radiator.

Divorced Women Alert

2006-07-03T01:14:00.000-07:00

For as much as Caroo loves American Idol and mix CDs, I fucking LOVE divorced women. I don't know why. I just do. I love sweatpants. I love eating alone at the food court at the mall. I love when the lady at the video store knows their name and they don't need to get out their card.

God must have been smiling on me the day that he inspired the NBC reality show producers to create Starting Over, a daytime reality soap about divorced and damaged women starting over. It's cancelled now but back when it was on, I would leave the paper at 11, watch The View, smoke a bowl, and then watch Starting Over. It was my heroin.

I was lucky to find two amazing clips. Watch them both. I promise you, you'll die.

Why I Hate American Idol

2006-07-02T23:16:00.000-07:00

I hate American Idol. I'm not trying to be pretentious about music like a college radio DJ with a one hour show at 4AM who disses Avril Lavigne's conformist attempts at being non-conformist. I am a conformist and I'm proud to be a conformist. I work at the stores that they give you one five hour shift a week so they you promote their clothes and have trump cards to throw down at any time. Yeah, the music sucks. Yeah, it defeats the purpose of music as an art form. Lots of covers of bad pop songs to begin with. Giving record labels a guaranteed audience for a new singer. Yeah, it sucks that Daniel Powter goes on TV and says he never wanted to be famous and just wanted to write music. Because selling your song to a hit TV show to play on a weekly basis is the surest best for obscurity.

Again, I'm no one to talk. Sure I like some indie bands that no one has heard of and therefore gives me weight in music-orienting dick measuring contests. But for every Broken Social Scene song I have on iTunes, I have six Original Broadway Cast Recordings of shows like Thoroughly Modern Millie and Hairspray.

Yeah, American Idol signals the downfall of the home of the brave. That more people vote to make sure that Taylor Hicks is their American Idol than vote for the president of the free world. Because our economy, personal rights, homeland security, and our right to a free nation CLEARLY comes in second to a really KICK-ASS cover of Elvis' "In the Ghetto".

But the real reason why I hate American Idol? One word: Caroo.

My mom Caroo loves American Idol more than she loves my sister and I combined. She even threatened to kick us out of the house once when my sister stole the digital cable remote from the living room on the eve of the results show. The only thing that threatens her love for American Idol? Her love for making mix CDs.

Had I know that one Mother's Day when I spent all my money on nicotine and booze and thought it would be a nice idea to make her a CD of all her favorite Lionel Richie songs the fucking PANDORA'S BOX that I had opened, I would've blown some Japanese business and got her a decorative scarf from Ann Taylor Loft. Because my mom has gotten obsessed with the perks of the internet revolution. That you can steal any song you want and burn it to a CD. And you know what I am now? I'm her bitch.

Let me give you a run-down of how it works. She's at work at the mental hospital. The panic button has gone off. Indian people are ripping water fountains out of the floor and throwing them out the window to escape. Someone just smothered Jack Nicholson. Brittany Murphy is hanging by a bedsheet and Skeeter Davis' "The End of the World" is playing on repeat. My mom is sitting at the nurses station writing down each and every song she might want on this CD. The building burns down and she gets a week long sabbatical. To further draft her playlist.

She presents me with the list. With a title too. Such as "Set the Standards" for a list of standards song by LiteFM stalwarts such as Celine Dion and Johnny Mathis. Caroo decided once that she wanted to start exercising and decided that a mix CD would just the thing to give her that extra push. She writes out a list. I don't need to tell you what was on it. You can figure it out. You know that "Hot Hot Hot" made an appearence. You know that "The Pina Colada Song" was the big finish. But I start to download the songs for her. As anyone who illegally downloads music knows, sometime you will get a song by the wrong artist. And don't get me wrong, it's annoying as hell. Stop using Limewire as a way to promote your Cajun-style Eagles cover band when I want to hear the original version of "Hotel California". But this makes my mom LIVID. We had a two hour fight once because I wouldn't redownload the original version of the "Electric Slide".

Because, allegedly, the vocal inflection of the guy who says "Yeah, it's electric" is such a STEEP drop in terms of quality.

Of course, my mom didn't end up using it as an exercise mix. She loves to listen to the CD in her car, though. If you ever saw a middle-aged woman who looks like Kathy Bates rocking out to the "Cha Cha Slide" in her car at a red light, you've seen Caroo IN THE FLESH. Taking it back now, y'all.

Sometimes covers are the best I can do. Because my computer literally REJECTED Amy Grant's Christmas Album. I spent two weeks and numerous different file share programs to download "Emmanuel" for our annual holiday party and I couldn't get it. No one would share it. NO ONE. All the evangelical Christians trolling Limewire for Lorena McKennitt and gay porn were all too jazzed to spread the word of the coming of Jesus Christ. But share their copy of "Ave Maria"? FUCK that shit

We spend four hours putting all the songs in the correct order. I hear the opening ten seconds of Katherine McPhee's spine-tingling version of "Black Horse and a Cherry Tree" so many times that I eat a soiled tampon to die from toxic shock. Many fights happen. Usually she screams "ONE THING! I ASK YOU FOR ONE THING! I GIVE YOU MONEY! I DO YOUR LAUNDRY! I PAY FOR YOUR SCHOOL! ALL ASK IS THAT YOU PUT ALL THE BO BICE SONGS TOGETHER ON MY AMERICAN IDOL MIX CD!". I proceed to smoke a bowl in my garage, weeping like a post-coital rape victim at the bottom of a shower. Running mascara and everything.

Oh, that's the other thing. We had our annual month-long May battle last year. And I knew there was only way to bring it to an end so I could have money to buy cigarettes. I managed to find a website with all the live performances from the past season of American Idol for my mom and I made her a CD with all her favorites without her knowing. Did she love it? Yes. Did I make a terrible mistake? Of course.

Because now I have to make one of these every season. And it's not just one. My mom likes to make special additions. With bonus tracks like the end of the "The Miseduction of Lauryn Hill" or the a cappella stalker song that they slipped in at the end of "Jagged Little Pill". Her last mix CD went up to Volume Six.

And she loves to give these CDs away as gifts. It's kinda cute in a divorced woman kind of a way. I think my mom thinks it's really special to give people who helped her out a lot at work a Maxell blank CD with tin-can versions of live AI performances that someone clearly taped with a tape recorder up to the TV and transformed into an MP3. Complete with "American Anthems" scrawled on the top in Sharpie like a serial killer. But I had to churn out SIX of these fuckers today. Like her own little music pirating sweatshop.

And THAT'S why I hate American Idol.

A Fair is a Vertiable Smorgasbord Orgasbord

2006-07-02T22:28:00.000-07:00

As we all know by know, I love white trash. I love white trash more than I love honeysuckles. And I love honeysuckles a friggin' LOT. So when Karen and Sarah asked me if I wanted to go to a fundraiser fair for a church, I knew I would be in hog heaven.

Karen & Sarah: The curly haired Jew answer to Mary-Kate & Ashley. Or if Gene Wilder had a vagina and a twin sister.

After a verbal altercation in the parking lot, we were ready to go. We were gonna donate money to a church if we had to beat down every tweenage girl in Uggs.

The zipper being closed = slanty face in my book. But we went on 1001 (Crystal) Nachts twice and gazed lovingly at Crystal (Nacht) Lil's, the kicky funhouse. We would've gone inside if it hadn't been for the trecherous looking fun slide that ended it all. Anyone whose ever had a prepubescent weight problem knows that that fun slide is fucking trecherous.

But, as well know, the main attraction at a fair isn't the rides or even the fried Oreo's or funnel cake. It's the overweight girls named Crystal in Sylvester the cat "Make me purr" shirts and weekend dad's taking their kids out and dusting off their Survivor shirts they got at Walgreen's in honor of Richard Hatch's successful win back in the year 2000.

Sarah is a Jew so clearly she had a JAP-y razor phone and took pictures of the freak show.

This is Tie-Dye. We couldn't swing a fucking CAT without hitting tie-dyke. Whether it was on line for the swing or sitting next to us on 1001 (Crystal) Nachts, Tie Dye (like a nasty dose of genital herpes) would not go away. I wonder how she decided upon this shirt. Did she go through her closet, throw out shirt after shirt on a hanger and below "HATE IT!" like a judgmental fag, and then she saw the light. A shining beacon of pink and white. Glittering like the Holy Grail. She takes it out, spin around, and her friend (who's reading Teen Vogue) looks up a that moment, purses her lips, and she knows she has the one. She will be the BELLE of the fair. Because not only is she stylish. She is RETRO.

Check out the tank, jeans, and baby carriage. Jealous That I Called Him Lover? Lady gone even wrongerer. This is what happens when you give you're middle aged aunt a Monmouth Mall gift certificate. She doesn't go to the Fashion Bug. She goes STRAIGHT for Wet Seal. Let's paint an image of this lady's life, shall we? Job? Two words: Bobbi Brown. Where? Boscov's. She's peddling budget cosmetics day and night like a particularly ambitious Brazillian hardwood floor sander. One daughter out of wedlock. Who loves the Black Eyed Peas. And got pregnant by some white guy in a do-rag who works as a promoter for ghetto clubs, putting postcards with naked black girl asses on windshields of people parked outside the mall. She is taking her grandbaby out for a night on the town (i.e. getting out of the trailer so her daughter and son-in-law can smoke crystal meth).

And looking FABULOUS at that.

Every high school on the planet has this guy. THIS guy. "Inappropriately Wearing Basketball Shorts" Guy. In case he's sitting in Biology and an impromptu game should break out or Dennis Rodman is standing at his front door, twirling a basketball on his finger. Doesn't he know that in twenty minutes, when he and Dots jean skirt girl start finger fucking behind the Tilt-A-Whirl, these basketball shorts will provide NO protection. NO protection. He's going to have to awkwardly hunch over and kick out his legs while he waits for his girlfriend's dad to come pick them up in his truck.

If the lights from Ram Rods, the bumper car ride, weren't so blinding you'd see the worst case scenerio from every high school health class. She traded in her birth control pills for those big hoop earrings from The Icing. Aww. Where's the boyfriend? No where. With some other equally vibrant latina girl who DOESN'T have a baby. I almost feel bad. Almost.

Karen's butt filling out a 50/50 form.

Always the Gay Best Friend of the Straight Girl Who's Cousin is Getting Married....Never the bride

2006-06-30T22:43:00.000-07:00

I went to a wedding today with Alison. It was for her cousin and held at the Ramada. And when it's held at a Ramada, you know it's time to hold onto your seatbelts. Because it's going to be a bumpy ride.

The wedding was fun. Alison and I toked up before we went. The wedding song was "Can You Feel The Love Tonight?" from The Lion King as performed by Elton John. The best man said a speech that included (and I quote) "Lauren and Vinny are both teachers. Together they TAUGHT me a LESSON about the progression of love. I think we all learned something here together from Lauren and Vinny's example". Lauren and Vinny taught me a lesson too. It's called "Don't make TEAL the center of the color scheme of your wedding!" Weddings are supposed to have a quiet, understated elegance. They are not supposed to look like a shoulder-padded blouse that you got at either Value City or East Coast Liquidators on Rt. 35 in Union Beach. Teal is the trashiest color next to dull purple. All the bridesmaids had teal dresses. All the groomsman had teal blazers. They might as well have worn Ozzfest '99 shirts to the proceeding.

But I got drunk and had full reign of a chocolate fountain for free, so I can't complain too much. And I was sitting outside and this Desert Storm vet and I were shooting the breeze about Jersey living (he's from North Carolina) and he said my most favorite quote in recent times: "Yeah, Jersey is nice. You got the, er, Seaside. And, um, Atlantic City. You can play some craps. The beach. But the motels here are so darned expensive. Down in North Carolina, they're like 50 bucks but here? Here they're like 120". That is a direct, unironic, unsarcastic quote. It was so cute I wanted to marry it. I mean, AC and Seaside as the two major draws of NJ? It's so adorable. Like when kids say they want to be an astronaut when they grow up and you know they will never have the brains, grades, or finances to pull that off and will end up just like Daddy plumbing shit out of the high school cafeteria. You laugh because it's funny. It's ridiculous.

I'm sure right now you're disgusted at my judgmental stance. Wondering if the big fucking bitch would do it better if push came to shove and I got married. Or was fortunate the manipulate someone into having the poor judgment to marry me. And you know? I would do better.

Gay weddings are awkward to begin with. They're only legal in two states. Everyone feels really uncomfortable. Some lesbian who looks like Sinead O'Connor does the nuptials and uses words like "soul" and "domestic partner" and some drunk flamer friend of yours will unenvitably get up on the podium and sing an A Cappella version of "Private Dancer"

But my gay wedding will be the shit. Because I won't wear a tuxedo or white dress. I'm going to wear a leather catsuit. Very kitten with a whip. And I look fucking cute with a whip. And the song I enter to? Not "Here Comes the Bride". Not "Here Comes the Groom". But either "Sympathy for the Devil" by the Rolling Stones or "The Bitch is Back" by Elton John. I'm going to make my husband Clive Owen wear a Gestapo hat, handlebar mustache, and assless chaps. And instead of "You may now kiss the bride", our minister (Parker Posey dressed up like a geisha) will say "You may now kiss the bride...BITCH"

But that's just my wedding. We all have hopes and dreams.

Did you learn that at your night school classes for Negro welfare mothers?

2006-06-29T16:17:00.000-07:00

Yesterday, I got all my hair cut off and donated it to a non-profit that makes wigs of human hair for cancer patients. Just kidding. I donated it to the floor of a Great Clips salon a few towns over. I really loved having lang hair. I loved flipping it back when trying to tickle the fancy of a man. I loved running my fingers through it and saying GARNIER NUTRIESSE alone in my bedroom at 3AM. But having lang hair and ESPECIALLY having a high matinence, trendy haircut from 1996 is a BITCH to take care of. My hair has been tearing my personal life apart. So many unnecessary fights and so much unnecessary drama has come from the fact that I've had to spend two hours blow drying and straightening my hair. And if I accidentally over processed it I look like Meg Ryan in City of Angels and have to start again from scratch. The humidity and weather has made it pointless so I decided just to shave my head.

So I go to the salon and bring a picture of the haircut I want. Which I hate doing. But everytime I try to describe what I want, I never get it, and I either look like a NASCAR driver, Brazillian day labourer, or my senior high school English teacher Mrs. Betta.

Now....I really like Brad Pitt's haircut in Mr. and Mrs. Smith. So I bring in the picture. I'm not stupid. I know that a pair of scissors isn't a magick wand. I'm not going to leave the salon with a wanton, used woman with three children and big lips as well as a bitter ex-wife. I just thought that the do would look nice. So I bring up the picture to the lady, which took enough of my courage, and she said (with pure sass) "You want the Brad Pitt? Tsk. You don't wanna look like no Brad Pitt. You look like Ashton. Yeah, you look like Ashton. I'mma give you the Ashton, none of this Brad Pitt" So she starts to give me this Ashton/Brad love child hair cut that consists of her using the number three razor blade and scraping at my scalp like she was desperately trying to get a McDonald's special sauce stain out of her sister's Baby Phat velour pants before she got home.

She finally finishes and I look in the mirror to find not the Brad Pitt. Not the Ashton Kutcher. Not even the Rachel from before.
But the Sigourney Weaver in Alien 3.

So I have two new people I want to add to my hit list. I've decided to use this blog as a way to document people that I hate and why I do. Because what's the point of holding a grudge if you can't remember why you're holding it in the first place. I don't mind sassy Great Clips lady. Sure, my scalp is just one big patch of razor burn. But she said I looked like Ashton Kutcher. And I DO have delicate features, so she's not on the list.

Bitchy Receptionist from the other day, however? Check. I go back to the doctor's office to get the results of my HIV test. Now, before I begin, I didn't get an HIV test because I've made a habit out of putting my name and number on the stalls of park restrooms or go to bathhouses in 1979 and pump my naked ass in the air begging "Fuck me! Fuck me!". I did it because everyone should get tested. ANYWHOODLES, I get the test done on Wednesday and they don't get the results back to me until Tuesday. And tell me that I have to go in to get the results because they can't give them over the phone. Now, I wasn't nervous at all last week because I've always been very safe. But it's kind of like when you see a cop driving next to you. You panic, even though you haven't done anything wrong. But it's the tiny margin of error. The possibility your speedometer might be deceptive or your back tail light might be out.

So I'm nervous Josh going over there. I'm worrying that I'll get the test results and I'll be positive and my whole life will turn into some poorly produced AIDS TV-Movie from 1991. Some former sitcom mom like Judith Light or Joanna Kerns will use my death as a way to reclaim their former glory and surrender their dignity by playing my dutiful mom taking care of me. The older brother from Wonder Years will play me in an attempt to show off his range and masturbate a Golden Globe out of the Hollywood Foreign Press. There would be scenes of me dolled in drag, frowning into a mirror, and saying shit like "It's sad when even DRAG is a drag" and people rolling my wheelchair through gardens and the beach and all sorts of nature. My faggot friends will come to me in the hospital and say shit like "When you're gay, you make you're own family." Whoopi Goldberg will be my sassy black nurse maid and I'll get all Girl, Interrupted on her ass and say "Did you learn that at your night school classes for Negro welfare mothers?" and "Youse ain't no doctor, Miss Valerie! Youse at nothing but a black nursemaid!". And then I die at the end.

This is ALLLL running through my head. So I get up to the plexi-glass partrition or, as she seems to think, the gateway to the Fortress of Soltitude and announce my arrival. She's all "Did you bring your insurance cards this time?" and I'm all "I did not. They just called me in and my parents aren't home from work yet and they have them". So she gets all bitchy and sighs all DEJECTEDLY and the fire starts to boil in my blood. I'm getting pissed off even typing this. Okay. So she says "Did you bring your copay?". So, I had been home all week watching The Tyra Banks Show, so I was not gonna put it with this shit. I would break a 40 and cut a bitch if push came to shove. Or put on a fat suit and discover what the other side feels like.So, I put my hands up on the sides of her partrition, lean in close, put on my fighting face, and say "I don't have a copay". And she all leans in and says "You have a copay everytime you see the doctor. "And I lean in further and say "I paid the copay to take the test. I'm coming in today to get the results. So, she all "That's the rules" and I'm putting out my chest and saying "Why don't you just bill me it?" and she all "You have to pay the day off". So, momently defeated, I say "Fine, I'll have my sister come and bring it".

She lets me go in and I see the doctor and find out that I'm clean of all STDs, including HIV. But first he described it as "Non-reactive" and I had to ask twice to make sure that meant negative because I didn't want to walk around the Macy*s cosmetics department waving around my test results to complete strangers and say "See? See? Right here...'Non-reactive'" and then discover that it means positive and not only am I going to have to endure a Lifetime timeslot after The Nanny and before Unsolved Mysteries but also that the entire world knows I have the HIV. But he explained to me that non-reactive meant HIV negative, so I was happy as a lark.

So my sister comes, we go up the bitch and pay the copay. And as soon as she closes the plexi-glass window a.k.a soundproof glass, I turn to my sister and say as loudly and nastily as possible "That receptionist is SUCH a cunt".

Because for every action, their is an equal and opposite REaction.

So take that BITCH.

I'll take more about my wisdom tooth surgery later, when I feel like it. The pain has lessened, I've started smoking again, and my wound has stopped bleeding. Which is so much better. For like four days, everytime I opened my mouth it looked like the scene in The Shining where the elevator doing opens and all that blood pours out. It was fucking not cool.

But it was fun to shake my sister awake at 4Am, open my mouth, and say "I am Lothos! Gatekeeper of the Underworld! Beware my wrath for it is vengeful and uncompromising!'. All the while getting blood all over her sheets and watching her scream.

Now THAT was HIGHlarious.

SIDDDD, YOU MOTHERFUCKER!!!

2006-06-23T22:37:00.000-07:00

What's the only thing that can quell the pain of invasive compounded wisdom tooth emergency retraction surgery? Vicodin. And the second best? Sid & Nancy playing on Indieplex.

If you haven't seen it, you must. This is one of the highly inappropriate movies (next to Looking for Mr. Goodbar) that I was raised on as a mere lad and partly responsible for the sociopath I am today.

I'll give you a more macabre and intricately detailed blow-by-blow description of the surgery and subsequent recovery at a later date. But right now, I'm going to try to stay awake, try not to bleed too much on my pillow, and watch a strung out Chloe Webb scream and break things.

Twat's that? I cunt hear you. I have an ear inFUCKtion. I need to go to the DICKtor to get some PENISicillin

2006-06-21T23:31:00.000-07:00

This morning I woke up at 10AM with an insatiable desire to watch Lois & Clark: The New Adventures of Superman. The mid-90's Sunday night Superman drama that appealed to both comic book fans and soap opera loving middle-aged divorced women/prepubescent fags. Think Dynasty meets Daredevil. We get the high drama and edge-of-your-seat hijincks as well as cameos from Lifetime movie stalwarts such as Morgan Fairchild, Emma Samms, and Tracy Scoggins. All with frizzled perms, flowing pirate shirts, and brazzy vests.

My sister and I LOOOOVVVEEED Lois & Clark circa 1994 so, of course, we purchased the DVDs the second they came out. I hadn't watched it in years, so I kicked back, ate some whole wheat penne with Vodka sauce, and just let the experience take me over completely.

After watching three of my favorite epies, I was drained. Lois almost married Lex Luthor. This was too much for someone of my emotional state to handle without taking a nappy pooh. I woke up an hour later, late for my appointment for a physical.

So I get to the front desk and the bitchy receptionist with a smiling clown scrub shirt and a Georgian Court College associate's degree barks at me, "Yeah, you're like FIFTEEN minutes late for your appointment. FILL OUT THESE FORMS" While I'm sitting down, some midget goes into the little booth with the bitchy receptionist and is being a chatty cathy. I was confused about one part of the form so I go up and ask her where I'm supposed to put my insurance information. She points to it and I go and sit down at my seat three feet away. She slams shut the Plexi-glass window and says "That kid is SUCH a moron".

Because, clearly, Plex-glass doctor's office dividers = Sound-proof glass used in recording studios

Cut to me: MORTIFIED and HUMILIATED

So I eventually get into the office and I'm doing my shit, when the Trinidadian nurse begins to put on gloves to take blood from me. Is it just me or have you ever been offended when someone does this? Like, in some irrational way, I wanted her to NOT wear gloves. I wanted her to know that my blood is as pure as the morning dew glistening on a lily-covered meadow. That to have my excess blood squirting out onto her scrubs was a privledge. Not a cause for alarm. I can understand the gloves with other people. They're dirty and have Medicare provided by their unemployment agent. But not me. NEVER me.

I guess we all want to feel more special than we actually are.

After that was over, I went over to the gym. Now, before I begin, let me provide you with a little exposition. I have a personal trainer who I have consultations with once a month. He's a nice enough guy. During our first meeting, he was saying that if he doesn't eat every two hours he can't focus and asked if it was okay if he ate during our meeting. I say yes and he whips up a big thing of sweet potatoes and just starts GNOSHING. So I'm asking him dietary questions as I'm trying to bulk up and he keeps going about sweet potatoes. How great they are. How they taste good and provide a lot of nutrition. If it was legal in the state of New Jersey, he'd MARRY sweet potatoes. This guy is fucking WET for sweet potatoes. So, henceforth, my friends and I call him Sweet Potato Brad.

Now, I don't know if it's just me, but I get really uncomfortable seeing him around the gym when he isn't helping me out. It's almost on par as when you're using a machine and someone else sits down at the machine directly across from you and there is that awkward moment, mid-repetition, that you two lock eyes and have the most uncomfortable moment of eye content ever. Almost in the same realm is accidentally looking directly at the 65 year old fag at Colo with bleached spiky hair and an "Assume the Position" shirt and leading him to believe that you're cruising him.

I have trouble trying to figure out the relationship between trainer and trainee. Is there a stop and chat? Do we nod? Whenever Sarah sees her BLT teacher, she flat out ignores her. I, on the other hand, take the high road. I hide. My ENTIRE cardio workout consists of me jumping onto the Elliptical everytime he's helping a client next to the machine that I have to use next.

So tonight, when I first get to the gym before doing any working out at all, I go into the bathroom to pee when I see people milling about. Now, I'm incredibly pee shy and I will risk a bladder infection just so that I don't nervously stand in front of a toilet, desperately trying to drain the snake, only to have a few small driplets come out, and look at the judgmental looks on the people's faces when I come out and they discover that I did not have a fully satisfying urination session. So I pretend to wash my hands and pray to Gods that they will leave soon before I have an accident and have to get the emergency, oversized underwear from the nurse's office. I look over to see two guys talking. One in a stall and one at a urinal.

I hear a voice say "This whole gym renovation is great, but it's rough that they aren't closing the gym to do it. It's hard to use the new equipment when there are construction guys working next to it."

This is a voice coming from the stall.

The voice strikes me as familiar.

And then I realize: It's Sweet Potato Brad. Talking to a guy at a urinal. WHILE TAKING A DUMP.

So the first thing I think about is: How did this situation come to be? Were they on a double date with two wealthy businessmen and made a conscious decision to run to the bathroom together to talk about their plans for the night, powder their nose, and reapply their lip gloss? And if they had to borrow a tampon from each other, so be it?

Or was Sweet Potato Brad taking a BM and recognized the poorly developed legs of one of his clients make their way up to the urinal and decided their was no more appropriate time than the present to discuss the new renovations with his compadre?

It's because of people like Sweet Potato Brad that I have problems urinating in public. I need silence. I need it to be a Zen moment. Like the sound of one hand clapping. Only then can the river flow.

There is no one lower than the bathroom talker. No greater nuisance to society.

At that moment I did the only thing I could do.

I left the gym and drove home.

I was already terrified to run into him at the gym. I was already hiding from him like the cum-guzzling faggot that I am. But now, every time I see him teaching people how to do curl ups on the medicine ball, I'm going to imagine two legs sticking out the bottom half of a bathroom stall, talking about the new machines he's jazzed about, and taking a brief break to grunt while the sound of a big turd splashes into the sea below it.

A sound that will forever echo throughout my ears.

How am I supposed to look at him during our next consultation while he gives me tips on how to work out my problematic core area without wondering if sweet potatoes have an abundance of fiber?

And it's not just the whole "stall talker" thing. I have a lot of trouble coming to terms with the idea that other people poop. It seems like such a dirty, nasty thing. Can you imagine Nicole Kidman pooping? All dolled up in a glitzy Chanel evening gown? Sparkling like the brightest star in the sky? Checking the soiled toilet paper to see if she got everything out and then soaking the next square in water to speed up the process so she isn't late for presenting the Academy Award for Best Picture?

No. Other people don't poop.

Only me. And Sweet Potato Brad.

I think I'm going to either have to start going to the other gym.

Sharp, Sophisticated Fashion For The Kicky Gal-On-The-Go

2006-06-19T13:31:00.000-07:00

I have a scientific theory I’d like to test out on you. Think of this blog as a focus group with lots of lewd stories, inside jokes, and racist hate speech. In my hypothesis, I am trying to disprove the idea that a woman’s style successfully ends the day they have their first child. Their priorities shift and when you have a screaming baby, screaming toddler, screaming prepubescent, screaming pubescent tween, screaming high school student, and screaming college students on your hands, the last thing you have time to do is to leaf through a copy of Vogue. When my mom had my sister Andrea in 1980, her exteme narcissism and self-interest allowed her to overcome this little aberration. Instead, she stopped dressing my dad. Hence the mutton chops and leisure suits. If it was up to my dad, he would wear burgundy corduroy pants with a grey Vermont sweatshirt to work every day. This past Memorial Day, he decided it was a good occasion as any to get all dolled up for Leslie’s outdoor BBQ. So he wore a red Cardinals jersey. A red Cardinals hat. Red K-Mart breezy gym shorts. And red socks. Rolled up to his knees. Like an English Bobbie. To avoid this, back in 1979, my mom would lay out his clothes for him. Like a seven year old boy.

However, the shit hit the fan when my mom had me, someone who rivaled her own narcissim and self-interest. Henceforth, my mother still thinks that shoulder pads and decorative scarves are all the rage in Milan.

But it isn’t just my mom. It seems that all of my friend’s mothers are perpetually stuck in 1985. It’s a whole demographic of people. It couldn’t POSSIBLY be untapped by the competitive fashion industry.

And it isn’t. You know why?

Because of two words:

Lord & Taylor.

A.K.A

My new place of employment.

Yes, yes. I finally decided to say “No, fuck YOU, Express Men’s” and got a new job without officially quitting. I just decided not to show up for the last couple of days of work. Now THEY know the sting of rejection.

I was hired by a woman who is VERY Lord & Taylor. She had the big glasses with the connecting string. Long nails. Shoulder padded grey blazer. A thick mane of frosted hair, previewed best while wriggling on top of a car hood a la Tawny Kitaen in the White Snake video. Turquoise jewelry fucking EVERYONE. Encrusting every family portrait on her desk.

I got hired for full-time but I’ve only been there for three days, two of which was sent in training. The first night we did my fave thing, which is getting paid minimum wage to watch terrible training videos and judge them. Luckily, I was with some fun catty cathy’s who LOLed with me when we watched the workplace accident video and saw an elderly woman take a swan dive after tripping over a haphazardly place box.

One of the training videos was in the style of an English murder mystery and starred Dawn French. I didn’t know how to react to this. I mean, I LOVE Dawn French. I have every episode of French & Saunders on VHS. She’s like Britney Spears in regards to Jessica Simpson and Mandy Moore circa 1999. The original prevailed against the cardboard cut-outs. All other overweight British comedians with an appetite for chaos, wit, and camera mugging pale in comparison to la French. But Dawn…Aww. Poor Dawny. Why? WHY? You starred in a hit comedy show on the BBC. You produced the international sensation Absolutely Fabulous. Why would you ever agree to star in a Lord & Taylor training video? Even double-anal double-vaginal porn stars snub their noses at training video actresses. WHY D. FRE??? Did you have trouble understanding American currency? Did you think that $37 AMERICAN dollars was the same salary afforded to Julia Roberts for Mona Lisa Smile?

Every morning at 9:45, there’s a rally at the bottom of the escalator to get all jazzed up about the day to come. In order to properly prepare us for the rally, Tawny Kitaen made us watch a faux reenactment. It succeeded in wheting our palates. The store manager announced the team from Women’s Accessories and they burst out of the stock room to “Who Let The Dogs Out?” and burst through a huge banner with a pill box hat and poncho on it.

We clapped when we found out that Susie from Mrs exceeded her daily goals. We cheered when Katie from Cosmetics won the credit card raffle and got a 20 dollar gift card. We jeered when we discovered we didn’t meet the same quota as the previous year.

The only thing missing was Anita Santiago in a makeshift white shirt with “GO BUCS” written in tempra paint screaming “HEY JAMEEEERA!” and screaming at everyone to stand up when Julius came out.

A Night That Will Go Down in Infamy

2006-06-17T01:31:00.000-07:00

Before I begin, let me just give you a run-down of a typical night here in our suburban hamlet in dirty Jersey: I wake up at 4PM. Stalk people on LJ and Myspace until about 7PM. I go to the gym until 9PM. By that time, Colin gets off work and calls me to hang out. We call Josh, Sarah, or Derby. At that point we either go to the Inkwell, loiter around Red Bank, or rent a movie and watch it over at Colin's house. We are in bed by, no later than, 1AM. Repeat ad nauseum.

There is very little room for variation. When we have the funds and the dignity to forfeit, we go to the Colosseum. So went again last night and Colin tickled the fancy of a Brazillian fag from Long Branch who works on hardwood floors and drives a big white van.

Now, devoted readers of my blog know that Colin is fucking WET for foreign cock. The nutrition he lacks due to his wheat allergy is filled in ABUNDANCE with the love of a man who purchased a stolen social security card and works as a day laborer.

Edward James Olmos a.k.a Colin's ex-BF

Seeing as Colin was game to get a little sumphin' sumphin' and I was desperately in the mood for variation, we decided to throw caution to the wind and go to a Brazillian fag party. With people we had only met for fifteen minutes. In a one bedroom garage apartment in Long Branch.

And I don't speak Portuguese.

Even with all these red flags, we weren't prepared for the night that was to come.

Since Colin's Portuguese and his Brazillian lover's English were both broken, we weren't able to get proper directions. So we had to wait to follow him in a Long Branch parking lot. A McDonald's parking lot. If the cops were to come and see us waiting for Brazillian people in a white van to come over to us, we CLEARLY would have been busted for a drug transition. Fortunately, the only drug in the air was lust and Colin and his Brazillian lover (Brian was his name, migrant working was his game) started MAKING OUT in the middle of the McDonald's parking lot. In the projects of Long Branch.

So we follow Brian's white van to his house. When we walk in we see another Brazillian fag in his tighty whities giggling on a phone in Portuguese and another Brazillian fag running around NAKED with a blond Christina Aguilera wig on his head, lip-synching to some Black Eyed Peas. So we sit around and Brian was all up in Colin's grill piece, so they're making out. Leaving me alone to make conversation with people who can't speak English. And the only language I know is American Sign Language. Very broken American Sign Language. In fact, the only American Sign Language I know is all the racial slurs so that I can whip them out when I'm feeling especially politically incorrect.

But I really didn't mind. They taught me the Portuguese word for cock and I told them that, in English, when a person is especially fun we call them "Kicky". And when someone says something amusing, you say "That's a fun movie".

Around this time, they tell us that they're going to a certain local gay club. One that is, of course, 21 and over that my (recovering well, thank you) sister is bringing me for my birthday on Sunday. Luckily, I am a spitting image of the Brazillian drag queen so I ended up using his ID.

You know, I never thought I'd have the opportunity to use a fake ID to get into a club. It was nice that I was able to two days before I turned 21. It was also nice because it helped me rediscover my roots as an actress. Because I wasn't Peter, plain and tall tonight. I didn't have matronly upper arms, horse teeth, and a rampant substance abuse problem. I was Wellington. A 26 year old Brazillian drag queen who speaks varied English that performs in Newark when he isn't buying ripped up jeans from Abercrombie and Fitch and busses tables at his job at the Mix on Brighton Ave.

So, all of a sudden, we discover that I have to drive four Brazillian people I didn't know to the club. Luckily, the ID went through and I went inside. That's when a lot of the fun began. A bunch of friendly Portuguese people bought me beers and we watched the drag show and I got lap dances from not one, not two, but THREE drag queens. One of which while "she" performed "Bring Me to Life" by Evanescence. Very Union Beach. Very fabulous.

So we ended up all their friends who were Latin America's answer to the cast of Queer of Folk. And the Brian Kinney of the group? Well, it was NONE other than: RufiOMG.

Yes, RufiOMG made another cameo. Still Fillippino. Still a senusal masseuse. Still trashy. And still inviting us to the sex party he's having next month. He ended up trying to bed the requisite Portuguese "newbie" cavorting around with us.

The rest of the night was pretty ridic. The howls of Brazillian people bellowing "That's a fun movie!" after someone said something especially "kicky" echoed across the back pool. I accidentally kicked some Latino fag in the shins while I was struggling away from a Native American fag who was pulling me over to kiss a middle-aged Mexican transvestite on the cheek. Because it's considered rude NOT to kiss a lady on the cheek when you make her acquaintence in Mexico.

We won't go into detail about the rest of the night. What happened in a one bedroom garage apartment in Long Branch STAYS in a one bedroom garage apartment in Long Branch.

But I will give you a hint:

I had to pick up four Portuguese people stranded on the side of the road on Ocean Ave. and drive them home at 4AM (One of which having a broken ankle).

While someone (and I'm not naming names) hooked up with a Brazillian while "Tell Him," recorded by Celine Dion and Barbra Streisand, played in the background.

WTF, mate.

DOUBLE U TEE EFF.

"What about Sunday"?

2006-06-16T02:00:00.000-07:00

Tonight tragedy befell my family. My mom woke me up to tell me that she was taking my sister to the emergency room because she was having severe stomach pains. I reacted like the put upon faggot that I am. It was 4PM. I was CLEARLY sleeping. We all know that if I don't have my fifteen hours of sleep, I am a crabby bunny and a FORCE to be reckened with. And here she was stirring me with mere trivialities.

Later on in the day, I was loafing around my house and my dad told me I have to go visit my sister in the emergency room. Like I have the time. Like I DON'T have important things to do that I can just put off because my sister is having a "medical emergency". I had a seven o'clock appointment at the gym. I had to go to Coconut's to sell off all my used DVD's, a trick I learned from a former cokehead buddy of mine.

I've been sort of cash as of lately (I have to wait until next week for my next paycheck) and seeing as my mom/former ATM is having one of her episodes and our relationship is currently in the third act of our Oedipal retelling of Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf, I can't ask her for lira. I know that selling off material belongings is way too Requiem for a Dream for my tastes, but it's not as bad as it could be. I'm not pawning my television set so that I can get an eightball of coke. I'm just selling off the movies that came with my DVD player so that I can have some cash so Colin and I can go to the Colosseum tonight. And you can't exactly watch the movie version of Lost in Space more than once.

So I sell off the DVD's, go to the gym, and on my way home, I get another phone call from my mom. Turns out that my sister has appendicitis (Excuse my spelling, it IS 5:09 AM) and needs to go into emergency surgery tonight.

Now...

Okay.

As I've repeated ad nauseum on this blog, it's my birthday on Monday. My 21st, to be exact. We've had this plan for awhile now that my sister is going to drive Colin and I to Paradise on Sunday night at midnight so we can get crunk to dem hood songz on faggy cocktails that she would pay for.

And I hate that I'm this selfish and I HATE that I'm this kind of person...but the first thing that pops into my head is:

"WHAT ABOUT SUNDAY?!"

So, in an attempt to curb my self-obsessive ways, I agreed to bring my sister her portable DVD player so she could watch The X-Files all fucked up on a morphine drip.

But I still had to get ready. I still had to shower. I still had to pick out a flattering outfit. I still had to blowdry, straighten, and gell my hair. This whole process takes over an hour.

So I roll up to the emergency room at, like, 10:30 at night, all dressed for clubbing, and bring my sister her DVD player. Of course the second I walk in my mom says to me, "I'm scared to see what will happen when I'm old and need to be taken care of."

If that's true then MAYBE my mom should have thought twice before having a fag son. Maybe she should have stepped back and had a deep think when she blasted the Original Broadway Cast recording of Evita at all hours of the day. Maybe she should have realized the repercussions of her actions when she smothered me with affection and signed me up for tap classes when I was three years old. If she did, then MAYBE she wouldn't have raised a faggy sociopath whose hair is a top priority over his immediate family's physical health.

Now, I'm also Catholic, so I felt insanely guilty about the extent of my own self-interest. But when I picked up Colin and told him about my sister's condition the first thing that came out of his mouth was: "WHAT ABOUT SUNDAY?!". That made me feel a whole lot better.

So, after we left the hospital, my sister had to go into surgery. Potentially life threatening surgery. And while she was getting cut up by a doctor who allegedly looked like a spitting image of Charlize Theron in Monster, I was getting jiggy to house music at the foam party at Colosseum.

There are special sections in Hell reserved for people like me.

CSI: Fire Island

2006-06-12T21:21:00.000-07:00

You know how I always bitch and moan about my job at Express? With the same disdain and self-importance of a mid-90's grunge-era cynical female comedian with heavy eyeliner? Well, I think I may have gotten fired.

I'm not entirely sure. But they started cutting down my hours. To one five hour shift a week. And when that day finally comes, they call me up and tell me they're overstaffed and it's such a lovely day out that they're taking me off the schedule for the shift.

I try to spend my time off productively. I spend countless grueling hours at the beach working on my tan and dishing out sass with family friends. I go to the gym and use every ounce of strength trying to lift the purple eight pound weights over my head. I loiter around Red Bank like an angsty RBR scenester. I sit around my house masturbating to internet gay porn, eating chips, smoking weed, and loling at shitty Logo serieses about fabulous black fags dwelling in contemporary L.A.

But I've run out of cash and the only thing I can do is just back on the horse and try to find another job. I can't go back to Macy*s. Once you have diamonds, you can't settle for pearls. I was going to work at an Easter Seals halfway house that my mom oversees. But we all know what would happen. I would tell them quitters never prosper, get drunk with them in the living room, and try to make some extra cash by selling them drugs.

So, today, I was FORCED to look at the classified ads in the Hub. Now, I've always had an aversion to the classified ads. It's way too movie opening credits sequence in a workplace comedy for my taste. But here I was, with a blue pen in one hand, a cigarette in the other, and lots of extreme close-ups of my hand circling prospective ads and X-ing out the disappointing ones.

There was one ad for a "top New Jersey PR firm" looking for event planners and what have you. Now, seeing as my life already reflects a Jennifer Weiner chick lit novel, I figured PR would be the logical next step. I would throw an inventive new society benefit, quelling all naysayers in the interim, meet a wealthy Wall Street banker who will fall in love with me despite my numerous quirks and that ten pounds I can't seem to lose. On our first date, I'll break the heel off my Manolo, but he'll just smile and chalk it up to me being me. Some NBC sitcom actress like Debra Messing, who desperately wants to break into film (namely rom-coms), will play me in the movie version.

So, I call up the joint. Turns out that "event planner" for "top New Jersey PR firm "means lugging seventy pound sandbags out of a warehouse in Marlboro, filling inflatable ball crawls/Moonwalks with air, and delivering them to town fairs in Jersey City and overprivledged kid's birthday parties in Colts Neck."

So, basically, in other words: Carnie. I don't wear an eyepatch and I certainly don't have a sex offender record. So, close up on my hand drawing a big X over THAT ad. I call up for a few more seemingly easy jobs that all turn into pyramid schemes with telemarketer operators and half a dozen postal workers positions before I see an ad that catches my eye.

Police officers needed.

As I see this, I fade off into my fantasy world. A world filled with wood nymphs, magicks, epic love, wizards, magicians, and talking chipmunks. An acid trip without spinal decay. Beyond good. Beyond evil. Beyond your wildest imagination. Basically, a manifestation of years of drug abuse and the decay of my conscious state.

I begin to see my life as a cop. My dad was a cop for many years before he retired and became a social worker, so I would have a pretty good shot at the job. Despite the fact that, contrary to popular belief, we're not Irish. I mean, I love booze, spousal abuse, potatoes, civil war, and framed coat of armors in blue-collar living rooms as much as an self-respecting Irishman. But I don't have eight brothers and sisters and I fucking HATE U2.

If I was a cop, I wouldn't be a Kiefer Sutherland cop. Or a Jerry Orbach cop. I could ONLY be a Charlie's Angels cop. An ASIAN Charlie's Angels cop. Prone to taking impromptu pictures in the middle of what could only be the rec room of the Asian Community Center in Jersey City.

But would I make a good cop? Would my faggotry be the one thing that sets me apart for my colleagues? Would it become Legally Blonde with handcuffs and racial profiling? Sure, there would be skeptics at first. The other cops would put ladies underwear in my locker. My gruff boss would slam his fist on the desk and tell me that I'm a disgrace to the law enforcement profession. But there would be a murder case. My catty gay judgment would prove an asset that the other cops don't have. The only evidence on the crime scene would be a bag from Value City and I would be able to create an entire profile on the killer just by his poor taste in fashion. We would set out a red-alert for someone wearing a Chaps polo shirt, Totes socks, and an oversized, fur-collared South Pole jacket.

I would become obsessed with the crime. Lose sleep. My gruff boss would take me aside and tell me it's time to go home and I'd scream (in my caffeine induced dementia) "I'll SLEEP when that FUCKER is behind bars". We will discover two similiar murders. My discoveries will be considered rookie beginner's luck and they will assign one of the more seasoned officers to finish the case. They will say it's because I don't have the experience. But the truth will be that my gruff boss secretly has a heart of gold, a fatherly affection towards me, and doesn't want to see me killed.

But I've come too far to give up now.

I track down the killer in my skivvies. He, undoubtedly, lives in Union Beach. I smell the scent of Axe body spray in the air, so I know I've found him. I go into the basement of his duplex and find a shrine of his clippings. And really outdated wallpaper. I hear the click of a gun behind me and I spin around. We are suddenly face to face with guns pointed at each other. He has overly gelled, razor-sharp bangs. Just as I expected.

"You think you're smart?", I say as we spin around each other. "You think you can just kill a couple of co-eds and get AWAY with it?"

"What are you going to do about it, SISSY boy?"

He cocks his gun and I know there's only one thing I can say to make it out of there alive.

"Is that the lead singer of Linkin Park?"

And when he whips his head around to check, I roundhouse kick the gun out of his hand and throw him to the floor, holding the gun to his forehead. My gruff boss knows I'm a loose cannon and what I planned to do. I'm just like him at this age. Only with obsessive compulsively straightened hair. He bursts in with back-up. I have solved the crime.

There's only one thing left for us to do.

Have a HUGE orgy in the locker room showers to celebrate my success.

RufiOMG: The Attack of the Asian Prostitutes

2006-06-09T00:47:00.000-07:00

Okay. I gotta bring it up. Tonight, Colin and I went to the Colosseum for some good times and noodle salad. So, it was a typical night at Colo. Lots of dykes who look like twelve years old boys. Gays voguing. Having to constantly move out of the way on the crowded upstairs hip-hop dance room. Getting hit on by drunk fags who are friends with my SISTER (The Limecat is NOT pleased at her Haggotry). Colin making out with a Mexican construction worker. So, basically, all is quiet on the Western front.

Except for one thing...

This random Filipino guy buys me a shot and starts to engage me in conversation, putting on the moves so to speak. He had a nice figure and looked a lot like Ruffio from Hook. Now, I'm not really looking for guys right now so I shake his hand and tell him thanks for the shot. And he has Colin give me his card. Turns out? He's an Asian prositute. Very Me So Horny. Very Me Love You Long Time. Very Sucky-Fucky Two Dollar. Very the First Scene On The Vietnamese Battlefront in Full Metal Jacket.

And you know what? If I had a fucking DOLLAR for everytime an Asian prostitute has propositioned me, I would be a millionnaire. Well, not so much millionnaire as...Two-dollar-aire (Good one, P. Shay). At least this guy was a little more subtle than the Asian prostitute at the strip club in Toronto. He invited me to a "party" and gave me a business card with a naked guy on it that read "Sensual Masseuse".

BTW, where do people get business cards with naked dudes on them? Who would USE them? You can't handle them out at a business convention. You can't put them on the front counter of a tanning salon. You certainly can't stick them under the plastic divider at Carlo O'Connor's.

And I really hate this new prostitute lingo to jazz up the fact. Like calling yourself a "Sensual Masseuse" when all you really do is jerk off guys for cash.

But regardless, at least he was a friendly Cathy. And all the Asian prostitute in Toronto said to me was "Blow Jah: Fibe Dollar".

BTW, I'd like to dedicate this entry to very own favorite Filippino prostitute, Jessica Suico for perpetuating stereotypes and being my blood for life.

Here's me smacking her ass with an S&M.whip on 4/20. She rikey. She rikey a ROT.

This is us drunkenly making out during the Spin the Bottle on Valentine's Day. Does this make me a rice queen?

Why Am I Such A Fucking Cunt?

2006-06-08T02:05:00.000-07:00

So tonight Jackie was in town, so we went out to the Inkwell with Alison and some of her friends. One of the guys was a new addition to the Alquoquin roundtable of sass and caffeine. So, he's a bit of a quiet cathy until later on in the night, he explodes into the conversation. "Now I know where I know you! We were in the small children's theater troupe together like, TEN years ago".

I did not recognize him until that moment. When I did finally recognize him I had this VIVID memory of making this kid, through catty put-downs, RUN into the woods WEEPING at a theater camp-out get away weekend.

WEEPING.

Now, before you delete me out of your phones, there were reasons. Reasons AND circumstances.

First of all...I gotta bring it up. I was in a children's theater troupe. I can't let that one slip past me. Not only was I in a children's theater group...I was in a RED BANK RENOUNED children's theater group. We were talked about throughout all of M. County. We sold out every show. We SLAUGHTERED our competition with an iron fist. And by iron fist I mean: We had a theme song. A catchy theme song that started and ended every performance. We wore solid neon t-shirts. We wore neon baseball caps that we twisted to the side to announce our street credibility. We had sing-alongs. We were high concept children's theater. Bruce Springsteen came to our shows. We knew how to mine an audience for gold.

And I was the star of it.

Now, picture me at eight years old. Little Rachel hair-do. Little joint. Little bottle of pills. Same big caboose. I was the charming little boy with the sparkling eyes who won the hearts of audiences every Saturday morning. Now, picture me LIVID as all get-out when I come back for the second summer to discover that there's a new player in town. More talented, more Italian, and with a smaller ass than me.

The competition got to me one night where (I swear to God I'm not making a word of this up or embellishing at all) we did a rock-themed musical revue. We had just finished our Jailhouse Rock number in striped Bugle Boy tees. I look on stage to see this other guy doing an IMMACULATELY choreographed reimaging of the final dance scene from Saturday Night Fever. To "You Should Be Dancing" to the Bee Gees. Complete with the Travolta squated leg kicks and snapping fingers. And I had to fucking FOLLOW that shit up with my crappy umpteenth performance of "Corner of the Sky" from Pippin, the only song writing in a vocal key so flat that I could Rex Harrison in My Fair Lady talk-sing it. An audition song I would continue to use up until AMDA ten years later. The whole thing devastated me.

I was no longer the blushing ingenue. I had been replaced by someone younger.

And I was PISSED.

I did the only thing I could do at that moment. (Again I'm not lying) I ran into the back stairwell behind our stage. And BURST into tears. Drenching my Prince Eric costume for the scene to follow. But, like the Cher song, I decided to save up all my tears. I was going to have to get even.

Now, remember, this is still me. Just without pubic hair. So I had no trouble whatsoever serving out belittlingly catty put-downs to this wench. It was all very Cristal Connors and Nomi Malone in Showgirls. Except I didn't talk about eating dog food and trying to have sex with him. And he didn't try to throw me down a flight of stairs. Just ran into the woods crying.

It was this WHOLE big TO DO that had completely escaped my mind until a few years ago I saw this other girl we used to do shows with us say, "Oh, remember him? Remember when you made him run into the woods crying?"

So he obviously remembers. People don't forget shit like that. So it gets all horribly awkward, which, I mean, RIGHTFULLY so. I DID make him run into the woods crying. But now it's all weird because we're all mature and supposed to be "adults". BUT how do you sidestep a situation like that? Am I supposed to be all coy and humble and show that I've become a more kind hearted person? That I've gained wisdom with age and atone for my past misdeeds?

Show that I'm a lot like Angel. On the path for redemption. Trying to right old wrongs. And by doing so give him the peace of mind that I'm since suddenly a better person he can forgive me for being such a cunt many a yesteryear ago. Or should I just be honest and show that I've gotten worse and that I now map out character arcs in the destruction of people's social lives and he can know I'm just a mean cunt and never to take anything I ever said seriously.

Either way I was fucked. So we do the whole "trying to remember" game. The game where you try to pretend to remember the person you're talking to doing anything other than making you run into the woods crying. And then at some point, you surrender and give the big gasp of recognitsch. So, I kind of left the thing open ended for awhile. He doesn't know if I remember him personally or just the people around him. Because I think he's so dense that he'll think such an evil catatropshic thing would JUST slip my mind. Slip!

So now I'm just sitting in my room feeling guilty and listening to "The Return to Innocence" by Enigma. Le fucking sigh.

Colour Me Awkward

2006-06-07T02:02:00.000-07:00

On Sunday morning, I went to the gym. It went well. I did my whole typical regime. It was all very 80's training montage. But I found myself in a pickle when it came to my personal fave squatting machine. At all times, somebody was either using it or sitting in the machine directly across from it. Now, I do not like to be kept waiting and I CERTAINLY don't want to make awkward eye contact with the personal working out directly across from me. So, it's getting down to the final hour. I need to finish using that machine before I can start my cardio because if I don't, well, I might as well just DIE. And there's this awkward middle-aged guy just sitting on it.

By that time, I was hella pissed. So I go over, sit on the machine directly across from him. Start tappin' m'foot. Pursin' my lips. And flicking. Flicking with my fingers.

So when I finally I see him defeatedly get off the machine, I realize: I KNOW that guy. I couldn't think of where I knew him. Was he one of the old Jewish guys who come into my store, try on a pair of form-fitting creatively ripped jeans, and leave desperately disappointed with a pair of Producer classic fit dress pants? Did he work at my dental practice in Allenhurst?

And then I realized...

It was Max Weinberg. From the Max Weinberg Seven. On Conan O'Brien. Who I just ruthlessly taunted and bullied into surrendering his squat machine in the middle of his second set of reps. With my catty gay wiles.

I am such a douche bag

What did Max Weinberg ever do to me? Nothing. He did nothing but spread joy and amusement with his BANGING jazz drum solos on those nights that I'd have Conan on in the background while I was having sexual relations with some random homosexual.

I mean, yeah, he was preventing me from a quick cardio burn. Yeah, he does look like a douche bag in this picture above. It looks like a black and white photocopy of some glamour shots he got taken in a single mother's living room in Keyport. She suggested the high school graduation photo-esque "Must. Keep. The. Head.From.Falling.Off.But.Oh.It.Is.So.Heavy" pose. He suggested the wind machine.

But there was no excuse. Absolutely no excuse. And you know why? Because he's a moderately successful D-list celebrity known throughout the insomniac stoner and awkward blue collar Springsteen fan communities. And I'm just some awkward fag with a shitty GPA who goes to state school and works at Express.

And that's just how the American caste system works.

No, I will buy YOU a new life, Assistant Manager Jen

2006-06-05T23:59:00.000-07:00

Tonight at work I was board folding some snazzy graphic tees and talking about how jazzifying it is that I'm turning 21 in a few weeks with my ass manager Jen. All three of my managers are named Jen. We call her L.J. for Lil' Jen because she's small and cute as fucking button. So anyway, L.J. and I are being chatty cathy's and throwing around couture when she asks "What are you doing on the 23rd?". To which I reply, "I don't know yet...For why?"

"Do you like Everclear?"

Now, ME being the huge fucking alcoholic that I am, I say "I've never tried it, but I'm dying to. Is it legal in New Jersey?"

"No, the band!"

Now, the thought had come up. That she was referencing not a beverage, but former 90's alt-rock SENSATION/current top-of-the-hour stalwart hitmeisters on The Breeze Everclear. But it couldn't be true. It was just my deep undying love for obscure pop culture references playing games wit my heart for yet ANOTHER fortnight.

"They're playing on the 23rd"

Now, I hate to be pretentious about music. It's just too garden-variety and RBR student publication The Buccaneer. But Everclear, REALLY? You don't go see Everclear after 1998. You can have "Father of Mine" on your iTunes. It can be your second favorite bad daddy song next to "Cats in the Cradle." But you don't go plop money down, surry into the pit, so you can have the whole life-changing concert experience of hearing "I Will Buy You A New Life" in the FLESH.

"Where are they playing?"

"In Seaside"

So...

Going to SEASIDE, catching a nasty dose of airborne gonorrhea, getting tore up and fucking ROCKING OUT to Everclear at a bar...

"Do you want to go?"

I let the smile drip off my face. I gave my best pensive Sean Penn stare and I said the only thing I could possibly say.

"Yes. Yes, I do"

The Lost Tales of Jealous That I Called Him Lover? Lady

2006-06-04T13:48:00.000-07:00

Oh, P.S.

Does anybody remember "Jealous That I Called Him Lover?" Lady from the Broadway Diner. Did I blog about her? If not: refreshory. She's this middle-aged woman with enough Botox in her face to bring down an elephant. We're talking SIXTY here, people. Very divorced woman reevaluating her life and taking the chances she never took/sad over-the-hill bipolar party girl who works as a cosmetic chasier at BOBBI BROWN in Boscov's at the Monmouth Mall (My fave scenerio) or...breast cancer survivor from a chemo commersch. Anywhoodles, she's all dolled up in a halter top and DRUNK AS A SKUNK. Teeting around on her Delia's high tops. Saying "Hello, lover" to the Mexican busboys and rolling her tongue on her R's. Like a sex kitten. Like she's gone to a detective agency to help find her gangster B.F. circa 1938. Colin made a dirty look at her. A look that she quickly RETORTED by asking "What...? Jealous that I called him lover?". Then starts fucking MAKING OUT in a BOOTH, under flureoscent lighting, in front of an ol' timey jukebox with Sly & the Family Stone in it, with some guy who graduated in the same class as Colin's SISTER.

She gets kicked out for being too drunk with she responds to by throwing her laughters back and belligerantly laughing like a SEAL barking.

I, too, have been kissed by a rose.

So, the other day when I was at work, who should enter my store but Jealous That I Called Him Lover? Lady! She fucking ROLLS up to the store, bursts inside in J.Lo sunglasses, waving her bags around and (VERY Ashley Licksnatico-ly) says to my Latina assistant manager, "I just need to return some things, you helped me, right?" all the while racing to the counter. My Latina assistant manager goes to help her and thirty seconds later, Jealous That I Called Him Lover? Lady flies out of the store. My manager comes up to me and says "She thought this was the women's store".

?????

Like she didn't figure that out from the button-down suits and ties in the window and the big sign that says EXPRESS MEN'S?

Anyway, just thought I'd let you peeps know.

Is Express Men Just A Bathhouse With Couture?

2006-06-03T18:10:00.000-07:00

So, I'm deciding whether or not to sweat it out at Express Men's for the summer. The plight of being a Mall celebrity isn't all caviar dreams and "Oh La La." There is a lot of backbreaking work involved. I got spoiled working at Macy*s. Since my store is tine tine, I'm expected to do some very unglamorous work. The other day my manager DEIGNED to ask me to take out the trash? TAKE OUT THE TRASH? Who does she think I AM? I DON'T live in a duplex in Red Bank. I don't sleep in a twin bed with six other people. I don't take the train and I CERTAINLY do not wear a black t-shirt from the Broadway Grille that reads "CAST" in the back. All of my misgivings fell upon deaf ears. I'm expected to dust the cabinets, take out the trash, and do all of this looking FLAWLESS.

This is NOT a haircut that can stand stalwart under the stress of mildew and DIRT.

We had a pretty busy night on Friday. When you work in retail, you are bombarded with the same nonsenical questions day in and day out. At Macy*s, a customer would pick the one item not on sale during the One Day Sale and ask me why. When I worked in handbags, a livid transvestite asked me why we didn't carry Maxx handbags. The other night several customers were perturbed that we ran out of size small graphic tees and decided to unleash their rage upon me. Asking me if those were the only ones we had in stock. No, they WEREN'T the only ones we had in stock. We were HIDING them in the backroom because we don't feel as though they are READY to know the sartorial MAGIC that is the size small graphic tee. They need to WORK for it. Then another chatty cathy came up to my board folding station and threw down a damaged polo and started bitching about it. She was nice enough and didn't blame me, which says a lot, but I still didn't know why she was telling me about it. Did she want me to JOIN in her rage? Wipe the tear from her cheek? Fellate her hot son?

But there are definite benefits. The other day when I was greeting this lady came into store. I would say she was 50ish. With frosted permed highlights in a scrunchie. And a pink valour track suit. With "BEBE" embroidered on her caboose. A la Amy Thompson. And her husband? Holding a purse. A hand purse. The kind that society matrons bring to the opera. It definitely wasn't hers. She was holding a Dooney & Burke purse (Isn't that the way?), so it was definitely his purse. I soiled my boot-cuff treated jeans when I saw this. My walkie talkie even shorted out because of this.

There are a lot of hot guys who come into the store, which is really nice. Because I'm shallow/lonely/delusional, it's nice when they ask me out clothes for them. I feel so very domestic. I pretend that the beautiful man is my BF and that I'm helping him better himself for fifteen minutes segments without having to listen to his "opinions" and get to know him.

They've all been straight, of course. But hey, that only makes the fantasy better. I did get cruised the other night at work. I don't get hit on a lot (with the exception of the mentally deficient) but I do realize it at the rare moment it happens. But this was awkward. Cruising?

Last time I checked, it isn't 1979 and the bathhouses have been closed. I was not wearing a studded vest and I don't own a copy of Mommie Dearest. Cruising is just so GAY. Like, SO gay. Like, straight girls get hit on. Usually by some customer of mine at Bar A. But they don't do it by standing against a column, leaning back on one leg, and raising their eyebrow at you. Like an animated villain. They don't want back and forth in front the glass doors of your store and they certainly don't ask you awkward questions about shelving duties.

But regardless...

I'm pretty jazzed that I turn 21 in fifteen days. I'm going to slap my licensio on the bar at Paradise at midnight on the nineteeth and order the gayest drinks imaginable. I'm going to follow up my Flirtini with a Daiquari and the end the night with a Cosmopolitan. The only gayer drink would be the semen of a middle-aged homo with mutton chops and a comb over whose a former back-up dancer from the Original Broadway Cast of A Chorus Line who ironically quotes Bette Davis saying "What a dump!" when he walks into his partner's immaculate and flawlessly designed summer share on Fire Island. With a splash with Zima.

Oh Olivia Newton John...

2006-06-03T13:40:00.000-07:00

If you just happen to be accidentally stoned and load up my blog, here's a treat for you...

Tales from the Express Men Underworld II: When Retards Attack

2006-05-30T19:28:00.000-07:00

So today, the triumvirate of power a.k.a the three managers at Express Men's decided that it was time for my sabbatical to end and deemed it appropriate for me to return to work. And by that I mean, one of my fag co-workers had a hair straightening emergency and they needed to find a replacement and I'm the only one with no social life.

It was mind-numbingly boring. I did my best Shopgirl impression and stood in front of the store greeting customers.

The greeter position at Express is very coveted and not for the weak at heart. We are the gatekeeper. Like Sigorney Weaver in Ghostbusters. We decide who comes in and out. I breathe a raspy, sexy "Good morning," actively trying to seduce the customer with my eyes, and they get all frustrated and bark, "I DON'T NEED ANY HELP". There's a lot of down time so I enjoy spying on the people going back and forth in front of our doors. I was super jazzed when I saw two Mormon missonaries, complete with white shirts, ties, and Jansport backpacks pass by. I desperately wanted them to stop in, inform me about the Church of Latter Day Saints, tell them I heart Big Love, and RUTHLESSLY hit on them and make them question their God. But alas, no such luck.

Today, we had this really gangly middle aged Jewish man with big teeth and a yarmulke come into the store to try on some couture. Five hours of standing around doing nothing was immediately paid off for the thirty seconds of watching this guy step out of the dressing room in a sheer "Valor is Paramount" trashy graphic tee with flames on it and acid-washed low-riding jeans, stare in the mirror, check out his ass, as his face went bone white with disappointment. He realized the cruel hardship of this world. He would never get a job at the Verizon Store. He would never be able to go to Echo or Colosseum. He would never be able to get a bleached blonde salesgirl from Rampage with an orange spray on tan to agree to a date with him. He had no choice but to accept his shortcomings. Let go and let God. He ended up buying a pair of Producer slacks and left the store hanging his head in shame. And yes, we actually have pants called Producer pants. And Director pants. Or as I like to call them, "Karen Berkowitz" and "Jeff Carton" pants. It's fun to have in-jokes so specific that only YOU find them funny.

So if yesterday was Memorial Day, then today was Retarded People in Wheelchair Day. Within the span of twenty minutes, TWO retarded people in wheelchairs came into our store. This never happened at Macy*s. I mean, granted, half of my fellow sales associates are two steps away from planning intramural basketball with Kyle at the Arc of Ocean County, but I doubt that's what attracts them to Express. What is this? A HUG convention? The first Retarded Person in Wheelchair (RPIN) was some Asian guy who worked at Burger King, but he was fine. He just came in, stared at me, smiled, said some unintelligble words, circled around my greeter bunker in his Jazzy, and booked.

But then, this lady named Chris who was a spitting image of Terri Schiavo

Pictured above here, on the left.

Who, in turn, was a spitting image of Liza Minnelli, rolled into the store. She obvs comes in a lot and is a Chatty (or Mumbly) Cathy with my co-workers. So they're talking to her and left me alone to fend for myself when they went to the backroom. Okay, this might sound cunty. But I was under stress and waaaay too busy to placate a retarded person who was clearly not going to buy anything and help me make my quota for the day. I was board folding graphic tees. It's a lot of fucking work. The edges never meet the edge of the board. You need to move the size sticker up. You have to slip them into a pile without disturbing the fold. I work my fingers to the BONE board folding graphic tees. But because I am SUCH a good person, I did the best I could. So, after she rolls out, one of my bosses turns to me and says "I think she has a crush on you."

You know. Okay. I don't know if it's the fact that I have the Rachel for a haircut. But I have never been actively pursued by anyone with even a modicum of sanity. I mean, yeah, it's cute. It's flattering. But it's also very frustrating. Just for ONCE I would like someone to hit on me and not have a shirt with tumbling kittens on it. And a Slurpee in their hand.

It was like the time that I took a Human Sexuality class at Brookdale. We had panel discussions every week where transexuals would talk about their plight and dominatrixes would toss out clothespines to use as nipple clamps like a fifth grade Spanish teacher tossing out Jolly Ranchers everytime a student conjugated a verb correctly. This one week we had a "Sex and Disabilities" chat where a guy in a wheeclahir and a middle-aged fag with schizophrenia talked about their sex lives. The guy in the wheelchair was a total pimp. He kept talking about his big cock. It was enjoyable because it was ridiculous. Like Brandon Scott talking about how he be pimpin' round tha nation. But the whole time the fag with schizophrenia was staring at me. I thought it was because I didn't properly blow dry the back of my hair and he was judging me.

The next week, he came back to awkwardly audit the class and sat next to me. After it was over, he followed me out to the parking lot, asking me out on a date. And I don't know if it was the time. I had just dropped out of acting school in New York. I gave up my dream of being the next Michelle Pfeiffer. I was smoking 2 1/8 bags of weed a week. I had gained twenty pounds and my upper arms were as matronly as ever. I hadn't had sex for close to a year. BUT for a SPLIT second I considered it. But then the hyper judgmental side of myself broke through the pot-induced and sexually frustrated haze that was clouding my judgment and I made the right decision to drive away and keep looking at my rearview mirror to make sure he wasn't following me home.

It was just an all around awkward day at Express. When I got there, I wasn't allowed to be left alone in the store and the assistant manager who I didn't know had to make a deposit at the bank. So I had to go with her. So cut to me sitting in a SATURN with some girl I don't know barking in Spanish on a cell phone while she rocked out to "Hotel California". After she got off the phone we made a few attempts at conversation but ended up driving back in awkward silence.

Grease is still the word, MOTHAFUCKA

2006-05-26T21:32:00.000-07:00

As of lately, Alison and I have this nightly tradition where we curl up in bed, smoke a bowl, and watch some trashy movie on HBO. We've been on a Jane Fonda kick lately and, political correctness be damned, I LIKED Monster-in-Law. Last night, we were both winded after waking up at 3PM and taking an after dinner power nap, so we decided to take another two-hour nap together which consisted of me borrowing her sexy Sundae cherry pajama pants and passing out on her tiny, star-shaped Tinkerbell pillow. When we woke up, we decided we had no choice but to smoke some more pot and watch the cinematic masterpiece that is GREASE 2.

Now. I lot of people ask me how got to where I'm at today. It's a rags to riches story, really. I am, in fact, the Arts & Entertainment Editor of The Montclarion. It is my job to inform the public. To spread awareness. It's a pretty glamorous life. Homeless people who live in the student center and bathe in the sink of the 2nd floor men's room creepily stop by at midnight, stoned out of their mind, and come up to my desk and ask me if there's any possible way their book can be reviewed. A book bound and written in Microsoft Word Times New Roman. That was obviously written on the transitional computers at his Easter Seals house. In fact, with this new renewed sense of power, I just pity the people who aren't me.

When people ask, I tell them I couldn't have gotten here if it weren't for three things: Aquanet, my keen sense of self, and Grease 2. I LOVED Grease 2 growing up. I watched it any chance I got. I was a little wisp of a boy. Three years old. With sparkling eyes and big smile. Running around my house, grinding and twisting my hips and belting out in a sexy, raspy drawl "Make my stamen go berserk...I don't think I even know what a PISTOL is."I thought I was Michelle Pfeiffer until I was ten years old. It wasn't just Grease 2, which played a larger part. Seeing Batman Returns had a great influence on me as well.

It could happen to anyone. You're six years old. You see Batman Returns. I'm sure you felt an intense desire to dress up like Catwoman. Put on the mask and the gloves and get the whip. You allow yourself to feel the sensation. You embrace it. And when you're ready to jump out of your safety net of denial, you get an extension cord. You manage to procure a cheap Halloween Store re-do of the infamous catsuit. You put on the mask. And you march up and down your street, swirling the extension cord like a lasso. Crack the whip on trees. Parked cars. Some neighbors feel bewildered at the goings on outside their window. "Abner! Abner! There's a six year old outside whippin' trees! Dressed like a leather daddy! ABNER!" Someone will eventually call someone's mother. You're sent home. Fifteen years later, you find this incident strangely foreshadowing.

But Grease 2 was always the main event. I found my soul mate in nursery school just because she shared the same first name as Michelle Pfeiffer's character. That and because she screamed "FUCK" when she couldn't zip up her coat.

Even check out the twins in the pic. Shades of Alex and Colin anyone?...

Stephanie Zinnone was everything I wanted to be. It gave me the stone fox persona I show to DREARIES and NOBODY'S. It was also integral in helping me discover what I looked for in a potential mate. Look at the lyrics to "Cool Rider" which is, pants down, the show stoppiest number in the whole movie musical.

"Do you really want to know?
What I want in a guy?
Well, I'm looking for a dream on a mean machine
With hell in his eyes
I want a devil in skin tight leather
He's gonna be wild as the wind
And one fine night
I'll be holding on tight

To a cooool rider
A cooool rider
If he's cool enough
He can burn me through and through
WHOA-WHOA

If it takes forever
Then I'll waaaait for forever
No ordinary boy
No ordinary boy is gonna do
I want a rider that's cool

(Starts climbing up ladder)

That's the way it's gonna be
(Bwa Wah)
That's the way that I feel
(Bwa wah-a wah)
I want a whole lot more than the boy next door
I want hell on wheels

(Straddles the top of the ladder)

Just give me a fine motorcycle
With a man growing out of the seat
And move aside
'Cuz I'm gonna rideeee

With a coool rider
A coool rider
If he's cool enough, he can burn me through and through
WHOA WHOA
If it takes forever
Then I'll waittt forever
No ordinary boy
No ordinary boy is gonna do
I want a rider that's cool

(Looks in mirror. Puts on patent leather jacket. Purses lips. Flips collar. Bursts onto the street with arms raised and fingers snapping)

I don't want no ordinary guy
Coming on strong with me
They don't know what I'm looking for
They don't know what I need
They're gonna know it when he gets here
'Cuz the crowd'll be shaaaaking

(Backwards shuffle)

I'll DO anything to let him know
That I'm his
His for taaking

And I did anything to them know that I was there's. There's for the taking. Including losing my virginity to a ska punk rocker bassist while Dodgeball played in the background.

As the years went by, I watched as the events unfolded not unlike that of Grease 2. I found myself a bad ass girl gang. When a nerdy guy hits on me, I listen as the rock orchestra swills in the background and break into "Cool Rider", let them know what's what.

To place all the focus (or blame, if you will) on Stephanie Zinnone would undermine the rest of the movie. Everyone in it is amazing. There's Maxwell Caulfield a.k.a Rex Manning, former go-go boy and gay cumslut, rocking out on that motorcycle and offering up stiff, stilted line readings.

Oh Rexy. You're so sexy. Even if you look like an extra from Cruisin', the early 80's Pacino movie about murderers in the NYC gay S&M leather daddies scene. You can bet that Maxie Pad wore a yellow handkerchief in his back pocket during the dance practices for Grease 2.

And Lorna Luft. Aww, poor Lorna Luft. She's so unsung. She's Judy Garland's OTHER songstylist daughter. Every time I hear her name I think of that line from Igby Goes Down that the dealer says to his drag queen friend: "You can't dress as Lorna Luft! It's too fucking obscure. People just think you're doing a bad Liza." Her subtly abusive relationship with Johnny Nogerelli a.k.a Steph's ex bf is the most tumultuous and multi-layered courtship seen on the silver screen since Elizabeth Taylor and Richard Burton in Who's Afraid of Virginia Wolff?. He wants her to be arm candy. Lorna Luft don't TAKE that shit. She violently screams her singing lines like a precocious fifth grader playing Annie and asserts her feminine power. Luckily, all is resolved by the time of the Rock-A-Hula-Luau.

The musical numbers are amazing. There's "Let's Do It For Our Country" where one of the T-Birds goes to outrageous lengths to convince his virginal girlfriend that the war has started and he's going to need to fight in battle and possibly die and therefore they must get jiggy with it right then and there. The first time that attempted date rape has ever been depicted with flashy choreography and catchy songwriting in a musical comedy. Not only is it entertaining. It's also groundbreaking.

And then there's the whole talent show sequence. Classic fucking filmmaking. You think that the film has reached it's apex at the end of the "Girl for All Seasons", when all the pink ladies dress up as the season which best expresses their inner selves. But then Stephanie comes out dressed up as a Christmas tree.

Violently thrusting her hips and curling her lips. That's what we in the biz call a "character trait". Like Brad Pitt eating lots of snacks in Ocean's Eleven. It seems that someone was reading up on her Stanislavsky during down time on the set. Anyway. The devastation of losing her mystery hot biker begins to break into her performance. The music fades out. The girl from Fame wonders aloud what's gotten into Stephanie. And if you know bad musical theater like I know bad musical theater, there's only one thing she can do.

Sing.

She sits down at the edge of the stage and the star from the top of her Christmas tree cost magickally flies off her head into the heavens and then the presumably dead mystery biker appears. She has found him in heaven. We know this because there's a lot of dry ice. And he's dressed up in a shimmering gold lamae biker's onesie. Her Christmas tree costume has been traded in for a flowing dress with a corset. This is couture that can ONLY be purchased in heaven. Or, in her case, the local renaissance faire.

And then, my friends, they begin to sing the love duet to end all love duets: "(Love Will) Turn Back The Hands Of Time." In heaven. The best part is the spoken word interruption. Grease 2 is fucking WET for spoken word interruptions and this song is no exception. Their lost love, given only five minutes of previous screen time, is depicted beautifully with prose stolen from the lost works of Shakespeare.

Cool Rider: Stephanie, please don't cry.
Stephanie: Oh, but it all seems so unfair! Just when I found you I LOST you!
Cool Rider: That doesn't matter now. The only thing that matters is the time we had together.
Stephanie: But! I DON'T EVEN KNOW YOUR NAME!
Cool Rider: The only thing you have to know is that I love you. And you're the only one who can keep our love alive! So Stephanie, DON'T forget me!
Stephanie: I promise.

Basically, Citizen Kane go FUCK yourself.

Mesmerized, eh? Don't believe me? Check it out for yourself...

WARNING: This video may cause you to orgasm spontaneously so, basically, it's NSFW. But if you have no choice...keep a box of Kleenex handy.

Now only is Grease 2 entertaining. It also has a very important message. If you like someone and they don't have the same feelings for you, change everything about yourself until you become exactly what they want.

And then dance your PANTS off at the Rock-A-Hula Luau.

Tales from the Express Men Underworld

2006-05-26T02:16:00.000-07:00

So today...I had a bad day again. Like that Daniel Powter song they play every week on American Idol that my mom asked me to put on a mix CD for her. I had to go to work at Express Men's at 9AM. Woke up. Got all dolled up. Only to find out that I was being sent home.

Alledg, my manager got in trouble for letting me work without my social security card and then she went on vacay. And she's the only one of the three managers that knows how to enter such data into the computer. So, basically, I'm not allowed to work until she comes back. I mean, we all know how lazy I am. I left the mall and made a B-line for the beach. But I need to work because I'm desperately lacking funds and my sister and I got "kicked out" of our house yesterday because we stole the living room remote for the TV and used it in my sister's room. Much to the chagrin of my stressed and crazy mom.

I don't want to go all gangsta on you guys, but I'm not entirely sure whether or not Express is the right place for me. I'm a small town boy. I worked at Macy*s. Express Men is big city. I've made the transition from the condecendingly sarcastic "Way to Shop" to "Young, sexy, global fashion trend for the modern man" but I don't know whether the change was for good or evil.

At Macy*s, I was a big fish in a small pond. I didn't have to take two hour long lunch breaks to meet with my parole officer like my fellow sales associates did. When my boss found out that I was leaving, he reacted with the horror of a scorned housewife. I was ADORED.

Things aren't the same at Express. We have walky-talkies. We have to be alerted in case of a fashion emergency. A situation so dire that our fellow sales associates can not race across the 20 square feet of our store to retrieve us in time. There can be no stand-up individuals. It takes an Express Men's staff of twenty to create the brain of one ordinary man. We all must work together. Like a communist state.

One of the perks of trading up from Macy*s to Express is that you no longer have to do such plebeian duties as ringing up at the register. Granted, it might be that the managers are too lazy to teach the new employees, but it's still a big step. I didn't have to take cashier training at a computer in a little room and share a big pair of DJ headphones with an elderly Indian woman.

There isn't much to do at Express. There are always four people working a tiny store. If one shirt is unfolded, all four of us race to it. It's as though we are starving hyenas and someone has thrown us an antelope's liver. Since I've yet to fulfill my Shopgirl fantasy and find a rich, handsome business man who will pay my phone bill and buy little Ray Ray a new pair of shoes, my job currently consists of unlocking the dressing room doors for people who forget that you're not supposed to leave your wallet in the fitting room and then lock your door as you're leaving it. But our customers make up for their lack of common sense with winning personalities and tightly conditioned ab muscles.

There's an added reaction time at Express. It takes some of us a little longer to process things. It helps make the mind numbingly boring shifts go by faster. We're offering this deal that if drop $75 at the store you get a pair of limited edition beach flipflops.

MEN's beach flipflops.

My assistant manager Jen whose 22, five foot, 100 lbs, and cute as a fucking button picks up a large pair and says "Oh my god! I have to get these. Look, they're in my size. 7" I took the pair out of her hand. Slowly turned it upside down. And placed it in front of her eyes. L.

"Umm, Jen. I think, they're large. Not seven. Large"

She was astonished.

I try to pass the time by being cunty. I figured the reason we have these walkie talkies is so that sales associates can make bitchy, judgmental comments about the people walking into the store. That's one of the main reasons I applied for this job. I judge people constantly on a daily basis. I might as well get paid for it.

I took full advantage of the priviledge of using the walkie talkie. This girl walked in with this platinum, white blonde bleached bouffant of hair. Her head looked like Billy Idol's pubic mound. So I lunged for the mic button on my headset and just let 'er rip. "So Jen. What do you think? Natural blonde?".

I heard two beeps and then a distorted fuzzy voice say "Are you serious? Total dye job". I was hoping for some bitchy banter. Maybe she'll say that she has more bleach in her hair than a hooker's vagina after a run-in with a particularly nasty John. The excitement was in not knowing what to expect. Colour me disappointed.

So, sarcasm doesn't exactly win over the Express crowd. I can deal. I would learn to adapt. I would learn the lay of the land. There was some sass, I guess. But I almost quit after one of my co-workers said "Oh my god, Jen. You're crazy. You're crazier than someone...someone...in the...INSANE asylum." Good analogy, Unfriendly Display Designer Rich. Clearly he had watched the America's Funniest Moms competition on Nick at Nite the evening before and decided to pass off a few gems as his own.

It's not all bad. It IS better than being sexually harassed by a Latino Kebbler elf on a daily basis at Macy's. And I pretty much have no choice but to win over a broker customer with my charm and domestic skills and have him pay for me to sit around our new development home and become an alcoholic since my current grades don't bode well for me getting a high-paying career. So I'm going to stick it out like a trooper, relay anecdotes, and make it after all.

::Throws up beret and freezes::

GYMMY EAT WORLD: How Faggy Is TOO Faggy?

2006-05-25T00:24:00.000-07:00

So, I'm in a bit of a moral quandry. An opportunity has presented itself recently to escort my galpal and official Awkward Hug blog CUMSLUT Sarah to a BLT class at World Out World. BLT is not the name of a sandwich. It's a clever wordplay. It merely fools around with public recognition. BLT is Butt, Legs, and Tummy. Now. I kinda want to go. A German lady teaches it and barks orders at her classmates. It's been a dog's age since a German woman barked orders at me. I've been out of RBR for almost four years now, so I haven't been able to see the Fried Food Fraulein in ages. If I don't see one soon I'll die. It's all very Tinkerbell-If-You-Say-A-Fairy-Doesn't-Exist-One-Somewhere-Dies-And-The-Only-Thing-That-Can-Save-It-Is-If-You-Clap-Three-Times. It's important that I take this class.

Now, I also have been tossing around the idea with another friend to take the spinning class. Karl teaches it. He plays the Scissor Sisters and talks about the house he and his "roommate" have purchased.

The only way I can get in shape is with the mixture of a Nazi coach and judgmental stares of a bitchy fag gym bunny.

And yet, I found myself asking: Is it too faggy?

And...

How faggy IS too faggy?

It was all very Sarah Jessica Parker of me. I sat at my laptop, tapped my pen against my mouth, and looked contemplative.

Now, I must admit, there are some Jim classes I know it would be too faggy to take. I would never ever take the Goddess workout at Lucille Roberts. Of course, I want to. HEY! Who DOESN'T want to wave a scarf around for an hour every week? If it was 1977, you better believe that I would be creaming myself at the thought of going to jazzerecise class. But I just wouldn't be able to. I'd have to resort to buying the Olivia Newton John Jazzercises! instructional video and practice alone in the living room of my house at 4AM.

But does spinning and taking BLT class press the border from merely gay to complete faggotdom? Will I start calling my fag pals "Mary" and "Nancy"? Will I spend my disposable money on tracking down original vinyl recordings of the ultra-rare Original Broadway Cast recording of Greenwillow, starring a pre-Psycho Anthony Perkins (Total nelly)? Will I use the term "Original Broadway Cast" on SUCH a frequent basis that I am forced to abbreviate it to OBC in conversation with fellow theater junkies? Will I move into some undeveloped crime ridden town, jazz up my Victorian house with some new deco and talk about how it's all the rage in Milan having to clean up debris from the previous nights drive-by shooting?

Its generally accepted that men can take Pilates and Yoga. They're working to improve their body and spirit. They also get to fuck their housewife classmates afterwards. But would a straight man dare to enter the uncharted Phantom Zone that is spinning class? And if I do go, will I be that GUY? That random GUY in someone's spinning class? Will my presence be texted to my catty classmates friends the moment they step out of the Jim? Will someone take a picture of me on their cell phone to show their friends when they're at the Inkwell and in an especially cunty mood?

Should I throw caution to the wind? Should I submit to the sensual wiles of the Nazi instructor? Should I go where no man has gone before?....

Or will I become THIS guy?

More like...Just My FUCK

2006-05-18T01:13:00.000-07:00

Okay, just before you start to feel any hint of judgment, I need to explain something. When my blast from the past hag Jackie and I used to do bad stuff, we used to tell her mom we were going to see a Lindsay Lohan movie. When we had to take a drive somewhere to see someone, we said we were going to see Confessions of a Teenage Drama Queen. When we just wanted to leave the house for a few minutes we said we were renting Freaky Friday. We loved "Lindsay Lohan" movies. We loved "Lindsay Lohan" in a dorm room. We loved "Lindsay Lohan" on Jackie's back porch. We especially loved "Lindsay Lohan" at supper time. Because when "Lindsay Lohan's" on a bagel, you can eat "Lindsay Lohan" anytime. And you know what? I couldn't help but exactly start to like the real Lindsay Lohan. I'd grown accustomed to her face. She's fucking plucky. She parties like a man. She has that sexy raspy voice and cocaine skinny body. She'll whip her tits out in public. IT DON'T BOTHER HER. Yeah, okay, sometimes she's tired of rumors starting. She's sick of being followed. But she will prevail. Her latest cinematic artwork JUST MY LUCK has been released into theaters.

Now, as one might suspect, the producers of Just My Luck seemed to have the workings of a contemporary classic AND a box-office blockbuster. It’s hard not to see the charm of Just My Luck. A kiss from a stranger changes her life. Her luck goes from bad to good. Lots of opportunities for slipping-on-the-banana-peel type physical comedy. Tricks were mad skeptical about her usage of the vaudeville comedy form in Freaky Friday. So Lohan was, like, BRING IT BITCH and THWARTED their SUSPICIOUS. Fucking THWARTED them. And when she fell into that garbage can in Mean Girls, they couldn't help but feel a little impressed. She's the fucking LESLIE NIELSON of the crazy drug-addled Hollywood party girl fashionista. And you know what? Mary-Kate & Ashley are totes jealous.

Because la Lohan was in it, there was no way I could let this gem slip out of theaters. I would sit in the front row because if The Dreamers taught us anything, real cinema buffs sit in the fron to absorb the images FIRST before anyone else. That and the fact that French people are creepy incestuous.

ANYWAY, my Jewish friend Sarah and I decided to go to see it on a date, so we dressed up, I straightened my hair, and we made a night of it. You should remember Sarah from my older posts. She is pictured on the left here, snorting aderol at a high school party the cops busted. Lisa style.

Now, we were totally jazzed for the movie. We each clutched each other's hand in anticipation. By the end of the opening credits, we knew we were in over our heads.

Now. I believe in Lindz. She's an independent woman. She doesn't take no shit from no body. And yes, she's very lucky. But in this movie...I felt like she had slipped away from me a little. Now, we all supported your decision to do this movie. Hey, the whole role-reversal/magick theme dealie served you VERY well in Freaky Friday. JAMIE LEE CURTIS in LINDSAY LOHAN'S BODY! It was a recipe for success.

But Lindz. We did NOT agree to THIS:

-The creepy subplot with your unknown but semi hot leading man hanging out with that EIGHT year old girl. She's his uncle. The sketchiest relative ever. They have this "special relationship". He brings her to video shoots. He brings her to the Hard Rock Cafe at the end and SPRAYS her with champagne. You know that her fucking SHIRLEY TEMPLE had a roofie in it by the end of the night. They're supposed to be close because they're poor. Boo fucking hoo. As we know from the Jeffersons, what poor people lack in money they make up for in heart. Now, we don't get to see a lot of his poor family. They are one of many awkward subplots that come in and you don't want to have to deal with watching it get resolved. So we don't know if there are four old fuckers lying in a bed together eating cabbage a la Willy Wonka. How could a test audience NOT request this? Because if we have to deal with watching poor people in movies, they BETTER be British stereotypes. A little CHIMNEY SWEEP coming up to you and saying "Please sir, may I have s'more".

-THE COMPLETE LACK OF REALISM. Fuck the luck shit. I could HANDLE that. Yeah, she works at a PR firm and as an INTERN is allowed to throw a huge party for a megamillionaire client. But THIS I could not handle. There is a SCENE where a waiter at an art opening offers Lindzee Pooh a martini and she fucking TURNS IT DOWN. I literally GASPED in my seat.

-The awkward passing over the luck through tonsil hockey thing. They keep passing it back and forth to each other after one of them gets cured. Like chlymydia.

But what I did like was the mud people. All it takes is random mud people in a movie to win me over. Uncle. And there was that really awkward moment when the projectonist changed reels and this black screen came up for two seconds. Sarah and I fucking PLOTZED. Howling laughter from our seats. It totally one-upped the scene where Lindz slipped in the soap suds.

SO BACK TO BUSINESS.

I'm back from school. Living with the rents. I just got a job working at Express Men's. I know. You know what. I'm a fucking faggot. Deal with it. Helping cute guys pick out clothes is a weakness for me. So I might as well just get paid for it. I have (sexual) orientation on Saturday and I am super jazzed for the training video. I hope it's even half as entertaining as the Macy*s one. There were people of all nationalities saying hello in all their different languages while awkward computerized firework explosions from 1988 flashed in the background. There was even a fag saying it with a lisp. They had a HIGHlarIOUS possble scenerio where a blind person comes in to pick it up clothes. She had big Miami Vice sunglasses and was tapping her stick around like she owned the joint. I was hoping the salesgirl in the scene would copy down her credit card number while ringing up her purchases and steal her identity and ruin her credit. She ended up just explaining the colors to the blind bitch.

There was this one time that this twat with a Tinkerbell like dog in her budget Dooney & Burke purse came up my counter to make her final purchase. So, the fucking dog is walking ALL OVER my wrap station and this bitch is just standing there. Lookin off. I hate dogs and I especially hate random Keyport dogs licking my hands. I don't want to get genital herpes from some trashy bison freze. So when she finally left, I looked at my sassy black lady co-worker and faggily scoffed and said "Oh. My. God...Um. What. The. Fuck. Was. That". So then she had a HOWL of a laugh and said "Yo, she be BLIND, boy." She be TOTES blind. I felt bad though. I've alienated enough deaf people i.e. Marlee Matlin from HELL Beginning Sign Language II professor Sweenie....I didn't want to have to worry about blind people either. Maybe I should dig up Helen Keller and see if she finds me plucky.

I have since alienated even more blind people. This one time, Josh and I were being chatty cathys outside the Broadway Diner (i.e. fifteen year old wannabe scene kids with braces rebelling from their parents i.e. me circa six years ago) and this random old BLIND guy awkwardly sat down next to me on the park bench.

Um.

Is it going to have to be MY job to tell blind people that it's socially awkward to sit next to someone on a bench that you don't know? Did my birth fulfill some ancient prophecy? Am I the chosen one? Is there one in every generation? One boy in all the world destined to alert the blind community about social faux pas? The fact that it's completely creepy to infiltrate someone's personal bubble on a street in RED BANK in front of a DINER. The only exception to this rule being when you give head to an anonymous guy with a nice tan and smoldering good looks on a playground bench after it's closed for the night and the police come and ask you to never return. And I was totally not going to blow HIM. He was blind and NOT hot like Val Kilmer in At First Sight. So I got all flustered and couldn't keep up the convo I was having with Josh as I was afraid the vicinity would make me blind too. Because if I'm blind I'll NEVER be a teen model. But he kept put while I finished sucking my fag (cigarette) and waited for his sad little taxi to come. Tres awkward.

ANYWAY, but on the Express front, I'm hoping this job will give some similiar blog worthy anecdotes. And that they don't pee test me on Saturday ::leg up::