The Bitter Suite

Riddle Me This II

2008-09-18T16:36:00.002-04:00

Ok, so my last attempt at riddling was a bit of a failure. I'm admitting it freely. However, I've never been one to admit failure so easily, so I'm trying one more time. This time however, the answer lies in one area of knowledge.

Put these objects in the same order Dido would.

Arm and hand
Ax
Door
Exclamation
Eye
Fence
Fish
Goad
Head
House
Mark
Monkey
Mouth
Ox
Palm
Papyrus
Peg
Pillar
Throwing stick
Tooth
Water
Wheel

As for the 1st riddle, the solution follows.

((Samuel Clemens separated by Contemplation The Paper of Record Tods Zahn)less .... )split by Continents is C/d.

The answer is True. Why?

Samuel Clemens was better known as Mark Twain. "Mark Twain" was actually a command on riverboats to mark the anchor line at 12ft.

separated by = Divide

Contemplation is another word for "Fathom". Fathom is also a measure of depth equal to 6ft.

The Paper of Record is the "Times".

Tods Zahn is german for Death's Number. In the tarot, Death is #13.

less=minus.

.... is Mayan for 4.

Split = Divide

Continents number 7.

C/d is another way of describing the ratio pi.

So you have (((12/6)x13)-4)/7 or 22/7 which is another common way of describing pi.

I know....sucky riddle. Hopefully you enjoy the new one.

Just saying....

2008-09-09T17:51:00.004-04:00

It's like getting a small glimpse of the future?

Fun with PhotoShop

2008-08-29T17:29:00.006-04:00

Photoshop doesn't have to be used to make Nicole Kidman's forehead as smooth as a cueball, or to give Keira Knightley breast. It can also serve as a great timewaster at work

Raf, Sky, and I believe Lily and an unidentified baby they stole in order to balance the photo (I'm sorry but this family is just too damn fertile, I can't keep up)

Verdant Rest (does that sound appropriately pastoral?)

The Betrothed

Slow Boat to China

Triptych

Riddle Me This

2008-08-19T10:40:00.003-04:00

Ok, here is the definitive version of the riddle.

((Samuel Clemens separated by Contemplation The Paper of Record Tods Zahn)less .... )split by Continents is C/d.

True or False and I need Proof.

Hint: The answer is derived from many different types of information

3 thoughts & the 3 of Swords

2008-08-03T22:29:00.000-04:00

Miley Cyrus is a spoiled bitch. There, I said it. One wants to give a 15 year old girl the benefit of the doubt, but I’ve decided that at this point, there is enough evidence to conclusively define that girl as a royal bi-otch. It’s bad enough that the Disney Channel decided to inflict this “singer” on the preteen set with her own show, but now that the Tweens rule the world, the rest of us have to put up with this Trashella as well. First there were the Youtube videos of the Lolita-lite flashing her bra to her over-sexed boyfriends, and then making out with some other underaged slut. She finally gets a chance to come off with a little class, and then she and her Dad go and try to trash Annie Liebowitz. Annie takes the only shot of her that doesn’t look like a reject centerfold from Barely Legal, and they try to claim they were taken advantage of. Puh-leeze! Now, the ungrateful urchin goes and makes another video where she insults her fellow Disney starlets. Clearly, she got her brains from dear old Dad—Billy Ray Cyrus. The Litter doesn’t fall far from the Trash-heap, now does it?

What is it with straight men and Lance Armstrong? They can all pretend that they admire him for his resilience, his athletic achievements, or his bevy of bodacious girlfriends. But you and I know all those metro-sexuals have major man-crushes on the Lancer. Whenever the subject of Armstrong comes up, grown men blush and flutter like 12 year old girls with a fresh copy of Tiger Beat. They can all claim that the fad of the yellow wristbands that swept the nation a while back was due to an all consuming concern on the part of yuppy-boys everywhere with finding a cure for cancer, but the truth is, wearing that rubber bracelet was just the closest those boys were ever going to get to Armstrong’s nut-sac. Sad, just sad.

There is that moment when one realizes that the guy they’ve been crushing on is, most likely, a major tool. It’s not really surprising, because most of the men you’ve crushed on have shown themselves to be tools, eventually. But it is disappointing. You hoped that this time, maybe you managed to pick someone to focus your affections upon who would be worthy of your attention. Not that your attention is all that special, in the scheme of things, but it’s the only attention you have to give. Everyone around you seems to have been able to screen out all those potential suitors that will never be what they need them to be, and found someone who is, at least for now, exactly what they need. Somehow, you haven’t gained that skill with age. Instead, you’ve only gotten better at recognizing the inherent toolishness in the men you have let capture your fancy a little bit faster. You’ve yet to learn how to give your affection slower, but you have learned how to ask for, or to take, your heart back faster than in years past. Wisdom, perhaps, less broken hearts, for sure, but less love given, less daydreams had. No wasting of minutes, hours, days, months on fantasies of love requited. Those moments are now free. You notice that free sometimes just means empty.

Headbanging to Muzak

2008-06-29T20:09:00.003-04:00

Sorry for being absent me-bitches.
But I've been writing my little heart out over at Flaming Politics.
Please come and visit, and keep any snarky comments about why anyone would be interested in my political opinion to your self.
I happen to be very accomplished. Kind of. Maybe. Sort of. Well, not really, but that's besides the point.

So, in lieu of actual content, I thought I'd leave you with these two things.
1) Fat Rant by Joy Nash

2) VGL Gay Boys Attempt to Get Tickets to Sex and the City

These two remind me of my 2 bestfriends, Rafi and Russel, so much it's a little frightening.

Cuz I'm a Loser, Baby!

2008-06-11T10:26:00.003-04:00

In honor of my ten year reunion, I post here my favorite poem by Vassar Alum, Elizabeth Bishop. A villanelle on all that falls away. And a masterful piece of modern structured verse.

One Art
by Elizabeth Bishop

The art of losing isn't hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster.

Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.

Then practice losing farther, losing faster:
places, and names, and where it was you meant
to travel. None of these will bring disaster.

I lost my mother's watch. And look! my last, or
next-to-last, of three loved houses went.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.

I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,
some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.
I miss them, but it wasn't a disaster.

--Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
I love) I shan't have lied. It's evident
the art of losing's not too hard to master
though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.

And because I am in a poetical mood, my all time favorite poem.

This Is Just To Say
by William Carlos Williams

I have eaten
the plums
that were in
the icebox

and which
you were probably
saving
for breakfast

Forgive me
they were delicious
so sweet
and so cold

We're Having a Heatwave

2008-06-10T10:49:00.005-04:00

Summer in the city, back of my neck getting dirty and gritty
Well, it's happened, Summer in The Big Apple, and it now officially smells like summer in the city.

Reunited and it feels so good.
This past weekend was my 10 year college reunion which I chose, to the surprise of several of my friends, not to attend. Why? Well besides the fact that reunions always put that damn Peaches & Herb song on permanent repeat in my head (Did anyone see that Vh1 "Were are they now?" a few years ago where it was revealed that Herb went and got himself a new Peaches! The absolute gall!), ten years marks the point at which a shared experience ceases to be a legitimate enough reason to continue a relationship. The fact that 2 people attended the same school does not mean they necessarily have anything to discuss. I mean George W. Bush and I went to the same high-school. I certainly don't have anything to say to him. Besides, "thirty-somethings" with their "spouses" and "children" and "careers" are beyond "tiresome". And I have things to inappropriately finger-quote, I don't have time for their nonsense!

In further news, my campaign to make haiku the official format of all information of import, met with another victory. I have been asked to contribute to Flaming Politics, a micro-blog [bigger than twitter, smaller than a breadbox] on politics from the queer perspective. Yes! I am further defined solely by my sexual practices! Sweet!

And finally, here's a little lady that's as funny as any man. Who says book-learnin' ain't for the women-folk?

To the Teeth

2008-06-02T18:08:00.001-04:00

I feel a drag name
of Virginia Dentata
suits me to a T

Everybody Hurts

2008-05-31T00:09:00.002-04:00

My grandmother has a stroke.

My sister is severly injured in a freak accident involving a motorcycle and a mattress.

And I am deficient in iron.

Finally they understand my pain.

(5+7+5)*5=Duality of My Existence

2008-05-28T11:50:00.006-04:00

My Fantasy:

Rick Schroeder plays gay
in "The Andromeda Strain".
Ricky prefers "Dick"?

Glenn Greenwald on law,
Constitutional, or not—
makes me think of briefs

Neil Patrick Harris
flirted shamelessly with me.
But so did David.

Anderson Cooper
has not yet proposed marriage.
What's he waiting for?

My Reality:

Same-sex marraiges
or picking teams in gym class—
I get chosen last.

My Left Mic

2008-05-23T17:22:00.011-04:00

I know, I know... I've done this a thousand times already, but I'll try again, and thank you for bearing with me.

I'm officially launching my blog one more time. Fingers crossed that this time I last longer than your average British sexual encounter [I kid, I've never shagged a Brit, but I hear they are very polite].

I tend to be a rather all or nothing kind of guy, and when I haven't been able to meet the high goals I've set for myself, or my blog, I've just given up. But my anti-depressants are working, and I'm not setting myself up to fail, this time.

I remember watching an episode of The Tonight Show when I was a kid where the comedian [who was the voice of Roger Rabbit before disappearing into obscurity] performed a most unusual routine. On stage were 2 microphones. On the right stood the mic into which he performed the majority of his standard stand-up routine; on the left however, stood the mic into which he would express all those random thoughts that pass through one's head that aren't necessarily apropos or even really coherent, but somehow hold within them some kind of magnetic core which keeps our minds coming back again and again.

My only goal, this time, is that this blog will by my Left Mic.
[and there will of course be haiku]

So here goes:

Current obsessions:

Eva Cassidy's Songbird:

This is a fan vid of the song, which was also featured in the "Love Actually" soundtrack. I know I'm a total sentimental sap, but it's just so beautiful.

Verbotene Liebe:
A German soap opera that I discovered on AfterElton and The Gays of Daytime. All I can say is that Christian and Olli's love scenes are better than anything I see (or sadly experienced) in a good long while.

Haiku: In honor of the "Sex and the City" movie

Four women imbibe
cocktails while discussing sex.

I die from boredom.

2 Holiday Poems

2006-12-27T21:50:00.000-05:00

Ann Coulter's a bitch
I think that bears repeating
Ann Coulter's a bitch

Jenna Elfman screams,
"Hey, have you raped a baby!"
Naaahh, it's not a cult.

Poofs in Space

2006-12-15T02:26:00.001-05:00

A few line items that have been bouncing around my head:

Antonio Banderas has a new scent available at Walgreens entitled “Antonio” (inventive, no?) The ads for said scent show Antonio getting all Latin Lover with some waif like brunette model. It is the “Scent of Seduction” after all, what ever that means: (poppers and a crisp twenty, perhaps?) The problem with the ads is that before no one could give a flying fuck, Antonio and Melanie Griffith were parading themselves around like they invented lust, shoving their public displays of “affection” down all our throats. So, in essence Antonio is participating some sort of mercantile extra-marital affair, and the entire thing just kind of icks me out (well, more than A.B. icks me out on a regular day).

A&E had a new movie premiere Monday night entitled “Wedding Wars”. The basic premise is that McSteamy from Grey’s Anatomy is marrying Mona (Ross’s girlfriend) from Friends, who is the daughter of a governor played by Mr. Barbra Streisand. So McSteamy asks his gay brother, Uncle Jessie, to be their wedding planner, and everything is fine, until Mona’s Dad announces his support for a state constitutional amendment banning same-sex marriage. Uncle Jessie gets all up in arms and the gays go on strike. Hilarity, of course, ensues.

Now, I had the idea for a Gay strike several years ago. Without Gays and Lesbians, America would come to a standstill. Well, at least large portions of America would stop functioning, like television, politics, fashion, etc. Actually, if it weren’t for gay people, the world as we know it would be very different. Women wouldn’t have the right to vote, the slaves would never have been emancipated, the Nazis would have won WWII, even Martin Luther King’s “I have a dream,” speech would never have taken place. But because we had Lesbian Suffragettes, Abe Lincoln (who had a rather passionate relationship with one of his Illinois compatriots), the Gay mathematician who broke Germany’s Enigma Code, and the Gay organizer of MLK’s March on Washington.

At the time of my original idea, a friend mentioned that he thought it might backfire with a backlash. Unfortunately, I allowed his concern to stop me from formulating actual plans for a National Gay Strike. I should have mentioned that any possible future backlash wouldn’t be all that different from the current backlash we’re experiencing now. I think it’s time to revisit this idea.

David E. Kelley, the creator of Ally McBeal, The Practice, Boston Legal, etc. has created a new show titled “The Wedding Store,” and not surprisingly, David has envisioned a world were a large collection of wedding planners does not include one single gay man. Some of you may have heard my rants about Kelley in past. What drives me crazy is that he is known for his “liberal” perspective, but in fact is incredibly conservative. His female characters are sniveling messes, or ball-breaking bitches, his black characters are always noble individuals who are the sole successful member of their extended poor, law-breaking, drug-addicted families. But at least he has female and racial minorities as lead characters. Gays only ever appear on his shows as psychopathic murderers, cross-dressing victims, or in general disruptive forces which usually are killed off by the end of the episode. I really hate David E. Kelley.

Now that Enterprise has been cancelled, it is probably a completely moot point, however, I have been reading about the sad story behind the lack of gay characters on any Star Trek show. I know those of you who are not Trek enthusiasts may not see what the big deal is, however those of you who are familiar with the shows may be interested. Star Trek has been ground-breaking in its portrayal of a utopian society in which poverty has been overcome, and social equality is the norm. To a lesser degree they have also shown a world where gender roles have been eliminated. Though on the actual shows themselves, the female characters have a tendency to fall into more nurturing, or administrative positions, it is referenced that women do fill all those other command and typically “male” positions…elsewhere. However, in this Utopian society, there are no gay people, ever.

Gene Roddenberry, before he died claimed that we would see a gay character, but those who inherited the helm of the Star Trek Universe have refused to fulfill this promise. Rick Berman and Brannon Braga, who currently helm the franchise, refuse to even acknowledge the issue. Rather than realizing that merely a reference to the existence of gay people would suffice, they continue with lame arguments that Star Trek is not about sex (which is contradicted by the fact that every single main character in every series has been explicitly shown to be straight) or with one-off “issue” episodes that allegorically kind of address sexual minorities, but in the end re-affirm the heterosexual norm. Or they give the whole, “sexuality isn’t an issue in the future” argument which doesn’t explain why we only ever see one sexuality portrayed—heterosexuality.

In Enterprise, Berman and Braga were allowed to explore their own sensibilities more so than in other series, according to an interview with Braga, and the result explains a lot. The show stopped being an ensemble and instead focused on the three lead white male characters and the Vulcan babe with the huge tits. The good news that their vision of the future was flatly rejected by Trek fans and was the only series to be cancelled due to poor ratings. However, with Paramount funneling the franchise to their Spike channel, it’s clear that the studio doesn’t have a clue what the series means to its fans, or who its fans really are, choosing to believe it’s hormone-raging teenage boys that make up the audience.

It’s hard to explain to someone who isn’t a fan of the franchise how deeply saddening the entire issue is to those of us who care. If only I could sit down with Berman or the honcho in charge, and explain to them where they went wrong, and then slap them up side the head, if they don’t get it.

Okay, I’m depressed.

Look At Me — I’m Sandra Lee

2006-12-05T00:13:00.000-05:00

I know my little tirade on Sandra Lee seemed a little unfocused, but never one to disappoint, she almost immediately aired an episode which shows in detail exactly why I think of her, as a silicon-based life form once referred to humans on an early episode of Star Trek: The Next Generation, as an Ugly Bag of Mostly Water.

During this particular episode Ms. Lee, in all her peroxide glory, was to create a wonderful Italian meal, which included Spaghetti and a Bread Salad. Lest we be confused as to the fact that the episode was dedicated solely to the cuisine of the great Boot Peninsula, her set was decorated in exaggerated red and white checks and leaning against the ledge over her sink was a large metal sign reading CUCINA. We get it Sandy — Italian, you’re making Italian. Only, there was one little hitch in her giddy-up. For dessert, she was going to tell us how to make a delightful ice cream cake using candy bars! (From the look of it, Twix, yes that’s right, Twix, because they are the national confection of Italy, after all.)

You see, it was her very, very, oh so very special “Venetian Ice Cream Cake”. Now, “Venetian” is the adjective used to describe something pertaining to Venice, and Venice is a city in Italy, a very famous one in fact. Here’s the problem…the cake she was making looked an awful lot like the confection Breyers produces under the name “Viennetta”, so called because it is a Viennese Ice Cream Cake, a suspicion which was proved valid by the fact that even after Ms. Lee continuously described her dessert as Venetian, the caption on screen under this hideous faux-dessert very clearly read “Viennese Ice Cream Cake.” So, I knew it was Viennese and her producers knew it was Viennese, but apparently, none of them could bring it upon themselves to inform her that it was Viennese, nor that “Viennese” is the adjective used to describe something pertaining to Vienna, a city in Austria, not Italy, a country where they speak German, not Italian.

Do you understand now why I think this trashy bitch needs to be stopped, immediately? What more proof do we need that she is, in fact, detrimental to the further progress of human civilization?

On a much happier note, Henry the Accountant made his return on Ugly Betty. Let me just say that it has been my life long romantic dream to find a man just like Henry the Accountant. A geeky man who looks HAWT! in his little rust sweater. Damn! I mean seriously, where do I sign up? I swear, I’d behave, I’d be nice; I really would. I’d love him, and hug him and call him George. The 8,749 stars visible from Earth under optimal conditions clearly state that I am due some seriously good nookie, and geek nookie is by far the best (as opposed to nerd nookie, which usually involves medieval costumes and open mouth tongue wrestling…I’m still processing that unneeded sight on the NYC subway).

Bizarrely, I’m also finding myself very attracted to Evil Marc. I’m usually not very fond of the overly groomed and coiffed type, but I suspect that I’m actually attracted to Michael Urie, the actor who brilliantly portrays Marc every week, and he’s been quoted as saying he’s much more of a jeans and t-shirt type guy, which is right up my alley. (Does that read as dirty as I think it does?) Although, I have been worried that the fact that he is continuing to be listed as a Guest Star meant that he was going to be killed off soon. However, once I learned that they filmed the pilot in NYC and then moved the show to LA, I’m pretty sure it’s the result of some clause in his contract that would allow him to ditch the show to come back here for any theatre projects he really wants to do. Let’s hope.

Interesting to note that the Brazilliant Becki Newton who plays bitchy Amanda with the Uber-Eyebrows is the sister of Vassar’s own Matt Newton. The siblings are both gorgeous, talented, and smart. I would hate them, but I’m guessing Becki is probably as nice as her brother, which kind of makes me want to hate them even more. Vicious little circle isn’t it?

Haiku time:

Henry, My Henry,
I will watch Rudolph with you.
But the Elf scares me.

6 Haikus For The Silver Fox

2006-11-30T10:24:00.000-05:00

Anderson Cooper's

portrait by Diane Arbus–

Hunh? He looks normal.*

Anderson Cooper
knows what it's like to work hard.
He's a Vanderbilt.

Anderson Cooper
went to Hanoi after Yale.
I'll learn to make pho.

Anderson baby,
you don't need to worry.
No one else will know.

Anderson and I
have a love like no other.
We're just private men.

Anderson Cooper
wrote a book about his life.
No mention of me?

*Diane Arbus was known for taking portraits of freaks.

A Whiter Shade of Neurotic

2006-11-28T23:02:00.000-05:00

I previously stated that this column would be dedicated to my recently acquired dislike for white chicks and I am not one to fall through on promises (you in the back, you can’t stop snickering now, thank you very much). However, I think my therapy may be working (although between you and me and the wall, my new therapist is a little over-zealous in his shilling for the Buddhist Agenda) and my hatred has been blunted to the sharpness of a butter knife. So the vitriol won’t be quite as acidic as I had at first expected.

I’m not talking about the Lindsay Lohan, Paris Hilton, Britney Spears type white chick, as they barely register as human beings and aren’t really worth commenting upon. If you’d like updates on the party girls latest rampages you can always get the latest 411 over at Perez Hilton’s gossip blog. (As a side note, during my brief stay in Southern California, I lived just down the street from the Hyde Lounge, a common stomping ground for the Toothpicks from Hell [aside from Britney, who has we all know is about one Moon Pie short of pulling a Shelley Winters]).

The current sub-species of White Chicks that is causing me the most consternation is the Office White Chick (the OWC). Every workspace has one, and every single one of you knows who this person is. No matter the actual temperature of the office, she is always freezing, and very vocal about her displeasure with this lacking thermal status quo. In the winter, the heat is never high enough, and during the hottest days of summer, the AC, even at the lowest setting, is apparently blowing a jet stream of ice particles directly up her skirt. To counteract this frigidity she is usually accompanied by a sweater tied about her shoulder in the notorious Wasp Super Hero Cape fashion and a steaming cup of tea or coffee she cradles in her hands as though it were the only cup of water in the middle of the Sahara. Inevitably, the heating is changed to stop her incessant whinging and the rest of us are left to sweat our balls off.

This same OWC is also the resident germaphobe who upon entering the office sprays every available surface with industrial strength pesticides, curiously at the same time as she is monologue-ing ad nauseum about her debilitating “chemical sensitivity”. She also takes it upon herself to act as the office contagion monitor and will quickly swoop down upon you (or the electronic equivalent) at the first overly zealous clearing of the throat or proto-sniffle with the suggestion that if we are “under the weather, perhaps we should consider heading home”, with a steely glint in her eye betraying the fact that she would not think twice about murdering you if you sneezed in her general direction.

The OWC is also known for the put-upon sigh she levels at anyone who dares to ask her a question, usually followed by a lengthy “answer” which covers multiple topics, usually in regards to how she really shouldn’t have to be bothered with your questions, and barely disguised references to your apparent ineptitude, all the while never providing anything resembling useful information. One would think that given her dislike of such questioning it would be fine to skip her in this process and go directly to the person who will eventually give you the information you seek. However, her wraith is never quite so mighty as it is if you “circumvent the proper procedures”.

The OWC can also be identified by her usual facial expression, one of school marm-ish disdain, a look that tells you that no matter what you do, no matter how hard you work, no matter how much you demonstrate your abilities, no matter what extents you attempt to meet her ever growing demands to what is correct, what is proper, you will never quite measure up, you will never be good enough. This is actually one of the first noticeable characteristics of the OWC and can be seen in her early state, the SCWC (or Snotty College White Chick). The latter being the major cause of my lack of interest in alumni activities.

Oh, and the other White Chick I can’t stand — Sandra Lee, of Semi-Homemade fame. I don’t care what stylish airs she attempts to surround herself with; she is, at her core, nouveau riche trash with a bad dye job. She, my friends, is exactly what is wrong with America (and I say that with a straight face). From her disgusting recipes (she is overly fond of Cool Whip and Taco Seasoning), to her tacky-ass “tablescapes”, she is the embodiment of everything I find terrifying about the women in those Stein Mart ads. She is an enormous sucking black-hole of taste (In much the same manner Andie McDowell is an enormous sucking black-hole of talent). In one recent episode she introduced us all to her most recent find — Indian Food! Who knew those people even ate? I’m not sure who her target audience is, but I don’t want to meet them, ever. (Luckily my extended family is made up of poor trash and therefore is not attempting to conform to her model.)

But enough about White Chicks. Here are a few little tid-bits about the homos:

1) Separated at Birth

And 2) a little Haiku I put together:

Anderson Cooper
loves his Papi Chulos dark.
I can not compete.

My Succotash Wish

2006-11-18T20:00:00.000-05:00

Thanksgiving is upon us once again, much like persistent dermatitis.

I used to be a big old Turkey-Day whore, buying in to all the multi-course Rockwellian fantasy of the season, forcing my foreign or temporarily family-less friends into recreating the perfect Butterball tableau. However, as I age, the never-ending drone of holiday propaganda has gotten rather hard to bear. All I notice now is the constant refrain of “Family Uber Alles” (I’m assuming I’m not the only person who imagines subliminal programming as being voiced in Hogan’s Heroes-style Deutschlish), and if like me, you don't have any family, or rather, any family you would actually care to spend a tryptophan dirt nap with, then all the hoopla just adds to the mounting realization that if you are single and childless, or familially-challenged, then there must be something seriously wrong with you.

I could of course accept an invitation to a friend or acquaintance's family gathering. However I find that as college becomes more and more a distant memory, people stop perceiving you as a hapless tag-along, homeless for the holidays with nothing but a tattered backpack and a sheepish grin as baggage, a mainstay of Thanksgiving dinners for any family with a child in their early twenties, and instead start to see you as that guy, that guy they have to invite, because it's the polite thing to do, and besides clearly there must be something seriously wrong with him or his own family wouldn't have disowned him, and this is a fragile time for sad-sacks like him, suicides sky-rocket this time of year. I’d just rather not be that guy.

Hopefully, this Thanksgiving I will be working (fingers-crossed for time and a half) and I won't notice as the Food Network stops the Thanksgiving Jamboree and begins the Christmas Extravaganza of exactly the same recipes, with only a shift in color-schemes from autumnal browns to primary greens and reds.

Time again to prepare ourselves for the Right's annual WAR ON CHRISTMAS spectacular. It should begin any minute. One of the peculiarities of American Evangelicalism is its fanatical devotion to a philosophy of scarcity. In their world-view there is a finite amount of love, divinity, wisdom, redemption, or even reasons to rejoice, and they, as the superior, the enlightened, the saved (as a result of their other Gospel of Judgment and Condemnation, the Sacrament of the Us vs. Them, if you will) are bound and determined to make sure they are the only ones in possession of the limited goods. How sad to perceive of the world as a place where the validation and inclusion of any one else must also be the invalidation and exclusion of themselves. We can see in their opposition to same-sex marriage that they truly believe that recognizing the love and commitment of a same-sex couple directly results in the devaluation of their own love and commitment.

Nearly every culture, nation, or religion has some form of celebration coinciding with the Winter Solstice, many celebrations of miracles or times of peace and reflection, yet the Right can’t conceive of how the recognition and inclusion of these other holidays, in fact, brings the world that much closer to the world of peace and joy which their own Christmas is meant to celebrate. In their world, the ending of a war against those not like themselves, must be in itself a declaration of war against them. Between you and me, I’m pretty tired of war already.

That being said, if one of my “Happy Holidays” is returned with a snappish and pointed “Merry Christmas”, I have no qualms about bitch-slapping that asshole back to where they came from.

Sorry for the delay in getting this posted, work has been hectic.

Next posting: What the Hell Is the Matter with White Chicks? From Eating Disorders to Germ Phobia. Why are they always cold? And why does such a small percentage seem to have any sense of humor? I’ll list my current least favorite pale ladies and see if a possibly racist anti-white chick rant will finally make someone post a comment on this damn blog.

America Hates Bush…and Fags

2006-11-10T00:56:00.000-05:00

So the Democrats now control both the Senate and the House of Representatives, which in theory is a good thing, but in practice means the Legislature is now predominately centrist apologists. To paraphrase an old joke, the only things in the middle of the road are Moderate Democrats and Road Kill. “Middle of the Road” is a nice way of saying “Sitting on the fence.” Jeez, I sound like a Log Cabin Republican (Scary Marys, each and every one of them).

However, in all but one of the states with Ballot items proposing additions to their respective Constitutions banning same-sex marriage (and several making State recognition of any Civil Union or Domestic Partnership illegal), the Electorate decided once again to demonstrate their unease with butt-sex (at least with the way God intended it to be practiced). Arizona, on the other hand, was too busy putting the squeeze on Mexicans to squash the Lavender Menace. Lovely, so very … Christian of them, don’t you think?

However, with the elections behind us, it’s time to move on. My old therapist thinks my blog is cathartic; my new therapist thinks it’s counter-productive. What to do? She’s hip and with it, he’s an imposing Buddhist. A Therapist Death Match, perhaps?

In order to balance some of the negativity of the previous posts, I thought I’d take the time to mention a few of the things that I love:

Ugly Betty. It’s not deep, and it’s not serious, but it is oh so delicious. So many pretty colors, so many cute boys (Harry from Accounting is my kind of man), and Vanessa L. Williams not hocking that ProActiv crap. It’s like when Cher stopped peddling that conditioner shit and started singing again. Thursdays are Must-See once more. And if I miss it, Television without Pity keeps me in the know.

New jobs giving me a 17% raise 2 days after another job suggests perhaps I should review my Word skills. Ah…sometimes it’s nice to be noticed for something other than one’s lack of fashion sense.

Being lucky enough to be exhausted from working 3 jobs. Some people, like Denise Richards, barely have one. Speaking of — rent Undercover Brother immediately for the "recently" out Neil Patrick Harris as Lance, the white Affirmative Action Intern. I snorted, repeatedly.

Hummus…Hummy is Yummy.

Nigella Lawson has a new show! The Bettie Page of Food Porn reigns supreme! Too bad Dave Lieberman couldn’t get any of his shows off the ground; I could watch him spread mayo on white bread and still end up salivating like Pavlov's pooch. Now that Tyler Florence is whoring himself to Applebee’s, it’s time for a new guy to help me with my Foodie Woodie (well, it rhymes on paper).

Those are the silver linings in the current cloud formation of my psyche. Being positive gives me hives, no wonder I avoid it.

H.R.C. and the HRC

2006-11-06T01:59:00.000-05:00

That would be the former First Lady and Current Democratic Senator from New York, Hillary Rodham Clinton, and the esteemed, if not overly politically mainstream gay rights organization, the Human Rights Campaign, respectively.

Personally, I don’t care much for the Senator. Not for the same reason that conservatives don’t like her. Conservatives have always despised her, because at the time of her husband’s election in 1992, she didn’t keep her mouth shut and know her place like all the past First Ladies who kept their opinions to themselves and pickled themselves with alcohol and painkillers, the way the wives of powerful men are meant to do. No, my problem is that I still hold the parochial belief that Senators and Members of Congress are supposed to represent the interests of the people of the area from which they originate. As New York is not the Senator’s home state of Illinois, nor the state where she went to college, Massachusetts, nor Law School, Connecticut, nor the state in which she spent most of her husband’s political career, Arkansas, I’m not quite certain exactly why it is she feels she can represent the interests of the people of a state she really hasn’t spent much time in at all. But then, what is our other option? Giuliani? Well, lesser of two evils and all that.

Recently at a meeting on the Upper East Side, the Senator spoke with various members of the gay community, discussing how her position on same-sex marriage had “evolved” after lengthy discussions with her friends within the gay community. I’m usually a big supporter of the theory of evolution, but in this case, I believe “evolved” is a euphemism for “changes depending on who I’m talking to at the moment.” We must remember that the Clinton Administration is responsible for “Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell”, a policy under which more gay and lesbian service members have been drummed out of the military than ever before. They were also responsible for the Defense of Marriage Act, which at the before mentioned meeting, the Senator claimed was passed to prevent a Constitutional amendment banning same-sex marriage. Not really sure how an act making it illegal for the government to recognize any same-sex marriage is that much better than a Constitutional amendment making same-sex marriage illegal in its entirety. Perhaps I’m missing some of the finer points.

She also defended her prior statements that marriage should be a union of “one man and one woman” (this was prior to her evolutionary epoch) based on it having historically always been so. Well, historically women were not allowed to inherit property, or vote, and historically white landowners were allowed to own slaves. If we really want to follow this argument, we would all still be living in caves, because historically, up until the point the first hut was built, that was how it had always been.

Personally, Same-Sex Marriage has always struck me much like Obesity. For those who suffer because of it, it is quite miserable, however, in the whole scheme of things, you’ve got to be in a pretty good place for it to be your main problem. I mean, having too much food to eat is a hell of lot nicer problem than starvation. And not being able to marry is a lot nicer a problem than being hanged, lynched, or say disemboweled for being suspected of being a homosexual, as happens throughout the world. Of course, I might be a bit more worked up about Marriage, if I thought there was ever a snowball’s chance in hell of ever finding someone willing to marry me. I can be a little…off-putting.

That being said, I do have a few ideas, which I think should be pursued in the quest for marriage equality. It seems rather odd that no-one else has thought to try these; however, perhaps some of my more legally minded readers could explain what I’m missing.

There is, theoretically at least, a separation of Church and State in the USA. However, marriage is the only religious ceremony which imparts a governmentally recognized legal status to those who participate in it. No-one gets anything from the government when they are confirmed – no tax breaks for being baptized – no medical benefits for the bar mitzvah-ed – just marriage. And as the Religious Right would rather imploded (not that I would stop them from doing so) than to allow marriage to exist solely as a legal contract, I think we should play along.

Make Divorce Illegal. If marriage is such a sacred economic transaction, then no-one should be able to get out of it. Seems to me making waves in that direction might make a few of those hypocritical multiple-divorced conservatives willing to make a few concessions.

Make Marriage a religious ceremony only. If it’s so sacred, then the government shouldn’t have any of their dirty secular little fingers in it anyway. So allow the churches to define marriage as they like, and remove any and all legally granted benefits for marriage. No tax breaks, no guaranteed inheritance, or legal protections in court. For myself, I would be fine with this. Remove governmental preference for those who get married, and then it’s just a matter of whether or not your religion recognizes same-sex unions. (This also leads me to the subject of gays belonging to religions which define gays as abominations against God. To me, there is no more pathetic example of self-hatred than one who continues to worship a deity which is disgusted by their very being. There are other practices, denominations, religions which don’t condemn gays.)

Why hasn’t anyone sued for the rights of marriage under the umbrella of Freedom of Religion? My religion recognizes same-sex unions, therefore, how does the state have any right to deny recognition of that union. Doesn’t that amount to the Government denying me the right to worship as I choose? This entire public debate has been couched entirely in Christian religious doctrine. Government officials refer to the Bible for moral justification of persecuting same-sex unions. Well, the Bible isn’t the source of my moral code, neither is the Koran, nor the Torah. My right to worship is recognized by the Constitution. For the government to recognize the participants of one religion’s coupling ceremony for inclusion in a legal status, and not include another’s is tantamount to the government recognizing one religion as being preferable to another, and discriminatory to that religion. Doesn’t that violate the Constitution?

On another front, here is a speech by Ross Anderson, the Mayor of Salt Lake City, which made me rather proud to be an American (which has been a fairly rare occasion for the last 6 or 7 years)

Under New Management

2006-11-03T00:55:00.000-05:00

So I fucked up. What else is new? I said I was going to do all this writing on my blog and then after a month or so, I bailed. Which shouldn’t be surprising as I’ve bailed on just about everything else I’ve ever attempted. All I can say is that if you know me, which all of you do (to some extent), then that, in and of itself, was fair warning.

As you can see from the redesign, I’ve decided to take this column in a new direction. Rather than chronicling some attempts to change my life (the results of said attempts being massive face-planting in a manure–pile type results), I’m going to use this as a soapbox for all my venomous, vile rantings and opinions.

Though some of you may find this hard to believe, I have spent most of my life trying to be a nice person. To that end, I have not given voice to all the mean, angry, rage-filled thoughts I really think (to varying degrees of success, as some of you can bear witness). Now that I’m 30, that‘s gonna stop, no more Mr. Nice Guy. Consider it an exercise in embracing my shadow-self, as Jung would say; giving voice to my rage, and realizing that the world won’t come to an end, after all. It was my therapist’s idea (and she’s met Naomi Campbell, so she knows all about rage).

Don’t worry, it’s not going to be all narcissistic and self-masturbatory as it sounds, and I won’t be writing about any of you (all those venomous, vile rantings and opinions get vented elsewhere), but I’m not holding anything back, and if in doing so, I insult or offend one of you by accident, I say “Tough Titty.” My hope is that by giving voice to all the things on my mind, I will be giving voice to some of the things on your mind, and you can get a vicarious little thrill at being mean, without having to actually be mean. And perhaps, I may just be a little more pleasant in real life, and I think we can all agree that, to quote another royal bitch, “…is a good thing.”

So, here we go.

Whose bright idea was it to have John Kerry make a joke? He’s a freaking politician, we all know politicians have all the comic timing of Andy McDowell (when she’s trying to be funny, not when we’re laughing at what a miserably pathetic excuse for an actress she is). And surprise, surprise, he fucked it up. For those of you who haven’t heard, John Kerry tried to make a joke about how if you don’t study and get an education, you end being a dumb-fuck president who mires the entire world in a miserable war in Iraq. In his attempt, he ended up implying anyone in the military must be an idiot.

Despite the fact that America is rabidly anti-intellectual and quite “proud of their aggressive ignorance”* (i.e., Toby Keith’s song where he admits he has no idea where Iraq is, but he’s all for blowing it off the face of the earth), as a nation, we really don’t like being called stupid. (Although voting Bush in as president twice is pretty damning evidence of our intellectual deficit). The last thing the Democratic Party needs right now is more ammunition for the Republicans to turn to Middle America and say “See, all those East Coast Liberal Snobs think you’re stupid.” Whoever wrote that joke needs to be shot, repeatedly. Although, if I’m honest, as an East Coast Liberal Snob, I do think most of Middle America is stupid (okay, I think most of America is filled with morons), but that’s just me, not everyone thinks that.

The interesting thing is, what Kerry said was true, on multiple levels. President Bush is a simpleton fuck-head and we are mired in a senseless war in Iraq. (I’m just gonna let that stand without any supporting evidence, because in my world, that’s as obvious as the sky is blue and fire is hot).

Also, military recruiters target the poor and minorities who have historically not had the same basic educational (let alone higher educational) opportunities or resources. The end result being, if you haven’t been lucky enough to get a good education, there’s a good chance you might just end up as cannon-fodder somewhere in Iraq, because the military would probably strike you as one of the few opportunities available to better your life.

(By the way, I’m not going to bother to search for citations for my facts, because this isn’t a book, and as opposed to Ann Coulter, who just makes shit up, I’m only going to state things I believe with my whole being are true.)

The problem is, if that’s what Kerry meant, he did it in a horrible chummy, aren’t we smarter than those poor saps who didn’t know any better, kind of way. And that’s exactly how the Right is spinning it.

The long and the short is that the Left is up shit creek if the Democrats are the only viable voice out there, because they had their spines surgically removed years ago. I had a moment of hope when Howard Dean was made the head of the DNC, until I realized that his surprisingly swift fall from front-runner candidacy (because he yelled too much? W T F?) was orchestrated by the Democratic Party, because the idea of an actual liberal candidate that could motivate the Left and possibly alienate the moneyed baby-boomers who vote Democrat out of habit, scared them shitless. So they give him the DCN chair, he drops out, and not surprisingly, he puts his own ambition ahead of the people he claimed to represent. And business goes on as usual. La Dee Da…

So, if Kerry’s just fucked himself out of running in 2008, what’s that leave us with? Hillary Rodham Clinton? I’ll save my opinion of that Carpet-bagger (and no, that isn’t a lesbian joke) until next time.

Okay…not sure I’ve hit my stride, quite yet, but give me a little time. There’s so much that pisses me off, (well the whole world really), so I’ll get the claws sharpened soon enough.

* Kathy Griffin “Allegedly”

The Way (No Way!) of the Warrior

2005-10-21T13:20:00.000-04:00

I was a skinny child. I was even a skinny teenager. Somewhere along the line, my ass decided it had had enough of this whole "skinny" thing and decided to go do its own thing. Where my ass went, the rest of my body followed. (Which may invoke a rather odd and possibly counter-intuitive visual image, but I think if you stop and ponder for a moment, you'll find the above statement to be a truism about life in general a little more frequently then we, as a society, would like to admit).

The good thing about gaining a lot of weight all over my body is that I am no longer pear-shaped. I really hated being pear-shaped. I really hate pears. They are an ugly color, and they are ripe for about 35 seconds, and even then, at best, a pear just tastes like a mealy apple. Am I alone on this? Besides, the world is not designed for pear shaped men. It's hard enough being tall. It's one thing if there isn't enough room for your legs, but to not be able to fit your ass either, well that's just rubbing salt in the wound. (I would like to take a moment to point out that it's not just fat, I do have a very wide pelvis, you know, birthing-sized pelvis, and my hips are splayed out, so that my natural stance is always in 1st position. Let's put it this way, if I had been born in ancient Sparta, or similar perfection obsessed culture, I would have been dumped on a hill somewhere and left as boar feed).

So, you know, being fat means that I'm no longer the guy with the fat ass. Now, I'm just a fat-ass. It's a subtle difference, but I think one that we should take a moment to acknowledge. The bad part of being fat? Well, Oprah has pretty much covered all the obvious things, so I won't talk about the health issues, like being short of breath, and the disturbing tightness in my chest, or you know...the chafing (friction is a bitch...'nuf said). The most disturbing part is looking in a mirror and not recognizing yourself. I look as though I've been attached to an air pump. (Where exactly the hook-up is, I'd rather not investigate). I have a friend, Short Stack, and he is in fantastic shape, toned, trim, muscular, like a greyhound, and Short Stack has an identical twin brother, Wide Stack, who is also in fantastic shape, however Mr. W. Stack is a body builder, and rather than a greyhound, he's built more like a Rottweiler, sturdy, strong, powerful. It's as though S. Stack's image was placed on silly putty and stretched. There is a basic resemblance, but other than that, nothing. (Thanks should be given to Short, Wide and the entire Stack family for allowing me to use them in my example).

I would love to say I'm now built like a Rottweiler, but that would be a lie. No, I'm shaped more like a Blowfish. I now have only a passing resemblance to the image I have of myself in my mind's eye. The shape-shifting is odd enough, but coupled with the sticker shock when I finally stepped back on the scale was enough to push me into some type of physical activity. I decided I would take a class, as I've always enjoyed being a student. I know "student", I'm all set and ready to go as "student". But a student of what? For a while now the idea of studying some kind of martial art has been rattling around. I'm not exactly sure why, but I think it has to do with my unspoken desire to a be a Super Hero in training. Which art? Well, there is an Aikido Dojo in my neighborhood and by lovely happenstance they were having a very reasonably priced introductory class.

Aikido is sometimes known as the gentle martial art, in that there is no sparring, as Aikido deals with redirecting your attacker's energy, rather than expending your own. Many of the philosophies are closely related to Zen Buddhism, which I've always found attractive, if completely antithetical to my neuroses-riddled self. I signed up, but with one nagging worry that perhaps Aikido would not be the rigorous workout I was looking for. (Human beings' capacity at self delusion is rather remarkable. I haven't worked out in over a year and I get winded carrying my grocery bags of cupcakes up the 3 flights of stairs in my building, but somehow I think a martial art is going to be too easy. Sure...)

Aikido has some rather interesting protocols, most of which consist of bowing to everyone and everything upon entering and exiting the Dojo. The Sensei, the photograph of O Sensei (the old Japanese guy who thought this stuff up), every single member of the class, and I think I caught someone bowing to the bathroom door, but I could be wrong. The other is that, though there is no sparring per se, you must practice being attacked. And who do you think does the attacking? Yep, the other members of the class. So much in fact, that easily half of the class is dedicated to learning how to be pinned, tossed, thrown and slammed without breaking anything. A lot of this training involves very long Japanese words I'm hoping to remember at some point, and a lot (a liberal, overly generous amount) of rolling on the floor. Back and forth, back and forth, over and over again to the point where those cupcakes I had for dinner don't know which end is up. (Though that would require us communally agreeing that baked goods possess an innate sense of direction. Agreed? Good). Immediately following the rolling is always some sturdy grounded Chi exercise, which I'd be able to center myself for, if only my stomach hadn't relocated to somewhere below my spleen. The nausea is almost overwhelming, and I would excuse myself, except the bowing would take about 10 minutes and I just don't think my GI track needs that much attention. So instead I stand there, short of breath, slightly green, and decidedly un-zen until it passes, at which point it is time to be flipped over someone's back.

So far, my experience of the mysteries of the eastern disciplines hasn't been so much mind over body, but rather mind over gag reflex. Somehow, I think if I decide to make this path my path, I'm going to have to pack Pepto. Is it really worth being skinny, if everything you do eat ends up tasting like cherry-bismuth?

Gaol Oriented

2005-10-06T18:26:00.000-04:00

(it’s not a typo, it’s a pun…no really)

What do you want to be when you grow up?

A simple enough question, and as a child I had a simple enough answer. I was going to be a Paleontologist / Botanist / Astronaut / Detective. At 7 it didn’t seem to bother me that there really weren’t all that many fossils of ancient plants out in the expanse of space, and even fewer that were involved in any criminal activities. (My enlightenment to this fact was a crushing blow and a defining moment of my youth.) However misguided the goal was, in the 2nd grade I possessed an unquestioning faith in my ability to be exactly who I planned to become. I’m not sure exactly when one loses this. Perhaps confidence is carried on the same gene as baby teeth? (Certainly, this is where the National Institute of Health needs to be spending their research dollars.)

Nowadays I’m not even sure who I am, let alone what I want to be. After college graduation (which is also know in as “Commencement” by some stroke of counter-intuitive pique) I fled to New York City with a few slim greenbacks and dreams of being the most preeminent avant-garde director of the early 21st century — a personal-as-political performance artist of the “angry young man” ilk. Quickly, the cold reality of the expenses of life in the city came like a pail of seawater in the face of a drunken sailor. Buried nightmares of being homeless and sharing a refrigerator box with a stray tomcat named One-Eyed Mike were resurrected in my fitful sleep. The decision was made to find an “in-the-meantime” job. It should be stated here that this entire process took about as long as the drive from Poughkeepsie to NYC.

The requisite “in-the-mean-time” job was procured quickly, and in the 7 years since, that clear vision of who I was to be has faded, shattered, re-assembled, flipped, morphed and any number of past-tense action words, more times than I care to count, until it finally scurried away from me into the night along with Old One-Eye. But the “in-the-meantime” jobs have remained a constant, and the Meantime stretches before me, never-ending, more interminable than a junior high production of “Our Town”. Every year and a half or so, I hear the distant call of the life that was to be, a soul call from those myriad dimensions that flash into existence with each “should have”, “could have”, “would have” decision we make, dimensions spiraling off to manifest every other self we once possessed as possibilities. But like any thrifty Yankee, I don’t take collect calls from people I don’t know. Instead, I usually take it as a sign to find a different “meantime”, the process of which is enough to crush even the strongest amongst us.

Here in America, employees and employers waltz to a symphony of mutually agreed upon lies, some light piccolo solos of euphemism, others tympani rumbles of denial. Unfortunately, no one ever tells you this beforehand, instead we are baptized by fire, each of us in our own private infernos. (Ok, I think I’m giving myself a migraine with all these metaphors and similes, I’ll try to ration from here on out.) I will attempt to enumerate a few as a warning for those of you traveling behind me.

1) Your Manager has absolutely no idea what they are doing. If they did, they would be much further along in the company than they are. Basic logic tells us that those people who are intelligent and talented are moved upward within the company quickly, and those left to manage are those too incompetent to actually do the job you are doing, but for some reason the company hasn’t fired. The manager isn’t quite bright enough to realize they have no clue, but they know you know they don’t know, and therefore they don’t want you to do anything other than stew in the misery of your current position. ([See Subtitle – “Harpy Boss”] interestingly, the word “Harpy” is derived from the Greek verb “harpazo” which translates roughly as “snatch”. I’ll just give you a minute to think about that one… oddly appropriate, don’tcha think?)

2) When companies say they are looking for people with innovative ideas, those that think out of the box, they don’t really mean it. They say it because they think they are supposed to say it, that somehow claiming to want intelligent, talented people working for them will in some way compensate for the fact that what they really want are unquestioning minions with blind faith in “How we’ve always done it” no matter how redundant, inefficient, and down right unintelligible that way is (unless, of course, they can figure out some way to take credit for your idea and pretend it was theirs all along.)

3) Though a new job may be a viewed as an opportunity to meet new people and make new friends, that would be a highly naïve position to take. The thing to remember is that with each new job, you have a chance to meet the new person who is so fucking annoying it makes you want to pluck each eyelash out individually just to distract you from the never-ending drone of yoga-speak, survivalist strategies, creative anachronism, or Broadway musical ephemera that threatens to make you snap and beat them to a bloody hump with your special ergonomic keyboard only to run through the halls a messy terror before being taken away in a straight-jacket to a maximum security prison where you will spend your days ironing bed sheets and planning special treats for Norbert, the biker thug who chose you to be his punk, but then you’ve always been fond of repetitive tasks and you’ve been wanting a long term relationship anyway.

4) Before subjecting yourself to a five-hour, five-person interview process make sure first that the Head Hunting Agency that sent you actually sent you the right information, and you are not, by accident, interviewing for a position you would never consider accepting like crab-shucking, or long-haul trucking, or Governor of California. Also important is to make sure that if you’ve accepted an offer, the agency informs your new employer so you avoid spending 2 weeks training for a job you will only discover was given to someone else when you arrive for your first day and Security has no record of you in their system, because believe me, they might not have guns, but those Rent-a-cops really don’t get all that excited over a game of skyscraper Hide ‘n Seek.

5) While interviewing you will be asked several pointed questions regarding your employment history, your work ethic, your greatest strength, and your greatest fault. Unless you are sure you don’t want the job, avoid answering as follows: I’ve hated every job I’ve ever had and will probably hate this one; I’ve discovered working hard only makes you a target, and therefore I will be doing only the minimum required to get by; I’m fairly certain I’m smarter than most people I will be working for, and will only find joy in pointing out my boss’s inadequacies and disseminating that information to my fellow employees; and finally, I have an attitude problem and that as a result I have an almost uncontrollable urge to push stupid looking strangers into oncoming traffic. Answering in such a manner may disqualify you from getting the job.

Following this advice might not make surviving the workplace any easier, or even get you that much closer to becoming what you’ve always wanted to be, but giving it has allowed me to get a clearer sense of what I want to be — self-employed.

The Habits of Highly Unmotivated People, Part 1

2005-09-16T15:42:00.000-04:00

It has been brought to my attention that thus far, in my reporting of my attempts to have a life, I have yet to actually do anything. To this, I must disagree. First of all, procrastinating is, in fact, an activity onto itself. If it were not, then it would not be a gerund, now would it? I thought not. Procrastinating is a time honored tradition among the clinically depressed and the misanthropically inclined, and I will not stand by and let it be maligned by those of the more, shall we say, ambulatory bent. Of course, that being said, it doesn’t preclude me from sitting here and letting you all blather on all you like. That is the beauty of procrastination. You do by not doing. Very Zen, very Lao Tsu, (but not in that pesky “chop wood – carry water” sort of way), very Grotowski, don’t you think?

Now that I have addressed that concern, let me further explain, that my lack of a posting last week was not an oversight on my part, but rather intentional, as I wished to impart to you, my gentle readers, one of life’s more important lessons. Do not, fair fellows and fellowettes, place such faith in one who has demonstrated such a clear lack of commitment, drive, or even ability to accomplish anything other than a piss poor attitude. If you do, you will, in all likelihood, be left seething, your eyes bulging like Barbara Bush on a Kennebunkport holiday and that vein in your forehead (that one that reminds you of your Uncle with a penchant for polyester and offensive opinions, who always gets sloshed at Thanksgiving and ends up bellowing about pinko commies and Japanese cars) will begin to pulse, and all that good work you’ve done to find inner peace and a reasonable heart rate will all be for naught. That is why I did not publish last week.

(Okay, so it’s a little difficult to write an entire article while in the fetal position with the covers tucked oh so comfortingly over my head. I tried, but apparently willing the computer to teleport itself to my bedroom was beyond even my abilities)

As for what I did do: On the vanity front, I had recently come to the conclusion, as many others have also done, that my life would be better served if I had completely different hair than I have now. People with curly hair want straight, people with straight want curly. I, on the other hand, have hair that grows straight out of my head, forming what can only be described as a “bristle brush” effect. Many a hairdresser has been injured by my spring-loaded hair ejecting itself from my head and aiming directly for their eyes. The only option was to relax my hair. I’m not really sure what the cashier at the drugstore thought the large pale man of northern European descent was doing with a box of Soft Sheen Relaxed and Natural Nubian Beauty (or something along those lines), but whatever it was, she kept it to herself.

After my first attempt, which I might add, was not so bad, I decided that if I were to continue with this hair reconstruction, I would have a professional handle my touch up, as there were still a few unruly cowlicks I had yet to properly corral. 6 weeks passed and time for my touch up came. I was treated to the top-of-the-line relaxer, no lye, no harsh chemicals, no bizarrely ethnically exclusionary packaging. My hairdresser applied and combed, heated and tweaked, sculpted and sheared, until finally, I emerged, not unlike the ancient phoenix (any smart remarks about “flaming” and I’ll slap you), a reborn creature – one with markedly relaxed hair. It was easier to comb, easier to style, easier to manage, and I was pleased.

Until 2 days later when my scalp erupted into an agonizing helmet of itches and flakes. No, do not blame my hairdresser, for I went into this with my eyes open (well, actually they tell you to close your eyes when they are slathering the goop on, but you catch my drift) Only I was to blame. My vanity had wrought me this. Any advantage I had gained from the process, I had now lost, seeing as I was now walking around scratching at my head as though I had a particularly nasty case of mange. A few specialty shampoos and a final dowsing of olive oil to soothe the savage scalp, and I was back to normal. (If one can consider smelling of tapenade normal)

Drained from the battle of my locks, I hobbled forth into the dangerous realm of “Job Interviews”. In the words of TLC, it was so “Unpretty”.

To be continued

Altered Egos (Man and Superman)

2005-09-04T21:41:00.000-04:00

My Bi-Coastal Best Friend, the Rear Admiral Falafel (“RAF” for short, or alternately “Blurry McPretty” for reasons that will become apparent forthwith) once revealed to me that in his search for a life partner, he had sat his self down and set forth a list of all the qualities he found absolutely necessary that his man possess, those he must absolutely not possess, and those that would be nice, but weren’t worth quibbling over. Considering the fact that he is a wee bit myopic and unnervingly handsome, Ye Olde Blurry had attracted his crowd of suitors with faces that favored the unfocused and aspirations of a trophy husband. He needed help. A game plan, a blueprint in order to build the perfect partner, a map to the promised land, or any other number of mixed metaphors pertaining to paper products.

Now, as this is my story, and not his, I can’t report to you the success of his endeavor, as to secure his privacy (and truthfully, he can go get his own soapbox, this one is taken). But as I was pondering my new set of goals (i.e. getting a life) I realized that “Life” was but a euphemism for my actual goal — A man.

Therefore, I’ve decided to create my own list of qualities. Now, my tastes have always been a bit odd, (Lyle Lovett, regardless of the fact that he looks like a Shar-Pei), and not particularly logical, (As a child Clark Kent was far sexier to me than Superman could ever think of being, so bookish, so repressed, so yummy, and truthfully I was actually more interested in what Jimmy Olsen had going on in his dark room, than either of the other two (one?)). My list might not actually narrow anything down for me, but anything is better than where I stand. Currently the only men I seem to attract are ancient ones who resemble underfed game hens. I’m not sure exactly why, but apparently my pan-shaped face seems to indicate I’m some sort of Octogenarian Fetishist. I can assure you, I am not. (Check in a few months from now, it may get ugly).

Absolute Must Haves:

1. Breathing (though I could make allowances for various and sundry respiratory ailments).
2. Perceives of my cynicism as biting wit, rather than the nihilistic expression of my own self-abhorrence, which clearly, upon closer examination, it is.
3. Ignores my occasional mental disorder evidenced in the rampant use of unnecessarily long words for no good reason (and often incorrectly), which only sleep or a strong gin & tonic can seem to cure.

Would Like, But Not a Deal Breaker:

1. Resemblance to the Romantic Poet, Lord Byron, without any of the ironic self-awareness that I am sure is inherent in people who tend to favor dead romantic poets.
2. A Summer home, not located in any of the Gay ghettos, or geographically at the furthest most points of the United States in any of the cardinal directions (Key West, San Diego, Provincetown, et c.), but rather a leisurely afternoon drive from the city, with a décor reminiscent of Scandinavian architecture with a hint of the Arts & Crafts aesthetic, and a master suite with Eastern facing bay windows, early American antiques, and fully equipped gourmet kitchen. But, you know, I’m not picky.

Absolutely Must Not Have:

1. Any and all use of Greek Letters must be in reference to higher mathematical formulae and / or the translation of the Hellenic Classics, not to share stories regarding your “Buds” who were in your “Frat” who got wasted that time when you stole the other school’s team mascot “Granny the Goat” and painted it fuchsia before molesting it in a disturbing, if not illegal, manner. Regardless if the tale is qualified with a “But that was when I was straight” or not.
2. Have at any time, frequented a Cigar Bar, bought or admired an issue of Cigar Aficionado magazine, or smoked a cigar in celebration of anything outside of a miracle birth of the likes of Jesus or Captive Panda.
3. Can wax philosophical about the positive attributes of any piece of electronic equipment that is modified by the phrase “remote control”
4. Schedule your vacation time in order to travel the world in pursuit of any parties described as “white”, “black”, or even “tea”.
5. Use the words “set” or “curl” in relation to either the gym and / or hairstyling more than once in a 72 hour period.
6. Think hats such as “fedora”, “bowler”, or “10 gallon”, in any way, add to your “look”
7. Identify with Batman, The Lone Ranger, James Dean, or any other “loner” figure found in pop culture, as is not a sign of macho strength as evidenced on screen, but rather pathetically dysfunctional social skills dressed up as an affectation of “cool”
8. Ever worn a codpiece — I think this one speaks for itself.

I don’t think that’s too much to ask.

Newtonian Physics and the Modern Man

2005-08-29T19:36:00.000-04:00

Our fair Isaac may have had an unnatural fascination with apples, (shared by Eve, Steve Jobs, and apparently Gwyneth Paltrow), but he did get a few things right. The 1st rule (or 2nd or 3rd, I’m pretty sure there are only 3) of Newtonian Physics states that “A Body at Rest Remains at Rest”. Let me tell you, he ain’t just whistling Dixie.

After committing myself to finding a life, I came to the realization that would mean I might actually have to go out and do something! Clearly, this is not my strong point, (I am, after all, posting this a day late). My 1st step was to make a To-Do List. Lists are very good for people like me, as they allow you to feel a sense of accomplishment at having achieved something, and at the same time you don’t have to actually move all that much.

Number 1 on the list was to visit the gym. As a gay man, I, of course, already belong to a gym. If you don’t they take away the toaster oven you receive when you register with the Homosexual Agenda. However, the last time I went was some time last winter, when my apartment building’s boiler was being refurbished and we were without hot water. (Pretty nice showers, by the way)

My main problem is that every wall of the gym is covered with mirrors. When one is 15 or 20 pounds overweight, (okay, maybe 15 or 20 to some power to be named at a later date,) staring at one-self sweating and turning a disturbing shade of pink while struggling through a workout isn’t “inspirational”.

If stance and technique were all that important while walking I could understand. However, I’m not a member of a Precision Synchronized Treadmill Drill Team, and therefore, mirror gazing does not have a position on my To-Do List.

Maybe tomorrow, but today, this body is going to stay at rest.

Saturnalia (But Not The Good Kind)

2005-08-21T20:07:00.000-04:00

Every 29 years, the planet Saturn returns to the exact spot in the heavens that it held at the moment of your birth. Since the days of Sumeria, Saturn has been known to forebode difficulties, burdensome trials, and painful growth.

This year, Saturn didn’t just return, it unpacked, called dibs on my futon, put its feet up on my coffee table, and is leaving its crap all over my living room. To paraphrase the great Philosopher Margaret Cho — “I just don’t want all of this shit in my house!”

At what point did my life become a really bad student film directed by an alienated Goth chick with an underdeveloped sense of humor? A question, I‘m sure, most people have asked themselves at some point or another.

In every person’s life, a moment comes when you have to ask yourself, “How the hell did I get here?” This is not the life I thought I would have, certainly not the life I hoped for. I’m not even completely sure it qualifies as a life. Of course, I know there is no one to blame but myself for this sorry state of affairs. No one attached an IV of ice cream directly into my arm. No one forced me to take this job (which is accompanied by the sound of my own soul being slowly sucked from my being.) No one made me choose watching reruns of the Nanny over finding a man. All me.

However, I won’t let that keep me from complaining. My Family Motto isn’t “Whingito Ergo Sum” by happenstance.

Which is why I have decided to get one (a life that is), and chronicle my adventures along the way. Mostly, so that those of you who are blithely skipping along, not aware of the fact that not everyone actually has a life, might be a little more aware of what you possess. (Okay, maybe it’s mostly because I enjoy talking about myself, but it’s at least 15% that other thing)

In short, my life sucks, here’s my story…