Friday, July 28, 2006

"Five Muslim Nations Call For End To Fighting"



This Associated Press headline appeared this morning. Of course, five Muslim nations are not calling for an "end to fighting", they are calling for an end to ISRAEL'S military operations. They are not asking Hezbollah to stop doing anything, such as firing rockets into Israeli villages (and major cities for that matter).


"The ministers strongly condemned Israel's military actions and indiscriminate and excessive use of force," the statement said. The countries "called for an immediate and unconditional cease-fire."


Unconditional cease-fire...from Israel.

Thursday, July 27, 2006

COOTER & VERA WANG

So next week on Project Runway someone will be kicked off for breaking one of the rules. Who do you think it will be, and what do you think they've done?

I say it's either that a) someone took their fabrics and needles back to the apartment with them to keep working, or b) someone SABOTAGED another contestant, the drag queen pageant equivalent of stealing someone's wig glue perhaps.

Or maybe it has to do with Michael’s supposed plagiarism?

Or maybe Angela insists on continuing to wear, much less design, those heinous poofy high-rising skirts?

Meanwhile, Manolo’s Shoe Blog agrees that Michael Kors is deeply missed. Love ya, Vera Wang, but as a former fashion editor at Vogue, I expected you to be at least as entertaining as Nina Garcia (which, incidentally, is my roommates’ dog’s name).

In other news, did you know that “Cooter” from the Dukes of Hazzard finds the Dukes of Hazzard movie morally objectionable? I mean, seriously? The Dukes of Hazzard, which I was ABSOLUTELY DEVOTED TO as a child, was some of the most subversive shit to ever be put on television. From the Dukes of Hazzard we learn that the police are both corrupt and dumb. We learned that driving like a maniac is how you beat the system. We learned that everything works out in the end if you break the laws you find objectionable, and life is nothing but shits and giggles if you’ve “been in trouble since the day you was born.” We learned that if you show a little butt cheek through your shorts you can get away with a whooooole lot. We learned that the Rebel Flag is fucking cool. Not exactly Sunday School themes happening on that show!

Further, the man has held onto his stage name…which is COOTER. THE MAN’S NAME IS COOTER.

Wednesday, July 26, 2006

"It's just not...joyous."

I just have one thing to say about the last two episodes of Project Runway.

I DEMAND THE IMMEDIATE RETURN OF MICHAEL KORS.

Creeps, Freaks, and Temp City Remembered

My interview today was a total put-you-through-it moment, which culminated in being asked back to interview with two of the companies on Friday, in the office. I committed, and also made an appointment for Monday with another agency that called, but sadly none of this is looking like the glamorous, easy, gobs-of-money type job change I'm looking for. In fact, I just kind of want out of these interviews I've committed to now, because I can tell even with a significant raise, these jobs wouldn't be anything I'd want to leave the WCA for.

While I was out of the office for hours burning up in my dress shirt and tie, and even before I left the office, really, I was having pangs of guilt. It's just an interview, I kept telling myself. Just seeing what I'm worth out there. I realized upon reviewing my boss's calendars and looking at the other people I work with, that (not to toot my own horn) that place would crumble into chaos without me. Who would the buck be passed to? Who would take care of all the bullshit? Who could possibly handle Boss Lady's bidness without the extensive knowledge of her work and her personal preferences that I have? Nobody, that's who.

I'm loyal. Today I felt in my heart that, even to my own detriment, I'm loyal to the WCA. The agency man asked me if I'd be opposed to working for a university lab that does testing on animals, and my first thought was, "I'd burn the eyes out of monkeys and baby rabbits with my own cigarettes, if the money's right." But there's more to a Good Job than simply how much it pays.

This is no brilliant epiphany or amazing insight into the workings of the world. Nonetheless, it is a realization I had today. I'm relatively comfortable at my job, and definatly know it in and out. There is opportunity for advancement--maybe--though I lied about that among other things to the agency. It was so creepy in there and brought back HORRIBLE memories of the days of living in Temp City and facing the abuses of Wall Street, Law Firms, Insurance Companies, and Devil Wears Prada* wannabe bitches whose sole pleasure in their miserable lives is working your nerves. Whatever can be said about what kind of place the WCA is, it's not that.

Meanwhile at the WCA, everyone was acting like I had two heads, all ga ga over my damn shirt and tie. I lied and said my interview was for part time work, not a replacement job, which really was the intention that lead to getting all these interviews. Anyway, over three years ago I wrote about the magic of ties, and it still holds true. People reacted to me all day--even strangers on the street--with curtsies and bows and throwing flower petals before me as I walked.

On a final note, when I was coming home today this Asian kid with the most freakishly blue eyes I have ever seen, kept looking up at me from his seat. I realized he was staring at me, so I started Staring Contest 2006 which I am known to do, and which I always win. He couldn't have been more than 13 years old, and he was with a girl who looked so much like him she must have been his sister, yet she was black. They shared some of the same DNA but somehow were different races--but all this is besides the point.

He put up a fierce fight in the Staring Contest. So to wear him down a bit, I raised my eyebrows as if to say "WHAT?" He looked away and I had won, I thought. But when he and the girl were getting off the train, he turned back at me and continued to stare as they exited. I said, completely composed and with an air of politeness, "What the fuck are you staring at?" Then they were off the train, the doors closed, he continued to stare, and smiled.

I smiled back, pointed to my nose, and mouthed the words, "Do I have a booger?" He and the girl laughed, continued to stare, and as the train finally rolled off he moved his head along with it.

It was an amusing and interesting exchange, yet one of the creepiest moments of my entire life.



*My review forthcoming; in the meantime read this one.

Monday, July 24, 2006

The Little Things

Today on one of the Secret Deoderant Share Your Secret ads lining the walls of the 57th Street Subway Station, someone had scrawled: I don't wear deoderant -- my secret. Brilliant!

Been a long time. I took the day off work today for a doctor's appointment. Basically I am a disease-infested mess of a filthy human being, and no one will ever love me. But on to happier news.

I've secretly put my resume out there just to see what's popping around town, and with a few tips from a friend who knows about these things, I have apparantly convinced employers in the tri-state area that I am single handedly running the World Church of Assimilation. I have an interview on Wednesday, so we'll see how that goes. The thing is I do like my job but I have to go where the money takes me. And let's face the fact that since I'm not clergy or even a member of the WCA, I can only go so far. But it's just an interview, I keep telling myself. Nonetheless, my boss would be devestated if she knew. If and when I tell her I'm leaving, she will either start crying hysterically, or bash my skull in with a giant crucifix.

I'll have to find someone who knows how to tie a tie because I'm perhaps the only 30 year old gay man who does not know how to do that.

My doctor's office is in Chelsea, and there is nothing like a trip to Chelsea to make a no-self-confidence-having queen like myself want to kick the chair out from underneath me. Though I was cruised by a little construction working homeboy, I still felt like someone was going to call me out on not wearing my burqa. Sharia law is in full affect for pot-bellied bottoms in Chelsea!

In other news, I saw K-rock today to deliver a piece of her mail, and she looks great. Very slim and healthy. We went to the Whole Foods in the Warner Center which is off the chain. She's addicted to Jamba Juice, I'm addicted to iced coffee. The bathrooms in there have hand-dryers that are awesome. They really blow hard and dry the hell out of your hands, unlike most hand dryers that are little piss-streams of hot air that cut off with your hands still soaking wet. It's the little things in life, people. The little things.

Sunday, July 23, 2006

Careless Whisper: George Michael Caught With His Pants Down (So to Speak)

George Michael is in the news again, this time after being busted by News of the World cruising for sex in a London park with a pot-bellied older man.

I’d like to briefly state that George is rich, famous, and pretty good looking for a 43 year old man, so his tastes in men are unexpected (though I’m not judging him for it).

When challenged George, 43, was wild-eyed and trembling. Trying to hide his face under a baseball cap, he screamed:

"I don't believe it! F*** off! If you put those pictures in the paper I'll sue!"

[...]In a sweat, the ashen-faced singer declared: "Are you gay? No? Then f*** off! This is my culture!"


Culture indeed George! Of course, they put the pictures in the paper.

It’s so funny that they call the paparazzi “investigators”. I mean this is a trashy tabloid that’s done this “expose” on ole George, not the police. Then they give an in depth interview with the man he met up with.


[Norman Kirtland, the man he was caught with] told us: "I don't even like George Michael. And I didn't recognise him immediately.

"He sort of came up and got close. He looked kind of brown so I said to him, ‘You're not totally English, are you?' [LOL]

"I told him I'd come all the way up from Brighton and he said, ‘What? Isn't Brighton good enough for this sort of thing?'

"I told him it's highly dangerous at 2am. You'd get your throat cut.

"He told me I could contact him on the Gaydar website and we just started kissing.

"He did it very well. That was one of his major points. Then it was fondling and mutual pleasuring. It wasn't full sex but it was fantastic."

Kirtland's confession then took a bizarre twist as he bragged: "There's a secret that I have which no one knows about. It's a personal thing.

"Most people pull away from it. But George actually seemed to respond.
[What could this be, you think?]

"When we'd finished he said, ‘I've got to go. I've got to go somewhere and chill out.' And that was that.

"OK, I admit I was there for sex. But I'm astonished a man as famous as George should even think about doing it. It's potentially so dangerous."


My whole thing is, George, you are worth millions and millions of pounds. Can’t you just order in for this kind of thing? You’re a fucking legend, man. It’s always going to come out (so to speak)!
A few years ago I participated in a now defunct Delphi Forum with Internet people that I knew from Epinions and the now defunct Written By Me websites. One of those people was a non-religious Christian Lebanese girl that has been on my mind a lot lately. I can’t remember her name, only that her screen name was sometimes “alpaca”. We talked one time about how all the kids in their twenties in Lebanon get out at their first opportunity. But she was going to stay because she loved her country and wanted to help it become the land of plenty it was capable of becoming. Once she sent others and me bars of soap she learned how to make in some course. I don’t have her email address anymore or any contact information.

She’s been on my mind since the bombings started over there. I think Israel is fully within its rights to uproot Hezbollah, but nonetheless there are real people who will suffer from it. It’s a tricky situation and I don’t know the right answer…I just know I hope my old friend is okay?

Friday, July 21, 2006

SUCKS FOR THEM

For the fifth day for many, nearly 100,000 people have been without power in Queens. My last night at J & T's was when the power went out, strangely, in only half their apartment. Others have experienced the same, with varying levels of electricity. It's somewhat random.

I'm so glad we've got power at my apartment! But I can't help but wonder if this isn't a sign of things to come...for the nation. In other parts of the world, they expect this kind of thing daily and for weeks at a time. I'm reminded that electricity is not magic, and water does not just appear from the sink. We have abundance in the United States. I try not to take it for granted.

The Past That Made Us Old...

A wise person once said, "Earrings don't make you beautiful...money makes you beautiful."


Well how right she was! A study of twins finds that the more money you have, the slower you age. Which may explain why I'm a thirty year old man trapped in a 147 year old body.

Tuesday, July 18, 2006

No one else can feel it for you...

Oh looord, I'm going through it. I'm going to get over this personal diary shit in a little while* and return to the PROFOUND and PROVOCATIVE socio-poltical commentary that brings in the loyal readers. (/sarcasm) But for now, listen to this shit:

The other day I overheard my former boss talking to my present boss. Apparantly, Former Boss Man is going to apply for a different position at the World Church of Assimilation. Boss Lady gave him her blessing and said that, though she would hate to lose him, he would be great in the position and she fully supports him. So.

I'm standing outside filing and it's Friday afternoon--which means everyone has left the office except for me, and this time Boss Lady. She starts asking me how I'm liking the job and how I've done so well at it, and how she couldn't make it without me, and bla bla bla. Praise, praise, praise. I really appreciate such positive reinforcement and I know she likes me and likes my work. So it was a happy day. Things like trust and confidence take a while to gain from others. PLUS, I'm fantasizing that she's asking me all these questions because she has ME in mind for Former Boss Man's job if and when he gets the new position (purely fantasy, but still...anything's possible).

Well leave it to me to RUIN that beautiful moment by fucking up on Monday. It's a long story, but basically I did something too quickly without checking with her first. She sent me a nice enough email about it, as she is travelling, but I could tell she was majorly DISPLEASED. So now I'm starting back from scratch to prove that it is in fact MY milkshake that brings all the boys to the yard.

I replied to her with the most apologetic, butt-kissing email I have ever written, which was what needed to be done. I took full responsibility, shielding others involved who were also in the direct line of cupping, and owned the mistake. Which I think is admirable if I'm allowed to compliment myself. Still, I screwed up. It's not the end of the world or the downfall of the Church, but...WHY do I do stupid things like that? The thing is I thought I was solving all the world's problems, which makes it EXTRA dumb.

More on this saga as it develops.**

---------------------------------

I've been housesitting at Jen & T's while there on their honeymoon and it's been cool to have a nice apartment to myself. I have eaten them out of house and home, but kept it pretty much in order. They have two GIANT cats. The boy cat, Mose, is really the most obese cat I've ever seen. He is the size of a three year old child. He looks like he belongs in a jungle somewhere, not in a living room. He takes human sized shits that I have the pleasure of scooping out of the litter every morning. Anyway, he is wary of me, though he's come around a bit. He mostly stays in his favorite corner coming out only when tempted with treats. I call him "Fat Boy". He gives me these looks that say, "You're fat too, WHITE BOY!"

The girl cat, Abbie, is infatuated with me and meows constantly. In fact, the other morning I rolled over, opened my eyes, and through the blurred vision of 6:00 AM, I see her. In my face. Meowing. It really freaked me out and I think my JERKING BACK IN A PANIC and HOLLERING scared her away for a few hours.



*This is probably entirely untrue as demonstrated by this ** statement.

Quickie Nonsense

I need a promotion with raise, a part time job that is 10 hours per week only after six on Tuesdays and Thursdays, a new apartment that is spacious and under $600/month in either Astoria, Sunnyside, or below 42nd Street in Manhattan ONLY, a $15,000 interest free loan, and someone who is both cute and smart who is devoted to me to a fault. I DON'T ASK FOR MUCH.

So my roommate has shingles. SHINGLES. He’s only like 34 years old. My boss had shingles a while back, and she’s in her late 50s, which is when you’re supposed to get shingles. However, poor Lito has them at a young age, and I hear that they’re a bitch. Very painful and he already has other painful medical issues. So send nice thoughts.

Monday, July 17, 2006

Coney Island.

I went to Coney Island for the first time Sunday. I have to say I quite enjoyed it there. It's a surreal place. In many ways similar to Myrtle Beach, except without Confederate flag towels displayed in front of beachware stores.

I saw the famous Cyclone rollercoaster. It was right beside the main stage of the Siren Music Festival (the point of the journey to Coney Island was to see the Scissor Sisters, who were great by the way).

I am here to report to you that the Cyclone is the most rickety ass, rotten wooded death trap that I've ever seen. I wanted to ride it of course, but decided not to as one part of my party absolutely refused so I stuck with them.

I'm in total denial that the world is going to hell in a handbasket. The middle east "situtaion" is stressing me out and with that and all the other misery in the world included but not limited to tsunamis and rockets fired -- I can't deal. I'm on the verge of becoming one of those End Times people. Or an alcoholic.

I wanted to give this blog so much more today, but I'm feeling like a rode hard, hung up wet piece of crap rigth about now. Note to self: No drinking on Sunday nights. Additional note to self: Do not disregard the previous note.

Friday, July 14, 2006

The Waiting Is the Hardest Part

The Poetry Friday Word of the Day from Mona is "patient". In the words of Sandra Bernhard, "I'm waiting, as often I am..." Or perhaps in the words of Tom Petty, "The waiting is the hardest part." Or perhaps ole Madge Ritchie sums it up with, "Time goes by so slowly for those who wait." Waiting is about patience. Patience is about waiting. I wait a lot. I am borderline patient/impatient. Time is the fire in which we burn. So without further ado-do:

The Waiting Is the Hardest Part
by Stroll

I'm waiting.
The wait never seemed so long
years ago in younger days,
days of smoother skin
and longer hair.
These days time stands still,
the clock's hands swing
around in circles
and end up somewhere
where they had always
been before. Time
does not change like I do.
My skin bubbles,
my breath turns to ice.
I look up and wait
for some perfect shadow,
for some statue better than the model,
for some furnace to cook away
impatience turned to hopelessness.

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Thursday, July 13, 2006

Crazy Bad Santa Man Now Taking on Dog Shit Violations

Perhaps you remember "Bad Santa" -- the crazy man in Brooklyn who had a gory Santa display in front of his house -- that outraged the NY Post and the man's neighborhood.

Well, now he is in trouble for smearing dog shit on a little girl who did not pick up after her dog. As you know, I have strong feelings about this behavior.

That man is clearly a nutjob, but I have to say...to me, he's kind of a hometown hero.

Tuesday, July 11, 2006

Run Ins

A lot has been going on in the world between the time I left for Orlando and the present. North Korea fired a missle at us, Ken Lay died avoiding thereby avoiding his sentence, some New York crazy bitter old man blew up his building in an attempt to not only kill himself but to spite his ex-wife, and then, today, Bombay was ravaged by a terrorist attack on their trains killing a lot of people.

So it’s kind of irrelevant that I had a fun vacation, and even more irrelevant that yesterday in a completely chance encounter I ran into my former flame of porn notoriety. He is a dancer (not that kind of dancer, it’s a more respectable kind) in some theme park in Westchester, and on his day off, happened to be headed to visit a friend in Queens.

He said to me, “You look better.” I was like, “Better than what? Chopped liver?!” The little asshole. He looked good though. I have to admit. But he’s deleted from my phone (and thereby my life as the phone holds the key to whether one is in or out) yet much like religion I can’t shake him. He calls every now and then. Then I run into him at random. Still LOUD and obnoxious as ever. Kind of embarrassing to be in public with at times, frankly. At no other time in my life would I have been on that train at that moment, lest I was headed here to Jen & T’s, where I’m enjoying their apartment all to myself (well, except for their two obscenely obese cats) while I take care of things…not like there’s much to monitor, but.

I know he’ll be calling soon, and I’ll probably give in and see him against my better judgement.

Monday, July 10, 2006

The Boys of Summer

Wikipedia defines psychosis as a generic psychiatric term for a mental state in which thought and perception are severely impaired. Persons experiencing a psychotic episode may experience hallucinations, hold delusional beliefs (e.g., grandiose or paranoid delusions), demonstrate personality changes and exhibit disorganized thinking (see thought disorder). This is often accompanied by lack of insight into the unusual or bizarre nature of such behavior, difficulties with social interaction and impairments in carrying out the activities of daily living. A psychotic episode is often described as involving a "loss of contact with reality.”

I’ve been there, but I'm acutely aware of my psycho-social dysfunctions.

For quite a while now, I have been absolutely obsessed with the fact that there is a bedbug epidemic in this country, particularly in New York and Florida. I am absolutely terrified that I am going to somehow bring bedbugs into my home. I have read practically every single word about bedbugs on the internet so I do consider myself something of an expert. Believe it, when I got to Florida the first thing I did was rip the sheets off the bed and do an insanely thoroughly search for their signs and symptoms. Even after I had found no evidence, I could not shake the feeling that there was still bedbug potential. My hotel is not exactly a five star attraction (and the room that I stayed in this time was particularly nasty), but it is where the loyalties of my hotel dollars lays. The thing is, unlike other pests such as roaches and mice, bedbugs are not concerned with how nasty your residence is. They feed entirely on blood, so it doesn’t matter if you’re a disgusting human being living in filth or a freakishly clean person that constantly sanitizes. The worst thing about them that I’ve uncovered in my extensive research is how hard the little fuckers are to get rid of. That and the nasty welts they leave from their bites. I have had no welts or even little bites other than an occasional mosquito (which of course sends me into a panic about what it really was that bit me) but I’m still petrified. I vacuumed my suitcase upon returning home.

When I arrived at the car rental place, there was a tiny bug crawling on the reservation lady’s collar. I told her to hold still and got off with a napkin for her. This only fueled the fire of my bedbug panic, even though, as an expert on the subject, I know that they are unlikely to be crawling around in broad daylight on somebody’s collar. She thanked me and later said, “Now I have the heeby jeebies.” Lady, you have no idea.

But thankfully during the trip there were no bedbugs, only the heightened effect of my delusional parasitosis. Which persists.

The car rental lady gave me a wink and a nod like she was really hooking me up after I got that heinous bug off of her. Thinking I was going to go out and find a convertible 'stang, what do I find but a Ford Focus. Only the finest for me, you know how we roll. But not only was it a Ford Focus, it was the MOST PURPLE thing I have ever seen in my life. Bright, shiny, metallic, obnoxious purple. I think she thought I'd like that cause she knew I was gay. Anyway, I took my little friend Tony on a ride to the store and he said he didn't think it was too obnoxious. He of course wears a doo rag and smokes black-and-milds so he's not really an authority on taste, but whatever. He's sweet enough so his opinion counts.

I would like to reiterate the fact that I had so much fun in Florida and did not want to come back. I love Florida and I’m not sure why. I’m sure if I lived there I would grow to hate it like I do every other place on earth, but it’s just so…tropical. It rains like two hours off and on every day so it always feels like the sun after the storm. It’s hot and humid, weather conditions I enjoy.

I met so many people which is pretty out of character for me, because I’m thought to be standoffish when in fact I am just painfully shy (and psychotic as described above). But put me in some skimpy swimming trunks and throw me out beside a pool ordering vodka sodas from the poolside servers and laying under a shady palm tree watching all the little lizards scurry in the grass, and I’m suddenly Mr. Fucking Popularity. A trail of broken hearts indeed. I think part of the pleasure of my trip was mostly directed to how all the boys respond to me down there. I can't be sure, but I think it has something to do with my milkshake and how it does, in fact, bring all the boys to the yard. What can I say, I was among my tribe--southern people wiling out.

One guy that I met early on in the week was cute enough, but just a little to full of his own skinny black ass for my tastes. All thugged out and hyper-masculine, he told me his name was "D". In the grand tradition of working nerves, I had to ask: "Is that short for Diedra?"

He asked me if I had any "hang ups" and I asked him what the fuck a "hang up" is. He said what he meant was, would I freak out if he started doing lines. I said, "Lines of what?" He looked at me like I had asked him what's two plus two. I mean, I was pretty sure he was referring to cocaine, but I had to clarify. I told him that where I was coming from, that could mean anything.

After he told me he couldn't wait to see me naked, I told him how presumptuous that was. I mean my standards are pretty low mother fucker, but don't get ahead of yourself.

By Saturday night I was buying drag queens shots and slapping strippers on the ass, just balls to the wall crazy. Of all the men that I met and all the dreams I shattered among all the numbers I gave out refusing to take any (because I'm not going to call you), I truly liked this one little guy Chris. From Gainesville. He and his wild ass friends spent the night with me on Saturday night. I of course had to get up early to return the car and make my flight (I barely made it). So he got up with me and walked me out, and, against the judgement of someone who works for the World Church of Assimilation, I just left those boys asleep in my hotel room, and Chris sitting at the table, hopefully dreaming of me.

If history has taught us anything, it's that I'll probably never hear from him again.

Everyone in Florida is fat so I look anorexic there.

I'm back from my trip, which was fucking fantastic, and I didn't want to come back. I am in my cubicle for the first time in what feels like centuries and it is profoundly depressing. Meanwhile, there has been little picking up of the slack around here so I'm buried under papers and mail and FedExes and grant requests, and on top of all that someone used my computer and screwed my settings all up, not to mention displaced the seemingly chaotic yet actually delicately organized flow of documents on on my desk. The printed items I've been waiting on--that my boss has asked about repeatedly--finally came but have an ERROR. By the way it's a good thing I'm not going to have any kids because they would not be able to go to college because I spent so much money on my little excursion. And I'm already plotting my return, I just have to figure out a way to make some more coins.

Details of Florida Extravaganza 2006 are forthcoming. In summary, though, I of course left a trail of broken hearts and shattered dreams. I'm staying at the newly married couple's apartment to watch their cats until the 20th. Last night I fell out at like 8:45 despite the fact that the neighbors who live above them apparantly jog around their apartment in metal shoes, that is, when they're not jumping on pogo sticks.

Sunday, July 02, 2006

The Road to Hell Is Paved with Good Intentions

First, a word from ole Madge Ritchie: “There’s only so much you can learn in one place; the more that I wait the more time that I waste.”

I’ve had such good intentions for saving money for my big vacation, but in reality I’ve been in a whirlwind of fun and excitement, spending money like I own the Universe. On Friday night I went to restaurante 718 on Ditmars here in Astoria with Scatty Arbuckle and his girlfriends. Ditmars is the Uptown of Astoria. It’s gotten really nice up there. It was a lot of fun to be out in a restaurant where they don’t ask you if it’s to go or to stay for a change. It was delicious – I give them rave reviews, though the portions are a bit small for my overeating ass. I highly recommend the Champagne Mojito, as drinks go. Goes down easy, but what a bang!

NEXT, I’m at the Wedding of the Century. My homegirl Jennifer, formerly known as J-Boog(ie), was a vision. Absolutely beautiful, and her now-husband was very very handsome. It was a by-the-book Episcopalian service which was funny because outside of the family, most guests were unreligious rock-n-roll sorts including the bride and groom. My hardcore dyke feminist activist trailblazer Renaissance woman friend Pam read from Song of Solomon, which was a highlight of all the night’s irony. Jen said she only accepted the churchy ceremony because they had a woman preacher.

The fancy reception followed and I tried to keep up the illusion that I do not have absolutely horrible table manners and that I know what I’m doing in this kind of social setting. In order to remain relaxed I of course had to drink champagne by the bottle. Seriously though it was a fun reception and I had to cut a rug or two. Jen’s people love me so I needed not be ashamed of my not-knowing-which-fork-to-use ass or the fact that I had to cup one of the caterers for shoving that damn black box of fancy-ass triscuits in my face repeatedly. (Though all the hors d'oeuvres were delicious.) Then we all went back to K-rock and Tommy D’s place where I drank one too many beers and have been feeling nauseous all day. Only The Butch Stroll of brunch aka Dim Sum could cure it.

By the way I shaved my head down to like ¼ inch all the way around. I love it, though I have phantom limb syndrome with the little piece in the front I used to twirl constantly. I go there for the anxiety releasing comfort of twirling that little piece, and it’s gone! All the people at work who slap my hand for hair-twirling and constantly tell me I’m doing it to the point of annoying me can kiss my ass now. I cut that shit OFF! You should be happy.

Madonna again tomorrow night. Round two on the floor and, speaking of hair, Ima try to come home with a clump of her hair complete with scalp. (kidding…)

I saw The Devil Wears Prada which I loved. Meryl Streep in the bitch boss from hell role was perfect. She’s the reason to see this movie. And it’s a pretty good story too, I have to admit.

On The Fourth of July I head to O-town until Sunday. I’m excited, though I will have to address my new extreme obsessive compulsive neurosis of a travel phobia when you hear from me next. Right now, I’ve got to start packing.

Holla!

--Stroll