Saturday, March 31, 2007

Don’t act sad or surprised; let’s be friends, civilized.

Last night I raged against the machine and basically unleashed a rain of fire on Manhattan. Lord have mercy, I looked at myself in the bathroom mirror at one point last night, thought, "You are a MESS" and was completely fine with it.

Anyway. As I have mentioned earlier, I am up for a promotion at work. Ironically this position will involve work with drug and alcohol issues, in which I happen to be well experienced. I’m not sure I should mention that vast experience in the interview process, however.

Now, some true colors have been shining through as late and I don’t know what to make of it. The administrative assistant for the office that the position I’m after is my homegirl. Let’s call her A. A and I eat lunch together from time to time, along with D, who is in my former position.

A is extremely moody. I’ve learned this and when she is in a mood – which is more often than not – I just avoid her. She can come to me, I figure, if she wants to be friendly and chit chat. But the other day she was in a pleasant mood, and we were talking in my little area, and she said casually, “I think I’m going to apply for that position.” I replied, “What position?” and of course it’s the position I applied for as soon as they put it up on the website. So I asked her, “Can I tell you something in confidence?”, and disclosed that I have applied for that position, not to discourage her from doing so but so if and when I get the job, she won’t be shocked or think I went behind or back, or whatever.

She was fine with it. We had lunch later that day, and everything seemed fine.

As an aside, the next day, she had asked me while I was out to pick something up for her, and later I changed my mind about wanting to go out, so I asked D to pick it up and he forgets to do so. So she was pissed off at D, but I apologized because I own the fact that if you say you’re going to do something for someone you should do it. But it’s not that big a deal – but she was mad.

Whatever, I figured it would pass, it’s not exactly like “pick up my kids”, it was something that wasn’t going to ruin her life.

Anyway, the next day, I’m in another friend’s office, T, and she mentions that she had been talking with Boss Lady at the big meeting they were at together, and Boss Lady was telling her how she’s pretty certain I’m going to get that job and things are going to be changing. I told her I was excited, but trying not to get my hopes up because I’ve learned a thing or two about curveballs up in the WCA. The thing is I’ve known T for many years and I feel particularly close to her, and think of her as someone I can really, really trust with these kinds of things.

We talk further, and I say, “It’s a tricky situation…” and I tell her about the exchange between A and I, but only after she said that she hopes that A doesn’t just assume that she’s going to move right into the position because she works in that office already. She agreed that I had done the right thing by telling her. Then we talked about Boss Lady’s concern about who will take my position, and it just so happens it’s between A and D. Now the thing is, I don’t think D can do it. And A might could do it, but her moodiness would last for about TEN MINUTES with Boss Lady, who constantly running bitches. Nonetheless, no one will ever do it like I do it. Honestly, I don’t know how the place would go on if I weren’t there. I do everything -- it’s like running a daycare in many ways. I don’t have the title or the salary to show it, but I really am HBIC up in that piece. WHAT.

But I digress. I really don’t care one way or the other who gets THAT job as long as I get MY job. Boss Lady has been talking to me with certainty that I will be getting the position, although the Director (who is under Boss Lady) has not shown me such certainty. Boss Lady even asked me if I wanted to ask her anything about the position, at which point my diarrhea of the mouth disclosed to her that I am awful at interviews but there’s nothing I really want to ask her about it at this time.

So after T and I talked, I stepped off, and when I return A is in her office, and as I approach to say “Hey, I haven’t seen you all day!” they become completely and instantly silent. A just looked at me with a half grin and a head-turn. So as it was seemingly obvious that they were talking about me, I left, and when I left the clincher happened: they closed the door.

The question is this: Is this about the job or the fucking item I didn’t pick up? And if it’s about the job, then why was she so cool no-hard-feelings about it, until the next day?

Thursday, March 29, 2007

There but for the grace of God go I



This crazy homeless woman (click for big) was across the street in the park, not bothering anyone really, until the police rolled up and chased her off. She then crossed the road, talking to herself the whole time, while everyone in the little smoking area kind of chuckled and recoiled. As crazy people are known to do, she selected me from the group to point at and engage in a discussion of some bullshit I couldn't really understand. Then she decided to lay down in the doorway, while still chattering on, and, noticing that the building has something to do with Christ (maybe the big ass cross gives it away), she begins praising and thanking Jesus, while pointing to the sky. She also went into something about "photographs" so, I took her picture.

I have a lot of sympathy for these kinds of people. I can't quite explain it, but I relate to them, especially the shunning society and talking-to-self elements.

I CAN HAS HARD DAY?

Tonight, I will take cat form.

P.S. I'm in the market for a hairless cat. Must be hairless. Preferably from a shelter of some sort. Holla at a bitch and keep me posted.

Wednesday, March 28, 2007

A Reminder of Sorts

from the neighborhood:

Tuesday, March 27, 2007

Lady in Waiting

You Are 48% Lady

You're part lady, part modern woman.
Etiquette is important to you, but you brush aside rules that are outdated or silly.


via

I was also going to do the "What alcoholic drink are you?" nonsensical quiz, but I think it's pretty clear that I'm a kamikaze.

Sunday, March 25, 2007

No mystical desgin, no cosmic lover pre-assigned...

Geni.com is an amazing little genealogy site that is more simple and useful than software I’ve paid for in the past. I have long had the desire to map out my ancestry, and once I got as far back as 17th Century Germany, although I don’t know how flawed the research was given that I was relying on what other people had found. Geni.com has resparked my interest, though, and I’m really going to have to talk to some of the older matrons of the family for some leads on names, places, dates of birth, and what is known in general about those who came before.

I am the younger of two children, and sadly, my brother and I have never gotten along as far back as I can remember. There are some pleasant memories of childhood, of course, but mostly I remember trying to avoid him and/or being at each other’s throats. We were always so different, and I dare say that my brother was bitterly jealous of me because I was the “good kid” and he was the troublemaker. He and his trouble, which goes on to this day, endlessly embarrassed me. He on the other hand is tormented by the embarrassment one must endure in that place we come from for having a gay brother. (Still the talk of the town after all these years – not a lot goes on down there, see.) Nowadays he’s a little mentally ill and highly unstable, and still lives at home with my mom and dad draining their resources and being generally pitiful. I love my brother and I’ll be damned if anybody besides me can say anything bad about him. But the fact remains that when we are in each other’s presence something awful will likely erupt.

That’s neither here nor there, but it is, I think, related to the recoil-from-family aspect of my life that truly pains me. I love them more than anything in this world. My mom and dad are two of the best people to have ever lived. My grandmother, aunts, uncles, cousins, babies, all those people are great and family in the truest, most robust sense of the word. However, they don’t know me because there are elements of my life they can’t handle. Sometimes I think they want the truth, but, to quote a movie, they can’t handle the truth. And I’m not just talking about the gayness; I’m talking about everything that makes me, my trials and tribulations, the things that concern me. We are a “let sleeping dogs lay” people. We are a people who do not like to address the skeletons in the closet or the dirt under the rug. I am the adventurous one, the explorer, the one who moved to New York for many reasons not the least of which is so I can be myself. I am so different from them, I would swear I was adopted if I didn’t get those strong genes for big-round-head, eye-bags, and painful good looks. ;)

Anyway, there’s enough of that estrangement to fill volumes, but my point is about genealogy. I will never have kids. My brother will likely never have kids either. So my poor mom doesn’t get daughters in law or grandbabies. My father’s surname, then, pretty much ends with us. This thought makes me feel panicked for some reason. I know there is no more value in Carrying On The Name than what we as a society place on it, but it is something that is important to me that I will never be able to achieve thus ending a fine lineage of Carolina Moravians who made Winston-Salem what it is. Perhaps it is because there will be no more of us after we last two siblings that I kind of desperately feel the need to connect to the past as there will be no connection to the future, because there will be no future. Just an unimposing street sign that bares our family name on the outskirts of a “revitalized” downtown.

Still out there in the dark...

I voted for Sanjaya.

Saturday, March 24, 2007

The glimmering creatures are full of lies.

Last night S.D. and I went on a whirlwind tour of bars and nightclubs, as I am known to do from time to time, and with my perfect new haircut, freshly exfoliated and moisturized skin, new shoes, and a smile on my face, my proverbial milkshake did in fact bring all the boys to the metaphorical yard. It was good for my self esteem to get out and get in people's faces a little bit. Crowds though, honey. I guess the good places are the good places because everybody goes there. There was a VoV (Violence on Vodka) moment when a bathroom dispute arose in deceptively named bar Posh, but I will not be cut off in a line. I don't care how many times you're counting off the order of who's next.

I know who's next. His friend decided not to challenge me, but when I emerged from my righteous use of the toilet, there was a challenge issued via eyeballs for me to get in the counting-off culprits face. In answer to Mark Goodman's question, "Did you do it?" -- you know I did it. Stand down, bitch.

As usual, the beautiful boys dangle from strings, and as I drowned myself in vodka I become increasingly fond of this young man whose name I can't remember (and probably forgot within seconds of him telling me) who was PERFECT and kind of feeling his moment with me. Then he says to me that he only likes European guys, so I was thinking "Well then go to EUROPE", but the gears shifted and I was then in the hands of a beautiful man who took my number but will probably never call because that's just how it works. Also a friendly visitor to our nice City from DC stole my heart like they all do. It is so painful sometimes to be this thin and gorgeous. It hurts setting such a standard. ;)

Anyway, my existential crisis and psycho-social developmental disorder that has been plaguing me has waned a little bit, but I got nothin'. So here is a poem that always inspires.

The Ballad of the Lonely Masturbator
by Anne Sexton


The end of the affair is always death.
She's my workshop. Slippery eye,
out of the tribe of myself my breath
finds you gone. I horrify
those who stand by. I am fed.
At night, alone, I marry the bed.

Finger to finger, now she's mine.
She's not too far. She's my encounter.
I beat her like a bell. I recline
in the bower where you used to mount her.
You borrowed me on the flowered spread.
At night, alone, I marry the bed.

Take for instance this night, my love,
that every single couple puts together
with a joint overturning, beneath, above,
the abundant two on sponge and feather,
kneeling and pushing, head to head.
At night, alone, I marry the bed.

I break out of my body this way,
an annoying miracle. Could I
put the dream market on display?
I am spread out. I crucify.
My little plum is what you said.
At night, alone, I marry the bed.

Then my black-eyed rival came.
The lady of water, rising on the beach,
a piano at her fingertips, shame
on her lips and a flute's speech.
And I was the knock-kneed broom instead.
At night, alone, I marry the bed.

She took you the way a women takes
a bargain dress off the rack
and I broke the way a stone breaks.
I give back your books and fishing tack.
Today's paper says that you are wed.
At night, alone, I marry the bed.

The boys and girls are one tonight.
They unbutton blouses. They unzip flies.
They take off shoes. They turn off the light.
The glimmering creatures are full of lies.
They are eating each other. They are overfed.
At night, alone, I marry the bed.

Friday, March 23, 2007

Coincidence? I think not. Okay, yeah, it's probably coincidence.

I saw the not-Tariq on the bus this morning. It makes sense that he would be on that bus, which runs from the airport, where he works. Still...I had the whole mouth agape thing happening again and forced, forced myself not to stare at him.

He may be the new blue-eyed Asian stalker in my life.

Thursday, March 22, 2007

White Parents have Black Baby

There are so many sociological issues involved in this sperm mixup, one could write a dissertation or two.

P.S. What's up with lawyers named Howard Stern?

"Why don't you fuck your whole movie, 'cause that's what you're doing"

These outtakes from I Heart Huckabees -- one of my favorite movies of all time, really -- are amusing and disturbing. Watch Lily Tomlin and notoriously tempermental director David O. Russell go at it. He really loses his shit at one point, telling Lily to "go fuck yourself," she brilliantly replies, "Why don't you go fuck your whole movie, 'cause that's what you're doing."

Note the crew-member recoiling in horror by the door on the right. LOL

An Urgent Matter

Dear Techy People: Let's say you have a voicemail that you want to save as an .mp3 or .wav or something to your computer. What's a relatively easy way to do this?

--Stroll

Wednesday, March 21, 2007

Baby Shower Ideas

Here is a funny post about some creepy ass baby items. Might be of particular interest to K of LBT who has recently begun the procreation process.

WXII Anchor Charged with DWI

My mom told me that Tolly Carr, a co-anchor for the news on WXII of my hometown Winston-Salem, NC, was charged with DWI after running over and killing a man one early morning last week. She was surprisingly shook up by this. I think she had a connection to him from town (she works at a place where you eventually see everyone) and from TV. He was well-liked, known to be very friendly. It's tragic for him and the WXII family, of course, but it's no doubt devestating to the dead young man's family.

This YouTube site has a number of videos from WXII that cover the story.

My thoughts on drunk driving, which I have shared with my brother numerous times, are this. If you hurt yourself due to drunk driving that will suck, and if you kill yourself drunk driving then you won't be around to worry about it. But if you hurt or kill someone else that is something that you will have to live with for the rest of your life and the concious of any moral human being will weigh heavy with that more than any self-inflicted damage. I'm sure that Tolly Carr is a decent human being, made an error in judgement by driving himself and his passenger after drinking too much, and is suffering for this as he will for the rest of his life. I also feel sympathy for the family of the deceased. I'm sure the unexpectedness and needlessness of his death makes it even more hard for them to cope.

Monday, March 19, 2007

The way the universe works

St. Patrick's day is a big deal in New York City. I heretofore ban any holiday that requires a parade, including the gay one and except maybe Halloween. If I had seen one more skank with green hair I might have lost it. Or boys puffing their chests out in drunken rowdiness. I was throwin' 'bows all the way to 84th Street, and during my journey I saw one timefighting rode-hard-hung-up-wet lady in green crying from her blood shot red, drunk eyes, being ushered into another bar by a friend. Honey, there are two events that can happen while drinking heavily that indicate it’s time to definitely call it a night (or day as it were): 1) when your face is in your palms on the bar, and 2) if at any point you start crying.

I spent Thursday night and all day Friday at a hotel near La Guardia for a meeting of big-shots that moved at a surprisingly nice pace and was, in the end, pretty informational and enjoyable. Once the snow started, however, everyone panicked because their flights home would inevitably be delayed. We managed to get them all rooms for an additional night and to wish them well before I was whisked off by the car service to my home, which is no more than five miles away.

Returning to the office after two days away, I am reminded of all the work that has to be done today and wonder if I will have to stay late today. Paper breeds paper in this office, and I have an endless stack to sort through, travel arrangements to be made for countless incompetents, hotel contracts to alter and room lists to create. I am overwhelmed already and I've been here for less than forty five minutes.

Thursday night at the hotel I was running back and forth trying to get everything set up in the room for the meeting the following day, no doubt looking exhausted and disheveled, and lo and behold if, while waiting on the elevator, I don’t see my criminal-record-challenged trysexual/buysexual love interest coming out of the gift shop. Let’s call him Tariq (because that’s his name).

Except that it wasn’t really Tariq. The site of this doppelgaenger, however, still filled me with confusion, as I haven't heard from him in ages. I stood there, mouth agape, eyes bugging out of my head, and the not-Tariq, some kind of delivery person or hotel-employee, looked back at me, perhaps finding it strange that I was staring so profusely, and said..."How are you?"

"Doing okay, how are you?"

And that was that. The moments I run into attractive people are always the days when I’m looking particularly rough (maybe there's just too many of those days happening in general). For instance, there is this little shorty here in the building, so cute and sweet, and whenever we cross paths he gives me this gigantic smile, and speaks. I am absolutely in love with him. Of course every time I see him I have a caveman beard happening, sunken eyeballs, and a desperate need for a haircut. I never could run into him on a day when I am fresh from the barber shop, with clean exfoliated skin and a good night's sleep. It's just not how the universe works.

In other news I saw Little Miss Sunshine (loved it) and Prime (it was okay).

More later...

Thursday, March 15, 2007

Flee On Your Donkey

by Anne Sexton

Because there was no other place
to flee to,
I came back to the scene of the disordered senses,
came back last night at midnight,
arriving in the thick June night
without luggage or defenses,
giving up my car keys and my cash,
keeping only a pack of Salem cigarettes
the way a child holds on to a toy.
I signed myself in where a stranger
puts the inked-in X's—
for this is a mental hospital,
not a child's game.

Today an intern knocks my knees,
testing for reflexes.
Once I would have winked and begged for dope.
Today I am terribly patient.
Today crows play black-jack
on the stethoscope.

Everyone has left me
except my muse,
that good nurse.
She stays in my hand,
a mild white mouse.

The curtains, lazy and delicate,
billow and flutter and drop
like the Victorian skirts
of my two maiden aunts
who kept an antique shop.

Hornets have been sent.
They cluster like floral arrangements on the screen.
Hornets, dragging their thin stingers,
hover outside, all knowing,
hissing: the hornet knows.
I heard it as a child
but what was it that he meant?
The hornet knows!
What happened to Jack and Doc and Reggy?
Who remembers what lurks in the heart of man?
What did The Green Hornet mean, he knows?
Or have I got it wrong?
Is it The Shadow who had seen
me from my bedside radio?

Now it's Dinn, Dinn, Dinn!
while the ladies in the next room argue
and pick their teeth.
Upstairs a girl curls like a snail;
in another room someone tries to eat a shoe;
meanwhile an adolescent pads up and down
the hall in his white tennis socks.
A new doctor makes rounds
advertising tranquilizers, insulin, or shock
to the uninitiated.

Six years of such small preoccupations!
Six years of shuttling in and out of this place!
O my hunger! My hunger!
I could have gone around the world twice
or had new children - all boys.
It was a long trip with little days in it
and no new places.

In here,
it's the same old crowd,
the same ruined scene.
The alcoholic arrives with his gold culbs.
The suicide arrives with extra pills sewn
into the lining of her dress.
The permanent guests have done nothing new.
Their faces are still small
like babies with jaundice.

Meanwhile,
they carried out my mother,
wrapped like somebody's doll, in sheets,
bandaged her jaw and stuffed up her holes.
My father, too. He went out on the rotten blood
he used up on other women in the Middle West.
He went out, a cured old alcoholic
on crooked feet and useless hands.
He went out calling for his father
who died all by himself long ago -
that fat banker who got locked up,
his genes suspened like dollars,
wrapped up in his secret,
tied up securely in a straitjacket.

But you, my doctor, my enthusiast,
were better than Christ;
you promised me another world
to tell me who
I was.

I spent most of my time,
a stranger,
damned and in trance—that little hut,
that naked blue-veined place,
my eyes shut on the confusing office,
eyes circling into my childhood,
eyes newly cut.
Years of hints
strung out—a serialized case history—
thirty-three years of the same dull incest
that sustained us both.
You, my bachelor analyst,
who sat on Marlborough Street,
sharing your office with your mother
and giving up cigarettes each New Year,
were the new God,
the manager of the Gideon Bible.

I was your third-grader
with a blue star on my forehead.
In trance I could be any age,
voice, gesture—all turned backward
like a drugstore clock.
Awake, I memorized dreams.
Dreams came into the ring
like third string fighters,
each one a bad bet
who might win
because there was no other.

I stared at them,
concentrating on the abyss
the way one looks down into a rock quarry,
uncountable miles down,
my hands swinging down like hooks
to pull dreams up out of their cage.
O my hunger! My hunger!

Once, outside your office,
I collapsed in the old-fashioned swoon
between the illegally parked cars.
I threw myself down,
pretending dead for eight hours.
I thought I had died
into a snowstorm.
Above my head
chains cracked along like teeth
digging their way through the snowy street.
I lay there
like an overcoat
that someone had thrown away.
You carried me back in,
awkwardly, tenderly,
with help of the red-haired secretary
who was built like a lifeguard.
My shoes,
I remember,
were lost in the snowbank
as if I planned never to walk again.

That was the winter
that my mother died,
half mad on morphine,
blown up, at last,
like a pregnant pig.
I was her dreamy evil eye.
In fact,
I carried a knife in my pocketbook—
my husband's good L. L. Bean hunting knife.
I wasn't sure if I should slash a tire
or scrape the guts out of some dream.

You taught me
to believe in dreams;
thus I was the dredger.
I held them like an old woman with arthritic fingers,
carefully straining the water out—
sweet dark playthings,
and above all, mysterious
until they grew mournful and weak.
O my hunger! My hunger!
I was the one
who opened the warm eyelid
like a surgeon
and brought forth young girls
to grunt like fish.

I told you,
I said—
but I was lying—
that the kife was for my mother . . .
and then I delivered her.

The curtains flutter out
and slump against the bars.
They are my two thin ladies
named Blanche and Rose.
The grounds outside
are pruned like an estate at Newport.
Far off, in the field,
something yellow grows.

Was it last month or last year
that the ambulance ran like a hearse
with its siren blowing on suicide—
Dinn, dinn, dinn!—
a noon whistle that kept insisting on life
all the way through the traffic lights?

I have come back
but disorder is not what it was.
I have lost the trick of it!
The innocence of it!
That fellow-patient in his stovepipe hat
with his fiery joke, his manic smile—
even he seems blurred, small and pale.
I have come back,
recommitted,
fastened to the wall like a bathroom plunger,
held like a prisoner
who was so poor
he fell in love with jail.

I stand at this old window
complaining of the soup,
examining the grounds,
allowing myself the wasted life.
Soon I will raise my face for a white flag,
and when God enters the fort,
I won't spit or gag on his finger.
I will eat it like a white flower.
Is this the old trick, the wasting away,
the skull that waits for its dose
of electric power?

This is madness
but a kind of hunger.
What good are my questions
in this hierarchy of death
where the earth and the stones go
Dinn! Dinn! Dinn!
It is hardly a feast.
It is my stomach that makes me suffer.

Turn, my hungers!
For once make a deliberate decision.
There are brains that rot here
like black bananas.
Hearts have grown as flat as dinner plates.

Anne, Anne,
flee on your donkey,
flee this sad hotel,
ride out on some hairy beast,
gallop backward pressing
your buttocks to his withers,
sit to his clumsy gait somehow.
Ride out
any old way you please!
In this place everyone talks to his own mouth.
That's what it means to be crazy.
Those I loved best died of it—
the fool's disease.


I'll probably be gone till Monday. Holla.

Wednesday, March 14, 2007

Thank you K-Roc!



I came home today only to find that K to the R.O.C. sent me Velvet D'Amour's pinup calendar, signed by Velvet herself. Fabulous. It was immediately prominantly displayed. It is my new favorite thing.

While I may have lost all hope of becoming the first male America's Next Top Model, Velvet gives me hope that I, too, can appear on Gaultier's runway and in French Vogue. Especially since I ate two entire boxes of Girl Scout cookies today (Samoas and All-Abouts).

Here is Velvet's official website.

Memo to Some Lady

Sometimes when you hold the door for people, they feel like they have to rush to the door, because you're holding it for them. So while you're attempting a nice gesture, it's really just another morning annoyance. You should really work on your gauging-distance-of-oncomer-in-relation-to-appropriateness-of-holding-door skills.

Tuesday, March 13, 2007

Lifestyle of Convenience

And speaking of living beyond my means, I got a letter from Con Edison yesterday inquiring as to my lack of gas usage in recent months. Could this be, they asked, due to a broken meter?

It's not a broken meter. I just haven't turned the stove or oven on in probably three months.

Also, it is seemingly impossible to reach a human being at the phone number I'm supposed to call to clear this up. So I gave up.

$43,000.00 and Still Ugly


Speaking of money, the only-24-that-exist Vuitton Tribute Patchwork Bag designed by into-rehab Mark Jacobs, will cost about $43,000.00 US, but in case you wanted to spend that many coins your out of luck. They're already sold out.

Fashion experts say women are increasingly using handbags as a 'lifestyle statement' to impress their material wealth and status upon their peers. "Once upon a time handbags were merely something you carried your keys and lipstick in," says Vogue editor Alexandra Shulman. "But not any more, handbags are often the lynchpin of your look...Their size and presence convey both money and status."


Which is why people are buying the $50 knock offs. Too bad the NY Post today quotes sources as saying a knock off would be impossible...honey, a knock off is never impossible. There are some industrious fraudsters out there!

Coming Out with her Finances

An article on Money Central asks, "Is Suze Orman out of touch?"

Dozens of newspapers carried the story, financial planners were buzzing about it, and yet they all missed the real shocking part, namely that the most compelling thing Orman came out about wasn't her sexuality but her investment portfolio.


The woman is worth $25 million, so she must know a little somethin' somethin'. Personally I enjoy watching and listening to her because she is really great with people and teaching basics to the lay people, but I don't really listen to a word she says because I am stone cold broke and I also enjoy living beyond my means. Se la vie!

Monday, March 12, 2007

I'm assuming services were cancelled.

A woman was shot to death in front of her fellow churchgoers in Oakland.

Just noticed the Google Ads above, and I think the algorithm might be a little off...

A Gaping Hole in the Hearts of Chelsea

Well, Ye Olde Roxy has closed. The article in the NY Times is irritating for a number of reasons, not the least of which is the description of the average Roxy party-goer (which is admittedly probably accurate), nor the rating system based on looks for entrants. One through four? But I’m a ten, baby.

Anyway, I have to admit I had fun the few times I ever went to Roxy, and I know that as a young gay man from a small, rural town, coming to NY and going to the Roxy is indeed a "right of passage" as stated in the article. But it was also an experience that I will never forget, as Kevondrala once described it to me: The first time you experience a "megaclub" like the Roxy, coming from your little backwoods homestead, you don’t think "there are this many gay people in New York City?", but rather you think, "There are this many gay people in the world?"

Sunday, March 11, 2007

Bette & Joan 2

I got nothin'. So I will continue with excerpts from Bette & Joan. This time, Bette takes the lead.

First:
"Bette is really unable to conceal for any great length of time that she considers herself God's greatest gift to screen acting. She believes that to be a simple fact of life. Oh, she can be disarmingly candid and funny about herself for a short while--sometimes even modest. But soon that overwhelming ego of hers starts rising to the surface again." -- Larry Carr, Those Fabulous Faces


Next:
[...]
To capitalize on Errol Flynn's bigger draw at the box office, [the movie title] became The Knight and the Lady; then Essex and Elizabeth. "You cannot give second billing to the Queen of England--or to me," Bette screamed at Jack Warner. "Either change the title or I'm walking out."


And he did, to Elizabeth and Essex.

One more:
On the set of Elizabeth and Essex, among Queen Bette's usual attendants was a boy whose sole duty was to follow the actress, holidng up an ashtray lest she spill ashes on her expensive costumes. When filming was completed, for his faithful, silent service Bette regally gifted the lad with three coins--not gold but silver--a quarter, a dime, and a nickel.[...]

Being a star made it difficult at times for Davis to relate to mere mortals. "It was always the small, human things she had trouble with," said a Warner's publicist. "Like good morning or hello or thank you. She was also very moody. Some days she would be very chatty; then others she could wither you with a glance."[...]

"END THE WAR! SEND BETTE DAVIS TO THE FRONT" was a piece of graffiti scrawled across the north rear wall of the studio lot. When the head of maintenance was called by publicity head Bob Taplinger to have the slogan removed before Davis saw it, he replied, "But she's already seen it. She called this morning and wanted to know why it wasn't put closer to the main gates."

Friday, March 09, 2007

Bette & Joan

I have been reading an awesome old-school book entitled Bette & Joan: The Divine Feud by Shaun Considine. It is perhaps the gayest thing I have ever read, and that includes HX Magazine and Factory Made. Bette Davis and Joan Crawford were some old time, mean assed, hardcore bitches that make any of these children in showbiz calling themselves "divas" these days laughable. Bette was the true actress while Joan was the true movie star. As the tale is told, Joan was desperate for Bette's approval in the beginning, which Bette hatefully would not give and would give only reads, but one Joan came into superstardom in her own right she could read just as hard on her nemesis.

Here is a favorite excerpt about Joan:

In 1953 at Universal, Rock Hudson was still a year away from hitting the big time with Jane Wyman in Magnificent Obsession. But Joan, after seeing an early cut of Captain Lightfoot, told Milton Rachmil, "That guy has got it. He's a combination of Gary Cooper and Robert Taylor." Hollywood lore said that Joan, with her normal enthusiasm, sent Rock her usual telegram. A dinner meeting at Brentwood followed, but on this night, perhaps heeding a rumor that Rock was gay, Joan changed her routine. It was a warm California evening, so after dinner they sat outside, drinking brandy by the pool. She entertained the bashful actor with stories of his favorite Metro stars, Garbo, Harlow, and his idol Clark Gable (whose lopsided grin Rock had borrowed for some of his early movies). Then the star suggested they swim in her heated pool. There were brand new trunks in the pool house for her guest to wear, and as he swam she sat nearby, nursing her drink and watching the magnificent Rock as he cut through the water. Afterward she suggested he shower and change, so they could go dancing. The story told, true or fabled, was that Rock was back in the pool house, taking a shower, when the lights went out. Suddenly he felt the warm, naked body of Joan Crawford beside him. "Sssh, baby," she whispered, "close your eyes and pretend I'm Clark Gable."


And another:

[...]Bautzer's story was that Crawford was with him when they spotted the provocative young starlet [Marilyn Monroe], dressed in a tight tan skirt and white angora sweater, standing in line at Schenck's buffet table. Taking the intiative, Joan approached Marilyn and said sincerely, "You're very pretty, my dear, but you don't know shit about clothes."


One more:

[Joan] claimed she had not seen [The Star, in which Bette Davis's character was supposedly based on Joan]. "Of course I had heard she was supposed to be playing me," she said years later, "but I didn't believe it. Did you see the picture? It couldn't possibly be me. Bette looked so old, and so dreadfully overweight."


Next time, hatefullness from Bette.

Thursday, March 08, 2007

Borat Banned in Kazakhstan

Kazakhstan, the real country that is home to Sacha Baron Cohen's fictional reporter Borat, has banned his website, borat.kz because it is offensive to Kazakh's.

The [State Department's] mention of Borat was an unusual celebrity cameo in the middle of a weighty human-rights report looking at the way people are treated around the world.

Kazakhstan was the subject of a particularly scathing write-up, in which the oil-producing former Soviet state is accused of whacking its political opponents and having courts that are best described as kangaroo.

The report also cited limits on free speech faced by domestic media critical of Kazakhstan's long-serving President Nursultan Nazarbayev.

And as for the working conditions for journalists in Kazakhstan, Borat's oft-repeated fear that he would be executed if he turned in a lousy story wasn't that far off the mark.


Why our State Department is lamenting Borat's banishment from Kazakh internet access is somewhat beyond me. Perhaps it is true that free expression is not a reality in Kazakhstan, but that Borat is offensive to the people of that country is not any kind of shock. Especially since he uses their .kz domain.

Wednesday, March 07, 2007

Apology from Blizzard to WoW Player

Blizzard Entertainment, maker of World of Warcraft, has apologized for threatening to ban a woman for setting up a gay-friendly "guild". A "guild" is a defined here.

So the question from this WoW playing dork is: is there a gay guild on the Bladefist realm? Holla.

I had no idea!

Did you? Well a new "study" finds that good looks are an assett at work.

Thank God I am thin and gorgeous.

Monday, March 05, 2007

That's my line foo

Bodega man: Hello my friend

Me: Hey, how you doing.

Bodega man: You looking for something special?

Me: Nah, just something...sweet.

Bodega man: Nothing is sweeter than me.

Burka Band

The Burka band perform "Burka Blue". (The video starts shortly after the newscaster.)



Their fascinating story is here.

[via Strange Things Are Afoot at the Circle K]

Sunday, March 04, 2007

Ann Coulter's Act

Regarding Ann Coulter's calling John Edwards a "faggot", a post at Unfogged makes an astute observation: that "Coulter's shtick is basically stand-up comedy, but she somehow gets introduced as a real political analyst."

Before I say more let me say that Ann Coulter is a mean person, not half as smart as she or her fans think she is, and is filled with anger and hatred towards "the left". I don't like the bitch.

In reports on the matter people are all up in arms about the word she used, rather than the fact that it's an both an accusation and the implication that being a "faggot" is a bad thing.

But her comments, though wildly inappropriate to say the least, did in fact make a point about something that I've commented on recently. When you fuck up and reveal your true self to the public through uncontrollable behavior (Ted Haggard sucking a little dick and snorting crystal meth, Michael Richards repeatedly dropping the N-bomb, Britney Spears shaving her head and attacking paparazzi with an umbrella) you just go to rehab these days. Because, after all, using drugs and alcohol is the only reason anyone behaves badly. Banish the thought that it might be because they just suck.

Ann Coulter of course won't be going into rehab.

Saturday, March 03, 2007

Religious Experiences

A compilation of tounge speaking and gettin' "slain in the spirit" via Lady Bunny, who notes how when they really get going with the speaking in tounges, it sounds like Arabic. Includes the famous "holy ghost enema" lady.

Oldie But a Goodie: Youssou N'Dour & Neneh Cherry "Seven Seconds"

Friday, March 02, 2007

Burgers and Cupcakes

This morning I had a doctor’s appointment at 9:00 AM which is more hateful than my 9:15 mandated time of arrival for work. This required me taking two different trains to Chelsea, that gayest of neighborhoods, and because it was relatively warm I opted not to wear my burqa. Luckily, I was not caned with designer walking sticks or stoned to death with last season's shoes.

It took me forever to get from there to work. It was only raining a little -- not at all a major downpour -- but he subway system immediately fell into chaos. Stations closed down, trains became delayed, masses and masses of people accumulated underground. It was awful. If there is ever a natural disaster or biological attack, we’re all dead. There is no "evacuating" New York City. The MTA can’t even deal with a drizzle.

I kicked major ass at work, did the impossible as usual, cupped several people, and fled the scene. On a half day, what?! I may be getting a promotion, according to Boss Lady. More as this story develops.

I returned to Chelsea to pick up a prescription for my heinous ailment that makes me hate my life, and after I got the dope from the pharmacy, I decided I wanted a bite to eat. I passed by Boston Market which, to my horror, was closed by the health department. This is possibly due to the rat infestation and related closings that are plaguing the city.

Disgusted, I went next door (apparently not disgusted enough to go hungry) and had a hot dog, fries and Diet Coke. Upon leaving the hot dog joint, my attention was captured by a restaurant with a name that is the conjunction of two of my favorite things: Burgers & Cupcakes. Burgers & Cupcakes is hot pink on the inside, and outside they have a huge, pink, rotating cupcake. How could I resist? I took my fat ass in for a cupcake from this sugary tempest.

I ordered and planned on sitting there and eating it, but the little snot behind the counter insisted that if it was to stay, that I sit down and order from a server. So rather than sit down, wait on a server, wait for the server to return with my cupcake, wait for a check, pay the check, and leave a tip, I said, “I’ll just take it to go then.” (By the way, after consuming the carrot-cake cupcake, I was disappointed.)

On my walk from the subway I stopped in the store for a pack of smokes. The man in line behind me said, out of the blue, “Nothing is easy, is it?” I smiled. He insisted I answer, “Is it?” I said, “No, it most certainly is not” and left.

Thursday, March 01, 2007

Drunken Aussie on Page Six (Not Russell Crowe)

Heather Ann Snodgrass, who I don't know but was on the roster with me at ye olde WYSIWYG Talent Show, is on Page Six today:

DON'T expect to see Gawker.com editorial assistant Heather Snodgrass crashing local media and fashion parties again any time soon. Sources told Page Six that because of her behavior at recent events, Snodgrass has been reassigned to an "internal research" project. "She did not last too long under the new watch of [Gawker managing editor] Choire Sicha," said the source, who noted the young event-hopper "would cover Team Party Crash [a regular Gawker feature] events by getting drunk, belligerent, and amorous with the guests." The insider said Snodgrass, an Australian brunette, also made a habit of declaring that she "determined who Gawker hangs out with" when discussing her job description. "Choire announced that he was taking over the scheduling of the Team Party Crash assignments, and that only the editors would be covering from now on," said one source, who added, "Heather is on to something completely new right now." Sicha referred our questions to Gawker boss Lockhart Steele, who said, "No comment." Snodgrass did not return e-mails.


Her story at WYSIWYG was funny. She seemed like a fun girl...though a little tipsy, shout-from-the-audience type. At any rate, my advice to Gawker is, if you're going to call it "Team Party Crash", then allow your intern to get a little "drunk, belligerent and amorous". It's not a party until someone's breaking bottles and kissing strangers, you know. ;)