vote for creamy

My booty-shaking friend, Creamy Stevens, has been honored with a Golden Pastie nomination for said booty-shaking abilities.

If you don't mind, kindly take a moment to vote for Creamy as "The Best Booty Shaker in Burlesque." I realize many of you have never seen Creamy shake her booty but shake it she does, I assure you.

Look, here's Creamy...

Okay, so she's not exactly shaking her booty in that photo but still, doesn't she just exude a master booty-shaking vibe?

I think so. If you do too (and you KNOW you do), please click here to vote. The awards will be handed out at on September 2 at this year's New York Burlesque Festival.

Congrats and good luck, Creamy!

upholding a tradition of class and refinement

Last night was The Lovely Jess's Third Annual 29th Birthday Party. A good time was had by all. Like, a REALLY good time. Actually, I expect nothing less because in the years that I've known Jess, her birthday parties always prove to be a reliable breeding ground for fun times, solid hangovers... and incriminating photos.

For example, here's what yours truly was caught doing back in 2005:

And here's what I was caught doing in 2006:

I had to break with tradition this year because we had a change of venue and there were no pitchers at our disposal. With a lesser group of people, I would have gone home without any photographic evidence of my obvious class and propriety. But lucky for me, I roll with a group of people who really know how to improvise so I'm happy to report that the tacky tradition is alive and well:

I'd like to take this opportunity to thank Summer for making my itty bitty titties appear to have some semblance of girth to them. She not only photographed my girls, she instructed me how to push up and in for maximum effect. At the same time, I'm a bit disheartened that the rather sad-looking wee bump you see above is considered "maximum effect."

Lest you think I was the only one baring my chest, I'm happy to report that we all got in on the act, man and woman alike. For these and many more silly photos, check out my set on Flickr. Hee hee... I said "set."

P.S. Happy Birthday, The Lovely Jess!

blarg hop 2007

Last night's second annual Blarg Hop was a great success. I staggered in the door around 5AM and begrudgingly rolled out of bed at 3PM today. A sure sign the evening went well, no?

In addition to downing several beers in quick succession, I had the chance to put faces with blog names and reconnect with some bloggers I've met before. Great conversations ensued and I will be beefing up my blogroll tout de suite. They are seriously the nicest group of guys. And a special shout-out goes to the ever-foxy Helen, my co-vag in the evening's proceedings.

The one and only wrench in the works occurred at The Cock (one might say that's a sweeping statement about my entire life, being a big ol' lesbo and all). It was wall-to-wall men in there so getting from Point A to Point B was a bit of a bother. The quantity of people and the rather aggressive way they pushed through the crowd caused me to remark to Joe.My.God.: "It's like a Jersey club in here!" To which Joe quickly quipped, "... A Jersey club with men blowing each other in the corners!" Indeed.

So Helen and I decided to seek out the less-crowded confines of The Urge next door. On our way out, two mohawked men looked at us disapprovingly and one spat, "Why don't you go home and watch Desperate Housewives!" Well, I never... uh, watched that show. Seriously, I haven't. But from what I understand, isn't it gayer than gayest gay thing ever? Kind of like a modern day Sex and the City? Whatever. Helen dismissed them with a well-aimed "Twats!" and we kept trudging forward until we were finally free of the huddled masses.

Later, she and I mopped up some of the alcohol with mozzarella sticks and grilled cheese at Odessa before finally retiring in the wee hours of the morning.

And that's my story. Want more? Joe.My.God. posted a bunch of photos and will be linking to all the recaps. Thanks, Joe, for organizing the event. To everyone else who was there, it was really great meeting and talking with you all. I can't wait to see you at the next one!

on quilts and such and such

On a recent Saturday I paid my dear friend Filomena a visit in her kick-ass quilt shop in Lyndhurst, NJ (Quilts and Such -- conveniently located right off Route 3 and along major NJ Transit bus routes! Go there! Buy stuff! She's a cool chick! She's down with the gays! You'll love her and her shoppe!)

Years ago Filomena told me of her dream of opening a space where people could come together, be creative and drink tea. I often found myself inserting myself in her vision because what she spoke of was so cozy and inviting and totally inspiring. I wanted to be there. And so do many others, judging by the swelling numbers of devotees filling her creative space.

To raise funds, Filomena toiled away in fields ranging from dry cleaning to investment banking and everything in between. While busting her hump, she followed Suze Orman's advice and socked away some of the cash and paid down the debt she had accumulated over the years.

Unlike me, Filo's financial burden wasn't courtesy of J. Crew catalog binges and boredom-fueled shopping sprees at the Willowbrook Mall. Filo had "grown up" bills to pay -- rent, utilities, car insurance, etc. Which is not to say I was spoiled. My family certainly wasn't rich and I paid my way through school working various odd jobs. I bought my own car and paid the exorbitant NJ insurance rates but I still lived at home and had a much cushier and easier time of things.

But while I was blowing through my limited funds and changing my dreams as often as I changed my underwear (which was A LOT, smart asses), Filomena's vision was steadfast and determined. That girls had goals, dammit, and she wasn't go to stray from them. I admired her and never once doubted her. It was just too damn bad that I couldn't quite emulate her.

I met Filomena in 1987, our freshman year in high school. We endured French class together. And I do mean endured. See, we weren't really all that gifted in this realm. We were artistic and could draw, sculpt and photograph circles around most people but conjugating verbs en Francaise was a bit of a challenge. We, in a word, sucked.

If there was a class in fake Scottish accents, I would have excelled. Filomena would have kicked ass and taken names in a course on rapid-fire quips and comebacks. That girl was fast on her feet. Filomena was unique in all aspects -- personal style and overall outlook -- and as is always the case, some of the sheep in our school were quite vocal in their disapproval of anyone who defied convention. We all had to endure assholes in high school, of course, but Filomena cut them down with patented flair.

And really, she had the last laugh because a couple of months back, I had to scan photos from our yearbook to help with the preparations for our high school reunion and Filomena was the only one who didn't look like a big ol' asshole. Back in high school, I knew Filomena was ahead of the curve but revisiting our adolescent selves 15 years later proved just how fashion forward she really was. As I cringed at photos of my pegged jeans and turtleneck/Gap V-neck sweater combos, I sat in admiration of Filomena's timeless styling choices.

Meeting someone like Filomena in high school was a godsend. I was good at sports and not a complete social pariah but at the same time, I was sensitive, bookish and artistic. My points of reference were vastly different from the rest of my peer group, with the exception of Filomena and a few select others. To this day, I am prone to spouting out random references and non sequiturs on occasion. Whereas some look at me quizzically and others either ignore what I say or roll their eyes, Filomena absorbs my quirks. She also reflects them with her own brand of oddity. We, how you say, "get" each other.

(Stop crying, Filo.)

She's also a crier, you see...

We've cried and giggled together plenty over the years. We've witnessed and weathered weddings, deaths and broken hearts together. Our friendship is like my security blanket -- well worn and comforting. And I don't mean a figurative security blanket. I really do still have a woobie that I sleep with every night. That thing will be buried with me. I am selectively sentimental about certain things in life, people included. Filomena is the human equivalent of that treasured, ratty blanket of mine.

So, after THE EX gave me the old heave-ho, Filomena's was the first number I dialed. Up until this point, no one even knew I had a girlfriend. So I had the task of telling my friend that I not only had been dumped for the first time in life, but it was a girl who did it to me. I didn't quite know what I was going to say to her as I waited for her to answer. She picked up on the third or fourth ring. The first two rings were interminable. I prayed and pleaded quietly for her to be there. I never needed a person to be on the other end of a phone so desperately in all of my life.

And there it was... Filo's ever-cheerful "Hello?!" greeting me. I was free-falling at that moment and that one simple word caught me and steadied me. I don't even remember how I told her. I do know that my words were jumbled, rushed and drenched in tears and misery. They tumbled out of my mouth helplessly. It was the first time I said, "I'm gay" out loud.

She didn't thrust any labels on me or the ex in that phone call. She didn't try to psychoanalyze us. She just listened and then when my rambling revelation was complete, she said, "I'm coming over!" In the days, weeks and months that followed, she was my support system – sympathetic, honest and awesome all in the right and proper measure. Everyone should have a Filomena.

(Can someone please get Filomena a tissue? Please get me one while you're at it. Thank you.)

When Filomena launched her business about five years ago, she asked for some help which I gladly provided. Together we publicized and promoted her fledgling quilt shop. We had slumber parties/business meetings where we discussed strategy and scope. She had big ideas and lots of ambition but the thrust of her business plan was as homespun and cozy as ever. Unlike chain craft stores, she refused to sell shoddy, mass-produced crap in her shop. With the exception of thread, buttons, notions and things of that nature, all of her inventory was to be hand-made, lovingly-crafted and completely unique created by either her or the local artisans she welcomed into her shop with open arms. Her stock was well-edited and carefully curated. She vowed "No mutant retail!" whenever some slimy salesperson darkened her doorstep with tchotkes and brick-a-brack that would compromise her and her beloved shop's integrity.

When she and I go shopping, we make a point of pointing out Mutant Retail. For example, there was a candy/ice cream store in our town that, at first, specialized in all that ten-cent candy like Jawbreakers and Lemonheads. Then they started selling cold cuts and sandwiches. Then things like aspirin and Peptol-Bismol started lining the shelves. Before long, two pairs of deep denim jeans were hung from plastic (no wire!) hangers next to the shelves containing all the cold remedies.

You could argue that the introduction of deli meat and pain killers wasn't a bad way to increase the profit margin but jeans?!?! The hell? Actually, they were more like dungarees. Normally, I hate that word but these were so unfashionable and functional looking that they more than earn the name. So jeans/dungarees being sold in a candy store, my friends, is an example of Mutant Retail. Or as I once forgetfully-yet-brilliantly-if-I-do-say-so-myself dubbed it: Rogue Merch. We use both terms interchangeably now.

Here it is five years later and Filo's business is growing by the day. She packed up and moved into a larger space in a more highly-trafficked area late last year. Her business has picked up considerably and she continues to elicit tears of joy from clients who commission her custom work. She's made memorial quilts for mourning families and baby quilts for overjoyed ones (mine included). She's taught hundreds of people how to quilt, sew, knit and crochet. Most importantly, she's provided a creative space -- just like she envisioned years back -- where people can congregate, get their craft on and nurse a cup of tea. As a result, deep friendships and social circles have formed as a result of her shop.

It's a bright and welcoming place and I love to visit her whenever I get the chance. The residents of Lyndhurst, NJ feel the same way. People frequently wander in just to say hello or visit the ever-growing collection of animals she's got including a guinea pig and a bunch of birds (with one on the way!)

During my recent visit, Filo and I sat on the couch in the front window chit-chatting and getting caught up. The chime on the front door rang and we looked up to see an elderly man with a cane walk in. He was wearing a baseball cap with the words "Korean War Veteran" emblazoned on the front in big block lettering.

Filomena greeted him with her usual warm hello and he replied in a gruff voice, "Aw, still blue?! I came in hoping you had changed it!"

The veteran was referring to Filomena's hair which currently is a bright, electric blue. At first I thought he disapproved of her rather unorthodox tresses but then he followed up with, "That's the color you had last week! I wanted to see a different one today. I'll come back next week to see what you've got."

He has no beef with bright hair dye, you see, he just expects variety.

For those of you in northern New Jersey (and beyond) who are looking for unique, personal gifts or want to learn a new skill and make some friends, go see Filomena and her ever-changing hair color at Quilts and Such. She'll amaze and inspire you and, of course, make you some tea.

Thanks for listening.

dance knights

I love my friend, Mike, rally I do. I had the good fortune of working with him several years back and I enjoyed every second of it. In fact, I still chuckle when I think about his incredulous response to building security when we were all questioned after a really annoying coworker reported personal items missing from her office.

Based on the way we were approached, you would have thought that a safe containing her valuable jewels and precious artifacts was smuggled out of the building. It was like an episode of Dragnet and we took it seriously... until we discovered what had actually been stolen...

Ear muffs.

And no, they weren't ear muffs made of gold bestowed by a leprechaun or trimmed with the fur of a mythical unicorn or whatever. They were plain old ear muffs that she probably got at, like, Marshall's.

When informed of the nature of the stolen item, Mike's eyes narrowed into Clint Eastwood-like slits and his mouth curled into a wicked snarl and he spat, "Ear muffs?!?! You just wasted my time because of ear muffs?"

It was rather incongruous to have an innocuous-sounding phrase like "ear muffs" delivered in such a venomous wrapper. Building security actually backpedaled and skulked out of his office because of the torrent of shame he unleashed on them. As for me, I just stood there giggling and loving every second of it as I often do in the face of something so completely ridiculous.

Mike and I have both moved on to newer pursuits so, sadly, we no longer work together. But he remains one of my favorite people ever and it's with great pleasure and a tremendous amount of pride that I present to you Mike's latest creative endeavor, Dance Knights, a documentary about the Rutgers University Dance Team and their journey to this year's National Competition. The show premieres online on February 12th, but you can check out the trailer now. While you're there, take a look at Floaters, a sitcom available only on the Web. It's a smart, snappy and stylish comedy. The New York Times loves it! And so do I! What more do you need to know? Check it out now.

Congrats, Mike, and continued success!

Photo: Phoebeworks Productions, Inc.

fashionistas

Okay, so in answer to your burning question about how the hell the likes of me was out hobnobbing with the legendary Debbie Harry, the answer is duh, I'm simply fabulous and it's high time the rich and famous started noticing. Obviously!

Actually, because of the awesomeness of the Ursine Calamity, I got my grubby mitts on a pass to the Marc Jacobs fashion show last night along with The Lovely Jess and AZ.

Jess was kind enough to recap our amazing evening over on American Midol, complete with pictures I took of lots of cool celebrities. Look how close I was to Magenta, er, I mean, Joss Stone!

My recap is coming later. In the meantime, read all about it here.

mmm... cirrhosis

Good morning! Guess who just woke up? Rolling out of bed at 1:00 PM is all sorts of fun. Actually, bed is not quite accurate... it's more like loveseat. I didn't quite make it to my bed, you see. I got home last night, took off my coat, turned on the TV and then passed out about two seconds later fully clothed, makeup still applied, hat still perched on my head and glasses dangling from one ear. So hot. Shocking that I'm single, no?

I've pretty much been inflicting damage upon my liver for about two weeks straight. 'Tis the season, after all! Last night's round of vital organ abuse came in the form of The WYSIWYG Talent Show. I was there along with Joe.My.God., Aaron, David and Tom rooting for the incredibly awesome Helen Damnation as she took to the stage in her first WYSIWYG appearance. I love the girl for many reasons already (farting on a homophobe, hello?!?!) but anyone who can lead a Springer chant of "WE LOVE LESBIANS!" after her set is okay in my book. Forever.

Last night's show was themed "I'm Not as Think as You Drunk I Am." Helen's hilarious tale of copping a squat in Times Square earned its rightful place in the annals (tee hee hee -- I said "annals") of the WYSIWYG archives. Well done, my friend. Well done.

I was also thrilled as thrilled can be to see Dan Renzi in the flesh. Dan, you see, was a cast member of The Real World: Miami season. I ain't even gonna front -- I love The Real World. Each and every increasingly ridiculous season of it. My love for RW is exceeded only by my adoration of The Real World/Road Rules Challenge. In fact, I've documented this love often on this here blog. See here, here, here and here.

Emily Epstein treated us to a tale of bungee jumping while bombed. I dare say it would take more than alcohol to give me the nerve to fling myself off a bridge tethered to a big ol' rubberband. Coincidentally, I saw Ms. Epstein performing the night before at Chicks and Giggles at Mo Pitkin's in the East Village. Total happenstance, mind you, but it's like Emily Espstein is Phish and I've become her ardent follower. See you tonight, Emily?! Hee hee.

I was at Mo Pitkin's for a Hanukkah party thrown by my friend Amy. Even though I've never spinned a dreidel before in my life (SHOCKING considering my tri-state area upbringing), I proved to be a real ringer. My speed, velocity and spin were quite impressive for a goy like me. The Jews at the table were impressed. Mind you, I didn't land on gimel but whatevs, I displayed a lot of style in my otherwise unsuccessful attempt. I represented the Gentiles well, I dare say.

I'm now on a well-earned vacation. I've barely started my Christmas shopping so I've got my work cut out for me the next few days. I know I promised a series of reviews of holiday specials (something you were all dying to read, I'm sure) but well, fuck it. I didn't have time. Next year.

I will try to check in before I go home but if not, Merry Christmas and Happy Hanukkah. You'll just have to wait to get your Kwanzaa greetings next week, bitches.

i used to be by the window, where I could see the squirrels and they were merry

I've found in the 10 odd years that I've been working in corporate America that the best way for management to look busy and effective is to inconvenience their underlings. Boring, senseless meetings are scheduled in Outlook on a weekly basis even though nothing is ever accomplished in those gatherings other than annoying the attendees and the poor admin who had to arrange the thing on behalf of the organizer. Productivity is measured by pissed-off expressions it seems. The more annoyed people look, the harder management is working. It's all very Costanza-esque.

The office move is another tactic brand new management likes to unleash to make its mark in an established department. By moving people hither and yon, the powers-that-be look effective and definitive and powerful. Flowcharts and floor plans are the weapons of choice. Their executive assistants know VISIO and they are not afraid to use it. Mark.their.words.

So, if you couldn't tell already, I fell victim to a reshuffling of sorts at my job. Long story short, I no longer have an office. It wasn't a demotion, mind you, but I along with a few others in the creative department (read: non-revenue generating employees) are back to the 1-1/2 fabric wall arrangement. Gone is my closeable door and that highfalutin sheetrock I had grown so accustomed to. Sigh.

Yesterday was my first day in a cubicle. To say that the new feng shui didn't agree with me would be an understatement. With a little help from Meg, I started a little list of ways to revolt. Passive-aggressively, of course, 'cause that's how I roll...

1) Display symptoms of a permanent cold or infection of sorts that leads to lots of coughing, sneezing, nose blowing, etc.

2) Eat lunches at my desk that smell like farts, i.e. Hale and Hearty's Cauliflower Cheddar Soup.

3) Listen to music loudly and sing along, in particular the orgasmic wailing parts of Led Zeppelin's "Whole Lotta Love" and the "Fuck you, I won't do what you tell me!" portion of Rage Against the Machine's "Killing In The Name."

4) Use speakerphone always and often.

5) Call my gyno and talk about oozing sores, rashes and bumps.

6) Explain my BMs in excruciating detail to my gastro doctor.

7) Discuss the various fungi plaguing my nether regions and feet.

8) Ask my shrink if eating one's own dandruff is cause for concern.

9) Call my doctor to see if the results of my TB tests are in. Then say, "Oh."

10) Use my blog to solicit job offers. Seriously, hook me up.

More to come as my frustration levels rise.

they do know... they just don't care

In addition to brilliant writing, The Sheila Variations also boasts a band of regular commenters who excel at providing hilarious commentary. The tangents that often ensue are delightful. In fact, I was inspired to compose the following letter thanks to a wonderfully off-topic comment thread that began with talk of a deflated Santa and ended with a lyrical analysis of Band Aid's earnest yet erroneous "Do They Know It's Christmas?"

Please read the post and comments to see how that transpired. In the meantime, here's the byproduct of my hijacking. Enjoy.

Dear Messrs. Geldof and Ure:

Thank you for your noble famine relief efforts. On behalf of the African people, I would like to convey our appreciation for your selfless dedication and desire to "feed the world." Although, truthfully, as non-Christians we could do without the accompanying relentless proselytizing about Christmas but still, we are nevertheless indebted to your tireless humanitarian pursuits.

However, I do believe it is incumbent upon me to clear up some misconceptions you seem to hold towards our beautiful continent. Firstly, I dare say the agricultural industry would beg to differ with your statement that "nothing ever grows" in Africa. In fact, my garden alone sprouts enough weeds to choke an elephant.

Secondly, the good people of Ethiopia, Kenya, and Somalia who were recently displaced by flooding would most certainly disagree with the notion that "no rain or rivers flow." That, kind sirs, is sloppy and irresponsible reporting on your part.

And, lastly, I think you do our bell makers a great disservice by describing the melodic and resonant tones of their craftsmanship as "clanging chimes of doom." While not one of our bread-and-butter industries, our bells and percussion instruments in general are no better nor worse than your own continent's. Frankly, we feel this is yet another case of xenophobia rearing its ugly -- and obviously tone-deaf -- head.

Again, we are grateful for the money you helped raise and we are most thankful for the prayers you solicited on our behalf. But, to reiterate, we really don't need reminders that "it's Christmastime again" as we don't really celebrate it. At this point, it has become nothing more than intolerant badgering and we are weighing our legal options.

But, in deference to your season of good will as well as our desire to not contribute to your alarming paranoia about living in "a world of dread and fear," we would like to avoid litigation if possible. Perhaps you can pen a follow-up single to retract some of the falsehoods about our climate and topography as well as your cruel and slanderous claims against African bells, of all things. I'm certain the members of Bananarama, Ultravox and Spandau Ballet, in particular, would jump at the chance to help right these wrongs.

Thank you for your prompt attention to this matter.

Sincerely,

Nala Simba Mufasa
President, African Board of Tourism

Watch the video here.

eau de skank

The Lovely Jess and I went on a wee stroll along Brooklyn's Atlantic Avenue yesterday. We shopped, stuffed ourselves with fried cauliflower and falafel and planned a photo shoot involving dirty underwear and a public bathroom. Um, believe it or not, there IS a logical explanation (relatively speaking) for the latter but you'll just have to sit tight before I give it 'cause that's a whole 'nother post.

Anyhoo, Jess and I both dig incense :: cough cough major potheads cough cough :: so we inspected the inventory in every store along the bustling strip. By about the third shop, that whole sense of smell thing? Totally destroyed. The aromas were quite pungent. I think some even burned off the cilia in my snout. Not necessarily a bad thing since we unearthed this brand new scent in our travels:

Again, I couldn't smell shit by that point so I can't even tell you if the odor was stank ass or not. However, I think The Lovely Jess hit the nail on the head when she posed the question, "What does that smell like? Dirty vagina?"

Safe bet, I'm guessing.

soundtrack to [curly] (soul coughing, anyone? anyone?)

I pride myself on my carefully-crafted mp3 collection. I like to think that it's one of my crowning achievements. In fact, I can be a right haughty beaver when it comes to playlists and libraries. Take pride, people!

So, what better way to show off a portion of my beloved stash of songs than through this fun wee game I found over at Sheila's?

If Your Life Was a Movie, What Would the Soundtrack Be?

The Rules:
1. Open your library (iTunes, Winamp, Media Player, iPod, etc.)
2. Put it on shuffle
3. Press play
4. For every question, type the song that's playing
5. When you go to a new question, press the next button
6. Don't lie and try to pretend you're cool...

Opening Credits: "No Sleep 'Til Brooklyn" - The Beastie Boys
Kinda perfect, no?

Waking Up: "More Than This" - The Cure

First Day at School: "Bottle of Smoke" - The Pogues
Apparently, my movie is taking place in Ireland. Or Woodside, Queens.

Falling In Love: "Hong Kong Garden" - Siouxsie and the Banshees

Fight Song: "Float On" - Modest Mouse

Breaking Up: "Come Together" - The Beatles
Ha ha ha ha.

Prom: "Girlfriend in a Coma" - The Smiths
Ten bucks says the prom chaperones would seize this opportunity to make a statement about drunk driving. "Use a designated driver, boys and girls! You don't want to end up like that poor girlfriend, the one in a coma!"

Life: "Useless" - Depeche Mode
What a perfect segue into the next category...

Mental Breakdown: "I Don't Mind If You Forget Me" - Morrissey
I think Morrissey would flattered that his music is associated with a mental collapse. He'd probably license it for free, in fact.

Driving: "Talk to Me" - Stevie Nicks
Awesome! I love to belt this out to begin with and a car has THE perfect acoustics for a sing-along. I love how Stevie's voice gets all ragged and pleading. Don't let anyone ever tell you coke abuse doesn't have its merits. Hello, bitchin' vibrato!

Flashback: "Why Do I Lie?" - Luscious Jackson

Getting Back Together: "Seattle" - Public Image Ltd.
Not if Johnny Rotten has any say in the matter.

Wedding: "Reader Meet Author" - Morrissey
Wow, this plot is kinda like the polar opposite of Misery, no?

Birth of Child: "Higher Love" - Depeche Mode
I can't quite place my finger on it but there's something really creepy about this.

Final Battle: "Personal Jesus" - Depeche Mode
I'm guessing this battle would be religious in nature and the person who scored the film is someone often accused of being overly literal.

Death Scene: "Sunday Girl" - Blondie
Aw, it would have been SO much better if it was Blondie's "Die Young, Stay Pretty" but what can you do?

Funeral Song: "Clubland" - Elvis Costello & The Attractions
I'm thinking this particular song in this particular context might have been better suited to the Party Monster soundtrack. Hmmm, now who's the overly-literal one?

End Credits: "Such Great Heights" - The Postal Service
Damn, my story just descended into The OC: The Movie.

(via The Sheila Variations)

our version of rate-a-record

Jess: Were you a Faith No More fan?

Yours Truly: Okay, two things: 1) Nope, hated them and 2) You're not going to believe this but despite my hatred, "We Care a Lot" was stuck in my head just before.

Jess: Hated Faith No More. Huh.

YT: Well, perhaps hated is too strong a word... "Loathed with a fiery and intense passion" is more accurate.

Jess: Wow.

YT: Actually though, I only knew a couple of songs. The lead singer bugged me mostly. I didn't hate them. I just didn't see the point.

Jess: Huh.

YT: Are we no longer friends? Can we bridge this gap?

Jess: I think we'll be okay.

YT: I don't know. It's a wide chasm. Between this and my being okay with the David Matthews Band, I think we may have reached an impasse.

Jess: I just don't think I've ever met someone who actively disliked FNM. Of course, I also don't get what all the fuss about Radiohead is.

YT: Radiohead is a polarizing band. FNM is more of an annoying flash in the pan. I don't campaign against them. They haven't made my blog, unlike say, Hootie or The Goo Goo Dolls. The latter are my default shit bands.

Jess: Mine are DMB and Oasis.

YT: Sorry but Oasis is responsible for more than one snappy tune and I like them without apology. I also like that they spit and fight on stage.

Jess: It's okay. My hatred is irrational.

YT: You just don't like English people in general. You're an anti-Anglophile.

Jess: Hardly. I love the Brits.

YT: Your distaste of HP Sauce is a gateway hatred. It's seeped into people, bands and cities. In fact, you think Liverpool can suck it, don't you? You've punched people out for saying "spool of film" or "tin of mushy peas" and Typhoo tea makes you lose your shit. Crunchie bars outrage you. Don't even get you started on Tizer. Irn-Bru is for wankers, you say. And while we're on the subject, you firmly believe that only wankers actually say "wankers" or "sod off."

Jess: You are killing me.

YT: You're lucky I'm not, like, Polish or whatever because talking about kielbasa and pierogies just isn't as funny.

'cause we care and crap

In lieu of birthday drinks this year, I decided to shed some of the self-absorption and selfishness I acquired in the last year by inviting friends and family to join me in volunteering on New York Cares Day.

On Saturday, The Lovely Jess, A Lover and a Fighter, Azee, The Younger Sister, Steph and Amy, she of the chipmunk banging down, joined me in sprucing up a high school on Manhattan's Lower East Side.

We scrubbed graffiti and the odd bit of spunk off walls and desks, cleaned classrooms and painted doorways, trim and radiator covers, among other things. We scarfed down Munchkins (which I picked up along with the thirst-quenching coffee for the questionably-dressed panhandler), BS'd like there was no tomorrow and had an all-around awesome time in the process.

Cleaning ourselves up afterwards was a bit of a bitch, as you can see by Jess's nails. We tackled the stubborn paint with a one-two combo of slimy gunk supplied by the custodian and a big ol' jug of paint thinner. Many manicures were scheduled on Saturday, I assure you.

By 3:00, we were good and high on paint fumes and quite giddy as a result. While cleaning up in the slop sink, I was quite taken with the noisy faucet. Its whiny, whistling shriek seemed familiar to me. And then I had my turpentine-fueled epiphany: "Hey, that sounds like Rudolph's nose."

Everyone agreed. And we laughed like it was the.funniest.thing.in.the.world. At least I did. Forget bong hits, if you want a real high, spend some quality time with oil-based paint and little-to-no ventilation.

New York Cares is a great organization. For you locals in need of something meaningful to do with your free time, I highly recommend giving this group a whirl.

I want to thank everyone who came with me on Saturday and all of you who sponsored my time with a nice donation. I really appreciate it. See you next year.

i'm a fan of chucking puppies myself...

Um, I know I shouldn't find this the least bit funny but dammit, I cannot stop giggling...

Twenty-seven-year-old Chytoria Graham of Erie, Pennsylvania was pissed at her boyfriend. Instead of whacking him with a cast iron frying pan or his golf clubs or something reasonable like that, however, she picked up her four-week-old baby boy by the legs and swung the infant through the air, hitting the boyfriend with the baby's head. (via BloggingBaby)

I'm sick and wrong, I know. However, if you picture that scene in claymation? Well, it's a hoot.

Update: Mejack and I discuss the physics of baby tossing...

Yours Truly: I'm picturing the baby being held by the feet and thrown like a hammer in track & field.

Mejack: See, I'm picturing holding the baby by its feet and doing like an airplane and swinging it around.

YT: I think you might get more distance if you toss with the feet. The head will provide some weight and carry it. And also, lofting it upwards by the feet will give you more air and better velocity.

YT: You know, so I've heard...

Fear not, we're both off to say a good Act of Contrition right now.

toreador, don't spit on the floor

Last night I went to see my very first opera. Actually, no, that's not true. I saw a production of The Mikado at Hofstra University several years ago. It was rather forgettable. Not because it was an amateur production. No, no. I assure you that this particular mounting of Gilbert & Sullivan was quite competent. However, the cultural significance was diminished slightly in my mind what with all the jokes about Mineola and traffic on the Meadowbrook wedged into the beloved book.

Nassau County humor, in case you didn't know, has limited reach. Last night's experience, however, is one that will forever remain in my memory bank.

The Hot Russian and I, looking quite spiffy in our suitable opera attire*, attended the New York City Opera's presentation of Carmen at Lincoln Center.

You know, I always found it amazing that there was on opera based on the theme music from The Bad News Bears...

If any of you took the previous sentence seriously, kindly form an orderly line so that I can kick you in the teeth and then ridicule you in an efficient manner. Thank you.

But seriously folks, the opera was way cool. The acoustics, on the other hand, well... they sucked. I was eagerly anticipating ringing ears and blown-back hair when the mezzosopranos unleashed. However, the architecture of the theater all but prohibits soaring vocals from seeping past the proscenium arch. The layout of the stage just sort of swallows up the voices. 'Tis a pity indeed since the company was so talented.

Shitty sound aside, I was totally in my element. I am extremely grateful to The Hot Russian for hatching last night's plan and executing it. Thanks to her, I've already got a ballet under my belt this past season ("Manon" performed by the American Ballet Theater) and we have plans to see Madama Butterfly at the Metropolitan Opera, in addition to a few other artsy-fartsy events. Being a culture vulture suits me, I must say.

After the opera, we crossed Broadway for some red wine and dessert at Cafe Fiorello. I'm not sure which was more delicious -- the chocolate mousse or the cell phone conversation conducted at the next table. A bawdy blonde on her seventh martini (give or take a dozen) said, and I quote: "My girlfriend just got kicked out of the motherfucking symphony. She was escorted out by the police and everything."

Unfortunately, she gave no reason as to why. Maybe she's just reeeeallly fussy about her Wagner and vocalized her disapproval. Wanna know my best guess? I think she blazed up a doobie and got busted. Those Philharmonic fans are often more baked than the most ardent Dead Head or Phish fan. It's true.

____________________________________________

* Unfortunately, not everyone was so mindful of the dress code. If I may, I'd like to play Mr. Blackwell for a second... Dude, flip flops? At the opera? Seriously? And you, young lady, in the low-rider jeans, thanks for showing off the thong-shaped tan lines. Do us all a favor and save those unfortunate wardrobe choices for when you go to see Mamma Mia.

a.j. all wrong

As promised, I snapped several pictures in the housewares department of the illustrious A.J. Wright store in Schenectady, New York over the weekend.

If the allure of gruesome tchatkes isn't enough incentive to click over, allow me to dangle this carrot: Photographic evidence of me administering the Booty Slap to a creepy doll.

Hot, right?

Where's the hyperlink, you ask? Well, you'll just have to click over to find it. I'm not doing ALL the work, yo.

The Lovely Jess provides a recap of our fun-filled weekend upstate. Furthermore, she included a laundry list of topics discussed and events attended.

If I may, I'd like to tack on the following:

:: Consumption of a phallic-shaped fried fish sandwich

:: The persistence of the radio's scan feature trying to convince us to listen to the likes of Kool & The Gang, Celine Dion and the new Bob Seger song. (There is one, you know!)

:: Name that rodent on the side of the road

:: And lastly... "You don't know the parasites hangin' from my eyes! You don't know the parasites hangin' from my eyes!"

Wouldn't you all love to know what spawned that line of dialogue?! And remember kids, form an orderly line when you hit up the A.J. Wright to buy those gorgeous knick-knacks. And no stampeding.

ske... scenec... schene... upstate, new york, here i come

In just a few short hours, The Lovely Jess and I will be heading up the NY State Thruway to the land of The Lovely Jess's birth.

This will be my second trip up to those there parts surrounding the state capital. Now, one might think I'd take advantage of this opportunity to go sight-seeing around the Capital District and learn more about the history and geography of my adopted state. Fuck that noise. I'm more interested in going back to A.J. Wright to take more pictures of their scary tchatkes that look like the Pointer Sisters collection.

Can we, Jess? Can we? Huh? Huh?

he will 'rize' again

The Lovely Jess and I tackle religion and offer some suggested improvements...

Jess: Check out this search term: "i need some hooping material for sermons"

Yours Truly: What's hooping?

Jess: I have no idea.

YT: I automatically assumed it was for a Baptist sermon in the Deep South. I have no idea why.

Jess: I was thinking hula hoop.

YT: I was thinking it was a form of religious dance. Like stepping or krumping in the name of Jesus.

Jess: I want Jews for Jesus to krump instead of handing out literature.

YT: "I krump for Jesus. Do you?"

Jess: "Jesus krumped while carrying a cross on his back."

YT: "My boss is a Jewish krumper."

Jess: "Jesus krumped for your sins."

YT: "Jesus krumped on water."

YT: "And on the third day He rose again from the dead. He krumped into Heaven..."

YT: Right? That's part of the Apostle's Creed?

Jess: Yes

Jess: Jesus and Judas had a krump off after the Last Supper.

YT: Yes. And Jesus lost apparently.

YT: Judas was the dopest krumper in all of Galilee.

Jess: Judas krumped off the chain.

YT: Is "dopest" still in use?

Jess: I don't think so.

YT: Or did I just sound like Katie Couric when she tries to sound all hip?

Jess: Kinda

YT: Crap. Oh, but let's face it... I'm not far off from Katie Couric.

Jess: You're less orange.

YT: And nowhere near as perky.

YT: Nor are my gums as huge and unsettling as hers.

Jess: Indeed

Jess: Man, religion would be so much more fun if everyone was krumping.

A very good point, don't you think? Pope Benedict, if you're reading this -- and I know you are -- The Lovely Jess and I respectfully suggest that should Vatican III ever convene, you all consider krumping as one of the changes applied to the Mass. Perhaps this exciting new element will help restore depleted congregations to pre-scandal numbers. Think about it.

they feel the need, the need for speed[os]

A snippet from an email exchange between The Lovely Jess and me today...

Me: Here are the photos I took yesterday. I had to go rub one out after looking at these two hot pieces off ass.

Jess: AWESOME

Me: Admit it -- these two hotties have you all hot and bothered. Fess up now.

Jess: Totally. It's been me, the Magic Wand and that mental image for days.

For more images of these two babes and other hot bods, please visit my Brighton Beach Flickr set. Perhaps after viewing them, you too will be, um, inspired.

Never let it be said that I don't give you guys anything...

firecracker firecracker, boom boom boom

Happy um, 4th of July, everybody! I apologize for the delayed Independence Day wishes but I've been a busy girl the past few days. Last night I hosted my second annual rooftop fireworks viewing party and it required a bit o' prep work. The result, I'm happy to report, was a success, if I do say so myself.

I have a stunning view of lower Manhattan on the roof of my building. The Macy's fireworks set off on a barge near the South Street Seaport were this close to us. My apartment is tiny, the fixtures need updating and the occasional unwanted visitor gives me pause but I have to say that my location, particularly on the Fourth, makes my exorbitant rent worthwhile.

So yes, the party went well, despite the size of my studio and the amount of bodies packed into it before and after the fireworks show. It was, uh, cozy. Yeah, cozy. That's the word.

Mmm... The Lovely Jess made the most kick-ass guacamole I've ever had the good fortune to eat. Stephanie made an awesome cilantro salad with a most intoxicating aroma. Zoe hooked me up with a delicious batch o' homemade potato salad and Ruth came bearing chocolate chip cookies that almost gave me the big "O" after one bite. I and my guests were well fed, yo. Thanks to everyone who graced me with gifts of food and beverage and most importantly -- your company. 'Twas much appreciated.

Mama and Papa McDimple even made a showing! My ma, despite her thick Scottish accent and abiding love and devotion to her ancestral land, was wearing a shirt that said: AMERICA. Perhaps it's the PMS talking but it was so damn cute, I could just cry right now. My father entered my abode toting vodka, gin, flavored crisps (potato chips for you Yanks) and two bottles of wine in a Green Bay Packers duffel bag. Not sure where he acquired that since we were always a Giants household but whatevs. Who am I to quibble when the contents were so savory? Oh and there's also the matter of me not really giving a rat's ass about football...

I really love watching my friends interact with my parents. They are always mutually smitten. During a private chat, my father complimented me on the company I keep and that, to me, is high and valuable praise, indeed. Good stuff. Oh, and if memory serves me correctly, I only had to do one Scottish to American translation for one of my friends. Otherwise, there was no "language" barrier. As my da would say, brilliant!

Unlike last year, I didn't take any pictures of the fireworks because my efforts one year ago yielded this unfortunate result. Linus, however, had two cameras and tripods on hand to catch this year's impressive display from atop my roof (right).

If you haven't checked out Linus's photostream, I urge you to do so right this very instant. His pictures take my breath away. Linus lives just a few blocks from me so he photographs a lot of the sights I see just about every day. Despite my familiarity with some of his subjects, I still gasp, squeal and clasp my hands together in wonder at his unique and gifted perspective.

Linus also has one of them there blogs and if his way with a lens isn't enough to make you envious, the man crafts words in ways that will stimulate your intellect one moment and break your heart the next.

He also knows his way around a beer selection. I'm currently enjoying his contribution to last night's festivities: Dead Guy Ale. Linus, this shit is good! My subsequent buzz is as robust and full-bodied as this delicious brew. Thank you!!!

Now if you'll excuse me, I'm off to crack open another one...

my way gay tale of even gayer gayness

I survived my first-ever WYSIWYG Talent Show! I stressed out majorly before going on but I really had a great time up on that stage. I think my story went over well. Um, I also think that there's a whole new crop of people out there who think I'm a complete bitch based on my scathing critique of dates gone bad, but hey, them's the breaks. People are bound to find out sooner or later that I'm a real asswipe, no?

A big thank you to Chris, Andy and Dan for allowing me to get my WYSIWYG on. It was an honor and a pleasure to share the spotlight with Rod Townsend, The Spinster, Greg Walloch, dj:ayden, Joe.My.God and Joel Derfner. What illustrious company I keep!!! Thank you so much for the opportunity. You were all amazing!

For those of you who couldn't make it, here's the piece I read last night:

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Sometime last year, my fellow WYSIWYGer tonight, Joe.My.God, sent an email to a bunch of us homo bloggers and posed the question: What is the gayest thing you've ever done?

I thought it would be easy enough to answer. After all, I'm one of The Homosexuals and therefore can easily rattle off a list of things that make me a big ol' lez.

For one, there's the whole aversion to cock thing. Secondly... actually, wait... I guess that right there makes it an open and shut case, no? I don't like dick. Simple.

But believe you me, there are a litany of ways in which I earn my Sapphic stripes so I felt like I was more than up to Joe.My.God's challenge... until I started trying to write about it. As I sifted through my memories trying to find something that demonstrated my over-the-top dykedom, I couldn't find shit. I had not a single, salacious story to share so I just ended up slapping together some lame nonsense about the overly-schmoopie things my ex-girlfriend and I used to do for each other.

For example, she wrote me tons of free-verse poetry and gave me lots of dolphin brick-a-brack and in exchange, I adopted us a whale and made her dozens of mix tapes which, in retrospect, were quite heavy on the 10,000 Maniacs. Now, that might seem like an odd and incongruous musical choice but it was a two-pronged approach really. I felt like I could not only woo this girl with some of Natalie Merchant's more syrupy lyrics, but I could also raise her level of awareness of things like child abuse, illiteracy, corporate greed, the Great Depression, teenage pregnancy, freedom of choice and oil spills.

But, as I fully expected, my less-than-tawdry tale barely ranked as queer next to some of the others in Joe's compilation. And I'm not sure how my account tonight will stack up on the Way Gay meter so, instead of trying to outgay anyone, I'm opting instead to stick with what I know best -- making fun of people.

So, without further ado...

I went out with a woman last year and how do I put this delicately? I banged her on the second date. A day or two later, after said banging, I received an email from her that went a little something like this:

Curly,
I just wanted to thank you for the other night. It was wonderful spending time with you... and making love with you. You are a gifted and amazing lover.

OH.MY.GOD. I wasn't even that freaked out by the level of intimacy she had assumed about us. No. No. I was more concerned that I had just fucked someone who actually used the term "making love" in all seriousness. As well as the word "lover." Without irony. Or a funny accent.

Now lest you think I'm an ingrate, I must say that I appreciate a nice thank you note as much as the next person but well, in this case it's a bit unnecessary. The screaming orgasms -- note the plural -- and the scratch marks down my back were all the thanks I needed, really.

About two years ago, while perusing the online personals, I came across an intriguing profile. I was immediately taken with her cool name. It was the same name as a rather crunchy city in Arizona, which I just assumed was where she was born or conceived or something. Actually, I had envisioned quite the back story for this woman based solely on this name. I theorized that her parents were hippy-dippy academics and she was their free-spirited daughter who favored peasant blouses, flowing skirts and bare feet and probably always had a good stash of weed on hand.

We hit it off over email and agreed to a date. I was really looking forward to meeting her. I arrived first and nervously waited for the beautiful hippie of my imagination to appear. I was all atwitter over the possibilities.

A few minutes later, in bounds a woman with stringy brown hair, pale, dull skin and the same build and carriage as Jar Jar Binks.

When she thrust out a bony hand and introduced herself to me, my heart which was so puffed up with hope and expectation deflated and shot around the room like an unsealed balloon.

Instead of the envisioned bare feet and a flowing skirt, she was wearing lug-soled shoes that were far too large and clunky for the tapered-ankle high-waisted Mom jeans she was wearing. And in place of the delicate peasant blouse was a thick black Champion sweatshirt. Actually, I could tell it used to be black but by now, it was more of a charcoal gray because of age and repeated exposure to detergent.

And there was no killer weed to be found on this girl. The only type of drug paraphernalia on her was an EpiPen. Turns out, this chick was allergic to her own snot. And her allergies were so bad, she couldn't risk eating or drinking anything that she didn't prepare herself so she brought a small cooler bag containing quite the nut-free, gluten-free, dairy-free assortment. Oh, and some orange shit in a Poland Spring bottle that I didn't even want to know about. And then she offered me some of her hypoallergenic stash with the same ease and expectation as if she was offering me an Altoid.

The outlook was not good but I held out hope for some stimulating conversation. I don't know what I was thinking. There was a better chance of monkeys flying out both our butts. Actually, that's probably not the best choice of expression because knowing her allergies, monkeys flying out the butt was probably a side effect she suffered as a result of eating, I don't know... soy or something.

So, needless to say that stimulating conversation never quite materialized. Instead, she spent most of the time talking about her various reactions in gruesome and excruciating detail as well as the life-saving benefits and properties of epinephrine. Um, in case you were wondering, talking about anaphylaxis on a first date? Soooooooooo NOT hot.

But her name still interested me so once I got her to stop yapping about her freakish swelling and violent vomiting spells, I inquired about its origin. It turns out that after one visit to, uh... for the sake of protecting her identity, we'll call it... uh, I don't know, Flagstaff... she decided that she liked the "energy fields" and the "unique aura." So much so that she needed to rechristen herself... Flagstaff.

Now, I don't know about the rest of you but when I really like a place I visit, I just buy myself a nice magnet or a coffee cup or something. Granted, I realize I don't have much sway in arguing against renaming oneself as I stand before you as Curly McDimple (not my real name) but then again, I'm not demanding that family, friends, coworkers and random people I meet on Nerve address me as such. Uh, just you guys here.

And the thing is, Flagstaff's real name was, like, Elizabeth or whatever. And well, the whole thing is just silly especially when you consider that there's a perfectly good city bearing her Christian name right across the Hudson over here. I mean, one could argue that Elizabeth, New Jersey also possesses "energy fields" and a "unique aura." Sure, the "energy fields" will most likely give you inoperable cancer and that "unique aura" possesses a smell that's akin to a dirty diaper hitting you in the face shit-side up, but still, Elizabeth's not without its charms.

I didn't always rely on online dating. When I first came out, I tried to meet people the old-fashioned way. I enlisted the help of my dear friend from high school, Filomena. Unfortunately, I think she took the whole "old-fashioned" thing a little too literally. In one of my first ventures out into the scene, she took me to a dance... sponsored by SAGE.

For you breeders in the audience, that acronym stands for Senior Action in a Gay Environment. In other words, it's for old people. Don't get me wrong, I have nothing but massive amounts of gratitude and respect for our elder statesmen. I just don't necessarily want to slow dance to "Always and Forever" with them.

And while I really appreciated Filomena's efforts, it was just a bit much for my first time out. Seriously, we were there not five minutes before a woman closely resembling Leather Tuscadero hit on me. And then right after that, Donna Summer's English-version remake of that Andrea Bocelli song blared from the sound system much to the delight of the aging throngs and it suddenly turned into motherfucking Soul Train in there. I saw one old lady using her walking stick as a go-go pole of sorts and a bunch of old biddies engaged in some hard-core bumping and grinding and I got all overwhelmed and started to cry right there in the middle of the dance floor. So we left.

But Filomena was trying to be supportive and didn't want the night to be a total wash so she suggested that we go to Rubyfruit but then she couldn't remember where it was and I had never been there so I was of no use, so after wandering around the West Village aimlessly for a bit, we just went home. In retrospect, it was a good thing because I've since been to Rubyfruit and the clientele is not that much younger than at a SAGE dance. In fact, there's a lot of demographic overlap.

I finally braved Rubyfruit about a year or two ago and it looked like a fucking softball clinic in there. One woman gestured to me and I wasn't clear if she wanted me to dance with her or lay down a nice bunt. Had we gone there that night after the dance, I would have been permanently scarred. Primarily because a lot of the women in there looked like Ms. Neuschwander, our scary freshman-year gym teacher who favored polo shirts tucked into pleated, khaki shorts and was prone to slapping young girls on the ass as they got on and off the pommel horse.

So, after all my name-calling and ridiculing is said and done, it should perhaps come as no surprise to you that yes, I'm still single. Yup, I'm available and ripe for the picking, ladies. Not sure that's an enticing proposition because by now you might be thinking I'm judgmental, a bit imma