Tragedy Strikes, Southern Style

With the absolute devastation and destruction left behind from Hurricane Katrina, President Bush, Con Edison and the City of New York has pledged an oath to work around the clock to restore power to the millions of homes remaining in the storm ravished city of New Orleans and parts of Mississippi.

Though it may take several years to rebuild what was destroyed in just one day, the hope is to have electricity running normally in time for the September 28th Dinner And A Movie premiere of Twister on TBS.

"I have to go...We've got cows!"

No seriously, they still have it on the schedule.

My prayers with the millions affected. And that's not a joke.

"Rufus Says Chuck, Chuck Says Kathy, Kathy Says Rufus..."

And all I'm saying is What The Fuck?!!!

If you missed the 2005 VMAs last week you may not know what I'm talking about. So here's what went down: R&B renegade R. Kelly came out of the closet, and took a huge dump on stage, lyrically speaking, of course. Had to clarify, what with the history of our bad boy's boudoir behavior.

But seriously, what has been called the first ever musical saga, "Trapped In The Closet" is a twelve part song series about infidelity, the lies and deceit running rampant in the lives of two young, black couples. Desperate Housewives in the ghetto, if you will.

Kelly took the MTV spotlight, and like a miked schizophrenic on speed, played all three, or was it four, maybe five - fuck if I know - characters in the drama, which included, get this, a gay preacher! This one sleeps with that one, who cheats on this one with that one, who's been sleeping with this one who used to cheat on that one and then a gun shot, a lot of incongruous screaming back and forth and enough relationship reversals to give Jude Law a run for his money.

The poorly lip-synced performance ends with a heated kiss between the two men, a lingering silence, and then the big crowd pleaser, "I'm sorry Chuck, I'm going back to my wiiiiiiiiiiiiiiife."

Oh no he didn't. Wait, yup, he did.

They always do.

But that's another blog all together.

What struck me as odd about the whole hip-hop hoopla is that we finally have a popular song, rather a popular SERIES of songs, all billboard favorites of both men and women, straight and gay, and it took a thirty-eight year old black man with twenty-one counts of child pornography to lift the veil and expose the inner workings of what most would consider some pretty heavy issues. Even if you can't follow any of them through the lyrics. And trust me, you can't.

Then again you won't have to wait too long to get the visual because R. Kelly just confirmed he's working on a stage version of the 15 chapter operetta, casting actors to play all the roles and writing the music to link them all lyrically.

Maybe in that version the gay dude wins. Then again, it's still very much hip and very much hopping to be homophobic in the rap industry. So whether it works out between Chuck and Rufus, Rufus and Kathy, Kathy and Chuck or any other complex combination therein remains to be seen.

Let's just hope they all get tested and play safe. Oh wow. Maybe that's the real message to his music. Maybe he's aiming to start a social-sexual dialogue. Get you talking, asking questions. Maybe we're supposed to stop and wonder if the guy or girl we're freakin with at the club is doing the exact same thing...

Nah. It's about dirty, adulterous sex and naked, bisexual men hiding in closets holding onto their thrusting, polished Glocks for dear life.

Yeah, that's what R. Kelly's about.

Mama Said There'd Be Days Like This...

...'Course my mother was a narcoleptic alcoholic with irregular bowel movements and a penchant for burning homeless children with lit cigarettes so I wouldn't always go by what she said.

Gay-Z: The Homosexual Hommie Everyone's Not Talking About?

Figure skating's got Rudy Galindo. Independent Hollywood's got Rupert Everett. Daytime TV's got Ellen. And Broadway's got...well pick one. Yes, it seems these days every facet of the entertainment industry's bursting with openly gay contenders. Men, women, hell even puppets are riding in on the pink wave of what was once taboo, now just a dime a diva. But in our continuously crossing-over kind of culture, one cannot help but wonder if there will ever be a spotlight big enough for a Notorious F.A.G.?

Now you know I don't like to gossip. Much. But if you haven't been clued in to the recent goings-on in the rap world, let me catch ya up to date. Eminem just dropped out of his world tour, checked into a drug clinic for a sleeping pill addiction, but thankfully not before dropping trou' ala Marky Mark and flaunting his humidifying hip-hop heiny in what promises to be one wickedly wild new music video. Yum. Oh, and I think Lil' Kim is still in jail. Yeah, so that's about all I can pass on myself.

For more up-to-the-minute news of the blazin' persuasion you'll have to tune in to Hot 97, the Wendy Williams Experience -- everything you ever wanted to know about R&B, Whitney & Bobbby Brown, and how she lost fifteen pounds on L.A. Weightloss. It's here where I first heard the chatter about the multi-platinum Billboard artist who sat down recently with a journalist to write Confessions Of A Gay Rapper, his anonymous coming out story, if one can technically "come out" anonymously.

I read what is still left on the web about the piece. To summarize, this world-famous rap star from Brooklyn has managed to keep everyone in the public fooled, including his naive girlfriend who doesn't have a clue how much gay ass he and his, umm, black friends, pass around on and off the tour bus. Everything from group hotel orgies to what sounds close to an almost monogamous love affair are graphically covered in Confessions. He concludes with, "Yo, I believe that a man is made for a woman and a woman is made for a man, but only a man knows what a man needs and feels. Only a man can satisfy another man."

I believe the expression I'm looking for here is "Tru Dat."

Now, it should be noted, the story was rumored to have first appeared in the Village Voice several months ago, but I have been unable to locate any reference to it or the author, "Jamal X," on their website. Wendy Williams, for her part, has since refused to discuss the story any further following an onslaught of frantic and furious phone calls, emails and faxes begging for more details.

Perhaps the backlash was felt even harder for Mr. X and his peeps. Perhaps those in the know informed the flamer he was fanning himself too close to the fire. Or perhaps this is simply the beginning for our homosexual homeboy. But with anti-gay sentiment laced in just about every other lyric, it's no wonder rap music is the final frontier for our clammy hand closeted friends.

Until Elton John and DMX celebrate four-twenty tea time by breaking bread, or crumpets as the Sir would call them, we'll have to keep on playing the six-degree guessing game to which most of Hollywood has become accustomed. No one's naming any names, but if we were to go simply off the obvious, I think Nelly's people should learn a thing or two from all those Prince-like maneuvers.

I won't lie. I do have my pick, though it may just be a case of really tortuous wishful thinking. Gay or straight, with an ass like that, he can melt in my mouth any time he wishes...

Tourists Say The Gayest Things

So I'm walking back from lunch today, trapped behind a trio of typecasted twits, outsiders from the other coast most likely, when the tiniest of the three yanks her barely-present mother towards Madame Tussaud's Wax Museum, begging to go inside for a peek. Mother turns flamboyantly, lowers her oversized sunglasses in what could only be a perfectly choreographed maneuver, and without the slightest bit of hesitation declares, "if you want to see dead people made of plastic you can visit grandma in L.A."

Oh no she didn't! Yes, yes she did.

Dude, I Want Your Dell

Ben Curtis, who won't remember me in the slightest but whom I've met several times and worked with once at MTV, is hot. Recovered from all the hype surrounding his drug bust in the city, and finally shedding the image of Steven, the infamous You're-Getting-A-Dell Dude -- which by the way was the harder of the two reps to live down -- Ben's making a new name for himself, albeit slowly and under the cover of night.

What I find most fascinating, and perhaps fuels my burning attraction for Benji, is his relationship to the gay culture. Sure, when he first invaded the air waves we fell under the trance of his innocently adorable and sexually subdued stoner personae. Hell, I bit - hook line and sinker - as every computer I've owned since then has been, well, a Dell. After leaving Steve-O behind, he's ducked in and out of the shadows, finally popping up in the Off-Broadway sleeper, Joy, as a closeted gay man who flip flops from girls to boys (Think John Kerry in a gay bar...No wait, don't think that. Stop thinking that. Seriously, now you're just being gross).

I admit, haven't seen it. Even heard he's only got 12 or so lines. But as part of the cast, a collection of seven spicy male and female actors with whom the issues of sex, love and commitment are played out respectfully, Ben gets to step back into the limelight and answer to the press who will now inevitably hound him on his own sexuality. What I find most captivating here is his seemingly heartfelt response. "Being the son of a gay preacher man in Tennessee..." Yep, turns out Daddy Dude came out of the Curtis Closet while Ben was still in high school. And rumor has it so did his sister, who then returned to men (as we all do in the end).

But did the great gay gene skip over my new heart's flame?

He's not saying. And that's still fine by me. Graduating high school is hard enough. Try explaining to your prom date why she has to come inside to meet Friar Fagalla and the Luke, John or Michael to his...umm...Peter. I'll remind you, this was the south and in Ben's own words, in the south if you're not homophobic you're gay. For him to have come out of that experience alive, with all his teeth intact and still be willing to kiss another man on stage, I say no matter how often, or how well, he delivers dialogue, a standing ovation of the gayest kind is in order. That's three quick claps, a wipe of the left tear duct, overly dramatic grasp of the shirt in the vicinity of where the heart lies, and of course, a craned neck to check out his boyishly beautiful bottom when he bends to bow.

For the record, he never checked me out when we were together, and he does speak fondly of his ex-girlfriend with whom he was able to escape the public's sudden obsession with his poor man's Sean-Williams-Scottish-self. Though now self-proclaimed single, he says working through his confusion on stage and in his personal, professional and sexual life, he's walked into and away from this experience with even more questions, but the strength now to ask them and the courage to finally hear the answers.

My words, more or less, not his.

But regardless if he'll ever return my love, or calls, or even glances off-stage, I got a new found respect for the guy. I also got a new Dell Inspiron notebook. Look, he may never want to utter those infamously infectious words again...but, like the loyal love-bug I am, whatever his next command may be, I'll obey without question.

Here's to hoping it begins with "Will You Marry Me...Dude?"

Dove: Apparently It's What's For Dinner

In a daring and provocative move, marketing execs at Dove unveiled their new ad campaign focusing on "real women with real curves." The goal was to show the cause and effect relationship between the consumption of their products and what you'll look like posed awkwardly in cheap underwear.

The Red Cross Needs Your Blood!!!

...Unless you're gay, or know someone who is.

That's the latest from our friendly neighborhood philanthropists.

Apparently there is a major blood shortage in the works. Thousands of people will die this year alone without a constant replenishment of the donor supply for fresh blood. That's why both the American Red Cross and the Give Life Organization set up blood drives all over this glorious country to collect pints of this, the most precious life force there is.

That's why I wanted to help. That's why I responded to the GiveLife.org's call for my blood. That's why I looked up my local donation site, why I rolled up my sleeve, why I bit my bottom lip and waited for the prick with the needle to do just that. That's why I was confused when I was told I could go, when I was sent away, without a Tickle-Me Elmo band-aide or shot glass of apple juice and a nilla wafer. That's when I found out they don't need my kind of blood.

You see, according to the Blood Donation Eligibility Guidelines provided by the Red Cross and company, there are certain types of people out there who are not eligible to donate even a droplet of their much-needed hemoglobin. Dead people, for instance. Drug addicts, prostitutes, animals, anyone from or near the Congo, and gays. These "types" of people, need not apply.

Why? Well, the official statement by the Red Cross states, "if you are a male who has had sexual contact with another male, even once, since 1977...you have done something that puts you at risk for becoming infected with HIV," and therefore are ineligible to help out. Lord help them when that feeble-minded fag wanders in and confesses the last cock he sucked was in 1976.

But seriously, did you know that by being a boy who likes boys you have actually DONE something that puts you at risk? Unlike all the girls who throw their legs up behind their ears when a Vince-Vaughn-look-alike enters the club, or the dudes who bounce from one hole to the next like it's their innate prerogative to play, gay men, even clean, monogamous, HIV-negative gay men -- homos with hearts if you will -- all with recent test results in hand, they are subject to the ultimate rejection: Thanks, but no thanks.

The Red Cross does perform all kinds of precautionary tests on the donated blood, mind you, seeking out the most healthy and purest of pints they can collect. They just figure it would save some time by eliminating the ultimate threat to public safety: homosexuals, and people from Nigeria.

After fifteen years of what can only be described as blatant discrimination, the Red Cross chose to revisit the issue, calling upon the medical community for proof their partisan practice was, in fact, legitimate. And on October 4th of this year, the Blood Products Advisory Committee, a group consisting of "government scientists" -- so you know they're trustworthy -- told the Food and Drug Administration and the Red Cross that upholding the controversial ban on gay men's blood donation would ensure a continually clean blood supply, one the Red Cross proudly proclaims has been, for the past few decades, "virtually free of tainted blood."

Translation: Gay = Dirty.

According to an article posted on the Red Cross website, the Committee voted 7 to 6 to maintain the discriminatory policy, thereby continuing to prohibit an estimated 62,300 men from offering up their needed blood. After much deliberation on the topic the Red Cross found the verdict satisfactory, claiming the decision was not a social policy issue, but one concerning the health and safety of the public at large.

The FDA then returned to their practice of approving drugs that kill people.

Now I'm not proposing a ban on all blood donation. Far from it. Donate if you can, if you're allowed. Be honest about who you are and what you've done. And please, be up front about your health status when applying to be a donor. Just do me a favor and ask them kindly, when they're filling up all their vials with all the life you have to give, why they so vilely and blatantly discriminate against an entire demographic wanting to offer theirs.

Skewed medical science aside, perhaps the more times they have to answer, the less sense their explanations will make to them as well.

Oh, and for the record, here is a sample of other people ineligible to save lives:

* Anyone with "unexplained weight loss."
-- Lindsay Lohan please step out of line.
* Anyone with "diarrhea that won't go away."
-- Those of you who ate at White Castle in the past year also please step left.
* Anyone who has or has had "piercings, electrolysis, or botox" and cannot prove the needles used were sterile.
-- That's all of NYU, college freshman across the country, every actor/actress in Hollywood and male swimmers and models.
* Anyone "pregnant must wait six weeks after giving birth."
-- So at least we know Britney's off the market for the time being.

And lastly...

* Anyone who has been "bitten by a human, if the bite marks actually broke skin."
-- Ummm, yeah. Ironically, if you've survived a nasty vampire attack you're still okay to donate, so long as you don't celebrate by making out afterwards with your skinny, hairless, tattooed Albanian boyfriend. Go figure...

When In Texas...

There's an old saying we used to throw around in the south that goes something like this: "You're only as good as the closest neighbor to your right." And in the case of our beloved George W. Bush, the proof of that is in the pent-up rage roaming right next door.

Yesterday, according to the Associated Press, police and Secret Service agents rushed to the house of Larry Mattlage, the pissed-off protest-hater who lives and works the farm adjacent to Prezzie's McLennan County ranch. After firing twice in the air with one of his many shotguns -- with which by the way, he claims he hunts doves -- Larry the Loser asserted, "I ain't threatening nobody and I ain't pointing a gun at nobody." 'Cept the doves, of course. You know, the international symbols of peace, justice and tranquility.

Larry wasn't arrested, however. I mean, his intent was only to disrupt the mindful, religious, candle-lit ceremony held by the 60-or-so anti-war protesters parked outside his home. Never would he attempt to wound, maim, or take innocent lives to the grave in the name of that good ol'Texan charm. No, he leaves that to his hot-headed bi-coastal neighbor back east.

Bush, by the way, had no comment. Neither do I, you see.

I Put The Mo-st In Modesty

When asked, most people say that my greatest asset is my skin, which glows - it really does! I have to tie a sock over my eyes in order to fall asleep at night. Others like my eyes or my perfect, gleaming teeth, my thick head of hair or my imposing stature, but if you want my opinion, I think my most outstanding feature is my ability to accept compliments.
-- David Sedaris, Naked

Top Ten Things I Dislike Right At This Minute

10. Not having an IPod.
9. My stack of bills.
8. Waiting for him to call.
7. Waiting for him to call knowing he isn't going to call.
6. Car commercials.
5. Granny Smith Apples that aren't ripe.
4. Sweating.
3. Salamanders.
2. Having to explain more.
1. Misplacing my chapstick...again.

C'est La Vie

Did you know that "Dream" spelled backwards is "Maerd," which is french for "a pile of shit." Just something to think about next time you tell someone you've met the Man Of Your Dreams, especially if he's french.

H-2-Woes: An Undercover Expose

Recently, I was cornered at the water cooler by THAT coworker of mine, the one whose name consistently eludes me until I remember the helpful memory trick we came up with -- Shut The Hell Up Dorris. I chivalrously motioned for her to fill her flimsy coned cup first, a move I shortly discovered would trap me in her presence all that much longer while she took her time collecting her thoughts.

What's-Her-Face then turned to me and confessed without invitation that her weekend had been horrible, that her sister's boyfriend from out of town stayed over and tracked dirt all over her brand new curtains. I became aware of her pausing, just long enough to allow me a chance to follow-up -- curtains??? -- but then I remembered I really didn't care.

That's when she exclaimed she had been awoken at three in the morning by the sound of what she believed to be two, maybe three, chainsaws and the gut-wrenching echoes of a neighbor screaming bloody murder.

Naturally I asked, "Was she really screaming 'Bloody Murder,' or was it just loud and scary?" Seriously-What's-Her-Face stared blankly at me for a while, caught off guard really, because as it turned out, no one had ever spoken TO her before. Sure, they smiled and nodded and pictured tiny lizards eating her head and choking on the layers of ill-shaded make-up caked upon her face in uneven levels - like man-made mesas that rubbed off when she double kissed your cheeks good bye. But no one had ever actually responded to something she had said.

The rumor was that during her employment interview she rattled on about how she collected miniature see-saws from e-bay, something about how her cat once swallowed one and almost died but her training as a certified public accountant gave her the skills to not only save his life but bake the perfect banana cream pie. They never actually said, "you're hired." It was more like she was passed off from Human Resources to the receptionist to the mailclerk and somehow made it to an empty cubicle where she moved in and set up shop, framed photos of the Siamese and see-saws abound.

The silence was eerie. We eyed one another, each waiting for the other to speak, but neither daring enough to do so. She just sipped her water, slowly, swallowing in large gurgles, matched only by the cooler rebalancing the oxygen in the tank.

I stood there in awe as I realized I had broken through. I had discovered the antidote. Both the battle and the war were mine for the winning. I almost reached up for a high-five but couldn't bare to break the silent barrier forged now between us. I was the champion. I was the man. I was the stuff legends were made of.

"They found her body sawed in half, her head shaved and painted green. Got the dog too. French poodle, it was. Just took off his legs and tail, split the body in three. They're still looking for his head."

I was an asshole.

I stood a while longer, thankful I had abandoned the quest for a high-five, but cursing myself for being thirsty all the time. At lunch I would buy a case of bottled water and bury it under my desk.

That was the last time she and I ever spoke. The next morning I found a news clipping from the local paper folded on my chair. The headline read, "Woman Murdered Sawed In Half." I read through the gory details trying not to picture the murder scene. The last line of the article had been highlighted in pink:

"A neighbor wishing to remain anonymous recalls literal cries of 'Bloody Murder.'"

Her harrowing tale was all everyone was talking about at the water cooler from that day forth. I didn't dare tell anyone I knew how to silence the beast. I'd just sit there at my desk with my luke warm Poland Springs watching them wipe discontinued Cover Girl off their cheeks, bracing themselves for support, wishing they could remember her name, or the names of the lizards wheezing as they crawled out of her nostrils and feverishly flung themselves to the floor in botched suicide attempts.

One day, Dear-God-What-Is-Your-Fucking-Name, one day...

Love At First Fight

What sucks the most about finding love is losing it. I know I should be thinking the better-to-have-had-than-never-had-at-all kind of thoughts, but in either case, I still end up all by myself. At least in the latter I wouldn't have to live with the memory of what his curly, pressed hair would look like in the morning, or how the inner part of his knee would taste after a sweaty make out session. No, I think it's always better to live in a constant state of apathetic ignorance. That is, not knowing you don't care and not caring about those you do not know, or never did.

I remember reading on his blog a discussion on the notion of finding a soulmate, an instant connection between two strange people, chemically, physically, mentally and perhaps emotionally charged to fit just so, that no other could capablely compare. I think it was the dark specks of brown in his eyes that warned me of this static. But, regardless, I allowed his energy to consume me. And now I'm stuck playing out the role of a Better-To-Have-Had for the rest of my life.

It's funny, when I think back to how little I knew then, and how great the distance between want and need would soon become. Somewhere along the line, I figured out if I shoved the one I longed for far enough away, the desire to be with him would deepen, the need to be near him narrow, and the want to wake up wearing his favorite t-shirt would consume me wholeheartedly. I would push him out and pass him off. I would reject, deject and object to any notion he could feel remotely similar. For when all was said and done, or unsaid, or undone, it felt that much better when he'd come back for more.

'Cept, he stopped coming. Then he stopped calling. Then I started crying. And comparing and contrasting, and complaining and computing how calculated and cold I could become before he realized our first fight was also our last.

How many times have you been in love they ask. How many times, indeed. I wonder if they mean with the same guy. Then, twice. Once when our mouths first parted, and again when he first departed.

I'm pretty sure you won't remember it like that. But I recall every detail. The last goofy smile. That last dumb laugh. The light patch of hair on your inner thighs, and your eyes, the way they would roll forward then back again when I ran my hands over it for the last time. I remember almost passing out, from all that breathing. Oh, that breathing. I might just miss that the most.

There's no real way to end this. No creative conclusion, no poignant proverb or simple simile, no meaty metaphor or double-meaning double entendre that captures just how lasting your effect has been. Translation: I love you, you fucked me up, and now it's impossible to become purely apathetic when I'm really just pathetic, painfully hooked still on a feeling from a fight that happened for just one of us, years ago when I was young and you more so, when we were scared, me mostly more so, when I was desperate and destined to derail the dance between your electrons and my neurons, your beads of sweat and my furrowed brow, your moving on and my never willing or able to do so...

But it's time, now. Now it's time. The CD's over, as is the moon's grip on the night sky and frankly, of you and of me, you and I both still don't know BLEEP. Look at that, a punitive pun. There may just be some hope for me after all.

You Complete Me...Sorta

It's estimated that seven out of ten Americans hate their jobs. Maybe you're one of them. Maybe you feel overworked and underappreciated. Maybe your boss doesn't like you or the guy you share a cubicle with orders in Mexican lunches more often than he cracks a window. Maybe you hate the drone lifestyle of a boring 9-5 or maybe you feel like for the chump change you take home at the end of the week you should at least be doing something you like. Well, if you are one of those seven out of ten Americans, maybe you should try getting over yourself.

You see, somewhere along the line, in this self-entitled culture that has become the United States Of AME-ME-MErica, we lost sight of what living life is really about. With the advent of popular media constantly reminding us of the dangers in settling for less, we've grown accustomed to honestly believing we deserve more, faster, better. More money. Faster cars. Better shoes. More time. Faster food. Better sex. More mates, faster fates and better dates with our now downloadable destinies. And perhaps some of us do, at some point in our lives, deserve just that. But to deserve is to earn, and to earn is to work for, and work takes sacrifice, dedication, sweat, tears, blood and above all else, honesty.

In an age where building up our children's self-esteem by encouraging their unyielding pursuit for happiness trumps the acceptance of admitting just how harsh, cruel, vindictive, disappointing and downright REAL reality can be, it's no wonder we have bred a cultural generation of despondent lost souls. One only look to Maslow's Hierarchy Of Needs to understand that when the basic need for food, shelter, attention, respect and love is granted, a child is free to move forward on the journey towards self-actualization.

That is, after all, what we're really after, is it not? To be actualized. To find fulfillment and oneness. To be, at day's end, complete.

Well guess what? You may not find that in the workplace. And your guidance counselors and college professors -- all of whom make their money on the promise their advice will pay off one day, that is after they've long been retired, or died -- misled you if that's what you think you're signing up for in the work force.

I know, I know, there are tons of people who are lucky enough to know exactly what they want to do with the rest of their lives and love doing it on a daily basis. I lived with a few actresses myself. I sincerely applaud, ironically, those daring enough to follow that wayward path, though in my experience, few actually find actualization. Remember that whole food, shelter, and what-not-needs bit. It's hard to feel complete as a soul when your next meal is dependent on the generous tip of the guy barely enjoying his own.

The point is to make peace with your situation. Accept that work is hard, that you may not find your purpose in the performance from day to day, but that the purpose of the job itself is to provide you with the money, and thus means, to attack the rest that life has to offer. How's this for new hierarchy? Go out tonight and eat a good dinner, rent a comfortable apartment, buy some new clothes, pay detailed attention to what you're friends are saying, respect your elders especially when they judge you, and learn to love the fact that when your children are your age, they'll bitch and complain about their jobs too.

Unless they tell you they wanna be in pictures. Best of luck to both of you, then.