I Hear You, Loud And Queer

2008-03-09T22:55:00.005-04:00

The wind ceased when you did,
a chill still creeps in,
hallow like I am now,
through the corners of every room which remind me of you.
The first kiss over here, the first Christmas over there.

The first time your fist clung to my arm when Jaws first attacked,
on this couch, where I’ve been lying ever since.

The truth is over the past few weeks I’ve never felt more alone in our bed,
with you at my side,
than I have all by myself,
lost among the perfectly plucked pillows which now surround me with as much comfort as you did.

I stopped crying long enough to change the song, to pass over another Celine,
how serene,
the sound of my heart pounding in the cavity which you carved out.
I’d shout your name if I had any breath left.

But you took it all with you with that final good night,
your right of passage from here to there,
I swear, you couldn’t even look me in the eye when you weaved the wonders of why you had to go,
that lie,
that line you offered up as reason enough,
I’d call your bluff if I didn’t already believe.
But I’m relieved, now, ‘coz you said it first.

I hope you’re happy. I hope you’re happy now.

Which wicked witch are you by the way? Or is it Dorian Gray?
Now that we’re through, because of you, because I knew, before you did, before you would face me with the truth,
the proof that I was in this alone, perhaps always have been.

Yes, I hope you find happiness, in the absence I couldn’t offer, in the arms of another, or alone.

I hope it finds you, as I did.

Idle now, the track changes on its own and I feel the first sign of a new wind brewing,
blowing my mind,
rewind.

And halt now.

Good bye, my friend.

Because of You

2008-02-14T12:41:00.006-05:00

His presence lingers long after he leaves,
His scent weaves,
in and out,
Through the curtains that curl and unfurl with the breeze,
Through the sheets and down comforter wrapped tight around my knees.

Please, if this is a dream, let me sleep till I’ve forgotten how to wake,
Let me spend a lifetime unconsciously quivered and quaked,
lost in this sea of used bedding, buried deep in this bliss,
his kiss.
This, is my home, now.
I am home now.

Before him there were many, lost soldiers, with futile attempt,
Opportunities of wasted proportions, fallen to the wayside with callous contempt.
Whores, bores, unstable and unspent,
unfaithful, ungrateful, unworthy,
Repent!
Restraint.
Relief and relax.
Reviving this skin again, my flesh under attack
by his lips, by his breath, by the subtle stubble of a chin freshly shaved.
Behaved, I lie here now, alone, searching this room for a sign of his recent exit,
Some huddled mass of clothes at the foot of our bed,
Instead, my own. (I confess I’m a mess, but I digress…)
He’ll be home soon. And my mind,
this ticking clock slowing by the minute
will rewind and renew.

Because of you.

Your eyes, so blue, the white pales to compare,
How unfair
for the rest of us, cursed with specks of brown on green,
Never seen, or never known a blue like yours before.
Never fallen so far, so deep into a color, and wanting more.

Kiss me, and vanquish the despair,
Kiss me, kiss me hard and replenish the fading air,
Hold me, hold me close and give me strength to proceed.
Touch me, touch me soft and let your fingers lead.

Your sleepy eyes in the morning grace mine and
I sigh, this weighted smile lifting from my soul,
This sense of release, of freedom earned,
Of pleasure burned, buried somewhere deep,
In this body, this shell which envelops all that I am.
The one you cracked, broke through and broke down,
And in whose arms and legs you drown,
Yes, sometimes against your will.
But still,
the circle of continued energy we create by binding our bodies,
In one act, or three,
You and me.

I love you.
I love your warmth, and your smell and the way you sometimes
wound me, to the core, when I waltz you to our door
to say goodbye, another day until tomorrow.
Yes, Romeo, parting is such sweet sorrow.
But in your absence, as you wade and wander,
my heart growing fonder,
I know these curtains will continue to unfurl as I curl back into bed,
Back into my head, into this dream which you invade, ever so often, and yet never too much.
Your touch, your taste,
Oh to waste this day, a frivolous hour more to spend wrapped in the clothes you wore
on your way home, back home.
To me.
I love you, my friend.
I do.

Because of you.

Up To The Mountain

2008-02-05T17:43:00.000-05:00

I went up to the mountain,
because you asked me to,
up over the clouds,
to where the sky was blue.
I could see all around me, everywhere.

Sometimes I feel like, I've never been nothing but tired,
and I'll be working, 'till the day I expire,

See sometimes I just lay down,
Lord no more can I do,
but then I go on again,
because you asked me to.

Some days I look down, afraid, afraid I will fall.
And though the sun shines, I see nothing at all.
But I hear your, your sweet voice, oh, oh,
coming and going, coming and going.
Lord, telling me softly,
you love me so...

TOMKAT'S BABY PICTURE RELEASED!!!

2006-07-31T00:52:00.000-04:00

To put an end to the ever churning rumors that baby Suri Cruise/Holmes doesn't even exist, Tom and Katie have finally agreed to release to the press this picture of the couple's mysterious love child.

Now I'm no expert, but there's just something about her that screams "Spawn of Tom."

Yet Another Hicks In the White House

2006-07-30T17:08:00.000-04:00

This week, while wars were being waged in the Middle East, President Bush invited American Idol 2006 winner Taylor Hicks, and the rest of the cheeky chorus-line castaways to the Oval Office.

The original hope was to use the teen idol superstars in a campaign to Rock the Vote -- an idea which was scrapped once Georgie was informed even the least liked idol to be booted from the show, 16 year old Kevin Covais, had a higher approval rating than he did.

Television Teachers Teach More Good

2006-07-28T23:28:00.000-04:00

Mr. Noblet: Can anyone tell me the tragic irony of the Trojan War?
Tina: Um, that horses are friendly creatures yet a hollow, wooden one was used to destroy Troy?
Mr. Noblet: Wrong and no.
Chip: That the mighty warrior Achilles was killed by a small cut to his ankle.

Mr. Noblet: Chip is wronger. OK, here it is. The tragic irony of the Trojan War is that although it was fought over Helen, who was young and beautiful, by the time they rescued her ten years later, she was really old and very ugly.
Tina: But wasn't recovering the king's wife reward enough?
Mr. Noblet: Tina, an ugly woman is never a reward.

Lance Backs Up The Ass And Puts It In Bass

2006-07-27T17:43:00.000-04:00

No, this time I really mean it. And may I also say, it's about time! Followed shortly there after by, YAY! And of course, told you so!

What could have been the first fag to fly in space is now the latest top pop celeb outed by rumors swirling the internet of his sexuality. "I knew that if I ever acted on it or even said that I was gay, it would overpower everything."

Bass tells People magazine, "I was in this popular band and I had four other guys' careers in my hand." Now, all he has in his hand, and on his face for that matter, is a smile. Why? Well, wouldn't you be all smiles if your new boyfriend was 32-year old Reichen Lehmkuhl, openly gay actor, model and wet dream extrodinaire?

In a related story, the happily hot couple has just registered at Victoria Secret, where Lance will unveil his clothing line, "Bi Buy Bi."

No seriously, Lance is gay.

A Mother's Intuition by Bea Arthur

2006-04-09T23:30:00.000-04:00

John invited his mother over for dinner. During the meal his mother couldn’t help noticing how handsome John’s roommate was. She had long been suspicious of John’s sexuality and this only made her more curious.

Over the course of the evening, while watching the two men interact, she started to wonder if there was more to John and his roommate than met the eye. Reading his mom’s thoughts, John volunteered, "I know what you think, but I assure you Mike and I are just roommates."

About a week later, Mike came to John and said, "You know, ever since your mother came to dinner, I have been unable to find that beautiful, silver gravy ladle. You don’t suppose she took it, do you?"

John said, "Well, I doubt it, but I’ll write her a letter just to be sure." So he sat down and wrote "Dear Mother, I’m not saying you 'did' take the gravy ladle from my house and I’m not saying you 'did not' take a gravy ladle, but the fact remains that one has been missing ever since you were here for dinner. Love, John."

Several days later John received a letter from his mother which read "Dear Son, I’m not saying you 'do' sleep with Mike, and I am not saying you 'do not' sleep with Mike, but the fact remains that if he was sleeping in his own bed, he would have found the gravy ladle by now. Love, Mom."

Premeditated Premonitions

2006-03-30T22:33:00.000-05:00

Some mornings you just know. You can try to ignore all the signs. The car alarm which woke you at 5, ten past 6 and now, 3 minutes before your scheduled arousal. The hot water fading to frigid somewhere between rinse and repeat. The burnt toast, curdled milk, and stalled subway ride to work crammed in next to the overly perfumed bleached blonde and her snarling chiwawa in tote. Yes, you can try to ignore all the signs, but some mornings you just know.

Today is going to be a bad day.

When Mother Nature Has Major Menopause

2006-01-30T19:51:00.000-05:00

As we near the end of the first and only January we'll ever know of 2006, and the bills from an extravagant holiday begin their roll over in our mailboxes, the new gym memberships creep to an inevitable halt and the guilt for failing to send out those thank you cards yet again this year slowly sets in (and then thankfully quickly fades), it's no coincidence so few of us find the time or reason to reflect back on -- of all things -- the weather.

But for those of us who cherish and pride themselves on surviving the blizzard-like conditions of a white, New York City style Christmas, these heavenly hot flashes have left us wondering: Where, oh where, has Winter wandered?

According to Dr. James E. Hansen, the top climate expert at NASA, and former director of the Goddard Institute for Space Studies, those weathered winds of a wicked winter may soon become just a whimsical wish from our past.

In fact, his recent research has shown that 2005 was the warmest documented year in at least a century, a sign of something major shifting in the environment.

The culprit? No surprise: Global Warming.

Perhaps less shocking than that, the Bush administration refuses to hear about it. And if they continues to get their way, soon you won't be hearing much more on the issue either.

Following a controversial speech in which he spoke out against the government's failure to curb the emission of greenhouse gases associated with global warming, Hansen reported being threatened by the Bush Boys, claiming "dire consequences" would arise should these public statements continue.

Shortly thereafter, as expected, NASA began implementing a series of "restrictions" on Dr. Hansen's access to statistical information, insisting on reviewing first his lectures, papers and postings on the highly heated -- no pun intended -- topic.

But in recent interviews with the New York Times, the not-so-scared scientist insists it's his job and duty to speak out, to warn those in positions of power and to use his knowledge to help find a cure, not just cut corners.

In a January 29th story, Dr. Hansen told the NYT it would be ironically irresponsible for him not to continue to push the point to the press, despite the warnings of "dire consequences," because NASA's mission statement, after all, proclaims a promise "to understand and protect our home planet."

For his part in the paradigm, President Bush plans to outline in this Tuesday's State Of The Union Address his own personal mission statement: "It's My Party, and You'll Die If I Want You To."

Now if you'll excuse me, I have some belated letters to mail out, bills to pay, and all before running out to the gym.

But first I have to decide which tank top to wear with my shorts and flip flops...

A Gay Man's Guide To Getting Leid At Work

2006-01-27T18:31:00.000-05:00

Another Fagtastic Friday and though I haven't shaved in a week and look like the gayest grizzly bear nature has ever rejected, I just had to pose with these freshly cut leis sent from a coworker out in Hawaii.

Thanks Tania's Sister! Enjoy Your Weekend Folks!!!

The New Canada: What You Bloggin' Aboot?

2006-01-25T23:10:00.000-05:00

In an attempt to forge a closer working relationship with the George W. Bush Company -- I'm sorry, I mean the United States of America -- Canada has chosen to trade in it's long standing history of liberal and open-minded politics for the fresh, albeit fatal, face of the new Republican agenda.

Results from this week's general election showed Stephen Harper, leader of the Conservative Party, pulling in the majority vote to reign as the country's new Prime Minister.

It has been reported that shortly after the announcement, President Bush placed a 16 minute congratulatory call to Harper, wishing him hopes for a profitable future and offering advice on what to do next.

Shortly thereafter, Harper began work systematically destroying the national system of health care, increasing crime, rejecting the Kyoto Protocol to curb the effects of global warming, and banning all gay marriages, gay people in general and anyone who saw Brokeback Mountain and didn't "hurl, eh?"

Controversy bubbled over yesterday when Harper let it slip he always supported the invasion of Iraq and suggested reversing Canada's decision not to join the U.S. on the war front -- which, if you ask me, is exactly what Iraq needs right now: MORE untrained, useless, sissy-boy fighters to help slow down our political progress.

The Blind Leading The Blind...Part V

2006-01-23T19:30:00.000-05:00

It's out with the old, in with the Jew!?! Which Recasted Romeo is hanging up his handguns to perform Hava Nagila at a socialite's son's secretive but much anticipated New York Bar Mitzvah?

No word on how many paycheck zeroes will appear for his appearance, but rumor has it if you want him to sit for your Passover dinner, his hourly fee oh-so-doubles.

*** NOTE: All "Blind Items" listed on this site are from my own personal experiences, unless specified, and are not to be published or reproduced without my express permission. My reliable and inside sources are confidential, and all gossip tidbits have been verified for accuracy before publication. ***

Catch Up On Previous Blind Items:
TBLTB Part I TBLTB Part II
TBLTB Part III TBLTB Part IV

This Week: You Outta Be In Pictures, Baby

2006-01-22T17:01:00.000-05:00

PBS and Sesame Street announced this week a plan to keep up with the pop-crazed celebrity culture by reinventing some of their all-time classic learning tools.

Seen here:

"One Of These Things Is Not Like The Others..."

And no, kids, Ellen is NOT pregnant.

People's Sexiest Man Alive Matthew McConaghuey dodged rumors this week of his failed romance with Penelope Cruz because of his sexuality.

The actor, who enjoys banging on lap-drums naked with other men, started sucking on balls, an act with which he seems otherwise entirely comfortable.

And finally, if a pop-star poops in public, but no one is around to smell it, can you still make fun of him?

Justin Timberlake, here leaving a Palm Spring's port-a-potty, and two older women rushing to be next in line. Let's just hope they didn't lick the toilet seat...too much.

Sealed tupperware containing the air from his visit will be available on E-bay shortly. Current highest bid: $1.3 Million.
And that's mine.

This Just In: I'm Alive, And It's Terminal

2006-01-21T15:09:00.000-05:00

Well it's official. I'm dying.

I shifted my weight atop the parchment paved butchers block, waiting for an explanation, a possible miscommunication, a reason why, or how, or when...I wondered to myself was it worth it? This life. These moments.

My doctor wheeled his chair over, the chart holding the fate of what has become my daily routine balanced under his left arm. I asked him to give it to me straight, the irony in my word-choice settling in only hours later on the ride home. But before he could speak, my brain released, or cleared rather, a kind of wiping clean, as if someone was holding a weighted middle-finger to the delete key.

All my memories, working backward, from the burnt English muffin at breakfast to my first kiss in college, past the failed drivers test, past the prom, freshman year, my best-best friend Susie Blackart, the cabbage-patch kid I smashed into her overhead light in second grade, my first haircut, my last diaper, my mother's smile, the tit, the womb, and then stop. Right there. The moment of conception.

Deception. Life, if you will.

Suddenly, having taken stock of my life's collective meaning, all the anxiety, the stress, the fears of failure, the money worries, the does-he-like-me-like-me's, they had no consequence, no more power, no more hold. I was free, free to die.

My career crystallized, my mortgage materialized, and through these new eyes, I saw the truth, the meaning, the gift of life itself.

I was excited in that moment to take what remained of my days on earth for granted, to exploit my ability to walk upright, to flaunt my fevered appreciation for the capability to breath, to digest, to eat corn and flush corn, to smile at strangers, to compliment coworkers, to enjoy the laughter of a child and pity the tears of an invalid.

I never felt more alive than in the moment I was prepared to die.

But that's when he said it. You're going to be just fine. And suddenly that moment faded, my eyes gravitated back to his and I felt the blinking cursor paused in my beating brain. Control-Alt-Delete and I was rebooted, reborn, but back in the same body, the same worries, the same old context and constructs. Yeah, I was alive and well.

Damn it.

For shits-and-giggles, or perhaps from the remnants of the old-new-me I asked him how much longer I had to live. He said a lifetime. Give or take. I calculated in my head what that meant, trying desperately to account for fleeting time, to get back to that high, that freedom-filled fantastic fate.

Fuck.

If I live to be 80, from dust to dust, I've been given 4,160 weeks. Having used a third of that already, I'm down to 2,800.

Twenty-eight-hundred weeks. That's all I have to live. Give or take.

Yet it means nothing until the man in a white coat presses his weight against my knees and tells me I'm a goner. We wait, I suppose, to hear the deathly diagnosis. But we're all infected, we're all already goners, from the get go. There will be no survivors from this disease, and no cure.

Only memories, while they last. Only a hundred and eight second chances to become the person whose life is worth erasing. Only four thousand weeks to attempt something new, if you haven't already, and two thousand weeks to remember them.

Yes, I am dying, officially. But oh, what a good time I'll have doing it.

Hex, Lies And Videotape: New Footage Fu(ks Bush Fast & Furious-like

2006-01-19T23:51:00.000-05:00

No, it's not another Hilton sister sex-tape. This time the saucy starlet is none other than the ominously elusive Osama bin Laden, very much alive and doing well thank you very much, still four whole years after the September 11th attacks.

Cursing the United States and our fearlessly futile leader for his mere existence in the universe, Osama warns of future violence within the U.S., as he continues to prepare Al-Qaida cells around the world for the next dreaded wave of terrorist attacks.

The White House confirms an offer was made for a "long-term truce" with what bin Laden called "fair" but undisclosed conditions between the two factions.

Press Secretary Scott McClellan immediately refused such an offer, responding flatly, "We do not negotiate with terrorists."

He then went on to remind Osama that only Academy members may nominate and vote for their favorite films in each category, with the final ballot results being held in absolute secrecy by two partners of PricewaterhouseCoopers until that last anxious moment on stage during the 78th Annual Academy Awards Presentation.

A spokesman for the Al-Jazeera television network which originally aired the footage of the feared and flagrant fugitive reports that although Osama thoroughly enjoyed A History Of Violence, he is secretly hoping Brokeback Mountain takes home the award for Best Picture, with star Heath Ledger earning the much deserved Best Actor.

And they will too, if that Philip Seesmore Eatsoften doesn't inhale the entire cast before the show. Bastard. That is, both Philip and Osama.

It's All Fun And Games 'Till Someone Loses An I-raqi Surface-To-Air Missile

2006-01-18T18:30:00.000-05:00

Three fatal helicopter crashes in just under three weeks over the blood-soaked killing-fields of Iraq has suddenly probed the Pentagon to investigate a theory the insurgency is using lost missiles unaccounted for during the initial U.S. invasion to attack U.S. forces in the air.

Worried government officials told ABC News today there are hundreds, perhaps thousands, of Russian-made SA-7 missiles originally a part of Saddam Hussein's arsenal which were stolen by Iraqi fighters back in 2003. These weapons are most troubling for the helicopter crews because they are being used on non-combatant choppers providing aid and relief to wounded or stranded ground troops.

The good news: Paris Hilton's classier younger sister Nicky found her unaccounted for pride.

And at Eckerd no less!

They Say Those Who Can Still Act, Do; And Those Who Can't...Get Pregnant

2006-01-17T17:12:00.000-05:00

Baby Watch 2006, Hollywood Edition. It seems everywhere you look these days there's a full grown belly bursting with baby-booming-goodness.

But is the most recent rise in celebrity leg-spreading just the next hottest trend destined for decay, like Uggs or Jamie Fox's career?...Or is it part of a larger conspiracy? A purposeful plan? A mission, an assignment intended to keep quasi-talented, barely-noticed actors and actresses off the streets, and further, off the big screens?

And if so, who's responsible? God? P.R. Agents? The Gay Mafia?

We may never know the truth, but we can count on extended moment-by-moment coverage of every push of every birth -- the water break, the circumcisions and yes, the inevitable, unbelievable, over-rated baby-naming bonanza.

To get a feel for what's to come, sometime in the next nine months, let's start at the top, where all eyes (and photogs) currently reign:

The Brangelina Bump
Apparently in an attempt not to anger the Gods, Angie tried to keep the expectant news under wraps for as long as possible. In fact, not even Bradly is quite sure when he officially sperminated his baby's mamma, but working backward would make it one magical night in September...

I know the entire world is expecting this kid to be the hands-down most incredibly beautiful baby ever born.

But may I remind you, fate has a way of settling all scores in the end.

Just take a good long gander at the most recent pics of supermodel Heidi Klum's supersick love-child.

Suddenly clubbing Baby Seals doesn't seem so horrid, does it?

The TomKat Kiddies
Even on ice, teeny-tiny Tom attempts to feign a flame for anyone with a working camera. And as Katie, or Kate, or Kat, or whatever the hell his cult is calling her these days, grows larger around the mighty midsection, one cannot wonder why she would risk gliding over a slippery surface when carrying the most precious of proof that her man isn't as MO as most people imagine.

But as the wise world waits for their inevitable invitation to the Late-term Pregnancy Problem Party, we gotta hand it to Holmes for her Best Supporting Actress performance on this one. Now if only she could wield those powers to the dramatic beats of an actual movie script...

The Gwyn Guts
I know what you're already thinking...Not another crack at the crazy lady who named her baby after a fruit...So I won't. I'll just mention how the only time Princess Paltrow comes back to the U.S. is to take advantage of our health care system. Some would say being a pregnant ex-patriot works for her. I'm just surprised she gets work at all.

And as for the other Gwyn-girl, she'll either be the coolest mom ever, or a snarky up-tight bitch. But with Uncle Moby babysitting, at least we're sure to get a gay kid outta one of these gals...

Most Shocking Of All...

Alright so she's not pregnant, but man...talk about letting yourself go. Word on the street is Mariah Carey has packed on more than just a few extra pounds, all for her next movie role, the much anticipated sequel to Glitter.

Working Title: Gluttonier.

No seriously, the girl's an absolute beast now.

And that, my friends, concludes our in-depth investigation into the boisterous Baby-Boom infecting Hollywood at the moment.

But before you can return to your boring, baby-less lives and pretend to be happy for all of them, remember that the true victims here aren't even here yet to be victimized. Sure, money can buy you love, and it can bring you fame; it can even get you laid. A lot. But just like money, sometimes sperm is better saved than spread around.

I hereby submit the following as evidence.

Halle Berry Speaks Out: "I Have A Cream"

2006-01-16T21:21:00.000-05:00

All skin is NOT created equal.

Everyone knows black don't crack -- which is why I was surprised to find, on this, the honored day marking the life and death of Martin Luther King, Jr., a new ad hocking Brown Sugar Body Polish plastered across Halle Berry's freakishly annoying official homepage, Hallewood.com.

Ranking in at Number 1 on her "10 Things Every Groove Girl Should Have" list, Halle reminds her loyal fans, "On the days we groove girls take showers, this body polish is a fun way to exfoliate dead skin and smell good while you do it."

So what have we learned here?

1. Halle Berry doesn't shower often.

2. For $55 you can stink like you do.

And even though the sugar-laced product smells "good enough to eat," you shouldn't. Her much anticipated Bulimia Babe's Burrito Barfing Elixir won't be available 'till at least late next summer.

MTKJ would be so very proud.

They Say It Takes An Entire Village...

2006-01-14T20:19:00.000-05:00

...Which apparently is especially true for Brad and Angelina.

Perhaps one of the townsfolk can clue in soon to be Papa Pitt as to how many months pregnant Angie really is.

What a difference a thumb makes, huh?

You Know It's Friday The 13th When...

2006-01-13T23:33:00.000-05:00

...Melissa Joan Hart gives birth. To what, we're not sure. And by the look of this pic, neither is she...

But whatever creature-feature busted out of Sabrina The Teenage Witch's woman-like womb, it was damn-near time!

Gives new meaning to the Mother Ship, eh? Congrats M-Jo!!!

All Dressed Up And No Where To Blow

2006-01-12T23:52:00.000-05:00

Bring Out Your Dead! 'Coz it's time for another mind-numbing special edition of "Hey Remember When?" -- a picturesque look back at the great bold oldies and the blonde bobble-head biatches they've both blissfully become.

Hey, Remember When...Lindsey Lohan was a full-figured fire-headed fox? MMM is for MMMemories. First she tells you the waste-away is a result of her bulging battle with bulimia. Then she takes it all back, declaring her words were "misused."

Diet was the issue, undeniably. But it ain't your mamma's Special K our teen tart's been bowling through like there's no tomorrow. And if she's not too careful, there may not be...

Hey, Remember When...Nicole Richie was the sexy, sass-slinging star of the Simple Life? She was the only reason that show lasted, or could have for at least a season or two more. Now I'm using her personal memoir, The Truth About Diamonds, as a paperweight -- more than I can say for her, her future or shrinking book sales at this point.

Rumor has it Lohan and Richie have been getting together for more than just late-night partying. Seems they've put their collectively coked-up energies into a new album to be released this spring. I hear the title track, Walk Like An Addiction, is pretty darn catchy.

At least we still have classic ass-kicking beauties like Bebe to remind us not only do blondes NOT have more fun; brunettes look better doing it. Every time.

People Announces Sexiest Fetus Alive

2006-01-11T22:32:00.000-05:00

Well it's official: Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie are doing each other.

And you're not.

Here's a list of possible baby names:

Zeus.

Ttina.

Or most fitting, baby Maddox's Absolute Worst Nightmare, Part III.

Turn Your Head And Scoff

2006-01-10T00:37:00.000-05:00

According to new research just published in The Archives of Internal Medicine, men who are screened regularly for prostate cancer do not have a significantly greater chance of surviving the disease over those who have never been tested at all.

Studying over 72,000 men who underwent rectal exams from the years 1991 to 1995 in various New England hospitals, the scientists discovered just under half the men examined, despite the doctor-recommended screenings, eventually died from the disease.

The surviving rate of the remaining patients may, in fact, have been a result of regular prostate examinations, but no definitive evidence of this highly debated belief could be concluded.

In a related story, latin pop-singer Ricky Martin spoke out feverishly in favor of regular rectal screenings, claiming he even travels on va-gay-tion with his own personal urologist.

The Blind Leading The Blind...Part IV

2006-01-08T01:55:00.000-05:00

So here's the latest rundown on Hollywood Heavyweight: Hot, Horny and Oh-So-Happy -- but mostly in the original sense of the word. Private in his personal life, the seemingly-straight star isn't just cool with publicly knowing gay people, he rather enjoys their johnsons/rods/dicks...

Not that you could tell with all the beautiful name-less models being paraded down the red carpet dangling off his arm. Of course, when a local talent agency is called to provide dates for his keep-up-the-image parties, our good-gals are forewarned ahead of time not to expect much in the triple-x-sexcapade department. Least not 'till after hours when the boys come out to play.

*** NOTE: All "Blind Items" listed on this site are from my own personal experiences, unless specified, and are not to be published or reproduced without my express permission. My reliable and inside sources are confidential, and all gossip tidbits have been verified for accuracy before publication. ***

Out With The Cold, In With The Flu

2006-01-07T19:12:00.000-05:00

Everyone I know is sick.
Some try to blame it on the weather; others choose to play the "smoker's cough" card. But I'm not entirely convinced the constant state of sickness surrounding my circle of friends and coworkers isn't the effect of something bigger, something much, much worse.

Like growing up.

Throwing up is bad. Especially when you're not a Long-Island turned Hollywood Hottie. But I can't deny the urge to do it. All the time. Every morning. Before the shower, and many times in it. Let me just profess, I don't actually go through with the act. But the urge to do it is there nonetheless -- followed shortly there after by the pounding headache and a nose so runny I cashed in my pension plan to buy out stock in Kleenex.

But am I really that ill? Or is this simply a sign of my body just shutting down? Giving up? Giving in?

I asked around, coyly with my coworkers, so as not to isolate myself as the "diseased one." And as I blew my nose and gently rubbed my temples, I recognized the signs of recognition in their eyes. Each of us, calmly scanning the next, lips twitching, throats swallowing (well, those of us who still could), and though no one chose to say it aloud, we all knew the symptoms of this stoic sickness.

My doctor says it's just the flu. A cold. A sinus related ailment. And the cure: rest, fluids, healthy eating and a cool-air humidifier. But after plenty of sleep, pissing every hour on the hour and a balanced meal before balmy breezes, I still can't shake the feeling it's lying dormant. IT. Waiting. This creature haunting my body, my bloodstream. This creepy, callous cohort gliding up my nostrils, down the back of my throat and deep into the very pit of my stomach.

Allergies aside, something still isn't right. But all my tests are clean; I even got a seal of approval from my insurance company asking me to pose as the poster boy for healthy wholeness. I, of course, refused -- for how can I praise the system of health in this country when this stealth symptom of sickness continues to infect my loved ones?

No, I'm convinced there's something more here. Something none of us can stop. So if you're feeling sticky, picky or sicky, if you're waking up with the shakes, if you're fevered and furious, if your body simply seems to disagree with you on every account, you may have already been infected. You may be on your way.

You are getting old. And there's no turning back.

Just wait 'till you start farting and not notice it.

Some Like it Hot...Off The Presses

2006-01-06T01:06:00.000-05:00

Is IBM into S&M?

Couldn't resist taking a picture at work today when one of our more "troubled" printers began acting up.

More disturbing was the Doctor of Domination sent from Tech Support to repair the machine, who repeatedly spanked the sides of the printer when it refused to obey, then stripped off it's outer layers, forced it to stand in the corner facing the wall and wear a name tag proudly announcing its naughty nature.

You should see what he did to the fax machine when the fuse blew.

Miscommunication At Mine Not So Minor

2006-01-05T21:13:00.000-05:00

As the world continues to grieve with the families of the twelve coal miners found dead after a mine explosion trapped them underground in West Virginia, the media has begun their inquisition into how initial news of their survival had been so tragically miscommunicated.

Ben Hatfield, president and CEO of the International Coal Group which owns the troubled Sago Mine told an early morning press conference that incorrect information regarding the lives of the miners had spread from the rescuers to the command center, resulting in families and friends being left to believe for hours their loved ones were found alive.

The decision to wait before confronting the overjoyous families with the horrible correction was made roughly 40 minutes after good word came out from the rescue team, a possibility officials were skeptical of finding from the beginning. Instead, three hours later, in the face of violence and confused chaos, Hatfield revealed the truth. "In the process of being cautious," he said, "we allowed the jubilation to go on longer than it should have."

In defense of Hatfield and company, it should be noted that miscommunications are nowadays common for presidents, especially during stressful periods where accuracy and honesty are essential.

Sometimes they utter things that mean the opposite, like "I Do," "I understand," or say, "Mission: Accomplished."

My deepest prayers and sincere condolences for those affected by this tragedy, the families of those who suffered losing their loved ones -- twice more than anyone ever should -- and a hopeful and speedy recovery to the one survivor of the horrendous accident.

Everybody Loves Raymond Ryan?

2006-01-04T23:58:00.000-05:00

If you can't get enough Ryan Seacrest...You soon will.

The American Idol host with the most (beauty products) is set to take over the world -- or at least Dick Clark's old gig -- one television network at a time.

With his weekly radio talk show, American Top 40, a production company ~~creatively~~ named Ryan Seacrest Productions and even a clothing line of his own design, the magnificently metrosexual man-boy has just signed a three-year deal with E! Entertainment Television to produce and host their red-carpet coverage, beginning with the next Golden Globes.

Reportedly, Seacrest will be snagging a $21 million contract -- though to be fair, $19.7 million of that will be spent the first year alone on manicures and hairgel.

In a related story, on hearing of her cutsie-wootsy competition, the impossibly irreplaceable Joan Rivers began to weep -- through small incisions behind her ears where the doctors moved the tear-ducts to make room for more fagtastically flawless refinement.

Farewell 2005: We Barely Knew Thee...

2005-12-31T22:34:00.000-05:00

Hours before the ball drops on yet another year filled to the brim with winners and losers, shakers and fakers, let us take a look back at just a few of the Best and Worst Memories of the past twelve months:

10. The Right To Die -- U.S. Supreme Court rejects an appeal by Florida governor Jeb Bush to keep brain damaged Terri Schiavo alive against the wishes of her husband. Jeb then spends the rest of his energy paying off the powers at be to keep his belligerent 21 year old son out of prison for public intoxication, fornication with a minor and resisting arrest.

9. The Right To Pie -- After six months behind bars for her involvement with an insider trading stock scandal, Diva of Debonair Martha Stewart leaves behind her windowless cell and likewise the jailhouse nickname "M. Diddy" for a life less ordinary. In an act of wicked revenge, she then punishes the entire nation by subjecting them to her half-baked version of The Apprentice.

8. The Right To Lie -- A California jury finds Michael Jackson not guilty on all counts of endangerment, extortion and sexual molestation, proving once again if you're a wealthy celebrity in this country, you can get away with just about anything, especially if you're white.

7. The Right To Wed -- Spain's national government legalizes same-sex marriages, joining the Netherlands, Belgium and Canada as the spear-heading countries in the war for love, liberty and justice for all. In response, US right-wing evangelists called for a boycott of all European exports, particularly "Satanic Salsa," "Belgium Butt-Fucking Waffles," and Canadian-born actor Matthew Perry -- the REAL reason NBC cancelled FRIENDS.

6. The Right To Good Head -- After 30 years of sworn silence, the secret identity of our nation's biggest political mystery, Watergate's infamous Deep Throat, is finally revealed by the man himself, Ex-FBI official William Mark Felt, Sr. Most disturbing are the nicknames he gave his grandchildren: Debbie, Lola, Dirk and Little Ron Jeremy.

5. The Right To Be Dead -- The first case of the drug-resistant "Killer Strain of HIV" is reported in a 40 year old New York City gay male patient. The onset of full-blown AIDS began just months after his diagnosis, a process that usually takes seven to ten years to develop. To protest the discovery, a handful of gay men found their way to the internet and hosted candle-light sex vigils, with colorful e-vites reminding orgy goers to BYOMB - that is, Bring Your Own Meth Bitch!

4. The Right To Break Up -- What began with Demi and Bruce several years back has now become a constant onslaught of Hollywood Heartache, as celebrity couples ring in the new year by calling it quits. There's Brad and Jen, Jen and Ben, Ben and Jerry...Jessica and Nick, Nick and Paris, Paris and Paris. And let's not forget the biggest break-up of the year, Roy and Silo, the two gay penguins who after six years of remaining a faithful, loving pair, divided their Central Park assets and parted ways forever. But wait! It's not all pain and tears out there...we've got to have faith that Tom and Katie can make it last a few good years -- I hear five, if $he want$ to $ee the paycheck he promi$ed from the get-go.

3. The Right To Break Out -- Prison Break, a full hour of hot, sweaty men trapped in a tiny room together, with only one communal shower. And they want to BREAK OUT of prison? Hell, I'll trade my freedom with the entire cast so long as I get to share a cell with the sizzling Wentworth Miller. Besides the obvious eye candy, the show is actually quite good, well-acted and directed.

2. The Right To Say Good Bye -- We've had to let quite a few loved ones go this year. And though they will no longer be with us on a daily basis, the memories of good times (and TIVO reunions) will help dull the despair. Until then, so long Will. Ta-ta Grace. See ya Jack and Karen, Chandler and Monica, Ross and Rachel, Pheobe and, please, somebody, please, Joey...And with my deepest regret, may I respectfully say, Say Good Night Johnny.

1. The Right To Wonder Why -- Must I say anything more?

Happy 2006 World!

Who Said All Short Rich Jews Were Cheap?

2005-12-30T18:14:00.000-05:00

Mini-Mayor Mikey Bloomberg began his morning today at City Hall by taking the official oath of office as the 108th mayor of New York Effing City.

But before the billionaire bureaucrat could begin his second term, he was required to pay the city clerk a fee -- just as every elected leader has before him since the city was first established in 1898. Originally set at 15 cents, the cost of owning the lives of every man, woman and child in this tinsel town has since been raised to a whopping $9.00.

That means you're now worth a grand total .0000011 cents!

Oh, and for the record, Bloomie's campaign manager, Kevin Sheekey, received his annual end of the year bonus today: $400,000.

WHO HEARTS NY? Show of fingers...

The Blind Leading The Blind...Part III

2005-12-24T01:46:00.000-05:00

Which Hollywood HotorNot failed to pick up on the hypocrisy in smoking a cigarette outside a NYC Starbucks with the same hand on which an over-sized LIVE STRONG Cancer bracelet dangled hopelessly? And when asked for an explanation our skinny-mini replied there are different kinds of cancers and different color wrist bands. Hers, apparently, NOT for lung cancer.

Too bad Darling-Diva didn't have her Prissy-Sissy along side to defend the fog-filled faux-pas. Then again, she's got her own smoke-screen problems to worry about...

*** NOTE: All "Blind Items" listed on this site are from my own personal experiences, unless specified, and are not to be published or reproduced without my express permission. My reliable and inside sources are confidential, and all gossip tidbits have been verified for accuracy before publication. ***

Astronomers Study The Gas Around Uranus

2005-12-23T00:55:00.000-05:00

And you thought your day job was unfulfilling.

An astronomer at the SETI Institute has discovered two more rings of dust and debris orbiting planet Uranus, bringing the total to a lucky thirteen.

Comparing images taken from the Voyager with those of the NASA Hubble Space Telescope, the astronomers believe planetary moons may also be found in the two new gassy clouds swirling violently around Uranus. According to the latest issue of Science journal, this will be the first addition to the ring system for the blue-balled planet in almost two decades.

In a related story, scientists in Virginia have announced their plan to study strange red bumps forming on the underside of Venus, which recently discharged a white sticky substance now hurdling through space straight towards -- wait for it -- Uranus.

The Blind Leading The Blind...Part II

2005-12-21T00:00:00.000-05:00

Which Sopranno's star flew from LA to NY so desperate for attention he spent the entire pre-flight on his cell phone name-dropping and yelling about script changes, director qualms and his much-too-early afternoon rehearsal time?

When instructed to turn off all cellular devices for take-off, our Gregarious-Guido blew a gasket then revealed to his neighbor across the aisle he just cashed in the studio bought first-class ticket in exchange for a different flight because, you know, he actually enjoys riding in coach. No limo or car service waiting for him at the terminal either. Perhaps our bragging buddy found a super-cheap shuttle-van to take him home the last lap, you know, because he actually enjoys riding in vans...

*** NOTE: All "Blind Items" listed on this site are from my own personal experiences, unless specified, and are not to be published or reproduced without my express permission. My reliable and inside sources are confidential, and all gossip tidbits have been verified for accuracy before publication. ***

Car Wars: This Time The MTA Strikes Back!

2005-12-20T19:18:00.000-05:00

Like most New Yorkers this morning, my day began with a few taps on the snooze button, an open-palm fist-fight with an old Greek lady for the last free cab left in Queens and a two hour long journey into the parking lot known yesterday as the Midtown Tunnel.

Sure, I could bitch and complain about the news of the city-wide transit strike like the mass media might expect. Yes, the ordeal was unnerving, soul-scrapingly sardonic. And okay fine, I was super late to work, out $68 and 42 cents in taxi, railroad and hot chocolate fares combined. But just like our blistering blackouts, with the true spirit of the Big Apple, our boycotts have brought the entire city together as one. Rich and poor, male and female, white, black and everything in between...

Speaking of, in an odd and unexpected show of solidarity with the city's protesting transit workers, Michael Jackson has just announced he too will be striking, that is, at one minute past midnight tonight, he will cease molesting young boys, at least until the subway starts running again.

In a related story, President Bush declared his unwavering intent to continually protest truth, justice and the laws of Intelligent Benign.

The Blind Leading The Blind...Part I

2005-12-14T23:04:00.000-05:00

Which recently single starlet's photo shoot for a famously male magazine produced so many cover shots of her oh-so-skinny skeleton they had to be air-brushed to ADD body fat before going to print?
Rumor has it Modest-Goddess has been shedding the pounds since the break up, but apparently the split has derailed more than just her romantic cravings; it's damn near killed her appetite!

*** NOTE: All "Blind Items" listed on this site are from my own personal experiences, unless specified, and are not to be published or reproduced without my express permission. My reliable and inside sources are confidential, and all gossip tidbits have been verified for accuracy before publication. ***

Long Live The Queens!

2005-12-13T02:14:00.000-05:00

According to a recent survey released by the Department Of Trade And Industry in Britain, after a series of several studies performed over the last 15 years, it has been determined only 6 percent of the entire U.K. population is gay or lesbian.

In a related story, 93 percent of the population dresses shitty and has really bad breath.

The remaining 1 percent of those surveyed is Hugh Grant.

Things That Make You Go Oy-Vey

2005-12-12T22:29:00.000-05:00

Stop me if you've heard this one before. How many old, retired Jews does it take to operate a cell phone camera in the middle of a crowded airport?

Seven: Three to place the call, and four to sigh heavily and remind the others they could have gotten to the airport 11 minutes earlier if they had only listened to the directions and taken the expressway like they had wanted.

That's how my trip to California began. Harold and Rae bickering over whether they should check their luggage at the gate and how many times they should call their home phone just to make sure the machine was still on.

For the record, they chose to carry on all four shopping bags of semi-used tissues and oversized crossword puzzle books, but never once actually made a successful phone call from their cell.

More Cali-Coverage To Come...

Hark! The Trailer Park Angel Still Sings

2005-12-01T23:12:00.000-05:00

As if having Britney Spears as your mother isn't going to be bad enough, little Sean Preston will now have memories of his first Christmas in a manger...a life-size nativity scene Brit-Brit and father Federline have purchased for their lavish at-home nursery.

Wax models of cows and donkeys will accompany the cradle in which baby Brit sleeps, thereby ensuring a future of unfathomable narcissism and an incurable Christ-child-complex.

Rumor has it Britney is trying to pass herself off as the Virgin Mary.

In a related story, Webster's Dictionary just announced they have redefined a "virgin" as "trashy, tasteless, talentless tart" so I guess it all works out in the end.

I only wonder who'll play the Three Wise Men? I hereby nominate Justin Timberlake for at least one. Dumping Britney has to be the WISEST decision anyone's ever made...

Sometimes It Is, You Know, Rocket Science

2005-11-30T21:40:00.000-05:00

It is a long established fact that in space, no one can hear you scream. But a deafening chorus of wondrous cheers erupted at Penn State yesterday when a team of astronomers announced they may have discovered evidence of a new solar system forming before our very eyes.

The researchers uncovered the presence of a large mass roughly eight-times the size of Jupiter, encircled by a disk of what may be planet-forming material which is usually present around other stars of similar size and make-up. This solidified solar soup, otherwise known as a "brown dwarf," was studied by the astrophysicists using NASA's Spitzer Space Telescope, the Hubble Space Telescope, and two telescopes in the Chilean Andes.

Though it is unclear if the gas and dust encircling the mass will form planets and evolve into a miniature solar system, the object -- which is over 500 light-years away and roughly 2 million years old -- will be studied for many years to come.

Criticism of the astronomical finding, however, shifted to the surface as space skeptics began hypothesizing the dark, swirling object seen from afar was not, in fact, an official "brown dwarf" but instead an outdated acting resume once belonging to child superstar Gary Coleman.

When pressed for an explanation on the striking similarities, the team of rocket scientists replied, "What you talkin' bout Willis?"

'Till Death Do Us Part...Or One Full Year... Which Ever Comes First

2005-11-29T17:51:00.000-05:00

Scientists in Italy announced this week a major discovery in how the power of love affects us all, specifically the biology of the brain in new-found lovers.

A molecule named Nerve Growth Factor (NGF) has been labeled as the primary trigger for that sweaty-palm, rushing heartbeat, dizzy, head-over-heels feeling otherwise known as "falling in love."

The study, published in the Journal Of Psychoneuroendocrinology, analyzed the blood of 58 people who had recently reported "falling madly in love" and compared the findings to those labeled as "single" or individuals in "long-term relationships."

According to the results of the test, the level of NGF in the newer love-birds blood was significantly higher than those found in the other groups, leading the researchers to hypothesize actual "chemistry" present at the start of a new relationship.

But like most drugs -- natural or synthesized -- the trigger for the uncovered love-molecule comes with an inevitable expiration date. After a full year with the same partner, the levels of NGF molecules in the blood of those tested fell harshly back to the same quantity of those who were considered single or in long-term relationships, offering an explanation as to why newlyweds often fall into a rut seven to twelve months after proclaiming "I Do."

This is now the latest reason Nick and Jessica's publicists give for their relationship demise, though I remain entirely convinced it has something to do with her being a cheap, whorish, talentless, flaunting fluzy.

It Isn't Just The Size Of The Needle...

2005-11-29T17:42:00.000-05:00

...Sometimes it's where you stick it.

If you're the type of patient who panics at the very sight of a syringe, you may want to stop going to the doctor altogether. According to recent reports from the medical community, as the country's asses continue to grow larger, the need for new needles to inject medicine into them may soon increase dramatically as well.

Recent findings show that only 30% of the injected dosage of medicine makes it through the buttock's fatty tissue to reach and be absorbed by the muscle in most American men and women. The results may lead to a change in using longer needles to assist with injectable medicines for patients with excess body and bum fat.

In a related story, veterinarians in England are now looking into whether the findings will carry over for animals with excessive weight gain as well, to which this cat replied, "Meow, Meow Meow. Meow Meow Meow Meow?"

Good Question.

Giving Thanks This Year For My Riot Gear

2005-11-27T14:33:00.000-05:00

Reports began surfacing over the weekend of violent rioting and female fist-fighting at several Walmart locations across the country when shoppers feverishly flocked to the store chain for price-slashing deals on what has been called the busiest shopping day of the year, Black Friday.

The holiday shopping season began with a boisterous bang as bargain hunters stormed the stores after waiting in line, some for over 10 hours, for discounted deals on everything from laptop computers to video game playstations, and even diapers, dishes and Doritos -- original and Cool Ranch flavors.

In one Florida Walmart, police and security forces were called in to break up disputes among the angry masses, as ambulances took several customers to nearby hospitals after being trampled and crushed in the frenzy. There are even reports computers and boxes of toys were being flung in the air, used as weapons to defend against line-cutters and shopping-cart carnivours.

I propose a name change from Black to Poor-White-Trash Friday.

Murtha Warns Of Warring Troubles In Iraq; Martha Warns Of Trouble Wearing All Black

2005-11-20T00:12:00.000-05:00

Washington DC divided once again this week as Democrat and war-veteran John Murtha of PA challenged the Bush Administration to another War of Words in the debate on the handling of the invasion of Iraq. Calling for an immediate withdrawal of troops from the killing fields of the Middle East, Congressman Murtha spoke of his own experiences returning home from the Vietnam war, the devastation and destruction of his mind, his body and the permanent scaring of his soul.

Meanwhile, from the penthouse of her NYC diva-den, Martha Stewart called attention to her own personal tragedy, detailing the woes of wearing black in the kitchen, especially when working with items like flour and starch. Warning the masses on the eve of Thanksgiving, the biggest cooking day of the year, Kitchenatta Martha pleaded with the nation's amateur bakers to dress casually before the guests arrive, trading silk and satin formal wear for roll-up flannels, loose-fitting jerseys or anything in plaid.

In a related story, this happened.

Musings On The Manhattan Bound N

2005-11-19T22:53:00.000-05:00

Just the other morning, as I squeezed uncomfortably between a wet-haired blonde bitch of a woman and an older Russian man who apparently never met a deodorant he couldn't defeat, I stared down at the floor of the subway platform, avoiding eye contact with those equally annoyed by how popular that particular car had suddenly become.

And as the faces shifted at every new stop, I counted the different pairs of shoes, the colors of the socks, and to whom they were ultimately connected. It was then I noticed the face of a young girl sitting with a stack of papers in her lap, reading to herself, words no one else could translate. I tried to read her lips, but between fluttering newspapers and side-way turned coughing heads I managed only a glimpse of her moving mouth.

As she stood to exit at the 49th Street stop, one of her papers fell carelessly to the floor. I bent down to pick it up for her but within seconds, she had already departed. Instantly -- if, in fact, she was ever there to begin with...

What follows is all that could be read on the page. I thought the moment special enough to hold on to the musing, and if anyone out there knows the author, or if it's from a published piece, I'd be thrilled to hear from ya.

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

My daughter, who lives in New York City, reminds me that I promised her my father's loom when she can afford a larger apartment or studio space. That's fine with me, and I am sure it would be fine with my father.

Once, when I told one of my colleagues at work I had started weaving, she was incredulous. "Has the company driven you to that?"

Not the company -- My father's loom.

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

Good Things Come To Those Who Date

2005-11-18T23:43:00.000-05:00

From my new Advice Column, the first of many more to come:

Anal AJ,

HELP! I just got out of a long and serious relationship and I really hate being single again. I'm not used to going out alone now and meeting new people is so hard, especially because most of my girlfriends are all dating or engaged and don't go out anymore and if they do, it's never without their boyfriends.

I'm not into casual sex but I'm also not ready to get back into a relationship again. What should I do? P.S. Do you know any cute, single guys looking for something in the middle?

Thanks!!!

-- Single In The City --

Dearest City Single,

If I was swimming in a plentiful pool of cute, single guys looking for something in the middle, do you think I'd be on here every other night blogging for the masses?

All right, I would be. But only because I love you so dearly. And I know you love me too. They ALL love me. Men love me. Women love me...Mahogany.

And now back to your issue:

Dating is like hunting for an apartment in the city. We're all holding out for the best places, the ones that meet most, if not all, of our perfectly particular qualifications, and as we begin to find problems with each new applicant, we wonder how all of our friends, our neighbors, coworkers and even taxi drivers found theirs. And more importantly, will their 12-month lease be renewed through yet another long winter season?

I can't imagine how difficult is must be to find yourself back in the game, especially after a few years of being benched and off the market. But perhaps the single most important thing you can do for yourself (and coincidentally for your future mate -- or mateS as the case may be -- is to date. Date. And date some more. It's your time now to figure out what YOU want, what makes you happy, what kind of man or woman gives your life that special spark, and perhaps more importantly, what kind will dampen and dull it to death.

And as you begin to clean out your closet, tossing out the stinky gym socks and greasy hairgels your ex left behind, perhaps it's time to consider dumping your old circle of friends as well? If they're too busy with their future husbands to notice your sweet, single ass needs some good old fashioned girl time, maybe you should begin hanging out with some fabulously flirty singles paddling up the same Louvre of Love.

Bottom line, get off the computer -- WAIT...Finish reading this first -- then get off the computer, get into your favorite pair of jeans and get back out into the dating scene. Meet a boy, or pair of boys, BROTHERS EVEN, get their phone numbers, and call, you know, if you feel like it. Enjoy being single, and date as often as you can. Allow yourself the chance to make out with a tall guy, a short guy, a girly guy, a gay guy. Let him buy you dinner. Let him take you dancing. And if you want more, don't ask, just take it. As long as you're safe and responsible, which should go without saying these days, the world is your fully-stocked city bodega and you just stumbled home drunk off your ass craving a falafel and cheese.

Remember, unlike finding your next apartment, there's no dotted line you have to sign now to have a little fun! You'll find another boyfriend; that's a guarantee. In the mean time, why not find yourself?

So come on now, don't just sit around and wait, DATE!!!

For More Analytical AJ, Check Out His New Advice Site.

Got A Problem? Ask Anal AJ!

Celine Dion's Next Role: Madame Ovary

2005-11-13T00:07:00.000-05:00

With weekly sold out performances at Caesar's Palace in Las Vegas since 2003, offers for book deals, new album releases and even an eye on some film roles that could win her a possible Oscar, Celine Dion's career may never be on ice.

Her second child, however, will be...

...At least until 2007.

According to recently published reports, Diva Dion plans to begin in vitro fertilization at a New York based fertility clinic upon the completion of her contract with Caesar's, which consists of now less than 350 engagements.

"This frozen embryo that is in New York is my child waiting to be brought to life," she tells a French magazine.

Apparently while filming Titanic, Dion made her husband jerk it several times a day on the set and chipped off pieces of the remains from the production's infamous iceberg.

Rumors are already swirling that Vegas is so intent on keeping the Canadian cash cow in town they've offered to extend her contract and triple the pay if she works her pregnancy into the show, actually giving birth on stage in a flashy, fantastically frantic musical number entitled Cirque De So-Laid.

France On Fire: It Burns When I Oui

2005-11-12T21:00:00.000-05:00

Apparently not even the French like the French. But after two straight weeks of violent public rioting by hundreds of angry arsonists, the city of Paris may finally be prepared enough to sleep peacefully through the night, though undoubtedly many with one eye wide open.

As text messages and Internet postings calling for further "violent action" in the country's capital began to surface this weekend, President Jacques Chirac and the Parisian police force declared a state of emergency for many of the large cities, invoking curfews and banning all public gatherings feared to insight further upheaval.

News of these preemptive strikes put quite a damper on the demonstration planned to protest famed French actor Gerard Depardieu's sudden decision to retire from the movie 'biz later this year. All twelve fans disbanded with little incident, though rumors of police being pelted with copies of his 1990 flick Green Card have yet to be confirmed.

Back in the U.S., when asked for her opinion on the civil unrest fueled by the racial and socio-economic inequalities which have left both the streets and automobiles of numerous French suburbs charred beyond repair, our nations own prided Paris -- Hilton, that is -- responded to the frequent fires by saying, "That's Hot."

Filling In The Blanks, Jerri Blank Style

2005-11-09T20:52:00.000-05:00

I recently learned something about self-respect...

...I don't have any!

Illegal Search And Teaser

2005-11-08T20:37:00.000-05:00

I wanted my first time to be special. Dimmed lights, soft music, maybe even a pecan scented candle or two. But sometimes things don't work out the way you plan them.

And so I just stood there, watching helplessly as his rough, rugged hands fumbled with my zipper, his deep, reassuring voice asking if I minded showing him more, right there in front of everyone, in the cold, damp entrance to the 57th Street Subway Station.

I'll never forget the first time the NYPD randomly searched my napsack -- mostly coz it just happened like an hour ago, but also because it reminded me of the first time I had sex, that is, over-before-I-knew-it and followed by uncontrolled critical laughter.

The good news was I got Sergeant Studly for my first inspection, a beautiful, 6-foot-plus, skinny, young Italian with wavy blond hair and forest green eyes. I was a tad nervous to show him mine, especially without the promise he'd show me his in return. Reluctantly, I opened my bag and dumped out the stack of CDs I was carrying with me at the time: Jason Mraz, John Mayer, some Annie Lennox and an old copy of Lisa Loeb's Firecracker.

I coyly joked he could do a full cavity search but I had nothing illegal or dangerous on my person. He zipped up my bag and slid it back across the table with what I swear was a genuine wink.

"Except your choice in music."

Too bad being cute isn't a crime. I'd have him under citizen's arrest before he could even say, "Only in New York..."

Definitely Not Your Mother's Nancy Drew...

2005-11-07T00:10:00.000-05:00

Intended to be a woman's pocket guide to relaxation and self-discovery, the controversial Spanish "Guide For Girls" published by the Women's Institute of the Central Northern Region of Castilla La Mancha has been criticized and dismissed by conservatives and right-wing church officials as a blatant and perverse "invitation to homosexuality and masturbation."

Don't know about you, but I just RSVPd an overwhelming YES PLEASE!

It's Easier To Leave Than Be Left Behind

2005-11-05T23:11:00.000-05:00

Life is funny. You spend your entire childhood fantasizing about what kind of man you'll be when you're older. A cop, maybe a firefighter or superhero. Then one day, when you finally have a chance to meet him face to face, when you stand before the mirror on some Saturday night, alone, tracing the troubled memories in the scars of your chin, the first gray hair, then the next, the dawning recognition sets in that this is it, this is who you are, this is what you've become. And suddenly, the fantasy to which you once held so tightly, the hope, the freedom, all of it slips further through your fingers. Dreamt up innocence now replaced with drowned out impotence, and the punch line...Don't you see? It's you.

It's always been you.

What Are We, If All The World's A Cage?

2005-11-04T15:46:00.000-05:00

What follows is the prologue to The Autobiography of Bertrand Russell, British Nobel Prize winning philosopher best known for his work on mathematical logic and analytic philosophy.

The world needs more men like this.

What I Have Lived For
By Bertrand Russell

Three passions, simple but overwhelmingly strong, have governed my life: the longing for love, the search for knowledge, and unbearable pity for the suffering of mankind. These passions, like great winds, have blown me hither and thither, in a wayward course, over a great ocean of anguish, reaching to the very verge of despair.

I have sought love, first, because it brings ecstasy - ecstasy so great that I would often have sacrificed all the rest of life for a few hours of this joy. I have sought it, next, because it relieves loneliness -- that terrible loneliness in which one shivering consciousness looks over the rim of the world into the cold unfathomable lifeless abyss. I have sought it finally, because in the union of love I have seen, in a mystic miniature, the prefiguring vision of the heaven that saints and poets have imagined. This is what I sought, and though it might seem too good for human life, this is what -- at last -- I have found.

With equal passion I have sought knowledge. I have wished to understand the hearts of men. I have wished to know why the stars shine. And I have tried to apprehend the Pythagorean power by which number holds sway above the flux. A little of this, but not much, I have achieved.

Love and knowledge, so far as they were possible, led upward toward the heavens. But always pity brought me back to earth. Echoes of cries of pain reverberate in my heart. Children in famine, victims tortured by oppressors, helpless old people a burden to their sons, and the whole world of loneliness, poverty, and pain make a mockery of what human life should be. I long to alleviate this evil, but I cannot, and I too suffer.

This has been my life. I have found it worth living, and would gladly live it again if the chance were offered me.

Tyra Banks: From Beauty To Obeast

2005-11-03T22:34:00.000-05:00

Seems like just yesterday I woke up watching the luckiest doctor in the world feel up former supermodel-turned-daytime-diva Tyra Bank's beautiful breasts on national television, all for a timely segment reminding women everywhere to call their doctors to schedule a yearly sonogram, and coincidentally, encouraging men to call in late to work that morning. Mmmm memories...

And just in case you didn't get the memo, they're REAL PEOPLE!!!

But now, the almostess hostess is trading in her poofy Victoria Secret swimsuit for one of a slightly different color, albeit with less frills and forty-plus sizes too big.

This Monday's Tyra Banks episode is dedicated to discovering just how poorly obese women are treated in society, by both men and women alike, large and small. And to prove her point, an undercover Miss Banks will take to the streets donning a 350-pound fat suit, allowing the world an opportunity to truly experience what she calls, "one of the most heartbreaking days" of her entire life.

Apparently farting in front of Heidi Klum on the catwalk doesn't rank up there as all that heartbreaking. 'Tis just wind-breaking, no?

Alas, there's nothing like a skinny, drop-dead gorgeous woman dressing up like a big old fattie to remind us all of society's superficiality syndrome. Especially when she takes off the mask at the end the of the day, shedding both the pounds and the pain, revealing through well-rehearsed tear drops her true inner beauty, the kind that only supermodels and drugged up drag queens possess.

Speaking of drag queen drunks, not to be out done in the Public Self-Service Department, the magnificently medicated miracle that is still Mariah Carey rushed out to the back alleys of big cities with her camera crew to remind the world that there are tons of poor, homeless, hungry people out there who can barely afford shelter and food, let alone copies of her latest album, The Emancipation Of Mimi.

Forgive me while I go Emancipate My Lunch.

As The City Fights Fires, An Actor Retires

2005-10-31T23:39:00.000-05:00

French film star Gerard Depardieu shocked the entire movie industry and fans alike on Monday by revealing he is, in fact, still alive.

According to the BBC News, Depardieu then announced in an interview with a local Parisian paper that he will be taking steps to prepare for the end of his acting career, claiming he wants out of the business before anyone can accuse him of hanging on to the past, and looking "like an idiot."

Shortly thereafter, when presented with a copy of Green Card and asked for an explanation, the 56 year old actor had no comment. "I have made 170 films. I have nothing left to prove," he said to anyone still listening. It should be noted, however, the IMDB website only credits him with a mere 152.

Depardieu began his career in the early 1970's originally as an alternative to the German-manufactured David Hasselhoff, who unlike his French counterpart doesn't mind looking "like an idiot" and will "hang on" to his lustrous acting career like it's no one's business.

And if you ask me, it really isn't.

The New AOL: America's Orphaned Lesbian?

2005-10-30T14:28:00.000-05:00

First came Dick. Then Dick came. And nine months later, out popped Mary Cheney, the openly-lesbian secretly-silenced daughter of our country's beloved Vice-President.

Now, in an effort to control literally EVERYTHING IN THE WORLD, the Bush Administration's first political non-gay-gay will be taking a seat behind another big Vice, America Online's Vice Chairman Ted Leonsis, in what has been detailed as a "newly created position."

The exact description of said AOL position has been, for some time, very hush-hush, citing a need for privacy and, yes, Executive Privilege. All that's known at this point is Miss Cheney will be managing advertising, e-commerce and assisting with maintenance of the search engines for the company.

Something tells me if you run a search for Weapons of Mass Destruction now you can expect a whole different output of results.

With previous experience running a gay and lesbian outreach program for Coors Brewing Co. -- which, for the record, does not include getting girls drunk enough in bars they make out with each other -- the University of Denver business graduate will be starting her job just when over 700 AOL employees are losing theirs.

With a drop in 2.6 million members from the year before, America Online has suffered greatly in the competition with broadband internet services. Handpicked for the position, AOL spokesman Nicholas Graham said Cheney has "the skills and talent and experiences" the company and staff could use now more than ever.

Who knew there was such a burning need to build desks from scratch and put up plaster wall over there?

I send my best of lucks to both AOL and Miss Cheney, and hope that with all her new employment responsibilities she still finds time to finish up work on her yet to be published memoir of a Republican lesbian, "Mary Cheney: My Life As A Carpet...Bagger."

Wilma v. Wilmer: Let The Blowing Begin

2005-10-25T22:11:00.000-04:00

As the devastation and destruction begins to envelop the helpless state of Florida, the train wreck that is Ashlee Simpson continues to plunge deeper into oblivion with the release of her latest album, I Am Me.

And I Am Not Impressed.

Perhaps the only gossip item associated with the Simpson Saga that has remote coolness left in it is the new lyrical feud between blonde-gone-black-gone-blonde again Ashlee and the equally talentless hack known to many as Lindsey Lohan.

Hey, I said REMOTELY COOL. I'm reaching here...

Apparently sharing the same boyfriend, Wilmer Valderrama -- aka Fez from That 70's Show -- makes you sing stupid sappy songs about him or your control freak father and how badly you just want to grow up and do coke and then yell at people for spreading gossip about you even though secretly you eat it all up but then forcefully spit it all out into your $3000 purse when you suddenly remember a girl has to watch her figure in case she gets a chance to lipsync on Ellen or SNL or best yet, the last episode of Tyra!

FIERCE!

The only hope we have left is that both bitchy bobble-heads catch wind of this Wilma everyone's talking about, mistaking it for the midget-monkey in the middle to whom they both lay claim, and head down south to win over his lame-ass affections. Once there, they can perpetually bitch slap one another senseless until they're both sucked off the face of the planet, or drown. Either way works for me.

I can't say this isn't a biased blog. I'm still seething I paid a whole $10 to sit through Herbie: Fully Loaded, and let me just tell you now, not a single flash of Lohan's fully loaded tits!

I know what you're thinking. But hey, I Am Me.

Deadly Bird Flu: The New Black

2005-10-23T01:30:00.000-04:00

You won't find it in the latest edition of the Zagat guide, but the list of countries in which you shouldn't eat poultry has just tripled.

China, Russia, Romania and -- enjoy the irony here -- Turkey welcomed Croatia, Sweden and Britain to the quarantine table this weekend, citing confirmed cases of the deadly Avian flu strain which has already killed more than 60 people and thousands in livestock.

According to the latest Travel Notice posted on the CDC website, the World Health Organization has just reported its first laboratory-confirmed human case of avian influenza A since October 2004, resulting in the death of a 48 year-old male patient in Thailand.

Across the sea in Britain, the country's disease-free status was threatened when a common parrot traveling from South America was also found infected with the deadly strain. The bird died earlier this week in a biosecure quarantine in which it had remained since its arrival in the country earlier this September.

It is unclear if the parrot's passing is a direct result of the avian flu or just weeks of having to endure eating British food.

In a related story, the Kellogg company announced an open casting call for mascots to their new breakfast cereal brand, Flu Loops.

Same fruity taste, now with less sugar and more acute respiratory distress!

A Queer Lens For The Straight Kens

2005-10-22T18:25:00.000-04:00

While the rest of the world continues to recover from the definitely-indefinite divorce of Nick and Jessica, another famous Hollywood couple has begun sparking rumors their off-again romance could soon be turning the lava love lamp back on -- this time brighter than ever.

That is, of course, if Ken Doll has something to say about it.

After their very public beak-up in February of 2004, Barbie and Ken have spent little time with one another, choosing instead to focus on the adjustment of living apart for the first time in years. After dividing their accumulated assets, Barbie -- who with an amazing legal counsel kept both the PT Cruiser and the Malibu Dreamhouse -- made it to the sunny beaches of California where she quickly fell head over tiny-pink heels for Australian hottie Blaine, a younger, buffer, boogie-boarding version of Ken.

Her original other half, however, avoided the spotlight, dodging the press and paparazzi and chose to hole himself up quietly in a one-bedroom apartment on New York's Upper East Side. But according to my sources at Mattel, reports have recently been surfacing of Ken hitting the streets of Los Angeles, meeting with celebrity make-over gurus and other Red-Carpet Repair-Men.

So is this part of Ken moving in on Barbie, or simply moving on?

Regardless of the outcome, rumors are swirling that the world will soon see a new kind of Ken, a healthier, better-dressed, tanner man capable of grooming himself, styling his own home and wardrobe, cooking and cleaning and becoming all around cultured in the arts, the game of romance, seduction and the fastest way to bring a woman to tears -- at least if the Fab Five get their way with him.

My advice to Mattel: if you want Ken to keep a woman like Barbie happy, you should forget about his collection of credit cards and flashy cars, and give the guy a crotch, something retractable and berry-flavored would be nice.

Oh, and don't worry about getting the proportions right this time. I don't think anyone will complain if you give Ken an unfair advantage in that department. Especially not Eduardo, his 23 year old Brazilian "roommate" back home in NYC.

Titanic Was Called The Ship Of Dreams, And It Was. It Really Was...Or Was It?

2005-10-22T01:09:00.000-04:00

The world will finally know the truth on October 25th, when the 3-disc Special Collector's Edition DVD of Titanic is released, with more deleted scenes, additional cast commentaries and even a never-before-seen alternate ending.

Apparently in the original version of the script, Jack and Rose discover a bomb planted in the bowels of the ship, which will detonate if the cruiseliner's speed drops below 50 MPH!!!

Also revealed in the initial draft, it is Rose who drowns to the bottom of the sea, leaving an elderly Jack to spend his entire life caressing a sparkling blue diamond necklace around his wrinkled, lank body.

The final scene was rewritten and reshot when Celine Dion said the ending was "too gay," even for her.

Here I Go, Again, On My Own

2005-10-21T19:24:00.000-04:00

The inherent gift in finding love must also be the ability to lose it. By its very nature, the fickle, fleeting resilience of the human heart, or rather, the entire human condition itself, presents a continuous compromise between what we want and how we actually plan to get it.

The fragile spirit embodied by romance and remembrance, lust and longing, movie stars and their movie star first kisses, drives us forward still, forces us deeper yet, drowning ourselves in obvious answers, soul stripped in that systematic search for soul mates, connections, moments in time, now lost somewhere between instant messages and belated, unrelated emails.

I've gotten better at reading the signs, reading between the lines, patterning the poignancy of his pauses, the frequency of his ellipses, what he says when he says nothing at all, what he means when he tells me not to worry about it, that it's a small world after all, that sometimes it's easier said than done but even when I'm done, I'm not yet finished.

You could have been lucky, but luckily I got out first. You could have been happy, but happily, I'll get there first. You could have been mine...but mindfully, wonderfully even, perhaps poetically as well as assertively, coincidentally, undeniably you belong with someone else, and perhaps always have.

Finding something real to hold onto in this city sometimes feels like an impossible task, a never ending journey of disappointment and disdain. But then again, I wouldn't want it any other way. Otherwise when the adventure comes to an end, the prizes we've won, the people we've met, the pressures under which we survived, through which we thrived, the love we've always longed for...none of it would mean anything now would it?

John Mayer Loves Me, Says So Himself

2005-10-16T15:15:00.000-04:00

Love Song For No One
By John Mayer

Staying home alone on a Friday
Flat on the floor looking back
On old love
Or lack thereof
After all the crushes are faded
And all my wishful thinking was wrong
I'm jaded
I hate it

Searching all my days just to find you
I'm not sure who I'm looking for
I'll know it
When I see you
Until then, I'll hide in my bedroom
Staying up all night just to write
A love song for no one

I'm tired of being alone
So hurry up and get here
So tired of being alone
So hurry up and get here

I could have met you in a sandbox
I could have passed you on the sidewalk
Could I have missed my chance
And watched you walk away?

I'm tired of being alone
So hurry up and get here
So tired of being alone
So hurry up and get here
You'll be so good
You'll be so good for me

Religious Jews Break Fast For Forgiveness, God Floods City For Shits And Giggles

2005-10-13T22:07:00.000-04:00

I always thought on the seventh day, He took a nap.

Alas, just 24 hours after atoning for their sins, Jewish as well as Goyish Gothamites have begun bracing for Heaven's latest Hex: the 192nd hour of a non-stop onslaught of drenching rainfall -- conditions, some say, of Biblical proportions.

As of 7:30 PM EST, federal and local authorities declared a State Of Emergency for all of New Jersey and certain neighboring areas of New York, as reports of dangerous flash flooding and electrical power outages continue to ravage the eastern sea coast, causing hundreds of local residents to evacuate for dry land.

According to the Weather Center of Long Island, we can expect another 7-8 inches overnight -- which, for anyone who has woken up next to someone from Long Island, means we'll be lucky if the dip stick reaches a mere five-and-three-quarters and isn't bent crooked like a broken coat hanger.

God Bless Us, Tiny Tino, Every One.

Give A Dog A Boner, Literally

2005-10-12T21:31:00.000-04:00

You've heard it all before...
Boy meets Girl. Boy takes Girl out for romantic spaghetti and meatball dinner. Girl lets Boy nuzzle up to her by the fire and nine months later, seven hungry mouths chew Girl's tender nipples to pieces.

Okay, so it's not your typical Hollywood love story. But then again, if you ever got a chance to really corner Lady, I'd bet she'd offer up nothing but curses for the Tramp.

Today's bitches, thankfully, have more choices. And while Georgie, Johnny, Harriet and Oprah prepare to battle it out supremely over the future freedom for our female counterparts, one company has taken it upon themselves to provide an alternative in the highly heated pro-life/pro-choice campaign.

This time, however, the fight is for Fido.

Dog Condoms, Inc., a U.S. based manufacture of prophylactics for pooches -- no seriously -- has invented a revolutionary rubber to help prevent the millions of unwanted, unplanned dog pregnancies faced by pet owners each year alone. As an alternative to spaying or neutering your dog, an act the company calls "brutal forced castrations," these clever canine condoms are intended to provide safe and effective birth control, safe-guarding a dog's genitals and "honoring their instincts and sexuality."

Available as lubricated for both his and her pleasure, the thin latex wrapper is available in three different sizes -- a comfort fit for just about any breed, Danes to Doxies.

In a controlled clinical trial, the creative contraceptive initially showed a very high rate of effectiveness, significantly lowering the occurrence of unwanted pregnancy when used correctly by two consenting canines.

But wait, it isn't all Paradise in Prophylactic Poochville. In a recent report posted on the company's website, there has been a voluntary but Urgent Recall on the much anticipated Meat-Scented condoms which have presented a choking hazard, "especially for smaller dogs."

According to the post, an estimated 15 consumers reported accidental ingestion of the condoms, yet thankfully, no fatalities resulted from these incidents. Though it isn't specified explicitly in the recall, it is my sincere hope the rubbers were swallowed by Man's Best Friend and not Man himself.

For the time being, however, the company has suspended production and distribution of the product until further testing can be done to ensure its safety and reliability on the market. Owners are encouraged to allow dry humping of the legs and knees until the condoms have been cleared for canine use once again.

Gives a whole new meaning to doing it Doggy-Style, doesn't it?

Note: Dog Condoms are not intended for human use and may not protect against the spread of fleas. All dogs should talk to their doctors before becoming sexually active for the first time.

A Bottle Of White, A Bottle Of Red

2005-10-11T00:33:00.000-04:00

...Or perhaps just a canister of Pledge instead?

Contrary to pop-cultured belief, it turns out the good don't always die young -- no matter how hard they may try sometimes.

In the splashy new tell-all memoir out this week entitled Billy Joel: The Life & Times of an Angry Young Man, it's revealed the Bronx born rock star's long time issues with drinking almost cost him his life. 'Cept this time, his poison was real: furniture polish.

In the early 1970's, guilt ridden from an adulterous affair he had with his own drummer's wife, the world's most popular Piano Man was found just in time, completely comatose in a cedar closet by the former drummer friend himself. A note left behind at the scene kept Joel on suicide watch at a Long Island psych ward, where he revealed furniture polish hadn't been his first choice, claiming though, "it looked tastier than bleach."

Cashing in on all the hoopla, some local bars have already added a new drink to their menus: the bubbly, blue CosMop&Glopolitan.

In all seriousness, I love you Billy, Just The Way You Are: alive, albeit still tortured. But alive, first and foremost.

It's Not You, It's Me...Me Not Liking You

2005-10-09T21:21:00.000-04:00

Oops, I did it again. I played with your heart, and yes, got lost in the game. Oh baby, baby, Oops, you think I'm in love, like, that I'm sent from above or something. Well, I gotta tell ya, I'm just not that into you.

Bastardizing Britney Spears is the last thing I ever wanted to do in life, let me just tell you. But somehow the lyrics to that song ring more true to me now, more honest than ever before. You see, it's only been three weeks since the last time I had to break it off. I wish I could remember his name, or even screenname as the case may be. I should recall the speech I gave, the time and location, the reasons why it wasn't working, for me, for him, for us. For Christ's sake.

But I don't.

My life, suddenly, has become one long, unscripted episode of Sex In The City, minus the sex, and just outside of the city. I'm Carrie, Samantha, Miranda and Charlotte all rolled up into a scruffy, short, underdeveloped package. (And for the record, I'm referring to my miniscule muscle mass; the PACKAGE itself, of course, is fully developed, and I have eye-witnesses to prove it -- again, if I could remember their names, or screennames as the case may be).

As Carrie, it is a constant battle between being "single and fabulous" and in love with an outdated flame. I have a Big, though my relationship to him is purely one-sided, sadly ill proportioned to the amount of time I actually see him, or rather, picture him in my mind's eye. He's more of a Medium, if you will. Not quite larger than life in mine, but certainly not absent yet in my heart. I compare everyone to him, his calming energy, his goof-ball smile. He's the excuse I use why I can no longer commit into week four. And like a whore, I find myself more and more waking up warmly next to someone so right, so good, and thinking rather, it could only be greater with my Medium. But I lost that battle, and the war, at least for me, was over before it began. I may or may not be single, depending on the time of day, but without Medium at my side, being fabulous just doesn't seem all that, well, fabulous.

Samantha is a different story altogether. For the sake of keeping this clean, I will only say I have opened my eyes wide, and well, other parts too -- my mind for instance -- and allowed myself the pleasure of sexual exploration. One night stands, serial dating, or mating, but waiting still...waiting for completion. And not just in bed. I may never kiss the Pakistani bus boy, no matter how attentive he is with the bread. But the art of seduction, so long as your heart remains guarded, and your body remains safe, may be perhaps the best part of still being young and single in the city. Chew 'em up and then spit 'em out, so long as you don't swallow any, no matter how tempting just a droplet may seem.

As Miranda, I'm a horse of a different color. She's a high-powered lawyer; I work for them. She's turned off by dating the unemployed actor/dancer/model; my last 12 dates read like a SAG pity-party guest-list. She figured she could do it all on her own, motherhood, love, career...and I wish I could do the same. But then she met her Steve, and I met mine. And I find myself becoming that bitchy, cold, quasi-evil redhead, shoving out those who just want to be with me, no pressure, simply because they don't meet the impossibly high standards I set for myself so many years earlier, when I was just a child, when I was still naive and romantic, when I just wanted to be alone and with someone. Independent and relied on. Loved but able to love back, despite the income, in spite of the standards...just love. Pure, respectful, reciprocated love.

And finally Charlotte...sweet, innocent Charlotte, the one who I always labeled most like me. With her romanticized ideals, wistful hopes for the perfect this, and the perfect that, Prince Charming didn't stand a chance. And neither have I. Because ironically I grew to hate Charlotte. I found her annoying, fake, obsessed with perfection. She was scared and scarred and lonely, settling far below par in hopes of salvaging a story-book romance. She was who I was trained to be. She was where my life was headed. She was how I failed at love, and why I continued to try. She was a hope and a curse, and the least likely to settle down, despite wanting THAT above all else.

And so, as I brunch by myself this morning, looking around at the Bradshaws and their boy-toys, I try to come up with the right words to use for my next dismissal.

It's not you it's me isn't quite accurate enough. 'Coz it's not just me. It's Carrie and Samantha, Miranda and Charlotte. It's Ross and it's Rachel, it's Dawson and it's Joey. It's every Harry and each of his many Sallys. It's my parents and my sister. It's my friends and my ex-friends, my boyfriends and my ex-boyfriends.

It's even Britney Spears. Fat, ugly, stupid Britney Spears.

Reminders that love is fleeting but fabulous, forbidden but free. That there's a difference between settling down and settling in love. That you can have your cake and eat it to, though you may have to bake and frost the damn thing yourself. That sometimes you never know who it will be, or with whom, or why. But when you know you just know, and sometimes you just know it isn't working. Sometimes you fool yourself. Sometimes you fool them. Sometimes you play with their hearts and get lost in the game.

You see, my problem is this: I'm dreaming away, wishing that heroes, holding out for heroes, Supermen, Batmen, Bad Men, Good Men, Greater Men...They truly exist. I cry, and try not to, but cry nonetheless watching the days. But my god, can't you see I'm just a fool, a fool in so many ways?

Oh baby, baby, I'm not that innocent.

I just broke up with you over a blog.

And all I can think of saying is Oops...I did it again.

I'm Sick, But I'm Pretty

2005-10-08T22:11:00.000-04:00

Are they or aren't they?

Who cares.

She's drunk. He's gay.

And it's clear God - and Lorne Michaels - hates us all now that the sister spawn got a second chance on SNL.

Don't Ask, Don't Tell...We Already Know

2005-10-07T14:49:00.000-04:00

It used to be easy to dodge the draft. In the past all you had to do was flee to our neighbors up north, register for classes, continuously lose your reading glasses, or a toe, or maybe two.

So by the early nineties, as a skinny and scared young boy, I had already planned my exit strategy. Certainly I could learn to like faux-French food, and re-pronounce my abouts "aboots." And surely I could handle an extra semester of homework, perhaps even two if the war dragged on longer than expected. And so what if not all my little piggies made it back from the market? I'd still have my most important appendage -- and boy does it enjoy wee-wee-weeing in the safety of my own home.

I was sixteen when I first heard the term "Don't Ask Don't Tell" being thrown around on television. Though established almost two years earlier, it wasn't a policy issue often discussed at the dinner table. I had read what I could on the topic, realizing at last that I no longer needed to flee the fight. I could finally just be me. I could tell the world what I liked, and stand the inevitable rejection from both my friends and my family, so long as the U.S. Military joined in on the fag-bashing festivities.

And so for the past ten years I have watched and waited, counting the rising number of soldiers discharged from service for being, or claiming to be gay. At last count, according to statistics provided by the ServiceMembers Legal Defense Network -- a non profit organization dedicated to ending discrimination faced by gay and lesbian military personnel -- as of 2003, over 9,672 men and women have been discharged simply based on the "discovery" of their sexual orientation.

The official rule on the issue dictated in The Pentagon's New Policy Guidelines on Homosexuals in the Military states, "The military will discharge members who engage in homosexual conduct, which is defined as a homosexual act, a statement that the member is homosexual or bisexual, or a marriage or attempted marriage to someone of the same gender."

But all that's about to change. You see, the Powers-At-Be have slowly caught on that the use of sexual orientation to avoid deployment is resulting in a sharp decline in available combat forces. In fact, with dwindling world-wide support for the current war in Iraq, and as more countries continuously pull out their troops from the front lines, the military here, it seems, has chosen to retain it's openly gay soldiers, at least until the war has been won.

The Center for the Study of Sexual Minorities in the Military, a CA-based research unit which tracks the history and inner workings of sexual minorities in the armed forces, began looking into suspicions that fewer gay men and women were being ousted from the line of fire, particularly over the past three years. Their findings resulted in the discovery of a loophole regulation currently in use by the military which claims an openly gay service member will be forced into active duty, despite the current Don't Ask policy, when his or her unit has received notification of alert status.

If you ask anyone involved with combat operations overseas these days, we are in constant receipt of these status alert notifications.

Perhaps it's the Pentagon's coy way of admitting gays and lesbians don't actually threaten the cohesion of a military unit, the excuse they often use to legitimize their discriminatory policy -- the same logic, you'll remember, once presented when women were first introduced into the picture. Then again, it may just be an act of deployment desperation.

Regardless of the intention, the military insists the Don't Ask Don't Tell ban remains in full effect. According to recent reports, if a soldier reveals his orientation while serving in active duty, the "issue" of his discharge will be postponed until his return from war, once the unit can be properly demobilized.

Apparently after they've served their purpose, after they've risked their very lives, put their frail faith for a future in the hands of a government too scared to send their own, gay men and women of today's U.S. Military can be guaranteed, upon arrival home, the same discrimination and disgraceful dejection thousands have faced before them. The Land of the Free and the Home of the Brave, so long as you're a straight white male, will make sure of just that.

Suddenly, being called a Canook is quite the compliment, eh?

Breaking News: The Break Up Of Roy And Silo

2005-09-30T00:00:00.000-04:00

Move over Angelina, there's a new homewrecker in town.

After just six years of what many would describe as a passionate and public love affair, a bond which both science and nature could not divide, Central Park's most infamous duo, Roy and Silo, the gay penguins, call it quits...

And let me just tell you, Silo wasted no time moving on.

Perhaps the saddest part of the story isn't the split itself, which has left Roy reportedly "alone in a corner, staring at a wall." You see, instead of chasing after a younger, buffer, blonder boytoy, Silo's eyes quickly found themselves transfixed upon the abstract allure of Scrappy, a new female penguin just in from the coast of California.

Slut.

Already sides are forming, as the public begins to weigh in on the recent relationship demise. My sympathies fall to Roy of course -- who much like Jen would have been -- is now left mateless and dateless to care for and raise Tango, the female child hatched and adopted early on by the couple during happier, gayer times.

I guess Captain and Tenille missed the mark entirely on this one. Maybe love just isn't enough to keep us together after all.

Well, like I told Brad when he asked for my advice on a similar subject early last year, sometimes you have to lose love on purpose to know how great it feels to find love unexpectedly.

So I say to Silo, just remember: when a sweet talkin' girl comes a splashing along, chirping that song, No no, don't mess around, you've got to be strong. Just stop, 'cause Roy really loves you. Silo stop! He'll be thinking about you. Look in your heart and let love, just let love keep you together...

Whatever.

Salvation In The City

2005-09-25T10:53:00.000-04:00

As I stumble humbly home, alone, back from the beaten bar whose welcome I severely overstayed, in this, the city that never sleeps in the same bed twice, I recount the myriad of rational reasons I shouldn't place this call.

Number 1: He may just answer.
Number 2: He may just say no.
Number 2.5: He may just say yes.

Yes, come over. Yes, lose your shirt. Yes, I think we're ready. Yes, I feel the same way. Yes, I'll love you for the rest of my life.

No. No no, that's not what he'll say. How could he? We are but barely strangers, a tour guide and a tourist, whose site-seeing journey ended, instead, at the foot of his bed, yet in my head, so much history it's unreal, but in real time, an hour, maybe two.

Despite these shivers, these quivers of qualms I have with actually following through, my drunken digits dialed to reach out, if only just to touch you.

You've reached the voicemail box of The Guy You Want To Kiss.

Leave a message.

As I recognized I was, if only for the night, spared, I stared at my flip flopped feet, filthy now, blackened by the borough of this town, the unpaved streets, the dust and debris kicked up from some unfinished government project.

But what will the morning bring?

Another search? Another stumble? Another chance for some other form of soul salvation?

My soul's salvation.

In the city.

i kNoW wHAt yOu DiD laSt sEAsOn...

2005-09-23T21:01:00.000-04:00

...Nothing -- which is exactly how the universe intended it.

The undeniably beautiful and seemingly always perky Jennifer Love Hewitt is absolutely determined to make a return to television, though apparently, one flop at a time.

Her latest attempt, sadly sans the breasts, can be seen in the soon to be cancelled CBS drama, Ghost Whisperer, where she stars as a young woman cursed with the ability to communicate with dead people in order to help them cross over to the other side.

Think a way hotter John Edward. Like, WAY hotter.

Now, those who know me well can vouch for it when I proclaim I love Love, always have and always will...I'm perhaps the only guy in America who actually appreciates and defends her acting ability. I hereby submit into evidence my copy of Confessions Of A Sociopathic Social Climber. Um, hellllo? "I barely have enough time to keep a journal let alone breast feed an orphan!"

But after an entire hour of watching her unsuccessfully struggle with the poorly written dialogue, and a flawed and fated for failure concept we've seen many times over, it doesn't take a guy with six senses to figure out this show won't materialize into anything of value, other than a development mistake that'll haunt the network's Friday night time-slot for the rest of the season.

Sucks for me, too. I finally just apologized to everyone I made sit through Time Of Your Life.

Boyfriend Or Blemish? That Is The Question...

2005-09-21T22:53:00.000-04:00

I stare at him, his swollen, enlarged head thrust out before me, practically oozing, begging for release. Wet lips pursed ever so slightly, my hands fumble for just the right position. Neck craned, cheeks puffed out. My breathing slows, I swallow hard and pray, pray there won't be too much of a mess to clean up.

I haven't done this in a while...But this zit must be destroyed.

"Everyone does it," she says, eying her own imperfections in my mirror, despite my devout declaration there are none to be found. "It's just a matter of when you let him see you doing it."

Like porn, I offer up for example.

She turns on flamboyant heel, a frustrated professor schooled in but one subject: Men. "No, showing him your dirty porn collection can only bring you closer together," she instructs. "But pimples...there's no way to make a creamy pustule sexy."

And that got me thinking. Surely there comes a time in every relationship when the delicate matter of "personal bodily functions" rises to the surface. Discussing, or rather, experiencing these moments together -- the first belch, the first fart, the first time you catch him wearing girl's panties -- somehow, couples manage to survive. Made stronger even, I hear, when both of you can be in the bathroom at the same time and only one is going number two.

But when is it a good time to discuss bad skin?

Do you cancel a first date because your forehead looks like the coat rack at Nobu, or should you confront the issue blackhead-on and inform him you'll be coming to bed donning a crusty peroxide face mask from now until you're both 40?

The issue at hand is not nearly as superficial as just wanting clear skin, for you or your mate. Our problem lies far more deep-rooted than that. Obviously, it would be ideal to live in Nicole Kidman's porcelain exterior morning, noon and night.

But for those of us not biblically blessed with such seemingly natural beauty, there exists a system of regimented behavior patterns, habitual rituals of cleansing, detoxing and purifying the face, the exposure of which could send our newly established relationships from "too hot" to "so not" in a matter of seconds.

The question then, is it possible to have a blemish AND a boyfriend?

You see, recently I was making out with this guy whose flawless skin made my heart ache, literally. And when our sweaty saliva swapping session ceased, I told him I had to kick him out, not because it was our first date, not because I didn't like him, and certainly not because I wanted to avoid waking up the next morning wrapped in my sheets, in his arms. Far from it.

He had to exit because I had to exfoliate.

I chose not to explain that evening, though it quickly became apparent something was amiss. I was hiding a secret, and he was determined to uncover it.

"Do you snore, like, horrible train-wrecked kind of snoring?"

I looked at him, unsure how to respond. The truth is yes, I do snore, but that's not why these had remained sleepovers for one.

"Leg Thrasher?"

"Sleepwalker?"

"Have you killed your boyfriends while they slept at your side?"

He ran through the possible excuses, each one sounding more reasonable than the next. All, surprisingly, less embarrassing than the truth.

"Do you fart in your sleep? Is that why I can't stay over?"

It was the fifth date, the fifth night we spent together. And as I watched him roll over and reach for his shoes, as if his line of questioning was merely a rehearsed routine to carry us to the good byes, I realized he had given up on expecting an answer.

And that's when it hit me. This guy would risk getting kicked in the groin, stabbed through the neck and suffocate on my flatulence, all just to lie next to me until morning. I pulled him back onto the bed, and told him to wait there while I disappeared from the room.

Standing in front of the vanity mirror I took a moment to eye my products. Face wash, too normal. Tea Tree Oil, invisible to sight, yes, but overbearing to smell. Oxy, Clearasil, Noxzema. Globs of white goo plastered across my face, mountains forming in sporadic areas, a crazed connect-the-dots puzzle only a dermatologist would appreciate.

Then examining my masterpiece, I wondered if this suicide mission was worth it. I mean, would it really be so bad to just have him think I fart wildly in my sleep?

I must have stood there contemplating this for a while, long enough for the peroxide to begin to dry, when I heard a knock on the bathroom door.

"I'm taking off. I'll call you tomorrow."

It was now or never, to be or not to be alone for the rest of my life. And so I stretched for a moment, took one final look at my creation and kicked open the door, stepping out into the light, my cracked white face exposed for his final judgment.

"I'm here. I'm queer. And I have pimples!"

The next morning I rolled over to find, buried in my pillows, his perfect face, now bleached haphazardly with smeared remnants from my melange of zit creams.

After that night, I shuffled my facial routine from time to time, risking a break-out to avoid the break-up I had always feared.

Sadly, things did cool for us a few weeks later, though I'm utterly thankful to say it was not as a direct result of my own exposure. Actually, it was something that he did which pushed me to want out of the relationship:

He swallowed his floss.

Sick, right?

Stars Get Naked To Help Hurricane Relief

2005-09-21T19:32:00.000-04:00

And the biggest star of them all is of no exception.

Star Jones, E! TV's Red Carpet hostess with the most-ass, donated the $3000 Marc Bauer gown she adorned at this years Emmy Awards to the Clothes Off Our Back Foundation, a charity which auctions off outfits worn by celebrities at award shows and movie premieres, delivering the proceeds to those in need.

This year the organization has chosen to lend their financial assistance to the relief efforts for victims of Hurricane Katrina.

Rather than bidding for the dress, however, the Red Cross announced they will use it as a tarp to cover the areas still flooded by the storm, and to provide shelter for the thousands left homeless in the hurricane's devastating wake.

In a related story, Star Jones ate this dog.

Great Exhortations

2005-09-17T19:55:00.000-04:00

I sit here now, a patient, impatiently waiting for the impending news, the who's, the what's, the when's and the why's, and my eyes, my eyes, they wander warily down to my feet, to their defeat, as each toe attempts a wiggle on it's own, alone, my ten little piggys trapped under the tether of a leather, weathered and worn, like my soul.

You see I've been in this seat before, starring down at this floor, at these shoes, canvassing for clues that could creep me closer to completing the repeating mystery, my history, that historical, rhetorical, metaphorical obsession with love.

And that's about the time I hear my name. So I gather up my belongings, replace the curled, unread magazine to the top of the heap and follow down the longest of hallways, this weaving woman in white, a revision of the vision of some guardian angel I've seen many times before.

In my dreams, perhaps. No, on the side of a bus, in an advertisement hocking low cal cream cheese to the masses with fat asses. That's right, I know your precious secret. Your hypocritical oath, indeed. I too can't believe it's not -- but before I can utter, mutter or stutter she butters me up a sweet, smooth smile, and I step into her chamber, despite the clearly present danger, and assume my role as her daughter for the slaughter.

The doctor will be in shortly, she seethes. Take a seat.

Great, more waiting.

I eye my options, a plastic step-stool shoved into the corner, paying penance for being so damn uncomfortable no doubt, or the parchment bathed butchers block bellowing out before me. Clearly this is the end I was intended to meet. And so, like a flesh covered flank of fillet mignon I flay myself out to the sound of what used to be a flawlessly smooth surface, now wrinkled, crinkled and ruined under my shifting weight.

And here I wait. Wait to be seen, wait to be heard. Wait for a fate whose arrival will burn every last hope with every new desire for a freshly filled future barring, of course, brimstone and fire. Liar. She said he'd be here shortly.

Short. That's me. As I eye the scale, then my pale, frail reflection in the mirror. Who is this guy? And when did he stop being the man I wish to pretend to want to try to be? Me? Yeah, I'm still here. Still queer. But you don't have to get used to it. Shit, I never did.

Knock knock, like he needs to ask.

I find his hardened face particularly telling. Compelling, this sudden swelling in my chest, at best, the sweat beaded forehead, the desert in my throat. Was this really all she ever wrote? Was this my last call, my life's line of credit, indebted, overdrawn with a ravenous red reaper out for collection?

Did you use protection?

Like he needs to ask.

Like I can remember.

What's up, Doc? Is that ba-dee-ba-dee-ba-dee all folks? Or do I get a second shot, a lyrical last dance, another chance to romance and recall the memories, fuckin' vodka reeking memories, in the corners of my eyes, these lies, these lives, their wives.

Oh yes, the way we were.

Allergies, he says. Tis' the season.

Nothing more could be less. And nothing less is ever more depleting. Then excreting my appreciations for both his time and expertise, I tease, can I still turn my head and cough?

Ease off, it's just an expression. Some half-assed imitation, a celebration of temptation, yet his half-hard hesitation gives pause to trepidation and in that moment of speculation, when anticipation weds reservation, I smile in desperation and let it slip, this, my greatest exhortation.

I'll see you in six months then...

...when we'll dance another day, and die just a little bit in between.

Potty Time, Excellent!

2005-09-16T00:30:00.000-04:00

Some things never change. Even when you're the most powerful man in the world, surrounded by a room full of equally important world leaders, prime-ministers, princes and presidents alike, you still have to ask for a Hallway Pass to use the shitter.

Cut to the UN World Summit, where the heated topic of discussion was terrorism and international security. And as issues of a waning war and progress for peace began to churn, President Bush found the need to drop a bomb of a different nature.

Caught by an AP photographer with an amazing zoom lens, Bush scribbled a note to Secretary of State Condoleezza Rice, sheepishly announcing, "I think I may need a bathroom break? Is this possible?"

Perhaps the most telling aspect in this developing story is his wavering position to potty. He isn't even sure he HAS to go. He just thinks it. Then again, this is the same man who sat dumbfounded for seven minutes in a classroom reading "My Pet Goat" when the nation was "under attack."

Rumors of brewing trouble within his Cabinet quickly began circulating when Condi returned Bush's note with one of her own:

"I told you to go before we left the House!"

Let's just hope Bush wipes his Tush better than he balances a budget.

Hit That Baby One More Time...

2005-09-14T23:29:00.000-04:00

SO THIS JUST IN: Britney Spears was out till 5AM, took a bunch of drugs, passed out cold on a metal table and threw her legs up wide in the air surrounded by a bunch of strange men.

Coincidentally she also had a C-section later that night. And by the looks of it, not a minute too soon.

Those who still cared the Pop Princess was alive breathed a sigh of relief when Baby Brit, whose name is rumored to be Preston Michael Sean Christian Spears Federline (I'm not making this up people!) made his healthy entrance into the world, weighing in at only 6 pounds, 11 ounces.

Doctors at the UCLA hospital are still baffled by what accounted for the other 340 pounds, though they are investigating a strange discovery left behind in the parking lot where Britney's water supposedly broke.

In a related story, the Religious Right, hearing the news of Britney's breeding, took the baby's birth as an opportunity to teach wayward children of the dangers in having unprotected sex, and to resist the lure of Satan's slimy serpent.

They also reminded young girls that they can, in fact, get pregnant from kissing.

This will be the first baby for Britney (shocking, I know), and the third for Father Federline...that we know of.

Puttin My Mouth Where The Weiner Is

2005-09-14T00:27:00.000-04:00

Well the polls are closed, and the votes are in and unfortunately my first choice in the Democratic Mayoral Primary, Anthony Weiner, came in a conceding second. Perhaps I'm just a day too late and a few hollers short to make good use of a semi-public endorsement for any one candidate, so instead I'll make a semi-political plea:

Though he has chosen graciously to step aside and let Who-The-Fuck-Is-Freddie-Ferrer take the lead nomination for the party, and thus the fall in what will most likely be a slaughter-house victory for the Bloomberg camp in November, I can only hope that this bruised and beaten Weiner doesn't shrink into limp obscurity, broken and abandoned, never to be heard from again.

Can you say John Kerry?

Unlike the other three mayoral contesters, the Congressman still has a job to return to now that his part in the race is complete. And with 30% of the New York pool of Democrats standing behind him, I hope he continues to serve out his term fighting for those of us who tossed him our support over the past few weeks. His journey, from placing dead-last in the polls to almost-tied for the win, is an inspiration and true pledge of political purpose.

We may not have our Oscar Mayor Weiner, but we've had our fun with puns. And when all is said and done, isn't that the best use of a Weiner in the end?

Freaky Frodo Fancies Figure's Fanny

2005-09-13T00:34:00.000-04:00

Fabulous.

The definitive moment in my romantic life has at long last arrived: proof that Elijah Wood likes the ladies. Well, at least cardboard cutouts of them...

I've heard of pubic lice, but pubic...hobbits? Just goes to show you these days you never know where a painted woman's been.

FEMA Director Resigns, Bakes Cookies

2005-09-12T19:29:00.000-04:00

Okay so he may or may not have baked cookies, but Mike Brown of the Federal Emergency Management Agency, the government arm responsible for the rescue and relief efforts in New Orleans and parts of Mississippi, did step down from his position as Director today, citing the importance in avoiding "further distraction from the ongoing mission of FEMA."

That is, the mission to ignore poor, black Americans pleading for food and assistance in ever worsening conditions.

Falling under fire over his qualifications and history in dealing with emergency management, and specifically his muddled response to the immediate needs down south after the destruction and social devastation left behind in the wake of Hurricane Katrina, Brown is but another victim of what I now call "The Fall Out Factor."

There's something familiar about someone being praised and paraded around town by the President, who for the record proclaimed days earlier, "Brownie, you're doing a heck of a job," now finding himself without said job, without any political purpose, and frankly, without a friend in Washington to lean on.

Well, maybe just a few, say, former Secretary of State Colin Powell, former Attorney General John Ashcroft and former Commerce Secretary Donald Evans. Not to mention former Agriculture Secretary Ann Veneman, Education Secretary Rod Paige, Energy Secretary Spencer Abraham, and most recently NASA Deputy Administrator Frederick Gregory.

It seems many majestic men and women initially appointed and publicly applauded by President Bush have fallen to the same fevered fate, choosing to leave his Cabinet mid-sentence rather than serving out their terms under his, what is it called now, rein?

Apparently the only person near the White House unable to admit fault and step aside to let someone more competent take control is the head honcho himself.

No surprises there.

What with a botched war in Iraq, a social security system in scraps, a country divided now more than ever and shared criticism for his part, or lack thereof, in the disaster relief down south, it's no wonder a recent CNN/USA Today/Gallup poll shows a 54% disapproval rating for the games this grown man chooses to play.

Some of that criticism speaks to the speed at which the government responded to those left behind after the storm, predominately of poor, African American communities. When asked about the racial divide and it's role in the issue, Bush pointed out, "The storm didn't discriminate, and neither will the recovery effort."

I, for one, believe him. I mean, clearly it was easier to save the white people; they don't blend in with the muddy water. At least that's what I expect the next press release to reveal.

But if idle racism wasn't to blame for the horrifically bungled operation, what was? Incompetence? Now there's a novel admission.

In any case, my advice to the next chump who finds himself wading knee deep in Brown's big old shoes: watch your back, and the floor, for when it falls out beneath you, and it will - it always does - there's very little left in which to seek comfort.

Well, there's always the freshly baked cookies...

Big A Votes Nay To Be Gay In LA

2005-09-10T03:06:00.000-04:00

Yay. Just when you thought it was safe to walk down the aisle, Gov. Arnold Schwarzenegger terminated all hopes for gay couples in the state of CA when he vowed to veto a bill that would legalize same-sex marriages in the state.

The legislation, passed overwhelmingly by the state Senate, would have been the first to allow for equal representation and finite recognition of gay marriages, beyond just civil unions or domestic partnerships. Citing a conflict with the voter-approved Proposition 22, which forbade the state of CA from reinterpreting the definition of marriage to include those of the same sex, good old Arnie claimed, "We cannot have a system where the people vote and then the Legislature derails that vote." Well, he didn't actually say that; his press secretary did. Turns out the Governor had a hard time pronouncing the word "Legislature."

You would think in a state where retired porn stars ran for the gubernatorial position, the radical idea of legal reform wouldn't have threatened the CA governor as it did. Then again, with the onset of the infectious right-wing setting in across the country, it shouldn't have surprised anyone that a call for equality would be met with political and social dissent.

It should be noted when Proposition 22 went out to registered voters for approval, it was accompanied by Propositions 21 and 23, which, respectively, legalized the union between liposuction and botox, and banned carbs from everything including oxygen.

Alas, our nation's Girliest Man decided to follow through with the systematic neglect for equal rights for all it's citizens, "out of respect for the will of the people." Ironically it is Proposition 24 which calls for a ban on any state representative who sounds like a drunken Neanderthal when speaking publicly.

What remains to be seen now is how this recent decision will affect future relationships between the Governor and the LGBT communities. Critics were quick to call attention to his hypocrisy, urging what many have called a gay-friendly state administration to reconsider their current stance on the issue.

"I'll Be Back-lashed!" (It works when you say it like a German idiot).

You see, when Schwarzenegger starts whining about how unfair the laws are keeping former foreigners like himself out of the White House, I hope he remembers the "will of the people," that is, those who made laws years ago without any regard for equality, change or progression in society. Maybe then he'll understand what real civil leadership is about -- taking action, making a difference and standing behind your convictions, in or in the face of slipping approval ratings.

Wait, that's not how our government works. Silly me, I forget sometimes this isn't Canada.

Anyone wishing to email thoughts, concerns or hopes for a better tomorrow to Arnie and Company can do so by using the following: governor@governor.ca.gov. Don't expect a response, though; he's very busy licking George Bush's ass-crack.

Yeah, I went there.

Alicia Slip-erstone: A Special Report

2005-09-10T01:31:00.000-04:00

So I know there are far more important things to focus on in the world right now: The thousands of displaced starving southerners, war-torn Iraq, the Democratic Mayoral Primary, hell, even the fact we didn't get to watch more of Andy Roddick's sweat-stained shirt rise high above the rim of his mesh-clinging waistline at the U.S. Open...Yes, there's sobering news all around us these days. But desperate times demand desperate pleasures. And heeding the call was the one and only Alicia Silverstone, who cluelessly performed a mitzvah of mayhem when she slipped and fell on the red carpet at the GQ Man Of The Year Awards party in London.

Let's just call it a wardrobe malfunction and pay no attention to the trail of empty wine bottles left behind in her wake.

Now don't get me wrong, I don't usually enjoy pointing and laughing at someone else's tragically public misfortune, especially when that someone is as sweet and blonde as the former Batgirl. But I just can't shake the notion that there's something almost cathartic in reveling in the thought that even a babe-a-licious bombshell can blunder so bombastically. Yeah yeah, I know we all put our pants on one leg at time, even the wealthy and well-known. But it isn't every day we fall flat on our faces with a sea of photogs poised to preserve the memory for all the world to Cher-ish.

And for that, a generous thank-you to the PETA Princess.

Alicia, your random rises and feverish falls at our feet have served as more than just fodder for freelance bloggers from here to Istanbul; they've become a much needed pressure-valve in what can only be described as intense and uncertain times. And at the very least, you now stand as a role model for each of us, especially those down south who have recently taken a tumble of a far more severe nature.

You see, if Alicia can pull herself up by her lacey ankle bootstraps and face the world again with a crooked, squinty-eyed smile, then hell, isn't there hope for the rest of us?

I know you're thinking it, and I wouldn't feel right not saying it, but can I? Should I? Okay, here it goes. Wait for it: As if.

By the way, if a picture is worth a thousand words, here's 4000 more. For more details on (and the original pictures of) the Alicia Sliperstone Experience: 2005, click here.

Consider these the Before, During and After shots:

"Do you prefer 'fashion victim' or 'ensembly challenged'?"

I happen to think she looks hot. But I totally crush her anyway so maybe I'm not the best judge here.

"Oh My God, I love Josh!"

You can actually see the very moment her ankle gives out and folds under the pressure of her drunken weight.

"I felt impotent and out of control."

You said it.

"Anything you can do to draw attention to your mouth is good."

Ummm yeah, Cher, I don't think that's the kind of attention you want right now.

By the way, why is no one helping her up?

What-Ev!

Because Of The Wonderful Things He Does

2005-09-07T22:50:00.000-04:00

So it's election time again. No no, not THAT election. We have, let's see, $18 Billion more dollars to waste on war, 1500 more service men and women to send to the slaughter, carry the decaying deficit, destroy the social security system, add two more homophobic right wing judges to the court, nuke a rain forest, prolong the cure for cancer...yeah, that's about two and half more years with that son of a Bush.

I'm referring, of course, to a more local hellstorm. It's time to elect, or perhaps reelect NYC's next mayor. Now I don't like to choose favorites, and I certainly won't tell you who to vote for, unless we're talking the final five on the next American Idol competition. I just figure any little bit of information I can gather, I'll put out there.

So this morning, as I climbed the stairs of my Manhattan bound subway stop, I was greeted by the very tired-looking, baby-faced blue-eyed beauty, Gifford Miller. If you haven't had a chance to stand in front of him personally, let me tell you, those eyes are so bright they could burn holes through titanium cinder blocks. Small hands, though. Not that it means anything; I'm just saying.

Anyway, I walked up to the man, who shook my extended hand gently, and asked him point blank, "Where do you stand on gay marriage?" Without hesitation he placed his hand on my arm, all fraternity-like and said, "I'm for it, and have been since 1995." Apparently when he was only 12 he was fighting for the gay vote. (He isn't really 22 but with the right amount of botox and a few nights sleep he could pass for a ragged 28).

I don't know if the slogan is pre-packaged but it's kinda catchy. "Have Been Since 1995." As if he was anything else before then. As if any of us were. I can see his pride flag now: "Gifford Miller: Friend Of Friends Of Dorothy, est. 1995."

Regardless, I thanked him for his time and wished him the best of luck -- to which he smiled goofy and declared with a gesture halfway between a thumbs-up and the finger, "You're my luck!"

Whatever that means.

Having met three of the four Democratic hopefuls in person, I can say he's definitely the sexiest of the bunch. But we shouldn't vote for a mayor based solely on his or her looks. I mean, we're not that superficial, are we? Clearly what's most important here is what he'll bring to this fabulous town, you know, like his ideas and his policies. His time, his money and his...oh fuck it...he's hot. And at least I can pronounce his last name without giggling like a little school girl.

I mean, we already have a Big Bad Bush in Washington. Do we really want a Weiner as Wizard of our Oz too? I know it's a goyishly gay city but come on...

Second Chances Suck

2005-09-04T17:24:00.000-04:00

The first time you broke my heart, shame on me. I should have seen all the signs.

The second time you broke my heart, fuck you.

Says White House: Let Them Eat Spam

2005-09-02T19:42:00.000-04:00

While the rest of the country turns to the south with sympathetic eyes, some of Washington's finest are showing their unrelenting support in our country's continuing time of crisis by joining in on a celebration of all that's still good in the world: over-priced Broadway musicals.

Yes, apparently watching the onslaught of news reports, meeting with representatives from various charity organizations and assisting with the much-needed rescue efforts in New Orleans fell fourth on the list for National Security Advisor Condoleezza Rice, who took in a Wednesday night performance of the much loved Spamalot.

Not that I expect her to strap on galoshes and wade through rising fecal matter looking for those who didn't survive the storm, but on the eve of what many are now calling the worst tragedy to befall our country since 9/11, you'd think laughing her ass off with overly-fed tourists from the midwest could wait a few months. You know, at least until we're finished with all the rapes, lootings and race riots now brewing faster than the winds of Katrina down under.

I guess there are worse ways of spending $101.00. I mean, it's not like she flew around a sea of starving refugees in an empty aircraft burning more fuel than an entire city of SUVs put together, you know, in the name of a heart-felt photo-op.

Tragedy Strikes, Southern Style

2005-08-31T23:51:00.000-04:00

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..."

2005-08-30T20:18:00.000-04:00

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...

2005-08-24T22:23:00.000-04:00

...'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?

2005-08-23T23:57:00.000-04:00

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

2005-08-22T23:13:00.000-04:00

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

2005-08-20T11:20:00.000-04:00

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

2005-08-18T23:07:00.000-04:00

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!!!

2005-08-15T19:52:00.000-04:00

...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...

2005-08-15T18:54:00.000-04:00

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

2005-08-13T11:08:00.000-04:00

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

2005-08-12T20:18:00.000-04:00

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

2005-08-12T20:07:00.000-04:00

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

2005-08-11T22:50:00.000-04:00

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

2005-08-09T22:02:00.000-04:00

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

2005-08-08T21:00:00.000-04:00

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.

They Say...Again

2005-06-16T00:05:00.000-04:00

They say the only thing you have to fear is fear itself. And shit throwing monkeys. Because if you've never had some chimp poop chucked at your eye, you really don't know fear at all.

This explains why I never became a zookeeper. Or Jane Goodall.