Monday, February 24, 2003

I used to think that Margaret Cho was the best thing to happen to gay men since butt plugs and affordable do-it-yourself waxing kits, but after seeing this I'm not quite as sure.

I only have one question: Why, Margaret, why?

Suddenly, being the only gay man in the bay area not in attendance at her show in two weeks time doesn't seem as catastrophic as it initially did.

Saturday, February 22, 2003

Where the Bacardi at?

God, I'm so drunk at the moment.

I don't know exactly how it happened. One moment I was in a dorm room talking with German exchange students, and the other moment I was freaking some girl named Leah to Missy Eliot (i.e., I'm not a prostitute, but I can give you want you want!)

This always happens to me.

In a room full of straight men, what else is there to do but grab the nearest bitch to you and shake her like it's no thang???

I think I need to stop hanging out with heterosexuals.

Next thing you know I'll be watching Monday night football and belching.

I might as well grow a goatee while I'm at it...

Wednesday, February 19, 2003

On Repeat

I've been listening to Tori Amos' Baker Baker over and over and over again for no particular reason other than that it makes me gaze out my bedroom window as if expecting a tidal wave to come crashing down on me with the force and destructive power of a hundred atomic bombs.

I suggest everyone rush and download this particular track so that you, too, might experience the feeling of wanting to curl your toes and die in a fury of a biblical deluge.

Save for such a technicality, my day, as my horoscope indicated, has been fully productive and self-actualizing.

It suggested that I take up gardening.

I opted, instead, to gain spiritual and personal insight from this.




Friday, February 14, 2003

My Absent Valentine

“I’d gladly trade in my wit for a body that made men weep,” is what Kirin said tonight that got me thinking about whether a Herculean body would have made the Jew agree to come up to the apartment for, as I put it, a good shtupping rather than offering me a blow job as a consolation, as if we were somehow negotiating the price for a condo in Tampa, Florida, both of us stuck struggling somewhere between a hand job and finger in the ass.

But I don’t care. I’m fine. Really, I don’t mind spending V-day alone again with nothing but the company of other single women, each of us adamantly assuring each other of our beauty and feigning disbelief to how we all have, yet again, managed to spend another year single, alone—the pillow in-between our thighs at night serving as our substitute for intimacy.

I don’t mind. Really, I don’t.

It just means that I didn’t give it my all, didn’t give it that extra umph, that extra minute on the treadmill, that 99th sit-up, that stern face in the mirror reflecting back at me like a high school counselor reminding me that, save for that scholarship that went to that other underrepresented minority, I still had plenty of options left, each waiting to be plucked like plump scallops from the bottom of a limitless seabed.

It just means that I’ve got to work harder, got to eat, sleep, breathe beautiful, and that I've got to hope to dear God that Mariah Carey wasn’t bullshitting when she said that we could, indeed, make it through the rain.






Monday, February 10, 2003

The most embarrassing thing happened to me today.

Having decided that life isn't worth living if I'm unable to wear muscle tees, I went to the gym with the mantra Must Look Good Naked, Must Look Good Naked going off in my mind like a Kylia Minogue song you know better than to sing in public.

So there I was doing my thing on the ab machine, entirely absorbed with thoughts of looking good naked, when it happened: Midway between sit-up number 44 and 45, I passed gas.

I could have possibly survived if it had been a SBD, filling the weight area with an aroma matching that of carrion, but, evidently, it was so loud the fifty year old women on the bicycle machines turned around, scanning the area with their eyes as if expecting to see a wounded animal or an attacking hyena.

So it seems I'll be driving an extra ten miles now in my attempt to look good naked at some other gym.

On an unrelated note, I'm going out with some guy tonight: a Jewish Harvard grad. Now, I don't usually categorize the men I meet in terms of their nationality and educational history, but it seems that the men I've been meeting in the past months fall into one, sometimes two, of three categories. These are (a) Jewish, (b) Harvard grads, and (c) having a career in education.

Both (b) and (c) I'm convinced are purely random and coincidental, but I hesitate on (a). The Jews, it seems, tend to gravitate toward me. In the past six months, I've managed to meet six, roughly one a month. Either I resemble a Jewish mother and the Jewish men in my life are living out some form of homosexual Oedipal complex, or, and this is the more plausible hypothesis, God is attempting to communicate something to me that my all too human mind is unable to, at the moment, comprehend.

Either way, I happen to find Jewish men very attractive--something about all that secrecy and segregation among the sexes that goes on in the Synagogue that lights my fire.

But I think I might have to censor my humor in their company. Something tells me that my joke about public restrooms smelling worse than the holocaust won't be such a hit over Matzah Ball soup and a bottle of kosher wine...

Tuesday, February 04, 2003

Though I often can find humor in jokes relating to starvation in third world countries or diseases that render one unable to sustain proper bowel moments, I've always considered myself a pretty loving and compassionate individual.

But I've had enough of it.

I would like to make it publicly known that I hate everyone. No one is spared from this statement. This includes the bastards who towed my car last week, the anonymous asshole who broke my car window this morning, and the asshole in the Volvo who did not yield to my right to cross the intersection today. Also included is the mailman who insists on folding my mail, the woman who sells me my cigarettes down the street and never smiles, everyone in my classes, professors, and, basically, any person, animal, or stimuli that happens to be in my sphere of cognition.

There is a loophole however.

I am currently accepting donations for the $135 that I require to hand over tomorrow in order to get my car back, of which I only have five dollars and a few quarters set aside for laundry.

Along with your donation you will receive an e-mail from myself personally thanking you for your generosity and a personalized certificate declaring you not on my Assholes who should contract Dysentery and Die list.

In addition, "special arrangements" can be made for donations of a relatively large sum.

The sad thing is, I'm as serious as a tumor.

I've calculated that performing 13 oral favors to strangers in subway bathrooms, charging ten a pop, would be sufficient. Of course, I could up the price if said strangers requested some "extraneous finger activity" in a certain erogenous zone. But there’s something about giving blowjobs for ten dollars that just doesn’t seem appropriate.

Charging twenty dollars seems like the more moral thing to do.






Saturday, February 01, 2003

Last night I neglected the cardinal rule of drinking: Never combine wine with hard alcohol.

It wouldn't have been so bad if (a) I hadn't ripped off my sweater and danced around in a low-cut army shirt, (b) announced "I need a dick in my mouth" at a party wholly comprised of Oakland Raider enthusiasts, or (c), two some hours later en route to the city, deciding that the two dollar price for the toll both was obscene, revved right through it, making Kirin and I fugitives from the law.

So we’ve both been laying low today. Something tells the both of us that the SFPD isn’t very likely to be charitable to a homosexual and a Muslim girl…