Sunday, December 6, 2009

D.A.R.E. to dream.

Fashion aspiration - achieved. The reasoning behind this lofty goal may have more to do with irony rather than an affirmation of their mission statement, but, I mean, come on; where does the “violence” come from? There’s no “V” in “D.A.R.E.” And you know no one’s eatin’ their kids eyeballs after a solid bong rip. No matter how bad their munchies.

Yes, I support the green movement; but I’m no dummy, my stumping stops there. Please, Drug Abuse Resistance Educators, keep on keepin’ kids off the hard stuff - that shit’s nuts. Bananas. BONKERS. However, I D - O - Double Dogg DARE you to inhale some perspective, some irrefutable scientific facts, and focus on the really vile, completely artificial, problem substances.

And I’ll do my part. I’ll plead with any child who asks about my shirt, beg them not to lose themselves to meth. I already forwent a plastic bag on my way out of Buffalo Exchange, choosing to juggle the stack of new purchases in exchange for a token I could use to prompt their donation of $0.05 to one of the three charities with whom they are affiliated.

I tossed my virtual nickel to the battle against illiteracy. Our public school systems are another story, of course, but to begin - how else are they going to know to ask about my shirt? Riiight?

Clearly I’m still thinkin’. Points, proved. All of ‘em.

Monday, November 30, 2009

Oh ghey der.

“Ryan,” A mother’s warning tone sounded behind me as I sat inside the DMV in West Bend, WI, waiting for my 16-year-old sister to have the photo taken for her newly rewarded driver’s license. “RYAN. That’s a woman’s maygahzeen.”

She was drawin' out the vowels, don’chaknow.

“A woman’s maygahzeen. Here, here Ryan,” She paused to thrust some books across the aisle, holding out her other hand for the glossy periodical. “Here’s some books, Ryan. Fer boys.”

His response, although verbal, wasn’t much more than a quiet grunt of resistance and maybe the muttered word, “Girls.”

“RYAN,” her exasperation was climbing. “That’s for mahms. For mahms, Ryan.”

At this point, my sister came down my row, license in tow, her triumph obscuring the frazzled mother’s half-hearted attempt at age appropriate censorship.

“Boys…Waffles…Ryan.” Waffles? Beats me.

I can say that I didn’t catch any homophobia in those long vowels, any A – E – I – Oh – my – Gawd – my – son – is – gonna – be – ah – ghey. And I’ve been known to read a little two-fists-deep into overheard snatches of conversation, to perceive slights in every lingering, every sidelong glance on my jaunts back to the Midwest.

No, no, despite her nasal tone, it was clear Ryan runs his mahm as thin as her voice is tinny. Ghey though this 5-year-old may one day realize himself to be, I’m sure it is his present precociousness that both prompts and pushes his mother’s patience. As my own mahm mused, “She probably wasn’t too anxious to have to explain “menstruation” to him right there in the middle of the DMV.”

“That or, ‘WHAT’S AN OR – GASM?!’” I took it a step further.

Her face scrunched together in response, amusement seeping irrepressibly through the mask of dutiful peevishness. It’s an expression I know well. After all, you can take the ghey out of Wisconsin, but no matter our environment, we Ryans never truly adopt nor understand the need or desire for a conventional filter; thus, my mother has learned to choose her battles and I imagine Ryan’s already has too.

Dat sed – I’ll betcha ah`ole bayguh cheese curds an'ah year-lahng subscription tah “Redbook” dat neither ah dem was close ter concedin’ dahfeat.

Sunday, October 11, 2009

Tropic of Eye Candy.

There is a fine line between eyeing someone up – and just plain staring. I am not known for treading this theoretical boundary with much finesse. Alright, okay, no finesse. None. In fact, I was three-fourths expecting the Starbucks barista with the prominent nose and beautiful eyelashes to walk over and ask me to “Kindly stop.” That or “GETTHEFUCKOUTOFHERE!”

At the very least, I’m as positive as a condom’s success rate that he’s aware of my interest. Could be the fact that this was my second visit in as many days to this particular location, which is not my usual. Might have something to do with the eye contact, heavy with intent, warm and lusty enough to melt the iced beverage passed from his hand to mine. Most obvious, though, is likely to have been my strategic positioning perpendicular the coffee bar, fixed into his peripheral and, upon jaunts to what appears to be the store room, occasionally direct vision.

I had to leave my post, briefly, and break to the bathroom. While I risked losing the prime, ogling real estate I had secured, this offered another chance to engage with the most recent object of my unrequited and near-instantaneous infatuation.

“Ah –” I attempted to cull attention from the cluster of green aprons. “What’s the code to the bathroom?” Yeah, that’s right, Roman Nose. I picked up the knowledge of the keyless entry from a previous patron’s query. Acute observation is just one of my many skillful attributes. Unfortunately, though, he wasn’t quick enough to speak up and provide the answer, sparking a conversation, however minute, from which I could dissect intent. But I was hopeful yet that the rich baritone of my voice and the sumptuous curves of my apple bottom booty were ingraining themselves into his various sense memory banks as I strutted, as casually as one can strut, on past the end of the bar and around the corner to my intended destination.

“Wahn-wahnnn,” I giggled self-deprecatingly as I relieved myself, shaking my head as I shook off those last (already) coffee-scented drops. I shuffled to the sink with exaggerated chagrin, glancing up and into the mirror with mild apprehension. “Oh!” I gasped, pleasantly surprised. Usually when I’m feeling sexy, as desirable as I did en route to the can, I stumble over my own feet, inexplicably lose my balance, and/or find my hair has been mussed in such a way that my part appears as more of an alopecic blight than a natural separation. Not so today, however. Nuh-uh. No. Not only could I have passed any sobriety test, my hair was looking most artfully awry. And on top of all THAT, my vantage point remained vacant.

I plopped back down and returned to gayzing with an imbalance of longing and surreptitiousness when much to my delight He-Of-Chiseled-Bone-Structure began lingering in the corner of the counter nearest to ME! Not only that, but he proceeded to increase our proximity on a seemingly unnecessary swoop to re-stock the cooler with three measly pints of organic milk. Things only got more intimate from there as he trundled out the door, passing within mere INCHES of my left elbow. Granted he had an industrial-sized garbage can in tow, destined for the dumpster; but still, two outtah three ain’t bad.

Two outtah three equates to hope. Hope I may not be as delusional as an hour plus of public voyeurism may convey. Hope that the knowing smile he exchanged with his coworker was in reference to our silent flirtation. Hope that he just might scribble his number down onto a napkin and drop it into my lap.

Annnd - then he took off his apron and walked out the door.


“Ah, well, self,” I thought – to myself. “Maybe he’s just shy.” The snort that followed may have been audible. “Although he did have a book in his hand. Maybe he’s just going on a break.” I wrenched around, scanning the courtyard of the West Hollywood Gateway. Alas, no luck. Once again I shook my head, dismayed by my own antics. Gathering my belongings I moved away from the drafty door, out of view of the coffee bar. No sense in enduring the increasingly nippy draft if there’s no hot fellow by whom I wish to be seen.

One last forlorn peek outside confirmed his absence. No sign of him. No sign of any cute – hey now – just – one – SECOND. An erection points north, and apparently for today this was the direction to gawk, or at least the compass point from whence to begin. Starbucks’ Most Statuesque may have up and gone, but in his place the universe, the universe or a study group, had introduced a new subject to my sights.

“Good GAWD this is the gayest Starbucks to which I have ever been. They’re everywhere,” I gasped. That may have been a bit of an embellishment, but they were certainly abundant, a plethora I had apparently overlooked in my two hours of single-minded scrutiny.

My jaw was felled further as the breeze blew in a Venti-sized dark roast of a man. No words. No – nope – no – no – He sauntered out of view, his twink companion following close behind. Psht,” I disregarded this short cup of competition. “He can do better than that. He can do me.” My eyes flashed mischievously, full of arrogance and aphrodisia, and they expanded wider yet as he strode back into view.

“Rugged and preppy. Handsome. Solid.” My pupils began to contract, my eyebrows lowered, but my gaze remained fixed and my mind wandered wantonly. Thishe – he is what I’ve been looking for. The embodiment –”

“Why is he staring at me?”

Muffled by my own ensuing laughter and their hasty exit, I can’t be sure of his petite pal’s response. Their theories may well have entertained them all the way to their next destination, but I needn’t know the answer to learn my lesson. Staring is not caring, at least not too most.

“Most,” however, my inaugural crush of the weekend is not. My instincts may yet prove true. He really was just taking a break. He really was watching me leave as I walked out the door. Seeds. Planted. Now all I have to do is go back next week and check on my crops.

Lust – is my FarmVille.

Friday, October 2, 2009


I like to think laughing at your own jokes only increases the enjoyment in others. It's catching.


That, and the self-endorsing capabilities of the screen capture - the how-to knowledge of which I've only recently acquired - has yet to lose its shine.

Monday, September 28, 2009


We all have a physicality to which we've aspired, yet never actually mustered up the confidence or ambition to obtain. For some this may be a handlebar mustache, for others, a defined abdomen. Personally, I've long since accepted the sparseness of my facial follicles and abandoned any hope of achieving the former. As for the latter, a seemingly etched core has been a goal I've carried over for years.

I was just 16, a sophomore in high school, when this desire first rippled its way onto my aesthetic wish list, undulating over the impeccable contours of Australian model Travis Fimmel's body.

"Plan A," I dubbed this luminous shot, torn free with as exacto-like precision as one's fingers can provide. Publicly pleased to have found motivation for improving my own physique, privately ecstatic for a reason to keep this hunk within eye's reach. And it wasn't just his solid figure I longed to see looking back at me in the mirror, from atop my covers, but that illustrious mane, too.

Oh - Those - Tresses.

GAWD, to be in possession of such effortless and simultaneously mind numbing beauty. I was in awe. I couldn't believe the human body could look like this. A 21st century David. A living, breathing, mass-marketable embodiment. Who could resist such, such, perfection?

No one. No one could resist. Certainly no woman. Maybe even no man. They couldn't. "They couldn't, they couldn't, they couldn't," I intoned silently, attempting to garner support for this wishful theory, reinforcements to my already impenetrable denial.

Seven years later and I forget there was ever a time I wasn't forthright with every thing I planned to do were I given the chance to get Travis Fimmel off of the page and out of those underwear. Not only that, but now I've all but achieved the fitness goals of my youth. Far from CK Body ad-ready, of course; but my stomach has gone from convex to downright taut. Taut. Me. I can live with taut. Maintain it, even.

"BLEH," My roommate is likely rolling her eyes. "We get it. You've never felt sexier. Please, tell us again. And again. And. Again."

Alright, okay, so I might need the occasional vanity check, the administration of which my roommate is happy to provide; but it is more the feeling that comes with this new figure rather than my lusty frame itself that I am most enthused to extol. Confidence. That's what we all need more than firm muscle structure and flawless features.

I'll never quite achieve "Plan A." Most of us won't. A bod like that takes sacrifices unworthy of even the heftiest modeling salary. Far too many hours in the gym, far too few out in the world, at the dinner table. Let us acknowledge, let us relish the fantasy that Travis Fimmel and his professionally sexy ilk provide; but it should be we the people, the average, everyday individual who determines their own barometer of beauty.

Balance, of course, is key. What might work to accentuate the most attractive, natural attributes of some could appear near-garish on others. Take this juxtaposition, for example.

Sure, "Weird Al" Yankovic can rock this shock of hair. Odd is his intention. It's in his name. Myself, however -

I really would be a "maniac, a maniac on [and off] the floor" were I not too heed such an explicit warning. Three, short degrees of separation notwithstanding.

Yeah. Luxuriating lust for long locks slashed. PERM - anently.

Ah, well, just more reason to appreciate my current hairstyle. And an actual style it is. Gone is my historically unruly mop, here to stay is the cut I didn't even know I'd been dreaming of. Finally, the aesthetic stars have aligned and not in the formation of a Joan Jett-like mullet.

A journey though it has been, an epic your own need not be. A regular dash of cardio, a pinch of resistance training, and a whole barrel of introspection and self-validation and BOOM - Look at you now.

Whatever your ideal shape or the state of your face, whether or not science proves true and I lose every last strand of auburn awe like my mother's father before me, however fleeting these fragile organs of ours may be, a well cultivated, self-assured spirit is not easily eroded. Barring dementia and freak vehicle accidents and deranged, scorned, lead pipe-wielding lovers, of course. But if we let those fears threaten to derail us we might as well just plunk down and do away with that Funfetti cake for two we've been picking at all week.

"We" NOT being my roommate and I. No, no; never. Again.

Thursday, September 24, 2009

An epic battle.

Of the many phrases uttered by parents around the world, I imagine "DON'TTOUCHTHAT!" most certainly transcends all race, creed, and/or sexual orientation.

This warning reverberated through my head on my way to work the other day, clanging loudly against my senses as I came to an abrupt stop in front of this molted feather.

"DON'TTOUCHTHAT!" My imagination's representation of my ma' screeched, hurling herself out my ear and onto my shoulder.

"GRAB IT!" My subconscious countered, his demands echoing around my cerebellum, threatening to dislodge figment Momma from her perch. "RUB IT ON YOUR FACE!" My Id continued to shriek.

*Poof!* There went mah momma. But despite her absence, fearful visions of the Avian Flu sunk their talons into every lobe of my brain. As did the final scene in "The Birds." And the (JJ) fact that sparrows have been known to peck humans to death.

"Good Gawd, man. Pick it UP, already," my inner monologue was getting impatient. I had (personal) emails to reply to, iced coffee to drink before the last cube had dissolved. I didn't have time to stand here and debate picking up this potentially disease ridden feather. What the heck was I going to do with it after I finished caressing my pores? Throw it away as my face flushed with an embarrassed blush or an uncomfortable rash, most likely; yet, of which outcome I could not be sure.

That uncertainty was enough for me. "WOO! Shake it off." My Ego was back in control. Nurture had taken the lead.

"SUCK IT!" My miniaturized, maternal mirage spat back at nature, resting her chin against her palms in a rather jaunty fashion. "Heh, we showed him." She snuffed.

Parents sure are smug when presented with proof positive that some of their programming, I mean values, VALUES, have stuck. Yes, rest assured while the nurturing matriarch of the Wienkers family may not have the resilient molting ability of the Avian species or the cyclical immortality of the phoenix, twigs and berries of her wisdom shall live on in the lobes of her spawns' spawn and their spawns' spawn and so on and so on. Sorry nature.

That means you too, tooth decay. No stranger to flossing here.

Sunday, August 30, 2009

HERE is our progress.

"WHERE is Sam Merlotte?" "True Blood's" Maryann Forrester does not ask questions, she delivers commands. While this character may be a disciple of the devil, an immortal creature who uses her powers of persuasion to inspire bliss, eroticism, and chaos, you've got to admire her presence. Even a vehement Vampire bite to the neck inspires nothing more than an Ursula-like cackle.

Ursula, there's another female force to be reckoned with, albeit, another evil non-human with feminine attributes. I suppose some might cry of misogynistic overtones, a demonization of women. I acknowledge the tangent, but offer an alternate view. Just as male villains serve to illustrate the evil of mankind, so can female villains. Man, women, black, white, gay, straight - it's humankind that we're dealing with nowadays. Yes, we've got a lot of progress to make as a species, many more strides we must take to achieve equal rights for all; but strong, complex female rolls like those seen on "True Blood" serve as touchstones, small but apparent proof of evolution in the perception and the reduced projection of gender roles in our increasingly global society.

For some reason, I happen to latch onto quotations that can rarely exist as anything more than a non sequitur when repeated outside of the original structure. "FIND - ME - SAM - MERLOTTE," I have been misquoting Maryann, daily, since the airing of the episode "I Will Rise Up." I never can remember quotes or lyrics correctly. I botch them as often as I recite them. Yet, the above promo has served to both correct my mistake and offer a new perspective on this odd obsession of mine.

A couple years ago, around the promotion and release of "Beowulf" I had the same issue with quoting Angelina Jolie as Grendel's monstrous mother. "Give me a child, Beowulf." In more recent history, my roommate and I shared a conversation for the sole purpose of dropping the tone of our voices down to the deep and resonating husk of Kathleen Turner. One could say I have nothing more than an affinity for a raspy female voice, in the deeper end, though, I might be flapping my figurative butterfly wings. I might be promoting the proliferation of gender equality through my incessant acknowledgment of these strong female characters.

It's no fresh territory, the love between gay men and their middle-aged female icons. Strong gay role models are scarce, even today, but substantial, sensual women have been fixtures in film, on television, and all through out popular culture for decades now. We identified with them. We looked to them for guidance and commiseration. We sought what we couldn't find in the heterosexual representations of our own gender, yet they will continue to illicit our fandom even as an absence of homosexuals becomes the anomaly.

In a future free of marginalized demographics, "WHERE is the diva love?" will continue to illicit a sea of hands, a caterwaul of consenting shrieks throughout most every bar in West Hollywood. Even in an enlightened world, escapism will retain its essentiality, even that which is merely sequins-deep. "We need to be out of control we, crave it." Maryann declares. And when she speaks...

You had better listen.

Saturday, August 8, 2009

Red carpet, blue balls.

“Your butt looks really wide in those,” my roommate declared, “And they look like pajama bottoms. You can’t wear striped linen pants to a movie premiere.”

“Why would you tell me that?” I was scandalized. “My only other outfit is dirty.”

“You asked."
I suppose I did. And while a harsh perspective is my roommate’s very apparent trademark, in this instance she was correct. I’m glad the other shirt passed the sniff test; I wouldn’t have wanted to be grouped alongside that mother/daughter pair fresh off the Ft. Lauderdale boardwalk. They were hardly fit for a sit-down dinner, much less a red carpet soiree.

Soiree?!” you say? Okay, alright, not quite, but that’s kind of what we were expecting. I guess when your invitation is printed on a 4x10 sheet of orange computer paper and a machine accepts your R.S.V.P. you shouldn’t really anticipate strolling up the same crimson pathway as the film’s stars.

I don’t think we caught a glimpse of it, actually. Not a sliver. No, even though the lady dispensing the fluorescent slips assured me our admittance was all but guaranteed, it’s lucky we arrived as (uncharacteristically) early as we did or we wouldn’t of even been able to clomp up the concrete side alley and into the overflow theater.

That’s right, no Katherine Heigl, no Gerard Butler, not even a peek of Cheryl Hines (who would illicit more of a shriek from me, anyhow). Not between the cracks of our temporary civilian ghetto, not from the back of the Cinerama dome. Some of our fellow peons may have made the cut and they bought off the rest of us with complimentary popcorn and soda (of which my roommate took two – you show ‘em Kara); but as none of the stars could bask in our applause and we weren’t asked to fill out a comment card, I’m unsure of the pertinence of our attendance.

Were they simply quelling our uproarious indignation at standing in one place for more than 45 minutes? There weren’t a whole lot of fat people there. Should we view this outcome as fortunate, consider ourselves grateful for the charity of their pro bono screening? Maybe. Or perhaps “The Ugly Truth” here is that they needed us more than we desired them.

I had been anticipating this film for months, since the appearance of the first online trailer. It seemed as though a fresh perspective was en route, an explicit (R rated) voice with which both sexes could identify. Alas, as I hoped for something resembling the collision of “Knocked Up” and “27 Dresses” all we got was another incarnation of Katherine Heigl’s stock character.

Here she is again, the beautiful, sensual woman hidden beneath the guise that she is above it all when really, it’s nothing more than a smoke screen for her fear of failure. Although it doesn’t say much for her versatility, Heigl’s an ace in this role. In fact, keeping the genre in mind, all of the actors performed admirably. The fault of “The Ugly Truth” lies not in the performance, but the production. Sure, instead of mouthing off about the parts she herself signed on for, Katherine Heigl might want to consider taking greater risks, but the same can be said for the Hollywood machine.

This weekend brought the release of “G.I. Joe: The Rise of Cobra,” delivered fresh to the people of America without the potentially harmful additives of entertainment critics. The heads of Paramount spin this subversion in favor of the greater good, telling The Huffington Post they “want audiences to define this film.” In other words, they anticipate hordes of mouth breathing rubes to swarm theaters, boost the box office, and spew undiscerning promotion from their yaps. Even I can taste my own elitism here, but I imagine that’s exactly what Columbia Pictures hoped would come from my gratis viewing of their latest romantic comedy.

I may only have two presentable outfits, but I believe we should expect more than just a few bangs, proverbial or pyrotechnic, for our bucks. Yes, it’s likely that last year’s writer’s strike may have influenced the green light on Columbia Pictures’ latest romantic comedy as well as Paramount’s third toy inspired action flick, but then what’s to excuse the heap of horribly written films currently spilling out of DVD bargain bins in discount stores across the globe? Instead of simply catering to the ignorant masses, greedily inhaling their had earned, yet poorly allocated dollars, let’s attempt to sway the common opinion, puff up the fluff. If Disney and Pixar can continue to roll out animated children’s films with intelligent, adult-oriented subtext, how difficult could it be to inject any other genre, every other script with a bit more character driven substance? Let’s get on it, fellow aspiring entertainers.

My first premiere experience may have fallen short of my expectations, but no virgin’s ideals are wholly realized upon their first foray. Whether laser printed or embossed, I shall gladly accept Columbia Pictures or any other studio’s invitation in the future. I like to think it can only get more cinematic from here. After all, if “The Ugly Truth” can make it to the big screen, then there is hope for my career as a screenwriter, yet.

Monday, July 27, 2009

You know how everyone else knew I was gay? 1:2

It often seems as if those who make their living in the business of words possess precocious, if not prodigious origins of their talent. My ascension through the advanced reading group in first grade may have been rapid, but I sure wasn’t churning out chapter books as the rest of my peers toiled with the fundamentals. I never even kept a journal.

Sometimes, beneath the haze of writer’s block, I wonder if this lack of foreshadowing might suggest I haven’t really found my niche after all. How will I ever create something worthy enough to illicit even a mere blurb of recognition when I can’t answer the question, “When did you first know you wanted to be a writer?” I understand the irrationality of this fear, when the fog clears. Nonetheless, I was ecstatic to discover a reply when the recent collapse of my roommate’s hard drive prompted an excavation through the annals of my own.

And it extends beyond the personal, this victory. “Detectives in Drag” illustrates more than my innate grasp of the English language, but the inherence of sexuality.

Our story begins in the PBJ detective agency [no the peanut butter & jelly detective agency], with JJ, Brandon, and Paul.
“Hello, PBJ detective agency,” says Paul.
“Yes, hello this is the Spice girls manager,” says he, “and I have a big problem.” “You see the Spice Girls have been Spice napped!”
“What!” exclaims Paul the Spice girl fanatic.
“Paul, stop yelling at the customer!” Shouts Brandon and JJ.
“No, you guys don’t understand, This guy is the Spice Girls manager and he says the Spice Girls have been Spice napped!” Paul explains.
“Whoopee!” Yells JJ.
“God bless the kidnappers good soul,” says Brandon thankfully.
“Hang up and do the world a favor, Paul,” says JJ.
“Come on guys just listen for your selves, if you don’t believe me,” says Paul
“Oh we believe you,” says JJ. “We just don’t care.”
“Come on JJ, let’s just listen to what this guy has to say,” says Brandon.
“Oh all right, give me the phone,” says JJ, sounding quite annoyed. “Umm, hello,” says JJ.
“Hello, this is the spice Girls manager and I’m begging you, please save the Spice Girls!”
“All right, we’ll do it,” says JJ.
“Yessssssss!” Screams Paul very enthusiasticilly.
“Great!” “There is just one problem, they’re being held hostage by the music loving, tone deaf Dr. Hansen, and his hit man Jo-Jo. They’re locked up in his castle somewhere in the Grand Canyon; the entrance is hidden in some boulders. That’s the good news, the bad news is that you have sneak into the castle with his talent search group,” said the Spice Girls manager.
“That doesn’t sound so bad,” states JJ.
“I didn’t finish,” tells the manager. “You have to sneak in disguised as women.”
“What!” They all scream together.
“You mean to tell me that we manly men have to too dress in drag!” Shouts Brandon, speaking for all three of them.
“Yes, I’m afraid that’s the only way,” clarifies the Spice Girls manager.
After a few minutes of stony silence the three detectives had made their decision.
“We’ve come to a decision and we choose to accept your mission,” states Brandon.
“Thank you so very much,” grovels the manager. “You guys were my only hope.”
After they hung up JJ, Brandon, and Paul got talking.
“Do you guys really care if the Spice Girls are kept hostage?” Questions Brandon.
“No,” says JJ.
“Yes,” says Paul. “Because if they’re locked up we’ll never be able to hear their wonderful music again,” states Paul.
“Wrong, if they’re locked up then we never have to hear their awful music again. Except for the forty-eight hour marathon dedicated to them,” JJ brings to mind.
“Any way,” says Brandon. “We have to get going tomorrow. Now let’s go we have to go get our dresses.”
“What!” “Were going to be seen in public buying dresses!” shouts JJ as Paul sits there smiling happily. “Except for Paul this will be our first time buying women’s clothes, and wearing them!”
The only reason I’ve wore women’s clothing,” says Paul, “was because someone dared me to.”
“Yeah, your inner child!” Remarks JJ snidely.
“Humph,” was all Paul said.
“Enough!” Silences Brandon. “Now let’s get going.”
Meanwhile at Victoria Secret, Paul was buying black Gucci, and black high heels.
“Does this make me look fat?” Questioned Paul.
Then Brandon bought a long lacy, hot pink dress and hot yellow high heels.
“Grrrrrrr,” said Brandon as he looked in the mirror.
Next JJ bought a long, hot blue and hot yellow dress and hot green high heels.
As they were paying for there stuff JJ said to Paul,
“Paul do you realize that you’re going to have to shave your legs when you were that?”
“Yes,” answered Paul very enthusiastically.
“Paul I think your getting a little bit to into this,” says Brandon.
“O.K., now were off to the accessories,” said JJ.
After they bought their make up and their purses, then they left on their way home. When they got home they got everything ready. Just as JJ was walking out the door with his stuff to put in the van Paul says
“I don’t think you should leave that in there over night, somebody might steal it.”
“Were in New York, what could hap…,” JJ didn’t get to finish his sentence cause just then there was a loud gunshot, followed by a blood-curdling scream. “I think your right Paul,” said JJ as he shut the door and locked it.
The next morning they woke up bright and early so they could get a good start. They put on their dresses, styled up their wigs, put on their makeup, and loaded their guns and put them in their purses. Then they hopped in their high-tech van and drove on their way.
Two hours later they pulled into a gas station to get gas and ask for directions.
“Could you tell me which way to the Grand Canyon,” asked Brandon in his most feminine voice.
“Go straight down W-57 for four miles then take a left onto W-58, then ride that for thirty-seven miles, then take a left and your there,” said the gawking attendant, because Brandon was suprisingly attractive as a woman.
“Thank you,” said Brandon politely.
Then they were off again.
A half-hour later they arrived at the Grand Canyon.
“The Spice Girl’s manager said the entrance to the castle is hidden somewhere in theses towering boulders,” said JJ beginning to search along the boulders.
“I don’t see how were ever going to find the stupid entrance,” said Paul glumly as he kicked the side of one of the giant boulders when all of a sudden… “AHHH!” Screamed Paul as the side of the boulder moves out.
“Paul your a genius,” complimented JJ. “You found the entrance!”
“I knew it was there the whole time,” said Paul.
“Sure ya did,” said Brandon sarcastically.
“Who cares,” said JJ, “let’s get going.”
As they walked down the hallway they heard voices.
“Wait,” stops JJ, “ I think I hear voices, listen.”
Sure enough, there was a group of people standing in front of a double set of French doors.
“Are you here for the talent search?” Questioned a guy.
“Yes,” said Paul.
“Well then go right on through,” said the man.
“Woo-hoo,” whistled a couple of guys as they walked by.
“Somebody’s looken hot tonight,” said another guy.
“Humph!” They all three said together.
As they got through the door they saw a long corridor to the left, and a big area with a stage at the back, straight a head. They started walking to the corridor to the left when a man came out of one of the rooms.
“Hi there, my name is Jo-Jo. And who might you fine young ladies be?” Questioned Jo-Jo.
“I am Paula,” said Paul.
“And I am Jilly,” said JJ.
“And I am Brandy,” said Brandon.
“Paula, by any chance are you single?” asked Jo-Jo.
“Why yes,” said Paula [Paul] smiling shyly, but then seeing stares from JJ and Brandon, screamed “Stop hitting on me!” and slapped him in the face.
“Sorry,” apologized Jo-Jo as he walked away with his head down.
“O.K. now that that’s over can we start looking around,” said JJ.
“Now he’ s really getting into his work,” JJ whispered to Brandon.
“Yes he is,” replied Brandon.
Paul pretended not to hear.
After about an hour of looking they still had no luck.
“Man, my feet are killing me!” exclaimed Brandon.
“Yeah, I just can’t imagine running in these,” just as JJ finished his sentence Jo-Jo came around the corner, and stepped into a room.
“Whew, I don’t think he saw us,” said JJ quite relieved.
Just then Jo-Jo came out of the room and as he was about to turn the corner and saw them. Jo-Jo broke into a trot and came towards them with a smile on his face.
“Hey, I wondered were you girls went,” he said, “I’ve been looking all over for you girls!”
They didn’t wait any longer, the three of them broke into a full sprint, or what came close to it in high heels.
“Man is it hard to run in high heels,” Paul said as they were slipping and sliding on the linoleum. Not long after that Jo-Jo caught up with them.
“Why did you girls run away from me,” questioned Jo-Jo, panting.
Then before he hear their answer, SLAM!!, JJ gave him a mean karate kick right in the gut. Then WACK!!, Brandon landed a mean left hook to his jaw. Then finally when you would think the guy had had enough CRACK!!, Paul laid a judo chop to his neck.
The trio moved the unconscious and badly beaten Jo-Jo to one of the many rooms. Then they tied him up and gagged him with panty hose. Then the trio walked out of the room and down the hall. When to their luck they bumped into Dr. Hansen!
“Why hello ladies,” greeted Dr. Hansen smirking.
“Hello,” they reply.
“Where, may I ask are you going?” questions Dr. Hansen.
“None of your dang business!” smart-mouths Paula [Paul].
“Paula!” whispers Brandy [Brandon], poking Paul in the ribs.
“You have to excuse my friend,” apologizes Brandy [Brandon]. “She’s a little bit to secretive.”
“What’s there to be secretive about,” snoops Dr. Hansen.
“Paula’s right,” snapped Jilly [JJ]. “You are getting to snoopy.”
“Wha…,” Dr. Hansen didn’t get to finish his sentence, because JJ judo chopped him in the back of the neck.
“O.K., now let’s search some more while they’re unconscious,” said JJ.
But Dr. Hansen must have been a quick healer because when they went into one of the rooms he got up and went after them.
“Now you’re trapped!” Laughed Dr. Hansen very cynical.
They looked around as they were backing up.
“Quick out the window!” Screamed Paul.
Luckily there was a postal truck outside the window so they had a soft landing. A half-hour later they got to a town and they needed to eat.
“Let’s go to McDonalds,” suggested Paul.
“Great idea Paul,” complemented Brandon.
“I second that,” said JJ.
They got to McDonalds and ordered their food. When they were half way through their meal Paul had to go to the bathroom. Paul got up from his seat and walked to the bathrooms.
Ten minutes later Paul came back from the bathroom because it took him seven minutes for him to decide which bathroom to go into. When he walked around the corner there was no one there and there was half eaten big Macs at the tables.
“Hey where is every one?” Paul wondered out loud.
“PING!” A bullet whizzed by Paul’s head.
“Whoa!” Paul screamed.
Looking in the direction that the bullet came from, Paul saw none other than Dr. Hansen and his hitman Jo-Jo.
He heard a whisper as he dropped to the floor.
“Paula, down here,” whispered Brandy [Brandon] and Jilly [JJ].
Paula [Paul] crawled over to where Brandon and JJ were, ducked behind a turned over table, with their guns out.
“PING!, PING!, PING!” Just as Paul got out his gun Dr. Hansen and Jo-Jo started shooting.
“Everybody duck!” shouted Brandy [Brandon].
“BLAM! BLAM! BLAM!” Went JJ’s gun.
On and on went the shooting for five minutes straight.
“Follow me,” commanded JJ. “I have an idea.”
Brandon and Paul followed JJ into the Play Place room, and they then climbed into the tubes.
“I saw them go in there,” said Jo-Jo, pointing at the Play Place room.
Then Dr. Hansen and his hit man Jo-Jo ran into the Play Place room with their guns out stretched.
Once in the Play Place room Dr. Hansen said to Jo-Jo “I saw them go into the tubes.”
“You first,” said Dr. Hansen to Jo-Jo.
Jo-Jo crawled into the tubes and hurried up. Then Dr. Hansen ran around the back.
As soon as Jo-Jo was half way up the three detectives slid down the slide and as soon as they were out…
“BLAM! BLAM!, BLAM!” Shot the three detectives.
“CREAKKK! CREAKKK! CRUNCHHH! The whole Play Place came crunching down on top of Jo-Jo!
Lucky for Jo-Jo he was still alive, because he was in the middle of a tube when it came crashing down.
The detectives made a run towards the door, but when they got there Dr. Hansen was in their paths.
“Don’t take another step or I’ll….”
“BLAM!” Dr. Hansen didn’t get to finish his sentence because JJ shot his gun right out of his hand!
Before you could say Niconpoop, Dr. Hansen was making a mad dash to get out of McDonalds.
“BLAM!” The bullet from JJ’s gun broke the glass door to smithereens.
Just when Dr. Hansen thought he was safe something happened.
“BLAM! BLAM! BLAM! BLAM!” Went the detective’s guns.
“PLINK! PLINK! PLINK! PLINK!” Went the strings holding up the Ronald McDonald statue.
Then to Dr. Hansen’s amazement the statue toppled on top of him.
The three detectives stood there staring at the unconscious and badly beaten, Dr. Hansen.
Finally breaking the silence Paul said “That’s going to leave a mark!”
“O.K., enough standing around, let’s get this show on the road!” Said JJ.
The three detectives took a cab back to the secret castle. As soon as they got there they started searching.
After about an hour and a half they begin to loose hope, so they decided to take a break. They begin to get thirsty so they went to the stage area to see if there was any water. Not only did they find water but they found a throne too!
“Hey check it out there’s a throne here, this guy must think he’s a king!” Exclaimed Brandon.
Brandon hopped up onto the throne and begins drumming his fingers on the sides. Then all of a sudden the ground started to move.
“Oh mylanta!” Screamed Paul. “I think it’s an earthquake!”
Then all of a sudden they slid down and down, the throne following them down on an elevator shaft above.
“WHUMPH!” They hit the floor with a thud.
“OOUCH!” Said Brandon.
“Ditto,” said JJ.
“SHHHH!” Demanded Paul. “I think I hear voices.”
Sure enough, they heard what sounded like complaining with an English accent.
They all three looked at each other and said “The Spice Girls!”
They broke into a sprint in the direction of the voices. Soon they came into an open clearing where five women were sitting. These five women were the Spice Girls.
Scary Spice was clinking her tongue ring, Posh Spice was filing her finger nails, Baby Spice was sucking on a sucker, Sporty Spice was running laps, and Ginger Spice was trying to walk-in, her new high-platform shoes.
“Hello, [clink] there [clink],” said Scary Spice clinking her tongue ring.
“Hi,” answered Paul cheerfully.
“Are you here for a make over?” Asked Ginger Spice.
“No, were her to save you,” replied Paul.
“First, we need to save your wardrobe,” replied the fashion sense Posh Spice.
“No, I don’t think there’s any chance of that,” said Ginger Spice, the other fashion sense.
“Listen, do you want to get out of this joint or not?” Questioned Brandon, getting a little annoyed.
“How are you going to do that?” Questioned Sporty. “You are just as helpless as we are.”
“Well for one thing, we’re trained FBI agents and secondly we’re men.” Said JJ, taking off his wig.
“Oh, I thought you guys were so pretty ugly women," ”aid Baby Spice.
”I’m about this far from leaving you guys here!” Said Brandon making a motion with his hand.
“You guys, these are the Spice Girls!” Said Paul.
“That’s the whole point,” responds JJ.
Just then a very battered and beaten Dr. Hansen comes down from the Chair elevator followed by his hit man Jo-Jo.
“This is the last straw ladies, err…gentlemen,” snapped Dr. Hansen.
“BEWAOUWEHFGHJ!” Barfs Jo-Jo. “You are men, and just think I was trying to hit on you.”
The detectives started looking for an exit, but the only way out was the chair elevator.
Dr. Hansen saw what they were doing and said as he was pulling out his uzi “Nice try, but the only exit is the chair.”
They were doomed; their guns were in their purses on the floor behind them. But then Paul got an idea, as quick as a flash Paul kicked his black high-heel at Dr. Hansen.
“WHAM!” The shoe hit with precise aim, knocking the uzi right out of Dr. Hansens hand. It skidded in the corner with a thud.
The detectives made a mad scramble for their guns and Dr. Hansen for his uzi. But Paul was now quicker with only one shoe, and he had his gun aimed at Dr. Hansen’s head.
“One wrong move and your dead!” Threatened Paul.
The detectives grabbed their purses and moved around to the elevator chair. Some how they all managed to fit on. Then up, up, up they went leaving Dr. Hansen, Jo-Jo, and the Spice Girls behind.
“You can’t leave us!” Screamed the Spice Girls.
“Watch us!” Shouted JJ and Brandon together, Paul didn’t say anything.
Soon the screams and moans were no longer heard.
After about twenty-five minutes of thinking and drinking [water] the detectives started talking.
“I have to pee,” said Paul rushing for the bathroom.
“JJ, I’ve been thinking,” said Brandon.
“Yeah, me too,” said JJ.
“We should go save the Spice Girls,” said JJ and Brandon at the same time.
“Even though I could care less about what happens to the Spice Girls,” said JJ to Brandon. “We gave our word to their manager.”
“Yes, I know,” said Brandon, disappointedly.
Paul comes back from the bathroom adjusting his pantyhose.
“Paul, we’ve come to a decision, and we’re going to save the Spice Girls after all,” says JJ.
“Yessssssssss!” Screams Paul as he almost wets his pants. “All right, let’s get going.”
“Wait Paul, first we have to stratigize,” explains JJ.
“Oh, all right, but hurry up,” complains Paul.
“O.K., first we’ve got to get some plastiques,” says JJ. “Anybody got some?”
“I do,” says Brandon pulling out a lipstick container.
“But Brandon, that’s lipstick,” says JJ.
“No it isn’t,” insists Brandon. “Watch this.” Brandon spreads a smear of lipstick in the middle of the stage, and ten seconds later…”BOOOOM!” The stage is blown to smithereens!
“Wow, that’s some heavy duty stuff!” Says Paul.
“O.K., now we need some nets,” says JJ. “Anybody got a net in their purse.”
“I don’t have a net,” Paul says but I have something that we can tie together to make a net,” says Paul pulling twenty-three packs of pantyhose out of his purse.
“Holy cow Paul, why do you have all those in your purse?” Questions Brandon.
“Well I brought them in case I get a run in one,” says Paul as if to say Du. “We can tie them together to make a net.”
“Good idea Paul, you’re a genius!” Compliments JJ.
“I know,” brags Paul.
“All right Brandon, go around back and Paul you stay with me, I’ll take the net,” commands JJ.
Ten minutes later Brandon was in place. “BOOOOOM!” The back wall of the hidden dungeon splintered into a million and one pieces.
Startled by the explosion, Baby Spice swallowed her sucker, stick and all! Posh Spice, who was now filing her toenails, stabbed her nail file right into her foot! Ginger Spice, who was just getting used to her new high-plat-form shoes tripped and broke the platforms in half. Sporty Spice who was still running laps was so startled by the blast, that she ran right into the back wall. Scary Spice, still clinkety-clinking her tongue ring swallowed it with her tongue halfway down her throat.
“OUGH, OUGH, AUGH, OUGHT!” Choked Scary.
“WHOOP,” Ginger slapped Scary on the back.
“OUUF,” thank you, grovels Scary.
“Let’s get out of here!” Screamed Dr. Hansen to Jo-Jo, as they make a run for the hole in the wall.
“Not so fast!” Says Brandon, as he steps in front of the hole with two uzis in his hands.
“Let’s get him!” Screams Posh as she gets the nail file out, and Dr. Hansen and Jo-Jo run towards the elevator chair which had mysteriously come down.
“OOOOW!” Screamed Dr. Hansen and Jo-Jo as the Spice girls started slapping and hitting them. Then they started singing Wannabe.
“I’ll tell you what I want, what I really, really want,” screeched Sporty.
“OOOOW! OOOOW!” Screamed Dr. Hansen and Jo-Jo, holding their ears in pain.
As they reached the elevator chair they got caught in a net of pantyhose!
“OOOH-NOO, we’re captured!” Screamed Dr. Hansen.
“Yes you are,” states JJ.
“Are you guys all right?” Questions Paul.
“Yes we are,” say the Spice Girls together. “And thank you all so very much.”
“Great!” Says Paul very excited. “Now I can hear you all sing your wonderful music again!”
“No, not all of us!” Says Ginger. “Because I quit!” “I’m fed-up with being a Spice Girl!” “From being bombarded with fans, well that was for the first couple of months. And now being held hostage!” “Well I quit!” “Ya hear that, I quit!”
“I always knew she couldn’t handle it,” said Posh.
“One down, four to go,” says JJ.
“Right, on my man!” Says Brandon giving a high five.
“This is so sad,” cries Paul.
“Get over it,” says Brandon.
“I’ll try,” sniffles Paul.
“All right, now to cart these guys off,” reminds JJ, pointing to Dr. Hansen and Jo-Jo.
“I’ll call the cops,” sniffles Paul.
One hour later they heard the screech of police sirens. “RERU, RERU, RERU,” screeched the police siren.
“That’s the cops,” said Brandon.
Two minutes later a swarm of cops came rushing in through the hole that Brandon had blasted in the wall.
“We’ll take over from here,” said one of the many cops.
“SCREECH, HONK, HONK,” goes a car.
Then in comes the Spice Girls manager.
“Oh, thank goodness you guys are all right,” exclaims the Spice Girls manager, very relieved. “I don’t know how I can ever thank you,” says the manager.
“A reward would be nice,” Brandon suggests.
“Oh yes, that sounds like a great idea,” says the manager. “Here's $50,000 a piece, and that’s all I can afford, because these girls don’t bring in that much extra income.”
“Umm, we have some bad news,” says Posh to the manager. “Ginger quit.”
“What!” screamed the manager, “She quit!”
“Yes I’m afraid so,” clarifies Scary.
“Waaaaaaahhh!” Wailed the manager.
“Waaaaaaahhh!” Wailed Paul.
“Oh great, now you got him started again!” Complains Brandon to the manager. “Let’s go you guys,” said Brandon.
Later back at their office they were talking about what had happened.
“That was a good day,” said JJ. “We did our job of saving the Spice Girls, and got $50,000. Also Ginger quit, so that’s one down, four to go!”
“Yeah, and the dressing up as women wasn’t so bad after all,” Brandon brings to mind.
“I loved it!” Said Paul very enthusiastically, as JJ and Brandon just look at him and roll their eyes. “But I still can’t get over the fact that Ginger quit,” said Paul starting to sniffle.
“Oh no, now don’t start that again,” said Brandon, very annoyed.
Two weeks later, every thing had been going fine. JJ was in the living room watching the news and Paul and Brandon were in the kitchen making pizza.
“Oh my gosh!” Shouted JJ. “It just said on the news that Dr. Hansen and his hit man Jo-Jo have escaped from prison. And they’ve taken hostages!”
“RINGGG, RINGGG,” went the phone.
“Paul don’t answer the…” Said JJ, getting cut off.
“Hello,” said Paul.
“…Phone,” finished JJ.
“Yes this is the PBJ detective agency,” Said Paul.
“Oh no, not again!” Said JJ and Brandon together.

Poor Paul, despite my obvious lack of color coordination and fashion sense, it’s clear I was projecting my budding homosexuality onto him. Yet, while I may have been years from finding the words to express my sexual identity, “Detectives in Drag” provided my first major experimentation in plot, in flourish. This revelation may not signify a destiny of literary greatness, a journey to success as short as I once assumed the distance between New York and Arizona to be; but I can only benefit from re-channeling the enthusiasm radiating from those preternaturally vibrant adjectives. And at the very least, my grasp of grammar and punctuation has increased exponentially since the seventh grade.

Monday, July 20, 2009

Dude looks like a lady - rocker.

"So, what do you think?!" I implored, giving my roommate a 360 of my new haircut, grinning as widely as a circus performer.

"Ah - Joan Jett," she concurred after a brief appraisal. "Yeah, that's who I'm thinking of."
The expectation plunged from my face. My stylist did say he thought it butched up my look. I guess I just assumed he meant it more in the Cassidy, than the lesbian sense.

Eh. Could be worse. Joan is a bad ass. And I've been mistook before. Mostly by edgier incarnations of Rachel Maddow. One in particular kept dancin' on me even after I flashed her the five o'clock shadow.

It may have been closer to 1:30; but still, I can only shrug again. This time in acknowledgment of the undeniable - my sexuality is transcendent. Some might say. That or "Androgynous," as Joan herself croons (the cover) on her 2006 album, "Sinner."

YEAH. Picture book that!

I can do it. I can rock a quasi-mullet for six weeks. Sure. At least. And it's much more than an aesthetic adventure, it's a social contribution. This JJ agrees; we should all exert our identities as brazenly as rock stars.

Sunday, July 12, 2009

"Obama Meets the Pope."

So captioned The Huffington Post.

Seems as though "The Pope eats Obama" would have been more appropriate.

Monday, June 29, 2009

Night terrors.

"Oh my Gawd," I muttered to myself, gasping for breath as I stood barefoot at the urinal. "What am I going to do? I can't go back to bed." I shrugged off my indecision, letting the elastic waistband of my boxer shorts SNAP back against my already burgeoning belly. "I'll just have to sleep on the floor."

Unconscious prospective lover? Roommate mid-coitus? No, no, nothing as cinematically collegiate as that. It was the intrusion of an owl that prompted me to leap groggily from my lofted bed, nearly six precarious feet to the ground. "AN OWL?!" Well, yes, I suppose that's not one many RA's have heard, wouldn't be too far from the reels of a young adult comedy. But this wasn't a prank of questionable amicability, a tale my roommate and I would later share as co-hosts relaying our origins. This was between my slumbering self and I.

Shrieks of terror rang through the upstairs level of my family home at least once a week throughout the duration of my high school career. Once my Dad even found me perched on top of my headboard, shrinking against the wall, far away from the imagined terror crawling over my bed. I believe it was a swarm of spiders that night, like many. Beats me why I didn't just flee my room as I would my third week in college. It'd happened often enough that my Mom refused to get out of bed for fear she would be bowled over, flung down the stairs. I don't begrudge her, though. I'm sure she would have rushed to comfort me had I been in the single digits like most children plagued by night terrors.

In hindsight, this was a clear case of puberty induced repression. As presidential inauguration follows election, the nocturnal outbursts trailed the appearance of my first real crush, across the aisle in US History. Even through a mouthful of braces he had the most beautiful smile I had ever seen. This was certainly something my quaint conservative upbringing had not prepared me for. Thus, like many closet cases before me, I slammed the door on logic and hid it behind a heavy mental armoire called denial. But even the thickest oak couldn't contain the volume of my subconscious' lungs, the reverberations of my proverbial fists.

Thankfully I tended to yip and yelp only of insects and creatures and wasn't in danger of outing myself during the night; but that didn't make it any less embarrassing a revelation to my first college roommate. Odds were against making it through the semester shriek-free; so, naturally I took to a regimen of Tylenol PM. And naturally, it became ineffectual quickly.

By the grace of Gawd or grain alcohol, my roommate snoozed straight through my harrowing escape from the bird of prey. Waking up to find me on the floor may have inspired some questions, but the haze had been broken by the time I returned from the bathroom to find nothing but pillows above my tangled sheets. His ignorance didn't last much longer, though. By the middle of the second month I had hurtled from my loft again, this time proceeding to clutch my knee and scream, "OW! I BROKE MY LEG! I THINK I BROKE MY LEG!" "What?!" He peered down at me through bleary eyes, legitimately concerned. "Nah," I replied. "Go back to bed."

I'm just as casual about my sexuality now, but the night terrors still tend to pop up every couple months or so. While infrequent, they've morphed into a response to stress in general. Stress and horror films. There was a period of abundance last spring when my friend was on a kick of watching Discovery Channel's paranormal recounts in "A Haunting." After too many televised visions of demons I had to place a personal moratorium on mainlining fear. Without cable, myself, I've managed to keep my distance...Until recently.

My office-mates and I have the good fortune of being allowed TVs at work and one of the two with whom I share my square happened to stumble across the show a couple months back and soon it had made it's way into our daily viewing routine. As it's now become more of a quirk and less of a debilitation, my roommate encourages this appetite, hopeful I'll run screaming out of my room, YANK open the front door, and shout for her until movement in the downstairs apartment drags me to the surface...Again.

After a few weeks of continually uneventful nights, I left her alone for a long weekend of creepy silence and headed home to visit my family, sleep in my childhood bed. The mattress has been replaced, a dead treadmill stands wedged between one side and the wall, and opposite that is an ever-growing pile of the unwanted vestiges of my youngest sister's own childhood. "Oh. My. GAWD." My suitcase fell softly, anticlimactically against the carpeted floor. "If this doesn't inspire a night terror..."

"I don't know what will."


That may have been a bit of an exaggeration, but that one in the closet took me by surprise. Maybe it was more the segregation than the thought that those porcelain bitches with their life-like eyes had me surrounded; because I sailed through the weekend on a cloud of dreams. Well, one of them was a bit darker than the other, something to do with Stevie Nicks and I fleeing from a band of supernatural rapists. No screaming though. I'll take that both as a sign of emotional progress and a reaffirmation of my decision to spend $40.00 on that Fleetwood Mac 2009 Tour T.

Friday, June 26, 2009

People who cry when celebrities die.

You might be able to sing their songs
You might have watched their films all along
You may even know the middle names of their adopted kin
But when they've gone from being to been
Keep in mind
You didn't actually know them.
Just a taste, that is, of my Pop/Country breakthrough, destined to inspire auralgasms across the globe. Of course, as with any delicious social commentary, there will be dissenters. "Horrifically insensitive! He's a human being! And a music legend, no less. How dare you attempt Billboard success at the expense of your dearly departed ilk."

But they'll be missing the point, those bleeding hearts. I may have no boundaries, but I'm not without a soul, a rapacious capitalist. In fact, Michael Jackson's death just happens to be the catalyst. My acerbic critique has nothing to do with the Gloved One's character (which is not without suspect) and everything to do with the torrent of displaced emotion celebrity tragedies often illicit.

I may not identify, but I'm not questioning the authenticity of the grief plaguing those mourners crawling over his star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame, unleashing a torrent of tears. But what I want to know is where were those sorrow sponges when Prop 8 was passed and again when it was upheld? If they can set aside their differences to gather together, pay tribute, and harmonize on his Number Ones, why haven't they been flooding the streets in a gesture of support for the Iranian people? We broke free of England, braved the rough seas of the Atlantic, saturated that same body of water with tea, showered the Redcoats with musket balls, and that's just the tiniest tip of our country's birth, hundreds of years before we fought for the array of civil rights even my generation has taken for granted. Ah, yes. There it is. Apathy. It's not as pandemic as obesity or the Swine Flu, sorry, H1N1; but it has definitely become synonymous with "American."

Note the past tense, though. "Has" taken, "has" become. Thanks in large part to the efforts of, Obama secured the greatest turn out of young voters in generations. Many of those heartsick for MJ may have held aloft picket signs and poster board alongside the hordes of protesters, nationwide, outraged by Prop 8. And now with the proliferation of Twitter we can rise up instantly, virtually as well as rally a physical congregation.

It's doubtful the superficial vein pulsing through our culture will be drained anytime soon, but there is hope that us Young Things, pretty or not, are realizing the power of our combined voice. Whether it be for bewildering lament or social change, we will be heard.

Saturday, June 20, 2009

No secrets in sandals.

I’m not talking about exposing your hair-drenched toes and gnarled, yellow nails to the world. I wouldn’t know about that. My little nuggets are more like nibble-able beacons of human symmetry. Just sayin’. No, I’m finally giving shoes their due, the respect they deserve for providing an ethereal ignorance with their all-inclusive coverage of our foot skin.

If you’ve ever seen “Arrested Development” (dear Gawd, you should all answer “duh” to this inquiry) or had the misfortune of living with the sloppy pile of human quirks my current roommate and I both endured, a year apart back in college, then you are aware of the concept of the “never nude.” Regardless, it’s in the name. These nut sacks can’t – well – they can’t expose their nut sacks. Ever. I’m not quite a nudist, but this hang up certainly isn’t in my closet.

Tobias F√ľnke had his cut offs; my former roommate went into the shower wearing one outfit and came back out of the bathroom in another. Myself, I am down to my boxer briefs as soon as I get the door locked, my shoes off, and my bag on the floor. SNAP! WOOSH! KAZAAM! Belt – pants – shirt. There’s really no onomatopoeia when removing the latter.

I like to be stylish. I understand the importance of fashion to human expression. My clothes may be tight and I might favor tank tops, but the tease, the illusion of what’s underneath is still an erotic cog in the romantic game. My nearly nude tendency is not of a non-conformist or sexual origin. I just like to feel free.

Free to roll around, free to stretch, free to dig my toes into the ground, the carpet, against my own skin. As I spend at least eight hours a day inside a windowless office, I gulp up the opportunity of a shoeless existence. Yes, dear corporate readers, I get to wear flip-flops to work. Every day. It’s totally acceptable. Watching all of us file in, you’d think we were en route to Honors English or Advanced Algebra, not buckling down to pull in a couple million dollars for a media conglomerate.

Never in my outspoken life did I think I would be earning my first post-undergraduate income from anything potentially deemed as “The System.” But here I am, workin’ for “The Man” and he encourages a well-rounded existence, provides glorious benefits, AND allows me to continue paying only $2.50 at Old Navy for shoes. Alas, as Rome once fell, Utopia demands a high upkeep.

Now’s where you get your vengeful chuckles, drones – victims of an iron fist. I made my way to the bathroom, yesterday, a permanent smile on my face as I relished what tends to be my laziest day of the week. Fri – day – fri – day – flip – flop – flip – flop – rubber – against – skin. “Gawd I have it great,” I’m usually thinking, not wanting to forget my good fortune.

The smile continued as I stood there at the urinal, doin’ my thang. The dull beam remained as the door clicked open behind me. Just as quickly came the scratch of metal on metal as it swung back shut. And there he was, planting his wide stance just inches from my own leg. “Ah – ” I thought. “What?” My bladder is about as shy as a VH1 reality star and I could care less if anyone gets a glimpse of my wiener; but when you’re the only two people in a reasonably large restroom, is there really a need to select the urinal directly parallel to mine?

Never one to be known for keeping emotions from surfacing on my face, my eyes met my lips midway as they curled upwards, perplexed. “Oh – ” I began to shrug, internally, but my nonchalance was quickly splashed away by the spray of urine ricocheting out of the neighboring urinal and against the top of my exposed foot. “– NO!”

Oh, yes. Any observant standing pee-er should have long ago learned to master the vertical toilet. If your stream is too strong, it’s going to resist containment. It’s science, man. It’s NATURE. It’s not what I expected to be in for when I skipped socking my feet that morning.

I’m not as enlightened as you may think. I’ve had my encounters with renegade waste, just like the rest of you. But it’s one thing if it’s YOUR vigilante fluid. {shakes head} I know what you’re thinking, what’s inspiring those guttural snickers I foreshadowed. “That’s what he gets for wearing sandals.”

Accepted. Would I have laced up that morning, those golden sprinkles would have gone unnoticed atop the weathered, fluorescent canvas of my Chucks. Lesson learned, folks. But while I had to fight the urge to turn to the culprit, mouth hanging in disgust, in disbelief, to rush to the sink and plunk my foot down in the basin, dousing it in soap and scrubbing away the already invisible microbes, I would do it all over again. I will do it all over again.

Here’s hoping that's the last time anyone relieves themselves on me without my consent, but while touting the virtues of protective layering, I stand strong for the barely clothed. After mastering the single knot it doesn’t take much to stroll through life in tennies and don’t get me started on loafers. But for us tenacious toe exhibitors, who strive for balance in “no shoes, no shirt, no service” world, an increasingly dangerous, disease-ridden place, each sandal-clad day is a worthy adventure.

Monday, June 8, 2009

Translation - No pimps allowed.

Or at least that's what I infered from " gater style bright colored neck, or face tattoos, fur coats, or sports large jewelry and no mouth sunglasses or "Bluetooth" cigar smoking, urban labels, or camouflage." Thinly veiled, Decibel. Thinly veiled.

Middle America may love to pump urban flair through their ear buds, in their Fords, on their dance floors, but they sure as HECK don't wanna look at it as they bob their heads. Eesh, Milwaukee.

Friday, June 5, 2009

Behind blank eyes.

This is my brain on hold.

And I don't even speak French. Not yet, anyway. That's next, after mastering these ladies dance moves and this libertine's magnetism. Unless the language is key...Hmm...ce qui dites-vous?

Saturday, May 30, 2009

I fucked a rock star.

Okay, okay; to be honest, he was doing most of the work. He’s such a top, that Lindsey Buckingham…

One Hour Later

Excuse me. I had to take a mOment to…revel. Where were we? Oh yes, I’d like to maintain the illusion of intimacy, but I wasn’t the only bottom there that night. In fact, there were a good five hundred feet and a few thousand other shrieking, tambourine-rattling, pot-smoking fans between us. No matter, though, because thanks to the mega-screen, his cum-face was on display for even the cheapest voyeur.

Lindsey Buckingham may ooze sex appeal, even at sixty-years-old, but the passion in discussion surged during his solo performance of “Big Love.” Previously, this song wasn't on my set list of personal favorites, but I’ve never witnessed such a raw, urgent musical display of emotion. His aggressive thrusting aside, it was the honesty that penetrated me so thoroughly. Thank Gawd sitting was an option, because the instrumental climax left me breathless, panting (internally) as heavily as if this greatest hit were a private revelation, whispered in my ear as we fell limp amongst the dampness of our mingled sweat.

“So this is what everyone is talking about,” may not have replaced “I just want to go and eat chips,” as the follow up to any of my sexual experiences; but it is definitely an accurate summation of Fleetwood Mac’s Los Angeles stop on their 2009 UNLEASHED tour. And they still had several more songs and two, TWO encores to go.

Stevie Nicks continued the night of firsts as she strutted back on stage to the opening beats of her solo smash, “Stand Back.” Lindsey may have knocked me off my feet, but Stevie’s danciest had all of us bouncing back up and down and all around, or at least as far as we could without jostling our neighbors too aggressively. I can’t believe I’ve lived my first twenty-three years sans this aural treasure, but I couldn’t ask for a more appropriate post-coital revelry.

In typical Stevie Nicks form, she was sheathed in white tights and flowing folds of black cloth, alternating between shimmering gold and scarlet shawls. Only one hand and her face offered a glimpse of exposed skin. Her dancing can barely be deemed as such, at least outside of an outdoor music festival. Besides that glorious mane of butt-length blonde hair, she’s not even that attractive, at least by today’s standards for female artists. Yet, despite all of this, sensuality swirls around Stevie, even when all that fabric hangs still. She is the Bette Midler of hippie gays.

With no effort at research, I can say with confidence that I don’t believe Stevie or her former paramour has gone under the knife. Maybe they’ve had a few paralyzing needle pricks to the face, but what keeps these legends relevant is their undeniable talent. For Gawd’s sake, Fleetwood Mac has broken up and reunited in varying forms more times than even the most dysfunctional of couples; but they just can’t repress their passion to perform. “The Mac is back!” Hard as it might have been to pay attention to anything else but Mick Fleetwood’s pointy red ankle boots and German(?)/Swedish(?) short pants-vest combo, those four parting words were all I needed to hear.

Thursday, May 21, 2009

Double Vision

There are few things in life more frustrating than that illusive piece of knowledge you just KNOW is teetering on the tip of your tongue, chillin' in your brain, just below the surface. Most often the answer bubbles up later that day; however, since my introduction to Journey, some years ago, I've lived with a constant thorn in my lobes: With whom does Steve Perry share his infamous do? WHO?!

Well, dear readers, I'm happy to say that today, that pride stinger has been removed.

I'm still working on not having to ask my roommate, "What's that song we like? You know, by that band we love. Uh - UH -" Obviously, this was no help initially, but after the first seven times, she now knows I'm talking about Hall & Oates' "You Make My Dreams Come True." Please, no judgments of my musical tastes. And yes, yes I AM a karaoke master.

Sunday, May 3, 2009

Rudy Huxtable? Is that you?

Oops! No. Sorry Lil' Wayne. Or should I be apologizing to Keshia Knight Pulliam? Chalk it up to an observation, not an insult, and call it a draw.

Saturday, May 2, 2009


LSD has long been tattooed on my list of "Just Say No" and the events of the last hour have proved to be a veritable touch up. My skin is sheathed in goose-bumps, I'm riding waves of nausea, and still longing for the ability to hoover a few inches further from the ground.

"Good God," my neighbors must have thought. "What has so horrified that boy?" "Wolves," might have inspired murmurs of consent. "BANSHEE!" Could have been suggested. "Murder," one might have said. Probably that bitch downstairs who refuses to say hello. I'll bet even that hypothesis couldn't illicit a glimpse of humanity. Thanks for nothing, lady.

Alright, so I might be exaggerating a bit. In fact, it's likely no one but me heard the shrill, uninhibited scream I let loose. Regardless, I can attest that to be the sheerest terror I've felt in a long while. Clarice couldn't shake the screams of the lambs. It's the skittering I'll never forget. The ski - the ski - the skittering. The resounding shuffle of an indestructible, prehistoric design against one of today's modern amenities - faux-wood cabinetry. Yes. You fear correctly. Roaches.

Well, a roach. Just one. But these dramatics are the main reasoning behind my anti-psychotic pledge. I've let my feet touch the floor a few times. I'm thinking about putting the drawer back. You can bet I'm still going to wash each and every piece of silver and cookware that calls that space home; but I'm no longer waiting for an army of exoskeletons to pour out from beneath the fridge and the stove and the furniture. I've stopped contemplating tearing the cabinets from the wall, searching for the pests brethren. My sense of reality has returned.

I imagine my dad would reply to this with some reference to my status as a "city boy." The sentiment is there, even though I'd say roaches are most decidedly a problem native to city living. I suppose "nancy boy" would be a more appropriate old-fashioned assessment. "Suburbanite" might be more inclusive and less homophobic. No matter how big your balls, though, I don't care to meet the person who enjoys the feel of a dead insect's body heat. BODY HEAT. I slipped on a dishwashing glove and grabbed two napkins; yet I could still feel the warmth of the little monster as he faded away.

A quick Wikipedia search, an effort to ascertain whether or not cockroaches do produce heat - yes, yes they do - has brought my feet back up to my chin. Just as I was allowing myself to forget about it, to think that maybe it wasn't a roach after all, just a really big beetle, I had to get all investigative and mar my memory with irrefutable photographic proof of that entomological cretin.

Oh, here we go with the goose-bumps, again. Let's just hope that ditching all of the unsealed food in our kitchen will be as cathartic as Catherine Martin's rescue, that I won't even begin to "wake up in the that awful" skittering of the roaches.

Thursday, April 30, 2009

Parenting with an iron...leash.

"Come here, honey. Come on. Look it's your doggie, Mr. Stuff 'n' Gruff. That's a good boy. Come on over..."


{shakes head} "Sucker."

Saturday, April 25, 2009

You know how everyone else knew I was gay? 1:1

At the end of my freshmen year of college, a good 15 months before I sprung out of the closet, I sent this email to my friends and family.

To: undisclosed recipients

I thought you would prefer to hear the news from me before it is plastered over all the news tomorrow morning -- Lindsay and I are getting divorced.

I know, it's sad, but sometimes things just don't work out. I guess our love wasn't as pure as we thought, as pure as the coke she was snorting off of Colin Farrell's ass -- we all saw the photos, don't attempt to shield me any longer.

But it was not just her philandering, drug abuse, and unhealthy relationship with food that drove us apart, she just couldn't stand that my own fame is growing too. Ever since I strutted across the Mr. Super Block stage decked out in red, velour, booty shorts (previously designated for her eyes only) the paparazzi have been on me like Paris Hilton on everyone else's boyfriend. I am no longer Lindsay Lohan's husband, and she just can't deal with it.

I will be leaving the country, spending four months traveling around Europe, collecting my thoughts and planning my new, post Lindsay life. I will be sure to send you all emails and photographs documenting my journey (even though I KNOW you won't be able to open up a magazine without seeing my photo -- especially since I will be wearing my infamous red, velour, booty shorts all 123 days simply to spite my former spouse) and you can contact me at my new email address: It is with your support that I will make it through this separation, and you can show your support by purchasing (and sporting at least once a week until I return) a LOHAN DOESN'T DESERVE NO MAN LIKE JJ T-shirt on my website .

Lots of love and subpoenas,
Lindsay Lohan's soon to be EX-Husband,
Justin Joseph Wienkers

No wonder, "I'm gay" was met with variations of, "Duh."

Thanks to my friend, also named Lindsay, coincidentally, for scrounging up this gem from the depths of her own email archives.

Thursday, April 23, 2009

Tweet, tweet, CRUSH.

We may not all have the telepathic abilities that some of L Ron's most enlightened followers are supposed to posses, but with the explosion of Twitter, we're hearing something even better - celebs are speaking to us. Movie stars! Political pundits! JOY BEHAR! No longer do we have to wait for some journalist or PR guru to deem their words worthy for print, no, now we get to read what they say when they wanna say it.

Yet to read "Dianetics," I'm unaware of the semantics of the aforementioned gift; but there are certain virtual exhibitionists whose tidbits I'd prefer to ignore. "Bleh," I thought as I was flossing my teeth last night. Demi's now saving lives and Ashton's turned his tweetdeck into a soapbox. Shh, just shh it down a little bit, GI-Kelso. Who do you two think you are, Bonogelina?

Tina Fey, NPH, however, now those two's witticisms keep this newly hatched Twat's attention. The ladies of "The View" (minus Elisabeth) {click} Follow(ing). I've upped the numbers of many, but there is one Tweeter who has risen to the top of my cup, taking the lead as my latest virtual crush. Step aside, gay male friends of my Facebook friends whose profiles remain available for public stalking, Joseph Gordon-Levitt ( has taken the throne.

About 99.999% sure he's not on my team, but since when has that deterred anyone in my smitten-prone community? With this new medium it's practically like we're having a conversation. I can only imagine how this technology would have transformed my unrequited closet-era crushes.

What's that, JG-L?
I'm not boastin, I'm not boastin, I'm not boastin, feel like toastin...
9:39 PM Apr 20th from web
Oh, Joseph! {raucous laughter}
"I just learned a blossom is the one that's gonna be a fruit, a bloom is the one that's gonna be a flower"...
11:45 AM Apr 12th from web
That's, that's beautiful. Poetry...
How about alone for a second?
7:22 PM Apr 16th from web
Me? Us? Really? {nervous giggles. a little coy lip nibbling} We..I..I shouldn't...
...Yeah, it's spring sunday.
7:25 PM Apr 12th from web
BUTIWILL...ah, I mean...sure. Why not? {shrugs shoulders}
Are we RECording?
6:03 PM Mar 16th from mobile web
{GASP} JG-L! {grinning mischievously} in that case...

Now, I know @hitrecordjoe hasn't returned the {click}...And I know his tweets may not be in chronological order...or context...but a parasocialist can dream, can't he?

Tuesday, April 7, 2009

What an impact.

Frankly my dear, I don't give a damn.

I'm not a real mom, I'm a cool mom.

We'll always have Paris.

Whether from Oscar worthy films or cult classics, certain lines of dialogue stick with us years after we first drink them in off of the silver screen. Some, like Rhett Butler's aforementioned brush off and Rick Blaine's lovelorn farewell, permeate the phrase banks of those who haven't even seen the film . Others, like the explanation from Amy Poehler's modern matriarch in "Mean Girls" are most fun when recited randomly by non-parents.

I'll admit to uttering all of these - not to mention, knowing the majority of Tina Fey's script, verbatim - on occasion; but every once and a while some long forgotten blurb will resurface from the dregs of my brain, slip past my lips, and surprise even me.

Gate - errr - aiiid.

This was one of those times.

Beats me what my roommate and I were discussing, but Bah-bah-bah-Bobby Boucher's trigger fit the bill and sent us into a cascade of giggles.

I may no longer have a clue as to the significance of sine, cosine, and tangent, much less anything else I learned in high school, but eleven years later Adam Sandler sound bytes continue to dance across my hippocampus.

Wednesday, April 1, 2009

Not quite a retraction, let's go with "amendment."

At the risk of undermining my own (self-proclaimed) authority, I'd like to attach a warning to the first bullet point in my open letter to today's gays. Implement those 'z's with caution. If you're not careful, they'll overtake your vocabularly, devouring your 's's faster than a dieting stoner works his, er, their way through a fresh box of Samoas.

Heed my warning and avoid my fate, or before you know it you'll be abandoning your last morsel of grammatical, not to mention social, dignity and joining Twitter. About that...I may soon be hanging my head and tweeting in shame. Like I said, zave yourzelvez!

Tuesday, March 24, 2009

"I - wear - my - sun - glasses" - so as to block out the onslaught of faux celebrity news.

President Obama's approval rating may lie somewhere in the 70th percentile, but it's of unanimous opinion* that the Octomom is a brainsick, baby-hungry, Angelina Jolie wannabe. However, as plain as the lips on both of their faces as this might seem, I'd like to call to question the following piece of evidence:

What came first, the chicken or the egg? While recent developments in science may deem this existential debate obsolete, in the case of Nadya Suleman's lips, the answer is Corey Hart. Check out the smackers on that guy!

Angelina may have worn a vile of Billy Bob Thorton's blood around her neck, but the Octomom is clearly brimming with more emotional issues than a former child star.

*No actual research, beyond a YouTube search, was completed in preparation of this editorial.

Saturday, March 21, 2009

Look out Jamie Lee.

I stand, frozen.
Water begans GUSHING from the faucet, its flow interrupted by flesh, then marble.
Only my lungs move, quivering as I inhale slowly, warily.
Paper towel WHIRS from the dispenser and is RIPPED free.
My eyelids flutter.
An abrupt CRUMPLING is quickly dampened.
Dizzily, I shake my head, INHALING deeply, louder than I would have liked. I clamp my lips shut, quiet.
"Thank God," I mouth.
The door scrapes open, metal on metal, before SNAPPING back, shut.

At this point, I usually FLING open the stall door, gasping for breath. I might as well be back in high school, terrified of being spotted and subsequently mocked for pooping in public. Yeah. That's right. I said it. I poop - at work.

Now, I won't go as far to say that anyone has rocked my sanitary cubicle while I've been attempting to release the feast from the night before. It's just that it is undeniably awkward to be spotted by a familiar face when you finally duck out of that stall. Especially if that person is someone you talk to often, even on a solely professional level. "Don't get me started, don't EVEN get me started" on the level of discomfort had they happened to HEAR what you were up to.

The upside is that in the bathroom most (civilized) men don't extend the conversation past a greeting, much less address your recent detoxification. But maybe this actually is the problem. Let's face it, "Everybody Poops." It's a book, it's a fact, it's life. So, why are we always so GD embarrassed about it?

Most of my friends and family will tell you that I've long been an advocate of healthy bowels. I was all over Activia before Jamie Lee Curtis even signed that contract, before America even knew what hit it (I re-discovered this fact recently when flipping through photos of my adventures in Europe, the Spring of my Sophomore year).

HECK, my roommate (on right) and I even go so far as to exchange the occasional high-five in celebration of one of us attaining the exalted one-wiper, a sure-fire omen that the rest of your waking hours will be played out amidst unsinkable, high spirits. If you appreciate the simple pleasures in life - like a quick 'n' solid - all the inconveniences, all the challenges can be seen and tackled with greater prospective. You didn't sweat it in the bathroom, why do so out in the world?

Now I know this intense disclosure isn't for everyone and you won't catch me tweeting about my latest sinker; but I think we could all benefit from a little introspection - what has pooping done for you?