Do-over

I know I should be spending some time writing a new post or maybe pick my nose, but I opted instead to re-edit an old "mix" I did of the Janet's "That's The Way Love Goes" with Nsync's live performance of it from MTV's ICON. There is no reason for this re-edit save for the fact that the original version of the mix I did was the first time I ever used the Acid DJ software years ago. I've meant to re-visit that because I've always felt that I could do better. There are very few do-overs in life, but I thought this mix, and quite possibly my Bjork swan dress halloween costume, deserved one.


That's The Way Love Goes (DJ Evil Twin 2005 Remix)
Janet vs *Nsync
DL here (right click, save as)

-----

More DJ Evil Twin, including the original mix of TTWLG

Thanks to Paul Pellerito from Thoughts to Fill an Empty Room for hosting.

Morning Routine

Every morning, before I go to work, I go through the contents of the refrigerator to see what I can scrounge up to take to work for lunch. I'm leftover kinda guy, which means every little thing from dinner the previous night is saved up for future meals. A slice of meatloaf, two broccoli florets or my boyfriend's past infidelities; nothing is too trivial to be brought up again, rehashed and reheated. Sometimes this results in odd combinations: sardines and mashed potatoes; hamburger patties and rice; chocolate syrup and pubic lice--I knew that the chocolate syrup was too gritty when I was going down on my boyfriend's cock. This morning's lunch is bits of roast chicken and the last slice of bologna slapped between mayo-slathered multi-grain bread. I put the sandwich in a grocery bag, which I save and re-use (Save-The-Earth and all the crap).

Every morning, my cats make an enormous ruckus digging a hole to China via the litter box or trying to cover up their poop, I don't know. They are usually not very successful, because the litter ends up everywhere around the litter box and not on the poop. The poop sits right in the middle of the box, like a jewel surrounded by hardened clumps of pee. Sometimes I imagine that in an aeon, all the pet shit buried in landfills around the world will transmute into semi-precious stones. It amuses me to think that one morning, long ago, some brontosaurus took a huge dump in a hole, and millions of years later, it's now sitting on Jessica Simpson's finger. I think about these things as I hold my breath trying to shovel the cat poop into another grocery bag.

Every morning, I linger too long in front of the TV. I keep thinking that in five minutes I will get up and brush my teeth. Five minutes later, I think that I have another ten minutes before I absolutely have to leave the house in order to make it to work on time. I think about this as I fantasize about local WGN weatherman Paul Konrad, naked under his raincoat. I wonder if anybody else has fantasies about naked weathermen, besides my mother who used to masturbate to the nine p.m. newscast? Of course, she doesn't do that anymore; she masturbates to TRL now.

This morning, I realize that I will be late yet again. In a rush, I grabbed my lunch bag and the bag of cat poop, throwing one down the garbage chute on my way to the elevator and to my car. When I get to work, I drop off the other bag in the breakroom refrigerator before I settle in to work.

At lunch time today, I realized my error when I opened the plastic bag. Guess which bag I brought to work?

Tales of Gay Shopping

Have we come to a point in American society that when two men are shopping together that we assume that they are gay? Do straight men even shop, let alone together? Would they call up a buddy and say, "Hey man, let’s get some brewskis, some chips and dip, and then to Bed Bath and Beyond and pick out a nice bowl and condiment dish to put them in."

And I am not talking about going to Best Buy to look at big screen TVs. That’s not shopping; that’s just getting an accessory for one’s porno collection.

Shopping is an activity that is more nuanced, more sophisticated; it is what separates man from an ape with a credit card. It’s looking at all the things that one can’t afford and then going home to bitch at your boyfriend or partner for not making more money to keep us comfortable. Shopping builds our dreams, our fantasies and our enormous tolerance for personal debt. It is one of the foundations of modern society, along with backstabbing and stealing office supplies.

My boyfriend Brian and I were at Target last Sunday to stock up on our household necessities. This is the kind of shopping Brian and I don't really enjoy. It's hard to get excited about toilet paper unless you live in the jungle or with someone who has chronic diarrhea.

We have very different approaches to get this task done quickly. Brian goes through our pantry and supply closet and diligently takes inventory of our needs. I don't bother with lists; I just start at one end of the store and rush through every aisle grabbing everything that catches my eye. This usually only takes me 15 minutes, less time than arguing with my mother on the phone about why I can't go to church to meet a girl to marry, well, because I am Agnostic and our god frowns on meeting in churches--there's too much gossiping and backbiting going on in there.

At Target, we decided to stop by the furniture department. While we were checking out computer desks, a guy came up to us and asked for help. He had on black vintage plastic frames and a black bomber jacket. I thought he needed help with picking out a shag rug to match his outfit, but it turns out he was a reporter for The New York Times.

He wanted to interview a gay couple about what we thought about the new Thomas O'Brien designer furniture that Target was featuring. I checked to make sure that I wasn't wearing my t-shirt that says "I AM NOT GAY, I JUST USE FOUNDATION TO EVEN OUT MY SKIN TONE." I decided not to make it an issue as long as he mentions my blog.

To be honest, I was very disappointed with the interview. I thought it would be more in-depth, you know, like the effect on society of the proliferation of wood veneer furniture. But it was more like, which pieces did we like, which ones would we buy and why we weren't lugging something home with us. I think he was confusing his homosexuals; we explained that we don't have a flatbed truck and we don't date strippers--we weren't lesbians, no?

He told us that that the article would come out in the Home & Garden section of the NYT this Thursday. I am kinda excited/scared. Looking back, I regretted giving using our real names. I think that "Beau" and "Chip" would've made us sound more sophisticated, don't you?

Following The Forearm

You know how there are certain things about a person that immediately draws your attention, that turns you on, like his dimples, or his broad shoulders or the big, fat bulge of his wallet? For me, it's a man's arms. Nothing turns me on more than a man with muscular biceps and sinewy forearms. It makes me think of all the things he can do with the unassembled cabinets that need to be hung in my kitchen.

This fascination with men's arms has gotten me into trouble more times than I can count. I remember once at the gym, this massive, muscular guy with no neck, who was bench pressing eight 45 lb plates, asked me for help. For the next seven minutes, I helped him calculate the total weight of the eight plates. In my defense, I was so mesmerized by how close I was standing to the guy to think about using my cellphone's calculator that I had in my gym shorts.

I feel the way about biceps the way straight men feel about boobs except that I can masturbate to my own biceps. But I like to masturbate to someone else's because it's not that easy to sneak out of your own bicep after you get off. I could also probably try to give myself a blowjob. I think I am limber enough, but I have a moral aversion to eating my own meat and swallowing my own jizz. I mean, I dunno, isn't that cannibalism?

Then there's the highway, a veritable minefield of danger. Construction crews can be very very distracting, especially in the summer where they are working shirtless, all rough and sweaty. I feel like stopping and asking if they were doing anything after their shift. Those kitchen cabinets are not gonna install themselves.

And there are those times when you see a beefy, bronzed forearm hanging out of a car window and you want to get a glimpse of its owner. You drive in breakneck speed to catch up. Once, I missed my exit and had to drive back another thirty minutes, all just to see if the guy attached to the arm is attractive. He was. I just wished he wasn't also an undercover cop. The tailgating ticket wasn't so attractive.

And have you ever had a maddening flirtation where you inch up slowly to a car in heavy traffic, trying to catch the eye of the cute guy in the next car and he looks at you and he drives away? It's sooo frustrating. I just wish these guys wouldn't be so coy.

Who am I kidding? I don't need to see a guy's forearm to start following them on the highway. I'd do it even if all you had was a bumper sticker that says "I HAVE A BIG COCK."

Ahh, those bumper stickers. I remember how exciting it was when I first came out of the closet in the nineties with all the gays being all proud and shit. Everybody had some kind of symbol on their car to proclaim their gayness. There was the rainbow flag, the pink triangle, the Mazda Miata emblem. Nowadays, gay guys aren't as proud anymore. We're just very, very smug. And we're also harder to find on the road. We've diversified. We drive big, powerful, gas-guzzling SUVs in a very subtle shade of powder blue.

So guys, make sure to hang your buffed up forearms out the window. In the meantime, I'll be trying to catch up with that 23 inch bicep I spied three lanes over on the I-90.

I'll take "Things That Might Drive Joe to Crazyville" for $1000, Alex (Or, Let's Get to Know Joe)

by The Notorious J.O.E.

The Job That's Sucking The Last Bit of Lifeblood From Me

Being on Technical Support for five years, you see a lot of things that make you wonder how humans ever evolved from apes. Well there’s not enough room, but here’s a short list:

I needed to work on a woman’s computer and she wasn’t around. Should I change her password or just take a guess? I looked around and saw a wide of array of cutesy-wootsy little puppy figurines on the top of monitor. A dog calendar sits on my left. Hmmn. Let’s try "dogs" shall we? Woohoo, I’m in. Schedule me for a guest appearance on Alias pronto.

I get an emergency help desk ticket for a top executive whose computer was down. I rushed up there, nearly collapsing a lung. I examined the situation. Then, I turned the monitor on. Crisis resolved.

I have grown to hate computers and I have grown to hate people who use them. Where does this leave me you ask? I believe it leaves me with an abacus, a padded cell, and a big fat smile on my face.

Liza, Babs, Madonna, oh my!

Yes I’m a homo. I like it sometimes, but more and more I find, me no like so much. I’ve had some good relationships, but I’ve managed to screw them up somehow or they just haven’t worked out for the best. I also have some really good gay friends.

So why Joe, do you hate the heterosexually challenged? There’s not enough room, but let’s see if we can examine some of the reasons:

There’s a very attractive guy at the gym. He looks at me. I look at him. He’s got a very nice build. He dresses in normal workout attire, ergo he’s not wearing a leotard. He goes to the gym to actually workout (something that doesn’t really happen very much in the homo gyms). But then I see him out at the bars, its all "grrllllll" and sparkly jewelry and skipping through the bar and singing the Wicked soundtrack in its entirety. It’s like Paul Walker to RuPaul in no time flat.

And am I getting old, or is the fashion in the gay (and metrosexual) community getting worse? Why? I ask why?

Upturned collars on polos: it wasn’t a good idea when you drove your 83 Trans Am listening to Huey Lewis’ latest blockbuster CD and it isn’t a good idea now.

Wearing baseball caps tilted. I credit Jason Mraz with that stroke of genius. Well I have a remedy; you ain’t him, so please stop. It’s just stupid.

And lastly, this combination tail/mohawk/mullet haircut. Independently, each of them are very very hard to pull off. Together they’re just plain hideous. However, if you have any of these plus tattoos, piercings, a rockin’ body and your sense of humor measures 10 inches, then I am willing to look past the haircut. I’m very forgiving that way.

Why Joe Hates Politics

Barbara Bush, I realize you recently turned 110 years old and things aren’t running as smoothly up there anymore. But I mean, isn’t it bad enough we have to listen to your stunningly brilliant children? Sure, your comment about the refugees was a just personal observation:

"What I'm hearing, which is sort of scary, is they all want to stay in Texas. Everyone is so overwhelmed by the hospitality. And so many of the people in the arena here, you know, were underprivileged anyway, so this is working very well for them."
- Barbara Bush, during a radio interview with the American Public Media program Marketplace.

But that doesn’t make it any smarter than sayyy....

"You work three jobs? Uniquely American, isn't it? I mean, that is fantastic that you're doing that."
- George W. Bush, to a divorced mother of three, Omaha, Nebraska, Feb. 4, 2005

But it did piece together a little mystery of where the other half of the brain is.

Odds and Ends

So I hate a lot of things. I can't possibly go in to all of them...can I? No no no, there's not enough time, not enough room, not enough...oh why don't I just run through a brief list for you?

Princess Trixie and your precious little Gap-clad child in stroller, if I hold the door for you at Starbucks, a "thank you" will do. However, when you look at me like it's my duty and don't say jack, then I feel the need to accidentally spill my mocha on aforementioned child (it's cold people, relax.)

Diddy, or P Diddy, or Sean, or Puffy or...'nuff said.

Jennifer Love Hewitt. I don't dislike you. I don't hate you. I don't abhor you. I dishatabhor you. I once heard you complain that all actresses are getting jobs in the movies ahead of you. Explanation: people dishatabhor you.

Hummers. These are a great idea. If you are Arnold Schwarzenegger, living in the desert, saving Salma Hayek from alien monsters with super human strength. But if your name is Biff and you drive back and forth to the local Musicland to purchase the hot new CD by Creed/Nickelback, you most likely don’t need a Hummer.

Ok, enough about me. I hope that you feel closer to me now, because all I really want to be is loved. And if you disagree with any of my rants, I feel bad, but just for a second. Then I will jot your name down to be a subject of the inevitable sequel to this, my first blog post.

-----


Our guest blogger, The Notorious J.O.E. doesn’t really hate people. He just really, really, really doesn’t like you.

DJ Evil Twin is in da Haooooouse!

Paul Pellerito from Thoughts to Fill an Empty Room has graciously volunteered to host my remixes. Thanks Paul, you rock!

You can download the mixes directly here (right click, save as). Get 'em while you can!

Annie Lennox - Step by Step (DJ Evil Twin Remix)*
Everything But The Girl - Single (DJ Evil Twin Remix)
Justin Timberlake feat Clipse - Like I Love You (DJ Evil Twin Surgical Mix)
Janet vs *Nsync - That's The Way Love Goes (DJ Evil Twin Siamese Mix)

-----
Origins of DJ Evil Twin

* This is my remix of the original version of the song that Whitney Houston re-made in the soundtrack for The Preacher's Wife. You can hear Annie Lennox singing back-up in Whitney's version.

My Ears are Ringing

My ears are ringing.

God, is that you? You know you're not supposed to call at the dinner hour. I put my name on the National DO NOT CALL registry, but it seems to have no effect.

Oh, why won't ringing didn't stop? Somebody must be talking about me.

It turns out, Ben of the Ice Cream Sandwich Radio Show, wildly popular among its three listeners, and Ben's co-host Joe have been talking about this blog and yours truly. Ben and I go way back, when I used to read his robot comics. I think he’s very talented and I can say that because I am authorized by him to say so.

Ben likes to take pictures on his camera phone. He also likes to moon people online. He looks a little bit like Woody Allen, especially when he’s wearing glasses. Joe, his co-host, I know virtually nothing about, which is fine with me, because I like to imagine him in this little green number.

Ben is also a dork, which I think nowadays is really more of a compliment than an insult. Dork is cool. Ben is very cool. It gives me hope that one day the word "gay" will become a compliment.

"Gay" has become the new derogatory term, didn’t you know? These days, when straight kids say "you’re gay," they mean "you’re stupid" rather than "you look like you suck cock."

I think that there is a great potential for confusion. If gay equals stupid, charitable folk who support mentally-challenged kids could end up at the Gay Olympics. Coming out would be a nightmare. You marshall your courage to tell your mother you’re gay and she enrolls you in remedial classes.

But like all derogatory terms, new ones come up to take their place anyway, usually based on some marginal minority group. Here are some new ones that I propose: "you’re so Amish" or "you’re such a Scientologist" or "you’re such a Gotti."

Anyway, for a good five minutes, Ben, Joe and their occasional sidekick Erica, talk about this site and my purported lactose intolerance. Just as a clarification folks, I am not lactose intolerant. I am lactophobic, which means that I have an irrational fear and loathing of all dairy and dairy-like food products. Even the sight of an infant nuzzling its mother's breast on the bus offends me, it brings forth a desire to give its mother a shawl to cover up that regretful peasant blouse she was wearing.

In the same show, Erica also spends a few minutes lamenting about the fate of some penguins in the documentary March of the Penguins. She wondered why the filmmakers didn't lift a hand to save the little penguins. But be comforted my dear Erica, they are in a better place now—they are in J-Lo's mitten drawer.

Good luck on your show kids, and talk about me some more.

And if anybody else wants to talk about me, can you please remember to mention how well-endowed I am? I don't think enough people know.


-----

Penguins are sooo gay
Salon.com: "We're Here, We're Queer, We're Penguins"

I am the Evil Twin

One thing you might not know about me is that I have a DJ name. Of course, I’m not really a DJ, but that didn’t stop me from making the name up. This is pretty much how I run my life anyway, I just make shit up and then worry about actually doing it later.

It’s like I was a homosexual long before I had my first subscription to Vogue magazine. And listen, I tried to be a practicing homosexual at a very early age, but Vogue wouldn’t accept payment from my Hello Kitty checkbook. Some people think that homosexuality is an evolutionary dead end, but that’s not quite true--a homosexual without credit, that’s the dead end. A homosexual can find a surrogate to propagate his genes, but what’s the point unless his genes get to wear Calvin Klein?

So you can imagine my elation when I got my first credit card. I went on a shopping spree to end all shopping sprees and I’ve amassed clothes, accessories and bill collectors. I may be cash-poor, but my creditors are very, very rich.

Ok ok ok, here it is: my DJ name is DJ Evil Twin.

For those of you that didn’t know, I do have a real twin. And ever since we’ve been little kids, we’ve fought each other for the right to be the Evil Twin because, let’s be real, who wants to be the Good Twin? The Good Twin is the mama's boy; he climbs into her vagina and then crawls into the uterus for afternoon naps. Nobody wants to be the Good Twin. I’m sure right now Ashley Olsen is kicking herself for not having an eating disorder.

DJ Evil Twin came about during my club kid phase, which was when I was younger and the only wrinkles I had were the ones on my balls. I loved club music because it was the only kind of music where body glitter didn't look ridiculous. It was also the only kind of music where dancing alone wasn’t pathetic and didn’t require the additional humiliation of wearing a cowboy hat.

Club music and country line dancing were invented for spinster aunts and homosexuals and I, am glad for it, it saved my life, it got me laid. On a crowded dancefloor it was easier to make a connection and it was dark--dark enough to hide my neediness and low self-esteem. I think my spinster aunt would've gotten laid as well despite the smell of Vicks Vap-O-Rub.

For awhile, I tried the old skool version of DJ-ing, which was basically selling crystal meth out of my crates. But then I found that what I was really interested in was the remix. I wanted every song to be 120 beats per minute. If I heard a song, I'd imagine it with a thump-thump-thumping beat.

And then there was Charlene's "I've Never Been To Me." I wanted to hear a dance remix of this song so bad I could drink a whole bottle of milk just so I could throw it back up. I started tinkering with music using the Acid DJ software to make my own remixes.

On a lark, I sent a remix I did of Annie Lennox's "Step by Step" to Emily (Beat Commander M.L.E.), a DJ at WITR, a college radio station in Rochester, New York and a visitor to this site. And to my surprise and glee, she played it on her show Robots in the Skies. I was ecstatic. I feel validated, like a parking stub. If you download the show, you can listen to it (it's the second song). I hope she plays it again.

It feels good to have something you've created out there. Just like it feels good to have you read all the way to the very end of this post.

-----

If you want to hear the following mixes I've made, send me an e-mail. Warning: these are just my tinkerings, don't expect Victor Calderone or anything.

Annie Lennox - Step by Step (DJ Evil Twin Remix)
Everything But The Girl - Single (DJ Evil Twin Remix)
Justin Timberlake feat Clipse - Like I Love You (DJ Evil Twin Surgical Mix)
Janet vs *Nsync - That's The Way Love Goes (DJ Evil Twin 2005 Mix)

Get your own DJ name here and here.

I am a novice compared to these guys who remixed Bjork's Medúlla CD (download them!)

Lack of Originality

(c) 2004 Copyright by The New Yorker

Jury Duty

I was summoned to jury duty for the first time last week. Being gay, at my age, there aren’t very many "firsts" left. I’ve lived my life hard and fast, but mostly hard because fasting makes me hungry. I’ve bought my first car, my first home, my first personality chip. I am one jaded individual, and I’ve got the jewelry with semi-precious stones to prove it.

Even though I got there early, the jury waiting room was already packed. It was like a hospital waiting room, full of people who looked like they needed plastic surgery. I carefully waded through the room, looking for a good space to sit, preferably in a nice, quiet and clean corner--or next to some hot stud, I’m not picky at all.

Not too long after, we were herded into the jury room proper for jury selection. I realized right away that I must be excused. It would be a hardship for me to sit through a non-celebrity trial. I would have to sit through a low to mid-priced attorney’s arguments and with no cameras, reporters or book agents waiting to offer me millions for my experiences during the trial and the various detailed deliberations of what kind of makeover to give my fellow jurors.

Besides, the defendant was wearing an ill-fitting dark suit! I would surely not belong in a jury of his peers. My peers would be dressed in perfectly tailored, see-through t-shirts and leather chaps, the standard conservative formal attire for gays. And maybe a small, tasteful man-purse.

Ideally, I would be in a hung jury, emphasis on hung.

And there should really be a rule that says there must be a minimum of one cute guy per eleven potential jurors because otherwise, I don’t think I can stay awake long enough. This ratio will keep me interested in the details, the nuances of the amicus brief or boxers that he might be wearing. In our isolation from the world, I would pore over the evidence of his rising desire and we would cross-examine each others' members. Heady with information and drunk with facts, we would fall into each others' arms in our court-supplied hotel rooms.

Luckily, there was one such man in our pool: juror number six.

Jesse Jurran, 22, a six-foot-three, dark-haired, latin dreamboat with broad shoulders, hazel eyes and a mouth just meant for giving blowjobs. He had a back problem from playing high school football. He worked as a caddy to support himself through college. No priors, one moving violation in the last six months. He was reading a paperback copy of Siddhartha. Philosophy and fellatio, these are a few of my favorite things.

Jesse intrigued me, he sounded like a man with mystery. I learned all this because of all the questions the judge and lawyers asked to determine the suitability of the potential jurors. I tried googling his name afterwards to see if I could find pictures of him in his football gear. I wanted to re-live those moments when I threw him intimate glances and he ignored me completely. It was just like my first love.

But the questions they asked of the potential jurors! They were very, very personal and clearly made some of the people uncomfortable. It made me wish intensely that I had some unbuttered popcorn. And a large soda, diet.

If these were the questions for a lawsuit for a car accident, I wonder what they would be for something really juicy, like an emancipation case. I would pay to see Mimi try to emancipate herself from Mariah Carey, coz you know it's gonna happen.

We had been reminded that we swore a solemn oath. The act of holding up our right hand and swearing in compelled us to tell the truth. One friendly-looking guy revealed that he had been incarcerated for breaking into a hardware store and stealing tools. A middle-aged man in a dress shirt had been recently convicted of domestic abuse. They were both excused.

A young woman, 19, a very pretty college student originally from Uganda was next. Daleesha was her name, I think. I don't know how it's spelled.

The judge had been asking her questions in a very direct manner. And then he asked, "Have you ever the victim of a crime?"

She sat there, silent for almost a minute. You can see her gather her words, putting them together, trying to answer the question; her face a quiet storm of emotion.

The air in the courtroom was completely still. I was distracted by the silence; I had been boring a hole into Jesse's forehead, willing him to make eye contact. I turned my attention towards the jury box.

The judge, becoming aware of her consternation, leaned in and repeated the question. He said in a gentle, fatherly way, "Miss, have you ever been the victim of a crime, one that has been reported?"

With those five words, he gave her an out. I saw her shoulders cave in relief, defeat or something else, I don't know.

"No," Daleesha said in a small voice.

"Ok," the judge nodded. A small pause, "Ok."

In a low voice, the judge asked a few more questions and then excused her. Everybody looked at her as she left the courtroom. I'm sure in everybody's minds, the same scenarios were flying: domestic violence? Sexual abuse? Rape? Then the judge was back to the business at hand.

At this point, there were eleven jurors. One more to go. There was one guy who was ahead of me. I was afraid of the questions the judge was going to ask. Because of the nature of this case, I was going to have to tell him about Doug. I was nervous about that.

Fortunately, the guy ahead of me was accepted into the jury. The rest of us were dismissed. I received my check on the way out. $17.20 is the going rate for jury duty these days.

As I pushed the revolving door, I saw Daleesha standing outside the building, a few paces away. She was looking intently at the check in her hand. $17.20. A paltry sum. I wondered what that one question cost her.

Justice stood before her. It loomed thirty stories high. It had asked for her help to mete it out. I wondered if she would seek justice for herself. A step forward or a step back?

Then my bus arrived and I ran towards it. I saw a glimpse of her as the bus pulled away, still rooted to that spot.

Back On The Bus

This is the first time I am back on the bus since the London bombings. After getting a job in the burbs six months ago, I have been driving to work, along with my virtual carpool of zany morning DJs and shock jocks.

I think the term 'shock jock' has become meaningless at this point, along with 'War on Terror' and 'Whitney Houston's Career.' And after the following things shoved up my ass: a 10” thick Marine cock, phallic vegetables, the Defense of Marriage Act, I am virtually unshockable.

I do wonder how NPR manages to exist, with its dry, factual, nuanced reporting and discussions. Like Sven (formerly of ISeeMonsters.com), I find myself teary-eyed at some story from Morning Edition or All Things Considered. Sometimes I wish I could tune in to Margaret Jo McCullin and Terry Rialto on The Delicious Dish, but alas, they're only fictional.

I am taking the bus today because I had been summoned for jury duty. As I boarded the bus, I felt some trepidation. Despite what our current administration says, I don’t think we are winning the 'War on Terror' (apparently, it's now called the 'global struggle against violent extremism'). I don’t feel safer that Iraq’s dictator and Cheetos spokesperson has been removed from power.

If anything, I fear that we have now provided a bigger reason for our country to be a target. These people are willing to die for their cause. They went ballistic when they heard about the flushing of the Koran, you think they are twiddling their thumbs after our invasion? I think our tax dollars are better spent on increasing security at our borders and ports and improving our relationship with Islamic nations.

I scanned the bus for passengers who fit the profile of a potential terrorist--someone who looked like Gary Busey, but with a tan perhaps.

I froze when my eyes came upon a suspicious-looking young man carrying a large backpack. I got nervous when he paid cash for the fare. A regular bus-rider would surely have a CTA card, wouldn’t he? His lack of pectoral muscles could also indicate a reason for a suicide mission. I trained my eyes on him as he made his way down the aisle and sat down across from me.

As I examined his backpack, I let out a sigh of relief. I recognized the high-quality leather and metallic tag. They wouldn’t dare blow up a Kenneth Cole bag, would they? Even a terrorist would respect that. And if they don't, they better watch out or we'll sic our most fearsome warrior on them; I hear Andy Dick is merciless.

But I worry about my boyfriend who rides the El everyday to work. Even though I know that statistically, the risk of dying in a car crash is much larger than being blown up in a terrorist attack, I still worry. I can’t help it. I may be a self-assured, stylish homo on the outside, but inside, I am just an old Jewish grandmother. Oy, pass the gefilte fish.

I worry the minute I drop him off at the station until I hear from him. Sometimes, I find myself anxious when I don't see him sign on to Yahoo messenger at work. Is that weird? The bad feelings linger like a fart in an elevator.

Back on the bus, I settled in my seat and pulled out my book. Today at least, I won’t be blown to bits...


NEXT: Jury Duty

-----
Check out the Chicago Blog Map

Also:

On The Bus - Readin' and Ridin' on the bus. Part 1 of 2. Three Hours - I hate driving, I hate airplanes.

Stuttering - My encounter with a Marine cock. A Long Way Down - Nick Hornby and my suicidal thoughts.

The Aristocrats

WARNING: SPOILERS! GRAPHIC SEX, VIOLENCE AND PROFANITY. IF YOU READ THIS POST, YOU WILL HAVE NO REASON TO WATCH THIS STUPID MOVIE ABOUT THE DIRTIEST JOKE IN THE WORLD.

-----

A man comes into reality TV show producer Mark Burnett’s office. He says, “I have a great concept for a reality show.”

Mark says in his British accent, “Hit me.”

The man says, "We bring in a pastor’s family: husband and wife, their son, daughter and their cute golden retriever."

"The pastor beats up his wife and punches her in the face until she’s cut and bleeding. Then he face-fucks her until he reaches orgasm and comes on her face, the jizz mixing in with the blood. He ties her up in a chair and brings in his daughter and starts fucking her while his wife watches. After he’s done he ties up his daughter and brings in his son. The father forces the son to fuck his daughter and when the son is done, the father starts fucking him. Then he brings in the dog and makes the dog fuck the wife, the daughter and the son, and then he fucks the dog."

Mark sits there stunned.

Then he says, “I like it! It’s fresh, it’s ground-breaking!” He jumps out of his black leather chair and starts pacing. “We may have to blur and bleep out some parts but I think it will be a hit!” He turns to the man and asks, “What do you call it?”

The man says, “The Republicans.”

“Perfect! What about a sequel? Any ideas about that?” asks Mark.

“Absolutely!” says the man, “For the sequel, we bring in a black family and do the same thing except the wife will be pregnant and the father will perform an abortion. We’ll call it The Democrats.”

That’s it. That’s the movie. I just saved you $10. It is quite literally a one-joke movie. And before you go all lunatic on me and start flaming this post, I want to mention that everything I wrote here is in the movie* except Mark Burnett. I also left out the part about the n*ggers and Jesus coming back to earth to fuck everyone.


-----

* This is my version of the joke. It didn't appear in the movie, but it contains elements that were used throughout the movie.

The Aristocrats joke as told by Eric Cartman

The Aristocrats Movie Page at Yahoo!

Duncan Sheik @ Market Days

Duncan Sheik's blog

Do-It-Yourself

Oh no, not her again.

I know I know I know, my boyfriend Brian would like to have a moratorium on Bjork posts as well. What do you do when you have a significant other that hates some artist or record that you absolutely love?

It’s almost like in my closeted teen days when I had a huge crush on Boy George. I didn’t really know what to tell my family and friends about my obsession with this tall, outlandish, heavily made-up person.

I needn’t have bothered with my family. I talked to my parents a few months ago and they were going to turn my old room into a sewing room for my mother. They asked whether they could take the poster of that brutish, unattractive girl off the wall. I was like, “Oh sure! And wait, mom can probably use the sewing kit that I have under the bed. Does she like quilting? If you look behind my desk--I know it’s heavy--there’s a quilting frame she might be able to use as well.”

To my friends, I defended my musical choices by saying that it’s just theatrics--it’s performance, you know, like David Bowie in his Ziggy Stardust phase, Michael Jackson in his Diana Ross phase or Michael Jackson in his LaToya Jackson phase. They all nodded their assent, but thought privately: what a big, raving F...ilipino.

Before I got my iPod, I used to have to sneak into the apartment building's garage and listen to Bjork in the car. I would grab my pack of Marlboro’s and lighter and tell Brian I was out for a quick cig, which I would ditch for the CDs I stashed in the fire extinguisher cabinet. Apparently, it was a popular hiding place. I found a set of spare keys, a small bottle of whiskey, a tube of salmon pink lipstick. I thought, it’s gotta be Chuck from 11N, he’s the only one who had the right coloring for salmon pink.

Because of this, I hadn’t really been able to appreciate Medúlla, Bjork’s foray into musical weirdness. But I wasn't too worried about it. Suffice it to say, an album of all vocals: choral, Inuit throat-singing and human beatboxes, was something I probably would listen to once, maybe twice a year--three, if I was trying to get rid of unwanted guests.

As has been her custom, Bjork would release various remixes of her singles. These singles often included some very good mixes that I sometimes prefer over the originals; I hungrily acquired them.

She had even gone as far as releasing Telegram, an album of Post remixes. Telegram was very hit-or-miss, there were some cool mixes on it like “Isobel” and “I Miss You,” but by and large, it was quite impenetrable, like Katie Holmes’ skull. In addition, I would scour the local DJ record stores for “white labels,” records of bootleg mixes of artists. That was 1996.

Since then, with the help of production software like Sony’s ACID-Pro 5, music lovers have turned their PCs and laptops into portable recording studios and themselves into amateur DJs.

In 2005, as soon as a record hits the stores, fans puts their own spin into it and throw it out onto the internet. Google any song by an artist and the word “remix,” it is very likely that you will find some aficionado’s set. Some of these “amateurs” are so accomplished, their mixes sound better than the official releases.

In the months following the release of Medúlla, Bjork had released three singles “Oceania,” “Who Is It” and “Triumph of A Heart,” of which, only “Who Is It” had remixes that appealed to me. The mixes of other two were so much in the vein of the original that I didn’t get the point of them.

I checked out sunday-in-the-park.com’s Bjork Remix Web Archive, a good site to find homegrown mixes of the artist and I found a plethora of mixes from that album and previous ones. Medúlla makes it easier for the novice DJ to remix because there isn’t a lot of production that you’d need to edit out or overlay; you can take the song to a direction that it wasn’t meant to, you know, like a straight man after three beers.

I was particularly impressed with Dark Jedi’s remix of the dense “Where Is The Line.” Where the original version was very darkly insistent, his remix added a sad, plaintiveness to the song. This is probably the hardest song in the album to remix. I think that when I first downloaded this mix, I must’ve played it thirty times, really getting into the groove of it. One of the more prolific ones, Dark Jedi offers five remixes from the album, including “Pleasure Is All Mine” and an industrial, bass-heavy “Oceania.”

Another exceptional remix is Prydrm’s nervous, jittery version of “Triumph of A Heart.” I am not sure how he eliminated Rahzel’s beats, but it is undetectable. To confound me more, he offers a great melodic mix of “Mouth’s Cradle.”

I was leery of Psy’s “Out of the Deep” mix of “Submarine” at first. I wasn’t sure of what anyone could do with the song and with Robert Wyatt’s atonal backing vocals, but Psy transforms it with a hard-driving jungle beat. The repeated phrases of “do it now” and “out of the heavy deep sleep” becomes a hypnotic command.

Digging further, I found Disk69’s sensuous “Desired Constellation” and Jeranium’s scratchy music box version of “Show Me Forgiveness.”

So here they are, in my humble opinion, the best do-it-yourself Medúlla remixes from the web. You can download them for free from the links below. I suggest you put them in the same order as the songs in the original CD. Mine includes the original version of “Sonnets / Unrealities XI,” a beautiful a cappella song, which works surprisingly well among them. I've even provided the artwork, click on the scary Bjork picture in this post.

Jeranium - Pleasure Is All Mine
Jeranium - Show Me Forgiveness
Dark Jedi - Where Is The Line
Mark Bell - Who Is It (Choir Mix) - get the CD
Psy - Submarine (Out of The Deep Mix)
Disk69 - Desired Constellation (MJU:O Mix)
Dark Jedi - Oceania - get it here
Prydrm - Mouth’s Cradle (Hidden Cradle Mix)
Prydrm - Triumph Of A Heart

Other notable mixes:
Lesser - Who Is It (c2n dattasette mix) - get the CD
Buddy Bravo - Oceania (Impression Mix) - get it here
Buddy Bravo – Where Is The Line (Keybroad Mix) - get it here
Dark Jedi – Show Me Forgiveness - get it here
Dark Jedi – Desired Constellation - get it here
Dark Jedi - Pleasure Is All Mine

Note: Find the mixes above (as well as others) in the Bjork Remix Web Archive

-----
Get "Who Is It" remixes and Medúlla



Other music in my CD rack
My original Medúlla post
"Bjork’s Saga" by Alex Ross from The New Yorker
"Breath Control" by Kylee Swenson

Stuttering

I once dated this hot Marine who had a serious stuttering problem. We could barely have a conversation. It would literally take a minute for him to finish one sentence. But I dated him, because it's what's inside that counts right? And what's inside his pants was 10" thick motherfucker.

This is where the weirdness comes in. When we're having sex, he does not stutter at all. Not one bit.

While we were having sex, he wanted to talk talk talk about books he read, movies he's seen, where the lint in his navel comes from. Anything. It's like he had all these words pent up and it all gushed out.

I would've obliged except that it's hard to have a conversation when you have a huge Marine cock in your mouth. Ironic really. He can't talk when we're not having sex, I can't talk when we're having sex.

Besides, my mom taught me never to talk with my mouth full and old habits, like geezers with priapism, die hard.

This went on for about two months, until he dumped me. It took him about thirty minutes to say "I t-tttt-tthhhh-thhinkkk www-www-wwe ssh-ssh-ssh-shoulddd bbe jj-jjjust-tt ff-ff-friends." I guess he was nervous.

It was very humiliating for me because I knew what he was going to say after "I t--". I was raised to be polite, so I had to sit there and wait for him to finish.

It's true what they say about how communicating in a relationship. You really have to work at it.

I know what I would do next time: learn sign language. Then it wouldn't matter if I had a mouthful of cock.

-----

I wrote this following an e-mail from Joe.My.God, one of the best bloggers around. He had asked his readers for a few lines describing the kinkiest thing or about a time we were most surprised, baffled, or completely freaked out by a scene laid on by a new partner. Check out the others.

A Long Way Down

He said, She said. Annie and Paul debate the merits of Nick Hornby's new book, A Long Way Down. Annie talks about the agonizing wait for the author's books; Paul contemplates suicide.

There are a lot of ways to commit suicide: jumping off a bridge, ODing on drugs, pissing off Oprah; but I’ve never really seriously considered it. I mean, yes, as with many alienated gay teens, I have fantasized about Ending It All instead of having to suffer one more day of wearing a uniform to high school. But in my fantasies, I’ve somehow skipped the killing myself part and pictured myself lying in the casket, looking serene and peaceful, a light dusting of powder on my nose and cheeks to prevent shine. My family would be wailing, beating on their chests. Serves them right for not letting me go to the Salsa and Merengue Dance Camp. Suicide is scary to me. Death is scary to me. I fear death because I fear the pain of dying. I visualize the dying, I visualize the pain. I have very lurid visions of what it would be like to be rammed head-on by a speeding semi-truck while driving on a highway.* I look at a knife and imagine someone stabbing me repeatedly, my eyes watching the blood spurt from my chest, a silent scream frozen in my mouth. I think about suffocating under Star Jones and an avalanche of Payless shoes. But what of those who experience a pain in life that exceeds that of the pain of dying? At least when you’re dead, there is no more pain. read what He said.

This book would have irritated me less had it not been written by Nick Hornby, which I suppose is akin to saying, “I’d like water more if it weren’t so wet.” It is what it is. Great Mandy Moore--how to deal? The thing is, I can’t outright say “it’s bad” or “I didn’t like it,” would that I could be more two-dimensional, like Janice Dickinson. And it’s nothing to do with my long-standing allegiance to this particular author. There’s Hornby in here to be sure, but I can’t help thinking the real novel is another draft or two away. Waiting for a new Nick Hornby novel is worse than waiting for your period after senior prom. You start getting a little antsy as if something’s...missing, only you’re not quite sure what. Before you know it you’re a seven-week-long F-you to Strunk & White. But then there are hints: you’re a raving bitch; you’re crying at that Michelin commercial again; all that’s left of your graduation wad is the receipt for $675 worth of smores ingredients. And the big payoff? YOUR STINKING PERIOD. Fast forward seventeen years: You live your life, read books, see friends, watch TV--okay okay maybe that’s the same as “see friends,” but my point is, you live. No matter how sad & empty it might seem compared to your glamorous “friends’” life – it’s living, as some of us know it. read what She said.

-----
Recommended books by Nick Hornby:

Hardly Knew You

Doug, you were the first person who made me feel welcome at work.

It’s hard starting a new job. Expectations are high: I’ve built myself up in my resume, now I have to live up to it. My resume said my name was Jet Li. I was hoping they didn’t remember that. In my interview I said that I played well with others, but the truth is, I only play with myself well.

It was my second day. I was being dragged by my bouncy, perky boss to be introduced to every department. It was very embarrassing. I felt like a little chihuahua. I wished she had a little Louis Vuitton bag for me to hide in. I felt so fake with my wide, pasted-on smile, it made me nauseated. I wanted to puke on her awful mint green pumps, it might’ve made an improvement.

I must have shaken the hands of nearly thirty people, but all I could remember was that of Bob in Accounting. He, with the damp sticky hands, the bulbous, red, runny nose and the crumpled snot rags on his desk. I thought it might be rude to ask if I could go home and take a shower. I felt a little bit like Typhoid Mary Tyler Moore, passing on Bob’s germs to at least eight other staff members before I was able to wipe my hand.

You didn’t notice when my boss and I walked into your department. I got a glimpse of you surfing on eBay before you heard us behind you and casually clicked away. As if you knew I saw you, you gave me a sheepish grin. I knew we were going to get along.

You were so ambiguously gay: soft-spoken, witty, you used mousse in your longish, shaggy hair. And when you told me you loved David Sedaris, I was almost positive you were gay. I was so excited, I instantly thought that you would be the perfect boyfriend for my friend Annie.

Annie would’ve loved you and your tall, skinny frame. You are Lanky Boy, her romantic ideal. She even has a poem for you: "How do I love thee? Let me count the ribs..."

I was so disappointed to learn you were not gay and you already had a girlfriend. I wasn’t sure what angle I could use to hook you into friendship. Homosexuality or possible sex with Annie was all I had. I had nothing else; I couldn’t learn a sport now, the muscles in my wrist have atrophied from disuse.

Then I found out that you are a drummer in a local Chicago girl band. That’s bonus, you know? I love music and I love men who are brave enough to be in a "girl band." Very Hole, very Eric Erlandson. I play the guitar. We could jam. Music indeed, makes the people come together.

Last Thursday, at work, you called me on the phone. “Paul, what the fuck is going on with the company website? Why I am not getting our orders? Is the webmaster asleep or something? You should kick his ass or something!”

We both despised the webmaster, this old fart who didn’t know the first thing about running a professional website. So, we ranted for a little while about the guy and then chatted about other incompetent people in company and the upcoming weekend.

“Did you hear,” asked Doug, “I just got promoted to Customer Service Manager, I start next month.”

“Congratulations!” I was excited; I would be working closely with this position.

“My band and I are playing a gig in August, you should come. We rock!” He laughed.

“Yeah man, I’ll put it on my calendar,” I promised.

“Ok, call me after lunch, we’ll find those missing orders.”

Doug never came back from lunch.

He was killed instantly, along with two other co-workers in a car accident. A suicidal young woman deliberately crashed her car into theirs at high speed.

She survived.



When I didn’t hear from Doug, I just thought he was busy. I didn’t hear about the accident until the next day when our VP herded us into a room to break us the news.

I’ve only known Doug for six months, only part of a year. We were more colleagues than friends, but I was in shock for the rest of the day. His death was senseless.

I couldn’t function. I don’t know why, but I kept thinking about whether there were any eBay auctions he was bidding on. I worried that his feedback rating would get dinged.

That afternoon, in my status meeting with my manager, my throat locked up and my eyes turned a watery red; an item in my agenda had Doug’s name on it. My manager silently handed me a napkin from McDonald’s. I think it had a small grease stain on it. It was the only thing she had on her desk. I am such a faggot.

Back at my desk, I checked my e-mailbox. Amidst the long list of e-mails, Doug’s name was sprinkled about like daisies in a field. I wanted so badly to delete those messages.

On the way home, I turned the radio on to see if I could catch any news about the details of the crash. No news as of then, the authorities were still keeping mum until the families of the victims were notified.

Every song on the radio made me think about drummers. Mick Fleetwood. Larry Mullen. Animal from The Muppet Show.

I kept trying to remember, who is the drummer for Oasis? Don't remember. No Doubt, oh that's easy, Adrian Young: shirtless, hot, with a mohawk. Coldplay? Don't know.

I didn't know if I was doing this because I was thinking of you or trying to stop myself from thinking of you. So I played an Indigo Girls CD instead, Come On Now Social.

When "Soon Be To Nothing" came on, these words from the song made me lose it:

"I have passed these pines 'bout a million times / Effortlessly / Now I grip the wheel / fear is what I feel / At the slow unraveling of me."

I don’t know why, but I kept repeating the song until I finally got home. I guess I needed a sentimental song to accompany my tears. Gays and their need for a soundtrack. But I don't know if I could've dealt with the silence.

Goodbye Doug. I hardly knew you. We might've been good friends. You were a good man, one of the very best.

"But the road is long and my song is gone / I blow empty in my cicada shell / If I saw my choice I might find my voice / But I don't know when and I just can't tell..."

"Soon Be To Nothing"
- Indigo Girls

Doug, second from left, with his band
-----

Epilogue - Three years later.