Tug of War

My boyfriend and I are currently embroiled in a silent clash of wills, an intense battle on the position of the two vases in our bathroom window. I move the vases, he moves them back. This has been happening for the past two weeks, neither of us mentioning a word to each other.

We had just bought the vases from Pier One, on a fabulous after-Christmas sale. I almost creamed in my pants then, but I thought if I waited, I could do it in my boyfriend's face instead. I ran through the store grabbing everything that was marked down 40% or more.



I mean, decorating is what defines gay people. I once broke up with a guy because I couldn't stand his apartment. The guy was pounding me from behind. I should be enjoying myself but all I could think about was how bad the sponge-painting was, especially right where my face was pressed against the wall; the sponging was too far apart. If one were planning to skimp on paint, I suggest that one shouldn't attempt any of the faux finish techniques. The results are just too pathetic and cruel.

I am a slave to decorating. I so enslaved, the Thirteenth Amendment couldn't set me free.

Once, in a fit of self-loathing, I decided to check out the Ex-Gay ministry, which is a group of people who claim that they have successfully de-gayed themselves and are now living "normal" lives. I went through a month of intense prayer. As I knelt down and bowed my head, it made me think. This feels strange, to be in this position and not have a gloryhole in front of me.

I became introspective. What I found when I was looking inside myself was not pretty: there was a ball of lint inside my belly button. How long has that been in there? The introspection made me really think about life. I found that I was vain and incredibly self-absorbed. I made a promise to myself that when I got out, I would change my life. I would start by getting plastic surgery on my belly button. I never realized how ugly my semi-outie was.

A month later, I was out. I felt changed, free.

However, that night, as I was preparing the garnish on my coq au vin, I realized--waitaminute--I'm still gay! That was garnish in my hands! Watercress! There were scented candles burning! Even if I didn't have sex with another man ever, I'M STILL GAY. I realized then, if Jesus wanted them to be straight, he would have taken away my power to carve a carrot into a flower; remove my ability to artfully arrange fruit in a bowl; suppress my desire to redecorate when I walk into a room.

Yep, decorating's in our blood. Our lesbian sisters are probably content to put up a movie poster of Bound or Ani DiFranco records or frame the license plate of their first pick-up truck and be done with it. I am jealous of their ability to use a kitty condo to decorate any space.

And we know who's in charge in married couples. When they move in together, women keep their men in thrall using sex. It is quite awhile before the men realize half of their shit's gone. The men wake up one day and ask their wives, "where's that little [atrocious piece of furniture] that I used to have?" "Oh, it's in storage." What she really means is that it's permanently stored in a landfill.

But for gay couples, decorating is a constant tug-of-war, especially if you have different tastes. There are just so many possibilities, so many aesthetic directions and only one living room to express it in. One must bend to the other's will or there will be a hissy fit of incredible magnitude.

And those gays in three-way leather relationships, or as I call it, Two Men and a Free Housekeeper--they're doomed. I'd like to be a fly in the wall when the houseboy/love slave/bootlicker, decides that he's sick of just dusting and paints the dungeon a nice, sunny bright yellow. There will be massive hair-pulling.

It's no different with me and my boyfriend. Every time I go into the bathroom, I notice that the two vases sitting on the window sill have moved. The change is very subtle, you wouldn't notice it unless you've been scrutinizing them for the past week. These vases have no practical purpose, there's no reason for them to move. It's not like we're talking about my penis pump.

My boyfriend likes the vases side-by-side, symmetrically placed. I prefer them to be slightly overlapping each other, like valentine hearts, chopsticks or Siamese twins.

Yesterday, when I walked into the bathroom, I noticed that the vases have moved yet again. Fine, I thought, you win. Even though I'm not happy with it, I left the vases unmoved. I figured, I'm in a relationship. I really should pick my battles.

As I sat there taking a shit, I noticed the three blue jars lined up in a row on top of the linen closet. I thought it would look better if I moved the two of them closer together and the third slightly apart, like a guy cruising a gay couple for a three-way. Even though I wasn't finished shitting yet, I stood up and moved the jars.

Game on, I thought. Game on.

Dearly Departed

The Top Bunk

My friend Scott spent the past weekend bitching about how there were so few "quality tops" in town for a ravenous bottom such as he. I am not really sure how he defines "quality." Since he’s already fucked everybody in town, I think all he’s looking for is a cock to stuff his ass--personality or personal hygiene be damned.

I made a comment that maybe he should consider a change and be the top for awhile. His panties got all in a bunch; he said that he was a bottom through-and-through and he was damn proud of it. If anybody needs to change, it was me and my scornful attitude towards bottoms. He commented that my attitude towards bottoms was thinly veiled misogyny because bottoms are commonly viewed as the "feminine" partner.

Some of you, as Scott did, may point out that my 'panties in a bunch' comment is proof of this, since it is disparaging of women. But I defended my position by saying I have nothing against women, just those who wear underwear. Panties are so uncivilized and unsanitary, next thing you'll be telling me is that women are still having periods (although probably not Terri Schiavo because she was in a coma*).

However, it did make me consider my position on this issue, philosophically and literally.

But before that, for those of you who are unfamiliar with these terms I will briefly explain them here:

Top – the insertive partner, the "fucker"
Bottom – the receptive partner, the "fuckee"

There are also some claims about the existence of the all-powerful Versatile Ones, where they can be tops or bottoms at will--although mostly it seems to be like myth or legend or rumors of Anna Nicole Smith's career.

To add some more confusion here, in sadomasochistic circles, a top is defined to be the dominant one and the bottom, the submissive, regardless of insertion. I think we can safely say that Dubya is Cheney’s bitch and I mean that in a totally un-ironic way.

Some tops seem to think that being a top is some sort of career. Let me tell ya, sticking an appendage into a hole is not a career. Besides, the closest job was already taken by a little Dutch boy who stuck his finger into the dike and saved his village (although I hear he grew up near the Warmoesstraat). Hell, I didn't see any tops come forward when Katrina hit Louisiana. Maybe New Orleans wouldn't have been flooded.

Bottoms aren't any better, especially the ones who call themselves "aggressive bottoms." They are so demanding. It's "fuck me harder, fuck me hard, FUCK. ME. HARD. DER." all the time. All the screaming and moaning seriously makes me go limp. I'd like for you to shut up when I am fucking you. And if you could shut up when I am watching TV and eating dinner too, that would be just peachy.

People also argue about whether it’s the guy on the top bunk or the bottom bunk who is in charge in sex. Tops feel that they're in charge, well, quite simple-mindedly, because they're on top. Bottoms think they're in charge because they have to give the "permission." Plus, they can bitch a lot longer. I happen to think it's the one whose name is on the lease.

Me? I’ve been a top and I've been a bottom. Once, a guy asked me which position I preferred. "What business is it of yours, motherfucker?" I replied. "This is a $25 blowjob. If you want conversation, that will be another $50."

If I were honest, I would say that I liked the position where I am not paying the rent, whichever position that would be.

But I think we all agree that top or bottom, there are benefits to being either. I mean, it's a good thing anal sex feels sooo good because, you know man: shit? It's disgusting.

In matters of love and lust, what does it matter which position you play? You do the dishes; he walks the dog. You're in charge of all things plumbing; he supervises the gardening. You cook him dinner; he cleans out your bank account, kidnaps your dog and runs off with the gardener. Of all the daily battles you have with your beloved, being the fucker vs the fuckee soon fade into insignificance.

In either position, we have our crosses to bear, even though we may not like them. A close friend once complained to me about how his partner was a big ole nag, and I said to him, "well that's what you get for being in a relationship with a horse." He was into bestiality.

You do what it takes to make the relationship work. And it's hard, man. They don't tell you this stuff in gay Charm School; all they teach you is how to color-coordinate your outfits. You have to learn this the hard way, just like the way you learned how to give a proper blowjob: through experience, and the pain of knowing what it feels like to have teeth scraping on your cock.

You learn that you make compromises. You learn new roles, new ways to make it work. Even if that means you have to take it in the ass once in a while.

Just don't forget to douche.


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*Comma, get it? :P

The Freedom to Fart

I once dated a guy who forbade me to fart. I had to hold my fart and go to what he deemed to be an authorized farting location, you know, like a bathroom or downwind from any human being or 15 feet from the state line.

I felt like how smokers must feel nowadays: shunned, frowned upon, a second class citizen. I imagine what it's like to be a second class citizen; it must be hard. They must suffer from low self-esteem. I make a mental note to myself that the smoking section would be a good place to try to pick up guys, if I ever became single.

True Love isn't the flowers, the diamond ring or a generous pre-nup agreement. You know you've got True Love when you have the ability to freely expel intestinal gas through the anus. You know you've found the right guy when you can fart freely and often.

I think most straight guys don't even think about this in a relationship. They watched their fathers fart loudy in front of their mothers; guffawing as their wives futilely admonish them. They grew up, walking around, kings of their castle, a dark, smelly cloud trailing behind them, the peasants--I mean, their families--choking in their wake.

And women, I don't know how they can hold it in. Women are not allowed to fart EVER. I feel like we need to tie a string around their ankles, because eventually, they would float around like a balloon from holding in all those gases. Or better yet, use the string hanging from their tampons.

Can you imagine if a woman was allowed to fart? It would change the world. Of course women complain that their husbands or boyfriends don't understand them! How can they? Maybe if the women put a cork in their men's asses for one day, maybe men can begin to understand women.

I think the reason why Muslim women are happy to wear a full burqua, a garment which covers them from head to toe because underneath it, they can fart freely. Think of it, a burqua muffles the sound of a fart and the odor doesn't escape. Underneath those veils, those women must be smiling.

But gay men, we're in that middle zone where you're not a straight man nor a woman. It this middle ground, we are trapped by society, by prejudice, by the heavy weight of our accessories. When we fart, we must do so artistically. Our farts have to play a tune, from a hit Broadway musical, an opera or maybe a little jaunty ringtone. In fact, I knew a guy who told me he could fart in a pitch-perfect E. You could tune a guitar to it. Or a skin flute.

Having the freedom to fart is a wonderful thing. Suddenly, the world is your oyster--and the world can smell the oysters you had for dinner.

Of course, there are unfortunate (or fortunate) side-effects of having the freedom to fart: it becomes harder to remember when it is impolite to fart. You begin to forget your manners.

I remember when my boyfriend and I were first allowing ourselves to fart in front of each other, we would apologetically say "oops, sorry!" when a fart escapes. Now it's more like "Thaaar she bloooows!"

It becomes even more difficult in public. The fart is out of the bag, so to speak, how does one stuff it back in? You find yourself unconsciously farting and trying to escape the stench even as it follows you around as if it was a begging dog and you had a treat in your pocket. A real dog though, would die within seconds from even a small whiff.

Why is that? Why can't we leave farts behind? Why do they follow us? No matter how fast I try to run away from a fart, it usually follows me for at least until somebody is within whiffing distance.

I pray I don't ever have to be single again. The pain of having to hold in a fart could be more painful than that of a broken heart...

My Fiscal Year

Hails of 'happy new years' are being casually thrown about this week like George Bush and his claims of victory over terrorism. I've even tossed out a few myself.

But sometimes I feel like my year isn't over. There are many things I've planned to get accomplished this year that I haven’t gone around to yet. Cleaning the oven, throwing out old condiment packets from ten years ago, telling my boyfriend that I'm really nine years older than he is rather than the two I said I was.

Lying about your age is easy when you're Asian like me because my delicate features easily camouflage any signs of aging. I just have to stay away from any direct sunlight.

We Asians age very, very gracefully. Did you know that Lucy Liu is 37, BD Wong is 43 and Pat Morita is dead? I didn't think so. However, I think my boyfriend may be starting to suspect something. He's made comments about my chronic deafness, driving in the middle of the lane, and my insistence on wearing my ratty pajamas and slippers out to get Starbucks.

I mean, why does the year have to be over? I'm pissed.

I don't like it when people tell me, it's over, that's it, times up, another year wasted on spinning on my wheels. It's like the time when my ex Jim told me that our relationship was over after he caught me fucking his roommate. I was indignant. I told him it wasn't over until I fucked his other roommate too. I was just waiting for the other roommate's cold sore to clear up before I went for him.

Where was fame? Where was fortune? Where's my fucking blog award? I thought I'd be the most famous gay, Asian, dairy-phobic person on earth by now. Instead Sulu from Star Trek has all the glory. If I had a phaser right now it wouldn’t be set on "stun." He'd be burned to a crisp like peking duck and I'd be eating him rolled up in mandarin crepes, scallions and just a tiny little bit of duck sauce.

Sometimes, I wish that we can all live in our own little fiscal year, like the company I work for. Our fiscal calendar started last June and ends in May of next year. Living in a fiscal year could mean the difference between a good year and a fucking great year, especially if there was lots of fucking.

There are still so many things I should've done this year.

I've lied to you all. When I said I was 'out' to my family, I meant that I have said everything but "I am gay" to my mother, my father and my sister. I thought that telling them I could name all the Best Musical Tony Award winners since 1968 was exactly same thing.

When I told my mom that I was gay during that trip to Florence, Italy four years ago, I should have said that in English. I thought that since we were in Italy, saying "Sono frocio" would be more glamorous than plain ole "I am a big fag." She smiled and patted my arm as we sailed on the gondola.

I thought, years ago, when my mother asked when I was going to settle down and getting married and I replied, "Mom, I am never getting married, I will never have any children without adopting them, and I am settled down..." my voice trailing away, that I was telling them I was gay. I thought that by saying Brian and I were living together made it clear.

My mother, who would try to cram all the gossip about each cousin and high school acquaintances without taking a breath during our long distance phone calls, was silent for nearly three minutes before she continued talking. I thought that meant she understood.

I thought it meant she accepted me.

But in a phone call I had with her last Christmas, she casually asked if there were any girls I was interested in. I said no, there are no girls. Again, she was silent, but only for a few seconds before moving on to a story about my darling nephew, who is now in third grade.

Maybe next year I’ll definitely tell her, in no uncertain terms.

Maybe next year.


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Check out these posts:

Coming To Terms - nate, a visitor, mongers hate and flings curses. All About My Mother - Mom schemes and plots and becomes a Master Spy.

...and a happy new year - A phone call to my father where we grunt, hem and haw. Machinations of My Mother-in-Law - My evil MIL uses her powers to control her children.

Brokeback Mountain

When it comes to male-to-male sex in movies, I am completely jaded. The problem is that when filmmakers make these movies to cater to gay audiences, they think that all we want to see is the nudity. I think they really totally missed the point. We want to see ourselves portrayed just like real people. We want to see homos to meet, fall in love, and live happily ever after with as little clothing as possible.

Brokeback Mountain is not that movie. First of all, they wear plaid. Second of all, the movie is set in Wyoming. Everybody knows that any gay kid over eighteen moves to a city where they have at least one gay bar that plays Madonna remixes. Third of all--did I already say they wore plaid? I mean, I don't think it would have bothered me so much if it was at least accessorized with Irony. A little ironing might have helped too.

But for what it is, Brokeback Mountain is an excellent movie. I am not going to extol its virtues here because frankly, I'm sick of reading about this movie in blogs. There's so much gushing about this movie, it could sweep away an entire village. If this happened in Asia, it would trigger a tsunami. The Red Cross would have to provide relief by killing the victims. Besides, the last time I heard so much gushing was at a Beverly Hills colonic spa.

However, I do have to say that the best thing about the movie is Heath Ledger and all the mumbling he does in it. I can't wait for him to be nominated for an Oscar for Best Performance by a Mumbler. He totally made me cry even though I couldn't understand a word he said. Now, that's acting. I can't wait for the inevitable gay porno version of the movie (Bareback Mountain--what else) where the bottom mumbles his way through an orgasm. It would be a welcome change from all the excessive moaning and groaning they do in porn.

I do remember getting a boner during the movie. But you don't really want to hear about that, do you? Yeah, I'd rather you see it. It's a beaut.

At some point during the movie, Jack Twist (Jake Gyllenhaal) tells Ennis (Heath Ledger) that after 20 years of being together, having sex three times a year wasn't enough for him. Then he cries like a leeettle guurl. He's lucky he even has sex. After being with my boyfriend Brian for four years, the only thing we do in bed now is fight over who's in charge of the TV remote.

What did Jack expect? That gay sex is eternal, a continuous neverending chocolate fondue fountain? Gay sex is just like straight sex, except without the designer bedsheets, the twelve pillow shams and the stubborn lube stains.

But this movie isn't about sex. This movie is about True Love. And True Love can't be about sex can it? Because all this time, we've been telling ourselves it's the relationship that matters. And if it wasn't about sex, well, then we're totally fucked.

I don't think this movie is gonna change anybody's mind about gay people. It may change people's mind about Anne Hathaway though. Lovely, innocent, pristine Anne Hathaway, the star of the Disney movie The Princess Diaries blinds us with ten seconds of her smooth, milky white boobs. I think if I were I a straight guy, I would sit through two hours of True Gay Love just for a glimpse of those boobs. God knows, I sat through two hours of A Home at the End of the World for two blurred seconds of Colin Farrell's balls.

What will change the minds of people is if this movie makes money. Because that's all people really care about. That's all politicians and businesses care about. It doesn't matter what the fucking right wing conservatives think. They don't matter.

The good news is that this is a really good movie, maybe even a Great Movie, so you don't have to suffer through it or anything. I'm sure you've suffered through a really, really bad two-hour dinner just because you wanted to fuck the brains out of some really hot dish and I'm not talking about a warm apple pie. So go watch the movie already. Merry Christmas, you big homo.

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Washer and Dryer in Unit

When I saw the listing a couple of months ago for our apartment, there was a long list of upscale features and amenities, but I couldn't read past the words "washer and dryer in unit." It was like the words were a roar in my ear: washeranddryerinunit, jumbling all over themselves in tumble dry low.

Up until now, I had to take our laundry out to the local laundromat where Brian and I would meet up with a group of other non-washeranddryerinunits. We are the Laundry Gang, as if making a name for ourselves makes us more cool and exclusive. We would drink coffee and lament our washless, dryless station in life as we looked enviously at other individuals who were obviously doing shopping, laughing, enjoying life and definitely not doing laundry.

These are people who put their dirty, soiled clothes directly into units in their homes when they are otherwise unoccupied: watching tv, washing dishes, crank-calling their grandmothers. They probably have so much time, they are the people that chat with those pesky telemarketers. I mean, somebody must talking to them otherwise, there would be no money to be made in telemarketing.

They probably have no use for a gigantic laundry hamper, needed to store a weeklong pile of soiled clothes. We have three. They are blue, cylindrical and made of a tough vinyl cloth. If you tip all three of them on their side, it makes our place look like a hamster habitrail.

But ever since I moved in with the washer and dryer, I no longer had to hang out with the Laundry Gang, those pathetic, deprived individuals. But I will anyway; I like to feel smug.

I felt like I was the United States and they were the Third World, their mouths hanging and their eyes round as if our new appliances were hot, buttered loaves of bread. I want to tell them about all the advanced features just to be cruel. I'm just human.

The first week, I did laundry every night. I separated the cold wash from the hot wash, the delicates from the perma-press. I got excited at the sorting possibilities, I no longer have to throw everything in the same load to save money at the laundromat. I grew creative with my sorting: work clothes, formal attire, casual sex clothes. I sorted whites, colors, my glow-in-the-darks (which are perfect for the backroom at The Ram).

I remember once, I had thrown in a single pair of white briefs with the colors because I had already started the load of whites. I could make a joke about white loads here, but that's why the briefs needed to be washed.

Anyway, the briefs must have decided to elope with my red sweatshirt while it was in there because when it came out, it was pink.

I still wear that pair of now-pink briefs as a reminder of my folly, my ineptitude, and because it was quite lovely. You could never buy pink briefs because they don’t make 'em that way. And even if they did, I wouldn't have the nerve to buy them.

I wish I could 'accidentally' drop my red sweatshirt along with a white silk handkerchief and a doily into the washer and it would magically come out as a pair of lacy, pink silk panties. I would be so giddy with joy.

But even if I don't need to go to the laundromat ever again, I don't think I could stop going. These poor washeranddryerinunit-less people who I hang out with have become my good friends. Our weekly laundry sessions are just a reason for us to get together, enjoy each other's company and to be friends.

For that, I would gladly trek across town to do laundry, have coffee and pretend to not have washer and dryer in our unit.

Bubbling

You know, an automatic seat warmer in a car is a wonderful thing--except if you have bubbling super-explosive diarrhea.

I mean, I love my trusty Jetta. It has all sorts of handy dandy little features like the seat warmers; power windows and doors; the automatic gay announcer. It’s peppy, it’s cute and so convenient for carting a bunch of fags around town.

Today is Casual Friday and it is always a dilemma for me. This is the one day I get to express my individuality. So, this morning I was running late because it took half an hour for me to decide whether a thong was too dressy for Casual Friday.

As I was putting the final touches to my outfit, I felt a little twinge in my stomach that by experience I know is a precursor to SCB--Super Colon Blow, the deadliest of diarrhea. It must be the tacos I had from that neighborhood Mexican restaurant last night.

But I was running late and it was just a twinge. Maybe it'll go away. I'm always optimistic in the morning. It is only after I wake up that my whole world turns to crap. I just hoped that today it wouldn't be literal. I forgot to bring any reading material.

Freezing today, I turn on the seat warmers. Big mistake. Eight minutes after I drive away, the warmth emanating from the seat traveled from my ass to my stomach, like the flame under a wok, a wok which I’d like to use to brain the guy at the gym who keeps cruising my boyfriend. I clench my butt together in an effort to staunch the impending eruption and exercise my glutes at the same time. If I could hold on for another twelve minutes, I would be at work and relief. A little later, you could probably bounce a quarter on my ass from the exercise.

It was the longest twelve minutes in my life, bar none. It reminded me of the shortest twelve minutes of my life when I met the love of my life whom I had met online and was feverishly exchanging gooey instant messages. It ended when he sent me his picture.

I could also tell you about the longest eleven minutes of my life, except it doesn’t really count because it was more like a series of 20-second intervals of holding my breath while giving a blowjob to a one-night stand who had serious body odor. I’m sure the guy had put on deodorant, but after hours of dancing and sweating, it wore off. It was BAD, but I bravely blew on--I had to be true to myself and my reputation as a slut.

You know how when you’re trying to hold off the inevitable, how excruciating it is, just like that time when I had to tell a guy I wasn't going to bed with him after he bought a $200 lobster dinner? I didn't know how to tell him I already had crabs...

When I finally got to work and dumped my load, it was like salvation or an enema, I don’t know which. Either way, I was 0.73 lbs lighter.

All I can say is thank God for butt-wipes, you know, those "personal moist wipes." I’m glad we figured out that not only babies needed those wipes. They came in handy today. I felt fresh as Daisy Fuentes afterwards.

I think that the Mexican restaurant I went to should really provide single-use butt wipes along with their take-out food, like wet-naps, you know, as a service to their customers.

I know I would’ve appreciated it.

You Made Me The Thief Of Your Heart

Check out my new remix:



You Made Me The Thief Of Your Heart
(DJ Evil Twin's Celtic Magic Remix)
Sinead O'Connor
DL @ bestsharing*
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*If you are using Firefox, the song downloads, but may need to be renamed to a .mp3 extension.



More DJ Evil Twin

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

Holiday Spirit

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)

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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.

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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)

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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.


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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.

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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.