Friday, February 29, 2008

Getting the Party Started

The Mardi Gras parade is on tonight. The thing is, at the parade here the floats are surrounded by a contingent of marchers who do choreographed routines. It's all very visually stunning, but my friend Matthew is marching and he's been rehearsing all week.

He comes home each night exhausted after being lambasted by a militant lesbian who has choreographed nothing short of a production number from Flashdance. Apparently, she's got little patience for his lack of formal dance training. In front of all the other dancers she'll use her bullhorn to scream at him. "I said step LEFT! No. Your other LEFT!"

The lesbian has even put the choreography onto youtube so he can practice privately at home. The humiliation has really whipped him into shape.

Yeah. Sydney's Mardi Gras is no joke. It's unreal. Listen to the roster of fagnets who are here:

Margaret Cho,
Cyndi Lauper,
Olivia Newton-John,
and Kathy Griffin....who flew down on a "Pink Flight" with drag queen flight attendants. Air New Zealand even wrapped a pink boa around the jumbo jet and put big pink eyelashes on it!

Tickets have already sold out for the all-night party. Cyndi is rumoured to do a surprise set around 4 am, and Olivia Newton-John is performing around 8. How do you spell X-A-N-A-D-U?!

Oh, and Bam Bam just arrived yesterday so all is well in the world.

Bad Behavior

You'd think I've reached the age where I stop getting kicked out of bars. Then again, they keep serving me.

At Sydney's Midnight Shift, a devastating remix of Belinda Carlisle's "Summer Rain" inspired several of my signature round-offs, with a one-armed cartwheel finale. I was forcibly ejected (you think I went willingly?) for "endangering the welfare of other patrons."

Next, I heave my drunken bones to Oxford Bar which is too jam-packed for any gymnastics, so you'd think they'd be safe. Wrong. I start talking to locals against a wall. I notice the wall is peeling, or at least it could be peeled off in large, luscious pieces. So I begin to peel away at it, because this task is infinitely more interesting than the conversation I'm having.

I find that I can chip off huge chunks, with lots of plaster coming off, too. For some reason, I cannot stop doing this. Larger and larger chunks of plaster are artistically peeled off and fall to the ground, shattering into a pile of debris.

Out of the corner of my eye, I spot an angry barmaid heading my way. I stop my handiwork and attempt innocence, re-introducing myself into the nearby conversation.

Angry barmaid huffs by my side. "What do you think you're doing?"

Me: Nothing.
Maid: Yes, you were, I saw you ripping down the wall here (indicates pile of rubble).
Me: It wasn't put up very well, was it?
Maid: That's vandalism.
Me: (clutching pearls) Are you calling me a vandal?
Maid: You are a vandal.
Me: Oh my god, I love that word.

The vandal was quickly escorted off the premises. His whereabouts after that point are hazy.

Thursday, February 28, 2008

Wednesday, February 27, 2008

Puggles and Wombats

Hit the Taronga Zoo yesterday.
It's all about lifestyle in Sydney. Even the giraffes enjoy full city views.

The Echidna is an egg-laying mammal (ok!) You should see the way this thing wobbles as it walks.

I spent lots of time at the zoo with a volunteer named Helen who manned her own booth. She stood surrounded by a treasure trove of taxidermied bandicoots, sugar gliders and various other fauna. Helen is a wealth of information.

The first thing she picked up to show me was a tiny dead little platypus. You’d think a platypus is bigger than it really is, which is only about the length of my forearm. So I thought hers was a baby platypus. "Oh no, this isn't a puggle," she replied. A puggle?

"Baby platypuses are called puggles," explained Helen. I told you she was a wealth of information.

Helen then moved on to the wombat. I thought wombats were more round and cuddly than the long stuffed animal she's got, and Helen admits hers is a bit distended. The taxidermist created a sort of "stretch" version of a wombat.

The wombat is a digger. It loves to dig big burrows and its sole way to fend off predators is with an ass of steel. Helen claims that many a dead dog has been found crushed to death in a wombat burrow, killed by that rock hard ass. “But Helen,” I ask. “How does a wombat wield its ass…as a weapon?”

Here Helen is a bit stumped, so I prod further. “Could you demonstrate that maneuver for me?”

"I might try," answers Helen, "If my bottom were as rock hard as that of a wombat." At this point, Helen raps her fist against the rump of the stuffed wombat. “Feel how hard, like a rock!”

As Helen spanks the wombat, you can see a stuffed dingo is attempting to suckle her right breast, which is perfectly understandable given Helen’s nurturing qualities.

She had me at puggle.

Monday, February 25, 2008

What's my name? What's yours?

I lost so much more than one entire day in the always epic, never underestimated cross-continental, cross-pacific, cross-cocktailing trip to Australia.

I wobbled off the plane with more chemicals in my system than Heath Ledger--and just in time to present the Sydney's Mardi Gras Film Festival's screening of A Four Letter Word, which played to a sold out house. I introduce the film with something like, "I'd like to thank the good people of Australia for supporting a film that the Academy of Motion Pictures and Arts so blatantly snubbed this year."

Afterward, the Darlinghurst Bookshop sponsored a booksigning of You Can Run. I was jetlagged and vulnerable. They'd buy a copy and tell me "My name is Tom," so I floridly signed the book away. "For Scott..."

"Who's Scott?" asks Tom.
"You're not Scott?"
"I'm Tom."
"Are you sure?"

Friday, February 22, 2008

Who Wants to Feel GAY?

They say when emotions run too high for mere speech, we resort to song. And when emotions run too high for song, there's dance. When you've got it put those two together, you've got gay. When I say gay, I am of course referring to happy.

In honor of feeling gay, let me present my runner up for GAYEST VIDEO ON THE WEB.

This clip will make you smile, make you tingle, make you feel something very very gay.

These are the lyrics, as sung by Alison Jiear in the kick-ass clip below (musical montage mania!):

“I’m tired of laughing and I’m tired of crying. I’m tired of failing and I’m tired of always trying. I want to do some living because I’ve done enough of dying. I just want to dance, I just want to …f'ing dance!”




Because I'm appalled that studio legends like Cyd Charisse and Ann Miller failed to appear in that last clip, I now present: THE GAYEST VIDEO ON THE WEB!

It disappeared on Youtube for a while, but I'm thrilled to find it's resurfaced on Yahoo. Each time Ann twirls back to into the kitchen, I fear she'll be smashed, and each time she just bearly makes it. Gets me every time.

Bam Bam is really sick of this one. I keep rewinding it to the part where Ann rips off that apron and smiles from ear to ear. I play it long, I play it often. If this doesn't put a smile on your face, you are definitely not gay.



Why do you have to make a big production out of everything? Ha! I want this one played at my funeral. Click For a pic of me with Ann (before her funeral).

Should I be concerned?

The USDA just ordered the largest meat recall in US history. Does that include the...BALLS?

Thursday, February 21, 2008

Sometimes you Feel Like a Nut

In Denver, we went out of our way to find and eat and learn about "Rocky Mountain Oysters." Colorado is landlocked, so "Oyster" is a fancy euphemism: keeping you from thinking about the fact these are actually BULL TESTICLES you're eating.

Yes, migrant workers are responsible for "harvesting" these "oysters" from the bulls' ballsack once they have reached the proper weight and heft. The good thing is, the bull doesn't have to die. It just gets its balls snipped. So I'm left with many questions:

Is it meat? Can I still be vegetarian?
After eating a testicle, will my testosterone levels increase?
How many oysters can you eat in one sitting?
They eat dogs in China, so is there such thing as a Beijing oyster?
Does Pres. Bush's policy on immigration affect the oyster harvest?
Do the oysters squirt juice when you bite down into them?

I put these questions to the staff of Denver's the Fort Restaurant (cream of the crop when it comes to serving Rocky Mountain Oysters), and all on film. Our director Francis called the restaurant to say that I was the host for an MTV pilot (!)....and we wanted to shoot in the restaurant. Not only did the Fort accommodate our request, they comped our entire "meal."

One Rocky Mountain Oyster (also called Cowboy Caviar) is so huge (like an ostrich egg) that it's sliced and diced up, then smashed with a mallet, covered with a batter and fried. This is what arrived before me at the Fort Restaurant...with a tangy salsa dip. The camera rolls and I begin to procrastinate, saying things like "This is Nuts!"

Then I go for it.

I eat several and the oysters do not squirt. They are soft, like chewy marshmallows. "I'm having a BALL!" I say, while interviewing the staff. I ask if anyone has eaten a RAW testicle, and the maƮtre d' says no. So naturally (for the glory, for the MTV pilot!) I want to be the first. A raw ball is brought out from the kitchen and placed before me. A sliced up slithering wet...testicle.

"But I'm a vegetarian," I scream and plop an oversized pink slice into my mouth, but it gets stuck, hanging clammy wet over my lip and onto my chin. Somehow I manage to push it back into my mouth and swallow, but then I start to gag. I can't believe it--after a 12 year absence, my gag reflex makes a return! On film!

Stay tuned for the footage...

Tuesday, February 19, 2008

Bunk House

The second day of our Playgirl photo shoot took us up to Breckenridge to the Bunkhouse Lodge, which is a gay B&B cabin, built in 1904. It's got cubbyholes, crawlspaces, and tons of Rocky Moutain charm including: an antler chandelier, fireplace, and a treasure trove of...things.

The coyote on the wall was roadkill, explained the owner. He scooped it off the street and had it stuffed (at cost!)

What's going on here? Goldilocks has found the hard bed. Or is that hard on the bed? We had 7 straight guys on the shoot. Between them all, they possess arrest records, assault charges and restraining orders, but they also (without a doubt) all possess hearts of gold.

Bunkhouse guests were shocked and amused when they returned from a day of skiing to find a hot tub full of boy soup.

After discovering a dead grizzly upstairs, I decided to add some high-camp to the bunkhouse.
Who can resist high altitude nudity...on a bearskin rug?

Monday, February 18, 2008

Creator of All Coney Dogs

Colorado: Friendly people, fresh air, and bumper stickers that read:

"I knew you in the womb" -- God

Colorado has democratic lawmakers, even a democratic governor so in truth, it's a purple state. So why is it officially red? Driving up to Breckenridge, not even the breathtaking Rocky Mountains could distract me from this A&W billboard. It may just explain everything.

Was not this great nation founded on the separation of church and fast food?

Can I find a passage about miracle Coney Dogs in the book of Colossians?

What, precisely, are chees fries curds? Did Jesus eat them? Should I?

Maybe things have changed in the bible since I last took a peek, but: Wasn't it God who knew me (and the murdered Coney Dog) in the womb? Wasn't it also God who created Jesus?

Either it's time for me to re-read Colossians, or the christians in Colorado are so stupid they think Saddam Hussein was creator of 9/11. Whoops, I mean Jesus is creator of all!

Wednesday, February 13, 2008

Go by Rail!

Here in the Mile High City--(make that a mile and 8 stories high)--after a very long night. On the JetBlue flight, we were alerted not to eat any peanut products because someone was severely allergic. Like what, she'll swell up and die if she smells a peanut on my breath?

The flight was not without its drama, as someone else nearly died (an old man, not peanut related) and an announcement was made: "Is there a medical professional on the plane?" At which point our flight attendant Barbara bravely abandoned her tray of blue potato chips and ran down the aisle with a stethescope. Talk about turbulence!

At the baggage carousel, one of our bags (with equipment) went missing and then when we get to the Hertz rent-a-car they won't let us rent-a-car because the person with the license doesn't have a credit card and the person with a credit card doesn't have a license. Moving on...

Two of the Playgirl staff were smart enough to find an alternate route to Colorado: Amtrak. With air travel in such a state, the scenic route has become the most efficient. Not only that, they tell us there's actually cell phone service in Iowa! Who knew?

Of course, it's always about the journey not the destination.



This powdery photo was snapped enroute.

Playgirl Does Denver!

Leaving tonight. I'll be blogging this weekend for Playgirl--from Denver--where they've got a seven man shoot. Pun intended.


We've got lots to accomplish: a morning radio show, a trip to Breckenridge, a meet & greet, parties, go-go dancing at Tracks club, and miscellaneous mayhem. I've been getting several emails detailing these various events from a woman named Amy at Playgirl. I've never met Amy, but I've been told she's married and really sweet.

So for some reason, I can't stop picturing her as this cuddly older woman, like the principal's assistant from Ferris Buehler's Day Off. I'm just certain it's that kind of nurturing bubbliness behind emails like:

"Can we plan on shooting 3-4 of the circle jerk guys on Friday?"

Red state, here comes trouble!

Monday, February 11, 2008

An Anonymous Woman

For some reason I find myself on the street at rush hour. Thousands are rushing around, and as I look up to see them speed by, I notice a woman rushing toward me. Her face is scrunched up and at first I think she's laughing. She approaches (so fast, with all the others) and I see quite clearly she isn't laughing at all. She is crying, desperately. Tears race down her face.

In New York City, everything happens on the street. The millions of others buffer us from having to feel much of anything at all so that when you do feel something, like this woman, you quickly discover that buffer is actually a great human wall that not only doesn't feel very much, it doesn't even notice you at all.

On another day, open suffering in the street would be an inspiration. Despite her pain, she is carrying along; destroyed, but functional. She's a metaphor. And yet today I'm not inspired because frankly I've been feeling *gloomy* lately, and she's more than a metaphor. She's a person.

I'm haunted by her image and I want to do something, maybe give her a smile. Just a tiny gesture to let her know that someone actually saw her, and then briefly I think maybe she doesn't want to be noticed. Maybe she really just wants to blend in and hide.

The woman passes by quickly and now it's too late, the opportunity lost. There's nothing I can do because she's swallowed up by the masses and gone forever; alone, anonymous.

Bag Balm Betty

Neighbor Dan continues playing attention-deficit career pinball. First it was hairdressing, then hotel management. This year he's up in Michigan training to become a nurse (don't ask).

Part of his training includes working at the local nursing home.

I used to volunteer at my local nursing home, helping them play Bingo. If Bingo is not your idea of fun, try playing it for an old lady who has no idea what it spells, or even who she is, so when she wins a game of Bingo and you call it out for her "Bingo!" her eyes don't even light up. Now I'm volunteering with homeless youth and their eyes don't light up either, but I digress. Back to Dan.

In Dan's nursing home there is an old woman so massively obese, she doesn't get out of bed. Ever. Betty's been bed ridden ever since entering the nursing home. Dan doesn't think she could get out of bed if she tried--her bones couldn't handle the tonnage. Her legs, he says, are turning outward at the knees and her toes are curling up like the wicked witch of the east.

Betty's got everything she needs within reaching distance, and she's a major packrat. A bedside table is full of remotes, stamps, readers digest, stuffed animals, crumbs, mail and her blankets are littered with gumballs, candy bars and little snacky-poos. This is how and where Betty will spend the rest of her life, watching re-runs of MacGyver on the television.

There's not much for Betty to look forward to, but there is at least one thing. And this is way better than Bingo. Read on:

Since Betty doesn't get up to shower, shit or piss, she gets occasional bed sores which can be exacerbated by the uric acid in urine and the bacteria in the shit. According to Dan, she never talks about the weight, never ever. Betty blames a bed sore on her bed, not on her excessive weight. So to ward off the bed sores, Betty gets rubbed down with Bag Balm-- a salve used primarily on cows udders, to protect them from all the tugging and yanking.

After Dan changes her XXX-large diapers and cleans off the piss and poo (another story entirely) he applies the bag balm. However, its not just like putting on a layer of lotion and presto! your done. Dan has to dig under the many folds of her bottomless ass and labia. "It's like putting bag balm on Jabba the Hut," he says, "if Jabba the Hut were an endless vagina."

Although this is an unlucky chore for Dan, he believes Bag Balm Betty looks forward to the treatment.

As he's digging up into the hyper-fleshy meat of her labial/clitoral region with the bag balm to make sure it's all in there (and in there good), Bag Balm Betty always says, soothingly, “You’re doing such an amazing job.”

Sunday, February 10, 2008

Only In My Dreams

So guess what happened lastnight:

I’m at the beach at some sort of convention hall where you’re supposed to pay to stay—but I didn’t have to pay, I was in some kind of a performance piece being held there. A bunch of people from my past, that I didn’t really like or even know all that well, were there and saw the show—which was great, because nobody was going to see it otherwise.

Then they morphed into a convention of people that I assumed were retarded, but when I asked, “Are they retarded?” I was told “No, they’re not retarded, they’re actually very intelligent.” To which I said, “Intelligent? Or just intelligent for retarded people?”

Then one of the intelligent, but retarded people——invited me on a walk down the beach, to one of the shopping districts on the other end. I went with her—but suddenly she was driving a cart. I thought she wanted to walk—like, to get some exercise, because she’s overweight and she told me she’s from the desert (Arizona?) where they don’t do much walking.

We carted it down to the shopping district where a Chef who I’m distantly related to, and other distantly related relatives are preparing a meal. The Chef (he’s a renowned Chef) has caught two large (supersize!) Octopi. He’s about to put them in the steaming pot to cook them. He grabs one octopus by the tentacles and tosses it inside. Its head is as big as a basketball.

The second octopus escapes, and squishes up its body to slither (wow!) under the first door. It's funny to see because the thing is actually running on all eight tentacles, as if they were legs. I’m told to follow it, ostensibly to catch it, but in fact I find it at the final door to this restaurant, and it’s stuck because it’s a glass door that goes all the way to the floor. I open the door to purposely free it. It escapes, and rushes toward the ocean, although now it looks sort of like a crocodile. Maybe just because it’s such a big fucking octopus.

It makes it to the ocean alive, and I go back to the table where the Chef and others (me included) finish eating the tentacles of the other cooked octopus. They lament the loss of the other octopus, but don’t question me about how it escaped, or even if I helped it live. We want to eat more octopus, but there is no more—and in fact we only eat the tentacles, we don’t actually eat the body of the cooked octopus. Someone at the table tells me that we’re donating the rest of the “carcass” to a poor local family.

This all took place in my subconscious, but what does it mean? How did I connect freeing octopi with intelligent retards? Can anyone interpret? To shed some light on your dreams, or to contribute your own subconscious adventures, try going to the world dream bank.

Saturday, February 09, 2008

Globetrotting

There's something distressing about realizing the size of the world and the fact you can't possibly begin to see everything or go everywhere in this blink of a lifetime. Once you surrender to that fact, I suppose you've fully matured. I'm just not there yet.

I never prepare to travel until the night before, usually in a mad fury of packing when I get home from a bar. Yet yesterday for some reason I thought of my passport (my favorite possession) and remembered: I only have one spot left for a visa stamp. Only one little spot!

This means if I went to Australia, and stamped that last spot, maybe they wouldn't let me back here? Would that be all so bad? Anyway...

I rushed uptown to the passport center to send my little baby to Virginia for them to add more pages. This happened to my last passport, too, had to send it in for more pages...but they called it "mutilated" (it was, from South America) and forced me get a new one.

This new one's only three years old, and already all grown up. I'm a very proud parent.

Friday, February 08, 2008

Dream day/blow Job?!

Get this: I've been hired by PLAYGIRL---! And this is so much better than my last dream job.

I was at their last group model session to document the experience as their on-site blogger. In other words, I'm getting paid by to document the experience of being surrounded by six naked men during their nude Playgirl photo/solo jerk-off sessions. I'll be sure to provide a link to the sexually charged findings once they post my blog to their site.

Next weekend we head to Denver for a new shoot with a whole new cast of boys. NYC Party Promoter Daniel Nardicio of Dlist is involved, so there's bound to be a ton of local press and ingenious mayhem (surely involving delicious Rocky Mountain oysters) in the red state of Colorado.

Check out the boys from out latest Manhattan shoot. (Yup, the Viagra's taken effect!)

If you recognize a few of the men above as gay go-go's or porn stars it's because...they are! Playgirl is totally coming out of the closet--and although I was merely hired to blog, I'm a multi-tasker at heart.

At a certain point, one model couldn't get a hard on for the camera. The director bluntly asks: "Do we have any fluffers in here?"

Meekly, I look around. I'm sorry, did someone just call my name? As if by magic (and because I like to be helpful), my hand raises.

Finally, I can check that off the list.

Wednesday, February 06, 2008

Dipstick Bungle

That's what I'm calling it. Switch a couple letters: It's a new television series premiering tomorrow. I've worked several times on this show, here's the scoop:

Dipstick Bungle follows three forty-ish career women in New York City. It's even based on a book by the same writer that created Carrie Bradshaw. This is what they do with "art": something is created so expertly, so successfully that the formula gets repeated over and over. It becomes so well watered down that soon you find you are watching a tired, trite, regurgitated facsimile of an original that actually had something to say.

And thus N B C has spent millions on Dipstick Jungle: hackneyed stepsister of SATC.

This new s eries stars none other than the luminous actress and woman who starred to great success in Pretty Baby, Blue Lagoon, and Calvin Klein Jeans. Today, she remains as luminous as ever. She's one of those stars that may worry people will assume she's a bitch, so she goes out of her way to be extra nice to all and sundry that surround her. She's an absolute dream.

Another actress is the blonde. She's not pretty, but pretty in a produced kind of way. She's the kind of woman you'd look at in passing and think--yea-she's pretty. But you wouldn't turn around to make sure. This lady's got a little upturned bump on the end of her nose that they're always fussing with the lights to make look flat, and she uses a body double for any sex scene where she's required to show more than a lower leg, and frankly she's not even very nice which is easily explained when you remember that she's only passingly pretty and not devastatingly, knock-you-out stunning like her co-star from the Blue Lagoon.

So I forgive her, mostly, for not making eye contact with PA's or AD's or stand-ins like me.

In the blonde's Dipstick Bungle storyline, she's cheating on her husband with a very hot young man (played by an actor who off-camera is an incredible wit and a gem of a gentleman) who would have absolutely no reason to want to be with this character because (as pointed out) she ain't that pretty, nor that young, and with everything he's got going for him, he's way out of her league.

Not only that, she's a complete bitch. She's married, so when she comes over to his apartment, she orders him around and makes up rules such as "if we see each other in public we do not know each other" and "no falling in love" and "no pet names" and if this doesn't send your mind racing back to the love tunnel at recess...she writes these rules on a chalkboard, just so they can remember.

After all this, the amateur scriptwriters have him and his rock hard bod begging for more of this middle-aged bossy mess of a semi-sorta pretty married woman. Then, they fuck. What's his motivation?? Oh yeah, he's actually in bed with a body double.

If the amateur plot isn't enough to make you want to tune in to this multi-million dollar bungle, consider the following dialogue and feel feel feel for the actors:

In one scene, blonde woman is at the apartment of her hot young lover man. He's massaging her feet and then suddenly (without any thanks -he is rubbing her feet, after all!) she decides she has to go, and barks:

"Give me back my feet!"

To which he responds:

"Not if you're going to use them to walk away from me."

If that banter isn't enough to invoke the gag reflex, then she gets up and goes to her bathroom because presumably before a woman leaves she must crimp her hair, or powder her nose, or maybe check to see the status of the little bump on the end of her nose. She's in there doing whatever it is, and he leans against the bathroom door to ask her:

"How long will you be gone?"

"Not long," she says, aloof, and he laments:

"Not long....Is still too long."

Yeah. Not long is still too long...for this show to air. And now to answer that burning question:

Yes, this was actually written before the writer's strike.

Tuesday, February 05, 2008

VOTE--

It's a four-letter word.

I hoofed it down to my polling station on Avenue D. It's in a large and looming housing project, and once inside I'm told the gi-normous voting machine (picture a double wide communist grey refridgerator) is broken, and they're "calling a technician."

I have the choice to either...wait for said technician, or go ahead and vote on an "official" paper ballot, like a scantron from high school (placed here in the extremely likely event that big bertha--our voting monstrosity- is not operating like she was back in her 1950's heydey).

"I'll just...fill in the bubbles," I tell this very unamused woman who will then look up my name. Here we go.

"Archer," I tell her. "H?" She says. "A," I repeat nicely, "For Archer."

I'm looking over her shoulder and can tell that she is whisking through the letter "H" looking for what? Hillary? Houdini? Homosexual? Surprisingly, she can't find my name.

"Can't find it," she says. God, I hope hope hope she's a volunteer.

How do I go about this judiciously? Because I don't want her to rip up my official "paper ballot" or to cunningly switch my vote to McCain (why is his face falling off?), and also because I really do want to encourage the American public to learn to alphabetize, I can't make her feel stupid or she'll just resist trying to distinguish an A from an H.

It's really in everyone's best interest to just calmly, plainly, soothingly repeat myself--make her think it was my mistake. "It's under A," I say very sweet and nice, like I did the first time. "For Archer."

"Oh, Archer" she says, "I thought it was under H." Oh honey, I know you did!

I'm then left to fill out my scantron bubble, fold my paper, and once I put it in a very unofficial looking "official" voting cardboard box, which looks like any old moving box, I leave wondering (as I'm often left wondering): what in the hell difference will it make?

White-Eyed Girl

Just yesterday my friend Francis told me (unsolicited, mind you) how he got his ass shaved for the very first time in his life. He was very frightened, but he overcame those fears to please his boyfriend who says his bum now reminds him of a soft and lovely...lilypad.

If that's not enough--my friend Scott just today sent me the link from Daily Candy to a product that promises to lighten up your...lilypad.

That's right-- discover "Bunglow 8" --the cream that bleaches your asshole...so it'll blend in with your natural skin tone. Now you can safely and easily lighten that spot where the sun could very well shine. It's all the rage in Miami.

No word yet on whether the line will add assorted other Bunglow hues in the future. If and when this happens, you'll where to look.

Monday, February 04, 2008

G'Day, SOS!

After having their own float in last year's Mardi Gras parade...Sydney's beaches have been hit with a wave of new gay and lesbian lifesavers according to the Sydney Morning Herald.

Gay lifesavers at Tamarama (aka "Glamarama") beach.

Apparently, their numbers have doubled since last year. Later this month, I'll be heading to Sydney where A Four Letter Word will be playing at their Mardi Gras Film Festival. I'll be sure to take time out for an in-person update from Bondi Beach.

Below is a pic I took last year as the lifesavers lined up for the Mardi Gras Parade. They almost make an offshore cardiac arrest sound appealing.

Sunday, February 03, 2008

Call me UNLADY-LIKE

This weekend sports two perfect excuses to party: groundhogs day (sorry, six more weeks of winter), and the superbowl (which teams are playing?).

Lastnight, my friends Peter and Kent held a raging party at their place in Chelsea. They hired hot muscly bartenders, and one was this ripped up straight boy who remembered me from when we modeled together in our underwear in Times Square. Chris.

I asked Chris what he really wanted to do (eventually) with his life and he says music...maybe write music. I said maybe we could work together because (eventually) I'd like to write lyrics. "For which kinda music?" he asks. And I'm embarrassed to answer so stereotypically: "Musicals."

"Oh," he says. "I saw a musical once," he racks his brain. "Uh...Meet me in St. Louis." Bless his heart. Hot straight Chris. I doubt we'll ever make music together.

I was mainly just happy to be invited to this party. It was the first of their parties I've been back to since they blackballed me two years ago. Yes, yours truly was persona non-grata; unwanted, 86'd, made redundant.

I was blackballed because (gasp!) at one of their parties two years ago I was discovered giving blowjobs in their restroom. This they thought "tacky" and unladylike. Tacky and unladylike? I was only being courteous! As promised under the conditions of my parole, there were no blowjobs given at their roaring party lastnight.

Today there are two superbowl parties to attend--I actually can't stand football. My father used to get into a rage whenever his team didn't win (the Seattle Seahawks--and they never won, trust me). So I refuse to watch the game, and thankfully at these parties today I won't have to. I will be found giving blowjobs in the bathroom.

Be a man on Superbowl Sunday. Sack that tight end!

Saturday, February 02, 2008

Perception is Reality

Recently I was in a SoHo high-rise with Cooldan. The view was of rooftops and watertowers, and the clouds were, well, right out of an expressionist painting. So I said it.

"The view looks just like a painting!"

CoolDan looked at me kinda funny.

"Isn't it supposed to be the other way around?" he said, "Art is supposed to represent life. Life is not supposed to look like art." True.

So how did reality and illusion become so intertwined? I wonder if this confusion, this..disconnection from our natural world...isn't the crux of what's wrong with humans today.

This past weekend, I went to the natural world.

My friend Stephen was kind enough to take me to magical Sedona. It's red sandstone cliffs have been immortalized by Disney rollercoasters, it's beauty is legendary, and this beauty has been enhancing the influx of tourist dollars ever since it was designated by 1980's new-agers as an "Energy Vortex".

Magestic (and magical) Sedona, Arizona

An energy vortex, they claim "is an area of invisible, swirling energy emanating from the earth and producing an uplifting, rejuvenating sensation in visitors."

Brochures explain there are 11 vortexes around the world including Stonehenge, Easter Island, ...yes, and SEDONA, ARIZONA! Kinda makes you want to sacrifice a goat beneath a burning pentagram? You're in luck. Sedona is chock full of palmists, hypnotists, soothsayers, and hippies.
Need new healing crystals, Hopi Indian pottery, or finger cymbals? Stock up in Sedona!

Stephen and I decided we needed to find out about this Vortex. He generously took me on a two-hour guided tour. Make me a believer!

The tourist agency tells us that the vortexes are either masculine or feminine --and for a hippie concoction, these vortices are typically sexist. A masculine vortex provides a feeling of energy and confidence, while a feminine vortex offers a calming, soothing sensation to visitors.

Cathedral Rock is a feminine vortex. Do I have to wear a skirt?

At one point we step out of our jeep. Our guide David (kind, knowledgeable, and in many ways a man I'd like to emulate) spots a raven and a hawk flying together in the sky.

"The Raven is the native american symbol of idealism and diplomacy, and the Hawk is the messenger," he says, zen-like. What does all this mean?

"This perfectly symbolizes the prophecy that somewhere between the years 2012 and 2015 there will be a massive shift in human consciousness."

What rock have I been hiding under? Was it gender-neutral? How did I miss this memo? I ask about the shift in consciousness, and he tells me "it predicts the arrival of the white buffalo and the 1,000 years of peace."

David is a regular Nostradamus.

Is this human history he predicts? If so, we have about four years to quickly rework the planet into one giant feminine vortex. May I suggest the white buffalo arrive with a shitload of Xanax?

Finishing our tour, David looks across the expansive red rocks. Then he mutters to himself, "Thank you, Great Spirit."

Great Spirit? I guess it sounds much better than "God" but still I'm thinking, whoa. This guy's spent too long sniffing patchouli in the tee-pee tent. Like, totally woo-woo.

At the same time I can't help noticing he's totally present with us. His speech is calm and soothing, like a feminine vortex (maybe it does exist...?), and the way he admires the natural beauty around us (how many years has he done this same tour?) never betrays any boredom.

It's clear he's never lost that sense of wonder; he never lost that sense of "wow." And he never once said the scenery looked like a painting.

Friday, February 01, 2008

Don't Forget Dan

I'm prone to panic this week. It's like Day of the Locust around here. The mise-en-scene is in place for Milk It promises to be a splashy splay of revisionist history circa 1978.
Encroaching crowds of costumed Castro clones are milling around like nervous dress-extras. The stage is set for a paint-by-numbers Gus Van Zant project. Starring Sean Penn as the canonized camera store clerk, the film has been cast with Hollywood's hottest heartthrobs. The former stepson of Barbra Streisand, Josh Brolin is appropriately cast as the troubled Twinkie boy, Dan White.
The former supervisor assassinated both Milk and Mayor George Moscone on a late November day in 1978. White's lawyers were able to negotiate a double manslaughter rap. Allegedly, he pleaded temporary insanity due to irregular blood sugar levels from eating too many Twinkies. He served 6 years.

The gays demanded vigilante justice. Violent riots swept through the city in monumental proportions. Dan White was portrayed as the devil and Milk as the saintly equivalent

Thirty years later, the plot gets thicker. According to the San Francisco Weekly rumors are swirling that the boyish, baby faced Irish Catholic favorite son was grappling with his own sexuality.

In summary, he killed two people, served 6 years and ultimately committed suicide in his car. His widow still lives in the house they shared in the Sunset district.
If I understand it correctly, the gays wanted an eye-for an-eye justice model to vindicate the assassintations and resented what was perceived as an easy out for White gained from a nepotistical old guard boy's network.
It seems they had the wrong idea.
I don't expect the issues to flesh out in the film because Milk will be fictionalized.

There is no way one man should be scapegoated for the sins of a culture.

Ray Sloan's story in the SF Weekly article was the first account I had heard that referred to Dan White as a human being instead of a monster of epic darkness. The producers of the film did not consult him as a reference for historical accuracy.

Dan White was not a murdering monster. He was just troubled.

Dan White was survived by his parents, several siblings and a wife and daughter. He had an Irish temper, a Vietnam record and was allegedly a closet case. He was under a lot of pressure. His horizons were dwindling. He was shafted. Harvey may have come off as smug.

It wasn't an ideal situation. Dan needed help that he was not able to receive. He didn't get off easy. His memory should not be vilified. And nobody deserved any of it.