Although we, as a nation, passed 'enough is enough' about five years ago, it's obscure political positioning like this that reminds us that we're being coralled far past the wrong side of the fence. (from someguysarenormal). Is this the final straw? Of course not. That would be sensationalizing. We passed the final straw a whiles back.
In a recent United Nations vote, the U.S. delegates voted with the majority to deny consultative status to the International Lesbian and Gay Association (ILGA) and a Danish gay and lesbian association. As a result, neither group nor any gay and lesbian organization, will be heard at the United Nations. The European ILGA, Canadian and German LGBT organization's applications are still pending.
In 2002, the U.S. ILGA application was supported by the U.S. and 16 other nations buoyed by a U.S. State Department report that cited a duty to corral international support for LGBT human rights.
The recent vote broke down as:
In favor of a hearing on consultative status: Chile, France, Germany, Peru, and Romania.
Against: United States, Cameroon, China, Cuba, Iran, Pakistan, Russian Federation, Senegal, Sudan and Zimbabwe.
So, it's us and five countries that have executed young men for "homosexuality" in the past five years.
Okay. Canada ain't looking as cold as it did before.
Monday, January 30, 2006
Beware Giniqua
Quote of the Year:
Giniqua to 16 year old boy in Vegas:
Giniqua to 16 year old boy in Vegas:
"...carry daddy's liquor."
And....seen.
Saturday, January 28, 2006
Sparkles!!!
Dear Bravo:
I've been faithfully watching you since the very first Queer Eye nearly 20 years ago. The Fab Five was rightfully engrained in television history. Not only did it paint OCD gay men cleaning up the world as good and moral and pure, but it showed how dependent straight people are on the gays when it comes to relationships and marriage. Hell, the straights learned they wouldn't know where to start if it weren't for the homos.
I lost a little faith after Boy Meets Boy. Even you, oh prophetic network execs, must have known that there were practical problems with putting twenty cute, sexual gay and straightish men together in one house to frolic by the pool, sleep in single bunk beds, lift weights and shower together while pretending to pursue one man. You should have known the world doesn't work that way. The gays didn't believe it. The straights didn't care. The women, well, they were happy, but who cares?
Inside The Actor's Studio is scraping the bottom of the rusty pail. We loved watching Bette Midler, the cast of Will & Grace, Jude Law, Stockard Channing among many others. But, Martin Lawrence, Dave Chappel and, as much as we love her, Rosie are pulling down the prestige of the Studio. If I see that guy that played the 3rd Munchkin in my sixth grade fall play, you're going to be getting a lot of hate mail.
Signing Kathy Griffin to her own series restored my faith. Keep Kathy and her gays on TV. Since Will & Grace is bidding adieu, we need our fag hags and the homos we wish we were and wish we were with. If Kathy asks for a couple more million to keep the series going, GIVE IT TO HER. For the love of God, people. Give it to her. Bravo needs their gays. The gays love their Kathy. Ergo Bravo must love and need the Kathy. Simple.
Battle of the Reality All-Stars was okay. We had our gays. And more than enough eye candy. By the way, there's no law against putting Burton on every other show you air. We like our Coral. She's got big knockers. The gays respect that. Still, we don't really need to see Season Two of this one.
Showdog Moms and Dads was a bust. Those crazies don't need their own show. We like our pets, but not that much. The gays on that show were cool, but none of the other pet parents liked them. They hated the gays. Yes, the pet-obsessessssssed gays were a bit annoying and quite clueless, but all that hating on them is what the 700 Club is for. We didn't appreciate that.
I've grown a little disappointed, however, in the past few years. Queer Eye was a fad. It's over. It, like Pamela Anderson's boobs, needs a makeover every once in a while to remain fresh and new. By now, even you must admit that Jay does nothing. Kyan must take his clothes off more. Ted must make something that someone, anyone, will enjoy consuming. And Carson is going to learn that the straight boys don't like even a good-natured fondling on national TV. Please, Bravo, we must have something new.
Dear sirs and madams. We don't want to watch any more Whitney. We do enough on our own.
Nobody watches Party Party. If we wanted to watch snotty, stuck-up, spoiled, whiny little kids having fabulous parties, we would have our own. No thank you.
You have given us the Runway. Yes. You redeemed yourself for a time. I thank you. But, in the past few weeks, even the Runway has gone askew. Inventing a challenge to put Sasha Cohen on Bravo was cheap and insulting. The gays like their figure skating with the best of them, but Sasha? What about Michelle Kwan? We loved our Kristi Yamaguchi. And weren't there any of those young "metrosexual" male skaters to make a guest appearance to make the show truly fabulous? Please, Timothy Goebel is pronounced with a "gay." We liked him a lot.
We did love our Banana Republic for a time. But the Banana is no longer of much interest. The Banana has let the gays down. Last season you let Wendy Pepper win for the Republic. We didn't like that. This year, you stressed out our favorites and stuffed two worthy challenges into one. Designing an outfit AND THEN a window display all in one day? We didn't believe it. We can't even dress ourselves in that amount of time.
But the final straw was when your Nina replacement called one of our gay's designs "vulgar." How dare you let that happen. Shame. Shame shame shame. Vulgar would have been putting Omorosa on Celebrity Poker Showdown. With the slutty blonde from Real World Vegas. And Wendy Pepper. Shame shame shame.
I'm told that the next Runway challenge involves foliage. Many of us were shunned by the Boy Scouts. Some of us stuck it out but got beat up at camp. We don't have good memories of nature. That's why we live in cities. Please don't get all Nature Boot Camp on us. Please.
I've been faithfully watching you since the very first Queer Eye nearly 20 years ago. The Fab Five was rightfully engrained in television history. Not only did it paint OCD gay men cleaning up the world as good and moral and pure, but it showed how dependent straight people are on the gays when it comes to relationships and marriage. Hell, the straights learned they wouldn't know where to start if it weren't for the homos.
I lost a little faith after Boy Meets Boy. Even you, oh prophetic network execs, must have known that there were practical problems with putting twenty cute, sexual gay and straightish men together in one house to frolic by the pool, sleep in single bunk beds, lift weights and shower together while pretending to pursue one man. You should have known the world doesn't work that way. The gays didn't believe it. The straights didn't care. The women, well, they were happy, but who cares?Inside The Actor's Studio is scraping the bottom of the rusty pail. We loved watching Bette Midler, the cast of Will & Grace, Jude Law, Stockard Channing among many others. But, Martin Lawrence, Dave Chappel and, as much as we love her, Rosie are pulling down the prestige of the Studio. If I see that guy that played the 3rd Munchkin in my sixth grade fall play, you're going to be getting a lot of hate mail.
Signing Kathy Griffin to her own series restored my faith. Keep Kathy and her gays on TV. Since Will & Grace is bidding adieu, we need our fag hags and the homos we wish we were and wish we were with. If Kathy asks for a couple more million to keep the series going, GIVE IT TO HER. For the love of God, people. Give it to her. Bravo needs their gays. The gays love their Kathy. Ergo Bravo must love and need the Kathy. Simple.
Battle of the Reality All-Stars was okay. We had our gays. And more than enough eye candy. By the way, there's no law against putting Burton on every other show you air. We like our Coral. She's got big knockers. The gays respect that. Still, we don't really need to see Season Two of this one.
Showdog Moms and Dads was a bust. Those crazies don't need their own show. We like our pets, but not that much. The gays on that show were cool, but none of the other pet parents liked them. They hated the gays. Yes, the pet-obsessessssssed gays were a bit annoying and quite clueless, but all that hating on them is what the 700 Club is for. We didn't appreciate that.I've grown a little disappointed, however, in the past few years. Queer Eye was a fad. It's over. It, like Pamela Anderson's boobs, needs a makeover every once in a while to remain fresh and new. By now, even you must admit that Jay does nothing. Kyan must take his clothes off more. Ted must make something that someone, anyone, will enjoy consuming. And Carson is going to learn that the straight boys don't like even a good-natured fondling on national TV. Please, Bravo, we must have something new.
Dear sirs and madams. We don't want to watch any more Whitney. We do enough on our own.
Nobody watches Party Party. If we wanted to watch snotty, stuck-up, spoiled, whiny little kids having fabulous parties, we would have our own. No thank you.
You have given us the Runway. Yes. You redeemed yourself for a time. I thank you. But, in the past few weeks, even the Runway has gone askew. Inventing a challenge to put Sasha Cohen on Bravo was cheap and insulting. The gays like their figure skating with the best of them, but Sasha? What about Michelle Kwan? We loved our Kristi Yamaguchi. And weren't there any of those young "metrosexual" male skaters to make a guest appearance to make the show truly fabulous? Please, Timothy Goebel is pronounced with a "gay." We liked him a lot.
We did love our Banana Republic for a time. But the Banana is no longer of much interest. The Banana has let the gays down. Last season you let Wendy Pepper win for the Republic. We didn't like that. This year, you stressed out our favorites and stuffed two worthy challenges into one. Designing an outfit AND THEN a window display all in one day? We didn't believe it. We can't even dress ourselves in that amount of time.
But the final straw was when your Nina replacement called one of our gay's designs "vulgar." How dare you let that happen. Shame. Shame shame shame. Vulgar would have been putting Omorosa on Celebrity Poker Showdown. With the slutty blonde from Real World Vegas. And Wendy Pepper. Shame shame shame.
I'm told that the next Runway challenge involves foliage. Many of us were shunned by the Boy Scouts. Some of us stuck it out but got beat up at camp. We don't have good memories of nature. That's why we live in cities. Please don't get all Nature Boot Camp on us. Please.
Friday, January 27, 2006
And To All A Good Night...
In the theme of the slightly more serious blogger...
I've heard it a number of times from friends, on previews, articles and other blogs.
This is the last season of Will & Grace.
Now, this shouldn't be that big of a problem. It's only TV. Anything more and I (more obviously) have no life.
I didn't have that big of a problem when other shows ended. Friends. Cheers. Seinfeld. The Education of Max Bickford. Young Americans. Popular. Dawson's Creek. (What is it with me and the WB?) The West Wing (I mean really now...they got moved to SUNDAYs).
But, now that it's sunk in that Will & Grace is coming to an end, I'm going through my just-like-QAF-seperation-anxiety. It's a bit traumatic. A bit depressing.
Yes, it's true that W&G has become a bit bland and not something I HAVE to see every week. Somewhere around two seasons ago, the funny started to disappear. The witty social commentary, the zingers, the have-to-use-all-the-time quotes. Gone.
But, it's something more than that.
Will & Grace was, and maybe still is, more than just a show. As much as Max Mutchnik and David Kohan say again and again in interviews, the show has changed the way people think about sexuality, about society and about the place of sexuality in society. I've heard KoMut saying that they never set out to change people's minds or make a social statement. Will will never have a real, long-term relationship. Will won't ever be shown in an intimate moment. The goal has always been just to make people laugh. And stay on the air.
But, isn't it more? In a time when all we had was every third episode of pre-suckage Real World, the occasional after-school special on Lifetime and the occasional movie, W&G was truly revolutionary. True, Ellen paved the way, but it didn't exactly resonate and it wasn't really that funny. And, except for the controversy and the "first-ever" moniker, it wasn't something EVERYONE was watching EVERYWHERE.
I watched my first episode in the college frat house. It was awkward and uncomfortable. But, it was funny. And endearing. And it started conversations. True, I didn't want anything to do with the conversations, but "it" was out there. "It" became more acceptable to talk about. "It" was on a prime-time, mega-Thursday night, major network lineup. "It" became a lot less taboo. "It" made it a helluva lot easier to think about honestly. "It" gave a name and a code for the the relationships that were instinctually made over and over again.
"Does this mean I'm your Grace?"
"Yeah. I guess it does."
"So who's our Jack and Karen?"
As corny as it sounds, W&G made it monumentally easier to come to grips with everything that was happening in my life. W&G was the gay social circle that I was too afraid to actually go out and find. W&G made it easier for the people who knew me or would come to know me to talk about things they may have been too uncomfortable with to actually talk about.
Like the time I went home for Christmas. My cousin, out of the blue, asks me, "Do you watch Will & Grace?" Yes. "Do you like it?" Of course. "Do you really like it?" I do. I smile. She smiles. We go back to eating. Christmas was that much better that year.
And what about the "coming out" episode? The one when W&G remember that Thanksgiving in college when W&G dealt with it all. It wasn't all hugs and kisses and warm moments. It's difficult. And maybe it's supposed to be sometimes.
There's the Hot Gay Nerd episode. The one that helped me to finally admit that I only like nerdy gay guys. It's trendy. And people can stop making fun of me.
So now that W&G is coming to an end, I have this feeling that things won't be the same. Not in that tragic, life-changing kind of way. It's just TV. But, the show won't be there like it has been for the last however many years. I may not have watched it all the time. I might have missed a season. But, it was there. The whole time. Making it that much easier for the gays to just live our lives, for the straights to get a little more comfortable and everyone to take some time to just laugh at the absurdity of it all.
I've heard it a number of times from friends, on previews, articles and other blogs.
This is the last season of Will & Grace.
Now, this shouldn't be that big of a problem. It's only TV. Anything more and I (more obviously) have no life.
I didn't have that big of a problem when other shows ended. Friends. Cheers. Seinfeld. The Education of Max Bickford. Young Americans. Popular. Dawson's Creek. (What is it with me and the WB?) The West Wing (I mean really now...they got moved to SUNDAYs).
But, now that it's sunk in that Will & Grace is coming to an end, I'm going through my just-like-QAF-seperation-anxiety. It's a bit traumatic. A bit depressing.
Yes, it's true that W&G has become a bit bland and not something I HAVE to see every week. Somewhere around two seasons ago, the funny started to disappear. The witty social commentary, the zingers, the have-to-use-all-the-time quotes. Gone.
But, it's something more than that.
Will & Grace was, and maybe still is, more than just a show. As much as Max Mutchnik and David Kohan say again and again in interviews, the show has changed the way people think about sexuality, about society and about the place of sexuality in society. I've heard KoMut saying that they never set out to change people's minds or make a social statement. Will will never have a real, long-term relationship. Will won't ever be shown in an intimate moment. The goal has always been just to make people laugh. And stay on the air.
But, isn't it more? In a time when all we had was every third episode of pre-suckage Real World, the occasional after-school special on Lifetime and the occasional movie, W&G was truly revolutionary. True, Ellen paved the way, but it didn't exactly resonate and it wasn't really that funny. And, except for the controversy and the "first-ever" moniker, it wasn't something EVERYONE was watching EVERYWHERE.
I watched my first episode in the college frat house. It was awkward and uncomfortable. But, it was funny. And endearing. And it started conversations. True, I didn't want anything to do with the conversations, but "it" was out there. "It" became more acceptable to talk about. "It" was on a prime-time, mega-Thursday night, major network lineup. "It" became a lot less taboo. "It" made it a helluva lot easier to think about honestly. "It" gave a name and a code for the the relationships that were instinctually made over and over again.
"Does this mean I'm your Grace?"
"Yeah. I guess it does."
"So who's our Jack and Karen?"
As corny as it sounds, W&G made it monumentally easier to come to grips with everything that was happening in my life. W&G was the gay social circle that I was too afraid to actually go out and find. W&G made it easier for the people who knew me or would come to know me to talk about things they may have been too uncomfortable with to actually talk about.
Like the time I went home for Christmas. My cousin, out of the blue, asks me, "Do you watch Will & Grace?" Yes. "Do you like it?" Of course. "Do you really like it?" I do. I smile. She smiles. We go back to eating. Christmas was that much better that year.
And what about the "coming out" episode? The one when W&G remember that Thanksgiving in college when W&G dealt with it all. It wasn't all hugs and kisses and warm moments. It's difficult. And maybe it's supposed to be sometimes.
There's the Hot Gay Nerd episode. The one that helped me to finally admit that I only like nerdy gay guys. It's trendy. And people can stop making fun of me.
So now that W&G is coming to an end, I have this feeling that things won't be the same. Not in that tragic, life-changing kind of way. It's just TV. But, the show won't be there like it has been for the last however many years. I may not have watched it all the time. I might have missed a season. But, it was there. The whole time. Making it that much easier for the gays to just live our lives, for the straights to get a little more comfortable and everyone to take some time to just laugh at the absurdity of it all.
Thursday, January 26, 2006
Happy 1000
I just noticed that I'm a few hits shy of 1000 visitors since I attached the little Site Meter to this blog about a month into my blogging adventure. To be honest, I really don't look at it very often, but it seems almost absurd that this blog has been viewed 1000 times.
Except for exactly 3 people (in Nevada, Virginia/D.C. and HUNTINGTON, WV!!!) I have no idea whatsoever who any of these other people are.
Now that I've reached my 1000th, I've decided to do some soul searching and make soem adjustments to how and why I blog. There'll be some changes. I don't know what kind of changes, but changes nonetheless.
To whomever you are out there who reads this entry, scroll down to the very bottom of the page. If you're the 1000th visitor, I'll send you some kind of prize. I'm not sure what, exactly. But, a prize nonetheless. And by prize, I mean something.
Happy Freakin New Year.
Except for exactly 3 people (in Nevada, Virginia/D.C. and HUNTINGTON, WV!!!) I have no idea whatsoever who any of these other people are.
Now that I've reached my 1000th, I've decided to do some soul searching and make soem adjustments to how and why I blog. There'll be some changes. I don't know what kind of changes, but changes nonetheless.
To whomever you are out there who reads this entry, scroll down to the very bottom of the page. If you're the 1000th visitor, I'll send you some kind of prize. I'm not sure what, exactly. But, a prize nonetheless. And by prize, I mean something.
Happy Freakin New Year.
The Runway Is, Again, My Rock
If you missed this week's Project Runway, fear not. Trust, it'll be on about 10 times a day until the Earth stops rotating on its axis.
Without giving too much away.... Aw, who cares. You snooze, you lose.
I have been saying FROM THE VERY BEGINNING that Daniel Vosovic is this year's Jay. Minus the bitchiness. Not that Jay's bitchiness wasn't endearing, especially since it was directed at Wendy. Gotta love Jay. Kind of.
But, back to Daniel V.
It's official.
Daniel V. is the most websearched name in Project Runway history. Yahoo. Google. And your's truly's blog. More people click on this damn blog searching for Daniel Vosovic.
Even more than "it hurts when I f-ck her". Without the quotations. Apparently, in some entry the words "it," "hurts," "when," "I," "f-ck" and "her" appear close enough together, that a number of people have been sent here via google and yahoo.
No really. I'm totally serious.
My family would be so proud. Even prouder than if I decided that the whole homosexual thing wasn't working out and decided to start holding hands with girls. In the biblical sense. But, then again, they're all Buddhists, so I don't know what kind of "sense" that would be.
So anyway. Daniel Vosovic. Hottie. Gay? Bi? Naked? Love. Sex. Boyfriend.
(Sorry, I just want to see how the search engines love that one.)
Really now, he seems like the kind of guy that everyone would want to hang out with. That one friend that's friends with everyone. The sweet guy with the shoulder to weep softly on.
It must really be awkward now though, I would imagine. According to a Blogging Project Runway source, Daniel V. has been incommunicado whereas other Runway contestants seem quite open to all the hoopla and popularity. Then again, people are posting his high school yearbook photos and random snapshots and Daniel sightings and apparently searching every nook and cranny of the internet to find something about him.
On a side note, I kind of wouldn't mind having a stalker. But not the once-a-week-mandated-intensive-therapy-by-the-courts-soon-to-be-committed kind of stalker. I want one of those once-a-month-group-therapy-just-to-kind-of-check-in kind of stalker. You know, someone to make the t-shirts and start the fan club and do all the mailings and send me different kinds of teas to sample. That kind.
So...the Runway.
As soon as I saw the previews, Santino's dress stuck out like a sore thumb. He chose the exact same material that Austin used for the 'auf whatever-ed' Grammy Dress that Nancy O'Dell wasn't too keen on. Exact same material.
As much as I think Daniel V. is going to win the whole she-bang-she-bang...
Andrae's dress seemed to be a clear winner.
I'll admit that I thought that Andrae was riding D.V.'s success. The lingerie challenge. The B. R. Challenge (Or from here on out, The Challenge That Shall Not Be Named). But, Andrae really pulled this one out. He turned a sewer water runoff pic into a truly amazing masterpiece.
I really hope that Nick pulls out of the rut he was put in by Zuzu (or from here on out, She Who Shall Not Be Named). I'm ready to make the prediction that the Final Three should be Nick, Daniel V and Chloe. Kara is out next. Then Andrae. Santino makes it to the Final Four, but gets edged out by Nick at the finish line. And from there, it's truly a toss-up. If some kind of shakeup happens, then it'll involve Andrae, Santino and Nick. But Daniel V seems to be a lock for the Fantastic Four. He's won more challenges than anyone by far and Michael and Nina and the producers can't oust him.
Invested? You bet your bottom dollar I am.
Without giving too much away.... Aw, who cares. You snooze, you lose.
I have been saying FROM THE VERY BEGINNING that Daniel Vosovic is this year's Jay. Minus the bitchiness. Not that Jay's bitchiness wasn't endearing, especially since it was directed at Wendy. Gotta love Jay. Kind of.
But, back to Daniel V.
It's official.
Daniel V. is the most websearched name in Project Runway history. Yahoo. Google. And your's truly's blog. More people click on this damn blog searching for Daniel Vosovic.
Even more than "it hurts when I f-ck her". Without the quotations. Apparently, in some entry the words "it," "hurts," "when," "I," "f-ck" and "her" appear close enough together, that a number of people have been sent here via google and yahoo.
No really. I'm totally serious.
My family would be so proud. Even prouder than if I decided that the whole homosexual thing wasn't working out and decided to start holding hands with girls. In the biblical sense. But, then again, they're all Buddhists, so I don't know what kind of "sense" that would be.
So anyway. Daniel Vosovic. Hottie. Gay? Bi? Naked? Love. Sex. Boyfriend.
(Sorry, I just want to see how the search engines love that one.)
Really now, he seems like the kind of guy that everyone would want to hang out with. That one friend that's friends with everyone. The sweet guy with the shoulder to weep softly on.
It must really be awkward now though, I would imagine. According to a Blogging Project Runway source, Daniel V. has been incommunicado whereas other Runway contestants seem quite open to all the hoopla and popularity. Then again, people are posting his high school yearbook photos and random snapshots and Daniel sightings and apparently searching every nook and cranny of the internet to find something about him.
On a side note, I kind of wouldn't mind having a stalker. But not the once-a-week-mandated-intensive-therapy-by-the-courts-soon-to-be-committed kind of stalker. I want one of those once-a-month-group-therapy-just-to-kind-of-check-in kind of stalker. You know, someone to make the t-shirts and start the fan club and do all the mailings and send me different kinds of teas to sample. That kind.
So...the Runway.
As soon as I saw the previews, Santino's dress stuck out like a sore thumb. He chose the exact same material that Austin used for the 'auf whatever-ed' Grammy Dress that Nancy O'Dell wasn't too keen on. Exact same material.
As much as I think Daniel V. is going to win the whole she-bang-she-bang...
Andrae's dress seemed to be a clear winner.I'll admit that I thought that Andrae was riding D.V.'s success. The lingerie challenge. The B. R. Challenge (Or from here on out, The Challenge That Shall Not Be Named). But, Andrae really pulled this one out. He turned a sewer water runoff pic into a truly amazing masterpiece.
I really hope that Nick pulls out of the rut he was put in by Zuzu (or from here on out, She Who Shall Not Be Named). I'm ready to make the prediction that the Final Three should be Nick, Daniel V and Chloe. Kara is out next. Then Andrae. Santino makes it to the Final Four, but gets edged out by Nick at the finish line. And from there, it's truly a toss-up. If some kind of shakeup happens, then it'll involve Andrae, Santino and Nick. But Daniel V seems to be a lock for the Fantastic Four. He's won more challenges than anyone by far and Michael and Nina and the producers can't oust him.
Invested? You bet your bottom dollar I am.
Monday, January 23, 2006
VEGAS...I SWEAR!!!
And I'm finally gonna get it all out there. Mike, in particular, I'm sorry it took so long. I ran out of funny. Thank you to Krave's parting gift and a certain industrious somone for the inspiration.
#15 Shade. Shady. Shadiest.
The Las Vegas Cheesecake Factory deserves to be on Reality TV. Bravo, can you hear me? Let's see, where do I start?
First off, all the "straight" boys at LVCF need to repeat after me:
If I hear one more story about "LVCF straighty #1" or "LVCF straighty #2" wanting to hook up with some female, I'm gonna be angry. If said "straighty" ends up alone in bed at 4 am with an obviously gay boy (sorry John, just deal), because it's "too late to go home," I suggest counseling and a good male-on-male infomercial. If said "straighty" goes to hang out with the gay boys cause "it's so much more fun," just accept that you're probably going to be Mike's newest future ex-boyfriend. With all the fag hags at LVCF, you'd think someone would come to their senses.
#15 1/2 : There And Back Again, A Hobbit's Tale
And then there was Smeagel. The story I heard was that he wanted to get on someone John can't admit he wanted to get on when said gotten on wanted to get on someone without external genitalia. Then Smeagel got on the gotten on and the Great Shade Battle of 2005 began. Three dicks, one vagina and The Ring. Tolkien's got nothing on the Factory.
Smeagal wasn't a server. His nametag read: "Official LVCF Shade-Thrower." She threw shade at John at the host stand, Mike on the way to the bathroom, and the whole party a good five or six times over two days and, oh say, a few dozen of our visits to the LVCF. I thought it only appropo on our last outing to LVCF to sit in the corner of the booth, place a napkin over my face, replace my sunglasses over my eyes, sip my martini and throw the shadiest of shade back at He Who Throws Shade For No Reason. Apparently, this was funny. I thought of it as my duty to all Americans. And I was drunk. Big surprise.
#14: Liquor By The Crate.
I don't know where y'all shop for liquor, but Vegas' Wholesale Liquor Outlet is the portal to heaven. Upon entering said Garden of Eden, Mike and I stopped for a moment of silent prayer and had a true moment of Thanksgiving for the holy gift bestowed upon us. Mike and I played every gay boy's favorite, Supermarket Sweep, and grabbed anything not bolted down on one clean sprint. I'm not gonna lie, the boxes didn't all fit in the trunk. It was like Costco for Alcoholics. I was so happy I just piddled right there. No really, I piddled. Literally. Right there at the checkout counter.
#13: Coffee Tea Cigarettes?
Seriously John. What exactly were you worried about? Prude. I may be naive and virginal, but, girrrrrrl, come on. Winesha may be young but she wasn't born yesterday.
#12: Little Pre-Party on the Prairie
As always, a little Saturday night pre-party was necessary. Luckily, John's La Quinta was available (as was Scott's Shangri La hotel room but we'll let bygones be bygones). Although we didn't have shot glasses anywhere in John's apartment, except for, you know, right on top of the refrigerator, we made do.
Scott and Jay made the three hour trek from the Strip to find "Straighty Bottom Boy" and Winesha on the futon in the living room, Giniqua downloading porn again and John trying to gather enough coffee, tea and cigarettes to supply every man, woman and child on earth for the next millenia or so.
Now, I'm not gonna lie. I had a bottle and a half of wine, three martinis and two Big Gulps of light tan Captain and Coke before I loaded up a sippy cup the size of the Statue of Liberty for the six hour busride over to the strip.
#11: All Aboard, MENSA only...
I will say, first of all, that I do extremely well with puzzles. No really, I do. But really, on Saturday night, we ALL had a time of it fitting this puzzle correctly.
Puzzle pieces: 6'5, 6'3, 6'1, 6'2 and 5'9 peoples. Five sippy cups each about the size of the Sears' Tower.
Puzzle board: A mini-Bug.
Go.
Oh, I forgot, there's a sunroof.
Go.
#10: Room Service
I didn't know many things on Saturday night. My name. What city I was in. Where we were going. I learned much in Vegas, but most importantly, I did acquire a certain crucially important bit of info.
You can order liquor up to your hotel room on the Strip. And a martini shaker. And martini glasses.
Fortunately, someone in Scott's room had the coordination to put all said items together to make a drink. The sippy cups were empty.
#9: Jay and Giniqua in the Scott's shower
Nuff said.
#8: You Forgot What?
Yes, I forgot my wallet at John's La Quinta. Yes, it had my ID, my credit cards and my cash. Yes, it had John's address and phone number. Yes, my cell phone battery was dead. No, I couldn't tell it was me when I looked in the mirror. Problem.
Luckily, while walking along some street I couldn't identify again even if I fell on it, divine intervention intervened. Right between, "I have no idea how you're getting in anywhere" and "you're fucked" a door opened. John yelled to run in the door. I, not knowing an open door from my left foot, ran in. Luckily, the door was wide enough because I just aimed for the middle of the dark hole I thought might be a doorway. Followed by Scott. Who's a good foot taller than I am.
So I'm running like a nelly bottom and Scott's yelling something like "run you stupid nelly bottom" past all these people that were probably Krave employees. I was lost in a maze that really was of my own invention. Turned out to be exactly one hanging curtain. I'm pretty sure I ran in a circle several times and kicked out half of N Sync's Tearing Up My Heart dance routine.
I ran for the only light I could see. As soon as I found myself in some corner of Krave, I tried to act nonchalant. I think I waved at a stripper. I turned a corner and some hottie bouncer asked me for some kind of VIP badge. I'm pretty sure I pretended not to speak English. Scott soon followed. I ran into exactly...everyone...between me and wherever the hell I ended up. Scott helped a little. And by helped, I mean he laughed until he piddled.
Somehow John, Mike, Jay and Christian found me. Scott was on the floor peeing himself silly.
John: I can't believe you got in!
Mike: Girl, you are one tragic mess.
Me: Ain't NOBODY keeps the Cho out of NOWHERE!!!
...
Me: Aren't we going to Krave?
Mike: Girrrrrlll. We're already here.
Thanks a lot everyone.
#7: Taxicab Confessional
Apparently, at some point in the night, Giniqua turned back into Mike and wanted to go home (considering she had exactly 1252 attempts on Day 1, I'll let it go). Scott and Jay either hooked up or ditched. So there I was, talking to people I will never be able to identify again. My cell phone was 3 minutes from being dead. I had no wallet. No money. No credit cards. No ID. No keys. No clue. No ability to focus on objects any distance from my face.
I had to get home. Whether it was Honolulu, Milwaukee or Tempe, AZ (John's apartment), I didn't care. So I started to walk. Along the street. On the Strip. With 75% of the world's electricity lighting up flashing lights that didn't help the balance problem I was having.
A cab. I needed a cab.
Three things occurred to me, at various times over the next forty five minutes.
(1) Hailing a cab to take me back to Tempe with exactly 12 cents in my pocket would prove difficult.
(2) Hailing a cab and asking them to take me to "John's apartment" was an ineffective way of getting home.
(3) Hailing a cab is impossible when [a] cabs don't pick people up on the street, [b] walking in the direction of traffic (not against traffic) while holding my hand out is quite inefficient irregardless of the city and [c] I would have better luck falling in front of a cab then into one.
I got home.
Thanks a lot everyone.
#7 1/2: Bedside Furniture
If memory serves me right, I found quite a comfortable spot on the floor next to the futon in the living room. John's carpet was quite thickly padded and it had that wonderful down-home feeling to it. Unfortunately, I later found out that no one else was sleeping in the living room much less on the futon beside which I fell asleep. Yes, I fell asleep next to the empty bed. On? No. Next to.
Thanks a lot everyone.
#6: Biological Bases of Human Behavior
Now, Giniqua deserves to have her fun. But, I'm all about telling all about it. At exactly three casinos, amid the growing crowds of America's finest straight boys, Giniqua wasn't beyond trying to cop a feel. Giniqua did more laps around the Hard Rock than...Giniqua around a Hard Rock. Girl's split times were faster than a Kenyan at the Olympics.
As thrilling as that was to watch, it compares not at all to the hunting of a certain "straight" boy playing in the tournament. In describing what I witnessed, I am reminded of a few videos I watched in my BBOHB class at the University of Illinois. In said video, a certain type of mammal, in order to invite copulation, places their swollen hind parts in direct eyesight of the sexual target. Baboons got nothing on Giniqua. Giniqua has well-practiced opposable thumbs. That grasp firmly. While the other baboon plays pinball.
Unfortunately, said baboon has the sexual taste of early paleolithic man. If there's a hole, plug it. Tragic.
Girl, you can do SOOOO much better.
Upcoming:
#5: Can we stop at that house? Maybe they'll make us something to eat.
#4: Tragic Four Corners
#3: Skittles, can you hear me?
#2: Tragic Brittney.
#1: Hell no. Someone done stole Donna's costume.
#15 Shade. Shady. Shadiest.
The Las Vegas Cheesecake Factory deserves to be on Reality TV. Bravo, can you hear me? Let's see, where do I start?
First off, all the "straight" boys at LVCF need to repeat after me:
"Metrosexual is just a rest-stop on the highway to homo."
If I hear one more story about "LVCF straighty #1" or "LVCF straighty #2" wanting to hook up with some female, I'm gonna be angry. If said "straighty" ends up alone in bed at 4 am with an obviously gay boy (sorry John, just deal), because it's "too late to go home," I suggest counseling and a good male-on-male infomercial. If said "straighty" goes to hang out with the gay boys cause "it's so much more fun," just accept that you're probably going to be Mike's newest future ex-boyfriend. With all the fag hags at LVCF, you'd think someone would come to their senses.
#15 1/2 : There And Back Again, A Hobbit's Tale
And then there was Smeagel. The story I heard was that he wanted to get on someone John can't admit he wanted to get on when said gotten on wanted to get on someone without external genitalia. Then Smeagel got on the gotten on and the Great Shade Battle of 2005 began. Three dicks, one vagina and The Ring. Tolkien's got nothing on the Factory.
Smeagal wasn't a server. His nametag read: "Official LVCF Shade-Thrower." She threw shade at John at the host stand, Mike on the way to the bathroom, and the whole party a good five or six times over two days and, oh say, a few dozen of our visits to the LVCF. I thought it only appropo on our last outing to LVCF to sit in the corner of the booth, place a napkin over my face, replace my sunglasses over my eyes, sip my martini and throw the shadiest of shade back at He Who Throws Shade For No Reason. Apparently, this was funny. I thought of it as my duty to all Americans. And I was drunk. Big surprise.
#14: Liquor By The Crate.
I don't know where y'all shop for liquor, but Vegas' Wholesale Liquor Outlet is the portal to heaven. Upon entering said Garden of Eden, Mike and I stopped for a moment of silent prayer and had a true moment of Thanksgiving for the holy gift bestowed upon us. Mike and I played every gay boy's favorite, Supermarket Sweep, and grabbed anything not bolted down on one clean sprint. I'm not gonna lie, the boxes didn't all fit in the trunk. It was like Costco for Alcoholics. I was so happy I just piddled right there. No really, I piddled. Literally. Right there at the checkout counter.
#13: Coffee Tea Cigarettes?
Seriously John. What exactly were you worried about? Prude. I may be naive and virginal, but, girrrrrrl, come on. Winesha may be young but she wasn't born yesterday.
#12: Little Pre-Party on the Prairie
As always, a little Saturday night pre-party was necessary. Luckily, John's La Quinta was available (as was Scott's Shangri La hotel room but we'll let bygones be bygones). Although we didn't have shot glasses anywhere in John's apartment, except for, you know, right on top of the refrigerator, we made do.
Scott and Jay made the three hour trek from the Strip to find "Straighty Bottom Boy" and Winesha on the futon in the living room, Giniqua downloading porn again and John trying to gather enough coffee, tea and cigarettes to supply every man, woman and child on earth for the next millenia or so.
Now, I'm not gonna lie. I had a bottle and a half of wine, three martinis and two Big Gulps of light tan Captain and Coke before I loaded up a sippy cup the size of the Statue of Liberty for the six hour busride over to the strip.
#11: All Aboard, MENSA only...
I will say, first of all, that I do extremely well with puzzles. No really, I do. But really, on Saturday night, we ALL had a time of it fitting this puzzle correctly.
Puzzle pieces: 6'5, 6'3, 6'1, 6'2 and 5'9 peoples. Five sippy cups each about the size of the Sears' Tower.
Puzzle board: A mini-Bug.
Go.
Oh, I forgot, there's a sunroof.
Go.
#10: Room Service
I didn't know many things on Saturday night. My name. What city I was in. Where we were going. I learned much in Vegas, but most importantly, I did acquire a certain crucially important bit of info.
You can order liquor up to your hotel room on the Strip. And a martini shaker. And martini glasses.
Fortunately, someone in Scott's room had the coordination to put all said items together to make a drink. The sippy cups were empty.
#9: Jay and Giniqua in the Scott's shower
Nuff said.
#8: You Forgot What?
Yes, I forgot my wallet at John's La Quinta. Yes, it had my ID, my credit cards and my cash. Yes, it had John's address and phone number. Yes, my cell phone battery was dead. No, I couldn't tell it was me when I looked in the mirror. Problem.
Luckily, while walking along some street I couldn't identify again even if I fell on it, divine intervention intervened. Right between, "I have no idea how you're getting in anywhere" and "you're fucked" a door opened. John yelled to run in the door. I, not knowing an open door from my left foot, ran in. Luckily, the door was wide enough because I just aimed for the middle of the dark hole I thought might be a doorway. Followed by Scott. Who's a good foot taller than I am.
So I'm running like a nelly bottom and Scott's yelling something like "run you stupid nelly bottom" past all these people that were probably Krave employees. I was lost in a maze that really was of my own invention. Turned out to be exactly one hanging curtain. I'm pretty sure I ran in a circle several times and kicked out half of N Sync's Tearing Up My Heart dance routine.
I ran for the only light I could see. As soon as I found myself in some corner of Krave, I tried to act nonchalant. I think I waved at a stripper. I turned a corner and some hottie bouncer asked me for some kind of VIP badge. I'm pretty sure I pretended not to speak English. Scott soon followed. I ran into exactly...everyone...between me and wherever the hell I ended up. Scott helped a little. And by helped, I mean he laughed until he piddled.
Somehow John, Mike, Jay and Christian found me. Scott was on the floor peeing himself silly.
John: I can't believe you got in!
Mike: Girl, you are one tragic mess.
Me: Ain't NOBODY keeps the Cho out of NOWHERE!!!
...
Me: Aren't we going to Krave?
Mike: Girrrrrlll. We're already here.
Thanks a lot everyone.
#7: Taxicab Confessional
Apparently, at some point in the night, Giniqua turned back into Mike and wanted to go home (considering she had exactly 1252 attempts on Day 1, I'll let it go). Scott and Jay either hooked up or ditched. So there I was, talking to people I will never be able to identify again. My cell phone was 3 minutes from being dead. I had no wallet. No money. No credit cards. No ID. No keys. No clue. No ability to focus on objects any distance from my face.
I had to get home. Whether it was Honolulu, Milwaukee or Tempe, AZ (John's apartment), I didn't care. So I started to walk. Along the street. On the Strip. With 75% of the world's electricity lighting up flashing lights that didn't help the balance problem I was having.
A cab. I needed a cab.
Three things occurred to me, at various times over the next forty five minutes.
(1) Hailing a cab to take me back to Tempe with exactly 12 cents in my pocket would prove difficult.
(2) Hailing a cab and asking them to take me to "John's apartment" was an ineffective way of getting home.
(3) Hailing a cab is impossible when [a] cabs don't pick people up on the street, [b] walking in the direction of traffic (not against traffic) while holding my hand out is quite inefficient irregardless of the city and [c] I would have better luck falling in front of a cab then into one.
I got home.
Thanks a lot everyone.
#7 1/2: Bedside Furniture
If memory serves me right, I found quite a comfortable spot on the floor next to the futon in the living room. John's carpet was quite thickly padded and it had that wonderful down-home feeling to it. Unfortunately, I later found out that no one else was sleeping in the living room much less on the futon beside which I fell asleep. Yes, I fell asleep next to the empty bed. On? No. Next to.
Thanks a lot everyone.
#6: Biological Bases of Human Behavior
Now, Giniqua deserves to have her fun. But, I'm all about telling all about it. At exactly three casinos, amid the growing crowds of America's finest straight boys, Giniqua wasn't beyond trying to cop a feel. Giniqua did more laps around the Hard Rock than...Giniqua around a Hard Rock. Girl's split times were faster than a Kenyan at the Olympics.
As thrilling as that was to watch, it compares not at all to the hunting of a certain "straight" boy playing in the tournament. In describing what I witnessed, I am reminded of a few videos I watched in my BBOHB class at the University of Illinois. In said video, a certain type of mammal, in order to invite copulation, places their swollen hind parts in direct eyesight of the sexual target. Baboons got nothing on Giniqua. Giniqua has well-practiced opposable thumbs. That grasp firmly. While the other baboon plays pinball.
Unfortunately, said baboon has the sexual taste of early paleolithic man. If there's a hole, plug it. Tragic.
Girl, you can do SOOOO much better.
Upcoming:
#5: Can we stop at that house? Maybe they'll make us something to eat.
#4: Tragic Four Corners
#3: Skittles, can you hear me?
#2: Tragic Brittney.
#1: Hell no. Someone done stole Donna's costume.
Wednesday, January 11, 2006
Finding Nemo
I found Nemo at Walmart.
Ordinarily, my nonsensical ego prevents me from setting foot in Walmart. It's the breeding place for future hate crimes suspects. But they do have those cheap cheap cheap collared white shirts for work. Seriously, $12.99. A little starch and ironing and you can't tell it apart from more expensive versions.
But yesterday, I was on a mission.
I've started to knit.
No really.
I knit.
Mini scarves (scarfs?), potholders, bookmarks. Well, actually they all look the same. I just like to label them as different items.
The only problem was that I've moved past my "Knitting for Kids" kit with the two plastic needles held together by some plastic thing and the yarn that unwinds when exposed to oxygen, I suppose. But, I've been unable to find a specialty craft store. Well, I haven't really looked.
But yesterday I was on a mission. I wanted to knit. I wanted to knit right then and there. So I found myself at Walmart. That's when it hit me.
I still feel some kind of lingering shame and embarassment about embracing my postmodern masculinity. Or, more accurately, my ninny sissy fairiness.
I realized this as I pushed my cart through the fabric section looking for the shelves of yarn. Several of the women stole a few glances at me. Although I had no intention of buying fabric, I spotted a really cool pattern with Nemo characters. Cheesy enough to be cool. As I was standing there and pretty much fondling the fabric, I realized the women were staring at me and whispering.
I suddenly felt so self-conscious that I considered running to the hardware section, grabbing a hammer or some kind of manly implement and returning to fondle my fabric. The implement and my interest in fabric would have cancelled each other out.
As I finally found the shelves of yarn, I realized that I had been having a conversation in my head about what anyone would think or say or do after seeing me shopping for yarn and fondling fabric.
I really shouldn't have cared. Shouldn't, wouldn't, couldn't give a shit. Yeah, I knit. Yeah, I worship the Runway. Yeah, I like to hold hands with guys. Find me something wrong with any of that.
As I'm writing this, I'm remembering a quote from Beth Loffreda's book, Losing Matt Shepard. In detailing the complex, intricate ways in which sexuality has been understood, expressed and expereinced in Laramie, and by extension across the country, she observes a recurring theme of
I thought I was over the sense of shame that kept me from understanding and accepting the parts of my life that aren't what I thought they should be. As much as I'd like to think that I'm secure enough in my own skin, it's moments like shopping for yarn and imagining what I could do with Nemo themed fabric at Walmart that remind me that "coming out" is such a multilayered, complicated, complex process. There really never was a moment when I was "out" in every sense of the word. To different people at different times and in different places, I'm necessarily guarded or completely open about my sexuality. And a little dippity-do.
As "out" as I'd like to think I am to the people in my life, I know there's a far more complicated story. My parents would rather not talk about the whole deal, but will if they have to. My relatives would rather not speak about such unspoken topics. My friends at work tend to be more open about my sexuality than I am. My friends in the volleyball world walk the same line I do. Openness with people who want to know and untruth by omission to those who will react unkindly. The men's teams I've coached would rather ignore the whole subject. The women's teams feel more at ease and ask questions, sometimes too many questions.
In the end, I bought a couple of different kinds of yarn and some new knitting needles. At the checkout counter the cashier asked, "Are these for you?" While I'd like to say that I came up with some witty retort, I didn't. All I could come up with was, "Yeah, but it's better than smoking." It didn't make sense then or when I lit one up after I started the car.
And a little dippity-do.
Ordinarily, my nonsensical ego prevents me from setting foot in Walmart. It's the breeding place for future hate crimes suspects. But they do have those cheap cheap cheap collared white shirts for work. Seriously, $12.99. A little starch and ironing and you can't tell it apart from more expensive versions.
But yesterday, I was on a mission.
I've started to knit.
No really.
I knit.
Mini scarves (scarfs?), potholders, bookmarks. Well, actually they all look the same. I just like to label them as different items.
The only problem was that I've moved past my "Knitting for Kids" kit with the two plastic needles held together by some plastic thing and the yarn that unwinds when exposed to oxygen, I suppose. But, I've been unable to find a specialty craft store. Well, I haven't really looked.
But yesterday I was on a mission. I wanted to knit. I wanted to knit right then and there. So I found myself at Walmart. That's when it hit me.
I still feel some kind of lingering shame and embarassment about embracing my postmodern masculinity. Or, more accurately, my ninny sissy fairiness.
I realized this as I pushed my cart through the fabric section looking for the shelves of yarn. Several of the women stole a few glances at me. Although I had no intention of buying fabric, I spotted a really cool pattern with Nemo characters. Cheesy enough to be cool. As I was standing there and pretty much fondling the fabric, I realized the women were staring at me and whispering.
I suddenly felt so self-conscious that I considered running to the hardware section, grabbing a hammer or some kind of manly implement and returning to fondle my fabric. The implement and my interest in fabric would have cancelled each other out.
As I finally found the shelves of yarn, I realized that I had been having a conversation in my head about what anyone would think or say or do after seeing me shopping for yarn and fondling fabric.
I really shouldn't have cared. Shouldn't, wouldn't, couldn't give a shit. Yeah, I knit. Yeah, I worship the Runway. Yeah, I like to hold hands with guys. Find me something wrong with any of that.
As I'm writing this, I'm remembering a quote from Beth Loffreda's book, Losing Matt Shepard. In detailing the complex, intricate ways in which sexuality has been understood, expressed and expereinced in Laramie, and by extension across the country, she observes a recurring theme of
"...the frustration that comes with having been forced to study the perimeter of (one's) own safety."
I thought I was over the sense of shame that kept me from understanding and accepting the parts of my life that aren't what I thought they should be. As much as I'd like to think that I'm secure enough in my own skin, it's moments like shopping for yarn and imagining what I could do with Nemo themed fabric at Walmart that remind me that "coming out" is such a multilayered, complicated, complex process. There really never was a moment when I was "out" in every sense of the word. To different people at different times and in different places, I'm necessarily guarded or completely open about my sexuality. And a little dippity-do.
As "out" as I'd like to think I am to the people in my life, I know there's a far more complicated story. My parents would rather not talk about the whole deal, but will if they have to. My relatives would rather not speak about such unspoken topics. My friends at work tend to be more open about my sexuality than I am. My friends in the volleyball world walk the same line I do. Openness with people who want to know and untruth by omission to those who will react unkindly. The men's teams I've coached would rather ignore the whole subject. The women's teams feel more at ease and ask questions, sometimes too many questions.
In the end, I bought a couple of different kinds of yarn and some new knitting needles. At the checkout counter the cashier asked, "Are these for you?" While I'd like to say that I came up with some witty retort, I didn't. All I could come up with was, "Yeah, but it's better than smoking." It didn't make sense then or when I lit one up after I started the car.
And a little dippity-do.
Monday, January 09, 2006
I didn't know your costume would be THIS elaborate
Yes, I am obsessed with the Runway. I loved the first season. I love this season.
Why, oh wise sage, many have asked.
Unlike the other reality shows where the whole goal is for the contestants to backstab, hoodwink or otherwise fuck over the other contestants in order to win something, the Runway is moral and pure. If it weren't for all the homos and hags, the Red States would love it. (But, I don't think Heidi "All-About-Trim" from BumFuck, Egypt and her pals designing shawls and burkas in a Lynchburg studio would be too interesting, but you never know. Huntington, West Virginia? Yes. Lynchburg? Probably not.)
It's all about beauty. It's all about creativity and innovation and vision. It's all about the talent of the designers. Wendy Pepper, from last season, was the exception and was rightly ostracized and demonized for all the strategery-izing and backstabbing and double-talking. She didn't have it, even though she, incomeprehensibly, got to the Final Three. (Although, I just read that both Austin and Kevin did show their lines at Fashion Week on the Runway runway. Yay for both of them!).
Ultimately, everyone on the show has to let their work speak for itself. And, if it's not beautiful and fabulous, then it's obvious they're going bye bye. They can't ally themselves with each other to vote someone out or screw someone over. They can't strategize to kill their biggest competition and cook them in stew.
Yes, there's all the drama in the workroom and at parties and in the suites and out on the Runway. But, the difference is, they're all saying the same stuff we're all saying out in front of the tv and it has no bearing on the results. They can talk all they want on the show, but they still have to produce up to standard or they're out.
And...FINALLY!, a reality show that isn't corny or truly stereotypical made up wholly of fags and their hags! There is no better entertainment. There can't be better one liners and catfights on the telly.
"...Uh uh. This ain't my first time at the rodeo."
"Oh, no, she better not come up in here."
"I don't believe in fair. [Take your hillbilly shoes over there...all in a look]"
"Sparkles!"
"I grew up playing with Barbies. I lived the whole Barbie culture."
I mean, come on now.
But, I'm not the only one. Every single person I've hounded into watching just ONE episode of the Runway is hooked. While I won't take all the credit...I will. In my acceptance speech, I'll thank Nick and Chloe and Daniel Vosovic and Zulema and Diana and Andrae and Santino and Jay and Kara Saun and Austin and Nora and of course Tim Gunn and Michael Kors and Nina Garcia and Heidi.
Then again, I'm apparently not as Runway-crazy as some others.
Project Runway: All Project Runway, All The Time
Project Outcast: Okay seriously, she takes the challenge requirements and materials and does it up like she's actually on the show.
Television Without Pity: Runway discussion board
AOL Project Runway discussion board
And from the Project Runway site:
The Runway auction top winners:
Nick's All Dolled Up
Starting Bid: $20.00
Winning Bid: $1,700.00
I thought I had it at $1500. Just kidding. Or am I? And, the PR blogsite says one can preorder Nick's actual Barbie. Believe, I'm all over it the second I see it.
Santino's Barbie
Starting Bid: $20.00
Winning Bid: $690.00
How much more did Nick get?
Nick's Social Scene
Starting Bid: $20.00
Updated bid: $510.00
2 days left!
Santino's Social Scene
Starting Bid: $20,00
Updated Bid: $365.00
2 days left
Daniel Vosovic's Social Scene
Starting Bid: $20.00
Updated Bid: $ 355.00
Two days left folks!
Why, oh wise sage, many have asked.
Unlike the other reality shows where the whole goal is for the contestants to backstab, hoodwink or otherwise fuck over the other contestants in order to win something, the Runway is moral and pure. If it weren't for all the homos and hags, the Red States would love it. (But, I don't think Heidi "All-About-Trim" from BumFuck, Egypt and her pals designing shawls and burkas in a Lynchburg studio would be too interesting, but you never know. Huntington, West Virginia? Yes. Lynchburg? Probably not.)
It's all about beauty. It's all about creativity and innovation and vision. It's all about the talent of the designers. Wendy Pepper, from last season, was the exception and was rightly ostracized and demonized for all the strategery-izing and backstabbing and double-talking. She didn't have it, even though she, incomeprehensibly, got to the Final Three. (Although, I just read that both Austin and Kevin did show their lines at Fashion Week on the Runway runway. Yay for both of them!).
Ultimately, everyone on the show has to let their work speak for itself. And, if it's not beautiful and fabulous, then it's obvious they're going bye bye. They can't ally themselves with each other to vote someone out or screw someone over. They can't strategize to kill their biggest competition and cook them in stew.
Yes, there's all the drama in the workroom and at parties and in the suites and out on the Runway. But, the difference is, they're all saying the same stuff we're all saying out in front of the tv and it has no bearing on the results. They can talk all they want on the show, but they still have to produce up to standard or they're out.
And...FINALLY!, a reality show that isn't corny or truly stereotypical made up wholly of fags and their hags! There is no better entertainment. There can't be better one liners and catfights on the telly.
"...Uh uh. This ain't my first time at the rodeo."
"Oh, no, she better not come up in here."
"I don't believe in fair. [Take your hillbilly shoes over there...all in a look]"
"Sparkles!"
"I grew up playing with Barbies. I lived the whole Barbie culture."
I mean, come on now.
But, I'm not the only one. Every single person I've hounded into watching just ONE episode of the Runway is hooked. While I won't take all the credit...I will. In my acceptance speech, I'll thank Nick and Chloe and Daniel Vosovic and Zulema and Diana and Andrae and Santino and Jay and Kara Saun and Austin and Nora and of course Tim Gunn and Michael Kors and Nina Garcia and Heidi.
Then again, I'm apparently not as Runway-crazy as some others.
Project Runway: All Project Runway, All The Time
Project Outcast: Okay seriously, she takes the challenge requirements and materials and does it up like she's actually on the show.
Television Without Pity: Runway discussion board
AOL Project Runway discussion board
And from the Project Runway site:
The Runway auction top winners:
Nick's All Dolled UpStarting Bid: $20.00
Winning Bid: $1,700.00
I thought I had it at $1500. Just kidding. Or am I? And, the PR blogsite says one can preorder Nick's actual Barbie. Believe, I'm all over it the second I see it.
Santino's Barbie
Starting Bid: $20.00
Winning Bid: $690.00
How much more did Nick get?
Nick's Social SceneStarting Bid: $20.00
Updated bid: $510.00
2 days left!
Santino's Social Scene
Starting Bid: $20,00
Updated Bid: $365.00
2 days left
Daniel Vosovic's Social Scene
Starting Bid: $20.00
Updated Bid: $ 355.00
Two days left folks!
Friday, January 06, 2006
Eh...all in a day.
Happy Freakin New Years!
I'm not saying certain online job websites have my resume, but they might.
Highlights of Brent's schedule:
Dec 24 : Closer, 4 pm - 11:45 pm
Dec 26 : Closer, 4 pm - 11:30 pm
Dec 31 : Backup Closer, 3 pm - 12:30 am
Jan 1 : 3:30 pm - 11:30 pm
Granted, closing on Christmas Eve was my idea, mostly because Dan's family was in town and I was, well, sans plans. And, I guess I'm now a closer on Mondays.
New Years Eve was a mixed blessing. Customers were unusually polite and well-mannered so that offset most of the fact that I celebrated the New Year with a papercut from a placemat and mashed potato in my shoe. Still not sure how the mashed potato got into my shoe, but eh...all in a day.
The kickers have been:
(1) An older male customer whose party spent a mere $11/person yelling, "Sonny, was that too difficult for you to understand? Or do I have to explain it to you AGAIN?" This was preceded by another older male customer from the same party tapping me on the shoulder as I was talking and clearing dishes from another table with actually couth customers. He asked for ginger ale in a tall thin glass. We have neither. He started to ask to see a manager. Turns out he had already yelled at the only manager I could find. I discovered he was upset because he was seated later than his reservation time...by two minutes...on a Friday night.
I guess this doesn't sound so bad, but he also complained that there weren't enough settings on the table when in fact there were, minus one chair that a nearby party had swiped and put at their table. The salads weren't set out when his family sat down, which we don't do unless you actually tell someone that works at our restaurant that you want it that way. The wine he ordered (the $15/1.5 liter wine from a fucking tap) took 5 minutes to get to his table. And the cans we put on the table to place the pizzas-as-the-only-entree on top of were detracting from the decor...as if the Christmas lights on the wall and his own Walmart-designer-clothes-on-a-budget-wearing group hadn't already accomplished that. And, he spoke with an east-coast-Ivy-professor accent.
I guess it was the accent that pissed me off the most.
(2) Party of 25 Russians. 45 minutes late for a 7:30 reservation. Of course, the first person to show up doesn't speak enough English to explain to me the problem. The only thing I understood was, "No." Turns out Grandma likes the flowers on the ceiling in a room we keep closed on Monday nights. But, nobody bothered to tell any of the restaurant staff.
Fast forward past the point where several women invaded the work station and claimed it for mother Russia, planted a flag and...well I guess that's all you have to do. Thanks a lot Eddie Izzard. Past the parts where barely-English-speaking woman tells me not to order the next course until she says so. Past the part where she yells at me that her next course is taking to long...exactly 3 minutes after she tells me to order it. Past the part where she yells that we don't carry Russian vodka. Past the part where she yells at me to get out of the room as I'm filling water glasses.
And now to my favorite part of the evening. An older Russian man holds out his full water glass and speaks to me in Russian. I take the water glass and look at it, thinking there's a crack in the glass. Nope. I put it in the workstation, sidestepping the flag, and place it on the counter. Nothing's wrong. I walk out of the workstation and the man starts gesturing wildly at me and starting in on that Russian I'm a little rusty on, seeing as how I never took Russian. He starts to yell. Well, at least we're back in a familiar place.
Older Russian woman: "Fucking water."
Me: "Excuse me? Did he want that water, ma'am?"
Older Russian woman: (A little bit louder now, a little bit louder now) "Fucking water. Fucking water. Fucking no ice."
Me: "Oh."
Older Russian woman: "FUCKING WATER NO ICE."
Me: (on my cell phone in the work station) "...Immigration please. Yes, I'll hold."
Me: "Here you are sir. Enjoy your meal."
I understand that waitering is a job that I chose and that certain downsides come with every job. I get it. I really do. Every job has a shitty side. There's, 99% of the time, some loss of dignity and blows to the ego. There's the occasional contractual obligation to occasionally cover up the occasional child molestation in Neverland. There's the lung cancer that comes from chain smoking the day away holding that "SLOW" sign on the interstates.
And by the way, if anyone can get me that job, I'd do just about anything. Well, almost anything. I don't like wearing white after Labor Day. But, other than that, I'm game.
Seriously. Anything.
I did a little looking online and there are a lot of jobs out there in Milwaukee for someone with my qualifications and experience. Let's see, I've been an administrative assistant, cashier, teaching assistant, barrista, waiter, actor, writer, director, sound editor, nuclear engineer (I assume that's what breaking up a fight at a gay bar is), barback (I said bar people. sheesh), bartender, security guard (you try keeping the liquor away from unwelcome visitors at a homo house party), customer service peon, receptionist and the like.
And, I'm totally in a right place in my life and state of mind to do a little hooking if the situation presented itself.
How hard could it be for me to find a job that I can really like?
I'm not saying certain online job websites have my resume, but they might.
Highlights of Brent's schedule:
Dec 24 : Closer, 4 pm - 11:45 pm
Dec 26 : Closer, 4 pm - 11:30 pm
Dec 31 : Backup Closer, 3 pm - 12:30 am
Jan 1 : 3:30 pm - 11:30 pm
Granted, closing on Christmas Eve was my idea, mostly because Dan's family was in town and I was, well, sans plans. And, I guess I'm now a closer on Mondays.
New Years Eve was a mixed blessing. Customers were unusually polite and well-mannered so that offset most of the fact that I celebrated the New Year with a papercut from a placemat and mashed potato in my shoe. Still not sure how the mashed potato got into my shoe, but eh...all in a day.
The kickers have been:
(1) An older male customer whose party spent a mere $11/person yelling, "Sonny, was that too difficult for you to understand? Or do I have to explain it to you AGAIN?" This was preceded by another older male customer from the same party tapping me on the shoulder as I was talking and clearing dishes from another table with actually couth customers. He asked for ginger ale in a tall thin glass. We have neither. He started to ask to see a manager. Turns out he had already yelled at the only manager I could find. I discovered he was upset because he was seated later than his reservation time...by two minutes...on a Friday night.
I guess this doesn't sound so bad, but he also complained that there weren't enough settings on the table when in fact there were, minus one chair that a nearby party had swiped and put at their table. The salads weren't set out when his family sat down, which we don't do unless you actually tell someone that works at our restaurant that you want it that way. The wine he ordered (the $15/1.5 liter wine from a fucking tap) took 5 minutes to get to his table. And the cans we put on the table to place the pizzas-as-the-only-entree on top of were detracting from the decor...as if the Christmas lights on the wall and his own Walmart-designer-clothes-on-a-budget-wearing group hadn't already accomplished that. And, he spoke with an east-coast-Ivy-professor accent.
I guess it was the accent that pissed me off the most.
(2) Party of 25 Russians. 45 minutes late for a 7:30 reservation. Of course, the first person to show up doesn't speak enough English to explain to me the problem. The only thing I understood was, "No." Turns out Grandma likes the flowers on the ceiling in a room we keep closed on Monday nights. But, nobody bothered to tell any of the restaurant staff.
Fast forward past the point where several women invaded the work station and claimed it for mother Russia, planted a flag and...well I guess that's all you have to do. Thanks a lot Eddie Izzard. Past the parts where barely-English-speaking woman tells me not to order the next course until she says so. Past the part where she yells at me that her next course is taking to long...exactly 3 minutes after she tells me to order it. Past the part where she yells that we don't carry Russian vodka. Past the part where she yells at me to get out of the room as I'm filling water glasses.
And now to my favorite part of the evening. An older Russian man holds out his full water glass and speaks to me in Russian. I take the water glass and look at it, thinking there's a crack in the glass. Nope. I put it in the workstation, sidestepping the flag, and place it on the counter. Nothing's wrong. I walk out of the workstation and the man starts gesturing wildly at me and starting in on that Russian I'm a little rusty on, seeing as how I never took Russian. He starts to yell. Well, at least we're back in a familiar place.
Older Russian woman: "Fucking water."
Me: "Excuse me? Did he want that water, ma'am?"
Older Russian woman: (A little bit louder now, a little bit louder now) "Fucking water. Fucking water. Fucking no ice."
Me: "Oh."
Older Russian woman: "FUCKING WATER NO ICE."
Me: (on my cell phone in the work station) "...Immigration please. Yes, I'll hold."
Me: "Here you are sir. Enjoy your meal."
I understand that waitering is a job that I chose and that certain downsides come with every job. I get it. I really do. Every job has a shitty side. There's, 99% of the time, some loss of dignity and blows to the ego. There's the occasional contractual obligation to occasionally cover up the occasional child molestation in Neverland. There's the lung cancer that comes from chain smoking the day away holding that "SLOW" sign on the interstates.
And by the way, if anyone can get me that job, I'd do just about anything. Well, almost anything. I don't like wearing white after Labor Day. But, other than that, I'm game.
Seriously. Anything.
I did a little looking online and there are a lot of jobs out there in Milwaukee for someone with my qualifications and experience. Let's see, I've been an administrative assistant, cashier, teaching assistant, barrista, waiter, actor, writer, director, sound editor, nuclear engineer (I assume that's what breaking up a fight at a gay bar is), barback (I said bar people. sheesh), bartender, security guard (you try keeping the liquor away from unwelcome visitors at a homo house party), customer service peon, receptionist and the like.
And, I'm totally in a right place in my life and state of mind to do a little hooking if the situation presented itself.
How hard could it be for me to find a job that I can really like?
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