for dennis

dennis has started complaining that my blog doesn't contain enough celebrity gossip. so, here goes:

"oh, and i heard that hilary duff is boinking lindsay lohan. i read it in paris hilton's newly-exposed emails. those crazy hollywood no-talents. what sluts!"

strange

strange the things that change when a relationship ends. not a jack mcfarland 3-hour relationship, but an extended one. the kind that involves a lease with both your names on it.

some things are the same--the same monday night TV, the dinner together you bought at the same store as always. because so little has changed, you notice the differences: he talks on the phone with a door between you; he closes the bathroom door when he showers.

i'd like to say that our silence is laden with subtext, but it seems to only be silence.

don't look for me in chicago

on ani difranco's new album, she writes:

"new as you are, really, to the idea that
even after you've long since gotten used to the parameters
they can all change
while you're out one night having a drink with a friend
some big hand may be turning a big dial
switching channels on your dreams
until you find yourself lost in them
and watching your daily life with the sound off
and of course having cautiously turned down the flame under your eyes
there are more shadows around everything
your vision a dim flashlight that you have to shake all the way to the outhouse
your solitude elevating itself like the spirit of the dead
presiding over your supposed repose
not really sleep at all just a sleeping position and a series of suspicious sounds"

in my smug married-ness, i suppose, i took these lyrics with a grain of salt. things don't change in an instant, i thought, you can always see it coming.

but you don't. saturday morning i had a boyfriend and a home and a cat named sascha. now it's monday morning and all three are gone. i don't have a home anymore; i have an apartment filled with a mix-up of belongings, his and mine, which i will have to sort out and box up, and put into storage, or sell, or throw away. i can no longer pack my life into a suitcase and run away. adult life doesn't just mean that you have to pay your own car insurance and figure out where the rent's coming from; it also means that you suddenly own a couch and a bed (but not a mattress, because that was his).

everything can change in an instant; that big, unseen hand really is turning that big dial while you aren't looking. and you find yourself waking up from sleep that came only after three beers and a valium and two sleeping pills, not knowing where you are. then, slowly, sadly, you realize that the bed you assumed was yours, and the man you assumed you'd roll over and find, or hear making pancakes in the next room, is gone.

exhibit a: hiding behind those tulips are three gay guys. 

ina garten is a fag hag

last weekend in new york, scott and chris pointed out to me the fact that every time the food network's "barefoot contessa," ina garten, has friends over, they're immaculately-dressed, older-but-good-looking faggots. i had only noticed one, from her famed "come over; we're going to grill but i'm not going to tell you what it is!" episode.

i'm sitting here with terry, doing my usual saturday food network watching, and onto the screen pops fat and happy ina garten. she informs us that she was sitting around with her bridge friends in the hamptons, and that they've decided to really spice things up by throwing a pot luck dinner party!

needless to say, 3 of the 4 people she's invited are rich-ass fags. you know that when they're talking to each other on their super-slim cellphones they have this conversation:

"girl, if these other queens see us hanging out with that fat-ass barefoot cuntessa, our stock is gonna plummet!"

"i know, mary, but she puts us on TV and feeds us, girl."

"true dat."

ok, so maybe fags from the hamptons don't talk like that. but in my mind they do.

three generations of men: the exhausted homosexual, the proud father, and the sleeping grandfather. why does it look like my grandpa was propped up by an out-of-frame dolly in this picture?

mental health day

the ladies in my office, when they don't feel like coming in, take what they call "mental health days." unlike me, most of them also have the "child excuse." if for no other reason, having a child seems great because it will get you out of work: "i can't come in today; my kids' school got cancelled;" or "little johnny is sick--i have to stay home with her (johnny, a girl's name, you ask? pretend we're in oklahoma)." the point is, hopkins is liberal with their time off, and i love it.

it's emily's last full day in town so i myself took a mental health day. i got up at 10am and am now watching the ellen degeneres talk show (see my friendster profile, where i state that even if a gay show is shitty i will watch it because it is gay). as much as i disliked being unemployed, i'm sure enjoying being unemployed for the day.

amen. 

I like this picture of my sister because she seems to be thinking, "why am i standing here with a fat girl and a lesbian?" or maybe i'm projecting. 

morning kink

i

am

hungover.

in fact, i'm hungover (possibly still a little drunk) at work for the second time this week. before you check me into promises, let me try to justify my debaucherous behavior. tuesday's hangover, sadly, has no justification. but today's, today's is perfectly within the bounds of mid-20's behavior. here's why:

• emily finished her nationwide grad school audition tour yesterday, so we took her to pazo. you can't go to pazo and not drink at least three glasses of wine. as i'm sure you know, dear readers, once you're warm from three glasses of wine it's a slippery slope into drunkenness.
• on the way to pazo, terry called to tell me that he's gotten into northwestern. this means that, like all my other friends, terry and i now have an "exit plan." by the time terry informed me that "we'd be drinking tonight," i was in no position to argue. i bought him a bottle of champagne on the way home, popped it, put on my seatbelt, and prayed.

this morning's hangover is a vicious one, though, and i have an audition tonight. granted, it's for volunteer baltimore community theater, but it's not like i'm being paid to sing anywhere except first and franklin street presbyterian church. i didn't make it out of bed in time to eat breakfast, so hilary and i got coffee at the daily grind, where i saw literally every person i know at hopkins except for courtney.

as we were walking to our offices, hilary said the quote for which this whole entry is written. we're talking about terry beating hilary (don't ask me why; we seem to make an inordinate amount of domestic violence/kinky sex jokes). before i can get the words "yeah, except that you're asking him to beat you," hilary has said "well, i mean i complain except when i have an apple in my mouth and i'm on my knees!"

WHEN I HAVE AN APPLE IN MY MOUTH AND I'M ON MY KNEES. this statement is funny for several reasons:

1. the thought of my gay boyfriend involved in s/m bondage with my close friend is funny (until it happens, then it's just sick).
2. the image of hilary on her knees with an apple in her mouth calls to mind the luau suckling pig, which is innately funny. and i'm not comparing hilary to a pig, so unwad your panties.
3. hilary was probably thinking of something dirtier like a ball gag. the idea of using an apple instead is funny because it makes me think, hmm, we want to act out this dirty dirty s/m scene, but we don't have a ball gag! what on earth are we going to use? i've got it! an apple!

i hear my boss coming, which means it's time to wrap up. kisses!

i like to think of this picture as "james when he found out that i'm taken." 

welcome to baltimore

emily flew in last night for her peabody audition, and is now in the middle of a day which i do not envy in the least. though i bitch and moan about my job, it's better than taking a theory placement test, a music history placement test, an ear training placement test, and then auditioning for a panel of 10 judges. granted, the voice faculty at peabody is nice. if you ask some people, a little too nice; there's a point where being nice turns into helping someone devoid of vocal talent get through 4 years of conservatory study. peter says, "well, someone has to pay teachers' salaries." i say, "oh god, am i one of these people?"

so back to emily. emily lives in the lakeview district of chicago, a moderately-priced, safe, yuppie neighborhood adjacent to boystown. it's where terry and i will probably live if we move to chicago. emily is within walking distance of whole foods, a slew of restaurants, and high-class gay bars. terry and i, conversely, are within walking distance of streets that you read about in ana ditkoff's city paper column "murder ink." in fact, we're within walking distance of these neighborhoods whether you walk north, east, or west. at both of our jobs we could get there by just walking out the front door. if we were members of baltimore's bustling drug trade, we'd be in luck. as a couple of cute midwestern faggots, it's not so great.

again, back to emily. i'm really going to try to show emily a good time. keep her away from the horrible ghetto. she's spending most of her trip at waterloo apartments (the compound, as i like to call it; melrose place, to others) and peabody conservatory. tonight i'm trying to get a reservation at pazo (baltimore's newest hot spot) for small plates and wine. fancy. upscale. a we-have-good-jobs-and-good-food-and-fancy-clothes-and-wine type of place.

what's the first thing that terry does when he picks emily up from the airport? he drives her to the safeway at charles and 25th street (it's in that delicious strip of ghetto between north ave. and charles village. mayor o'malley's office calls it "station north" or "south charles village," but i call it "harlem circa 1988" or "cabrini green in the good ol' days."). while they were in the 25th st. safeway, they had the following "you know you're in baltimore when..." experience:

over the store p.a.: "if you drive a nissan sentra, your car has just been hit." (followed by rustles of "oh no he di'i'" and "ohhh, gurrrl you know he done messed up!" and twitters of laughter from the checkout girls)

five minutes later: "if you drive a toyota corolla, your car has just hit another car."

terry told me that he expected to see the toyota driver running out the door to drive away. hit and runs are as baltimore-prevalent as fried chicken wings. i say this because in the last year significant damage has been done to both terry's car and to mine by hit and run drivers--while they were parked. both drivers hit the cars and fled the scene, but both drivers have been located.

terry then takes emily across the street to paul chen's hong kong restaurant, our favorite takeout, where someone glances at her scarf and tells her, "oh. for a minute i thought you had dredlocks." welcome to baltimore, emily. it sure ain't lakeview.

"Outfits don't just happen, Bootsie." 

it's a party!

well, not really. but that's what my boss is calling the upside-down world into which she's thrown herself, me, and my coworkers leslie and mayme. specifically, she's calling it a "recruitment party." this involves working from 12-8 (or if you're a schmuck like me, 11.30-8), spending the last three hours eating dinner and talking to people on the phone, trying to get them involved in our asthma study. let me run you through a little bit of what i'll be doing from 5-8 this evening:

"hi, my name is robert and i'm calling from the ACE study at johns hopkins. johns hopkins. yes, hopkins. no, no one has been shot. i'm calling from the ACE study. we were given [insert crazy name here]'s name by johns hopkins community physicians as someone who has asthma and might be interested participating in our study. johns hopkins community physicians. asthma study. right. no, no one has been shot. do you have a few minutes so that i can ask you some questions about [crazy name]'s asthma? what do you mean, "who is [crazy name]?" this isn't ms. [name suppressed due to hipaa regulations]? do you know when she'll be home? she doesn't live there any more? oh, she lost custody of the kids. ok, well, do you know anyone ages 12-20 who has asthma? no, sir, i'm sorry; i realize you're a severe asthmatic and that you've just been released from the hospital; no, i'm sorry. 40 is out of our age bracket. no, no one has been shot. thanks for your time."

for those of you who don't believe that this very exchange will take place, you can ask terry. he's heard me "recruit" on the phone at home. it's just no fun.

emily's coming in from chicago tonight, and, as mentioned in an earlier blog, she's "four plus plus plus" allergic to cats. i haven't de-kittified the apartment yet, which means that she's going to be sneezing and that terry's annoyed. in hindsight i should've stayed in last night and gotten up early and cleaned. but i didn't. today i'm hungover and have an annoyed boyfriend. lordy be.

pharmacology humor, or: scientists laugh?

margie, hilary's wonderfully crazy bawlmer coworker, sent this to her this morning:

"In pharmacology, all drugs have two names - a trade name and a generic name. For example, the trade name of Tylenol is acetaminophen. Aleve is known as naproxen, Amoxil is amoxicillin, and Advil is ibuprofen. The FDA has been looking for a generic name for Viagra. After consideration by a team of government experts, it recently announced it has settled on the generic name of my coxafloppin. Also considered were mycoxafailin, mydixadrupin, mydixarizin, mydixadud, dixafix, and of course ibepokin. Pfizer Corp. is making an announcement today that Viagra will soon be available in liquid form and will be marketed by Pepsi Cola as a power beverage suitable for use as a mixer. Pepsi's proposed ad campaign claims it will now be possible for a man to literally pour himself a stiff one. Obviously we can no longer call this a soft drink. This additive gives new meaning to the names of cocktails, highballs and just a good old fashioned stiff drink. Pepsi will market the new concoction as Mount & Do."

addendum

this weekend's trip to new york was the first time i'd ever been to the city and not had to ride the subway at all. whether i was going across town or just ten blocks south to an old-man-style gay bar (named, fittingly, oscar wilde's--i told scott that they should make it a theme bar and put a docket in one corner and a victorian-looking prison cell in the other.), we rode in style. we rode in CABS.

when i lived with scott in spanish harlem that summer, eating hot dogs and ramen so that i could spend my money on cigarettes and booze, taking a taxi anywhere seemed about as likely--as i said on saturday--as riding a rainbow starship to xanadu. oh, how things have changed.

pretty pretty princess

i had to go to nyc this weekend for an audition, which you'll know if you've been good boys and girls and have been faithfully taking your daily dose of the reluctant receptionist. as usual, i took the train because a) it's faster and more relaxing than driving and way faster than the bus; b) the people on the train don't call black plastic trashbags luggage; and c) i'm a princess. i'm such a princess that when someone suggests i take the bus instead of the train, i become indignant. "i'm sorry," i tell them, "but i'm just not bus folk."

this holiday weekend (yay, presidents!), though, i might as well have been bus folk, because i was treated to the most heinous train behavior i've ever witnessed on both the trip to new york and the trip back . usually the people who can afford amtrak are middle-aged snotty business people or snot-nosed (see a common thread here?) college students. not saturday and sunday, though. these two days will go down in infamy (if for no one else but me).

saturday:

crazy, baltimore-looking black couple (no, they're not baltimore-looking just because they're black. sheesh. if you lived in baltimore you'd know what i'm talking about) perpetrates the following inexcusable offenses:

1. use of one (1) walkie-talkie style cell phone. these cellphones should be banned from the face of the planet earth, and especially have no business in crowded trains, elevators, or funerals. however, they are used all the time at all of the above three venues;
2. when not using the cell phone as a walkie-talkie, allowing it to ring loudly, extendedly, and repeatedly because the cell phone ring is your favorite rap song. you listen to said rap song and boisterously rap along with it for a while before answering the phone;
3. causing a ruckus that sounds something like a jill scott-style family reunion, replete with collard greens, potato salad, and lemon meringue pie;
4. laying on each other, snoring;
5. after everyone has gotten out of their seat and lined up to deboard the train, standing up and shoving people out of your way so that you may deboard first.

those five are really all i can remember. i've blocked everything else out and will have to go into memory recovery therapy to uncover the rest. stay tuned.

sunday:

crazy dominican woman with 1.5 year-old baby:

1. allows the baby to scream literally from new york to baltimore;
2. talks in a voice that's louder than me when i'm yelling, in spanish, on her cell phone in an otherwise quiet train car;
3. refuses to teach her child english even though she's raising him in the united states (ok, so that's really not something that has to do with amtrak or my general train experience; it's also blatantly white-centric and is a statement that would keep me from getting elected to any public office in south texas. but with all the border-town abductions going on in south texas, why would i want to run for office there anyway?).

while these offensive behaviors were transpiring, i kept thinking to myself, this is why i ride the train--to get AWAY from you people! if i'm going to keep being such a little princess bitch, i'm going to have to start riding in business class.

in honor of hilary being hired full-time at hopkins: welcome to this magnficent, cushy club. it's a club where prescription drugs are thrown at you like mardi gras beads; you can take all the staff-development courses you've ever dreamed of (you'll finally be a whiz at access AND excel!); and you have to go through counseling before they can fire you. hats off to hilary! 

i'm on a conference call, can't you tell?

dear readers, i write to you this morning while listening to a conference call. this particular conference call involves changes to the asthma control evaluation protocol. usually, my coworker leslie and i sit here and read lucky magazine, but leslie is out today. so, i blog.

i have an audition in new york tomorrow, for tri-cities opera (what's that, you ask? good question, i say.) young artist program. i do not want to go to this audition. there are a few reasons i'm totally "not feeling it," as they say in baltimore and on b.e.t.:

1. i'm not singing well since my last lesson, because something that steve told me seems to be more confusing to me than helpful
2. it's on a saturday, the one precious, precious day off i get a week
3. i have more auditions coming up next thursday and friday, for which i need to be practicing and learning rep
4. emily is coming in from chicago on tuesday evening (!) to audition for the peab and i need to do my best to clean the cat hair off of everything. she's allergic to cats and is coming to baltimore to sing. if you ask her about her allergy, she'll scream "four plus plus plus!" at you and run away.
5. i'm a schmuck and put off buying my train ticket until just now, so i'm going to have to take a taxi from new york penn station to the audition site because i'm getting there literally 30 minutes before my audition time.

as well as these reasons for "not feeling it," the are fun things i'm having to turn down so that i can at least attempt to sing well tomorrow afternoon:

1. wine and small plates with hilary at baltimore's new 'hot spot,' pazo
2. margaritas and a free mexican buffet with courtney and kate at taco fiesta
3. happy hour with my clinically insane (and therefore hilariously fun) coworkers

if i wind up getting this young artist program, it will make a great story to tell opera news: "and then i did my first young artist program, tri-cities opera. you know what's funny? i nearly didn't take this audition. imagine where i'd be then! (grabs fur collar and throws head back in raucous laughter)" probably, though, it's just going to be a pain in the ass which leads to another rejection letter.

two years of auditioning with no success has made me cynical. can you tell?

what's wrong with this sentence?

yet another mass email from work...

"For all those who don't know our very own Chris [name suppressed for confidentiality] from theEnvirormnet Team is moving up in the world and we couldn't be moreexcited for him. See below for a farwell send off."

what a way to start the day!

wonders never cease

the unthinkable happened today in the gym: tourette's guy talked to me in the locker room. for those of you who don't know, there is a nasty, nasty trio that always shows up at the gym the same time that kel and i do: tourette's guy (who always wears oversized tank tops, out of which poke one or both of his manbreasts, and who grunts and screams like he's mr. universe even though he lifts very little more than i do); smelly guy (who smells so bad that you can literally smell where he's been in the gym); and rude black guy (who earned this name when i asked him, "do you mind if i work in with you on this bench?" and he replied "why? what's wrong with that bench?"). recently, the trio has become a foursome with the addition of semi-fat japanese guy, a 20-something who doesn't seem to fit in with the previous three in any way except that he has a bad attitude.

so that's the backstory.

tourette's guy completely ignores kel and i, although he talks (and whistles, and sings, and makes what sound to me like barnyard noises) to everyone else in the gym. he even talks to our other gay friends, two of which have gone from being known simply as "our gay gym boyfriends" to brent and jorge. however, none of our other gay friends are as...how shall i put this...awesomely flamboyant as kel and i are. i think that tourette's guy pretends we're not there because we're obviously, to put it lightly, cocksucking fairies (or faeries if you're tori amos). i don't know what would've tipped him off; it might be my skin-tight sleeveless black shirt or kel's platform sneakers. who knows--the point is i think that he ignores us because we're homosexuals.

the world turned upside down 30 minutes ago (see previous post, "opposite day") when, after i had finished changing and rolling my eyes after hearing (not seeing) tourette's guy come into the locker room, he goes, "you done already?" my reply: "yep; well, i got here early today, and i'm a little hungover so i took it easy." "yeah, man, i wish i was done already." are we actually having a conversation? i thought. "cool. well, take it easy, man," i said. take it easy, man? who do i think i am? kyan from queer eye? "have a good one, bro." i'm walking out and after i've nearly cleared the door i hear tourette's guy say, "if you have a hangover, drink ginger ale." i have my suspicions that he's borderline retarded, so i know he was really trying.

is the tide turning? am i going to be nice to my gym nemeses, the nasty trio, the unholy trinity? we'll see, chilluns, we'll see.

opposite day

for the last week and a day i have been (some would say unhealthily) obsessed with andrew bird's latest album, the mysterious production of eggs. listening to it on the way to the office today, i thought i'd share some of his fan-fucking-tastic lyrics.

from "opposite day":

today was supposed to be the day
molecules decide to change their form,
laws of physics lose their sway.
and youthful indiscretion now is suddenly the norm,
with the good kids sprouting horns.

and today was supposed to be
just another day
today was supposed to be
just another day
today was supposed to be
opposite day

those who cannot function in society at large
will wake to find themselves suddenly in charge
while those the world's set up for,
who are really doing quite well,
we'll wake to find them in institutions,
in prison, or in hell.
in prison, or in hell.

but if you think there's something else, well you're right.
there is--there's something else.
but if you think i'm gonna tell you, think again.
why should i even think of telling you what it is?
yeah, 'cause silence is knowledge
and knowledge is power.
i'm on explicit orders to dare not speak its name.
listen up, i just work here.
oh i dare not speak its name.
i can't keep talking about it.
whoa, i dare not speak its name.

wouldn't it be fun, i thought, if i woke up one day and discovered that it really was opposite day, right here in baltimore, maryland, the city that reads, the greatest city on earth? here are a few things you might notice on that most magical of days:

• you're driving through east baltimore and every single pedestrian is using a crosswalk and obeying traffic signals
• you're shopping at express men's and all the male employees have on pleated pants and bad shoes. gasp--they're all straight!
• you're buying your sexual lubricant and a candy bar (ahem, peter) at rite aid and the checkout girl greets you with a friendly "how may i help you," while efficiently ringing up your order
• traffic jams are reported across baltimore city, as drivers halt traffic by insisting their fellow drivers take the right of way
• maryland governor robert "bob" ehrlich introduces pro-gay marriage legislation
• robert opens his paycheck to discover that he's earned 26k a year singing and a mere 5k as a full-time secretary
• president bush holds a press conference, calling his war on iraq both "unnecessary" and "foolish"
• when asked whether or not they like taco bell and don pablo's, robert and terry cry, "ew, yuck! never...do you know how bad those places are for you? it's like eating dog food!"
• when walking through the halls of peabody, you hear girls yapping on their cell phones in english instead of korean
• while hosting 'buzzer' at grand central, tia chambers is clear-eyed and present, correctly pronouncing words like "savannah," "barbados," and "damask duvet"
• all of the people robert talks to on the phone at work have names like john, susan, carla, or christopher

those are real opposites. they're not as florid as andrew bird's, but goddamn they'd be surprising.

if there's time to lean, there's time to clean

thank god i don't work at banana republic anymore. with this much downtime, i would've dusted the entire goddamned place four times today. i log on to post the following instant messenger conversation with terry:

Robert: work is making me want to die and/or kill today.
Terry: that boring?
Robert: yes, and karen is trying to peer pressure me into recruiting.
Terry: doesn't mayme do that?
Robert: and me, and leslie
Terry: so why don't you do it?
Robert: because i dont' feel like talking to those crazy trashy people today, it's awful.
Terry: ic
Terry: ;lkjsgorgq]erathb9
Robert: pardon me?
Terry: that was my face on the keyboard.
Robert: HAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

they always told me i'd go blind...i should've listened.

today's 'blog entry will be interesting because i got to work today without my glasses. if i were terry, tom, or myself 5 years ago, it wouldn't be an issue because my glasses wouldn't help my vision any more than an office building window would. that's right, i'm outing them: both terry and tom have gorgeous, expensive vanity eyeglasses. there. i said it! alas, i'm one of the millions who do need prescription lenses (terry's actually taken his off to see better before) and mine are at home.

valentine's day is upon us, crushing every singleton's spirit under it's monstrous, bright red, heart-shaped heel. why have i bought into valentine's day like i have? today, even though it is a rainy monday, terry and i will be enjoying a fancy steak dinner and exchanging extravagent (for our income) gifts. instead of surprising terry with a present i logged on to jackspade.com and had him pick out his own gift. he picked a messenger bag that i'm going to be jealous of, then i told him, "okay, honey. now go get daddy his credit card." before i gave up and logged on to jackspade.com, i'd called every nordstrom in maryland to see if they had the messenger bag in stock. after i was asked "what's that?" by a fourth nordstrom men's furnishings employee, i realized that jack spade bags are just kate spade purses for faggots. i'm buying myself one a.s.a.p.

though i huffily decry valentine's day as a holiday created by the pink teddy bear/heart-shaped chocolate box/greeting card industry, last night i actually began to give terry shit because we're not celebrating it in some spectacular, "romantic" fashion. what is romance, though? if we're to believe the today show, oprah, "dr." phil, or HGTV, it requires one (1) heart-shaped pink bathtub; two (2) massages, one for you and one for her; one (1) cabin in the adirondacks; one (1) bearskin rug; and one (1) roaring fire. that's bullshit. first of all, i wouldn't get in a heart-shaped bathtub if i was being paid to be filmed naked again (er...i mean...uh...), nor would i come anywhere near a bearskin rug. definitely not a bearskin rug near a roaring fire--the smell of singed bear hair just doesn't come out of fabric.

romance isn't fancy dinners and chocolates. it's staying with you in the hospital for four days; going with you to see bands he's never even heard of; listening to you complain about your stomach hurting for the 3,294th time and still feigning concern; and driving with you through the night to go to a stranger's wedding. i guess that those things aren't as easy to incorporate into a pink and red valentine's day card.

lest i get too high and mighty, i'll bring us back down to earth. terry and i were standing in line at wal mart in middle river, maryland last night (you either have to go to ghetto wal mart or country-fried wal mart; pick your poison) and we were behind a man buying an actual, honest-to-god pink teddy bear, heart-shaped box of chocolates, and a hologrammed hot pink gift bag. i thought to myself, "thank god i'm dating someone with taste."

i know what real romance is, but that doesn't mean i'm gonna turn down something that's thoughtful and expensive.

valentine's day ideas

i've gotten caught up in all the hoopla surrounding valentine's day. hell, even friendster has turned pink. it's commercial, it's obnoxious. however, for the second year in a row i am dating someone during this hallowed season (when you give up christianity you have to pick something to be the hallowed season), so i've been banished from the "anti-valentine's day dinners" and "broken hearts club" parties, and i have no choice but to get my boyfriend/significant other/maybe-someday-husband-if-we-ever-get-rid-of-dubya something romantic. and if not romantic, then at least expensive.

i know it's early, but i thought that maybe i'd help you out, dear readers, and provide some ideas for your weekend valentine's gift shopping excursions.

the following is a list of things you can feel free to buy your special someone, as i won't be buying any of them for terry:

1) a heart-shaped box of russell stover chocolates or a whitman's sampler
2) a pony
3) a hooker for when he's in chicago next week
4) hoop earrings
5) the complete works of walt whitman, unabridged
5a) the complete works of emily dickinson, unabridged
5b) the complete works of henry david thoreau, unabridged
5c) the complete works of john steinbeck, unabridged
5d) why i was crazy for 3 years then ended up in my bra in the desert, an autobiography by anne heche
6) manolo blahnik stiletto heels
7) anything from the limited or the limited too
8) dance lessons with richard gere, taught by j-lo
9) tickets to WWE smackdown at first mariner's arena
10) a trip to medieval times at arundel mills
10a) a hooker for while he's at medieval times at arundel mills
11) a keg of beer
12) an electric staple remover
13) a wet-and-dry shopvac
14) a gift certificate to "the lake trout," a restaurant at 4562 Edmondson Ave.
15) bisexual trannie porn

well, there's 15 uber-romantic options. any one of these choices will surely melt your boyfriend/girlfriend/near-stranger's heart. take my word for it!

another good thing about being 25: you're old enough to remember this ad campaign. this photo is responsible for the last 3 years that i have been going to the gym 5 days a week. and it's alllll worth it. 

Oprah's answer to the quarter-life crisis: "Jess' remember yo' spirit, chil'!"

as my friends and I careen toward 25 years of age--and as some of us (ahem, terry, nakia) have already hit that quarter-century mark--it's irresistible to stand back and take stock. hilary, tom, and i are all turning this magical age--the age when you can rent a car, your insurance goes down, and suddenly you're closer to 30 than 18--at the same time. we're throwing ourselves a ridiculous bash called the Quarter Life Crisis party to commemorate. is it only a joke, that we're all going through a quarter-life crisis? not really.

am i where i thought i'd be at 25? let's ask the experts: me through the years.

robert at 14: hardly! i planned on attending oklahoma city university, where i was to major in english literature, after which i would go on to pursue a masters' degree and marry ginger renee skaggs, my best friend and the love of my life. those times that i jerked off thinking about when matt s. unbuttoned his fly in class? i'll ignore those. i can do it.

robert at 18: well, kinda...i mean, i knew that i'd make it to the east coast eventually. i never belonged in oklahoma. that's what people have told me, anyway. i've gotten rid of of my hick accent, spiked my hair, and said a big fuck you to the baptist friends i had in ponca city. frankly, though, older robert, i can't believe you're a secretary. i always thought you'd just land a job teaching after college.

robert at 22: teaching? gimme a break, younger me. those jobs are one in a million, and i quickly discovered that while i was a big fish in a small pond at depauw university, greencastle, indiana, i'm a small-voiced fish in a big-voiced pond at peabody conservatory. all you can do at this point is practice, audition, and pray.

and now it's the present. i'll be 25 in a month and 18 days. it's easy to get caught up in all the shit that's gone down in this nearly 25 years on earth, but i can't let myself. i made it to the east coast, without having to lick burger king wrappers for sustenance. i've been dating a man i love for over a year, without chasing him off or fucking it up. for the first time in my life, i can imagine how the "rest of my life" is going to spin out; for the first time, i expect to have a "rest of my life."

for the first time in my life, being a quarter-century doesn't look so bad.

from the desk of a jealous brunette

this morning's near-daily blonde joke from my father:


A blonde was speeding down the road in her little red sports car and was pulled over by a woman police officer, who was also a blonde.

The blonde cop asked to see the blonde's driver's license.

The driver dug through her purse and was getting progressively more agitated.

"What does it look like?" the driver finally asked. The policewoman replied, "its square and it has your picture on it."

The driver finally found a square mirror, looked at it and handed it to the policewoman saying, "Here it is."

The blonde officer looked into the mirror, then handed it back and said, "Okay, you can go. I didn't realize you were a cop."

Happy Chinese New Year! Let's make sure that this is really the year of the COCK. Ya hear that, George? 

"so you talk about a hand of glory/a tale that's rather grim and gory/is it just another chilren's story/that's been de-clawed?/when the tales of brothers Grimm and Gorey/have been outlawed" --Andrew Bird, "Measuring Cups" 

the young opera singer: a study in diversion 

internalized homophobia, meet blatant racism.

"They don't got nothin' to eat in this place [hopkins hospital]. I'm about to open up Zina's Rib Shack."

as always, people, i don't make these quotes up.

'blogging under pressure

how am i to work under these conditions? when i refer to "work," i don't mean ordering cabs for teenage asthmatics, shipping pee to kansas or air to tucson, or answering the phone when it rings. no, i mean real work: updating my 'blog. i've finally succumb to the pressure of those dependent on my 'blog; those who need it like they need smack, H, horse, dope. this 'blog's for you.

i was talking to ben about taking so many pills a day (19 to be exact, 21 if i'm tylenol pm-ing it). for those of you who are strangers to the mystery wrapped in an enigma that is robert , i've got a chronic condition that i inherited from my dad called chron's disease. it's not really that big a deal, but to control it i take a fantastic number of pills. so, while telling him about my pill habit, i told him something that i always think when i'm in a public place--a restaurant, an airport--and have to take my medication. i get out this huge bottle, from which i pour four blue and green pills, and down them all at once. without fail, i think to myself, "the people sitting with me in this terminal are going to think that this is the Cocktail." more appropriately, since most straight old people out there aren't exactly versed in the latest AIDS terminology, "martha, i do believe that boy has gay cancer!"

why is it that this is the first stop my brain takes on its way to no, robert, these people aren't staring at you? i told ben, "i'm sure that all these people just assume i have HIV, since i'm clearly homosexual [i'm the classic case of others knowing before i figured it out myself] and i'm sitting here taking a handful of pills." as soon as the words were out of my mouth (or, actually, typed by my fingers) i realized: wow, that sounds homophobic. i'm projecting some deeply-buried, fucked-up, done-growed-up-homosex'ul-in-oklahoma assumption that gay=aids, therefore gay=aids=death, therefore gay=death. when i came out to my mother and she told me she was crying because "she wanted me to have a healthy life," i blamed her for her ignorance. six, nearly seven years later, i find myself thinking the same thing.

can i totally blame myself for this projection, though? whenever terry and i venture into the suburbs, i consciously dress down: no tight jeans, no tight t-shirts, no rainbows, no hand-holding. after years of screaming in the face of conformity, i began to feel like it was just easier to go to the mall without blue hair or painted fingernails. if you don't want to elicit stares, don't wear something that demands that people notice you.

here i was, in my mall drag (depauw sweatshirt, jeans), when terry and i walked past a group of early college students. "...and speaking of gay people..." i heard one say when we walked past. terry didn't hear him; i didn't say anything for 20 minutes because i refused to admit to terry that it bothered me. terry holds hands with his boyfriend at the mall. it's because of me that we don't. i finally told him, "some kid back there called us out for being gay, and it made me feel singled out; violated. i haven't shaved today, i'm wearing a sweatshirt. i look more terrible than any self-respecting fag would ever let himself look. what is it that lets these kids know i'm queer?"

without a moment's hesitation, terry said, "it's your glasses. and your shoes." he's got a point; even when i'm dressing down in suburbia, my glasses are still cat-eyed and my shoes are still fabulous. i mean, i'd have to buy a pair of bad straight-guy shoes if i wanted to really complete the look--and i'd rather spend my $14 on the new andrew bird CD.

SNL

"This week, Canada introduced a bill to officially legalize gay marriage, at which point the bill insisted on being addressed as William."

hangover

the descent into viator proved to be everything we'd hoped for--and more! a few highlights of the evening:

• warm but absurdly potent and (fittingly) fruity vodka drinks served in martini glasses
• a romy and michelle's-style valentine's prom decor
• two hip straight girls named audra and nicole
• the opportunity to make fun of conspicuously "indie rock" late-teenagers ("look man, we're so indie rock we don't have to comb our hair; turn up the volume--the YEAH YEAH YEAHS rock!")
• a game of compulsory (i.e. no one at the party was given the opportunity to decline participation) charades that somehow involved a fuckin' dildo
• two scared-looking but aren't-they-cute 18 year old fags; who's the top? who cares!

all in all, a fantastic start to the evening.

after getting substantially plowed at viator's (yet somehow instantly sobering up the moment we hit the street to head to the gay bar--most likely a protection mechanism) those of us who were of-age (five total) went to central station. oops...i mean "Grand Central," as it's recently gone under a multi-million dollar expansion and now includes a "disco" and an upstairs "leather bar," which is really just an excuse for older queens to sit around in a darker setting with tires hanging on the wall. the only leather in that place is on peoples' loafers. we were a motley crew to say the least: me (poseur indie-rock fag); tom (abercrombie/fitch vest-wearing fag); george (7-foot-tall chinese fag); nimrod (5-foot-tall israeli fag); and greg (the perpetual 19-year-old fag). one of us ended up going home with a SKEEVY (and i don't use that word lightly) costa rican, and they weren't indie-rock, a&f, chinese, or israeli. but i'm not naming names.

fag life in baltimore, man. gotta love it.

Creative? Me?

no, i'm a secretary. i don't know what you're talking about. as my day-job brothers and sisters will attest, working from 8:30 to 5 (or 9 to 4:30 but who's counting) saps your creativity. there are those that would argue that creating ways to kill upwards of five hours of downtime a day counts, but i don't agree with them. i write all of this because george has asked me to collaborate with him on a new short opera he's composing, and subsequently direct it when it's composed.

though i considered renting a director's chair and finding a beret, scarf, and large sunglasses to make myself feel more like a director--ooh, and maybe one of those old-timey voice-amplifier cones. what are those called?--i fear that merely making myself look like a director isn't going to work. i posed as an opera singer for six years and look where it got me. no, this time i'm going to actually have to know what i'm talking about, and i'm scared. then again, much like invention (or achievement, i can't remember) is 10% inspiration and 90% perspiration, i feel like directing an opera is 5% inspiration and 95% bullshit. there's the occasional director who's done his homework and has pages of notes concerning specific stage direction (rest in peace, John Lehmeyer), but most seem to be flying by the seats of their pants. or, in the case of a certain stuttery director we all know and love, they come to staging rehearsals with the idea that "the scene will be organic," i.e. that everyone in the room is going to have some simultaneous and group epiphany and that the staging will just happen. it's either this, or he wanders the stage, wildly gesticulating, squinting his eyes, and muttering bits of the libretto to himself, making up staging as he goes along.

this is the kind of director that i don't want to be; i want to be prepared and coolly in control. i want to have that beret and bullhorn, and a vision. the problem is that i'm not exactly cool and i'm barely--if ever--in control. luckily, i have a firm grasp on concepts like jazz hands, buttons, specials, and large-scale dance routines. it's a shame that four shakespearean sonnets comprise the libretto.

ah, i almost forgot.

today is friday. i used to go to the dentist's office and snicker at people who had little signs on their desk that said things like, "don't worry, it's nearly friday," or "is it friday yet?" or "don't talk to me, it's friday" (ok, so i made that last one up) but now i understand them. i will never have a sign like that on my desk--i'm far too cool* for shit like that.

tom, george, and i are attending a party tonight thrown by 19-year-old fag extraordinaire matthew viator. the invitation says something about hags, drags, fags...i don't know what the hell. you can see the official invitation here...it's worth checking out: https://jshare.johnshopkins.edu/mviator1/fags%20-%20hags%20-%20and%20drags.jpg?uniq=6bq09l
we've affectionately changed the name of the party to "descent into viator," because that boy lives in his own world.

happy impending weekend. out.


*robert is not, in fact, cool, and if he is ever mistaken for cool it's because of his impeccable gay fashion sense.

The shading on my upper lip

Trisha
(Please rate my quiz)


Which Napoleon Dynamite character are you?
brought to you by Quizilla


Apparently I'm Trisha, the snotty girl that goes to the mall. I am a follower. I have nice bangs. Surprised? Anyone? Anyone?

get me out of here

there comes a time when you reach saturation with a place like baltimore. it happens when you live in the best of cities--i've had the same feeling with new york, with london--but with baltimore the necessity of escape becomes visceral, tangible, all kinds of SAT words. i could feel it coming, made inevitable by the events of the last few days, most notably terry's car wreck. i don't know if i should call it a car wreck--can i call it "terry's car wreck" if he was nowhere near the poor, fated '99 pontiac sunfire when it was destroyed? whatever. the point is, the feeling is here, and i'm not the only one feeling it.

how shall i describe it? i want to convey that it's a feels like needing to be away from the city, away from pavement and amublances and muggers; of wanting to breathe clean air and be under a tree that isn't surrounded by sidewalk; of wanting your sweater to smell like campfire and leaves. i want to say all this but not sound like some fucking tree-hugging hippie. then again, i do all my shopping at whole foods. lucky for me, even though it's organic, whole foods is more "yuppie" than "hippie." and i am, by definition, no matter how much the 18 year old queer with blue finger nail polish living inside me protests, a young urban professional.

at this point, i'd like you to scroll down to my entry, "shaken and stirred," and read the comments. "chiquita," as she prefers to be called in webland, is near the end of her rope with this city, and i'm right behind her. so many factors contribute to my mood: relentless thoughts of the past, uncertainties about the future, and impending car payments in the present. i can't help but feel like terry and andrea, and all the rest of us, are all banded together; daily we go into battle against the rest of the world, our little platoon suffering losses but refusing to give up the fight.

Well, folks, she's not Hemingway.

here at work, i receive numerous funny emails, some of which have worse grammar than others. just now i read a particularly good one:

"Good Morning:We are schedule to meet on Thursday, January 4,2005 9-10 am .Please see attach for meeting schedule."

hooked on phonics clearly didn't work for someone...

Shaken and stirred

terry and i had a petty fight this morning. it's the kind of fight that happens when you reach a certain comfort with another person: you stop being afraid that they're going to walk out the door at any time, and suddenly you let them see you with bedhead; you pee in front of them; and you argue about eggs and name-calling.

i had prepared all kinds of scathing things to say to terry, real zingers. when i heard his voice on the other end of the telephone, i geared up for a scene. when he told me why he was calling, though, the fight was cancelled. refunds will be issued to all ticketholders.

"well, we'll be taking the shuttle to work for a few months," said terry. immediately i think to myself--oh god, his car's broken down and my car's been stolen. though this is perfectly irrational, it was the first thing to pop into my mind. as it turns out, terry wasn't thinking perfectly rationally, either, because my car is fine. it's his car that is royally fucked, and he doesn't even know who did it. the car that has caused us so many headaches--not starting in 20 degree weather when we're already late for work, for instance--has just become a headache in the form of twisted metal and missing headlights. someone smashed into his car in the night and drove off. the police took a hit and run report, disconcerting because it means that terry, innocent in every way except he trusted baltimore city enough to park on the street, is liable for a hefty insurance deductible.

for someone with my attitude toward living in baltimore, this is the worst possible thing that could happen at the worst possible time. i'm trying to fix it, but run-ins with bitchy checkout girls with hoop earrings, and hit-and-run accidents, and being taxed to death so that i can support free health care for drug addicts when i care barely afford to care for my own health, and...i'll run out of space before i run out of complaints.

somehow, cheap rent and good restaurants don't completely mask the fact that i'm living in a city in turmoil, a city where more people will ruin your car and drive away than will open a door for you. i'm from oklahoma, from the south, or midwest, or whatever you want to call it, and i refuse to accept that the only way to get ahead is to walk all over someone else.