hiatus

hello, dear readers. i'm just writing a quick post to let you all know that my great-grandma, a.k.a. nana, passed away yesterday. i always hated it when people said "passed away" instead of died, but this is my nana we're talking about and i'll damn well say whatever i please. she was 98. she came to oklahoma in a covered wagon. i'm tellin' ya, she was old.

i'm flying home to oklahoma for her funeral tomorrow and won't return until late wednesday, so things will be rather quiet around the ol' receptionist. since i'm staying with my grandparents who, please understand, are lucky to have cable, much less a reliable internet connection, i probably won't be updating until later in the week.

in the meantime, enjoy all my friends' blogs. there'll be plenty there to help you kill at least three workdays. and please, send me good thoughts as i take to the friendly skies tomorrow, and keep my family in your prayers, if you believe in that sort of thing.

see you soon.

in public

due to my incredible powers of internet stalkerdom, i know that at least one of my dear, regular readers is from malden, massachusetts. i don't know who you are or even, let's be honest, where that is.

but i thought you'd enjoy this.

GOD DAMMIT

as if i weren't already fucking packing my bags...(via towleroad)

i asked him to come in here and bust up this...

in reference to the current nyc apartment hunt:

robert: i like that one of its features is "closets"
hilary: hahahaha
robert: not big closets
robert: just closets
hilary: well i guess we should be glad to have them!
robert: hahahaa
robert: otherwise we have to buy a lot of chifferrobes
hilary: ya
robert: i like that you didn't even blink at the word cifferrobe
hilary: hahahah
hilary: i use it daily!

golden

"It [golden girls] is still broadcast four times a day on the cable channel Lifetime, ensuring it a continuing audience of older women fans."

hear that, hilary? older women fans.

read the awesome article, all about why fags love golden girls, here. (via queerty)

the reluctant study coordinator

oh sweet god, i'm tired today. why? because i went out last night. did i get drunk? not really. did we close out the bar? we left at 12.30.

i am an old man.

i can no longer go out to a smoky bar and drink on a schoolnight. er, work night. even though i got some sleep, my body feels like it's been deprived--like i really put it through the mill, even though i went to bed pretty much sober and didn't smoke any cigarettes last night. my eyelids are droopy and itchy; i'm irritable.

maybe, though, that's because i've just gotten to work (late) to find an email inbox full of bullshit tasks that used to fall on the shoulders of my boss, but now fall onto mine. in the last three days i've discovered just how much bullshit--and seriously, people, that's what it is--my boss used to deal with on a daily basis. lemme just give you an example of the shit i've had to do:

• list each study participant and say which t-shirt size they needed, then ask another lady here to count the t-shirts we actually have. like i'm in any position to be delegating duties.
• go through all these participants who supposedly have allergies--even though half of them are made up--and report on each of their conditions
• count the exact number of medicines that we have and somehow, magically, estimate the exact number we'll need to finish the study
• go through any number of data entry edits and shuffle all this paperwork

that's just a sampling. and it's stressful and i have to talk to people at the NIH. me. a music major. NIH. jesus christ. what's absolutely funny is that i'm the least paid person in the office, possibly on the entire floor. except that random old lady temp. the one without a real desk. the one who works next to the office refridgerator, going through charts. she probably makes less than i do. otherwise, i'm the poorest person here. what's my job title? secretary 3. what am i doing? coordinating an NIH-funded study. secretarily.

from the archives

i've been looking for this video clip online for--i'm not kidding you--years. i try to explain it to people who haven't seen it and absolutely can't. and now, through the wonder that is youtube, i present:

dieter's dream.

only in dreams

just indulge me for a moment and let me take a cue from our dear snippets from science: i have to write about a dream i had right before i woke up. it was a nightmare, really. i wasn't being chased by jack the ripper; i wasn't forced to go out onstage with no clothes on; i didn't have all my teeth fall out or any other equally horrible nightmare. it was a nightmare of frustration.

so i'm in the airport, and i go to meet a friend outside the gate area. i don't remember which friend; it was a friend from my past--could be emily or anne or amanda--a girl. we go out to the main lobby area--what's that called? the ticket area. we go out to the ticket area to get a coffee and have a talk. my friend then walks me back to my gate, but i'm stopped at security. i don't have my boarding pass. i'm standing there at this security podium and the woman will NOT let me pass. for any reason. i tell her, "but i don't have my boarding pass. it's in my BAG at the GATE." she tells me she's sorry, but i can't get through.

she won't listen to reason. i keep trying to explain to her the reason i don't have my boarding pass. i'm like, "i'm sure i'm not the only person that this has happened to--what did you do then?" she says, "i didn't let them past, either."

so what do i do in my dream? i start to cry. of course. when all else fails, there's nothing that wins the hearts of the general, bitchy, straight public like a man crying. what does she say to me? "sir, if you're just going to cry, i suggest you go home to your babysitter."

"I CAN'T GET HOME," i scream at her. "MY BOARDING PASS IS IN MY BAG AT THE GATE."

and then i wake up. and have to pee. but of course i lay there for five minutes trying to convince myself that i can make it another 25 minutes until my alarm goes off but then end up getting up to go anyway.

update:

according to hilary, aka the dreammaster, my dream means:

"To see a busy airport in your dream, signifies the desire for freedom, high ideals, ambition, and hopes. It is an indication that you are approaching a new departure in your life. Some new idea is taking off or is ready to take off. You may be experiencing a new relationship, new career path or new adventure. To dream of a deserted airport, indicates that your travel plans will be changed or delayed. "

so the airport in my dream was bustling. and, as the dreammaster just told me,

"DM: moving= new departure
DM: crying=nervous about it
robert: exactly
DM: the subconcious is amazing
DM: i once had a dream that david hasslehoff was reciting poetry in my back yard"

oh HELL NO.

oh this has just gone too far.

i get home from the gym just now, log into my "manhunt.net" account--because yes, like every other fag in baltimore i'm on there--and get THIS EMAIL:

"From: ManhuntEvents
Subject: Seeking Sexy, Manly Gladiators
Date: Wed Feb 22, 2006 01:58 PM

It's time again for the insanely popular WET lube
wrestling at Grand Central, Thursday, March 2, and we're
looking for hot bodies!!

We need hot, in-shape men who are willing
to jump in the lube and take on
another scantily clad, sexy, shimmering man.
The heat of the lights, the
chanting of the crowd, the feeling of the lube....
this is a very sexy event.

This, Grand Central's fourth quarterly event,
will also feature the men of
Team DC and their Baltimore Registration Run.

If you think you might have what it takes,
email xxx@grandcentralclub.com
with stats and pics (points for debauchery).
Pictures of past events are
available online at www.GrandCentralClub.com

LUBE WRESTLING
Thursday, March 2
Doors at 9pm, show starts around 11
$5 general admission, $8 "splash zone" seating.
A fundraiser for Baltimore Pride 2006.

sick fucks abound

WHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAATTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTT? (via andrea)

loves it

say what you will about the downtown athletic club. it's a little dirty. it's a little, um, old-looking, especially for its $86/month cover charge, er, i mean membership fee. the weight area's always crowded, the machinery's clearly from 1972, and there are never enough cardio machines to go around. but i love going to this gym. why? because i love anything queer-centric. i'll watch an indie movie that cost sixteen dollars to make because it's gay. i'll go to any number of small, scary start-up clubs because they started a gay night. i read gay books, fiction and nonfiction.

sure, not everyone at the dac is a homo. there are a few overly-pumped muscle heads with horrid tribal armband tattoos. they do things like high-five or hit fists when they see each other. they grunt. and all the faggots, all of us, look at them with disdain, superior in our coordinated sleevelessshortworkoutfits. you'd think that going to the gym with this many gays would be intimidating, distracting. like a big, sober (i hope) version of the gay bar. but it's not. there's some like strange homo camaraderie that goes on. and hilary, eliza, nakia, leslie go there. so it's often like a big peabody reunion and for once i get to act like a singer again.

i have to share with you a great gym story from yesterday's weight room playtime:

i'm in the weight area with ron and scott (and, incidentally, a guy named britt, who you might remember from my phenomenal "twelve men of mount vernon calendar to benefit baltimore pride" spread) and this older guy is doing abs on a decline bench. every time he comes up for a crunch--every single time--he makes this noise that sounds like he is getting fucked in the ass bareback with no lube except for some louisiana brand hot sauce and a prayer. one crunch -moan- two crunches -groan- three crunches -AAHHH!- and so on. i'm not even kidding. i had my new headphones on--the ones that are supposed to block out sound--and i could hear it loud and clear. if he'd been saying something like, "yeah, gimme that hot piss" between groans it would've been a full-on titan feature. i was trying not to laugh. i'm lifting weights, which we all know is completely somber business (at least if you're one of those over muscled armband tattoo guys), but as soon as i made eye contact with some girl we both lost it. and then i look over at ron and scott and they're dying.

i walked over to them and said, "there's only one thing i know that sounds like that, and it ain't an ab workout." scott said, "it sounds like he's auditioning."

gay gym. loves it.

time to flee the scene

oh.

my.

fucking.

god.

we're coverboys.

call for submission

according to jordan (don't bother checking it--he never updates), getting flowers around my butterfly tattoo would be totally unhip. it's SO not downtown eastside new york he can't even talk to me if i get them.

i've had funny reactions for the last two days when i told people i just decided what my next tattoo will be. my mother (who doesn't know i have one tattoo, let alone two, soon to be three), upon hearing that i'd spent the day with ashli at read st tattoo, launched into a speech about "self-vandalization." her: "well, it's nice that you went with her, so i guess she's at least safe while she's vandalizing her own body." me: -feeling blood rush to my face, as usual- "you're right, mom, i should've just let her be raped." oh, mom.

phong wants to know why i want another tattoo. i told him it's because i'm customizing my body. it's a total bullshit answer, i know, but i have no better answer. why do i want another tattoo? because it looks cool. and i already have two and i want more to go along with 'em.

brian wants to know "why people would do that to themselves." see above.

so, thoughts, dear readers? not thoughts on whether or not i should get more tatts. robin, this means don't just write "two shoulders!" (meaning you "only get two shoulders," much like her "you only get two lungs" speech.) i'm looking for suggestions for my new ink. it has to be colorful and it has to be organic and it has to be kinda curvy to go along with the butterfly.

go.

broke-assed

ok, so i've complained about this before. i know i have. just indulge me, if you'd be so kind. i just went to my bank website to make sure that i didn't bounce a check at the grocery store last night. thank god, i didn't. in fact, i'm rolling in money. rolling in it. how much do i have in my bank account, you ask? enough to dump all the money onto a big red heart-shaped bed and roll around in it. if you're using pennies.

dear readers, i have a dollar and five cents. until the end of the month. (if you want cans of pork and beans served cold and eaten from the can or white bread or off-brand potato chips,) dinner's on me!

in the same vein...

how did i forget this existed? brilliant.

must. have. more. ink.

robert: so i decided what my next tatt will be
hilary: a rainbow? hahahaha
hilary: what
robert: it's going to be some gorgeous, possibly hibiscus flowers, possibly another kind of colorful flowers, going nearly all the way around thh butterfly and then halfway onto my arm and shoulder
hilary: ooo pretty!
robert: so it'll like entertwine with the butterfly
robert: but i'll leave the butterfly hollow
robert: seeing ashli get her tatt made me be like MUST HAVE MORE INK
hilary: yes and now you can feel more pain!
robert: hahahaah
robert: and for once not the emotional kind
hilary: hahahaha
hilary: for once
robert: exactly

proof that you may get older, but you never really grow up.

exhibit a: madyson, age 2

exhibit b: ashli, age 22

exhibit c: hilary, age 30. i mean 25.

exhibit d: robert, age 44. i mean 25.

totally qualified

i'm sitting here on a conference call with the NIH. how in the world did i get to a point in my life where i'm on conference calls? with the national institutes of health? good question.

project runway: baltimore

so, since i know you're all chomping at the bit to know details about this weekend's project runway birthday extravaganza (not my birthday--my friend michael's. i could've never come up with something so hysterical.) i won't keep you waiting any longer. let's just say this: i never knew that a bunch of drunk queens could actually pull something like this off. i mean, the outfits that we put together actually looked like clothes. and this wasn't some tin-foil-and-duct-tape business, either. we were given fabric glue, 6 yards of fabric, and needles and thread. oh yeah.

so the challenge started off like this: we were divided into three teams, evenly matched because all the people who had some experience sewing (myself included, since i worked in a costume shop one summer when i was 14) were divided between teams. the teams weren't exactly even since one team got a major albatross around its neck: two random, WASTED straight girls. one of the girls was so drunk that she let her team build an outfit on her...without underwear. let's just say i saw my first live set of "laffy taffy," as the song says. the other wasted girl immediately passed out under a side table.

once we were broken into teams, we were sent to separate rooms, where we each had an hour to build some "swimwear." when we opened up our bag of supplies, we found the most absurdly un-swimwear materials: six yards of non-stretch, non-summery, totally non-cute fabric. that didn't even match. it was like some butter yellow searsucker, some eggplant purple knit, some big-flowered print, and some chiffon.

refusing to let it get us down, though, my team began its mission: to build boardshorts and matching tank top. in an hour. with no pattern, we started cutting material for the boardshorts. i started constructing them while molly, this incredibly funny, over-it girl who kept smoking blunts in the corner, and shilpin, a really nice phd student from hopkins, started on the tank top. i got the board shorts partly done and looked over at their progress: molly was swathed in this awful butter yellow material, wearing something that could only be described as a poncho. it was all pinned together, no sewing materials in sight. tank top? poncho? what?

so i put on the board shorts and realize that i've missed a very important aspect of clothing construction: room for body parts. meaning ass and package. the board shorts, because of my ass and package, barely went halfway up my asscrack. so now we've got these boardshorts that don't go on me and a yellow poncho.

i'm standing there in my underwear. we look at the clock and realize that we have 10 minutes to finish our project and a pile of fabric on the bed. nothing. we're like wrapping material around me. molly suggests a toga.

"no way," i tell her. "we have to MAKE IT WORK." and make it work we did. we put on the board shorts and then made a "sarong," meaning the nasty chiffon wrapped around my midsection. i start pinning the boardshorts to the sarong, covering up the fact that they don't cover anything, and ensuring that it won't come off. we take yarn and wrap it up my arm. we stick flowers in the yarn. laughing the entire time.

what's our look called? "real honolulu. we're not talking waikiki here. we're talking drug addicted, down at the heels, snorting cocaine off a toilet in a bar." i really think we achieved it. watch the video and judge for yourself. thanks, phong, for the video...what a pro.

let's start the morning right, shall we?

hilary: i need a project
hilary: i'm bored
robert: i've got a project for ya
robert: right HERE
robert: -points to penis-
hilary: aahahhahahaha
hilary: that'll only take 2 minutes
hilary: zing!
robert: less if it's your purty mouth workin it
robert: ok that stops there
hilary: hhhahahhah

neuroses. published.

it's that time again!Five Days a Week

"I'm just not sure I can stop," my friend Brian told me last week. "It's started to take up a lot of my time but I feel like it's something I have to do. Like I don't have a choice."

I started to get worried; it's never good when a friend starts sounding like an addict. "Well," I told him, "if a doctor were to tell you tomorrow that you have to stop or you're going to die, you'd stop, right?"

"Of course," he said.

What were we talking about, here? Crystal? Heroin? Unsafe sex, maybe? No. We were talking about going to the gym, lifting weights with the dedication and crazed diligence of a competitive bodybuilder.

"It sounds so sick, but I feel like the only reason people talk to me is because I look like this," he went on. "It's all about instant gratification. Like, I could either practice my ass off and continue to be met with blank stares when I tell people that I'm a classical bassist, or I could go lift weights and have people falling all over me at the bar. It's obvious which one I'm going to choose."

"But Brian," I told him, "do you really want those people fawning over you? Do you really need to associate with people who have no idea who you are, who only hang out with you because you're muscular?" Even as I made the argument, even as I made my usual what-I've-learned-with-age-is-that-it's-what's-on-the-inside-that-counts speech, I felt a twinge of jealousy. I'm a skinny guy. I'll never know what it's like to walk into a room and know that all eyes are on me. I had visions of Brian walking into a crowded bar--in slow motion, of course--parting the mass of people as he walked by, leaving a trail of furtive glances and jealous stares in his wake. Is this a total exaggeration? Yes. Do I imagine that's what it would be like to look like Brian, 180 pounds of pure muscle? You bet I do.

Everyone I know, all my friends, worry about how they look. We’re either on diets or go to the gym regularly or go running with friends. It’s not because we’re health-conscious; we all seem to be on this quest for the perfect body. And I have to wonder, for what?

Why is it that I go to the gym five days a week? Is it because I got sick of being stick-thin? Is it because I grew up idolizing models and perfect-looking actors? Have I just watched too much porn? Yes. For every feminist who complains that women hold themselves to a completely unattainable ideal, for every young woman that models herself after Mary Kate Olsen or Lindsay Lohan, there's a gay guy somewhere with an open issue of Out magazine asking himself why he can't just look like that guy in the underwear ad. No matter how many hours he puts in at the gym or how many crunches he does or how many desserts he denies himself, he can't get that perfect cut in his lower abs, those bigger arms, that smaller waist.

We are a society based on first impressions, appearances, muscles, tans. And I count myself among its numbers. As much as I talk about the importance of being real, of being a well-rounded human being, I'm as bad as anyone else. What's my main turn-on, when I'm asked? Intelligence. Heart. Wit. What's the first thing I notice about a guy? His face. Followed, in order, by his arms and his ass.

The question, then, is how long can I keep this up? How many years can I diligently lift weights at the gym? At what age will that fantasy I have for myself—the one where I take Brian's place as the guy who demands attention from strangers, who strolls through a crowd, self-assured and self-possessed—stop motivating me? When will I be big enough? Strong enough?

I'm just not sure I can stop.

fuck him

i knew there was a reason i liked this site.

30 minutes is never enough

two concurrent conversations i just had about the impending georgelamfest happening halfway through march, a.k.a. the recital that's less than a month from now:

robert: george and i are talking about programming
phong: oooooooh
phong: one song after the next is a good idea to me
robert: oh you're right
robert: of course. why hadn't i thought of that?
phong: yeah, most ppl overlook the obvious
robert: we're trying to find a pianist :-(
phong: oooooooh
robert: i don't know anyone
phong: for cheap or for free?
robert: right
phong: free first
phong: but cheap after that
robert: exactly
robert: apparently george is trying to pull some favors
phong: ah
phong: ..hmm..."remember that time i gave you a bj? well, now you have to accompany for a recital."
robert: exactly
robert: and god knows i've given enough bj's someone should owe me something
phong: haha!
phong: i mean........oh

and...

george: billy balldrop!
george: :-)
robert: he's outta town
robert: or i'd ask
robbi607: he's on the national cats tour
george: meow
robert: rowr
george: the cats tourrrrrr
robert: haha
george: god that must get OLD after like 2 nights

but seriously, folks. this thing is happening in less than a month and i programmed it day before yesterday. let me walk you through my programming process:

1. walk into the front door of peabody because my access card no longer works because i graduated nearly two years ago. yet i still live across the street. pretend to the guard that i actually belong there. the only time he's ever "carded" me is the time last summer i went in there in a wife beater and cutoff shorts, tatts blazing and head shaved. thank god i had my ID on me.
2. try to walk as inconspicuously as possible to the library, avoiding contact with anyone i went to school with, lest they find out that i'm still living across the street, not singing in milan
3. look up song sets by lee hoiby, because i just heard mary catherine sing "come ready and see me" and it inspired me to sing that song again
4. be unable to find "come ready and see me" but stumble upon a set of walt whitman songs by hoiby
5. think, "oh, yeah...we two boys is kind of taken from leaves of grass. hmm, whitman."
6. type "whitman" and "songs" into the peabody library catalogue search
7. unshelve 129 books, each of which include at least one song set to text by whitman
8. decide that 127 of those books include songs that are either too low, too high, or too difficult to learn in three weeks
9. make copies of two entire books, one by weill and one by rorem
10. punch holes in said copies

voila! a walt whitman-inspired 20th century recital is born! here's the thing. even though i picked music that i knew i could learn, none of it's easy. and i sang through the weill yesterday and it's going to be a big sing. i know that sounds dorky, to say something like "big sing," but you classical singers out there know what i'm talking about. it seems like these days i'm so concerned with my technique--since i sing so little--that i've lost all nuance and phrasing. and interpretation. basically i bulldoze through songs, just trying to make sure that i'm making a good sound, completely irregardless of anything else. i need jsq back.

i'm concerned because even though i'm just singing in some classroom in peabody, it's still singing at peabody again. sure, it's an elderhostel concert, which means that even if i fart onstage and try to pass it off as singing they'll be appreciative, but i want it to be good. i have to not just learn the music; i have to really have it under my belt. and, dear readers, when you work a desk/clinic job 40 hours a week while trying to find a new job while holding down a church job while trying to have a life, it's hard to carve out more than 30 minutes a day to practice.

and 30 minutes a day ain't gon' cut it.

place in the sun

i love that my friends are famous. of kel's recent lighting project at theatre project, the baltimore sun says:

"This is further enhanced by designer Kel Millionie's lighting, which isolates each actor in a solitary circle of light, as if to suggest the divisions that have arisen in the wake of Julius' murder."

woot! read the article here.

DORK alert

i thought that my valentine's day gift was a set of custom teeth bleaching trays. mind you, this is a pretty big gift. if i were to go to a dentist for them (which i'd never do, obviously, because i'm poor and not quite as vain as all of you may think) they would've been in the neighborhood of $400. ah, the joys of dating a dentist (ok so future dentist). when you add the bleaching trays to the fact that i've had him look at my mouth three times to assure me that i don't have mouth cancer, this is thousands of dollars saved, people.

so i've been bleaching my teeth for the last two nights, and if you don't consider the two cups of coffee i drink every morning, the red wine i had at helen's garden last night, or the two drags of cigarette i took at smith's/morrissey karaoke, i'm doing great at tooth-whitening. those bitches are gonna glimmer like the top of the chrysler building by the time i'm done with 'em.

so apparently my valentine's gift wasn't actually bleaching trays. i got into the car to go to dinner last night and phong was like, "here, this is for you. you didn't think i was actually going to get you bleaching trays, did you?" and i'm like, duh, yeah i did, bleaching trays are awesome. but no. phong got me a new calphalon 7" santoku knife. for those of you who aren't george lam, this is an awesome gift. the knife i've been using is about as effective as taking a piece of cardboard box and hacking at a vegetable with it. my new knife will cut through anything. phong kept making "no stabbing" jokes when he gave it to me. my response? "oh, phong, this knife is totally the wrong shape for stabbing. see how blunt it is at the end?"

how big a dork am i? this big. i'm so excited to use this new knife. i took it out of its package last night and felt the cold, heavy handle, tested its weight. pretended to chop with it. yeah, it's gonna be good. real good.

save the date

so, it's official: george and i are putting on (another) recital next month. the program will include george's set "we two boys," (which, as i'll be reminding all of you a whole lot, was written for me and features text by my friend ben rogers), and two sets of songs set to poems by walt whitman: one little-known set by kurt weill, the other a well-known set by ned rorem. and maybe even some violin-tinkling, courtesy of the man george lam himself.

so, since us gays can't get married, save the date for this instead:

tuesday, march 14, 2006
7:30PM
at the peabster: conservatory room 308
bodymore, murderland

it's an elderhostel concert, so get ready to be friendly--and to ignore the droning sounds of cough drops and mints being unwrapped.

schneller, bitte, schneller!

as hilary's already mentioned, we're going to the ottobar to sing smith's/morrissey karaoke tonight. and when i say "sing," i mean "watch," because both of us are seriously seriously (srsly, even) scared of karaoke. i have no idea why, since we're both trained singers. there's just something different about karaoke--i think it boils down to this: when you're onstage in a recital situation, there's this kind of separation between audience and performer. like, unless the people in the audience are also classical singers, they really have no business judging your performance. many of them do anyway, but fuck 'em. in karaoke, on the other hand, you're putting yourself in some bar-centric pop realm, where everybody's drunk and everybody's a star. even though you know what you're doing, technically, nobody else there knows that. you're just some other joe schmoe gettin' up there thinkin' he can sing. and so i've only done karaoke once in my life, and i was totally wasted, and it was "shoop" by salt n pepa and i was in virginia onstage with a drunk lesbian i went to high school with. so a very different situation.

we've threatened to go to smith's/morrissey karaoke for about two years now. for some reason we've never gone (probably because it's on a weeknight and we're old and don't go out on weeknights anymore), but we've started the six-week countdown to moving, so it's either tinkle (sing morrissey) or get off the potty (don't sing morrissey). so we're pissing all over baltimore.

before that, phong and i will go to helen's garden, a possibly-fancy restaurant with a very hardass-sounding reservations policy:

"Helen's Garden does not overbook and takes reservations very seriously. We take pride in seating customers on time. Our reservation system is designed from years of data gathered from our customers' actual dining habits. Based on these data, we observe the vast majority(95%) of our dinner customers' stays fall within the times that follow: parties of 2 stay 70 minutes to 1-1/2 hours, parties of 4 stay 1-1/2 to 2 hours and parties of 5 or more stay 2 to 2-1/2 hours. This is how we schedule reservations which may preceed or follow you. Consequently, the entire party must be present in the restaurant ready to be seated at the reserved time or risk forfeiture of the reservation at our discretion to prevent following reservations from being seated late. Please remember to allow time for traffic, parking, etc. If you anticipate the need for additional time please let us know in advance. We do this to serve you best."

data? risk forfeiture of the reservation? give me a BREAK! i'm going be all nervous going in there, straightening my tie, hoping that the big mean helen's garden nazis won't zieg heil me over to a table in that creepy room with all of those shower heads poking out of the ceiling.

nothing says happy valentine's day like a holocaust joke!

you think you know, but you have no idea.

it's a rare day that i put a forward on there. then again, it's a rare day that a forward made me laugh as much as this one did. in front of my boss. of course. thanks, tom.

Britney Spears to her diary:

Dear Diary,

I am like soooo pissed! I know you don't read the
paper, because you don't have eyes, but some crazy
popper-rotsee (sp?) took a picture of me, driving in
my car, minding my own business, with my baby
TASTEFULLY sitting on my lap as I sped away down the
Specific Coast Highway. Now the press is having a
feel day with it! They are calling me the worst
mother since my own. I don't think they realize how
difficult it is to be a mother, trying to lose all
that weight.

Whew! Sorry to unload on you like this, but I want
at least one person (you are like a best friend!) to
know the truth.

I had just come out of the Malibu Starbucks with my
non-fat Caramel Mocha Ding Dong (I get that
everyday, yum!) and then I see all these camera guys
crowded around my trunk, so I am thinking, oh my
God, they are going to break into my trunk and take
my baby out. So I did what any good, worried mother
would do. I hid in the bathroom and smoked. Then it
hit me. I needed to get my baby out of arm's way! So
I put on my makeup, ran out of there and grabbed my
baby.

Then I got in my car and screamed at the
pauper-rachtsee (that is Mexican for photography,
BTW). I pealed out of there! My bodyguard, the one I
just hired, was in the passenger's seat doing
nothing the whole time. So I told him to grab the
wheel as I tried to hold my steaming hot coffee at
least a foot above my baby's head while I hid my
cigarettes. (I'm trying to quit, so I try to hide
them from myself! CLEVER.)

Now everyone is mad at me, and I am the top story,
even above the death of Loretta Scott Key, the
singer of our national anthem.

I can't believe that I am public enemy No. 1 when
there are not only killers out there, but murderers
too as well. Really, is it so wrong to drive with a
baby in your lap, windows down, along a road bound
by a ravine that descends 200 feet into the ocean,
in a car chase? It's not like I was about to crash.
And besides, aren't babies' bones made of rubber
anyway? I'm just saying.

BTW, Kevin and I got divorced again last night.

Britney

a game only a homo could love

for all of you not on the east coast, a.k.a. those of you not involved in this weekend's "noreaster," lemme just tell you. the snow we got on saturday was batshitcrazy. that's the only way i can really describe it. sure, it was pretty. sure, i suppose that it's nice for it to look like winter during the wintertime (even though i hate winter). the best part about the blizzard, obviously, was that it didn't impede with any of the weekend's funtime plans--we still got to go shopping on saturday, go to game night at joe's that night, go to the mall, go to the store--but church got cancelled. now don't get me wrong, i appreciate my church job. i do. but there's nothing quite like having two days in a row completely free to do whatever you want to do. it's magical. even better is that i park in a garage and didn't have to dig out my car. now, however, it's back to work. oi.

this coming weekend (isn't it nice how i do nothing but live weekend-to-weekend, like i'm just biding my time during the workweek? isn't there an 80s song about that? "manic mondays" i think it's called. just kidding.) our friend michael turns...i don't remember how old. 26? 27? the point is, he's having a birthday party with compulsory party games. now, you all know how i feel about being forced to play a game at a party (see matt v's last-year valentine's party debacle at which we were all forced to play charades; let's just say the prize was a big black dildo.), but michael's come up with a brilliant idea: it's a project runway challenge. that's right, we're going to be broken into teams and given sewing materials and an assignment. crafts. friends. drinking. i'm in!

michael calls me yesterday and says "what's your sewing skill level?"

"um, huh? do you need me to help you with something?"

"no. so-and-so and i are putting together the teams for the project runway challenge at my birthday party and we just want to make sure that they're evenly matched. we were talking about getting a stapler and staples to put our shit together, so you're definitely on my team."

homos. gotta love us.

so wrong

from stephanie, a list of "children's books that didn't make it:"

1. You Are Different and That's Bad
2. The Boy Who Died From Eating All His Vegetables
3. Dad's New Wife Timothy
4. Fun Four-letter Words to Know and Share
5. Hammers, Screwdrivers and Scissors: -An I-Can-Do-it Book
6. Kathy Was So Bad Her Mom Stopped Loving Her
7. All Dogs go to Hell
8. The Little Sissy Who Snitched
9. Some Kittens Can Fly
10. That's it, I'm putting You Up for Adoption
11. Grandpa Gets a Casket
12. The Magic World Inside the Abandoned Refrigerator
13. Garfield Gets Feline Leukemia
14. Why Can't Mr. Fork and Ms. Electrical Outlet Be Friends?
15. Daddy Drinks Because You Cry

her favorites are 6 and 15. yours?

the movie actor, not the sausage.

damn, this would've been so hot. (via towleroad)

new york is baltimore on acid. or speed. no, steroids.

little hilary is on her way to new york right now for her first job interview. i, dear readers, haven't yet gotten a job interview and i've started to sweat. apparently none of the 30 or so resumes i've sent out have met a single qualification. i mean, i know it's really difficult to pick up the phone and say "good morning, thank you for calling dunder-mifflin paper products, how may i direct your call?" but c'mon. i have a masters degree. i can probably figure it out.

"good morning, thank you for calling dunder-mifflin paper products, how may i direct your call?"

see, it's easy as that.

anyway, hilary's on her way to new york. while she's up there she's doing the first round of apartment hunting. god bless her, i've completely put her in charge of finding us an apartment. though this may sound incredibly lazy on my part, which i suppose it is, let me explain: hilary's lived in three apartments in baltimore. each place she's lived, she's paid less than i do and had roughly three times the space. her first two apartments both had in-unit washer/dryers and dishwashers. for those of you who don't live in the inner-city (because, let's face it, all of downtown baltimore is pretty much the inner-city), that's a big deal. my apartment, for instance, doesn't have either of these things. frankly, i'm lucky that my apartment has heat. or windows. and i pay more than hilster does. for this reason, hilary's on the apartment hunt. and, lemme tell you, the bitch is on it. of all the things i'm worried about concerning this move, finding a place to live in the city is not high on the list.

so, she's looking at a place in washington heights today, and maybe another in lower harlem. i told her, quite seriously, that if she sees something good to put down a deposit. today. i don't need to see the place. i don't need to make sure my bedroom is going to be big enough. if she finds a place on manhattan that's nice for under 2k a month she has to grab it. and so she will.

god speed, little hilary, on thy quest.

lepore

just like madonna says, i love new york (other places make me feel like a dork). six weeks, girls.
see more from the heatherette fall line here. (via towleroad)

paid for dearly

on days that i haven't slept well or really, really, really, really don't want to be at work, i allow myself a treat unlike any other on the planet, one which i usually deprive myself of, though i'd like to have it every day: a donut. not just any donut, either, but a krispy kreme donut with chocolate icing. for those of you not in the know, a krispy kreme with chocolate icing isn't only iced in chocolate--it's glazed beforehand. so it's literally this ball of chocolate sugar glaze--deep fried.

today, my friends, is one of those days. is it counterintuitive, eating a donut on a day when i know that my metabolism is already probably going to have a problem, a day when i haven't slept and so my crohn's is going to kick into high gear? i suppose i've answered my own question. but i just finished the donut and goddamn was it good.

i rolled into the hospital this morning having just formulated my donut-procurement plan. the only downside to eating the donut, besides the fact that it undoes all the ab workout you did in non-gay abs this week, is that you have to deal with the motherfucking cocksucking twat-licking baby raping grandma murdering asshole bitches that run the coffee/donut counter in the cafeteria. now, i'm used to people being unfriendly. i live in baltimore, after all, where every person in the service industry, from rite aid to mcdonalds, thinks they're doing you a grand favor by waiting on you. however, these ladies at the donut counter are just off the chain, as they would say.

usually they're just gruff. no smiles, no thank you. just like a change machine, but a change machine with a bad weave. today, though, the lady was an outright bitch:

"hi, i'd like a chocolate-glazed donut." (clear enough, right?)
"what kin'?" (hateful, HATEFUL look)
"excuse me?"
"i SAID what KIN'?"

um, wait, what kind of chocolate-glazed donut do i want? how about the fried kind? the friend kind with chocolate on it? at this point, the other lady behind the counter, the one who apparently wasn't using the same tampon for the fourth day in a row, says, "she means do you want -mumblemumblemumble- chocolate or honey dip'."

"i'm sorry," i say. "what was the first thing?"

the first lady, a.k.a. four-day-tampon, does this grand-gesture eye-roll, like i'm this huge inconvenience even though there's no one in line behind me.

"double dutch chocolate," she says.
"honey dip," i say, no inflection in my voice.

she goes to get the donut, then without looking at me--i don't know what's so interesting about the cafeteria tray return--she says, "ninety-nine cent'," with a sigh. i hand her my dollar--insisting on giving her the money before she gives me the donut just to make things a little harder for her--and walk off without saying thank you or waiting for my penny.

this, dearest readers, is another reason i have to move. soon. like now. srsly.

woundgina

oh, dearest readers, i'm sorry for not posting until nearly noon. i had visions of all (3) of you frantically, maniacally hitting your refresh buttons. "why won't he update!?" you're asking yourselves at your desks. this is the first time blogger's let me on their site, i'm sad to say. and if kel (ahem, kelliam) would hurry up and roll out that fabulous redesign he's been promising since october...yet i digress.

i woke up this morning, actually having slept for the second night in a row (apparently drinking to the point of blackout helps you sleep. who knew?), sore as the dickens. i hadn't run a marathon, nor had i taken up ice hockey, figure skating, or racquetball, the three sports i imagine would make your legs hurt as much as mine did. no, dear readers, i did bodypump for the first time ever last night. since most of you don't go to baltimore gay workout station, also known as the downtown athletic club, i'll explain bodypump a little bit:

ahem.

basically you get this dumbell with fairly light weight and you workout every muscle group separately. but you work them out really fast and really hard. like, you do seriously 36 reps at a time. you do some torturous controlled-movement stuff, some torturous full-range-of-motion lifting, all to a soundtrack that includes "she drives me crazy," that crazy "work me and then you touch me until i get my satisfaction" song, and, of course, "everybody dance now." mind you, the whole shebang is led by this fierce black lady named vanessa. a.k.a. omorosa. she's 8 feet tall, wears an expensive fake hairpiece, and has a slammin' body. she is off the fucking richter scale crazy. and she sings along to all the songs. wow.

so the workout itself wasn't terribly hard, mainly because i used light weights because i wasn't sure how much i'd be able to lift. my legs, however, feel like they were sliced open and someone raped the wounds. that's right, i went there. woundgina.

after bodypump (or bp as hilary and i now call it), we did gay abs again. however, since ron has taken his newly-purchased speedo and gone to the fucking bahamas (or is it bermuda? me never knows.) for the week, it was some girl leading the class. some girl named stephanie or rachael (or monica?). she was clearly making the class up as she went along, a fact i was certain of once we got to the routine where she goes, "okay, now do 8 push-ups. now 8 sit-ups. now 7 push-ups. now 7 sit-ups." and on and on and on. we all refused to do it and were laughing at her. which made her mad.

i'm glad you're getting a vacation and everything, ron, but it's time you came back. with pictures of you in that speedo.

fuck this

i just paid bills online, which is always a harrowing experience. it will never cease to amaze me how much it costs to live in a shitty fucking shithole apartment in shithole baltimore, maryland. granted, living alone is really an expensive business. i'm not going to tell you how much i pay for my shithole apartment, because you'd inevitably gasp while your eyes dart around: torn lineoleum? thirty-year-old carpet? civil-war-era windows that open nor close all the way? you pay how much, again? yeah, well, i get to live in downtown baltimore. oh wait.

so, yeah. after i paid bills just now and did some math, i discovered that i've already spent all but FOUR DOLLARS of my NEXT PAYCHECK.

now, if i were living it up paris-hilton style, going out every night and shopping at only the finest boutiques, i might not be surprised at how perpetually broke i am. as it is, i informed hilary yesterday that i couldn't go out for hamburgers with her tonight because i can't fucking afford it. that's right, i can't afford a hamburger. maybe a mcdonald's hamburger. but probably not.

fuck you, adult life. fuck you.

schmaspen

first of all, congratlations to george, who just found out that he got into aspen for composition! (ok so i'm spittin' jealous.)

i wanted to share the conversation we just had, in which he gave me the good news:

george: i have some good news
robert: woot
robert: i always like good news
robert: you saved a lot of money on your car insurance
george: i saved a bunch of money by switching to geico.
george: HA HA
george: oh my god
robert: GET OUT OF MY HEAD
george: no i got into aspen
george: masterclass

ok so i admit he's hot, but...

exhibit A.

manscaper's challenge

i'm a hairy guy. i'm no beast; i don't have to have my back waxed (yet), but those days are inevitably coming. if i were a hundred pounds heavier i'd have to identify as a bear, or at least a "cub." let's just say that. and, in my life, i seem to have dated a whole lot of guys who are smooth. if they weren't naturally hairless (ahem, brian, phong), they shaved their chests with practically no irritation (i'll not name names here). now, i don't know about those of you who have chest hair like i do, but i've shaved my chest several times in my life, and here's what happens, in sequence, every time:

1. shaved chest looks good for roughly 3 hours
2. redness and irritation starts coming up around 3h15m
3. 12 hours in i have red bumps all over my torso
4. 12h15m to three weeks after the shaving i'm dealing with ingrown hairs and the hell that is a shaven chest.

so, needless to say, i don't shave my chest very much. those people who do and never have problems have always puzzled me. they must not be part sasquatch like i am. don't even get me started on the summer that i waxed it.

the point is, i've had a hard time accepting my body for what it is. i'm not going to launch into a tirade about how gay porn and gay magazines and fashion and the media only promote shiny, trim, hairless guys. i'm not going to talk about how, unless you're a fetishist, body hair is regarded as nothing more than a curse by the gay community. it's all true, but you all know that already.

the whole reason this issue is at the front of my mind, i hate to admit, is that i haven't "manscaped" in wayyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy too long. for those of you who don't watch queer eye for the straight guy (and i can't say i blame you), "manscaping" is taking a pair of clippers, the kind usually confined to shaving heads, and trimming up your body hair. when you're done, your bathroom floor looks like a barber shop, albeit with much wirier hairs and much less snappy repartee because ice cube is nowhere in sight. i've made peace with my body hair; i've even started to think that it looks a little hot sometimes. i cannot, however, allow it to look like it does at the moment: basically i'm the bastard stepchild of david hasselhoff and austin powers.

why does it matter? how many people, after all, see me shirtless in the middle of february? since all those underwear modeling shows in milan are over, not many. whatever. pass me the clippers.

faire du shopping

after having to change the radio this morning after hearing some asshole d.j. talking about brokeback mountain, i thank you, tom, for this little homo-centric bit of brokeback humor.


Brokeback Mountain Weekly Shopping List

WEEK ONE

Beans

Bacon

Coffee

Whiskey


WEEK TWO

Beans

Ham

Coffee

Whiskey


WEEK THREE

Beans

Bacon

Coffee

Whiskey

K-Y


WEEK FOUR

Beans

Pancetta

Coffee (espresso grind)

Whiskey

2 tubes K-Y


WEEK FIVE

Fresh Fava beans

Jasmine rice

Prosciutto, approx. 8 ounces, thinly sliced

Medallions of veal

Porcini mushrooms

1/2 pint of heavy whipping cream

1 Cub Scout uniform, size 42 long

5-6 bottles good Chardonnay

1 large bottle Astro-glide


WEEK SIX

Yukon Gold potatoes

Heavy whipping cream

Asparagus (very thin)

Eggs

Lemons

Gruyere cheese (well aged)

Walnuts

Arugula

Butter

Olive oil

Balsamic vinegar

6 yards white silk organdy

6 yards pale ivory taffeta

Case of Chardonnay

Large tin Crisco

rice queen

it's korean justin timberlake! mmm.

diary of a pornstar

somehow it's already monday again. i don't mean that in a kind of cutesy-poo eye-roll t.g.i.f. coffee mug where-did-the-weekend-go-oh-i-know-what-you-mean, work camaraderie kind of way. i mean, honestly. where is my life going? these days it all seems to roll out faster than i can keep up with it. before i know it, my apartment's strewn with clothes and everything i planned to get done this weekend has been pushed off to next weekend and it's time to go sit at my desk again.

the blame, i think, lies in the fact that i'm keeping myself so busy on the weekends. with moving soon, there seems to be an added pressure to have fun on the weekends in baltimore while i'm still here. i don't lay around, i feel guilty for taking naps. i was hanging out with phong this weekend and told him that i was feeling tired. "why don't you take a nap?" he asked. i launched into a tirade about how i only have two days to myself the entire week and i'm not going to fucking waste it sleeping. something, i think, needs to change when i start seeing rest as a waste of time.

this isn't to say, however, that it wasn't a great weekend: partying with my boys in dc, yummy, expensive lunches, and lots of beer and games and football that was really an excuse for me to cook chili in breadbowls.

in other news, i'm meeting with what's left of the study staff today to tell them that i'm leaving. even though it's exciting, new york is barrelling down on us faster than i ever could've imagined, and i don't have a single job interview yet. people keep telling me it's early, that new york moves faster than baltimore does; but hilary's going up for an interview on friday and is looking at an apartment that's open april 1. so all the joking, all the faux self-confidence of "moving whether or not i have a job" is happening. adult entertainment industry, here i come.

dirty dirty

in non-mice, non-hottie-related news, a new column came out today. out of the fire, as they say...
We’re all adults here.

I was 18 years old when I told my parents that I was gay. It wasn’t exactly my choice, mind you. Let’s just say that teenage boys have certain needs that are often tended to by certain websites. When small-town Oklahoma parents get computer savvy and start looking up certain internet cache files, things start to get interesting. Ok, so my dad went through the computer and found out I’d been looking at gay porn. To this day I’m amazed that he knew enough about computers to do this. It’s not like I expected him to be batting at the monitor with the heel of his loafer, but since my mother referred to anything internet-related as “The E-Mail,” you can understand my surprise. “Robert, I’m trying to use the phone,” she’d say. “Are you on The E-Mail?”

Therefore, when my father called me downstairs at 9:30 on a school night, I knew that something was amiss. In a scene that I’m sure has been played out in many families’ living rooms, my father, before telling me what was going on, turned on the computer and navigated to the incriminating pages. He started reading the titles: “Free Gay XXX,” he read. “Streaming Gay Videos.” Thank God he hadn’t read a few choice others. I could deal with “Free Gay XXX.” I didn’t have to hear my father say “Watch Timmy take his first c*ck,” a sound which I’m sure would haunt me to this day.

“Why do you like looking at these sites?” he asked me. Well, that seems pretty obvious to me, I thought to myself. Clearly, though, this was not the time to be a smart-ass.

“I don’t know,” I muttered, staring at the floor.

“I just can’t believe you’d bring pornography into this house,” my mother said, stricken. “We don’t believe in it. We’ve never even had a Playboy under this roof.” I stared at her, amazed. What issue were we discussing, again—the fact that I had been looking at porno or the fact that it was gay porno?

“I think you’re missing the point here,” my father said. “It’s men in the pictures,” he said, a little flabbergasted.

That’s the Story of How I Came Out to My Parents. I’ll spare you the rest of the scene; it’s mundane and predictable. Did my parents turn me gay? Was I touched inappropriately as a child? Was I called “fag” for so long that I finally convinced myself it must be true? What’s struck me most about coming out to my parents isn’t their initial reaction, nor is it the therapy in which they enrolled me during the aftermath (diagnosis: sane, competent, smart, and 100% homosexual). What amazes me is the way the whole issue’s been swept under the carpet for the last seven years.

I’m no math whiz, but seven years is pretty close to ten years, and ten years is a decade. So, if we’re rounding up, I’ve been out to my family for nearly a decade. And I’ve never heard my mother say the word “gay.”

I’ve been on countless dates and cohabitated with two boyfriends in the last seven years; I’ve been the president of my college’s GLBT association; I’ve started writing a column for a gay publication with a pretty big readership. What do my parents know about any of it? Not much. Our conversations follow well-worn paths, grooves in a record that’s stuck on repeat: we talk about work, about school. We talk about money and taxes, and, with my father, the weather. It’s been unseasonably warm; my mother’s volunteering at the theater again.

I can’t lay all of the blame at my parents’ feet, however, because I haven’t pushed the issue for a while now. If I really wanted to tell them about my personal life—who I’m dating, for instance, or any of the crazy stories I’ve garnered as an urban homo in his 20’s—I could. They wouldn’t hang up on me. They’d listen, probably not contribute much, and then we’d talk about the weather again. Why haven’t I tried, then, to establish the close relationship with my parents that so many of my friends enjoy? Every time I hear someone say “She’s not just my mom; she’s my best friend,” I throw up in my mouth a little. But I can’t help being a little jealous that they have a relationship I’ve been either too lazy or too scared to attempt.

It’s not that I need my parents to be my best friends; I’d just like them to know a little bit more about me than my academic advisor at college did. I suppose that everyone, at some point in adolescence, begins shutting their parents out of their life as part of a natural progression toward independence. But now, at 25, I’m ready to reopen the door, adult-to-adult, and share my life with the two people who might not know me the best but have definitely known me the longest.

bend it like beckford

this man makes me forget that there's more to life than being really, really ridiculously good-looking. happy friday.

meeses

i'm sad to report that i woke up this morning to more mouse activity in my kitchen. i didn't actually see the mouse--that hasn't happened since the morning i turned on the kitchen light to find a mouse attempting a standoff, staring me down. when i returned from oklahoma at christmas, i found a bunch of new mouse poison stations. now, it kinda scares me to think about mice tracking poison all over my kitchen (hmm, maybe that's why i've been vomiting blood.), but better poison than mice. things were better for a couple weeks, but lately i've been waking up every day to find mice droppings in the kitchen. i've been collecting them and plan to use them in place of toasted sesame seeds next time i make sushi.

ew, i just kind of grossed myself out with that one.

anyway, i woke up this morning to a brand-new kind of mouse experience: the sticky trap that i'd strategically placed by the microwave was now in my living room. worse than that, there were two clumps of what was obviously mouse hair--one clump on the kitchen floor, one clump on my gym bag--strewn about. what, i guess, happened is that a mouse was making its usual romp from wall-behind-microwave to stovetop, leaving its trail of sesame shit, when it got a part of it stuck on the trap. it then panicked and ran, dragging the sticky trap, across the kitchen floor, where it somehow was able to dislodge itself from the sticky trap using my gymbag as leverage.

seven weeks. i can make it seven more weeks in this apartment. then i move to new york and have to deal with roaches the size of grapefruits.

bigmuscles: 2/2/06

just when you thought it was safe to go back into the murky waters of the reluctant receptionist, this happens.

on a more serious note,

this happened last night and i only found out about it because i read gay blogs. something is wrong, here.

take one for the team

can i puhleaze just take a moment to write another post about television? specifically, another post about project runway. lemme just tell you, i liked this show last season but didn't really care if i watched it or not. unlike manhunt (no, not the website; get your filthy minds out of the gay gutter. okay so i'll see you there.) or blowout, PR (as i've come to affectionately call it) was take-it-or-leave-it. not this season, compadres. this season i'm more hooked than stephanie tanner was on tina.

the greatest revelation of last night's episode wasn't who won the challenge. let's face it, that challenge was some kinda bullshit. for those of you who didn't watch it (ahem, kel, buy a tv), the challenge was to make a dress completely out of plants and flowers. you know, because in the real world designers are always given three hours to make a chrysanthimum into a ballgown. ("here, todd oldham, here's three yards of live christmas tree garland. make it work!" "um, ok, tim gunn, it's a...it's a...throw pillow!") anyway, the challenge was ridiculous. and it wasn't at all surprising who lost the challenge. andre's (a.k.a. hands-at-side-of-face; have you noticed that he has two positions for his hands? the "worried" look where his hands are at his temples and the "excited look" where his hands are over his cheeks.) dress really did look like a doormat. and that's really saying something seeing how much i hate michael kors.

anyway, the big revelation was that is-he-or-isn't-he sprightly long-haired-by-way-of-tom-cruise-in-the-last-samurai designer daniel (v, not to be confused with washed up other daniel) is, in fact, a homosexual. YESSS. one more for our team.

i can only hope that he's living in new york when i move there (in 7 weeks and counting) so that i can woo him with my wily powers of seduction. and by wily powers of seduction i mean a hefty dose of roofies with a GHB chaser. and once he's out i'll cut his hair, finally transforming him into the perfect boyfriend. ah, yes, the plan all comes together.

i'll be right back, i have to go find my abs

i'd be sadly, sadly remiss if i let today go by without giving a shout-out to ron for his gay abs class last night. for those of you not in my immediate circle (and by immediate i mean hilary and terry because we're the only ones who use this term), gay abs isn't actually called gay abs. its technical name is something like "core and glutes." but when you're at a predominently gay gym in the predominently gay (at least for now) neighborhood, a class dedicated to abs and ass is a no-brainer. the homos flock to it like they're passing out free judy garland cds with cosmos on the side.

and i can't blame them.

i work out my abs three times a week, because i'm no better than any of the homos i was talking about above. i'm one of them, to be sure. this abs class, though, kicked my ass out the fucking door. it's 25 minutes of some of the most intense exercise. not as awful as hot yoga, but still. pretty hard. hard enough, in fact, that hilary and i kept laughing to each other during the class. we also kept commenting on the music, which was really quite good. working abs in a class with 25 other 'mos, listening to mary j and depeche mode? yes please.

ron heard us talking, though, and after class informed us that "every time he heard us talking he made the workout harder." i have to say, i really felt like glitterati being friends with the built class instructor. two times a week in that class and i'm going to be unstoppable...unstoppable, that is, until the first time i go out in chelsea...

a political sidenote

ok, so i really try not to make this an overly political blog. there are lots of other blogs out there (americablog.com, for instance) that do a much better job than i ever could.

but when i hear something like this on the radio, i just have to say something. i can put up with a lot of george w.'s idiocy, trying to ignore the way he's turning our government more and more like communist russia each day. then something like this happens:

apparently, that strange, blonde shit-starter cindy sheehan was protesting outside bush's state of the union address last night. stephanie called me to ask me to tape it for her, but i informed her that i wouldn't be watching because i get too mad. i literally have to turn off the tv if i hear him talking. i'll hear about it the next day on NPR or online; i'll get informed. i just can't stand to watch him. anyway, cindy sheehan was protesting outside the state of the union address, wearing a shirt with an anti-war slogan even though she was warned that it wouldn't be allowed.

um, FUCKING EXCUSE ME? wearing an anti-war shirt wouldn't be allowed????

she was arrested, charged with a misdemeanor, and released. how dare the government charge someone with a misdemeanor for wearing a shirt. she wasn't wielding a gun, she hadn't strapped a bomb to her chest. she was voicing an anti-war opinion on a t-shirt.

these are the kinds of opinion-stifling antics that really fucking worry me. when the people who make the law start making it illegal to voice our opinions, we're in serious trouble. because that's a step away from the people who make the law making it illegal for us to vote them out of office. you call it far-fetched, but hitler and saddam had to start somewhere.

and, i'm sad to say, i'm more than certain that my name is on some government list somewhere, as are my friends' names. if the government can subpoena google for records of searches, you can't tell me that writing a gay, liberal column and blog won't get me in trouble with this new, fucked-up regime.

now back to curing pediatric asthma.