No comments on my last post? Really?! That's the last time i share anything deep and meaningful with such an insensitive, callous, self-absorbed person (Hi Sis!).
Anyway, back to superficiality. And there is no better topic for the lies, shamelessly pandering, egomaniac than The 2008 Presidential Race!
So here goes:
Wow! That was long. I hope all of my compatriots here in the US of ADD can get thru the whole thing. Hi-lite: "[John McCain] would be on the cover of Popular Mechanics, if they asked him to!" -Joy "Why Michael Watches The View" Behar
Remember when you were a child and you told your mom that you had changed your major for the third time just because you wanted to spend more time with your peeps, and she responded with "If your friends jumped off a bridge, would you do it too?!"
Ironically, NYC's remarkable bridges occupy a significant place in the world's collective heart: there's the Brooklyn Bridge -on that day in 2001 both the National Guard and Air National Guard were mobilized to protect it- and the George Washington Bridge -our only double-decked direct link to the "Amerikkkan Heartland" (New Jersey)- and the Verrazano Narrows Bridge, which was the world's longest suspension bridge until the Japanese concocted to connect something to something else. All bridges considered, NYC's commuter spans offer the suicidal sycophant his choice of Height, History and Hauteur.
All the better for driving your Bandwagon across.
Reader, you know I like a good metaphysical simile, a nicely rounded metaphor. But I like getting right to the point a bit more, so here it is.
I met a boy. Actually I met a young, attractive, intelligent and intellectually stimulating man. We speak the same language (Geek), share the same indulgences (Video Games), laugh (at the same things), cry (wholeheartedly) and share (Delicious Sex) together. He is the bridge that connects the old Me to the new Us. He delights me by smiling. He arouses me by talking. He amazes me by being himself. He confounds me by understanding.
And I love him.
A couple of years ago, my Best Friend found his life-partner, and shortly thereafter, they were married. Just a few days ago, my Best Friend proposed to her Bride (bridge)-to-be, and they will soon be wed. So if there's a Bridge anywhere in the world that is known for it's connection between the heartbroken sceptic and love; the lonely boy and his mate; the documented past with the unknowable future, let me know where to line up for my jump.
He did it. She's gonna do it. And in the next year I will be jumping off of the one and only bridge my friends did.
Terror in Toronto MMVIII
Current mood: nostalgic
Category: Travel and Places
Well reader, last week was a remarkable moment in the history of globetrotting. Kids were on Spring Break, the Pope came to NYC and I went to Toronto to warm Sis-and-Hubby's new house. My sojourn to the great north began at 530 AM, when I rolled out of bed, got on the E train and transfered for the Maple Leaf Express at Penn Station. 10 hours into my 12-hour ride up the asscrack of western NY, I was asked by a Candian border man if I had ever been "denied entry into Canada before." I looked down at my hippie tee-shirt, torn jeans, stocking feet and remembered my unshaven face and replied "Not yet, is there a dress code?" 14 hours into my 12-hour ride, I was in Toronto. Sis and I played catch-up on the balcony-swing, and struggled to contain our emotions. The next day, the kids went off to work and I was left home alone with the Jack-beast. After an hours-long search for waterballoons (unsuccessful!) I had a dance party with Jack, followed by a photoshoot. Ain't we cute?
It wasn't until hours later that someone told me that the Man-Bear-Pig was not alowed on the couch. But look at us!
That night, Sis and I had a Grrrls night out, and got all blubbery. Crying on the dancefloor is a sign of over sentimentality. Getting shitfaced and collapsing in your own bed at 1AM is a sign of getting old. We did both.
The next morning, Hubby ripped open the blinds in my (their living) room and we were off to the supermarket to buy supplies for the party. 2 hours and $200 later, we nibbled some sandwiches and awaited the arrival of the Perpetually-late J-Nice and her Beau. Once those kids arrived, the pre-party began.
5 Smirnoff Ices, 3 cocktails and 2 hours later, I was saying hello to Sis's first guest. Branflake was a cute twink of indeterminate age and undisclosed interests who left just before becoming possibly interesting, vacating a spot on the balcony that was soon filled with very interesting young ladies.
When the sun went down, the dress came on. Sis de-throned Betsy as Prom Queen and gave us his best Patsy Face.
Maybe she should've shaved her pits...
Or taken it off before getting this drunk...
J-Nice manned (monopolized) the iPod station to keep the Spic-o-rama groove going.
Hubby groped Betsy...
And made at leat one funny comment...
While I socialized...
Got drunk...
...Drunker...
And still drunkerer...
The next morning I got back on the Maple Leaf Express and 2 hours into my 16-hour return trip I was asked the reason for my visit to Toronto by a US Border man. When I answered I had gone to attend a party, Agent Bitterman (his real name!) flagged my suitcase with a post-it, and moments later I was being "inspected" in the border control post.
I had a blast, and only wish I had taken more pictures because I really don't remember much. Oh well, there's always next time.
David Serdaris is my Hero(ine?)
Current mood: fabulous
Category: Life
An oft-repeated toll plaza along the Path to a Gayer Life is THE QUESTION.
I have been asked in and out of mixed company, by heterosexual men and women both individually and in the middle of passing the dutchy to my left-hand-side. It's a question that speaks to the very difference betweens queers and breeders, a question that members of Gay Couples are constantly asked, and Gay Men ask a potential couple-mate only after the third drink:
"So, who's the woman?"
Here's a link to David Sedaris' brilliant meditation on the subject. Enjoy. And if you don't know who DS is, pull the rock back over your home, draw your curtains and take a nap.
The Bunny always rings twice...
Current mood: embarrassed
Category: Parties and Nightlife
Well, now that February is over, I can let you all in on a little secret. Unbeknownst to most of my nearest and dearest, I have developed a new addiction. Don't fret, it still fits my pattern of addiction: it involves booze, partying and doing irreprable harm to my reputation in public settings. The newest addition is... BOOBIES! Since I was invited out to celebrate the Kansasian's Birfday (Kansese? Kansanite? Kansish?... what does one call someone from Kansas?) at a local Burlesque club on the first Friday of the month and I was so impressed by the range of talent, energy of the crowd and cheapness of the drinks, I decided to go back the next week. I have been back every Friday since. By myself. However, last Friday I braved the Old-Winter weather and ventured down to Park Slope to collect Samira, who later accompanied me to my latest obsession. Five Pinky-and-the-Brains (my new secret-recipe signature-cocktail!) and 13 PBRs later, Samira and I were introduced to the third-act MC, a seven-foot-tall gawjus gay man in a blue spandex bunny suit. Two hours later Samira is holding my coat and asking the doorguy if he's seen me. "He's getting banged by the Bunny in the bathroom." was his reply (as reported to me an hour later, upon my emergence from said stall). When I got back from my sexcapade with the Bunny, the club's floodlights were on, Samira was helping to put chairs up on tables and my tab was waiting at the bar. Samira and I walked out into the morning light and I had lost my Scarf, Non-driver's DMV ID card, and my dignity. After work the next night, I dragged my sorry ass down to Shame's Ground Zero in an attempt to find my ID. As I was standing at the bar trying to get the bartender's attention, I was called to attention by none other than the Kansasser's meaner half. Uninvited and unexpected, I had to share my story to explain my presence. My shame was enhanced when the bartender finally looked at me and said "Hey! Bunnyboy!." Later he nonchalantly implied that my missing ID was no surprise as my "head was in the clouds" when I left the night before. Endless ridicule from one of my best friends (and her sister!) aside, the evening wasn't a complete loss: I found my scarf! See you all there next Friday.
In case you missed it (and who didn’t!)...
Current mood: aroused
Category: Movies, TV, Celebrities
I work nights and drink early mornings, so I am no longer the cable-whore I used to be. Rather ironically, I have become a whore-for-the-cable-Company, but I haven't had my complimentary (FREE) service installed yet, so I have lately been missing a lot of TV.
Rest assured, I filed the paperwork for my free (!) all-inclusive service with DVR, high-speed internet and digital phone the day the WGA strike ended.
Anyway, I came across the gem below on an unrelated (and totally NSFW blog I read every morning after my third beer), and simply had to share it. While I generally find him absolutely repulsive in that you're-feeding-a-biscuit-to-the-wrong-end-of-my-homophobic-Pug way, Jimmy Kimmel has a real knack for self-deprecation, as brilliantly demonstrated in the follwing (typically homophobic) clip.
Enjoy.
Mind you, that in the hours before this aired, my call-center actualy experienced a spike in traffic due to what I labeled as the Gay Superbowl, with hundreds of NYC queens calling in to howl about issues with their HDTV sets when dozens of revellers were coming to their Oscar parties.
QA got a kick out of the fact that most of my troubleshooting Sunday evening began with "Take a deep breath, have a sip of champagne, and grab a wrench... we're going in, hunny."
Well reader, I have had it. It. My first why-the-fuck-am-I-working-here moment at my new job.
Let me backtrack, and give you relevant information. Part of my job is Sales. I get a wonderful commission for signing people up for everything from Additional DVRs to ZTV (an Indian Premium channel). Commissions vary from $ .25 to $12.00, but everything hinges on two things: 1) I must pass all four of my QA calls (this is when a Quality Assurance agent secretly listens in on my calls and scores me on about 25 different guidelines) and 2) my CFT, or Customer Focus Time. CFT is calculated using a complex algorithm that includes variables like the length of calls, length of breaks and total time my line is "available."
Deducting scheduled breaks (90 minutes per work day), and the alotted 1.0% "personal" time (for potty breaks), I must maintain an average of 98% CFT for a month in order to get all of my Commission. At the end of the day, I have 6.6 minutes a month in which to pee, or I lose all my Sales.
That said, I have been working on getting my CFT to within the goal set by my manager (100%!!!), only because I am on probation still and will get my commission whether I succeed or fail.
But the other day I got a call from a customer that rattled my nerves and the only way I could get him to shut up after 55 minutes was to degrade myself and actually inform him of the CFT.
Here's how it went down:
Olde Man calls in and the first thing he asks me is "what does one have to do to get an Operator?" I said "As far as I know, for at least the last 100 years, all one has to do to speak to an Operator is pick up a telephone and dial 0."
He agreed, and then proceeded to play a recording of his attempt to reach an Operator (he records all of his phone calls!) and the recorded message he received informing him that Operator service was not available on his line. As he first re-wound the tape, I pulled up his account and saw that everyone he had talked to before me had very nasty things to say about his calls.
Notes like "customer says he has 2 master's degrees and says we are all uneducated" did horrible things to my feelings for Olde Man.
It turned out that earlier this month Olde Man called in to scream about the fact that he saw a charge for 411 on his bill and claimed to have never used the service. After 40 minutes, Olde Man hung up.
On that same day, a change was made to Olde Man's services that blocked access to 411, 555-1212, 0 and any other phone number that would incur additional (and thus disputable) charges.
This was the reason Olde Man couldn't reach an Operator. At this point, Olde Man began posing what he called "Logic Puzzles" that tested not only my ability to explain Company policy, but also my Libran patience and need to avoid conflict.
Asking me why the Company was "punishing him," why the Company would "unilaterally" change his services and then what "ethical considerations" went into the Company's decision, the Olde Man was making my click-finger twitch as my mouse-pointer hovered over the Service DISCONNECT button on his account screen.
50 minutes into the call, I raised my voice (for the first time EVER) to talk over Olde Man, and broke it down. "With all due respect sir, you told me you were a professor of logic, and I have already graduated from college so you are not my professor and you are not grading me on this call..." [Olde Man interjects, and I talk over him again] "However, the Quality Assurance department is scoring me on this call, and while I wouldn't bore a man of your esteem with the concerns of a menial Company drone like myself, I would implore you to consider the fact that this call has put my livelihood in jeopardy." [Olde Man tries to speak again, and I continue] "I have explained the situation to you, I have tried in vain to satisfy your need for a moral or ethical impetus for the decisions made by my predecessors and I have restored your account to its previous status with your permission and implicit understanding. While there is nothing left for me to do for you, I suggest that you file a complaint against the Company with the Federal Communications Commision, Better Business Bureau of New York and maybe your local Congressman." [Olde Man informs me that he is very familiar with the FCC and BBB but is missing his Congressman's address, to which I reply:] "Well sir, I can reccommend dialing 411 for the information you require, but beware that the call will incur additional charges on your next Company bill."
Olde Man informed me that he would call 411, and that I had "fared better" than my predecessors.
I thanked him, wished him a good afternoon, and then signed out for a seven-minute "personal" to enjoy the incineration of no less than 2 Marlboros.
Year of the Rat(s I Know)
Current mood: rejuvenated
Category: Life
I can never remember how to say the traditional New Year's salutation in Mandarin... but I do know how to ask for chopsticks in both Mandarin and Cantonese.
2008 is the Year of the Rat! And while most of eastern Queens is ablaze with the glow of polyester Dragon costumes ignited by cheap firecrackers, I am warmed by my hopes for this brave new-new year, and chilled by ghosts of the past.
Just a few days ago Satan himself -I hereby resolve not to call him Satan anymore, as it just gives him too much importance in the universe- Stefano emailed me and asked for my help.
He has been having trouble sleeping, as his SUDDEN WEIGHT GAIN and possible, yet LIKELY GUILT OVER HIS ATTEMPTED MURDER-VIA-EMAIL have resulted in a case of sleep aprnea. Yes, it seems that the Prince of Darkness tends to stop breathing in his sleep. May the Universe thus deliver him to his eternal slumber. Amen.
Anyhooo, Mr. Sinister himself asked me if I remember him having difficulty with his respiration and heartrate over the course of the myriad nights we spent together during our 10 years. His email went on and on with all kinds of Latin terms for blah, blah and BLAH.
My response was as follows: "I wish I could be of more help, but of the thousands of nights we spent together, nothing remarkable ever happened."
HAPPY NEW YEAR READER! May your year be filled with the dilligence, diplomacy and unapologetic connivance the Rat is known for.
Chicken Fried Steak took me to a preview of CLOVERFIELD last night and we had a F-A-N-T-A-S-T-I-C blast!!
Unlike other recent movies of the giant-monster-destroys-modern-city genre, this film didn't waste the audience's time with the origins of the beast or it's motivations. Was it hungry? Looking for a place to lay eggs? Pissed at the current state of geopolitics? WHO CARES?!
All we need to know is that the shit is big, bad and bulletproof. I was jumping in my seat, laughing my ass off and stunned to silence by the visuals of the movie.
Toward the end there is one shot, taken from the Sheep's Meadow in Central Park where the buildings along Central Park South are reduced to burning ruins and a squadron of fighter jets zooms through the dawn light toward the beast ravaging midtown. This 10-second sequence is one of the most beautiful depictions of the destruction of Manhattan ever made.
Of course, this is counterpoint to an earlier scene of a tank batallion rolling down an East Village street with missle launchers and artillery lighting up the night with frenetic volleys of sight and sound.
As for the plot, the blunderings of white yuppies as apocalyptic events unfold were a source of hilarious enjoyment. For a VP-of-something-or-other, the male protagonist made terrible decisions for all the wrong reasons, losing his companions along the way toward his own destiny.
Forget "I Am Legend," throw the last "Godzilla" out of the window and go see the most action-packed destruction of NYC ever imagined.
amused
annoyed
amorous
nostalgic
fabulous
embarrassed
aroused
bitchy
rejuvenated