It's been months since I logged on to livejournal. Oh, how the Facebook has eaten my soul!

I may be around more. I may not. We'll see.

I've been slowly gaining an appreciation for Obama during his transition. His Cabinet choices have been interesting, his transition team works smooth as butter, and he's been showing an intelligence and class that sharply contrasts with the bufoonery of the Bush administration.

In other words, I was dangerously close, almost preilously close, to believing in a politician again.

Thankfully, Obama then decided that Rick Warren should lead the invocation at the inauguration.

Crisis averted.

Sometimes I have to remind myself that there are many, many heterosexuals who aren't self-righteous fucktards who think the fact that they can insert tab d into slot p somehow gives them secret knowledge that makes them an authority on everything.

Then there's Mike Huckabee . Who believes that you can't compare black civil rights with fag civil rights because faggots don't get their heads kicked in as much as blacks did. Which is apparently a fun, new trope that conservatives are circulating.

At first this puzzled me greatly. I mean, could they really be saying that there's a certain level of violence that must be achieved before the rights of faggots matter? Really? But then I realized something: it kinda makes sense.

The vocal right wing, in America at least, tends to have a Christian slant. A heavy Christian slant. And the defining moment of Christianity is Christ's suffering and the redemption of our sins through his suffering. If you look at it that way it almost makes a bizarre kinda sense. Certainly there have been ample examples throughout Western history of the store people set in the holiness of suffering. Pain and humiliation used as refining agents to create a better world.

So to all the angry faggots out there I say this: when they try and convert us or deny us rights remember what they're really asking: What, faggot, would Jesus do? He'd get himself hung on a cross and stabbed in the side. So get to it, kids! Let us suffer and die for their respect!




A note on my word choice: I chose "faggot" over "gay" because in this situation we are faggots. Dirty, filthy faggots who want to despoil their precious hegemony. Gays are patient and accomodating. Faggots are pissed off and transgressive. And I think we need to think a little more like faggots and a little less like gays in circumstances like these.

I wonder if Joe Lieberman gets whiplash as he shifts from left to right.

( This made me laugh and laugh and laugh )

One more week until this election is over.

I can't wait.

There was never any question of who I'm voting for: many of his supporters annoy the shit out of me, but he's better than the alternative.

Although if I had my druthers, I'd vote for Josiah Bartlett.

No, it isn't work appropriate. but it IS funny.

Last night Kate, Doug, Doug's mythological boyfriend, and I went to see Another Gay Sequel at the Image Out festival. or, as we like to call it, the Dryden.

There were many, many homosexual males there. And 15 or so genetic females.

Another Gay Sequel is a soulful, hard-hitting, in-depth look at the serious issues the "Spring Break" party scene brings up for young, gay men. Through a series of re-enacted vignettes, the viewer is told the stories of four high school friends and how they cope with a party culture taken to the extreme.

And if you believe that, well, you don't know me very well, do you?

The Filipino gentlemen who introduced the movie (and who was wearing boots that made Kate wet)proclaimed the movie "trash" and "trash" it was. Cheerfully demented trash. With a big "Fuck You!" to three of the stars of the first movie (Another Gay Movie). These stars chose not to return because their agents felt that two gay movies in a row might cause the public to think that they are gay. And by "think" I mean "fervently hope". Especially the teenage girls. Because teenage girls think gay guys are hot. Anyway, these three stars are lambasted in the opening scene. One is beheaded, one crushed by a bookcase and one set on fire. Then their replacement actors appear like magic.

That's what kind of movie this is.

Much hilarity ensues. There are homo hot dogs, posing celebreality stars, twink boy porn stars dressed as mermen, plushie play with a twist, an amusing case of crabs, Amanda Lepore (scariest non-genetic woman ever), and many other wacky- almost surreal- moments. Oh, and it has Mario Lavanderia in it. Who I still find disgusting and whose website should be retroactively erased from existence in order to protect me from hordes of young fags marking up photos with Paint-applied boogers and crotch drippings. But he's in it. And he really does have the most "What the fuck?" kind of moment.

It's definitely something to see. But only with people who have a sense of wackiness to them. Serious people should not watch this movie as they will most likely develop a constant sneer. You need wackiness. And maybe drinks. And a remote control so you can rewind and watch the stigmata moment over and over again.

The reviews of the evening:
Doug thought it was okay but liked the first one better.
Kate loved it.
I loved it.
Doug's mythological boyfriend either loved, liked, or hated it. I don't really know. Once the movie was over he was completely focused on finding his friend Robby and getting Robby to take him and Doug home. Which I guess means he didn't really like it.

Here's the trailer. Now you know who Mario Lavanderia is.

On Wednesday Doug and i will be going to see Otto; Or, Up With Dead People. This time the role of somewhat reluctant tag-along will be played by Mike "Articulation" O'May. But, really, how could a movie about the ultimate emo boy be bad? Stay tuned, true believers!

Let Wendy sing to you about what's REALLY the most important thing in any relationship.

Today I left work early, bought Pushing Daisies on DVD and have now enjoyed two wonderful episodes. I love Pushing Daisies. I love it with my unabashedly sentimental and romantic heart. I love it to the delirious point of dizzy, giddy happiness.

I reserve the right to be romantic and sentimental. One needn't always be sarcastic, aloof, or post-ironic.

Also, Pushing Daisies will always always always remind me of...but that would be telling, wouldn't it?

David Foster Wallace killed himself.

That's an odd thing for me.

I have never successfully completed a David Foster Wallace book. God knows I tried. I tried Infinite Jest. I tried one of his journalism collections. And I've read bits and pieces but his work was too....well, I don't know. it was too "intellectual" maybe. Too "art for art's sake". There was a precious quality to his work that threw me off and kept me form finishing.

But he wrote a kick-ass profile of David Lynch. And he obviously had talent and a strong point of view.

He killed himself. He was struggling with depression and he finally gave in. And that makes me a touch sad. And the fact that I still won't be able to finish reading his stuff makes me a touch sad as well.

I suppose I should be more concerned about politics or the devastation in Texas. But somehow this touches me a little bit more. This is something I can connect with a vibrant part of my life, a time when things seemed more possible. it connects me with the history of my love affair with books. It reminds me of the creative people I've known.

Goodbye, David Foster Wallace.

I have determined two things:

1) Reading Dave White's recaps of Project Runway is about a million times better than watching this lame-ass season.

2) I really need to get some kind of drug that slows me down when I'm slightly tipsy and talking to lesbians. Because my running dialog about a new show called "Lesbian Home Invasion" may have cracked a girl named Cello up, but it wrecked the shit out of my voice.

This moment right here and now is because of two people.

Bruce Springsteen's Nebraska is playing in the background and that is a piece put into place by Janis.

The line "I am the least difficult of men. All I want is boundless love." is in my mind. And that little bit is a shard of the refraction that was the Cherub Angel. The only person who could get me to read poetry.

In my mind I am smoking a cigarette and sitting in front of a canvas and looking at a painting called Kevin.

This article in combination with this article seriously make me wonder if we haven't all gone completely insane.

But then again, I was raised on some very unwholesome Sesame Street. Maybe my opinion should be considered suspect.......

I've watched two episodes of Mad Men on AMC On Demand and I have to say this: it is a quite excellent show. Very well written. And I've got a fondness for America in the 1950s. So now I have something new to occupy my time.

And when you make a vodka cranberry with grape vodka it tastes exactly like grape kool-aid. Isn't that the kookiest?

I actually wanna see this.

Mostly because there's no way that Javier Bardem will do a Woody Allen impression.

Just some more randomness from me.

It's Sunday and I am spectacularly unmotivated to do much of anything. Kevin and I went out last night and drank many drinks and while not hung over I am feeling a little lethargic. Kevin leaves for Binghamton in a week. He'll be managing a Starbucks there. It's what he's wanted for ages and I'm happy for him. Even while I hate that he's leaving.

There's a kindasorta going away thing for him at Lux on Tuesday. I would imagine we won't be there until after 10. If anyone would like to drop by and say their goodbyes and wish him well and watch me get goofy drunk that would be just fine.

Right now I'm listening to the cast album of the musical based on one of my favorite books: Bright Lights, Big City. I used an iTunes gift card to buy it. And so now it is playing happily in the background.

Shit, last night some guy named Lucas told me to blog something. Douchenozzles? I can't remember. What ever it was, it wasn't as interesting or amusing as yoga booty ballet. or Richard Simmons's pheremones. Anywho, this Lucas guy was kinda funny. He really didn't seem to grasp that Kevin is a homo. Quite a character, tho.

And all you need is one more popper
One more vodka
One more topsy-turvy, hunky-dory
Manic, panic, magic high
Listen to the voices
Raging round inside your head again
Like a message from the Vatican
They’re watching as you’re slipping,
As you’re ripping into tripping
Are you willing to be killing
All the dreams that you are having?
Skipping, dripping, slipping, sliding
When you really should be flying from heartbreak
Welcome to the party baby, come on in
Bright lights, big city

We went and saw the new Batman movie on Friday night. It was pretty damn fantastic. And, yeah, Heath Ledger is pretty fucking cool as the Joker. Really actually quite scary. I think the new hip thing to do (because backlash must set in and all the critic-y types have been raving) will be to downplay Ledger's performance, but that's just hipster posturing. Ledger owned the movie and killed in the role. I don't give a flying fuck if Ledger gets an Oscar, but his performance is by far the best I've seen this year.

I've been re-reading David Sedaris. I guess I'm in the mood for slightly sarcastic personal essays. And unlike some other essayists (I'm pointedly not looking in the direction of McSweeney's) Sedaris has that kinda I-know-I'm-kinda-ridiculous-but-we're-all-in-on-the-joke-and-I'm-really-into-what-I'm-writing-about thing that comes across as genuine. It's a rare trait and the sign of someone who is really working from a pure groove. John Waters has the same quality. So does David Lynch.

Kevin and I went over to Doug's and watched the rest of the current season of Doctor Who a couple of weeks ago. I really loved this season. I think everything really built to the finale. And the end really broke my heart.

This is turning out to be a year of loss. Not horrible, life-destroying loss, but loss nonetheless. The Cherub Angel, my computer, my belief in my workplace, and now Kevin. Nothing I can't handle (well, the Kevin thing is kinda hard) but kinda bummer. Luckily there are still tons and tons of things to be happy about.

See? I'm meandering. Meander meander meander. Damn. The rain is really pouring at the moment. Pour pour pour. I guess the water is good.

I think I'm gonna go. How is your day going?

Ask me a question about each of the following:

1. Friends
2. Sex
3. Music
4. Vices
5. Love
6. Home

No matter how rude, sexual, or confidential, I'll answer them. Then, if you want, post this in your journal and see what questions you get asked.

So now I have the iPod and the new computer and I'm thinking that podcasts might be fun fun fun to listen to. What are cool podcasts that y'all like? I hunger for interesting and amusing things.

For those who don't know: I've been participating in a comic book version of Project Runway at the Comic Book Resources Forums for the past 17 weeks. I've made it all the way to the final challenge!

The final challenge was to design five characters. We were given brief descriptions and were told to get to it. You can see my five submissions here.


It was a lot of work and I'm really glad to be done!