There are 21 men on thehill.com's list of the 50 Most Beautiful People on Capitol Hill, and I would have sex with 9 of them. Including a few Republicans, which would be a first for me (at least that I know of).
Even though talking politics (or listening to others talk about politics) really grinds my gears, I should probably mention that the boyfriend was a political science major way back when, so I guess you can say that I have a type.
July 31, 2008
Stop Sustaining that Note!
I'm sure by now you've all seen the promo for Feist's appearance on Sesame Street, as well as Neil Patrick Harris as the Shoe Fairy, but really, as a whole, this season of the children's television classic looks to be funnier than Saturday Night Live, especially now that Amy Poehler is leaving the show.
Oooh! Here's the full teaser for the High School Musical parody.
Genius! All they need now is to announce Jake Gyllenhaal in a swimsuit teaching the kiddies how to swim. MMmmmm..... Then I might just set my alarm a half hour earlier and regress and watch it while I'm getting ready for work.
July 30, 2008
The Female James Brown
I'm waiting for something interesting to happen to me so I can blog about it, so to help pass the time here's another mux tape with some Sharon Jones and the Dap-Kings. As Fatboy Slim might say, "Check them out now, they're some funk/soul brothers (and sister).
July 21, 2008
Sad but True
(via SomeECards)
Today for lunch I went to a moderately-better than fast food restaurant that had three televisions with a different sporting event featured on each one. As I was waiting for my sandwich, I just stared at the athletes, cursed myself for not ordering a salad and vowed to do thousands upon thousands of situps when I got home.
July 20, 2008
July 14, 2008
The Night Salman Rushdie Signed My Chest
The boyfriend was away this weekend, off being a bridesmaidman at a wedding for one of his best friends from high school. I was originally supposed to travel with him, bite the bullet and meet the parents and all that, but fortunately this weekend is also the big fundraiser event for my place of employment. My raise was not nearly as large as I was led to believe, and my responsibilities were increased more than I was led to believe, and I've started the search for a new job. I had planned on running around like a chicken sans head while the boyfriend drove, with a broken arm and sprained wrist, the five hours (six, depending on Chicago's traffic) back to Michigan. Alone.
Friday night, after the set-up, I was talked into seeing a series of short plays by my boyfriend’s and my threesome buddy. He had a comp ticket because he helped with the props, but was feeling too tired to go to the show. I didn’t have any plans, since set-up was supposed to last until 10 but miraculously was finished by 7:30, and so I figured ‘what-the-hell?’
Like pretty much any series of short plays, some were good and some were bad and some were painful. My favorite was the one where the woman I hated the most in my recent theatre experience played the fat kid/bully in preschool, and got her comeuppance. Oh, did that uppance need to come, and it was quite cathartic.
I walked home from the theatre, alone, behind an Indian couple. He was middle-aged and balding, and she was impossibly attractive and probably a grad-student. I was irritated that they were taking up the entire sidewalk, and when the path widened I was able to pass them, and only then did I realize that I was walking behind Salman Rushdie getting his mack on (the guy was married to Padma). He’s probably my favorite author (excluding Joel Derfner, of course). I had read that he was giving a book tour in town, but I had previously thought that I would still be at work, and when I got off early, it slipped my mind.
I was all excited, and tried to walk slowly in front of them to catch on to their conversation, but it was in Indian, and I only know how to say five or six words in that language, and they are not so much words but my favorite foods. I recognized the word "Booker," which either means that was talking about how he won the Booker of Bookers the day earlier, or it means that ‘booker’ means “come up to my hotel room for a drink” in an Indian dialect.
Eventually, I kept walking, and started making the way back to my place. About a block later, I mentally berated myself for not asking for an autograph. I still had the program on me, but no pen. Fortunately, I was still close to work, and so I snuck in and grabbed a permanent marker from the break room, and made my way back to where I had seen him.
As soon as I exited the building, I had an epiphany: Salman Rushdie should sign my chest.
Why should rock stars get all of the fun? It’d be a fun reversal, switching up gender and socio-economic roles. If I infer Rushdie’s personal values from his protagonists, he’d totally be up for that shit. Plus, he’d probably think it was funny. At worst, he could say no and have a new topic of conversation with his impossibly hot yet almost generically beauty-pagentesque companion.
It was already humid out, still warm from earlier in the day, and I was walking at a brisk pace. I could feel my face started to get red, but I went out in search of Rushdie. I went back to where I saw him, and continued walking that way, peeking into the windows, hoping to see him. I took peeks in hotel room lobbies, restaurants, bars, but after about 20 minutes I had seen neither hide nor hair of him.
I bumped into a few friends, and all but one had never heard of him, and the only that had heard of him said he wouldn’t recognize him. I passed a college couple who appeared to be Irani or Iraqi or something of that general region, and was tempted to ask if they’d seen the balding middle-aged guy who had a fatwa out against him, but I chickened out, mostly because I didn’t know how to ask the question without sounding (or feeling) racist.
By this time, it was 11:45 and I had been blotting the sweat dripping from my temples and the back of my neck for a while, and I could feel my shirt clinging to my back. I was still searching, though, growing more desperate with every bar he wasn’t in.
Come on. It would be too damn funny to have Salman Rushdie sign my chest. I would take a gay.com-esque picture of me in my bathroom mirror, shirtless with the flash covering my face, and post it here on the blog. I had even started thinking of titles I could use for the post, trying to work in references to Larry Kramer plays or old fifties musicals, and thinking that I could probably get gawker to link to me, or at least somebody and it would boost my page views by 1000% since everyone is using RSS feeds now and my daily site hits have taken a dive in the past two years. But mostly it would just be hilarious, and the perfect story to tell if I ever go on Jeopardy.
I started doing my best Encyclopedia Brown impression and tried to think logically about this. Maybe he’d go to the tapas bar nearby that tries really hard to be trendy. Or maybe his companion would take him to the grad school wine bar to show him off to all of her snotty friends. Or maybe they’d take a walk and see if the Indian restaurant was still open for a late night snack.
By this point, blotting the sweat was futile at best, and every so often I would have to peel my shirt off of my back to let air in in an attempt to keep cool. While I’m walking in front of the bank, on my way to the new French patisserie that for some reason has a liquor license and stays open until bartime even though they run out of baked goods by 3, the strap to my left flip-flop breaks.
Damnit, I say out loud, and take my sandals off and keep going. Or at least I meant to keep going, but after both of my bare feet touched the sidewalk, I realized that I crossed a line. It’s one thing for a sweaty white faggot to ask Salman Rushdie to sign his chest without making him call out for the police, but barefoot too?
Crushed, not only that I failed in my mission to have him sign my chest but also at the realization that I am a loser and should probably never move to a big city like New York where people see celebrities on the street on a regular basis.
I got back to my place and showered and went to bed, where I had another epiphany.
Personal blogging is creative nonfiction at best. Lord knows that blogs are hardly the gospel truth, and a little stretching of the truth is fine. I started searching for a camera to take a shirtless picture, and then I would just photoshop Salman Rushdie’s autograph, since it’s pretty easy to find online. And then I stopped looking for the USB connector cord, because none of you would recognize my chest anyway, and I figured 'in for a penny, in for a pound' when it comes to photoshopping and blogs.
So here is a picture of "my" chest with Salman Rushie’s "autograph," proof that last night’s mission was a success after all.
Friday night, after the set-up, I was talked into seeing a series of short plays by my boyfriend’s and my threesome buddy. He had a comp ticket because he helped with the props, but was feeling too tired to go to the show. I didn’t have any plans, since set-up was supposed to last until 10 but miraculously was finished by 7:30, and so I figured ‘what-the-hell?’
Like pretty much any series of short plays, some were good and some were bad and some were painful. My favorite was the one where the woman I hated the most in my recent theatre experience played the fat kid/bully in preschool, and got her comeuppance. Oh, did that uppance need to come, and it was quite cathartic.
I walked home from the theatre, alone, behind an Indian couple. He was middle-aged and balding, and she was impossibly attractive and probably a grad-student. I was irritated that they were taking up the entire sidewalk, and when the path widened I was able to pass them, and only then did I realize that I was walking behind Salman Rushdie getting his mack on (the guy was married to Padma). He’s probably my favorite author (excluding Joel Derfner, of course). I had read that he was giving a book tour in town, but I had previously thought that I would still be at work, and when I got off early, it slipped my mind.
I was all excited, and tried to walk slowly in front of them to catch on to their conversation, but it was in Indian, and I only know how to say five or six words in that language, and they are not so much words but my favorite foods. I recognized the word "Booker," which either means that was talking about how he won the Booker of Bookers the day earlier, or it means that ‘booker’ means “come up to my hotel room for a drink” in an Indian dialect.
Eventually, I kept walking, and started making the way back to my place. About a block later, I mentally berated myself for not asking for an autograph. I still had the program on me, but no pen. Fortunately, I was still close to work, and so I snuck in and grabbed a permanent marker from the break room, and made my way back to where I had seen him.
As soon as I exited the building, I had an epiphany: Salman Rushdie should sign my chest.
Why should rock stars get all of the fun? It’d be a fun reversal, switching up gender and socio-economic roles. If I infer Rushdie’s personal values from his protagonists, he’d totally be up for that shit. Plus, he’d probably think it was funny. At worst, he could say no and have a new topic of conversation with his impossibly hot yet almost generically beauty-pagentesque companion.
It was already humid out, still warm from earlier in the day, and I was walking at a brisk pace. I could feel my face started to get red, but I went out in search of Rushdie. I went back to where I saw him, and continued walking that way, peeking into the windows, hoping to see him. I took peeks in hotel room lobbies, restaurants, bars, but after about 20 minutes I had seen neither hide nor hair of him.
I bumped into a few friends, and all but one had never heard of him, and the only that had heard of him said he wouldn’t recognize him. I passed a college couple who appeared to be Irani or Iraqi or something of that general region, and was tempted to ask if they’d seen the balding middle-aged guy who had a fatwa out against him, but I chickened out, mostly because I didn’t know how to ask the question without sounding (or feeling) racist.
By this time, it was 11:45 and I had been blotting the sweat dripping from my temples and the back of my neck for a while, and I could feel my shirt clinging to my back. I was still searching, though, growing more desperate with every bar he wasn’t in.
Come on. It would be too damn funny to have Salman Rushdie sign my chest. I would take a gay.com-esque picture of me in my bathroom mirror, shirtless with the flash covering my face, and post it here on the blog. I had even started thinking of titles I could use for the post, trying to work in references to Larry Kramer plays or old fifties musicals, and thinking that I could probably get gawker to link to me, or at least somebody and it would boost my page views by 1000% since everyone is using RSS feeds now and my daily site hits have taken a dive in the past two years. But mostly it would just be hilarious, and the perfect story to tell if I ever go on Jeopardy.
I started doing my best Encyclopedia Brown impression and tried to think logically about this. Maybe he’d go to the tapas bar nearby that tries really hard to be trendy. Or maybe his companion would take him to the grad school wine bar to show him off to all of her snotty friends. Or maybe they’d take a walk and see if the Indian restaurant was still open for a late night snack.
By this point, blotting the sweat was futile at best, and every so often I would have to peel my shirt off of my back to let air in in an attempt to keep cool. While I’m walking in front of the bank, on my way to the new French patisserie that for some reason has a liquor license and stays open until bartime even though they run out of baked goods by 3, the strap to my left flip-flop breaks.
Damnit, I say out loud, and take my sandals off and keep going. Or at least I meant to keep going, but after both of my bare feet touched the sidewalk, I realized that I crossed a line. It’s one thing for a sweaty white faggot to ask Salman Rushdie to sign his chest without making him call out for the police, but barefoot too?
Crushed, not only that I failed in my mission to have him sign my chest but also at the realization that I am a loser and should probably never move to a big city like New York where people see celebrities on the street on a regular basis.
I got back to my place and showered and went to bed, where I had another epiphany.
Personal blogging is creative nonfiction at best. Lord knows that blogs are hardly the gospel truth, and a little stretching of the truth is fine. I started searching for a camera to take a shirtless picture, and then I would just photoshop Salman Rushdie’s autograph, since it’s pretty easy to find online. And then I stopped looking for the USB connector cord, because none of you would recognize my chest anyway, and I figured 'in for a penny, in for a pound' when it comes to photoshopping and blogs.
So here is a picture of "my" chest with Salman Rushie’s "autograph," proof that last night’s mission was a success after all.
July 11, 2008
A Picture is Worth a Thousand Blah Blah Blah
Here's what my blog looks like using Wordle. I'm not sure what I was expecting, but I'm going to start using more 25 cent words in the blog. Also, I should probably talk about the boyfriend less, so that his nickname doesn't dominate so much.
Antidisestablishmentarianism.
July 10, 2008
Marvin Gaye Can Suck My Balls
For being a website that bills itself as a smart, honest magazine on sex, with cliché-shattering prose and fiction as well as striking photography, reading Nerve one-handedly doesn't really happen. It's almost like Slate or Salon, which I rarely actually read but occasionally skim the front pages and more-or-less get the point of the articles without having to suffer through the elitist liberal holier-than-thou atmosphere that those websites cultivate.
Nerve comes across as that girl in 7th grade who threw up on the guy while giving her first blowjob (and then kept going) and then established herself as the expert on sex not because she was smart (or even good at it) but because she declared herself one, and never shut up about how she was dating a high school senior. No one really believed her, but she stood her ground until eventually we stopped caring. She now probably writes those painful Carrie Bradshaw-esque articles in her college newspaper.
Recently, Nerve came out with their list of the Top 50 Sexiest Albums You Must Own (But Probably Don't), and as one might expect from such a grand statement, it's not entirely true. Their list is a fairly banal collection, stradding between the beyond-obvious cliches (Miles Davis, Al Green, Prince, Jeff Buckley, Marvin Gaye) and the cocking your head in incredulousness (Sonic Youth, Lou Reed, White Stripes, Patti Smith, Liz Phair). I wouldn't necessarily think of having sex to most of these songs, unless it's a type of sex I don't want to have. You can have sex to pretty much any type of music, but that doesn't mean that you should.
So here's a muxtape with some of my recommendations for sexytime music. I make no claims that this mux is for every time a dick is whipped out, but just for certain types of sexytime. Hopefully I did a respectable job at expanding the sweet symphonies to accompany penes going in and out of orifices.
Nerve comes across as that girl in 7th grade who threw up on the guy while giving her first blowjob (and then kept going) and then established herself as the expert on sex not because she was smart (or even good at it) but because she declared herself one, and never shut up about how she was dating a high school senior. No one really believed her, but she stood her ground until eventually we stopped caring. She now probably writes those painful Carrie Bradshaw-esque articles in her college newspaper.
Recently, Nerve came out with their list of the Top 50 Sexiest Albums You Must Own (But Probably Don't), and as one might expect from such a grand statement, it's not entirely true. Their list is a fairly banal collection, stradding between the beyond-obvious cliches (Miles Davis, Al Green, Prince, Jeff Buckley, Marvin Gaye) and the cocking your head in incredulousness (Sonic Youth, Lou Reed, White Stripes, Patti Smith, Liz Phair). I wouldn't necessarily think of having sex to most of these songs, unless it's a type of sex I don't want to have. You can have sex to pretty much any type of music, but that doesn't mean that you should.
So here's a muxtape with some of my recommendations for sexytime music. I make no claims that this mux is for every time a dick is whipped out, but just for certain types of sexytime. Hopefully I did a respectable job at expanding the sweet symphonies to accompany penes going in and out of orifices.
July 7, 2008
Summer Reading
If I were a snotty liberal in my mid-to-late forties and generally thought of myself as the "cool uncle," I would just link to NPR's special book section on summer reading. I would probably make some sort of comments about how some of the books are entertaining, and then make a disparaging remark about whatever book Oprah is shilling that month, even though she's listed a few books that I've always meant to read and there's one or two that seem interesting that I haven't heard of, and mutter to myself because now all of the books are going to have that awful sticker on them and I'll feel like everyone thinks I do what Oprah tells me to do.
But I'm not the cool uncle, so I won't do anything like that. I will probably end up being the "I'm still cool, right? Do the kids say cool anymore?" relative at some point, but not yet. And if I do end up growing up that way, chances are I will outgrow the habit of photoshopping the cover of books I've recently read and enjoyed onto pictures of men I enjoy naked in an attempt to straddle the line between SFW and NSFW. But that won't be for a long time.
America, America by Ethan Canin
The Perfect American by Peter Stephan Jungk
Haroun and the Sea of Stories by Salman Rushdie
Wittgenstein's Mistress by David Markson
Oil! by Upton Sinclair
The End of the Jews by Adam Mansbach
Cartoon History of the Universe by Larry Gonick
But I'm not the cool uncle, so I won't do anything like that. I will probably end up being the "I'm still cool, right? Do the kids say cool anymore?" relative at some point, but not yet. And if I do end up growing up that way, chances are I will outgrow the habit of photoshopping the cover of books I've recently read and enjoyed onto pictures of men I enjoy naked in an attempt to straddle the line between SFW and NSFW. But that won't be for a long time.
America, America by Ethan Canin
The Perfect American by Peter Stephan Jungk
Haroun and the Sea of Stories by Salman Rushdie
Wittgenstein's Mistress by David Markson
Oil! by Upton Sinclair
The End of the Jews by Adam Mansbach
Cartoon History of the Universe by Larry Gonick
July 4, 2008
An Old Man?
Last night, I was working on a post in my head while lying in bed, all crotchety and ornery, about what an old man I am becoming. Those darn kids who live near Initials' place kept making a ruckus and kept me awake; 4th of July be damned, it's late and I need my sleep!
And then, this morning, I awoke to the joyous news, and then realized that the bulk of my knowledge of Jesse Helms and his hard-line conservatism comes from his being mocked in the Sunday comics.
Maybe I'm not as old as I think.
And then, this morning, I awoke to the joyous news, and then realized that the bulk of my knowledge of Jesse Helms and his hard-line conservatism comes from his being mocked in the Sunday comics.
Maybe I'm not as old as I think.
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