February 8, 2010


I was not one of those hundred million plus people who made that football game the other day the most popular thing ever. Instead, the boyfriend and I had an anti-Superbowl party, inviting a few friends over for stupidly fancy bar food (chili based on a mole sauce, homemade tortilla chips sprinkled with cheese made from goat and sheep milk, pan-roasted potato wedges, raspberry beer) while ogling Gene Kelly's butt in cheesy 1940s musicals.

It was good times. But it happened ten days ago, and not this past Sunday.

Because we are fancypants gays and we are friends with fancypants gays, we ended up throwing the anti-Superbowl party the week before the big game. No one realized we had the wrong date until we tried checking the score in-between movies. Oh well.

And so while the Saints were doing things to the Colts, we had our threesome buddy over for a night of campy sequels, including Adams Family Values, Charlies Angels: Full Throttle, and A Very Brady Sequel. And that was pretty fun too.
Here lies a most ridiculous raw youth, indulging himself in the literary graces that he once vowed to eschew. Now he just rocks out.