[Essentially] what I do in a vault underground

Go to this site and roll over the pictures to see before and after touch-ups. Now you get an idea of what I do. (I bet those celebrities aren't very happy!!)

Sorry about your face

Don't get it twisted, y'all! Ebony--who I never thought was attractive to begin with--got ousted last night on ANTM. Maybe if she had taken one good picture, she would have beaten plus-sized latina Diane. Best picture last night--Nicole. Runner-up--Nik. My money's still on Lisa for the win.
The best part of last night's show was watching it with two awesome 'mos, Bill (whose poor face is all stitched) and Cam (who is the abuser). Man-on-man domestic violence is hot!
So after the show, I schlep it all the way home to watch So You Think You Can Dance? only to begin texting Paul and finding out that his TiVOed version cut off at the half way point. So I get my ass back in my car and drive back to the hill, and I get to watch my other fave reality show with other rad peeps--word Paul, David, Jared, & Rachel!!! I can't freaking believe that Jamile is still in the running to becoming America's Next Top Dancer!! I mean, dude's ok (wikkid hella better than me), but he's no Nick or Blake. Poor, poor Blake--that's what you get for being Canadian, and like I told him last week, don't do the "chest reveal" drop trou to do the "package reveal" wearing a thong. Boys never listen to me, though. I still hope Melody and Nick win (although that Ashley is pretty damn good).
And finally, I need your help, dear readers. I've been driven crazy by Ted Casablanca and his Toothy Tile stories.
To get you up to speed, some young Hollywood actor is a homo who has been seen around town being all kissy face w/ boys (or, at least one boy in particular).
My hope was that it was Jake Gyllenhaal, but after Sept. 8th's column, wherein Ted claims the actor is from a state directly above Texas, my hopes, like my carrot-ginger soup, were dashed (the latter w/ salt).
Here's who its not:
Tobey Maguire, Keanu Reeves, Jamie Foxx, Orlando Bloom, Vin Diesel, Sean William Scott, Adam Brody, Ryan Cabrera, Matt Damon, Michael Vartan, Elijah Wood, Ben Affleck, Hayden Christiansen, Chris Klein, Josh Hartnett, Josh Brolin, Will Smith, Wilmer Valderama, Tom Cruise, Tom Welling, Johnny Depp, Johhny Knoxville, Seth Green, Justin Timberlake, Christian Bale, Jared Leto, Julian McMahon, Val Kilmer, Josh Duhamel, Benjamin McKenzie, Josh Lucas
Please, someone help me piece together this puzzle--we know that he dated an "annoyingly perfect girl" before becoming infatuated with the pole. Read Ted's articles to see if you can figure it out. Thanks!


Brought to you by the letter K

Big ups to my girl K for pointin' me to this site. Apparently, Puberty: The Movie will be coming (ahem) out sometime next year. It features Joe Lo Truglio of "The State" and Wet, Hot American Summer, Todd Barry who is wikkid funny, David Wain also of "The State" and "Stella", and Eugene Mirman who is kinda funny.
The clip from Puberty: The Movie is probably not appropriate for the workplace.


I <3 TV

I never really think of myself as a TV person, but here it is, the beginning of the fall season, and I find myself entranced by the glowing light box.

Last night's
Arrested Development sealed the deal--this is the funniest show that has ever been on television. The set-ups are funny, the payoffs are funny. Everything goes for the joke and few (if any) miss the mark. Will Arnett as GOB was definitely my favorite last night. Not as much Lucille as I generally like, but Buster's hand in the dishwasher was (another) stroke of genius. I've been waiting with bated breath for Scott Baio's return to the small screen (he was recently in the abhorrent Cursed) and next week, he'll join the cast the Bluth family's new lawyer--Bob Loblaw. And, in case you're bored at work, check out this funny site erected for the shows debut.

You know what is different about my viewing habits this year? There is a communal element that has been missing since college. Matt and I watch Arrested Development on Mondays. Kelley and I watch
Gilmore Girls on Tuesdays. Bill, Cam, Derek, and I watch America's Next Top Model on Wednesdays. Its been really great to bond with people over a TV show, rather than just watching at home by myself and talking with people about them the next day.

I think that after
So You Think You Can Dance? ends, I'll have to add Veronica Mars to my Wednesday night viewing. My much beloved Joss Whedon is doing a cameo in episode 3. Charisma Carpenter is joining the cast, and Allyson Hannigan is doing a guest spot.

Oh television, I love you so. (Much more than
Wm. Steven Humphreys.)


At the car wash, yeah

Lighter subjects: My weekend in review.

Friday night I hit up the
War Room for Andy Caldwell. The usual suspects were there along with a ton of really annoying people. You know, the kind that elbow their way onto to the dancefloor just to stand around and talk. The kind that grind all up on the ladies then act pissed when they get rebuffed. I almost burned a girl's hair with my cigarette--twice. I often contend that the major reason for maintaining my smoking habit is to exact revenge on the dancefloor.
You know the crowd was annoying if Paul was screaming at some girl, "TRASH!! TRASH!!" Well, he said what all of us were thinking. The track selection was actually really good, and like K pointed out, it was like he was throwing away perfectly good music on total retards. Ah well, all nights can't be amazing, right?

Saturday day, did a bunch of nothin'. Tried to go shopping at
Fred Meyer's but just got the feeling that all the people there were related to the people who were at the War Room. If you couldn't tell, I get peeved easily. That night K invited me to use an extra pass for the Decibel Festival. HELL YES!! Deadbeat was adorable wearing pants that were too big and a shirt that was too small. He chain smoked behind his laptop and smiled so big when the crowd applauded him. For me, he was a little too dub, and that's just not the kind of music you dance to (smoke to, maybe). Then came Akufen who threw the dirtiest basslines and bassiest kick drums right through me. It was one of those sets where your heartbeat takes on the beat of the music. If the bass had been any heavier, I'm sure people on the dancefloor would have evacuated their bowels. Here comes the lame part: I left early. I couldn't do it. I'm getting too old. I only made it through about forty-five minutes.

Sunday: Went to the car wash. One of the guys working there was scrubbing down the outside of the car before I went through. We made eye contact. I smiled. He smiled. I came out the other side and the towel boy is drying me off. Here comes the guy who was scrubbing me down. He asks me to roll down my window. I do. "I get off at 8:00," he says. "You should stop by around 8:15. My name is Francisco. What's yours?" Made. My. Day.
Did I return, you wonder? Did I go and have some hot car wash sex?
You know me better than that.
Y'know what I think is funny--how he knew I was gay. I mean, for me, I always feel like I have "FAG" tatooed across my forehead--but there was nothing, just a smile. Maybe I just have a gay face.

And, for your edification,
a parody of the Paris Hilton car wash video.


Community and lack thereof

I didn't know Ryan K. Robertson. I don't even remember the name of the cute guy I used to see at The Cobalt Cafe who killed himself in Volunteer Park. Besides suicide, they had something in common. They both felt that the gay community's fixation on sex and image prevented them from establishing meaningful relationships. In some respects, I agree.
Recently at dinner with Risa and Keith, Risa asked me to explain why I didn't really like one of her sister's gay friends. "I don't think you would understand unless you were a gay man," I said.
"Well, try me," she responded.
And I didn't know how to put it into words (maybe because I was on my second martini). The mere fact that I would relegate this living, breathing, complex human into 'them' status because of his speech patterns, the way he dresses, and his values--well, at least my perception of them--says a lot about the current state of the gay community. How can we prevent someone from taking their life if we quickly label them and put them on a shelf?
At brunch with Geoff on Sunday, we were having a similar conversation. He went to a house party and there were some Chelsea-boy types there. They held no interest to him and trying to have a conversation with one was out of the question. In some respects, this form of intra-minority stereotyping is similar to the "blue-veined" mulattoes and full-blooded blacks that was pervasive from the turn-of-the century to the 1950's. However, theirs was a class stuggle and desire to fit into the white world; ours is an adolescent struggle to define our very nature. I don't need to say that this stuggle is divisive--it is literally killing people; yet, it persists.
I think, in a lot of ways, we are ill-equipped to solve this problem. As gay men, we socialize much later in life than heteros. When straight people are fifteen or sixteen, they are copping a feel in the back seat of their dad's Buick. If we are lucky, by the time we are in college, we'll finally start sexualization--many of us have even longer to wait. Add to that overcoming the societal stigmas of being gay and, by the time we actually realize there is a community, we are too jaded to actually participate in it and contribute to it.
Gay men are more likely to attempt suicide than straight men. I know of two who have succeeded. I know of two who have failed--one of those is me.
I don't think I'll ever try it again. I don't think I'll ever feel that kind of despair again. Even though most of the gay guys I meet are insipid and vain, I don't think I'll ever quit looking for 'the right one'. Maybe, I'll even come to place where I can reconcile the dichotomies of anonymity/recognizability and lust/love that are inherent in the gay community. Right now, I don't have the solutions for these heady struggles which have claimed the lives of so many of us, but I hope I can, at least, open a dialogue so that we may one day save ourselves.


Developing Arrests

Last night I went over to Matt's for the season premiere of Arrested Development and both of us were pleased with the opener. Lucille, Buster, Michael, GOB, Lindsay, and the gang delighted us with their silly antics. My favorite line had something to do with a "dusty old claptrap." Seaward, indeed.
Here's some more pop-culture-y stuff of which I was recently made aware.
Mirrormask - Neil Gaiman and Dave McKean have teamed up to bring us this fairy tale, and guys, it looks beautiful. If you're not familiar with Dave, he's created some of the most visually arresting images of the last ten (or so) years. He's done CD covers for the likes of Tori Amos, Alice Cooper, and the Counting Crows. And as for his cohort in creating this film, if you don't know Neil Gaiman, then, well, I probably don't want to know you. I'll take the time, however, to inform you. Neil is responsible for the comic Sandman and a plethora of inventive, unique fantasy novels. His short stories are, in my opinion, some of the cleverest ever written (see: Bay Wolf, BeoWulf meets BayWatch). Anyway, for your daily dose of eye candy, I recommend checking out the trailer. Gorgeous, huh? And it's coming out Sept. 30th. I've said it before, and I'll say it again, "Where the hell have I been?"
Tonight: New episode of Gilmore Girls!!! Yippie! Will Lorelai and Rory finally talk? Or will the wall of isolation continue to separate them? Will Paris call and annoy Lorelai? Will Luke get his hair color back to normal?
I love fall--now if only we could drop this upper 60's crap and get some mizzle going. [Ed note: For those not located in the Pacific Northwest, mizzle is the combination mist and drizzle for which the region is known.]



Weekend Recap:
Friday. Went on third worst date ever. Upon returning from the restroom, my suitor asked me if I wanted to "bust a nut all over his face." Guh-ross.
Saturday. Caught up with Netflix movies.
Sunday. Brunch at the Wild Mountain Cafe with Geoff. Hellbent later that evening with Bill, Geoff, Cameron, and Cameron's sister Ashley. Then the Cuff with Bill, and finally Re-Bar.

First I'll give you my review of Hellbent. My expectations were low. Said expectations were met. There were also a couple clever constructs--like a glass eye. All in all, there wasn't enough boy-on-boy action although there was plenty of flesh. The gore was pretty good and the scares were non-existent. This is the longest review that a film of this caliber warrants.

Now, about the date.
So I'm not really one to shy away from meeting someone new. I always say that everyone has a story to tell. Generally, stories interest me even if they are poorly told. The date didn't have any stories. Fortunately, he had a love for Buffy, and that was enough to sustain our conversation from bar to burrito shop. Then we parted ways. Even though he did ask me if I wanted to have sex with him. And even though he did ask me if I wanted to bust a nut all over his face, he wasn't really that bad of a guy. Just a little young. Just a little lonely. Just a little socially awkward. I (obviously) won't call him back. I won't respond to his emails, and it makes me feel a little guilty. Not that guilty, though. He did say, "bust a nut all over my face."


Tomorrow cancelled due to lack of interest

We all know that Seattle is a city that loves its arts. Especially its contemporary arts. We've got Roq la Rue and BlueBottle, the Henry and the Frye, Bumbershoot and the Decibel Festival. In fact, Dave Eggers was surprised with our fair city's ability to quickly raise capital for something as nebulous as a center for creative writing.
Here's what I don't get, though. With all of our resources and apparent willingness to support the arts, why are arts organizations failing? Why is something like ResFest not making a stop in Seattle this year? Three years ago, ResFest was at the Cinerama. This year, I'll have to travel to Vancouver to see any of it.
911 Media Arts, COCA, and ConWorks are all having a rough time of it. ACT Theatre seems to have been temporarily rescued. So basically, these larger structures are easier to support (ACT, the Henry, the Frye, et al.). They get more funding and have higher profiles, and here's the part that blows my mind--the boards of directors have totally stepped away from what their members want and, in an effort to save money, have fired Executive Directors and founders. What is this doing? Its alienating the members even further. It is frustrating to the employees who remain. It makes the board look like a bunch of jackasses (which they are).
I know I should be more concerned with the horrific tragedies which are taking place around the world, but sometimes those things make me want to stay in bed. Art makes me want to get up, get out, and do something. I'm not sure who said that we will be saved by our cultural imagination, but when I first heard it, I realized it was a precept to which I already subscribed.
Hopefully the politics and the structures in which these organizations operate can be changed. I don't know if I've told you to before, but become a member. Donate. Vote.


Seedy does it

Saturday night, Bill invited me to tag along to an art opening. Normally, I enjoy art, but gallery spaces can seem so uptight that I generally pass. This opening was different--it was at the new clothing store in Ballard, Twenty/Twenty. The artwork was great and graphic-y (just the way I like it). To repay Bill for his kindness in including me, I decide to take him to the dive-iest bar I know. (Actually, Bill requested the dive-iest bar I know).
That, my friends, would be the
Golden City. The first time I went to the Golden City, I was treated to a stabbing. This alone does not make the Golden City the dive-iest. It merely puts it in the company with the pre-hipster days Crescent. One time Maggie and some of her Elliot Bay cohorts had the same request as Bill. Dive-bar. Ballard. Go. As we arrived, an altercation between two drunken men was taking place outside the bar. The gang opted for the second seediest dive bar. Ah well, their loss.
Luckily, the bar lived up to the reputation on Saturday. Neither Bill nor myself were disappointed. The nicotine stained painting of a riverboat, replete with the Negroes playing the banjo, welcomed us. The bartendress was aged beyond her years from hard-living. An old man sat at a stool on one side of the bar. A middle aged woman at the other. His glasses were thick and rimmed with square black plastic. Her discman provided her with tunes (thankfully) inaudible to the rest of the bar. Both were well into their cups.
Bill and I ordered and grabbed a seat. We each chose songs for the jukebox. When Blue Oyster Cult's "Don't Fear the Reaper" came on, the woman at the bar ripped her headphones off and lazily exclaimed, "I love this fuckin' song!"
And she did, too. She gyrated and sang-along--when she remembered what she was doing.
She gyrated all the way to the old man who told her to, "Keep [her] filthy fuckin' harlot hands off of [him]." She was dejected then ejected. She tried to run back in, but the bartendress kept her at bay.
The next colorful character was a man selling steak and cheese from his backpack. Had I known that he had a block of Tillamook, I gladly would have purchased it from him. As it stood, the bartendress got to the booty well before me. Everyone passed on the steak, though. There;s just something a little oogy about purchasing beef out from someone's backpack.
The final person to grace us with his presence was an artist. A real live artist!! He was a poet, too. Well, more of a rapper. He had this Eminem schtick down. He regaled us with not one, not two, but three different poems. Each misogynistic and bigoted in its own unique way. He, apparently, was on drugs. ("My toxicology report would look like a phone book," he said multiple times.)
But that was about all I could take. Dive right in, everyone, the bar is fine.

Kiss kiss, bang bang

You're a Freaky Kisser

When you kiss, you want to experience something new
A new technique, a new partner, a new piercing...
And your own personal kissing style is very unpredictable
There's no saying where your tongue or hands will go
So I guess its your turn now . . . tell me your results, bitches.


Evacuee vs. Refugee

I meant to post on this yesterday, but I'm glad I didn't. At the end of NBC's newscast yesterday, Brian Williams mentioned that they would be referring to the people left devastated and homeless after hurricane Katrina as "survivors" or "evacuees" rather than "refugees." Article here. Apparently, some people wrote in bothered by the word refugee.
Fuck Jesse Jackson and his belief that the word refugee has race implications!!
And fuck those right-wing, kumbayah singing, we're-all-gonna-make-it-through-this douche bags!
Oh my god, did I just say that?
Here's what I'm talking about.
From Dicitonary.com
evacuee - A person evacuated from a dangerous area.

refugee - One who flees in search of refuge, as in times of war, political oppression, or religious persecution.

Now let's look at the verbs on which these nouns are based.

refuge -
Protection or shelter, as from danger or hardship.
A place providing protection or shelter.
A source of help, relief, or comfort in times of trouble.

evacuate -
To withdraw from or vacate a place or area, especially as a protective measure.
To excrete waste matter from the body.

Sorry for that second definition of evacuate, but I can't resist
referencing poop.
Anyway, I know that those people are thinking, We don't have refugees in our country! Refugees are those poor people we don't care about in Africa.
Well, guess what? We do have refugees. Perhaps if there had been more preventitive measures taken, and these people weren't surrounded by death and disease for over five days, we would merely have evacuees. The government fucked up. Across the board--fucked up. And, unlike Harry S. Truman, Bush's buck starts at the President's desk and gets passed to just about everyone. I see the change in words as a way in which these blind people are continuing to pass the buck and lessen the severity of the disaster. And the fact that the "liberal media" kowtows to these cross-huggin', bigoted fuck-ups only exacerbates the matter (and validates their screwed up beliefs).
We have refugees. We are not above having refugees. We need to focus on providing refuge.

In other news, Arnold has decided to veto the CA gay marriage bill. Woohoo! One small step (backwards) for mankind! I could go on about the
principles of equality and our founding fathers' belief in a secualr government, but I'm sure other people have already done a better job than me. So I just want to say "Fuck you" to people like BoiFromTroy (Sept. 7th entry) and other self-hating queers that actually believe they can have a voice in a party whose constituents wish they didn't exist.
So, "Fuck you!"

And, you, gentle reader, thanks for listening to me bitch.


Sunday is church

I've been itching to shake my ass for a few weeks now, and although I have attended two noteworthy shows (GusGus, Richie Hawtin), neither compares to the joy that is Flammable.

I didn't get off work until midnight on Sunday (Monday morning), but as a I drove up, the kick drum summoned me through the door. Matty, Dominique, David, and Jared were outside each sweaty from dancing and genrous with hugs.

The selections weren't the tightest, and Wesley was so blotto that Papa spun a few. For some reason, it didn't matter. The place was packed and after downing a couple of drinks, I was out on the floor. Moments later, I found Bill and the two of us tore up that old dancefloor.

Its really hard to describe how house music can change your mood. How it is much more than the kick drum and hi-hat. How dancing brings you closer to people and to community. Its hard to describe those things to someone who doesn't know it. So, I hope you come out sometime and experience it. I don't don't go to church as often as I should, but when I do, I gotta thank God for the music.