Sit On My Face And Tell Me That You Love Me

The following is a sad, but true, Friday afternoon, email conversation between me and my friend:

Friend: Look what I found today on gay.com:

man just looking to get rimmed and orally serviced tonight (I have a rim seat). No reciprocation...I only host...44 years old...white, 6-2, 275-pound long time lifter here in Delco (nearPhilly airport).Mmmmmmmm dare to dream.

Me: I feel like someone owes me an explanation about why that would be appealing to anyone's sensibilities. But, alas, I think no one has the answer. It's like trying to describe the color of the wind, or what God tastes like.

Friend: I asked what a rim seat was. He said:

Powerman***: a rim seat:
powerman***: is a toilet seat with short legs
powerman***: I sit on it with you under it face up...you get deep tounge [sic.] action into my muscle hole.

Mmmm….tastes like God!

Me: I knew I could count on you for investigation purposes! Thanks for guaranteeing that I never have an erection again.

Friend: I wrote:

friend: ahahahahahahahhahahaha
friend: no, no really, that sounds really nice...
friend: for me to POOP on!
friend: ahaha, I kid! I kidd....

Me: I would laugh at that if I were able to still feel emotions. So, are you meeting up with him tonight?

Friend: Well, it's more of a rendezvous. I think meeting sounds so business-like. What we have is romance.

Me: Jealous doesn't begin to describe how I feel. I wish I could be there to let you know if you have something on your face or in your teeth, like after lunch.

Friend: *retch*

Me: Ditto. Bye.

Who says this isn't the classiest, most insightful blog around?

And with that, Happy Weekend! Is it happy hour yet?

You Asked...I Answered!

Today readers, it’s all about you! As the moderator of a very, very popular blog, you can only imagine the number of questions I get from people. Let me take this opportunity to answer what’s been weighing on some of your minds.

What’s your favorite thing about today in relation to history?

Good question. My favorite thing about today is that it is the one year anniversary of my completion of the bar exam. If you took a time machine backwards exactly one year to visit me, you would probably find me huddled in the fetal position in a corner eating my hair. Other things I love about today in history: In 1896, the city of Miami, FL, was incorporated and in 1994 Kenny Rogers (Texas Rangers) pitched the 14th perfect game in major league baseball history. So talented! And you thought he was just the Gambler!

What are your favorite and least favorite things about Mississippi?

Hmm, favorite? Obviously, H. T. Merrill of Iuka, Mississippi flew the first round-trip transoceanic flight in 1928. The flight to England was made in a plane loaded with ping-pong balls, which makes it pretty awesome.

My least favorite (besides Trent Lott) would have to be that every commercial airliner has at least one hydraulic component manufactured by Vickers in Jackson, Mississippi. Sorry, I am just a control freak.

Why does the United States have such a corrupt government?

Good question. I, personally, would never trust a President who calls his most trusted aide, Turd Blossom. But it turns out that the Untied States is only the 112th most corrupt nation in the world. This is according to a study that included perceptions of the degree of corruption as seen by business people, academics and risk analysts, and ranges between 0 (highly clean) and 10 (highly corrupt). Includes police corruption, business corruption, political corruption, etc. for the year 2003.

Maybe you should do more research next time, rather that blindly throwing stones at our sturdy pillars of public service. Also, stop watching the news. What you need to do now is wrap your self in an American flag, put on a pair of cowboy boots and nail a copy of the 10 Commandments to your front door. And start praying that you never have to live in Nigeria or Bangladesh. Next!

What is your guilty pleasure television show that you don’t feel guilty about watching even though it’s about Canadian teenagers?

That’s an easy one. It’s obviously DeGrassi Junior High: The Next Generation. This show is awesome for so many reasons. First of all, it’s a lot of ugly Canadian kids that drink, get depressed, and have sex with each other all the time. But unlike, in America, the Canadian kids actually have to deal with the consequences of their actions. For example, the goody-two-shoes of the show, Emma, just got gonorrhea of the throat a couple weeks ago. Now everyone thinks she's a ho. Which? She is. One of the guys on the show had a bi-polar melt down and trashed a hotel room after his 10th grade girlfriend turned down his proposal while they were dancing at her dad’s gay marriage ceremony! Read that sentence again slowly and let it all sink in. The same guy who had a meltdown got a cheerleader pregnant last year, and she had to have an abortion. What the hell is an abortion?!

The real best part of the show is that they have to edit the Canadian version to make it safe for American television and its puritanical viewers. The New York Times even did a super secret expose on this controversy. It makes sense since most Americans don’t know much about erections or abortions, and both will likely be illegal soon anyway. DeGrassi: It goes there.

What is the heat index anyway?

The heatwave has broken in the Illadelph. It was lovely to enter the office this morning and not be absolutely soaking wet. It does not help that the weather has been so humid, in addition to being so fucking hot. As a coal-cracker from up north, this is not the kind of weather my people were built for. According to the heat index, it was reaching temperature of near 110 degrees here. Hey, wait. What the hell is a heat index? Slate.com says:

The heat index tells you how hot it feels at a given humidity. Moist air feels hotter than dry air because it makes sweating less efficient. On a hot, dry day, your sweat will evaporate quickly and cool your skin; under humid conditions, sweat evaporates more slowly and doesn't do as much. Just as the wind chill attempts to measure how cold it feels under certain wind conditions, the heat index tries to measure how hot it feels given the humidity.

Basically, this is why Philadelphia feels like hell during the summer. And this is why I don’t have a valid reason to punch people in the mouth next time they say, “It’s hot, but it’s ok because it’s a dry heat.”

Just kidding. I will still punch them. Hard. Hot is hot, y'all.

Duh. Don’t say I never teach you anything. Please send me any and all of your questions via comments or email (zachary.wilcha@gmail.com). I will answer.

Also, today was the last day for the summer intern in our office, sadly. Like any good intern worth her weight in blue dresses, her name is Monica. She will be missed for many reasons, including, but certainly not limited to the fact that I will have to start doing the work that she was doing as an ardent overachiever. Since I am decidedly rarely eager to do any more work than is asked of me, her presence will be missed. Also, she was very cheery and would stop me from choking people by their necks. A bientot, Monique!

Hot Child In The City

Sorry, I didn’t post yesterday. I heard from several displeased readers. If you must know, I was busy trying to build a fan for my office, MacGyver-style out of 3 tampons, a curling iron and a pogo ball. You don’t even want to know why I had all of those items. Anyhow, I’m now back to wasting your time and curbing your productivity. Onward, you impatient, petulant bitches! (Kidding! I love the attention.)

So, the death parade in my family marches on intrepidly to the pearly gates. I should warn you before you feel too bad for me that this time is not nearly as sad as when my grandmother died. My dad’s uncle passed away last weekend. My brother called me on Saturday morning before noon, breaking a cardinal family rule. I answered the phone, saying, “Did you forget how to tell time?” He replied, “No, Uncle Harold died.” “Of what?” “I don’t know, I’m going back to bed.” “OK, later.”

I later found out that Harold had some sort of aneurysm and had died of stomach complications during the night. He treated my dad like a son because he had estranged relations with his own two sons. You see, on the way to my parents ill-fated wedding, he, his wife Rita, and his two sons were in a horrible car accident. The accident rendered Aunt Rita unable to speak and mentally incompetent, and Harold took great care of her ever since.

The fallout resulted in tearing his family apart, and he ended up kicking his two sons out of his house. One of the sons, Mark, stayed in touch with my dad, and the other has been missing ever since. Mark spoke to his mom for the first time when he flew home for his father’s funeral. Weird and sad. Also, for those of you keeping track, they told my mom right before she walked down the aisle at her wedding that Harold’s family was all probably dead. Here comes the bride!

The funeral was this week, and I didn’t get to go to it. My Dad went and told Mark that I would help him take care of any legal matters since Harold did not leave a will. (Please have a will, people, for the sake of everyone.) My Dad loves to promise that I will do things for people, especially when I am unable to do them. Never mind the fact, that I am not at all qualified to help Mark do this, but it’s also probably illegal for me to try and practice New York law, which is where I think the will would have been made. Mark called me today, and I will call him back later to have the awkward conversation. God, lawyers are all such assholes!

Anyway, on a less sad note, one thing that I loved about Harold is that for most holidays, he would send money to my father to give to the kids. He would send $40, and designate $10 for my brother, $10 for my sister and $20 for me. No one knows why he sent me more money than the others, no one really talked about it, save for my bragging. But he did it, which leads me to believe that he died with killer instincts and great taste. R.I.P.

Ok, enough heavy shit…How about some unrelated topics for filler today?

So, it’s totally hot outside. I don’t know if you guys got the memo, but there are record-breaking high temperatures in Philadelphia. I feel like I am going to pass out every time I walk outside. It makes me very cranky. I kicked a homeless person today on my lunch break and THAT didn’t even make me feel better. I need some relief soon, or dog only knows what I will do.

Have you ever walked out of your apartment on the way to the gym and forgot that you didn’t put your shorts on and were standing outside in your hallway in just your boxer briefs? No? In that case, me neither.

My new summer guilty pleasure? Big Brother. I can’t stop watching it or reading about it online. My new summer reality tv boyfriend is Kaysar, an Iraqi national who brings a brooding hotness and strategic intelligence to my television screen 3 nights a week. He's hot. Whatever, don’t judge me.

Remember that time you went to the mall when you were home from college one summer, specifically to harass Jodie Sweetin from television’s Full House? Remember when you screamed asking her if she ever did doggy with Comet? Oh, that wasn’t you; that was me. Well, if you’re jealous and want to simulate the experience, go here, the One Stop Jodie Shop. As my friend MC, says, “Yes, it's the Web's premier Jodie Leanne Sweetin site. TV's "Full House"'s Stephanie Tanner gets the royal treatment here, with photos, sounds, live chat and, our favorite, a list of all the Stephanie books from the "Full House" books series! Titles include Hip Hop Till You Drop, The Dude of My Dreams and the extra creepy Daddy's Little Girl. Oh, and don't forget about Never Trust a Flamingo, in which Uncle Jesse drinks some punch spiked by a costumed Kimmy Gibler.” Delightful!

One of my friends was on the Howard Stern Show this morning competing to become his “hottest, most knowledgable” listener. Or something. She didn’t win, but she should have. And now, I know a celebrity.

They are rerunning the second season of Arrested Development this summer on FOX, starting this Friday at 8:00. It’s the funniest shit ever. Don’t believe me? See below, thanks.

I think I may walk home from work naked. Say something nice soon!

Baby, You Can Drive My Car (Beep Beep, Beep Beep, Yeah!)

Judge Fabulous is back in da house. She rolled up to the CJC in her Benzo, all dope and fly. I was waiting outside in the rain, as her valet, courier and concierge all rolled into one skinny nerd. The bad news is that now I will have to shoulder the expectations of being on time for work and not falling asleep at my desk. But the upside is that I get to wear business suits again, you know, the kind that makes the fellas want to be me and the ladies want to do me. Though, I would ostensibly prefer the opposite.

I finished writing an opinion for the Judge, and then I was kind of expecting to coast for the remainder of the day. Then all of a sudden, my phone rang. It was the special line that never rings. It was the Judge’s personal line, our equivalent of the Bat-phone.

I answered with trepidation. Could my opinion have been that bad? It could have been, but that’s not what she wanted. She said, “I have an emergency errand, please come to the courtroom, and bring an envelope.” I figured unless she was going to try to kill me with papercuts, I should be ok.

I arrived in the robbing room and gave her the envelope. Inside it she placed a slip of paper, taped it shut several times and in large letters scribed on the back of it: PERSONAL AND CONFIDENTIAL. I wonder if she didn’t want me to see what was in the envelope. She wrote an address on it, and asked me to take the envelope to said address and pick up an envelope in return. Quid pro quo (sorry, I feel like I should be using my Juris Doctor at some point). I was now in an episode of 24, and I was ok with that.

I told her I would walk where she wanted, and she said, “No, take the car.” Fear. Dread. I said, “No thanks, I should walk. It’s a beautiful day.”

“No, you’re taking the car. And you’ll be careful with it.”

The Judge’s car, from what I understand is beautiful and expensive. I don’t know anything about cars. I couldn’t care less about them, as long as they get me from here to there. I have no clue want kind of Mercedes it is, but I know it’s big and black and worth more than my entire life, if one can even quantify such a thing. My roots are far too white-trash to deserve to drive this thing. I was already running through the myriad nightmare scenarios that could occur while I was in charge of the vehicle. At my new job, after I got fired for crashing the car, I would have to put away a certain amount of money per week, so that I could afford to repair it.

“Are you familiar with hazard lights?” she asked. I replied affirmatively and promised to use them when the clandestine envelopes were exchanged outside of the assigned building. Didactic, but forgivable since I look rather inept sometimes.

With resignation, I approached the car. Its headlights stared deep into my eyes and let me know without beeping a word that I was destined to meet my downfall at its wheels. I got in the car, grabbed both hands with the steering wheel (where they would both stay the entire drive) and blinked for the last time for the amount of time it takes to drive 15 city blocks.

I am not a bad driver, but I never realized how crazy I was with my car until I was driving the most expensive car I had ever entered. I drive a Ford Focus, which is known primarily for being the official car of American Idol. Yes, I know. You don’t need to say a word. At one intersection, I almost hit a homeless man with the car, and couldn’t help but imagine the headlines in the Inquirer the next day, “Incompetent Clerk Bowls Over Homeless Angel in Judge’s Deathmobile.” I giggled a little, because, well, you can’t have vehicular manslaughter without the laughter. Think about it.

I arrived at the appointed location and parked the car with its hazard lights on, as instructed. Only one problem: there was no such building with the address on the envelope. I started to sweat more, which I thought was impossible. There was supposed to be someone waiting on the street for me to arrive; he was nowhere to be found. Basically, it was going precisely the way I would have predicted.

I found the building with a placard that matched the secret name on the envelope. I rang the doorbell and the dumbest man in America opened the door. “Hi, I am here to exchange envelopes.” Him: blank stare. Minute passes. Sigh. “Uh, come in.” When he went to fetch his instructions from a higher power (his boss, God, whomever, etc.) I looked out at the judge’s car.

Then I screamed. Literally. There was a moving van trying to get around the car, and someone was trying to direct the crazy man behind the steering wheel. One of them screamed, “Is this your car.” I whimpered, “Yes! I mean, No! I mean, I am in charge of it, so I guess it’s kind of mine right now, but I don’t actually own it. The registration is not technically in my name, but I can move it if you want, in fact, I should, let me move it, I can do it right now.” The man said, “No, it’s cool we got it under control.”

Part of me was thinking about hopping in front of the truck, Tiananmen Square style, and stopping the foreboding injustice, but the other part of me was wondering how I would pay the dry cleaner to remove the shit stains from my pants after I was fired from my job. The truck got by. Breathe. The man said to me, “Yo, nice car. You mean someone let’s YOU drive around in this shit all day.” I said, “No. It’s not like that at all.” He said, “Some brothers have all the luck.” Readers note: he was not my actual brother, and we were both white as a ghost. I was probably actually a little green at that point, to tell you the truth.

I drove back and parked the car in its happy spot, a bit shaken, but not stirred. I handed the keys back to the judge with the envelope (which contained glasses…glasses!).

Even though it’s one million degrees outside, I will be happy, for just this once, to walk home free of the tyranny of driving a fancy, expensive car.

Dianetics, Back Alley Blow Jobs and Luther Vandross

Yesterday on the street, I was accosted by a man handing out Scientology paraphernalia and wearing a shirt that said “Dianetics: Read It!” And of course, by “accosted,” I mean, I ran up to him and asked him for information. Everyone who walked past him flashed him a dirty look or offered him a derisive laugh, so I think he was really psyched that I was paying attention to him. Little did he know that I am just a sick guy who loves a good cult. He was handing out pamphlets inviting unsuspecting, spiritually poor and disaffected people to come to a free screening of “Orientation,” a L. Ron Hubbard film at your closest Church of Scientology.

The movie “answers your questions about Scientology. You’ll find out what Scientology can do for you and how to take your next step.”

Hey, I need to take a next step! I know that Scientology is a huge pyramid scheme/possible sex cult, in which you have to pay tons of money to gain higher levels of enlightenment, but I want to go see this movie so I can tell everyone about it. Maybe I could even meet Xenu or Tom Cruise! Please let me know, dear reader, if you’re interested in being my very special date to a very special cult indoctrination. It will be all kinds of very special. My only fear going into this is that they might tie me down and do naughty things to me. Normally I wouldn’t mind this, but I know how their “church” feels about the love that dare not speak its name. So, I probably wouldn’t be invited to your average Scientologist’s breakfast table. But that’s fine, since I probably wouldn’t want to eat their sausage anyway.

Today in craigslist fun, someone makes the mistake of picking a whore with an active gag reflex. If only there were only a way to tell before she pukes on your junk. I think we’ve all been here:

You were the drunk girl in the Alley torn jeans and a lime green top. Real pretty. You asked me if you gave me a bj would I give you some money. You then threw up on my penis and I smacked you in the face, and spit in your hair. Wanted to say sorry about that, and see if your up for going out this weekend.

The fact that this man believes in second chances makes me forgive him for the fact that is grammar makes me sic. (Ha. Latin editorial jokes rule!) Like my mom never used to say: always be prepared to get thrown up on when being fellated in a dark alley by someone in torn jeans.

I woke up at 2:00 am, and I couldn’t fall back to sleep for a couple hours. I think I was still drunk from a happy hour that turned into 4 hours that I went to after work. So, of course, I walked downstairs in my undies and finished the half-eaten burrito that was on my coffee table. I was the very picture of refinement and panache. It’s probably moments like these when people with more self-awareness realize that they have hit rock bottom. I put on the television and saw some amazing things; it’s been a while since I have been conscious that late on a weeknight (which also makes me a total loser).

First, I watched an entire infomercial concerning the 144 Greatest R&B ballads of all time. I want it more than anything. It’s a 10 CD set of all songs by really old, black people. I estimate that a healthy 14% of the songs are by Luther Vandross and/or Marvin Gaye. This infomercial had actual testimonials from real-life, fat African American couples that this music collection brought sexual spice back into their relationships. If Patti LaBelle songs can do this for these people, then I think we should be sending Anita Baker and Peabo Bryson to Iraq to grapple with peace in the Middle East. Also, I like to think that if Barry White were alive, President Bush would have appointed him to the Supreme Court this week. Can you imagine how great the confirmation hearings were if Barry were there to lull us into a sex coma with his deep, dulcet tones. Damn.

Next, I watched my favorite news show of all time, World News Now. This is a news show in which ABC hires people who have flunked out of journalism school, takes away their Ritalin and Prozac and lets them talk about anything they want. Because its on so late and their target demographic is insomniacs, serial killers and their overlap, they just sort of sit around and laugh at serious news stories and each other. They always hire a gay-vague, attractive, snarky guy to make fun of a really pretty girl, and both of them are the anchors. Anderson Cooper used to be one of the anchors, for example. Ron Corning is my new network news boyfriend. No one cares. One of their weather reports I watched when I was in college said, “Aurora, Illinois: Excellent!”

If you don’t get the brilliance of that joke, you are either too young or too old for me to bother with you. Stop reading this and immediately rent Wayne’s World. Anyway, my point is, every Thursday, the show ends the week with the World News Now polka. Somehow the Pulitzer and Peabody committees have failed to take notice of this zenith of journalistic integrity. For your sake, please don’t be as flippant about this oversight as they are.

If I told you that I called a radio station and dedicated “Everybody’s Working For The Weekend,” by Loverboy, it would be unfair. It would imply that I have been working.

More Roberts Communication

This time a text message conversation with GA:

[in response to the last post]
GA: In some pics, the Nominee looks like Steve Carrell.
Z: Good Call! I think I would do him.
GA: Way to whore out your beliefs for a hotty. This is why we're friends.
Z: 100% You know you love him, too.
GA: I love anyone who has the ability to ruin my life.
Z: Be careful. If he gets you pregnant, you'll stay that way.

More uber-intellectual banter to come...

Reparative Therapy and Justice For All

When there’s a new Supreme Court nominee on tap, and you need some 411 on the man, who ya gonna call? Me. Last night, I felt like a member of the media elite, as several characters in the story of my life gave me a ring to see how I felt about the latest potential Supreme. My favorite call of the day, and maybe the week so far, would have to be from my younger brother. He is a 24 year-old, civil engineer who possesses in construction and spacial relations knowledge (much) what he lacks in eighth grade civics know-how. Hey, whatever, my dad describes him as his “employable son,” and Checks and Balances are SO 1990’s. Says Roberts about your fetus: "We continue to believe that Roe was wrongly decided and should be overruled." Sah-weet!

So anyway, my brother NW, found out some disturbing things yesterday. To wit:

[ring ring]
Z: Yo.
N: So wait a second, the President just like gets to appoint a dude to the Court.
Z: Yeah, but it has to be confirmed by the Senate.
N: But he just gets to, like, pick anyone he wants? That’s insane.
Z: Kind of. But the nominee still has to be confirmed.
N: That makes the President way powerful. He could pick anyone!
Z: Well, yeah, but it still has to be confirmed. And I told you all this shit around the election.
N: You’re not going to believe this, but I actually care now. Who’s it going to be?
Z: I don’t know, some woman named Edith? One of two Ediths actually.
N: Weird. Who knew there were two important judges named Edith?
Z: Who knew there were two people in America named Edith?

And so on and so forth. Anyway, none of us should be surprised that Bush went for the “Go For Broke” candidate instead of a more consensus candidate. I won’t harp about it, but of course, I think that the move could be disastrous for constitutional interpretation as we know it. I think he will be confirmed easily in the Senate after a dirty period of media attacks from those self-absorbed liberals. My only solace is that he is remarkably handsome for a scholar of law and looks a lot like Pat Sajak. Or a really Republican John Edwards (remember him?!). Or a guy who rides hookers way hard, talks tons during the sex and leaves lousy tips. Thus concludes my intellectual summary of thoughts on the new Supreme Court Justice. If you would rather read about topic this in cogent form and thoughtful prose by people who know their Substantive Due Process from their elbow, click here or here.

Also, it’s weird how this high-profile, prime time television announcement coincides with a Karl Rove scandal that the administration is trying to bury. That is like, way, Alanis Morrisette ironic.

Salon.com is running a great article about a man who fakes being a homosexual so that he could experience conversion or “reparative” therapy. This, for those of you not in the know, is when you take one gay, add faux-science, fear of God, empty promises or a pinch of shock therapy, to produce one ex-gay. The article begins like this:

Barry Levy, a Christian counselor and licensed clinical social worker, is explaining to me what causes homosexuality. "Take the young boy who is more sensitive, more delicate, who doesn't like rough-and-tumble, who is artistic," he says. "He can't hit the ball, fire the gun or shoot an arrow. There is a high correlation between poor eye-hand coordination and same-sex attraction."

Jigga what?! Now, yes, I was always been more sensitive, delicate and artistic than your average child. But that’s only because I was always way smarter. Not to mention the fact that I was a Cub Scout prodigy with a rifle. For some reason, I have always been an amazing shot, which bothered my troop leaders who would always describe me to my parents as being a “smart ass.” This just goes to show you that I have always been more appreciative of the First Amendment than the Second.

I would beat all the other kids in shooting contests and I liked dudes. Were I not so recalcitrant a youngster, I would have made it all the way to Eagle Scout. (Note: I probably still would beat most people in a shooting contest and I still like dudes.) As for my hand-eye coordination, no one could ever beat me at Mario-related Nintendo games. The article goes on to highlight the serious, harrowing details of the therapy. It’s at once hysterical, sad and frightening.

No, I haven’t read the new Harry Potter book yet, but I understand it’s about a half-blood mulatto or something? Please don’t ruin the plot for me, thanks!

Forget It, Jake. It's Chinatown.

One of the many joys of working where I do is that my building is located right near Philadelphia’s version of Chinatown. This is a magical land where one can procure all the chicken and rice that one can fit in one’s pretty mouth and only need $4.25 from one’s wallet. (plus tip! Don't be a Rachel Ray!) Cheap, sure, but a prize so great (and tasty!) certainly almost always comes at a higher price than the menu could possibly explain.

The place where I ate today is a hole in the wall across from the place where I usually eat. It’s so authentically hardcore Chinese that they don’t even advertise the name of the restaurant on the outside of the building in English. Represent! Once I stepped inside, I realized to my chagrin that there were no empty tables available. I was ready to leave and exercise the option to solicit any of the 50 other Chinese palaces (some of them actually named Palace) that were at the tip of my fingers, but before I could go a demure elf of a woman with demonic eyes grabbed my arm, pointed at a table and yelled, “You go there!” She pointed to a large, circular table where a woman was already seated; the strength of her grip on my arm let me know that not only was it perfectly acceptable for me to sit there, but that my choice in the matter had expired once she grabbed me.

I sat down compliantly and politely smiled at the woman across from me. She did not reciprocate; in fact, she looked right through me as if I weren’t even there. I picked up my book and started to read it, and she banged her fist on the table, picked up her cell phone and called someone. Normally I love to listen to people speaking Chinese. It’s a very sing-songy language in which tonal change denotes completely different meanings of words. That fascinates me, although I have no desire to ever learn a language with a different alphabet.

ANYWAY, I am not sure if there is a Chinese Mafia in Philadelphia (I hope there is.), but if there is, this is the place where they eat. I was the only cracker in the place, and everyone else was Chinese and very, very serious. I feel like everyone there knew one another since people were screaming from table to table with reckless abandon. It could be that everyone was friends, but my life and story and much more exciting if I entertain the possibility that there is mafia-talk occurring in my presence in a language I don’t even understand. Simply chilling.

A man who was slurping his soup with the ferocity of a two-dollar whore in a fastest blow-job contest picked his head up for a moment to belch and then screamed something in Chinese. Whatever he screamed must have been hi-larious, as the whole restaurant, save for the honky with his fancy book, erupted into the kind of laughter usually reserved for Carrot Top specials. Another woman sat at my table, and she must have known the woman who was already seated there. She gave me a derisive look and then a quick smile. I imagine she was initially pissed that someone was sitting with her and her friends and then realized that the idiot with them would have frickin’ idea about anything they conversed about. She probably thought, “I bet this jackass actually uses forks.” (I do.)

My food came, but not as quickly as the food came for these two women. They had the table manners of a Fat Camp refugee. They both chewed with their mouths open, maybe my biggest pet peeve. I am not being exclusively culturally insensitive either. I have dear friends, whom I love very much, that are so polite in every day life, but once you sit them down to eat, they chew like cows. Why is that? WHY?! And don’t get me started on how I used to insist on sitting at a different table than my dad when we ate together. I was a charming kid.

One woman was actually chewing her soup, which until today I thought was impossible, or at least an exercise in futility. It still may be the latter, as I did not discuss eating strategy with the woman.

The other woman had some kind of crab and vegetable dish. And here’s where I almost lost my lunch. She would put a crab leg in her mouth, chew it as hard and fast as she could, and then stick chop sticks in her mouth to retrieve the pieces of shell. She collected the crab shrapnel on her plate, where it would stay until she picked up each piece at the end of her meal and sucked the remnants of meat from each piece. This woman was vicious. She had hustle. She was indefatigable. I was scared to death.

I ate my meal as best I could, paid the de minimus tab and bolted. Everyone looked at me when I left. It was so uncomfortable, but I will definitely return to eat there again. Because, let’s not kid ourselves, I would eat at a table with Charles Manson to get a full meal for $4.25.

On the way out of the restaurant, a man in a flash fusion concert series T-shirt ran up to me, and the following conversation, if you can call it that, transpired. If you and a friend are acting it out as a play, please read the Man on the Street part as loudly as possible. To say he was enthusiastic would be an understatement.

MoS: Do you love hip hop?
Z: It’s ok.
MoS: Do you LOVE Fat Joe?
Z: No.
MoS: Do you want to see Fat Joe in concert?
Z: …
MoS: Lean Back! Lean Back! What?!
Z: Not really.
MoS: Well, here’s 2 free tickies to the FREE Fat Joe concert.
Z: Thank you, sir.

[MoS runs away to assault a woman who claims to speak no English. Z enviously wishes he employed similar technique. Z takes deep breath, walks away.]

And.....scene.

Apparently, there is a free Fat Joe concert to which I have 2 free tickets. The venue is a secret until Wednesday when it will be posted online, and I have the secret password to decipher the hidden location. I don’t even care enough to figure it out. And I hate fat people, duh. So, if anyone wants these “tickies,” please be in touch. My IM screen name is in my profile.

Today’s events all lead me to one important question: If I love Asian people so much and I hate fat people so much, how does my heart really feel about Sumo wrestlers?

I am so fucking Zen right now. Peace.

I Yell Like This Because I Love You

My best friend, Craigers, supplied me with interesting information this weekend. Guess who wants you, homos and fruit flies?! (Hint: Not Uncle Sam).

The Tyra Banks Talk Show Wants You...

Are you a woman who’s in love a gay man and want to tell him?

Are you a gay man who has a female friend who is in love with you?

Are you a woman who’s attracted to gay men? Do you try to date gay men despite their attraction to the same sex? Do friends think you’re crazy?

If so, please call *** toll-free at 888-569-*** or e-mail her at ***. [Redacted because I am not here to help you].

That's right, y'all. Tyra(nt) Banks is starting her own talk show, and she needs a panel of crazy fag hags and the flamers they inappropriately love. I kind of want to go on the show, so if anyone is interested in pretending that she lusts after my lithe body, email me, we'll talk. If I get no takers, I am just going to pretend that I am going to be on the show; and be warned: I will talk about it constantly. Two of my high school friends and I convinced our senior year Honors English (Yes, there was a big difference with Honors classes, whatever.) teacher that we were going to be on the Carnie Wilson Show (called Carnie!) so that we could skip a day of school. The made-up topic was "My High School Bully Needs a Makeover." Sadly, the show was cancelled in an untimely fashion, so we were not able to skip school under that brilliant guise. Damn you, Carnie!

Moreover, I am so happy that Miss Tyra's talk show will help reinforce her pre-Copernican notion that the world revolves around her. In many ways, it does. Thus, I curse her singly for her mastery of the ways of the runway and her ability to sass and head-bob her way through the best television show in the history of the medium. I curse her doubly for recording music with little regard for anyone's musical sensibilities or well-being (See "Shake Ya Body," but proceed with caution.) . And I curse her trebly for being so damn fine!

However, after the wonder that is "Being Bobby Brown," I will not rest until Whitney Houston has her own talk show. She will take you behind over there, behind that tree, and work. You. Over.

That's Eccentric, No?

I have had my second pseudo-celebrity sighting (yay alliteration!) in as many weeks in the good old Gayborhood of Philadelphia. And of course, by “Gayborhood”, I mean 4 square blocks with about four bars and tons of tranny hookers. Yesterday, not once, but twice, I saw the runner up from Bravo’s Manhunt, Rob Williams. The show was maybe the worst reality show ever, unless you love closet-case pretty boys with fragile egos and rock hard pecs. Which I do. It could never achieve the pure, unadulterated brilliance of America’s Next Top Model. I walked past him twice at different times on the same block, which makes me think he might have just been loitering for the sake of attention. How transparent can one get! Sadly, I must report that in person he is devastatingly handsome. Thankfully, he stumbled a little bit on a sidewalk crack, which made me feel better about myself.

When I passed him the first time, my stomach actually kind of dropped when I saw his eyes- they're that pretty. I was on the way home from the gym, so I looked rode hard and put to bed wet; I was in no state to talk to someone so beautiful. The second time, I passed him from behind. He stopped to look at posters on a building. I had my chance. I thought about saying hello, but I didn’t want to feed the ego of some reality television star. Also, I probably would have stumbled over my words, which would have made him think that a.) I was “special” or b.) he was so important and good looking that I couldn’t effectively communicate. He would have been correct on both counts. I wonder if he’s my new neighbor. If anyone has the scoop, please elucidate!

Yesterday on my lunch hour, since I had no time or money, I went shopping. I bought a nice summer suit for some upcoming weddings. I was with Chop, and he basically peer pressured me into buying it. It’s light tan with a baby blue shirt underneath. I am still not entirely sure that I can pull it off without looking like Crockett and/or Tubbs, but I am willing to give it a try. I let assclown know that I will be subsidizing payment of the suit by taking away a portion of his wedding gift, since some of my justification for buying it was so that I could look uber-hot for his wedding. Chop assures me that it was a good purchase, and since it pains him to compliment me, I took his sentiment to be sincere. If you come to my apartment, I will try it on for you.

Got a call from an ex last night, CF. He’s all borderline nervous breakdown studying for the bar exam and wanted to let me know he was alive. Duly noted. Also, he wanted to know if I were making any references to him on the blog, since he didn’t interpret the last one as favorable. I assured him that I struggle every day to think about things to write that don’t involve him, but somehow I muddle through. There's a reference for you, C! :) That said, he should do very well on the bar exam; he’s a hard worker.

Hey! Maybe this Karl Rove thing will slowly escalate into a maddening roller coaster of secrets and lies, a tangled web he wove, if you will (And, oh, you will.), rivaling Watergate for inspiring distrust of a corrupt administration and its shady politicking! Eh, or not.

What Americans want in the new Supreme Court Justice picked to replace (the irreplaceable in our hearts) Sandra Dee: a Hispanic woman who wouldn't alter ‘Roe v. Wade.' Are these Baja Fresh-eating, fetus killers the same people who elected George Bush II to the White House twice? Well, America is probably right that appointing a minority woman to a high government post ensures that Liberal views will triumph over all. Right, Condoleeza?

Emmy nominations were unveiled this morning. If Arrested Development doesn’t clean up, y’all crazy.

Finally, it’s been a while since Sandy the Secretary has uttered a gem worthy publication. Today Sandy got a phone call from Judge Fabulous, calling from the distant shores of Italy. She was calling to inquire about a cheap ring that she lost that she believes a cleaning lady stole. (FYI: no one would steal this ring.) She called during her dinner to see if Sandy and I would search her office, moving furniture around, to make sure the world’s tackiest ring wasn’t hidden away. Commenting on the fact that the Judge called during her dinner to demand the ring-hunt:

S: What’s that word that’s like ezentrix?
Z: Eccentric?
S: That’s it. You know how everyone says that the homosexuals are eccentric?
Z: I do now.
S: Well, all the ezentrix people I know are straight.
Z: Eccentric. Do you mean crazy when you say that?
S: Motherfucking crazy. But I bet some gays are ezentrix, too.
Z: I can’t deny that. Eccentric.
S: Shit, I know you can’t. Extenrix?
Z: Eccentric.

And you can’t deny it either. Go Phillies. I will be at the game tonight.

Hunan Relations

The last 2 times I ate Chinese food, the cookies dealt me these fortunes:

*Trust him, but still keep your eyes open.*

*Our first and last love is...self-love.*

Am I so transparent that even cookies know that I am a naive, yet paranoid, chronic masturbator? You don't have to answer that.

Catching Up On Correspondence

Dear Tires Plus:

Hi, it’s me. As I have said before, I admire that you hired a half-deaf midget (little person) to man the front desk of your King of Prussia location. And I don’t even really mind that he addresses me as Cathary and has changed your records to reflect that Cathary is, in fact, my real name. It was rare that my parents even got my name right on the first try, so I respond to just about anything. Just please don’t call me “Late for dinner.” Right? But seriously.

What I do mind, however, is when your midget screams, “Hey Pinky!” into the waiting room to tell me my car is ready, just because I happen to be wearing a pink polo shirt. I prefer Cathary to Pinky, albeit narrowly. Thanks!

Bravely, Z


Dear Dad:

What up, big guy? I understand we have had our disagreements in the past. For example, I prefer the Beatles to the Stones and you prefer me to be celibate while I would rather make out with dudes. We’ve worked through a lot, but there are some things you should know. I don’t agree with you that sterilization is a viable option for ending poverty in Africa, despite your claims otherwise. I never intend to be contrarian, at least not purposefully, but I must dissent from your assessment that the only way to end the war on terror is to drag terrorists’ families into the street and kill them publicly. It’s just messy!

Have you been talking to the guys from tires plus? They call me Pinky, and you call me Pinko. Quelle coincidence!

Also, my hair’s not too long. Thumb rings in and of themselves are not “faggy.” And I don’t go out drinking every night.

Fruit of your loins, Z


Dear Security Guards at the CJC:

Hey fellas. I am hyper-aware that terror is on everyone’s minds these days. How could it not be at the forefront of the mind of every responsible, patriotic American citizen? That’s why I think it was perfectly reasonable to stop me the other morning and ask for 2 forms of identification. A less wary guard would have thought that my building ID would have sufficed. But you, my friends, would put that guard to shame! I also understand that despite the fact that my bag looked fine through the x-ray machine, it was still necessary to go through it and pull out each magazine I was reading and to examine exactly which Tastykake I would ingest as a midday snack. I don’t even mind that you let some of your friends through security without being checked out! Fair’s fair, and it’s all about who you know. Or whom. But let’s not quibble.

I am writing to apologize for looking like I was scowling or pouting throughout the whole ordeal. It may have seemed to you that I was ungrateful toward your efforts to minimize the threat of terrorism in our building. I was actually grimacing because I was thinking about those pussies who contend that privacy rights appear anywhere within the rigid, lifeless parameters of the Constitution. I bet you guys think the same thing on one of the 20 smoke breaks you take every day.

God Bless You and God Bless America, Z


Dear PECO Energy:

Thanks for your help yesterday in my hour of need. You see, I had a power outage yesterday, and I thought it might have been a black out. Were it not for your disconnecting me from your telephone line 5 times, I might not have had the courage to threaten to come to your headquarters and kill the woman who was in charge of connecting me to Emergency Services. I can have such a temper, my bad! In that case, I would have never found out that it was a problem specific to my building and I never would have called maintenance to fix the problem. And then I wouldn’t have had power all night long! My beauty sleep would be disrupted. And so on and so forth.

You see where this is going, right? You helped me come out of my shell. I am empowered, and I haven’t felt this way since watching a Mary Tyler Moore Show marathon on TV Land. (You go, Mary!)

Talk to you very soon, Z

Dear Girl in my Monday Night Gym Class (Front Row, Right):

Stop yelling back everything the instructor says in class. It’s not cute and it’s not motivational. It’s annoying. We are there to focus every once of our attention on the hot instructor, and your yelping takes away from that.

Ok, maybe some people are there for a good work out, but still…shut up!

Nice sneakers though, Z


Dear 7 Foot Tall Transvestite, Possibly Transexual, Hooker Standing at the Corner of 12th and Spruce Last Night:

No.

Keep on keepin’ on, Z

Sometimes Just Looking Sad Will Get You Free Beer

Monday arrived not with a bang, but with a whimper. I woke up having to pee so badly at 6:00 and couldn’t fall back asleep after I threw myself into bed for the second time. I grabbed for my remote control and tried to turn on Sports Center, but the tv wouldn’t turn on. In fact, nothing would turn on because there was a power outage. I lay in bed for a while and strained my eyes, trying to read a magazine in half darkness. I was unable to achieve slumber, but I was still exhausted; the kind of tired that makes your legs sore and makes even deep breaths feel like they’re just not enough. I rose to get ready, and any attempts at hygiene were literally a stab in the dark. I forsook shaving altogether because one scar on my face (above the left eyebrow) is plenty, thanks.

I grabbed a water bottle, an apple and my work bag and headed to Rittenhouse Square to read while the morning rush flew by. I am so rarely up this early, I decided to observe how the more ambitious people start their day. Polo shirts and skirts of every color paraded by me. Once in a while a poor soul would trudge by in a dark suit; these were people whose rigid dress codes or inflexible, personal constitutions did not allow for such summer luxuries. Most people carried Ipods clandestinely in their pockets, their listening given away by the telling wires that hung from their ears. It made me feel bad about my archaic discman that sat compliantly on my lap. And then I felt guilty for feeling bad.

Some hippie-type old man with long gray stringy hair and a too-small pair of purple Umbro’s brought his flute to the park and played. After a horrendous tune up, in which he botched the half steps of each scale (he couldn’t play major or minor well), he serenaded the park with “Hi Ho, Hi Ho, It’s Off to Work We Go.” It was hardly “Morning” by Grieg. It’s a very happy song for such bleak subject matter, and the scornful look of the passersby implicitly said more than any complaint could have.

Some of the benches were beds for the homeless. Most were covered in white sheets that someone must have handed out. The sheets were not quite long enough to keep their dirty socks and baseball cap rims from peering out of each end. Taking the longview of the park, it looked like a makeshift morgue was set up in a garden. It was kind of beautiful in a morbid, sad kind of way. The inner plaza of the park was almost completely shrouded in the shade from the trees. (Someone once told me if you see the park from above, it looks like a little forest in the middle of the city; you wouldn’t even know there were sidewalks or fountains.) The one spot where the hot sun beat down was occupied by 10 girls, each in a different color shirt (What are the odds?) taking turns playing Double Dutch.

KC nearly walked past me before I yelled for her attention. I forgot it was the first time I had seen her since she left for Scotland or I would have hugged her. She was surprised to see me and asked if I were wearing that to work, unaware that I could dress down and take casualness to new levels only dreamed of by slackers everywhere. She assured me, though, that it didn’t look like I got ready in the dark. Even though I did.

I sat and devoured Amsterdam by Ian McEwan, since I finished The Virgin Suicides by Jeffrey Eugenides. It was a good book (no Middlesex), but it was odd to read such light prose about suicide. It was the first time in a while that I allowed myself to think seriously and introspectively about suicide. It made me think specifcally of how after someone very close to me once tried unsuccessfully to commit suicide, I was in charge of removing all the items from the house that could have been used to successfully complete the job. I walked through the person’s house with a box, filling it with medicines, knives, scissors and anything that could have been creatively implemented to act as death-bringing paraphernalia. It was like a shopping spree for pills and sharp objects. I had to actually think to myself, “How would I try to kill myself?” After collecting all I could, I brought the box to my bedroom and secured it under my bed, where I would sleep every night reminded that I had a death kit beneath me. I can still point to the exact spot in my shower where I stared for about an hour after I finished securing the home. When things were better, I was able to place all the items back where they belonged in that house, so this person could again open envelopes without getting a paper cut or relieve a headache by taking 2 Advil instead of 200. It’s interesting to note that unsuccessful suicide attempts can either compound a person’s feeling of ineptitude and failure in life (You couldn’t even succeed at that?) or signal a relief. The fact that this particular suicide attempt’s failure invoked feelings of relief in this person leads me to believe uncharacteristically optimistically that this person never wholeheartedly wanted to succeed at dying in the first place.

Um, anyway, on a lighter note, before I went shopping all day at Franklin Mills with CC and JB, we passed the Wyndham where there was some sort of freak Anime convention where everyone surrounding the building was wearing a bushy tail and ears. We asked the garage attendant what the deal was. Before answering us, she looked over her shoulder as if people were hunting her for her secrets and whispered, “They’re all over the place. These people wear ears and tails all the time. They, like, never take them off. They come from everywhere…Delaware, California, Michigan. They, like, drive for hours and I think they actually think they’re animals!” She was obviously disturbed, and with good reason. I was intrigued, but not enough to follow up on this lifestyle. I would appreciate it if anyone could let me know more about it.

As for Franklin Mills, why is everyone in Northeast Philadelphia pregnant? Stop!

Finally, last night I went to pick up some health food (steak and cheese stromboli) at a local pizza place, and while I waited for them to give me my food after two botched attempts (one was dropped, its replacement was made with onions and peppers- unacceptable), I talked on the phone with AM. I was telling her I had something stuck in my eye and it was driving me crazy. I react to eye problems how Nancy Kerrigan reacted to the lead pipe to the shin, it’s not pretty. I went into the bathroom to rinse out my eye and realized after the rinse that there were no paper towels or toilet paper (this is not a classy joint, natch). I emerged from the bathroom with a wet face and puffy eyes, looking like I had just been sobbing. The managers of the place thought I was so upset about something that they offered me a free beer. So I took it. It was kind of embarrassing; they must have thought I was crazy, but hey, free beer!

Happy Monday.

Abdominal Nazis, Scientologists and Tire Irons

Chop and I, intrepid as always, ventured to the gym to try out a new class called Summer Six Pack. No, I was not asked to instruct the class. The person who did instruct the class was a squat woman with bleached blonde hair and an indeterminate Eastern Bloc accent. She could best be described as mix between Bela Karolyi and Eva Braun. Her teaching style was a series of staccato instructions that went something like this: when I say don’t stop, you better not...I mean it!!! Chop and I looked at eachother with dread, and then we both instinctively looked toward the exit, but it was too late. We were her bitches. She walked around from person to person and screamed at them that our legs weren’t high enough. She shouted numbers in no particular order (vunn, too, sree, fi-eeve, ni-een!), and made empty promises about how many crunches we still had to do. It was a nightmare, but I will go back for the comedy and because she tapped into a good motivation to make me exercise- making me feel really bad about myself.

Last night I went to see War of the Worlds, and as suspenseful as it was, I couldn’t take it too seriously with crazy Tom Cruise traipsing all over the countryside escaping aliens one close shave after another. I didn’t want to kill Dakota Fanning, which is high praise on my part. The best part of the evening, and I mean this as sarcastically as possible, was when I got a flat tire at the end of the night. During the apocalyptic downpour. In Delaware. Luckily, one of my more surprising attributes is that I can change a tire in no time flat all by myself. CC, who was with me, acting my Lamaze coach, said I should enter a contest. It’s always fun to do things that surprise people. She couldn’t have been more surprised if I actually gave birth on the side of the road. I have never done that. When I told Yos about it, he had this to say:

Me: I changed a tire all by myself last night.
Yos: Were you sober?

If nothing else, my reputation precedes me.

Overcoming my computer-operating ineptitude, with the help of assclown, I have added some of my favorite links to the left side of the page. These are sites that I read frequently. I am humbled by their creativity, and I steal from them as often as I can.

Do We Look Aware of African Poverty?

The 8 fingers being held up in this picture symbolize:

a) The 8 nations involved in the G8 summit.

b) The 8 concert sites for Live 8 worldwide

c) The number of nitrous balloons GA and I bought

3 out of every 10 of these people can identify Africa on a map.

Hey, did you want to see the concert or harass a volunteer for about 10 minutes by pretending to ask him questions, just because his smock instructed us to do so? Ok.

When my sister and I challenge your family to a patriotism-off, you will never win.

The amount of "awareness in this picture" is overwhelming. Do not look directly in anyone's eyes.

Jesus showed up despite hearing that 50 Cent pulled out of the concert.

Maybe pouting would make us seem more aware of poverty. Let's do that.

Do You Think I Can Impregnate You Tonight?

Yes, it’s been a while. But you’re looking wonderful. Did you get some sun over the holiday weekend?

The long weekend has come to an abrupt halt, but my independencecontinues. The Judge for whom I work has left for Italia, allowing met o stumble into work wearing holy jeans and sandals and barely having to scrub off the lecherous film from a debaucherous weekend. And I wear it well.

Friday night, the fabulous GA rolled into town with torrential downpour, and their simultaneous arrival was no coincidence. I was supposed to have a solo dinner with KD that night before meeting people out for a birthday celebration, but alas, the best laid plans of mice and men, blah blah. Instead we conflated the plans and all met up at a quaint BYOT (the T is for tequila) on Chestnut Street. While there, I drank said tequila, the alcohol which provides me with the most direct path to drunkness. Eventually we disbanded from the larger group, met up with JD, and popped GA’s gay bar cherry. She had never been. So, to maximize the horror, we took her to Woody’s and showed her the ugliest time possible. Seriously, it was downright aesthetically horrifying.

Anyone who cared deeply about Live 8 woke up early and positioned themselves in such a way that would provide them with a great view of the concert. GA and I woke up around 11:00, and sat around for 2 hours before we could be bothered to even walk over to it. It truly was a "long walk to justice." Sure, we missed Will Smith, but I recorded a “Fresh Prince of Bel Air” that night to make up for it. On our long walk to the concert, homeless people kept asking for some money. We politely told them that today is about the Africans only and that we would need proof of citizenship before we were willing to help. We think they understood.

Not that we saw any of it, but the concert seemed pretty cool. The highlight for me was Def Leppard. I will never understand why they only got to play 3 songs while Linkin Park played for what seemed like 6 hours. They have a lot of rage, you know. When Rob Thomas was performing, GA and I kept singing “This Shit is Rob Thomas. Rob T-H-O-M-A-S!!!” (sung to the tune of ‘this shit is bananas’ from Gwen Stefani’s magnum opus, “Hollaback Girl”). Lots of other people performed, but GA and I were too busy trying to embarrass the other to really notice.

We noticed that it wasn’t really awareness of African poverty that was bringing people together as much as the nitrous balloons that people were selling in makeshift drug distribution centers. Philadelphians are crafty, if nothing else. My sister thought it was cute that nice men were giving out balloons. Aw! The largest crowds we saw were huddled around the tanks, dirty hippies waiting to take a hit. Also, there were tons of people in green ruffly skirts. It’s the new little black dress. Therefore, I surmised that if you really want to help the Africans or at the very least show support, you need to be high on nitrous and wearing a green ruffly skirt. As I write this, I fit both those descriptions. Because I want to make poverty history!

The next night, after Assclown cooked us an amazing meal, I went out to a bar and ran into Rufus Wainwright. No one else in the bar seemed to recognize him (or they were just being respectful of his privacy). I am great with facial recognition and I have no time in my life to respect the privacy of others, so I approached him. My smooth opening? “You either are Rufus Wainwright or you look just like him. Either way, good for you.” He admitted to actually being RW, and we talked for a bit about life, love and Philadelphia. Clearly, he buckled under the pressure of my overwhelming charm. He was smaller than I expected, and he had very big hair. He was hanging out with some twink, dressed all in white, who looked like he had no clue where he was. We did not make plans to hang out later, though he looked me up and down. Whatever, Rufus!

The trend of people cooking good food for me continued into the 4th of July, when I went to a BBQ at JB’s house. I may be inept in the kitchen, but I am smart enough to surround myself with amazing culinary wizards. My contribution to the party was ice, it’s basically all I can handle. The party was a darling affair with Londonbroil and peach margaritas, among other things. There was even a (chocolate) fondue station for dessert! This was full out Barefoot Contessa shit!

From the party, we walked to the second concert extravaganza on the parkway in 3 days. This one included Elton John, my new boyfriend Rufus Wainwright, Miss Patti LaBelle and her huge tits and Bryan Adams. It was an all-star line up, featuring one American. Elton performed a 3 hour version of the song “Rocketman.” I think he was trying to play until scientists confirmed they had developed a cure for AIDS. During the fireworks, someone proposed to his girlfriend during the horrible Lee Greenwood song “I’m Proud to Be an American,” while people looked on, aghast. It was basically a nightmare proposal scenario, and I like to think that her tears were not tears of joy. But then again, maybe they’re the most patriotic couple ever.

I learned an interesting fact at the concert: you’re not supposed to yell “Rape!” if you’re being raped or witness a potential rape. You’re supposed to yell fire. Who knew? Apparently, yelling “rape” makes people run in the other direction. I told my friends I would be just as likely to run away from a fire as I would from a rape, and that perhaps victims should get in the habit of yelling “Pizza!” or “Free Beer!” Don't say I never had any good ideas.

Would it be inappropriate to wear a green ruffly skirt to Luther Vandross’ funeral? R.I.P., brother man.

Finally, if you’re not watching Being Bobby Brown, you’re trippin’. Like Whitney, all I gotta say is “Hell to the NO!”

Enjoy Your Abortions and Sodomy While You Can

This is kind of disheartening news. I was expecting a resignation from the Supreme Court from Chief Justice Rehnquist this week, but instead today his former paramour Sandra Day O'Connor announced she is retiring.

Civil liberties were a blast while we had them!

I will add more when it's not the busiest day ever at work.

I hate to leave on a bad note. So, to cheer everyone up, I will post a nice picture of a huge Aretha Franklin, I guess.