Monday, May 06, 2019

I think I’m having a personal renaissance

I just opened the first bar of a four pack of "refreshingly clean" Lever 2000 Aloe & Cucumber Bar Soap this morning

It smelled vaguely as fresh as a frolicsome summer's morn when I tried to sniff it through the packaging at Target, but when it finally actually touched my skin it unleashed a disquietingly chemical effluvium of neither aloe nor cucumber nor fresh nor frolicsome nor summer.

I apologize in advance if I smell like plastic salad for the foreseeable future.

Oh, hi

Remember when President Obama was VILIFIED for:

• Arugula
• Flag pin
• Tan suit
• Mustard
• Chewing gum
• Private schools
• Healthy eating initiatives
• Michelle's bare arms
• Being black
• Oops! Did I just say being black?
• Overcoming a proudly obstructionist Congress to provide affordable healthcare for millions of Americans
• Being black

Saturday, May 04, 2019

The hottest guy in the gym just dug a Richter-scale booger out of his nose in front of me

Which totally knocks him off the top spot, and if I can score well in the cha-cha I can probably improve my ranking on the leader board.

Also: I just did ten unassisted triceps dips. That technically triples my advantage over Booger Boy.


30+ years of extant pay stubs, boxes of checks from banks that no longer exist, investment statements from companies that long ago dissolved, oversize document packets from multiple refinanced mortgages, receipts from the days when they included complete credit-card numbers, tax documents older that the magic save-for-seven-years rule, rolled-over insurance policies, vested and cashed-in company stock options, long-forgotten parking tickets, repair documents for cars that no doubt now rust in junkyards, and even three neatly folded and carefully notarized wills from before I decided to leave everything I own to the Melania Trump Be Best Foundation For Whatever The Hell Be Best Is Supposed To Mean.

I know lots of it is perfectly safe to be dumped in our recycle bin, but I decided I’d feel safer if all of it were destroyed, so every piece of paper and possibly compromising detail of my life is now locked in a secure container and headed off to be brutally shredded—all for the low, low price of $1 per pound.

I won’t even tell you that it weighed in at a whopping 77 pounds and force you to do the math in your head. But I’m definitely keeping the receipt for the next 30 years.

I know it’s May The Fourth Be With You Day

but in space no one can tell the difference between franchises so this is still relevant.

Friday, May 03, 2019

I managed to wear a pair of gym shorts today that are the exact shade of black polyester to spotlight just how pasty-white-Easter-ham-pink my legs are

Plus I’m wearing a shirt that might as well come with a name tag that says “Hello! My Name is Gay Gayerthanyou!”
Fortunately, there’s all but literally nobody here for me to horrify. Unfortunately, I am NOT in the mood to work out, and being surrounded by tons of other people working out usually keeps me focused and accountable.

So here we are.


You know how when you somehow decide it would be an awesome, merry idea to send gushing fan letters on Instagram to some of the people you just saw on Broadway and you try to make your effusive gushing really clever because that’s a Very Special Skill you have and in your delusion your unbounded cleverness will make the Broadway people so flattered and touched and amused that OF COURSE they’ll read your gushing fan letters to their entire and entirely grateful casts who will probably hopefully maybe all respond to you with notes that are effusively thankful and not at all guarded because they’re trying to gauge whether or not to put out restraining orders on you—which just so happens to be something you literally joked about in your fan letters in an attempt to be Very Specially Clever—and the morning after you’ve sent your gushing fanboy letters you wake in a clammy-skin gray-sweat mortifying epiphany about the horrors you’ve unleashed and now you’re afraid to open Instagram in the mortal fear that your Broadway people HAVE in fact responded and you suddenly realize that the last thing in the world you want is to see what they might have to say to you either way because you’d actually rather instead be pushed by judgy cool kids into a volcano of feral she-wolves as swarms of angry syphilis bees eat your eyes?

Me neither.

Thursday, May 02, 2019

I legit just got eye-rolled-at by a dude at the gym I had the not-know-my-place-ity to acknowledge as we passed each other in the hallway

I’ve been fully conditioned to not waste my time trying to make friends here, but I sometimes slip up and I accidentally did the eye-contact-and-imperceptible-bro-nod thing at him as we approached each other and he rolled his eyes so hard at me that he almost fell over and won a free ophthalmologist appointment and a lifetime membership to a bitchy gay gym.


Not only was he not nearly hot enough to pull off that diva shit, but when he came out of the locker room in his billowy, voluminous gym shorts he was standing on a pair of pasty white stork legs that were more chickenshit than Bill Barr in a roomful of grownups.

Leg day, bro. Less eye roll, more leg day. Then we’ll talk.

Wasn't he the host of The Dating Qame?

Plus NOT QUILTY sounds vaguely homophobic. I find this to be totally rude.

Wednesday, May 01, 2019

OK, first of all—FIRST! OF! ALL!—how come nobody told me about Seth Rudetsky’s “Deconstructs” series?

It’s so awesome it makes me weep and YOU ALL HAVE BEEN HIDING IT FROM ME. Rude.
Second of all, GET OUT OF MY HEAD, SETH! The stuff he talks about here—the historical trivia, the cultural references, the musical structures, the artistic themes—is all stuff I’ve been collecting and obsessing about and devouring in my head—and sharing with everyone who’ll listen—for decades. Each episode is a master class in cultural literacy and music theory and poetic construction, all told through the tiny details I thought I was the only person who noticed. Except Seth approaches it with far more musical training and worshipful obsession than I’ve ever mustered. This stuff is total catnip to me, and I’m about to disappear from public life for decades as I get caught up on—and memorize every detail of—every episode in this series.

Thirdly, SETH IS SO FREAKING ADORABLE. His rapid-fire train of thought, his bubbling excitement over everything he wants to share, his boundless knowledge, his goofy asides ... I’m now totally, 100% crushing on him.

Finally, THIS SONG. Pamela Myers’ clarion voice. Jonathan Tunick’s layered orchestrations. Stephen Sondheim’s boundless genius. I COULD NOT LOVE EVERYTHING ABOUT THIS VIDEO EVEN A TINY BIT MORE.


I have seen the ruins of Rome.
I've been in the igloos of Nome.
I have gone to Moscow. it's very gay--
Well, anyway
On the first of May!

Monday, April 29, 2019

Oops! I took this selfie at the gym today and totally forgot to post it.

Anyway, it was arm day. And Lots Of Inspiration Day. Yowza. So you’re all caught up.

Now I must go to bed because I need to be rested up for the excitement of tomorrow’s Tony nominations. I totally hope they pick you.

Really, Behr: “Premium Plus Ultra Stain Blocking Paint & Primer In One” is an awfully long name for the shitty skim milk in your can

Two coats of your runny, drippy lies can’t even cover beige woodgrain.

Sunday, April 28, 2019

Treasures I uncovered today in my storage unit, part two:

• My collection of tourist-trap figurines from my world travels that I figured I’d never find again among the bajillion unopened boxes I have yet to spelunk BUT I DID
• The glazed ceramic Eiffel Tower ring stand/change dish I have no business owning because I don’t wear rings or carry change but it’s charming and Francophiley and I love it so shut up
• A red Chicago Marathon cowbell that all the spectators jangled along the race route to keep us fired up or at least running in fear from all the crazy people jangling cowbells at us
National Treasure, the American Da Vinci Code and my gateway drug to swooning over all things Justin Bartha
• Three stray unmatched socks I thought might possibly pair up with the pile of lonely, forlorn unmatched socks I’ve been holding onto for years just in case their prodigal other halves eventually showed up ... AND TWO OF THEM DID!

Treasures I uncovered today in my storage unit:

• Gershwin “Preludes”: A Festival of Sharps, Accidentals and Hand-Breaking Intervals
• Hy-Vee Hy Value Card from the dawn of the Dark Ages when barcodes and loyalty programs were first invented and scannable plastic key fobs were REVOLUTIONARY UTILITARIAN ACCESSORIES
• 2€ coin from my last whirlwind tour of London, Paris and Barcelona—the European economy and the very status of the UK in the EU have been in precipitous flux since I so carelessly brought it home a decade-plus ago and removed it from European circulation
• Hand-made What Would Fred Do keychain given to me as an opening-night gift by a long-ago Ginger in a long-ago Follies where we’d together looked for Astaire-piration as we choreographed our featured white-tie-and-marabou-trim number
• Adventureland pay stub from my living-the-dream summer of 1986 where I sang and danced up to 13 shows a day, 6 days a week for two-digit wages that even then were probably criminal
• Debussy’s “Doctor Gradus ad Parnassum”: A Festival of Flats, Accidentals and Knuckle-Breaking Tempos
• Blockbuster card that’s laminated in plastic so thick it’ll outlast, global warming, thermonuclear annihilation, cockroaches and the trump family’s concurrent prison terms

Saturday, April 27, 2019

We are going through TONS of clothes in an epic March to the Purge

which is supposed to be a Civil War reference but it’s not a very good one so if you don’t get it I’ll totally take the blame for making a not-very-accessible allusion but anyway Bitch Kitty has found one of our giveaway piles and decided to send everything remotely dark to Goodwill with a complimentary layer of white fur.

And I was so worried I wouldn’t get to post this meme again this year ...

Friday, April 26, 2019

t-t-t-tard-d-d-d-i-v-v-v-e ....

My tardive dyskinesia—the permanent, involuntary-movement-causing neurological side effect of my bipolar meds—is firing on all cylinders tonight. I’m shaking and twitching and lurching like a sloppy drunk swatting mosquitos on a pogo stick during an earthquake right now. But my week’s obligations are over, I’m finally home, and I’m gonna find a quiet room where I can just go and WIGGLE.

If you build it ...

This totally fascinating and totally hella-cool chart works its way in relatively chronological order from the Neolithic—which, OK, I guess counts as an architectural style—to the increasingly scattered subdivisions of Post-Modernism, which by most accounts we are currently at what will eventually called the very end of. The examples here from each style don’t offer anything more than a general idea of what features and details define that style, but honestly: What on earth do you really need to know about any of it beyond the fact that there exists a style formally called Blobitecture?

Thursday, April 25, 2019

Don’t scream words like UNIVERSAL, FITS ALL BRANDS and REPLACES ALL STYLES in huge bold type at the top of your damn packaging

and then all-but-literally whisper 2” in brown-on-fucking-gradient-brown-on-fucking-beige on the bottom corner under the fucking blister pack with no context that might alert me to the fact that 2” is FUCKING IMPORTANT PURCHASING INFORMATION TO KNOW and not expect me to yell FUCK at you on my blog after I’ve torn my toilet tank apart and gotten myself covered with toilet-tank slime and finally gotten your poorly labeled flapper installed and THEN discovered not only that it was the wrong size but even that there are multiple sizes you should have made me aware that I should consider so I wouldn’t have to make two trips to the hardware store when there is no earthly reason this repair project should warrant two trips to the hardware store, korky.
PS: Your company name is stupid. And fucking LEARN HOW ADULTS CAPITALIZE.

Tiers of delicate bitsy-dot chiffon tulle flutter like wispy cotton-candy nothingness next to Ivanka in an ugly fucking dress

Tuesday, April 23, 2019

Back at the gym and putting the CUSS in concussion!

(I don’t know what that means either, but if you squint really hard it sounds totally badass.)
I seemed to have dressed myself in all red, white and blue—even with stripes!—today. So if you see me waving, it’s because I’m being friendly. Not because I’m a flag.

Saturday, April 20, 2019

I have more Extra Strength Tylenol in me than is probably healthy for my kidneys and liver

and my lingering deep headache makes me afraid to lie down for fear the pain will recalibrate its spatial orientation and intensify all over again, but I survived my first visit with a hot shower and a bottle of shampoo and I managed to keep my hair on point with only a fraction of product on only a fraction of my not-throbbing scalp, so I’m still a big boy.

Zested limes and denuded ginger roots look so sad and naked

But they sure make a peppy fruit glaze!

My family told me on no uncertain terms to NOT post these pictures, so challenge accepted!

The good news is I got our back deck and the grill and all the patio furniture (now christened Porch Song Trilogy) all scrubbed and cleaned and dried and set up for summer.

The bad news is the umbrella for the table didn’t get set up. It’s on a high shelf in the garage, see, so I set up our tall step stool in a place near one end of the umbrella. That place also happened to be directly under the surprisingly sharp and surprisingly hard end of the track for the garage door. Not noticing this troublesome placement, I bounded up the step stool at full force ... and hit my head so hard on the sharp, hard end of the track that I saw stars and all but collapsed to the floor where blood ran down my arm and the pain intensified so quickly that I actually started gasping and sobbing.

My poor dad—who is legally blind—ran to get our poor neighbor—who had to look at my bloody, swollen head without barfing—and together they decided to take me to the ER:
The other good news is I don’t need stitches, but I have an impressive lump and a possible concussion and a badass punk-rocker streak of blood in my hair:
The other bad news, though, is the stupid, mean, dumbass doctor won’t let me go to the gym for arm day. So I apologize in advance if you see me today with my lumpy red head and my saggy, deflated arms.

The other freaking awesome news is our freaking awesome neighbor climbed (carefully) up the (newly placed) step stool to get our umbrella down, and it was waiting next to the driveway for us when we got home.

Bitch Kitty is watching. Bitch Kitty is waiting. Bitch Kitty is plotting.

It’s probably best to sleep with one eye open.

Thursday, April 18, 2019


My co-workers might be starting to suspect I’m gay

Also: My birthday doughnuts had rainbow sprinkles. But the doughnuts from my plate are all gone. I might need to go to the kitchen to get more.


I’m not sure what’s most disturbing about this picture: the bar mitzvah clown smile, the Disney villain eyes, the dinner-plate glasses, the scarecrow neck, the weird-ass way I wore my watch on the inside of my wrist or the pink-on-white shirt that hung on me with all the sex appeal of a Mayan burial gown on an immolated corpse. The girls on my floor (Loser alert! I was living in the Foreign Language House, a co-ed dorm filled with language dorks who stayed in on Friday nights studying verb declensions!) had decorated my door with pink 21s. Probably to match the shirt. Or the homosexuality. I’m not sure where I got the wine, but I am sure I had only a sip of it to celebrate reaching such a milestone age. Because actually drinking a whole glass of alcohol on my 21st birthday would have been something the cool kids would do.

Wednesday, April 17, 2019

Welp. I’ve emptied the cat box and taken out the garbage for the last time as a 50-year-old.

So the bloom’s off THAT lily.

Facebook has reminded me that I’ve apparently begun commemorating the night before each birthday with a selfie next to the girls. So here we are again. Looking gay as a purse full of kittens.

What I want for my birthday, in no particular order:
• Less stuff
• Someone objective to help me have less stuff
• A hellfire-damning Mueller report
• A fresh start with a normal kitten
• One single little sentence in which autocorrect hasn’t Needlessly capitalized something
• Less stuff
• A bedroom that I’ve finally painted rich-people blue to cover its current state of urine-sample gold
• Someone to help me find the right shade of rich-people blue
• My old abs
• Lots of cake
• But without compromising my old abs
• A Broadway dance career
• Less stuff
• Abs

Our dumbass cat apparently now sleeps downhill

I just laughed waaaaay too hard at this ...

Dumbass bird flirting in 12 easy steps:

1. Throw selves against window
2. Leave smears of bird snot all over everything
3. Pretend not to see each other
4. Look at each other without getting caught
5. Move closer
7. Maybe pretend to be examining the snot or something
8. Move closer
9. Post selfie saying “Feeling cute IDK might rub some more snot all over this window LOL”
10. Move closer
11. Finally get caught looking
12. NOW WHAT? Don’t ask me—I can’t even flirt with a human without somehow embarrassing myself

Four days to #Memester!