Showing posts with label drag. Show all posts
Showing posts with label drag. Show all posts
Tuesday, April 09, 2019
Number 17: The Spread Eagle
Wednesday, February 13, 2019
God, I hope you get these
The way you do your hair is a metaphor for the idea that it doesn't matter what you look like.
A group of women with 50 years of age differences who've never worked together and who've probably never even met somehow simultaneously remember the choreography and staging to a generations-old song. Oh, and something about a coffee cup.
All the neighbors' cats disappeared so ...
Dude can't commit.
Mom makes too many sandwiches and moves out.
Dude dots Dot, dies.
Cats with stupid names pretty much do nothing.
Pray for a tech malfunction if you want to see some dicks at the end.
Six boobs and a garage-door opener.
Tons and tons of plotlines about French people--half of whom are poor and uneducated--who for some reason all sing in perfect English.
Dancing guys in tight jeans take a stab at cultural harmony.
Slinky Fosse choreography makes the plot irrelevant.
Drag queens overcome adversity and teach everyone a valuable lesson about discrimination and tolerance.
Then, 40 years later, the exact same plot happens again.
Sunday, January 27, 2019
Hmmm. Apparently six years ago today I was stripping onstage in a show.
Sunday, June 10, 2018
What the hell do gay people have to be proud of?
On this, the Gay High Holidays of the Tony Awards, I offer again my annual explanation and celebration of what gay pride means from my own journey and my own experience and my own big-ol’-proud-gay-man perspective:
We’re proud because despite relentless persecution everywhere we turn—when organized religion viciously attacks and censures and vilifies us in the name of selective morality, when our families disown us, when our elected officials bargain away our equality for hate votes they try to disguise as so-called “religious liberty,” when communities and cities and entire states codify our families into second-class citizenship, when small-importance bakers with the backing of the big-money hate industry take their unhinged loathing of us all the way to the Supreme Court, when our employers fire us, when our landlords evict us, when our police harass us, when our neighbors and colleagues and fellow citizens openly insult and condemn and mock and berate and even beat and kill us—we continue to survive.
We’re proud because pride is the opposite of shame—and despite what systemic bigotry and the ugliest sides of organized religion work so hard to make the world believe, there is nothing shameful about being gay. We’re proud because—thanks to the incredible bravery shown by gay people who lived their lives openly sometimes to the point of being defiantly in the decades before us—we can live our lives more and more openly at home, at work, with our families, on social media … and even on national television.
We're proud because we've worked tirelessly to achieve legal equality in marriage, adoption, parental rights and many other ways that make our families recognized as Families in our states and across our country. And though we have much more to accomplish—and though bigotry disguised as morality and religion and the supposed mandates of constituents work and sometimes succeed at eroding our newfound equalities—we have the momentum and intelligence and drive and humanity and ability to keep driving back the hate as we continue to drive forward with both our newfound and future equalities.
We’re proud because through our tireless work and the prevailing powers of common sense and compassion, Don’t Ask Don’t Tell and Proposition Hate and the so-called Defense of Marriage Act have collapsed in on their illogical, immoral, meritless foundations—and new legislative attempts to dehumanize us gain little to no traction or visibility and soon die on the trash heap as well.
We’re proud because we are smart enough to overcome the self-loathing that our venomous, mindlessly theocratic society forces on us, and we have the power to stop its destructive cycle by fighting back and by making intelligent choices involving sex and drugs and money and relationships and the way we live our lives—and by using our lives as examples of success and humanity and love that other gay people can see and respect and emulate and achieve more and more easily.
We’re proud because after all we’ve been through, the world increasingly continues to notice and respect us and enthusiastically appropriate the often fabulous culture we’ve assembled from the common struggles and glorious diversity of our disparate lives.
We’re proud because more and more often and in more and more contexts our country and our culture see the fact that we’re gay as frankly boring.
We’re proud because especially this month and always all year we’re celebrating with parties and street fairs and parades overflowing with drag queens, leather queens, muscle queens, dad-bod queens, glitter queens, you’d-never-even-know-they-were-queens queens and even straight-but-honorary-queens-for-a-day queens, and together we can see beyond the pride in the parades of our lives and together celebrate the underlying Pride in the parades of our lives.
Quite simply, we’re proud that we have so incredibly much to be proud of.
We’re proud because despite relentless persecution everywhere we turn—when organized religion viciously attacks and censures and vilifies us in the name of selective morality, when our families disown us, when our elected officials bargain away our equality for hate votes they try to disguise as so-called “religious liberty,” when communities and cities and entire states codify our families into second-class citizenship, when small-importance bakers with the backing of the big-money hate industry take their unhinged loathing of us all the way to the Supreme Court, when our employers fire us, when our landlords evict us, when our police harass us, when our neighbors and colleagues and fellow citizens openly insult and condemn and mock and berate and even beat and kill us—we continue to survive.
We’re proud because pride is the opposite of shame—and despite what systemic bigotry and the ugliest sides of organized religion work so hard to make the world believe, there is nothing shameful about being gay. We’re proud because—thanks to the incredible bravery shown by gay people who lived their lives openly sometimes to the point of being defiantly in the decades before us—we can live our lives more and more openly at home, at work, with our families, on social media … and even on national television.
We're proud because we've worked tirelessly to achieve legal equality in marriage, adoption, parental rights and many other ways that make our families recognized as Families in our states and across our country. And though we have much more to accomplish—and though bigotry disguised as morality and religion and the supposed mandates of constituents work and sometimes succeed at eroding our newfound equalities—we have the momentum and intelligence and drive and humanity and ability to keep driving back the hate as we continue to drive forward with both our newfound and future equalities.
We’re proud because through our tireless work and the prevailing powers of common sense and compassion, Don’t Ask Don’t Tell and Proposition Hate and the so-called Defense of Marriage Act have collapsed in on their illogical, immoral, meritless foundations—and new legislative attempts to dehumanize us gain little to no traction or visibility and soon die on the trash heap as well.
We’re proud because we are smart enough to overcome the self-loathing that our venomous, mindlessly theocratic society forces on us, and we have the power to stop its destructive cycle by fighting back and by making intelligent choices involving sex and drugs and money and relationships and the way we live our lives—and by using our lives as examples of success and humanity and love that other gay people can see and respect and emulate and achieve more and more easily.
We’re proud because after all we’ve been through, the world increasingly continues to notice and respect us and enthusiastically appropriate the often fabulous culture we’ve assembled from the common struggles and glorious diversity of our disparate lives.
We’re proud because more and more often and in more and more contexts our country and our culture see the fact that we’re gay as frankly boring.
We’re proud because especially this month and always all year we’re celebrating with parties and street fairs and parades overflowing with drag queens, leather queens, muscle queens, dad-bod queens, glitter queens, you’d-never-even-know-they-were-queens queens and even straight-but-honorary-queens-for-a-day queens, and together we can see beyond the pride in the parades of our lives and together celebrate the underlying Pride in the parades of our lives.
Quite simply, we’re proud that we have so incredibly much to be proud of.
Wednesday, April 25, 2018
Saturday, March 03, 2018
Friday, February 23, 2018
Flashback Friday: Say Aaaahhhh Edition
Here’s my dentist and me at some boring dentist-and-patient social event long ago in Chicago. We were so afraid to have fun back then. Or wear glitter.
Friday, December 22, 2017
Thursday, August 17, 2017
Friday, August 11, 2017
Flashback Friday: All The Single Ladies Edition
Fun fact: I am not always the paragon of body-image-unattainable hypermasculinity that people know me for. In fact, I once sang a show tune.
And apparently eight years ago, while making my first-ever visit to the best-porch-on-earth Rehoboth beach house of some D.C. friends, I was inspired by the fact that all of us at the house owned black Speedos -- I know! An entire population of gay men who all own black Speedos? What are the odds? -- to teach a group of complete strangers -- who are curiously still all my friends -- a chunk of the "Single Ladies" choreography that we could use as a surprise performance at a pop-music-themed costume party ... all in the space of an afternoon. I convinced these poor men to go group shopping for matching black tank tops and enormous black pumps to replicate the bodysuits and combat heels from the Beyoncé video, and with the help of the magic of YouTube and the trusting patience of a group of guys who I again remind you were pretty much total strangers, we pushed aside the furniture, gamely donned our pumps and collectively put the proverbial ring on it:
And apparently eight years ago, while making my first-ever visit to the best-porch-on-earth Rehoboth beach house of some D.C. friends, I was inspired by the fact that all of us at the house owned black Speedos -- I know! An entire population of gay men who all own black Speedos? What are the odds? -- to teach a group of complete strangers -- who are curiously still all my friends -- a chunk of the "Single Ladies" choreography that we could use as a surprise performance at a pop-music-themed costume party ... all in the space of an afternoon. I convinced these poor men to go group shopping for matching black tank tops and enormous black pumps to replicate the bodysuits and combat heels from the Beyoncé video, and with the help of the magic of YouTube and the trusting patience of a group of guys who I again remind you were pretty much total strangers, we pushed aside the furniture, gamely donned our pumps and collectively put the proverbial ring on it:
Yes, there is extant video. No, I don't care to search around and find it for you.
We had intended to just casually announce at the party that we had a little performance we'd like to give and maybe uh-oh-oh in front of a few happen-to-be-nearby people in a corner, but imagine our surprise -- IMAGINE OUR SURPRISE! -- when we got to the party and discovered a CARPETED RUNWAY leading from the sidewalk to a FREAKING STAGE at the edge of the enormous back patio where probably a hundred pop-music-costumed people were watching expectantly as a Wynonna Judd drag queen emcee introduced each new group of guests to the party.
Seriously. SERIOUSLY.
Word spread instantly that my new beheeled and bespeedoed friends and I actually had an act to perform, and without even letting these guys have a moment to be nervous or offer up our own music, a random guest's iPhone was plugged into the sound system, the song was started from his iTunes library -- I know! How on earth did we manage to find a gay man with "Single Ladies" cued up on his iPhone at a moment's notice? -- and we all put our hands up, up in the club and started uh-oh-ohing to wild cheers ... until the iPhone playing our music suddenly got a call and the music abruptly stopped and we were left standing there mid-uh-oh-oh blinking blankly into the crowd until the iPhone owner could turn off the ringer and start the song again from the beginning and we could fully embrace our second chance to freaking ROCK OUR RED-CARPET RUNWAY ENTRANCE.
And that, my friends, is how you put gloss on your lips and a man on your hips and make an entrance-making show to an entire beach town of strangers that you have a sensitive side to your paragon of body-image-unattainable hypermasculinity. And uh-oh-oh you can't be mad at me.
We had intended to just casually announce at the party that we had a little performance we'd like to give and maybe uh-oh-oh in front of a few happen-to-be-nearby people in a corner, but imagine our surprise -- IMAGINE OUR SURPRISE! -- when we got to the party and discovered a CARPETED RUNWAY leading from the sidewalk to a FREAKING STAGE at the edge of the enormous back patio where probably a hundred pop-music-costumed people were watching expectantly as a Wynonna Judd drag queen emcee introduced each new group of guests to the party.
Seriously. SERIOUSLY.
Word spread instantly that my new beheeled and bespeedoed friends and I actually had an act to perform, and without even letting these guys have a moment to be nervous or offer up our own music, a random guest's iPhone was plugged into the sound system, the song was started from his iTunes library -- I know! How on earth did we manage to find a gay man with "Single Ladies" cued up on his iPhone at a moment's notice? -- and we all put our hands up, up in the club and started uh-oh-ohing to wild cheers ... until the iPhone playing our music suddenly got a call and the music abruptly stopped and we were left standing there mid-uh-oh-oh blinking blankly into the crowd until the iPhone owner could turn off the ringer and start the song again from the beginning and we could fully embrace our second chance to freaking ROCK OUR RED-CARPET RUNWAY ENTRANCE.
And that, my friends, is how you put gloss on your lips and a man on your hips and make an entrance-making show to an entire beach town of strangers that you have a sensitive side to your paragon of body-image-unattainable hypermasculinity. And uh-oh-oh you can't be mad at me.
Friday, April 14, 2017
Flashback Friday: Cicero Edition
The Chicago Gay Men's Chorus allowed me to check off a lot of things that are on every man's bucket list: Sing the National Anthem at a Cubs game, record a CD of beautifully arranged love songs, choreograph a show called The Ten Commandments: The Musical, and rock the six-wived Lipschitz out of Velma Kelly's wig and heels in a reverently faithful re-creation of "The Cell Block Tango." POP!
Friday, March 03, 2017
Flashback Friday: Patriotic Edition
It was my distinct pleasure to sing with the Chicago Gay Men's Chorus for six years when I lived in Chicago. My membership in the chorus afforded me a lifetime of mountaintop experiences I will remember with awe and gratitude forever: repeatedly singing on stage with 100+ gay men (and a few straight women; we didn't discriminate) in proud and pure celebration of the collective experiences of US, recording a CD of love songs arranged in a brilliantly conceptual story arc, spending almost a week in Montréal cheering for and being cheered by gay choruses from around the world, performing in the brand-new 1,500-seat underground Harris Theater in Chicago's Millennium Park, performing in defiance of hate-group protesters on stage in the Frank Gehry-designed Pritzger Pavilion also in Millennium Park, learning and repeatedly performing the forever glorious "In Whatever Time We Have" from Children of Eden, tapping my heart out with a steno pool of other tappers to "Forget About the Boy" from Thoroughly Modern Millie, beveling seductively in little more than a leotard and heels as Velma Kelly in "Cell Block Tango," and singing a stunning, robust eight-part men's arrangement of the National Anthem three times to cheering -- cheering! -- crowds at Wrigley Field, where I fought back choking sobs of pride and experienced emotional chills to the core of everything I've ever thought and felt and believed and loved about myself and our celebratorily diverse chorus as gay men, as singers, as members of a loving, fraternal community and as citizens of America.
Sunday, January 18, 2009
I'm going out there a go-go boy
and coming back a STAR!
So I'm dancing behind a big fabulous drag queen in a fund-raiser next weekend, and you need to be there.And yesterday doubled the reasons you need to be there. I was originally in just one of her numbers, see, but one of her other go-go boys didn't show up for the big tech rehearsal yesterday so she asked me if I could take his place. Does the pope shit on the people? Of course I'll suddenly be in TWO big fierce dance numbers behind a big fabulous drag queen! It's all so Peggy Sawyer I could just die.
The show is the annual fund-raiser for the Chicago Spirit Brigade, a spectacular amateur cheer squad that performs all over the city—including mile 21 of the Chicago Marathon, where they are my personal heroes even though they have yet to volunteer to run me in for the last five miles—and gives 100% of the money they raise at their appearances to organizations that provide direct services or care for people living with life-threatening challenges like AIDS, HIV and cancer. The fund-raiser next weekend—an over-the-top show featuring the not-always-about-cheering talents of the squad's members—is the only event where they raise money specifically to cover their own expenses like travel, uniforms, equipment, marketing and insurance. So it's important that you cough up your money and come see it.
And the fund-raiser promises to be fabulous. I was originally just dancing in a lab coat and ... um ... rubber fetish gear (hi, Mom!) to a starlet-with-plastic-surgery-themed mix of the songs (and here's the part where I talk about pop music as though I'm hip enough to have heard of these songs before I was in this show) "Disturbia" by Rihanna and "Keeps Gettin' Better" by Christina Aguilera. But now I'm also in the big opening number! It's some hip-hoppy (I think that's the word the kids are using these days) song I've actually heard before, but I just learned the choreography yesterday and I can't be expected to remember song titles too. The costume is a little tamer: baggy cargo pants and a colorful tank top (you can start breathing again, Mom), and the choreography is fierce. And I was going to make a self-deprecating remark about the age-inappropriateness of me dancing to hip-hop, but I just realized the other go-go boy in the number is over 40 as well. And there is nothing hotter than two hip-hoppy dancers less than a decade away from their first AARP mailing. Ow! My hip!
The show is called Big Bang 6 and it's gonna be at Circuit Nightclub, 3641 N. Halsted, this Saturday, January 24. The doors open at 8 and the show starts at 9—and now that I'm in the opening number, you can't be late. Tickets are $25 at the door but only $20 when you order in advance by following the order link here. Go! Order now!
Monday, April 23, 2007
A show tune arrived and a show tune dispatched
So I survived the weekend. The show got three standing ovations, I didn’t break any heels and our very first houseguests didn’t run screaming when they saw the clutter. Now all that’s left to do is rinse out the pantyhose (done!) and regrow the armpit hair.
Glenn and Todd were awesome first houseguests – mostly because they’re great guys, but also because they were extremely low maintenance in a weekend where I had three shows and the boyfriend disappeared for two days to attend his grandmother’s birthday party in Ohio. We were able to achieve my three goals before the boys arrived — useable bedrooms, scrubbed bathrooms and an uncluttered living room where we could actually sit and chat — so the weekend wasn’t as tenementy (is that a word?) as it could have been. And the boys made plans to hang out with some of their other buddies while the boyfriend and I were otherwise occupied, so we didn’t feel like total ignore-the-guests hosts.
I received very audible giggles every time I stepped on stage in my Spandex dragery (is that a word?) and uttered my first smoky “Cicero.” But by the time we merry murderesses had kicked the shit out of our Cell Block Tango, the audience was screaming and cheering. Which is always nice. Especially when your feet hurt all the way up to your fake boobs.
And now I’m buried at work, with nothing to keep me company but memories and raw skin around my eyes from scrubbing off my makeup.
And itchy armpits.
Glenn and Todd were awesome first houseguests – mostly because they’re great guys, but also because they were extremely low maintenance in a weekend where I had three shows and the boyfriend disappeared for two days to attend his grandmother’s birthday party in Ohio. We were able to achieve my three goals before the boys arrived — useable bedrooms, scrubbed bathrooms and an uncluttered living room where we could actually sit and chat — so the weekend wasn’t as tenementy (is that a word?) as it could have been. And the boys made plans to hang out with some of their other buddies while the boyfriend and I were otherwise occupied, so we didn’t feel like total ignore-the-guests hosts.
I received very audible giggles every time I stepped on stage in my Spandex dragery (is that a word?) and uttered my first smoky “Cicero.” But by the time we merry murderesses had kicked the shit out of our Cell Block Tango, the audience was screaming and cheering. Which is always nice. Especially when your feet hurt all the way up to your fake boobs.
And now I’m buried at work, with nothing to keep me company but memories and raw skin around my eyes from scrubbing off my makeup.
And itchy armpits.
Friday, April 20, 2007
Wonderful! What can I say but wonderful?
So not only did I win the Dreamgirls DVD in Joe.My.God's first-ever Swag Tuesday, but I found out I won on my birthday. Which is so awesome I could almost dress up like a girl and start singing show tunes.
And speaking of dressing up like a girl and singing show tunes, the chorus Sidetrack show opens tonight (and closes tomorrow), so if you want to see me dancing around in heels and rice-and-pantyhose boobs, this is your last chance for a very long time; all my theater stuff goes in storage (with the drag stuff at the very back) beginning Sunday so I can concentrate on more boy-type things. Like stencilng the guest bedroom.
But on the off chance you're all too cheap to buy last-minute plane tickets to come see me (and I'm acting totally against my better judgment here), I'm postintg a picture taken during last night's dress rehearsal. See if you can tell which pic is from the movie and which pic is from our show:
And speaking of dressing up like a girl and singing show tunes, the chorus Sidetrack show opens tonight (and closes tomorrow), so if you want to see me dancing around in heels and rice-and-pantyhose boobs, this is your last chance for a very long time; all my theater stuff goes in storage (with the drag stuff at the very back) beginning Sunday so I can concentrate on more boy-type things. Like stencilng the guest bedroom.
But on the off chance you're all too cheap to buy last-minute plane tickets to come see me (and I'm acting totally against my better judgment here), I'm postintg a picture taken during last night's dress rehearsal. See if you can tell which pic is from the movie and which pic is from our show:
Wednesday, November 01, 2006
Stock up on dollar bills ...
I'm dancing in another drag show this weekend.
It’s been two years since I’ve been in a drag show, so I guess that sentence is a little misleading. Just like Tony Snow! And I won’t actually be in drag this time, so the sentence is misleading and potentially inflammatory. Just like Rush Limbaugh!
In any case, I’m still technically in the show, though I’ll be a backup dancer in a tight little tank top this time. There will be two of us shaking our honey-baked hams behind a Madonna impersonator singing a Peggy Lee cover. And our number is gonna be HOT. So hot it gives you fever. In the morning. And fever all through the night.
The show is this Saturday, November 4. at Hydrate, 3458 N. Halsted. Fifteen bucks gets you an hour and a half of open bar (assuming you get there at 8:00) and then a fabulous show (starting at 9:30, for those of you struggling with the math) featuring drag queens singing live (none of this lip-synching crap that the lesser drag queens try to get away with).
The show is called Lipstick & Lyrics, and it’s the third annual live-drag fundraiser for the Chicago Gay Men's Chorus, so you can count on it being pretty fabulous. And if the thought of watching me dancing around on stage, caught up in the delusion that a 38-year-old man can pass for ham-shaking beefcake isn’t enough to get you to there, then you just don’t have a sense of humor.
[I wanted to upload our logo here to lend legitimacy to this little advertisement, but blogger is being a stubborn, ineffective pain in the ass right now. Just like Dubya!]
It’s been two years since I’ve been in a drag show, so I guess that sentence is a little misleading. Just like Tony Snow! And I won’t actually be in drag this time, so the sentence is misleading and potentially inflammatory. Just like Rush Limbaugh!
In any case, I’m still technically in the show, though I’ll be a backup dancer in a tight little tank top this time. There will be two of us shaking our honey-baked hams behind a Madonna impersonator singing a Peggy Lee cover. And our number is gonna be HOT. So hot it gives you fever. In the morning. And fever all through the night.
The show is this Saturday, November 4. at Hydrate, 3458 N. Halsted. Fifteen bucks gets you an hour and a half of open bar (assuming you get there at 8:00) and then a fabulous show (starting at 9:30, for those of you struggling with the math) featuring drag queens singing live (none of this lip-synching crap that the lesser drag queens try to get away with).
The show is called Lipstick & Lyrics, and it’s the third annual live-drag fundraiser for the Chicago Gay Men's Chorus, so you can count on it being pretty fabulous. And if the thought of watching me dancing around on stage, caught up in the delusion that a 38-year-old man can pass for ham-shaking beefcake isn’t enough to get you to there, then you just don’t have a sense of humor.
[I wanted to upload our logo here to lend legitimacy to this little advertisement, but blogger is being a stubborn, ineffective pain in the ass right now. Just like Dubya!]
Monday, June 20, 2005
Drunk … with … POWER …
So last week I injured my foot. And as I was getting dressed on Tuesday and slipping into the only pair of flip-flops I own that didn’t irritate all that remained of the bloody stump at the end of my leg, I noticed that my digital camera was still sitting out from the last time I used it in April. So I took a picture of my owie and posted it here because it was easier than posting something of substance that day.
Imagine my surprise, then, when I’m on the Internets todayworking selflessly to keep my company solvent and I discover that my pedal carnage has inspired a meme that has taken the entire world by storm given a bunch of other bloggers with left feet something to plagiarize emulate in their posts today along with every conceivable headline variation of “something’s afoot.”
My. Foot. Started. An. International. Artistic. Movement.
I AM THE GREAT AND POWERFUL JAKE!
Imagine. A meme. Me! (That’s almost a palindrome, except it’s not.)
Unfortunately, a bunch of youbitches have declared war on my foot, comparing it to that of a “troll” and calling the poor thing “ugly.” (I expect you bitches are all willing to foot the bill (HA! FOOT THE BILL!) from my self-esteem coach.)
But the joke’s on you! The following pictures from previous posts offer all the proof you need that you’re all WRONG about the deliciousness of my dogs.
Toe hair does not a troll foot make! Here’s the image that inspired you-all to put your foot in your mouth. (HA! FOOT IN YOUR MOUTH!) Notice the meaty manliness of the toes and the way they all point in the same general direction and the way that—even when covered in scabs—the whole foot awakens long-dormant fetishes deep within your loins.
Here’s the delicate instep of that same foot mere moments after running 26.2 miles. Notice how it naturally retained its graceful arch and overallaromatic aesthetic pleasantness despite the wife beating it had just taken. Mmmm!
And here it that foot’s twin, with skin as smooth and voluptuous as Ann Coulter’s freshly shaved scrotum and the markings of a potential marathon tattoo that ended up on some other private part of my body.
This is not a picture of my foot, but I found it when I was digging around to see if I had any more foot pix to post here, and I think it makes my abs look kind of flat. Plus, you can totally see my underpants.
This is also not a picture of my foot that I also dug up in my search, but I must say this is onesturdy handsome desperate healthy woman. Check out those gams! (Photo courtesy of Rick, who obviously spends waaaaay too much time hanging around drag queens, religious extremists and other perverts.)
Now that the other shoe has dropped (HA! THE OTHER SHOE HAS DROPPED!), don’t you-all feel bad for kicking my dogs? Don’t you feel bad for dissing the foot that kick-started (HA! KICK-STARTED!) an international meme?
And aren’t you a little ashamed knowing how maturely I would have handled the situation if the shoe were on the other foot?
(HA! OTHER FOOT!)
Imagine my surprise, then, when I’m on the Internets today
My. Foot. Started. An. International. Artistic. Movement.
I AM THE GREAT AND POWERFUL JAKE!
Imagine. A meme. Me! (That’s almost a palindrome, except it’s not.)
Unfortunately, a bunch of you
But the joke’s on you! The following pictures from previous posts offer all the proof you need that you’re all WRONG about the deliciousness of my dogs.
Toe hair does not a troll foot make! Here’s the image that inspired you-all to put your foot in your mouth. (HA! FOOT IN YOUR MOUTH!) Notice the meaty manliness of the toes and the way they all point in the same general direction and the way that—even when covered in scabs—the whole foot awakens long-dormant fetishes deep within your loins.
Here’s the delicate instep of that same foot mere moments after running 26.2 miles. Notice how it naturally retained its graceful arch and overall
And here it that foot’s twin, with skin as smooth and voluptuous as Ann Coulter’s freshly shaved scrotum and the markings of a potential marathon tattoo that ended up on some other private part of my body.
This is not a picture of my foot, but I found it when I was digging around to see if I had any more foot pix to post here, and I think it makes my abs look kind of flat. Plus, you can totally see my underpants.
This is also not a picture of my foot that I also dug up in my search, but I must say this is one
Now that the other shoe has dropped (HA! THE OTHER SHOE HAS DROPPED!), don’t you-all feel bad for kicking my dogs? Don’t you feel bad for dissing the foot that kick-started (HA! KICK-STARTED!) an international meme?
And aren’t you a little ashamed knowing how maturely I would have handled the situation if the shoe were on the other foot?
(HA! OTHER FOOT!)
Thursday, September 23, 2004
What are you doing Saturday night?
I know what I'll be doing: Singing two songs in a fund-raiser revue. In drag. As the handsome Miss Heidi Holes.
And you're invited to come!
The show is called Lipstick & Lyrics, and it features a bunch of large-boned women singing LIVE (regular drag queens just lip-synch like the common trash they are).
I'm doing two numbers: Everybody's Girl, which includes lyrics like "to reaffirm my status/it's absolutely gratis/to use my apparatus," and Maybe This Time, which may or may not include sex toys.
Here are all the details:
Lipstick & Lyrics
Saturday, September 25
Hydrate, 3458 N. Halstead
8:00: doors open for a hosted bar sponsored by Bacardi Rum
9:15: show
$10 donation (benefitting the Chicago Gay Men's Chorus)
My first number is early in the show, so be sure to get there on time. If you're lucky, I'll let you see the bra I just boldly bought right off the discount rack in front of a bunch of smiling women who thought I was shopping for lingerie for my wife or something. HA! JOKE'S ON THEM!
And you're invited to come!
The show is called Lipstick & Lyrics, and it features a bunch of large-boned women singing LIVE (regular drag queens just lip-synch like the common trash they are).
I'm doing two numbers: Everybody's Girl, which includes lyrics like "to reaffirm my status/it's absolutely gratis/to use my apparatus," and Maybe This Time, which may or may not include sex toys.
Here are all the details:
Lipstick & Lyrics
Saturday, September 25
Hydrate, 3458 N. Halstead
8:00: doors open for a hosted bar sponsored by Bacardi Rum
9:15: show
$10 donation (benefitting the Chicago Gay Men's Chorus)
My first number is early in the show, so be sure to get there on time. If you're lucky, I'll let you see the bra I just boldly bought right off the discount rack in front of a bunch of smiling women who thought I was shopping for lingerie for my wife or something. HA! JOKE'S ON THEM!
Tuesday, September 07, 2004
Who from my labors rest
Last April, when I was a "Xanadu" dancer backing up a fabulous drag queen in the always spectacular Who's That Girl?, one of the other drag queen's choreographers saw me perform and asked me to be a backup dancer in the far more prestigious Miss Continental Pageant over Labor Day weekend.
Flattered beyond description and thrilled that I'd get to work with one of Chicago's leading dancer/choreographers, I of coursescreamed said yes and ran home to put it in my calendar.
The choreographer and I kept in touch over the summer, but as Labor Day approached I realized I'd never heard another word from him about doing the show. I finally called him last Tuesday to see what was up/when rehearsals were/etc. And he said: "Oh, your drag queen dropped out."
So were ya gonna call and tell me, buddy?
I was very disappointed and more than a little frustrated, but -- thinking strategically that I wouldn't want to alienate him and blow any future chances at doing more of this go-go boy stuff (which is TONS of fun) -- I played it cool and started making friendly small talk with him.
And after about the 10th time he turned our conversation to the topic of me fucking him, I realized that perhaps I was being strung along only for a sexual encounter that just wasn't going to happen. So I cordially ended our call and turned to face an ugly new reality: I'd kept my Labor Day weekend completely open for the show and now I had nothing to do. No parties. No barbecues. No weekend getaways. Nothing.
Sigh.
But then I started thinking about all the unfinished projects on my to-do list, and I decided to tackle them all. So -- big breath -- here's what I accomplished this weekend:
• I finally stenciled the bathroom, and it looks hella cool. The pattern is this swirls-and-squiggles thing that looks part Keith Haring and part Aztec and totally sweet marching joyfully around the tops of my walls.
• When I realized how wicked handsome the chocolate-brown-and-sparkly-silver stencil paint combination looked on my walls, I used it to repaint my new cubey candle shelves that Jeff made me. So now the bathroom has thematic continuity.
• I headed down to Fleet Feet on Sunday to get a new pair of running shoes so they'd be all broken in in time for the marathon. While I was there I also got padded running socks, BodyGlide to protect against unsightly chafing and a FREE moisture-wicking shirt available to every shoe-buying customer who's running the Chicago Marathon. I swear, the Fleet Feet staff is so friendly and so knowledgeable, I'd buy my crack and hookers there if they'd let me.
• Since I was in the neighborhood, I popped over to the new CB2 to look for a shelfy thing for my piano music. I not only found something I kinda liked, but I fell in love with the store's whole aesthetic. Now I desperately want to remodel my entire house in Post-Ironic Sturdy/Industrial Danish Modern -- mostly so I can casually set out troughs of fake grass and mean it.
• While I had my credit cards out, I wandered over to The Container Store so I could stare at all the crap organizers they sell and rub myself longingly. (Is their catalog little more than organizer porn or am I just writing this sentence so I could introduce the phrase organizer porn to the masses?)
• I didn't find any organizer stuff I wanted, but I did find some brushed steel box shelves on sale that would look super sweet in my bedroom. For the last three years I've had framed album covers of "A Chorus Line" and "Evita" and a framed poster of "Les Misérables" hanging over my bed, which has done very little to persuade the endless parade of muscular blond men with melon-like buttocks and thick, kissable lips in my bedroom that I'm not a bottom. I've been thinking for months that they (the show tune art, not the muscular blond men with melon-like buttocks and thick, kissable lips) needed to go, and these box shelves were exactly the kick in the bedpan that I needed to make that happen.
• When I got everything home, I realized I'd need more than a few empty box shelves to complete my over-the-bed transformation, so I dug through my box of unhung knickknacks and found a few other things to hang artfully with my shelves. I also found a bunch of crap I'd been saving that looked much better in the dumpster.
• I also decided to prime and paint the extra cubey candle shelves from the bathroom with silver stencil paint and incorporate them into my over-the-bed tableau. (I know -- it sounds like I'm hanging an awful lot over my bed and I'm clearly in danger ofhaving things fall on my head as I sleep overdecorating, but trust me: I'm an enthusiastic disciple of Less Is More. So it's gonna look cool. Play your cards right and you just may be invited over to see it. Plus, I have a pretty big bed, so there's plenty of room for visitors who compliment my decorating skills to romp between the sheets with me hanging things with judicious restraint.)
• While I had the primer out, I decided I should also prime and paint the ugly white conduit that was installed around my bedroom walls when the building got cable a couple years ago.
• While I had the furniture pulled out, I realized I really should thoroughly vacuum along the baseboards in the entire house. After all, it had been 3 1/2 years, and the dust buffaloes were starting to herd.
• And since the house was pulled apart in every direction, I also decided it was the perfect time to do a bunch of laundry as well and let it hang to dry from every available surface.
Whew. As of this writing, some things aren't totally finished -- that stencil paint takes longer to dry out than Rush Limbaugh -- but I slept a very satisfied sleep last night knowing that it didn't really matter that my crappy friends didn't invite me to any of their crappy Labor Day barbecues. Because I had important decorating things to do.
(OK, I did go to Jeremy's last-minute get-together on Sunday night and a nice last-minute dinner with Bob, David and Steve on Monday night. But the operative words here are "last-minute." I am a Boy of Destiny! I want my social life scheduled in advance!)
Flattered beyond description and thrilled that I'd get to work with one of Chicago's leading dancer/choreographers, I of course
The choreographer and I kept in touch over the summer, but as Labor Day approached I realized I'd never heard another word from him about doing the show. I finally called him last Tuesday to see what was up/when rehearsals were/etc. And he said: "Oh, your drag queen dropped out."
So were ya gonna call and tell me, buddy?
I was very disappointed and more than a little frustrated, but -- thinking strategically that I wouldn't want to alienate him and blow any future chances at doing more of this go-go boy stuff (which is TONS of fun) -- I played it cool and started making friendly small talk with him.
And after about the 10th time he turned our conversation to the topic of me fucking him, I realized that perhaps I was being strung along only for a sexual encounter that just wasn't going to happen. So I cordially ended our call and turned to face an ugly new reality: I'd kept my Labor Day weekend completely open for the show and now I had nothing to do. No parties. No barbecues. No weekend getaways. Nothing.
Sigh.
But then I started thinking about all the unfinished projects on my to-do list, and I decided to tackle them all. So -- big breath -- here's what I accomplished this weekend:
• I finally stenciled the bathroom, and it looks hella cool. The pattern is this swirls-and-squiggles thing that looks part Keith Haring and part Aztec and totally sweet marching joyfully around the tops of my walls.
• When I realized how wicked handsome the chocolate-brown-and-sparkly-silver stencil paint combination looked on my walls, I used it to repaint my new cubey candle shelves that Jeff made me. So now the bathroom has thematic continuity.
• I headed down to Fleet Feet on Sunday to get a new pair of running shoes so they'd be all broken in in time for the marathon. While I was there I also got padded running socks, BodyGlide to protect against unsightly chafing and a FREE moisture-wicking shirt available to every shoe-buying customer who's running the Chicago Marathon. I swear, the Fleet Feet staff is so friendly and so knowledgeable, I'd buy my crack and hookers there if they'd let me.
• Since I was in the neighborhood, I popped over to the new CB2 to look for a shelfy thing for my piano music. I not only found something I kinda liked, but I fell in love with the store's whole aesthetic. Now I desperately want to remodel my entire house in Post-Ironic Sturdy/Industrial Danish Modern -- mostly so I can casually set out troughs of fake grass and mean it.
• While I had my credit cards out, I wandered over to The Container Store so I could stare at all the crap organizers they sell and rub myself longingly. (Is their catalog little more than organizer porn or am I just writing this sentence so I could introduce the phrase organizer porn to the masses?)
• I didn't find any organizer stuff I wanted, but I did find some brushed steel box shelves on sale that would look super sweet in my bedroom. For the last three years I've had framed album covers of "A Chorus Line" and "Evita" and a framed poster of "Les Misérables" hanging over my bed, which has done very little to persuade the endless parade of muscular blond men with melon-like buttocks and thick, kissable lips in my bedroom that I'm not a bottom. I've been thinking for months that they (the show tune art, not the muscular blond men with melon-like buttocks and thick, kissable lips) needed to go, and these box shelves were exactly the kick in the bedpan that I needed to make that happen.
• When I got everything home, I realized I'd need more than a few empty box shelves to complete my over-the-bed transformation, so I dug through my box of unhung knickknacks and found a few other things to hang artfully with my shelves. I also found a bunch of crap I'd been saving that looked much better in the dumpster.
• I also decided to prime and paint the extra cubey candle shelves from the bathroom with silver stencil paint and incorporate them into my over-the-bed tableau. (I know -- it sounds like I'm hanging an awful lot over my bed and I'm clearly in danger of
• While I had the primer out, I decided I should also prime and paint the ugly white conduit that was installed around my bedroom walls when the building got cable a couple years ago.
• While I had the furniture pulled out, I realized I really should thoroughly vacuum along the baseboards in the entire house. After all, it had been 3 1/2 years, and the dust buffaloes were starting to herd.
• And since the house was pulled apart in every direction, I also decided it was the perfect time to do a bunch of laundry as well and let it hang to dry from every available surface.
Whew. As of this writing, some things aren't totally finished -- that stencil paint takes longer to dry out than Rush Limbaugh -- but I slept a very satisfied sleep last night knowing that it didn't really matter that my crappy friends didn't invite me to any of their crappy Labor Day barbecues. Because I had important decorating things to do.
(OK, I did go to Jeremy's last-minute get-together on Sunday night and a nice last-minute dinner with Bob, David and Steve on Monday night. But the operative words here are "last-minute." I am a Boy of Destiny! I want my social life scheduled in advance!)
Thursday, August 05, 2004
The loneliest little Single
The August issue of Chicago magazine is out, which officially signals the end of my July-long reign as one of Chicago’s Top 20 Singles. And while you’d probably think membership in this elite club would bring me a lifetime of untold love, happiness and shoes, you’d be wrong.
In fact, it has brought me nothing but disappointment, embarrassment and random little tufts of hair on my back that my workout partner takes great delight in pointing out (they may just be a result of my getting older, though). And here, for your reading pleasure, are my final ruminations on the exciting process and the dismal results of the whole adventure:
MY PROFILE
Could it BE any more obsessed with gay stereotypes? (We got the drag and the (yawn) French lessons squeezed in there, but where’s the mention of the marathon training and the sky diving and the career accomplishments?) Could it BE any more inaccurate and misleading? (Paris in the fall? Since when is March in the fall? Not interested in finding a “song and dance man”? What part of “I’d love to find someone who’s as into musical theater as I am” is so hard to understand?) Could it BE any less appealing to potential suitors? (Apparently not, as you’ll learn further down in this diatribe.) And to add insult to injury, the online version is truncated to focus on just the REALLY gay stuff. Go me.
MY PHOTO
I hate it. My family hates it. All my friends hate it. People have either said it looks nothing like me, or—if they were feeling charitable—they merely said it looks “OK.” I decided to let the anonymous masses vote impartially on its appeal, so I posted it on hotornot.com a month ago—along with a picture I took of myself as the control. Here’s a comparison of photo shoots and results:
Their photo shoot
• Professional studio
• Professional lighting
• Professional hair and makeup artist
• Professional stylist who picked my clothes, steamed them and even fussed over their drape every time I moved
• Professional lighting-level checker
• Professional photographer
• Assistant to professional photographer
• Lady who got me a refreshing beverage
• Multiple cameras
• Two rolls of film equaling about 50 pictures
• One hour on a beautiful May afternoon
• Final selection by a professional photo editor
The result: This monstrosity, which bears a greater likeness to Grandpa Munster than to me.
Hot Or Not rating as of this post: 6.8
My photo shoot
• Studio = my bedroom on a sunny June morning, soon after I woke up
• Wardrobe = my favorite T-shirt, still kind of wrinkly but relatively clean
• No makeup
• Total bedhead
• Cheap digital camera perched on a book on a chair on my bed
• About 10 shots using my automatic timer, many of which looked pretty good, IMHO
The result: This picture, which I had to crop because my bedhead was worse than I thought, and since I wasn’t able to look through the viewfinder I was barely in the picture anyway. But I think it looks a lot like the guy I see in the mirror every morning.
Hot Or Not rating as of this post: 9.4
Point spread between low-reality, piss-poor-quality professional picture and my modest attempts at self-portraiture: 2.8
I rest my case.
THE RESULTS
The magazine set up a special email address for each one of us—and the editors specifically instructed us to check it every day because they said the mailboxes tend to fill up with marriage proposals and then the magazine has to field angry calls from potential suitors who can’t get through. They also told us that they get lots of letters for the singles, which they regularly forward to us in large envelopes. Furthermore, we were told anecdotally that potential suitors historically have found many featured singles in the phone book and inundated them with phone calls and flowers. One editor described the whole experience as “the heavens opening up and raining down men” on me.
Here’s how it really played out:
Emails:
• 1 from a drag queen who can’t spell
• 1 from a guy I hadn’t heard from since we did a theme-park show together in Buffalo in 1988—he saw the magazine in his doctor’s NY office
• 1 from a neighbor who also saw the magazine in his doctor’s office
• A handful from a bunch of friends back in Iowa who were told about it via an email from another friend
• A buttload of spam
Packages of letters in the mail:
• 1 free book about finding my soul mate with a cover letter from the author that began, “As one of Chicago magazine’s Top 20 Singles, I wanted you to have a copy of my book … .” (Note to those of you who for some unfathomable reason aren’t irritated to the point of justifiable homicide about misplaced modifiers: The author was NOT one of the Top 20 Singles, but the way he muddied up this sentence CLEARLY stated that he was. And he’s a fucking WRITER. Who should KNOW BETTER.)
Flowers:
Let’s just say the dust levels in my vase collection are higher than they were before the issue came out.
Phone calls:
Gay men are notoriously clumsy dialers. I’m sure the phone will start ringing any day now.
Marriage proposals:
Maybe the cousin-fuckers in Missouri who just voted gay-marriage discrimination into their constitution discouraged all the marriage-minded men from contacting me. Maybe.
Being recognized by strangers:
Actually, this has happened a couple of times. A friend of a friend met me at a crowded street fair one night and then recognized me the next day in the magazine. And this guy recognized me on Friendster. So that was kind of cool.
FINAL THOUGHTS
You know how Charlotte on Sex in the City dreamed for so long of having a beautiful engagement picture in the New York Times and was so disappointed when it was printed with a huge Hitler-mustache smudge across her face? That’s kind of how I feel about the whole thing. It's not like I'm deserving of any level of attention and admiration—or like the "honor" of being picked to be a Top 20 Single makes one whit of difference in the world. But I was sooooo excited about the prospect of being profiled in a glossy, high-end national publication (and who wouldn’t be?) and I even let myself fantasize that this—finally—would be the catalyst for sending me on celestial trajectories of social excitement (dare I say validation?), career satisfaction and—yes—even True Love.
And when I saw the goofy picture and read the profile that clearly cast me as the token faggot in the Rich Straight White People Magazine, I was almost sick with disappointment, embarrassment and the realization that once again my life wasn’t following the Boy of Destiny path I’d been hoping for.
The only positive thing I’ve gotten out of the whole thing is the occasional praise from gay people who note that I’m the first Top 20 Single (apparently in the history of the magazine) who’s totally, shamelessly out. (Not like I had any control over the content of the profile, but I did tell the writer that I’m totally out in life and that I’m not afraid of bigots, so there was no reason to reduce my sexuality to mere innuendo. And for once, she listened.) And—on a side note—that deafening silence in response to the profile includes a welcome silence from the goat-ball lickers in the Christian hate industry who have been so quick to send me anonymous save-the-gerbils postcards when I've had gay stuff published in Time and Newsweek and other national newsmagazines. So either they’re threatened by publications with three-syllable titles or they know better than to fuck with me. Because since I’m still totally dateless (sigh) I have plenty of time—and unfocused frustration—to fuck with them back. And Christians vs. Faggots is one arena where I'm used to winning.
In fact, it has brought me nothing but disappointment, embarrassment and random little tufts of hair on my back that my workout partner takes great delight in pointing out (they may just be a result of my getting older, though). And here, for your reading pleasure, are my final ruminations on the exciting process and the dismal results of the whole adventure:
MY PROFILE
Could it BE any more obsessed with gay stereotypes? (We got the drag and the (yawn) French lessons squeezed in there, but where’s the mention of the marathon training and the sky diving and the career accomplishments?) Could it BE any more inaccurate and misleading? (Paris in the fall? Since when is March in the fall? Not interested in finding a “song and dance man”? What part of “I’d love to find someone who’s as into musical theater as I am” is so hard to understand?) Could it BE any less appealing to potential suitors? (Apparently not, as you’ll learn further down in this diatribe.) And to add insult to injury, the online version is truncated to focus on just the REALLY gay stuff. Go me.
MY PHOTO
I hate it. My family hates it. All my friends hate it. People have either said it looks nothing like me, or—if they were feeling charitable—they merely said it looks “OK.” I decided to let the anonymous masses vote impartially on its appeal, so I posted it on hotornot.com a month ago—along with a picture I took of myself as the control. Here’s a comparison of photo shoots and results:
Their photo shoot
• Professional studio
• Professional lighting
• Professional hair and makeup artist
• Professional stylist who picked my clothes, steamed them and even fussed over their drape every time I moved
• Professional lighting-level checker
• Professional photographer
• Assistant to professional photographer
• Lady who got me a refreshing beverage
• Multiple cameras
• Two rolls of film equaling about 50 pictures
• One hour on a beautiful May afternoon
• Final selection by a professional photo editor
The result: This monstrosity, which bears a greater likeness to Grandpa Munster than to me.
Hot Or Not rating as of this post: 6.8
My photo shoot
• Studio = my bedroom on a sunny June morning, soon after I woke up
• Wardrobe = my favorite T-shirt, still kind of wrinkly but relatively clean
• No makeup
• Total bedhead
• Cheap digital camera perched on a book on a chair on my bed
• About 10 shots using my automatic timer, many of which looked pretty good, IMHO
The result: This picture, which I had to crop because my bedhead was worse than I thought, and since I wasn’t able to look through the viewfinder I was barely in the picture anyway. But I think it looks a lot like the guy I see in the mirror every morning.
Hot Or Not rating as of this post: 9.4
Point spread between low-reality, piss-poor-quality professional picture and my modest attempts at self-portraiture: 2.8
I rest my case.
THE RESULTS
The magazine set up a special email address for each one of us—and the editors specifically instructed us to check it every day because they said the mailboxes tend to fill up with marriage proposals and then the magazine has to field angry calls from potential suitors who can’t get through. They also told us that they get lots of letters for the singles, which they regularly forward to us in large envelopes. Furthermore, we were told anecdotally that potential suitors historically have found many featured singles in the phone book and inundated them with phone calls and flowers. One editor described the whole experience as “the heavens opening up and raining down men” on me.
Here’s how it really played out:
Emails:
• 1 from a drag queen who can’t spell
• 1 from a guy I hadn’t heard from since we did a theme-park show together in Buffalo in 1988—he saw the magazine in his doctor’s NY office
• 1 from a neighbor who also saw the magazine in his doctor’s office
• A handful from a bunch of friends back in Iowa who were told about it via an email from another friend
• A buttload of spam
Packages of letters in the mail:
• 1 free book about finding my soul mate with a cover letter from the author that began, “As one of Chicago magazine’s Top 20 Singles, I wanted you to have a copy of my book … .” (Note to those of you who for some unfathomable reason aren’t irritated to the point of justifiable homicide about misplaced modifiers: The author was NOT one of the Top 20 Singles, but the way he muddied up this sentence CLEARLY stated that he was. And he’s a fucking WRITER. Who should KNOW BETTER.)
Flowers:
Let’s just say the dust levels in my vase collection are higher than they were before the issue came out.
Phone calls:
Gay men are notoriously clumsy dialers. I’m sure the phone will start ringing any day now.
Marriage proposals:
Maybe the cousin-fuckers in Missouri who just voted gay-marriage discrimination into their constitution discouraged all the marriage-minded men from contacting me. Maybe.
Being recognized by strangers:
Actually, this has happened a couple of times. A friend of a friend met me at a crowded street fair one night and then recognized me the next day in the magazine. And this guy recognized me on Friendster. So that was kind of cool.
FINAL THOUGHTS
You know how Charlotte on Sex in the City dreamed for so long of having a beautiful engagement picture in the New York Times and was so disappointed when it was printed with a huge Hitler-mustache smudge across her face? That’s kind of how I feel about the whole thing. It's not like I'm deserving of any level of attention and admiration—or like the "honor" of being picked to be a Top 20 Single makes one whit of difference in the world. But I was sooooo excited about the prospect of being profiled in a glossy, high-end national publication (and who wouldn’t be?) and I even let myself fantasize that this—finally—would be the catalyst for sending me on celestial trajectories of social excitement (dare I say validation?), career satisfaction and—yes—even True Love.
And when I saw the goofy picture and read the profile that clearly cast me as the token faggot in the Rich Straight White People Magazine, I was almost sick with disappointment, embarrassment and the realization that once again my life wasn’t following the Boy of Destiny path I’d been hoping for.
The only positive thing I’ve gotten out of the whole thing is the occasional praise from gay people who note that I’m the first Top 20 Single (apparently in the history of the magazine) who’s totally, shamelessly out. (Not like I had any control over the content of the profile, but I did tell the writer that I’m totally out in life and that I’m not afraid of bigots, so there was no reason to reduce my sexuality to mere innuendo. And for once, she listened.) And—on a side note—that deafening silence in response to the profile includes a welcome silence from the goat-ball lickers in the Christian hate industry who have been so quick to send me anonymous save-the-gerbils postcards when I've had gay stuff published in Time and Newsweek and other national newsmagazines. So either they’re threatened by publications with three-syllable titles or they know better than to fuck with me. Because since I’m still totally dateless (sigh) I have plenty of time—and unfocused frustration—to fuck with them back. And Christians vs. Faggots is one arena where I'm used to winning.
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