Thursday, June 30, 2005

It’s started

Today is June 30, and one of our clients just kicked off the first Christmas (ahem, holiday) project of the year.

This is how it works in advertising. Freezing your ass off? Write about summer vacations! Spring allergies? Break out the football metaphors for a campaign that scores a touchdown! Are your balls so sweaty they stick to your thighs when you walk? Do a photo search for reindeer on the roof and plates of cookies by the fireplace!

And even though I’ve been given a full six months’ notice about every upcoming holiday since 1991, I still end up scrambling at the last minute to dream up Halloween costumes/buy Christmas presents/decorate for Arbor Day.

For instance! We celebrate our nation’s independence in four short days. And where is my bunting? Still not bought. My Thomas Jefferson commemorative Lego sculpture? I haven’t had time to clear off the dining room table to make room. My Patriotic Poke Cake? I haven’t even thawed the Cool Whip.

But you, dear readers, at least know enough to start watching your mailboxes for the holiday advertising you’ll treasure for generations.

And let me be the first to wish you a happy Flag Day.

Thinking about having lipo?

Six months ago today, I had lipo. Specifically, I had some stubborn little fuckers love handles and a very thin layer of abdominal fat sucked out of my body and flushed into the sewer where I’m sure it’s living with a family that loves it much more than I ever could. And while I have no regrets about having lipo, my opinions on plastic surgery have narrowed along with my waistline: I still have no objections to people having plastic surgery, but I’ve stopped thinking it’s necessarily a good idea.

In any case, if you’re thinking about going under the trocar yourself, here’s some stuff for you to ponder in your decision-making. (The information here is based solely on one blogger’s experience with one surgery, so it in no way reflects the broader realities of plastic surgery or the experiences of any other patients.)

Make sure you’re having lipo for the right reasons.
And keep in mind that the definition of “right reasons” is highly subjective. For me, it meant that my little fuckers love handles didn’t respond to years of eating right, working out, running/biking/blading, and doing two triathlons and a marathon. I wanted them gone, and they clearly weren’t going away on their own—so the surgery was an option of last resort after all other reasonable courses of love-handle-killing action had been exhausted.

Make sure you have realistic expectations about what lipo
will do for you.

It won’t make you more popular. It won’t make you necessarily sexier. It won’t get you hotter dates and wilder sex and a better job and cooler friends. It won’t solve all your problems. It won’t make you happier.

But it can give you more confidence. It can make your clothes fit you in a way that makes you feel sexier. It can eliminate something that prevents you from enjoying your life. (Could someone please aim a trocar at Antonin Scalia?) These small changes can act as a springboard for helping you achieve other things—but they are in no way a final step or a magic cure-all.

Make sure you can pay for it.
Plastic surgery is not cheap. And it’s not covered under any insurance I know about. I saved up for five years so I could pay for it outright. And quite frankly, I don’t think it’s something that’s worth getting yourself in debt over.

Decide how open you’re going to be.
You can have plastic surgery on the sly and let people think you’ve naturally lost weight/grown boobs/upgraded noses/de-wrinkled. Or you can be totally open about it so when your friends and family gossip about you—and they will—they’ll at least be talking the educated truth.

Either way you approach it, be prepared for people to have opinions. And oh dear lord baby jesus on a ritz cracker will people have opinions. Some will be excited for you. Some will be fascinated and will pepper you with questions. All kinds of questions. Some will solemnly pronounce that it’s your body and you’re free to do anything you want with it—as though you were asking for permission. A tiny few won’t care one bit. And a small but vocal handful will feel obligated to tell you on no uncertain terms just how arrogant/stupid/vain/hateful/deserving of censure and ridicule you are. Be ready for these people; they have a way of catching you off guard.

In any case, you can’t have plastic surgery completely anonymously; reputable surgeons won’t operate on you without proof that you have somebody to take you home and take care of you for your first 24 hours out of the hospital. And take it from me: It’s best to pick a wealthy friend with a fabulous home for this job—a wealthy friend with a fabulous home who likes to pamper people and make them yummy dinners.

Be prepared for a long, uncomfortable recovery.
Lipo is not a manicure or a waxing or a spray-on tan. It’s surgery. And surgery hurts. At least the recovery part does. I knew my recovery would be less than fun when I went in, but I hadn’t adequately prepared myself for the extent of the pain and discomfort and numbness and itching that hung around for months after the drugs wore off.

Aside from the constant pain and the difficulty sitting and standing and lying down and rolling over and getting up and pooping and performing other private activities, there are other aspects of recovery they don’t tell you about in the brochures. Like the persistent numbness you get as your nerves struggle to rewire themselves through the area where there used to be fat. Like the alarming black porno cock you develop as bruise blood drains south from your surgery area. Like the sweaty, dead-flesh smell of your fucking itchy compression garment. Like the concerns that if your compression garment doesn’t fit just right, you could pinch your skin and it could grow back with weird folds and dents in it.

Be prepared for results that aren’t what you expected.
I’m generally happy with my results. My little fuckers stubborn love handles are definitely gone, but I still don’t have the smooth, dramatically V-shaped back-to-waist look I was hoping for. But that’s because the skin around my lower back is 37 years old, which means it’s never gonna be as tight and clingy as it was when I was 18. So there’s a tiny bit of poochiness over my waistband that will probably never go away.

And my secondary hope—that the thin layer of fat on my abs would completely disappear, leaving me shredded like a cobblestone driveway—has just not materialized. From about my belly button down, the fat is DEFINITELY gone (I can even see veins!), but from my belly button up it’s like nothing has changed. The doctor told me I had so little fat that the difference wouldn’t be very noticeable, though—and my self-perceived “problem area” is more about thick skin than fat, so there’s not much I can do about it.

Six months after the surgery, I still have a band of slightly painful scar tissue around my middle that the doctor promises will eventually disappear—leaving “dramatic” results in its wake. The thickness is slowly dissipating—and by this point it’s probably invisible to everyone but me—but I was promised a full recovery in three months. And it’s been six. And counting.

And the scars on each of my hips are still plainly visible, though they seem to be fading more and more as time goes by. I don’t really care about them, but they could freak out some patients who expect blemish-free supermodel bodies once the bandages come off.

Monday, June 27, 2005

What the hell do gay people
have 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 “morality,” when our families disown us, when our elected officials bargain away our equality for hate votes, when entire states vote us into second-class status, 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 the Christian hate industry works so hard to make the world believe, there is nothing shameful about being gay.

We’re proud because more and more, we are able to live our lives openly and joyfully without fear of losing our jobs, losing our housing, losing our families and losing our lives.

We’re proud because we are smart enough to overcome the self-loathing that our increasingly 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.

We’re proud because after all we’ve been through, the world is starting to notice and respect us and emulate the often fabulous culture we’ve assembled from the common struggles and glorious diversity of our disparate lives.

We (and from this point on, I really mean “I” when I say “we”) are proud because we got up on Saturday at some ungodly hour after our opening-night show and ran the always-fun Proud to Run 10K in borderline-oppressive heat and humidity.

We’re proud that, even though we forgot to check our time when we crossed the finish line and we think we finished the race right around the one-hour mark, which is significantly slower than last year’s 54:40 personal best, we have the presence of mind not to blog about it and let the whole world know we must have somehow gotten fatter and more sluggish in our increasingly old age.

We’re proud because we got to enjoy the parade yesterday—and even after our 100th sweaty drag queen and our 200th sweaty attitude queen and our 500th drunken crack-whore queen, we could still see through the “pride” in the parade and enjoy the underlying Pride in the parade.

We’re proud that we remembered to bring our SPF 30 and apply it repeatedly so we won’t end up looking like the leathery sun bunnies we saw parading around all day in their shorty-short shorts.

We’re proud that after the parade we retired to our favorite Boystown diner for a quick meal with friends, and then we headed over to a barbecue with even more wonderful friends.

Quite simply, we’re proud that we have so much to be proud of.

Saturday, June 25, 2005

Things stupid people do

• Lock themselves out of their condos

• Get on a purple line express train going the wrong direction

• Lock themselves out of their condos with nothing but a basket of dirty laundry and a bottle of detergent on their side of the door and a cell phone, wallet, keys, dryer sheets and a dog WHO REALLY HAS TO PEE on the other side of the door

• Buy clothing from International Male

• Lock themselves out of their condos when they know there's a $25 penalty for asking the building engineer to let them back in

• Accidentally out themselves to their religious, conservative family when they're still in high school


Friday, June 24, 2005

34 years ago today

I became a big brother.

And the little girl who used to frustrate me to NO END by leaving wet towels on the floor and dirty cereal bowls in front of the TV and Barbie dolls in unmatched outfits (Can someone explain to me again why my parents were surprised to find out I was gay?) has grown up to be the coolest sister, mommy, wife, homemaker, financial negotiator, community leader and best friend anyone could ask for.

Happy birthday, little sister. I’m proud of you and I love you.

Thursday, June 23, 2005

There’s still time

to see me on stage in a:
1) Ruffly red shirt
2) Cheesy French accent
3) Saucy little Speedo*

The Chicago Gay Men’s Chorus’ fabulous World Tour: Looking for Love in all the Wrong Places opens tomorrow night for a Limited! Two-Night! Run! And if you don’t get your tickets NOW and see the show THIS WEEKEND, you’ll miss out on Big-Ass Solos by me AND the boyfriend AND featured numbers with the endlessly talented Rick and Brandon.

Plus: Guys in Speedos! Guys in dresses! Guys in skimpy little Egyptian outfits! Guys in love! Guys in Istanbul (but not Constantinople)!

*While the ruffly red shirt and cheesy French accent are parts of my Big-Ass Solo, I was not, for the record, asked to be a Speedo guy in this show. Which prompted me to consume a whole box of Little Debbie® Low-Paraffin Fauxcolate™ SnaKakes™. And boy, does my ass feel lumpy.

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Friday, June 24, 8:00 pm
Saturday, June 25, 8:30 pm
The Athenaeum Theatre, 2936 N. Southport

Tickets are available at:
The Athenaeum Theater Box Office: 773-935-6860 (The guy behind the ticket counter is a cranky old bitch who tells everyone (and I quote him verbatim) “There are no good seats left.” Ignore his efforts to try not to sell people tickets to the shows in his theater. Buy your tickets anyway—the theater is too small to have bad seats—and then tell him to have a nice shutthefuckup.)
Ticketmaster: 312-902-1500 or

More information:

Wednesday, June 22, 2005

I got married on Monday

Well, not married married—more like I-was-the-groom-in-my-agency’s-wedding-reception-themed-spec-creative-for-a-beer-commercial married. Which happens to a lot of people, so you can understand how the headline for this post might have come off as confusing or a little misleading. Plus, as a filthy homosexual, I don’t really understand the true definition of marriage because I’m too busy trying to seduce young Christian boys with firm buttocks so what the hell do I know anyway?

Since it was spec creative, there were no professional actors or costume/makeup people or even a freakin’ catering table (though there were some warm Diet Cokes in one corner of the room, and of course there was beer on every table, but it was PROP BEER so we couldn’t drink it—not that I even would because beer tastes like camel piss with farts in it). We did have some cool props, though—including a FABULOUS wedding cake—and somebody decorated our big conference room to look just like a depressing hall for a boring wedding reception complete with polyester skirts on the tables and wilted iceberg lettuce on our plates.

And how did I get to be the groom? I’m an incredibly talented and handsome actor who can pull off the heterosexual groom thing just as easily as I can play a Swedish mountain ranger or a drunken Labrador with an engineering degree. I own my own tux.

They used the same exhaustive audition process to cast the bride as well: This co-worker of mine just got married … she hadn't yet heirloomed her dress … BINGO! Instant bride!

So on Monday afternoon we climbed into our wedding finery and took our places at the table of honor … and basically sat around for two hours while the prop people refilled our water glasses and the lighting people jiggled with the barn doors on the Fresnels. (That’s not a metaphor for anything.)

The spec commercial ended up being all about the totally-bored-with-our-reception best man, though, which reduced the bride and me to mere set decorations—despite our delicately nuanced portrayals and our thoughtful character development. Which means I’ll be deferring my life dream of parlaying my beer-commercial-groom fame into a lucrative career as a backup dancer in a DeBarge video for at least a few more weeks.

Career setbacks notwithstanding, the wife and I had fun at our fake reception with our wilted lettuce and our prop beer and our fake guests. And we expected we’d at least get to enjoy a couple slices of that fabulous wedding cake when the shoot was over—until we were told it was just a stack of beautifully frosted Styrofoam.

“Damnit!” the wife exclaimed in her delicate, properly submissive manner. “That cake is as fake as my tan.”

And my heterosexuality, dear wife. It’s also as fake as your new fake-beer-commercial fake husband’s heterosexuality.

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 today working 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.

Imagine. A meme. Me! (That’s almost a palindrome, except it’s not.)

Unfortunately, a bunch of you bitches 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.
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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 aromatic aesthetic pleasantness despite the wife beating it had just taken. Mmmm!
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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.
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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.
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This is also not a picture of my foot that I also dug up in my search, but I must say this is one sturdy 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.)
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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?


Thursday, June 16, 2005

Questionable decisions in marketing

question: Is this woman being pouty or is she trying not to hurl?
straight men and lesbians: Does she turn you on?
women: Do you aspire to look like her?
gay men: Do you have an unsettling feeling that the model is actually your estranged cousin Peter? And do you just know you could pull off that look like 10 times more convincingly?

Links you may or may not want to click

Shirtless boys singing about milk and cereal
Going where pudding hasn’t gone before
Doe-eyed figurines THAT POOP

Helpful phrases for Americans traveling abroad
Custom iPod photos

Wednesday, June 15, 2005

I'm having one of those days

where I want to hurl things—SHARP THINGS—at people. And not people in general; just a few very specific soul-draining, energy-sapping, life-destroying, hurled-object-deserving people who are BRINGING ME DOWN.

And this has nothing to do with you-all and your COMPLETELY MISGUIDED comments about my alleged troll feet. I HAVE VERY SEXY FEET! This I have been told repeatedly by paramours, friends and even complete strangers. SO THERE.

Besides, these feet have run marathons, hiked mountains, danced in ballets and tap numbers and swing shows, and even traipsed around GRACEFULLY in very large high heels. And they still look DAMN GOOD.

They also ran nine miles last night in what was cool, breezy and altogether PERFECT running weather. And the bloody, scabby things on my left foot didn’t hurt or ooze one bit the whole time. So I should be in my customary post-long-run euphoria today, BUT I’M NOT.

Unfortunately, the hurled-object-deserving people responsible for my unbecoming temperament today probably don’t even know I have a blog, so they’ll never see this post, recognize the way they’re BRINGING ME DOWN and mend their ways.

And now that I have all this cathartic vaguery off my chest, I actually feel much better anyway. So thank you for listening. And thank you for quietly tolerating my temporary fetish for writing in all caps. And thank you for not BRINGING ME DOWN.

Tuesday, June 14, 2005

This is what happens

when you and another guy on your beach volleyball team jump for the ball and you both miss it because you're big girls and you land first and he lands a few seconds later right on top of your foot and as he twists his body to get out of your way the sand between his foot and yours acts like, well, sandpaper on your skin:
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Worst of all, the scabs THAT JUST WON'T HEAL are in such a place that there's only one pair of flip-flops you own that don't make you bleed. EVEN THOUGH YOU HAVE A TON OF CUTE SHOES YOU COULD BE WEARING NOW THAT IT'S AFTER MEMORIAL DAY.

41 years ago today ...

Two of my favorite parents got married—and they proceeded to build a stable, loving home in which to raise two children, assorted cats and dogs, a dying grandmother, a foreign-exchange student, an at-risk neighborhood teen-ager trying to survive an unstable home environment, and the occasional unwelcome rodent.

And 41 years later, the love they invested is coming back to them tenfold from their adoring children, their adorable grandchildren, their occasionally barfy pets and grandpets, and their extended family of friends and loved ones who continue to enrich their lives.

Happy anniversary, Mom and Dad! I love you!

Sunday, June 12, 2005

Ball on!

I have a new favorite activity: Playing sand volleyball in my new Friday night league.

OH MY GOD Friday nights are going to be fun this summer! Even though they won't earn me any 1) volleyball proficiency merit badges 2) invitations to join the International Coordination Club (ICC) or 3) lucrative endorsements that say to the world Here is a man whose volleyball skills are such that he doesn't embarrass his parents.

A couple months ago, see, I had a completely random conversation with a friend I'd been running into with increasing infrequency ... and it turns out he was looking for one more guy to play on his gay volleyball team. I told him I definitely met the gay qualification (you readers do know I'm gay, right?) but as a player I'd probably be a Clumsy McBallDropper whose biggest contributions to the team would be 1) beach shorts that nicely complement my skin tones and 2) coordinating flip-flops. Nevertheless, I told him, I'd love to play—and he informed me his team was in the low-skill, non-competitive league anyway so that would be just fine.


So I showed up for my first game on Friday night ... and our team turned out to be pretty good, actually. (Unfortunately, so did the teams we played against.) And it also turns out I'm not as suckysuckysucky as I'd feared I'd be. In fact, though I hadn't even touched a volleyball in three years, my serves were always dead-on* ... and my shaky bump-set-spike skills placed me significantly above the Timid Pre-Pubescent Girl mark on the Volleyball Embarrassment Continuum.

*Except on Friday my serves had the magic ability to turn any ball into a best-player-on-the-other-team magnet, sending it right to that player's hands and giving him the perfect downward arc to retaliate with a Swift Ball Of Death trajectory to our side of the net.

And we ended up getting spanked smoked murdered invited to join a baking club instead one win out of four games on Friday night, so my parents won't be forced to change their names and move to a new city under cover of darkness just yet.

The last time I'd touched a volleyball—as I'd mentioned above—was three years ago when I played in the same Friday league with a team of about 12 guys who had been playing together for, like, 12 centuries. And since only four guys play on the court at one time, we all spent 75% of our playing time standing around waiting to be rotated in and watching our modest volleyball skills drain out of our inactive muscles into the hungry sands below us. Which really wasn't much fun.

So this year is different. There are five guys on our team—and only four of us were there on Friday—so we'll get to chase after the ball play ALL THE TIME. Which can mean only one thing: We'll just get better and better. Or we'll get a lot of cardio from chasing the ball.

Which is SO much more rewarding than what you'd get standing around in the outfield in some stupid, pansy-ass softball league.

Thursday, June 09, 2005

Got your tickets yet?

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Pride weekend is almost here, which means only one thing:
Inebriated drag queens.

And a big parade.

Oh, and the Chicago Gay Men’s Chorus’ fabulous season-ending show: World Tour: Looking for Love in all the Wrong Places.

And there’s still time to dig out your passport, update your shots and get your tickets to join us.

Book your seats today so you won’t miss our jet-setting search for love (and opportunities to sing and dance and sometimes even take our shirts off) in cities from Paris to Cairo to Holland to Istanbul (but not Constantinople). We’ll bring you great music, colorful sets and costumes, a couple guys in Speedos, and our trademark irreverence at every stop along the way. And to show you we’re not completely jaded about romance, we’ll also throw in a charming little love story.

I even have a solo! I’ll be singing a song about speaking French in a bad French accent as a character our director describes as the bastard love child of Maurice Chevalier and Tom Jones. Quel sexy!

And if I don’t see you in the audience, I’ll tell everyone you smell like fromage.

Friday, June 24, 8:00 pm
Saturday, June 25, 8:30 pm
The Athenaeum Theatre, 2936 N. Southport

Tickets are available at:
The Athenaeum Theater Box Office: 773-935-6860
Ticketmaster: 312-902-1500 or

More information:

Tuesday, June 07, 2005

Our fabulous Cinderellabration!

Here’s way more than you ever wanted to know about our fabulous first vacation together in The Gayest Happiest Place on Earth™:

We traveled using the free flights I won in a drawing last February—and though I would SWEAR that when I won them I was promised two first-class tickets on any airline to anywhere in the US, when the vouchers finally came they were just for two plain-old steerage tickets only on Northwest Airlines. But even though Northwest doesn’t offer direct flights between Chicago and Orlando, which made our travel a couple hours longer than it could have been, Hey! Free flights! So we can’t complain.

We also got to have layovers in Nashville (where we saw a mountain of shiny closer-to-Jesus hair and a mullet and an infestation of traveling Baptists in matching yellow shirts all within the first minute of stepping off the plane) and in Detroit, which has possibly the sexiest new airport I’ve ever been in. It’s all glass and stainless steel and soaring architecture and flat-screen TVs and funky shiny tile and ultra-comfy chairs and—hold me back!—a fast-food establishment that sells nothing but peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.

And I learned something at the PB&J stand: Peanut butter contains peanuts! There were no fewer than SIX signs hanging over the ordering counter to announce this surprising fact. And thank goodness! Because if I knew I had a deadly peanut allergy, the FIRST (and possibly last, but that would just be thinning the herd, don’t you think?) thing I would do is eat a food that starts with the word “peanut.”

In addition to our free flights, we also enjoyed free accommodations thanks to the magic of frequent-sleeper points. And while our hotel was clean, quiet, conveniently located, comfy, suitably tricked out in a Disney-esque safari theme, upgraded to a complimentary suite AND FREE FREE FREE, it was not on the Disney property. Which made transportation to and from the parks a little on the inconvenient side—unless we took a cab, which then made transportation dangerous, hostile (two of our four cab drivers this weekend picked fights with us, other drivers and/or the Disney gatekeepers) and pretty friggin’ expensive. I loved our free hotel, I loved our big comfy bed, I loved our immediate access to the pool—with a python-themed water slide!—but next time I’m definitely forking over the dough for a room in a Disney resort.

Friday: rain, more rain, soaking rain, more rain, clouds, rain
Saturday: clouds, intermittent rain, clouds, bursts of surprisingly hot sunniness, more clouds
Sunday: a few clouds, a few drops of rain, relative perfection
Monday: a few clouds, enough sun to give me a pretty impressive sunburn

Gay Days is an unofficial! because Disney can’t be caught endorsing those gays! weekend of homos in mouseland. Many years ago, Gay Days was little more than Hey! Tell all your gay friends to come to the Magic Kingdom on the first Saturday in June and wear red shirts because it will be fun! Now Gay Days is more than a week long and includes designated days at all four Disney parks, designated days at other Orlando tourist traps, pool parties, circuit events, diva concerts and even a trade show for people who want the inside edge on selling things to queers.

We had never been to Gay Days, and we weren’t sure what to expect. And for the most part, the whole experience was pretty cool—especially Saturday morning when we got off the bus and found ourselves surrounded by people in red shirts (including the many poor breeder families who had no idea how their morning wardrobe choices would end up haunting them all day).

There were times when it was downright touching seeing all the gay people hanging out in happy clumps, the gay couples holding hands walking through the park, and the sea of red shirts in every line, restaurant and crowd.

<soapbox>But there are always freaks among us who don’t realize there’s an appropriateness continuum—and that underwearless kilts and butterfly outfits and drag and vulgar T-shirts are fine—fabulous even!—in a pride parade but are just confusing and alarming and disturbing and stereotype reinforcing and progressively unproductive in a park filled with young children and their voting parents.</soapbox>

One of the benefits of choosing the filthy homosexual lifestyle is you get to scope guys. And one of the benefits of Gay Days, it would seem, is the opportunity to scope a freakin’ parkful of hot guys in revealing summer clothing—and maybe get trapped (the horror!) behind a gaggle of them in a slow-moving line for a ride that perhaps gets you wet. One way or another.

But not this year. We saw billions of homos at Gay Days most of whom did not need red shirts to identify themselves but we can count the hotties we saw on one (six-fingered) hand: Scooby and Guy, two muscleguys we met in a souvenir shop near our hotel and in our hotel lobby, respectively; the giant ’roid-freaky muscleguy with the calves as big as my waist in line ahead of us at the ice cream stand near the Tiki Room; the dreamy A&F couple on the bridge near Splash Mountain; and the humpy boy-next-door with the broad chest and the meaty legs who sat next to us in Epcot’s stately America pavilion while we all enjoyed the vocal jazz stylings of the Voices of Liberty.

Other than that, it was wall-to-wall, non-porno-fantasy, garden-variety homosexuals mixed in with their heterosexual counterparts in the Disney crowds. Until we got to the airport Monday afternoon, where we encountered all the muscles, tans, sneers, circuit hangovers and related attitudes we’d expected to see in all the parks. But by then we didn’t care, because Hey! Free flights!

I bought one of those disposable cameras that makes prints and digital images, and I carefully stored it in a zip-lock bag in a side pocket of my cargo shorts so if it got banged up or wet I wouldn’t be losing my expensive digital camera. But did I ever take it out to snap the occasional photo to remember our first vacation together (or, more importantly, to post on my blog)? Noooo! (Technically, that was a lie; I (and sometimes my Disney friend Keith) did take about six pictures. But Noooo! offered a far more dramatic verbal payoff to the preceding question than Kiiiind ooooffff! Please don’t sue me for misleading you. And just as soon as I find enough things worth photographing to fill the camera and get my prints and digital images processed, I’ll post something here. Promise. Unless the pictures make me look fat.)

Will you look at the time? I think I’ve rambled enough for one day. Stay tuned for next month’s tomorrow’s post where I’ll write an exhaustive Disney travel guide tell you all about my favorite rides and shows—and offer some insider tips on making YOUR next Disney vacation extra-fabulous.