It's 7:30 p.m. on Friday, and I'm strutting down Wisconsin Avenue like the fierce, slightly intoxicated bitch that I am — oversized sunglasses shielding my eyes, the collar of my pink polo popped, cell phone glued to my ear — when I look down at my right arm and notice that it's covered in blood.

"Erica, I'll have to call you back," I say. "I'm, like, bleeding or something."

I hang up my phone and take another look at my arm. Holy shit! There's blood pouring from the crease of my elbow in thick, broad streaks. A droplet materializes on my forearm, and it drips down to my wrist, leaving a rusty trail behind it. Um, okay. If this shit gets on my shirt, I'm going to be fucking pissed.

Lucky for me, it wasn't blood dripping down my arm. Oh no. It was my god damn sunless tanner. Streak-free, my ass — the weather was so humid that I was literally sweating bronzer! God only knows how long I'd been looking like a trauma victim, so I rubbed the tanner back into my arm as evenly as I could. And yes, my palms were looking mighty orange as a result, but hey, no one is perfect:

Posted by Toby at 10:30 PM | Permalink

So, a copy of Michael Lucas' "Dangerous Liaisons" arrived in my mailbox last week. Don't you just hate it when hardcore gay porn shows up along with your Capital One bill and Us Weekly? I wasn't going to open it, but I saw the words "Bonus Watersports Scene" on the DVD case, and I just couldn't resist.

Now, if you think his dick is big, just imagine what Michael Lucas' bladder must be like. My friends and I clicked to the watersports scene — to be clear, these friends are straight and find nothing more satisfying than an ironic screening of gay porn on my 27-inch TV/DVD/VCR combo — and, after recovering from the initial shock of seeing a grown man casually urinate into his lover's mouth, we marveled — marveled! — at the seemingly limitless supply of urine Lucas had stashed away in his excretive system. No, seriously. This watersports scene gave me something new to be insecure about. Is my bladder big enough? Do I zip up prematurely at the urinal? Is my boyfriend dissatisfied with the liquid volume of urine I'm capable of discharging upon his naked body?

Sigh. Well, that's neither here nor there, because, frankly, the very idea of urinating upon someone in a sexual (I haven't quite ruled out degrading) manner is enough to make me piss my pants in discomfort. But to each his own. After all, Lucas' cock is so big that I can't blame him for using it in every manner possible. Hey, Lucas Smegma Facial Crème? Why the hell fucking not!

Anyway, the important thing about "Dangerous Liaisons" isn't the watersports scene. It isn't even the fact that, once again, Michael Lucas has commissioned a film in which every actor sucks his cock. (A wink-nudge to the Hollywood bigwigs, perhaps?) Ultimately, the important thing about "Dangerous Liaisons" is… well… there's a plot! Imagine what it must be like to see two hot studs ready to mount each other, knowing that a conflict exists between them aside from the fact that God never intended for a nine-inch penis to enter another man's anus. "Dangerous Liaisons" gives legitimacy to what has otherwise been a guilty pleasure, and your bemused reaction to the endearingly amateur dialogue will prevent you from scanning forward to the sex scenes — for at least a few minutes.

Buy this DVD. It is fucking hot. And you know what else is hot? BRUCE MOTHER FUCKING BECKHAM. Oh. My God. He is the hottest thing ever. And his asshole reminds me of a garbage disposal. Or the tail-end of an exhaust pipe. HOT.

Moral of the story: You can lead a horse to a urinating penis, but you can't make him drink.

Posted by Toby at 10:40 PM | Permalink

Update soon. I'm enjoying life. But I'm yearning for a creative outlet. Wait for it. Briefly.

P.S. WHY DOES MY ENTIRE APARTMENT SMELL LIKE PEANUT BUTTER?!

Addendum: "Yearning"? It's amazing, the bullshit I come up with when I'm drunk.

Posted by Toby at 10:53 PM | Permalink

There's something to be said for sitting down with a cold beer and turning on the television to ABC's "Dancing with the Stars."

But what is there to be said for doing this all by yourself and then giving a one-man standing ovation to Joey McIntyre and his professional dance partner Ashly after their peppy jive performance?

I became intensely self-aware amid the echo of my applause and decided right then and there that tomorrow night's post-work itinerary would include friends and a bottle of wine — not leftover chicken and two hours of reality TV. Augh.

Posted by Toby at 10:40 PM | Permalink

It kills me that the very title of Anna Nalick's "Breathe (2 AM)" violates AP style, but I've listened to that song 27 times today, and god damn it, life really is like an hourglass glued to the table.

Gah. For the past few days, I've done nothing but strip-mine retarded pop songs and romantic comedies for overarching themes relevant to my life experience. Consider just for a moment that I changed my ring tone to Michael Jackson's "Thriller," not because of the verdict, but because I watched "13 Going On 30" three times in a row on Sunday. (If you haven't seen this movie, rent it immediately! Not only will you understand this joke, but you'll also find that the character's sudden transformation into a 30-year-old fashion magazine editor is a huge metaphor for life.)

I need to go to bed. Tomorrow is my first day in the office, and although I cannot blog about (or during) work, I will say that I'm as excited and eager as I am nervous. Wish me luck!

Posted by Toby at 11:30 PM | Permalink

Posted by Toby at 04:27 PM | Permalink

If you wait tables, don't you dare get pissy after reading this entry, because I've waited tables, too, and I still wouldn't condone the fucked-up behavior of our server at Trio's Fox and Hounds last night.

I got to the restaurant at 6 p.m. and sat at a table on the patio with two friends. We all ordered beers with the intention of ordering food once our other friend arrived. The beers arrive, and for the next 10 minutes, the server — some lanky middle-aged career waiter — doesn't back down in asking if we'd like another round. Some servers are innocently awkward when trying to make a sale, so I assumed this was the case. Of course, I assumed incorrectly.

When I reached the half-way point of my Sierra Nevada, our hospitable server came back, not with another pitiful "Are you ready for another round," but with the check. Um, OK. The server explained that he "had to go" because his shift had ended. Whatever, asshole. If your shift is ending, don't take another table. And if you're really itching to get home, transfer the fucking table to another server. I just cannot believe how rude and awkward it was for the check to be dropped prematurely. But, because we are well-mannered guests, we pay the check anyway.

Here is where things got fucked up. I put cash on the table for my beer, along with an undeserved but generous (well over 20 percent) tip. My two friends put the remainder of the bill on their credit cards, but — unbeknownst to me — tipped only on the portion that had been placed on their cards. Now, this sort of thing happened to me all the time when I was a server, so I know damn well what it's like to get screwed.

Let me explain. A table of two pays a $50 tab in both cash and credit, giving the server cash — $25 plus a $5 tip — and telling him to put the remainder on the credit card. Because the table did not explain that the $30 in cash includes a $5 tip, the server comes back with a credit card receipt for only $20. Invariably, the receipt will be signed with a seemingly generous 20 percent tip — in reality, a meager $4. So the server ends up getting only a $4 tip on a $50 tab, even though the table had intended otherwise. Still, it's the table's fault, because during my year-long stint as a server, I came across no graceful way to explain to a table these complications before handing it the credit card receipt.

Shockingly, this didn't stop our server at Fox and Hounds from stomping over to our table and demanding to know why we left a $2 tip on a $36 tab. My two friends looked embarrassed and began to fumble in their wallets for some cash. "I'm sorry, I don't know how that could have happened," my friend said. Well, I know how it happened. You tipped only on the amount that had been put on your credit card. I apologized and explained this to the waiter, adding that this sort of thing happened all the time when I waited tables. The server then turned around in a huff and I never saw him again.

Never in my life have I approached a table and demanded a bigger tip. That sort of behavior is inexcusable, no matter the situation. I'll never drink at Fox and Hounds again, not that I care, because that place has sucked balls from the beginning.

Posted by Toby at 08:47 AM | Permalink

Posted by Toby at 12:34 PM | Permalink

Yes, I tend to be a tad pessimistic about things, and I didn't need 48 multiple choice questions to tell me that.

But the "Attribution Style Questionnaire" in Dr. Martin E.P. Seligman's Learned Optimism revealed a lot more than my tendency to stress and dramatize. As it turns out, I'm not an inherently pessimistic person, but merely someone who has a pesky habit of attributing pessimistic explanations to even the most positive of situations.

Consider the following situations from Dr. Seligman's questionnaire, even if they never actually happened. Then read the reasons for why each situation happened and choose one that would most likely apply to you.

1. You and your boyfriend make up after a fight.

A. I forgave him.
B. I'm usually forgiving.

2. You host a successful dinner.

A. I was particularly charming that night.
B. I am a good host.

3. A friend thanks you for helping her get through a bad time.

A. I enjoy helping her through tough times.
B. I care about people.

4. You are asked to head an important project.

A. I just successfully completed a similar project.
B. I am a good supervisor.

For every situation, I selected "A" as my reason. It didn't occur to me until after I completed the questionnaire that reason "A" is pessimistic, in that it is specific, external and temporary when compared to the wide-eyed, sweeping "B." In other words, my pessimism stems from the fact that I don't give myself enough credit when positive situations take place.

The habitual explanatory style of optimists is easy to understand. Optimists attribute specific, external and temporary explanations to negative situations. (You failed the exam not because biology is hard and you are stupid, but because the professor is a poor teacher and you did not study the night before.) Likewise, they attribute pervasive, internal and permanent explanations to positive situations. (You passed the exam not because algebra is simple and you studied a lot, but because you're a hard-working and talented student.)

The whole point of Dr. Seligman's book is that pessimism is very often the cause of depression, and that, through cognitive therapy (paying attention to and changing how one thinks), we can change a pessimistic explanatory style to an optimistic one and move out of our depression.

I know this isn't the most exciting entry of all time, but I am really into this book and its suggested method of thinking. It requires a lot of mental discipline to change from pessimistic to optimistic, but I know I can do it. Later today I'll post about Dr. Seligman's way of taking a negative situation and making it "positive" — or at least not as crappy. This might actually be funny, because you wouldn't believe the seemingly benign situations that stress me out and drive me off the deep end as a result (E.G. TOTAL STRANGERS WRITING MEAN THINGS ABOUT LITTLE OL' ME).

Posted by Toby at 09:50 AM | Permalink

Posted by Toby at 10:27 AM | Permalink

Thank god he wasn't there to take a picture, because the image of me crying at The Cock in New York City would be just too pathetic for words.

I don't remember any details. Hmm, let's think of the reasons why. Oh, right, the boxed wine at my friend's apartment on Avenue A, the Stella at some random corner restaurant, the countless mixed drinks that made tolerable the karaoke party we crashed, and, of course, the perfunctory beer at The Cock that I definitely did not need.

Now, don't even ask why I was there. It had to have been at least 4 a.m. and, having nothing better to do other than return to my friend's apartment and responsibly pass out, I journeyed inside to meet a friend. Everyone was wearing a white t-shirt and jeans, and my hand somehow obtained a beer, and my friend kept mentioning my Web site and other bullshit, and I was just like, "Why are you talking about my blog? Where is Bradford?" And my friend's friend was getting antsy and they left and I was all alone and that was when I started to weep uncontrollably.

Sometimes it helps to have a good cry, but this was a little much, even for me. So I left The Cock and proceeded to do the next most illogical thing, rivaled in senselessness only by my deciding to go to The Cock in the first place. That's right, I called everyone in my cell phone. At 5 a.m. Still crying. And can you believe that no one answered? My friends sure are crappy.

In any event, the good news is that I am back in The DC, fully loaded. Just in time for Pride Week, too. Because, you know, we all have just so much to be proud of, particularly VIVIDBLURRY.COM, HELL YEAH.

Posted by Toby at 08:46 AM | Permalink

Posted by Toby at 01:01 AM | Permalink

Well, it's about fucking time. Finally, a fabulous and fair interview with Geri Halliwell, posted earlier this evening by the Guardian. Will Hodgkinson hits the nail on the head, describing her as "the cheeky but eager-to-please young woman that she was when 'Girl Power' first became a national buzz phrase." He then allows Geri to discuss her influences, her favorite CDs and her creative approach to music writing — she plays James Taylor when she has a hangover.

I'm just so sick of the catty British tabloids that have been going out of their way to trash the woman I've adored, idolized and grown to respect. Under the headline "Geri: It's all over, dear," The Sun declared that Geri's new job should be "flipping burgers" and that she is "drinking in the last chance saloon," simply because her new single "Desire" debuted at "a feeble No. 18." The Mirror continued the one-sided repartee with a sniffling assertion that "the Geri Halliwell car crash continues." Why? Because Geri has decided to promote her CD "Passion" at Asda, the British equivalent of Wal-Mart. "She had better get used to hanging around supermarkets," The Mirror says, "because, after she releases the album next Monday, she's likely to be working at the checkout tills."

Now, I've listened to "Passion" — thank you, Internet gods — and I'll be honest: It's not the most brilliant CD on the planet, but it's light, fun and honest. Though Geri is known mostly for her Kylie Minogue impersonations, she really hits her stride on "Passion" with the piano bar-ready "So I Give Up On Love" and (oddly) the Bebel Gilberto-inspired "There's Always Tomorrow." And I can't stop listening to "Let Me Love You More," the sort of song that plays in your head when you steal a glance at your boyfriend while he's making breakfast and you realize you're in love.

So, yea, the British tabloids can kiss my ass. Geri rules. If only every celebrity would take such an effervescent and light-hearted approach to her fame.

While you're waiting for "Passion" to download, enjoy a timeline of my favorite Geri Halliwell incarnations. As far as personal reinventions go, she beats Madonna, hands down. Also, Geri's official Web site has streaming clips of remixes and live performances. (My recommendation: Guide your mouse to Geri Jukebox, then click on "Look At Me/ So I Gave Up On Love." She performs — and sings! — live at London's G.A.Y.)

Can you name each video? I'll e-mail a copy of "Passion" to the first person who correctly identifies 'em all!

"Fuck you, bitches!"

Posted by Toby at 01:44 AM | Permalink

Posted by Toby at 04:02 PM | Permalink

I awoke at 11:30 a.m. to the sound of a fist banging manically on my bedroom door and my father shouting, "Get up! Get up! Get! Up!"

A few thoughts entered my head. Was the house on fire? Had I slept through some important time-sensitive event, such as a dentist's appointment or a relative's funeral? And, most critically, what the hell did I do last night?

These mysteries would have to be solved later, as my father would surely burst through the door at any moment to rouse me from bed, albeit for reasons still unknown. To prepare for his entry, I made sure I had some clothes on — check — and then scanned my room for cum rags, empty beer bottles or other incriminatory items — nothing in sight. Oh, except for the small bedside wicker garbage bin lined with my pillow cover. Why would I...? Oh, right. Last night. Damn, I must have been drunk — drunk enough to warrant the positioning of a cautionary vomit receptacle by my bed, evidently.

I took the cover out of the bin and slipped it back onto my pillow just as my dad threw open the door.

"Get up!" He stormed over to the window and opened the blinds. What the hell is going on? I'd never seen him this angry before, especially about something so innocuous as my sleeping until noon. Cut me some fucking slacking — I graciously agreed to extend my stay in New York by over a week, I didn't get back from my friend's house last night until 4 a.m., and I start my nine-to-five in just 10 days. I'm sorry if your blue-collar sensibilities are offended by the sleeping habits of a post-collegiate 22-year-old, but let's act our age and cut the tantrum.

Of course, none of my inner monologue escaped, because the violent disruption ended as suddenly as it had begun. In the blink of an eye, my father was gone, and it wasn't until I heard the roar of his lawn mower that I felt comfortable enough to really consider what had happened. Just five more days, and then I'm out of here. Thank god.

Posted by Toby at 01:20 AM | Permalink