From the people who brought you the "scoop" on "podcasts" - not to mention a weekly column by Jeff Gannon: It's Bitch Session!

For centuries, gay men - traditionally known for their near-stubborn reticence when it comes to expressing their thoughts, feelings and personal affairs to anyone within earshot - lived in silence.

Even today that is still very much the case. Fortunately for you and me, the Washington Blade's "Bitch Session" now generously provides frustrated homosexuals the opportunity to "speak their minds" - in print, no less! Let's take a gander, shall we?

He beats me because he loves me.

I'm 35. I'm not an old troll. I look better and younger than most of you overweight 20-somethings.

Roger wiped the tears from his eyes. He wasn't sure what bothered him more: the fact that he was openly weeping in the bathroom of JRs, or that none of the 20-somethings proceeding in and out cared to notice. But rather than confront his tragic age-inappropriate self-image issues, Roger elected instead to resent youth on an uncompromisingly wholesale level. "I'm good enough, I'm smart enough," he blubbered unconvincingly to no one in particular. "And God fucking damn it, people like me!"

Yes, but not enough to fuck you, Rodge. Sorry.

Everybody's a homo (pause) sapien. Of course, some of us are more animal than others.

Others are more vegetable.

(I love a good pregnant pause, but I had to risk the above quip in the hope that someone close to the author is in a coma.)

To the "Yard Gnome" who stalks me at the office: Get a clue, you have not a chance in hell with someone like me. You're highly unattractive, both inside and out. I'm younger than you, but still make four times as much money.

No, dude, don't. Just let him be. Let him get it all out. This is just something Dylan does, just ignore him. So, um, you've never seen him do this? Really? Oh man, totally! From what I've heard, the guy bumps a fuck-ton of crystal on Friday, stays up all weekend partying or whatever, then stumbles into the office Monday morning, only to accuse the potted plant in the lobby of stalking him! Ha ha ha, I know. But seriously, watching him only encourages him. Otherwise he'll move on to berating the water cooler.

Can someone explain to me what the hell amoebas are? That guy who caught them eating ass claims his doctor says they are everywhere in the gay community.

Hey, it's a small price to pay for the opportunity of sticking your tongue in a stranger's anus. Amoebas - gotta catch 'em all!

Posted by Toby at 11:23 PM | Permalink | Comments (10)

Thanks a bunch, Gmail - but really, I'm fine.

Although, way to go on interpreting a pleasant e-mail from my boyfriend as an indictment of my apparent "hopeless situation." Classy.

Posted by Toby at 01:05 AM | Permalink | Comments (6)

It's 1 a.m. and I'm sitting in my childhood bedroom alone. Yes, you read correctly. Sitting, not drinking. This is no small miracle, mind you. In fact, it is no miracle at all. I'm just really stoned from the two Tylenol PM Vanilla Caplets I swallowed. I'm not sure who decided to coat Tylenol PM in vanilla flavoring, but I hope this fine gentleman makes a cameo in one of the many fucked up dreams I'll undoubtedly be having tonight. Thanks, Tylenol PM!

In any event, I managed to survive the time-honored charade that is Thanksgiving at my parents' house. It's funny how easily one can confuse family dysfunction for tradition. But I suppose the passive aggression between my mother and grandmother is the price to pay for truly awesome Italian food.

I'd elaborate, but I make it a point to not discuss family and friends on my blog. I have to save something for the memoirs, right?

Anyway, for propensity's sake, I'd like to list a few things that I am thankful for this year. No hard feelings if you don't make the cut, okay?

1. Tylenol PM Vanilla Caplets. A preferred alternative to staring silently at the ceiling of your childhood bedroom, paralyzed by harrowing reminiscence.

2. My grandmother's marinara recipe. I make it every weekend and have at this point committed it to memory.

3. Tivo. I never miss an episode of "Everyday Italian," "Oprah" or "Cops."

4. New friends, Gentleman or otherwise. I will try very hard not to alienate any of them this time.

5. My blog. I hope to one day publish a book, so you've no idea how awesome it is to practice my writing in front of hundreds of people every day.

6. Boxed wine. Five liters of spiggot-born goodness, packed to the brim with 11.5 percent alcohol. All of this for just $7.99! At least you can say I'm not an elitist.

7. My awesome roommate and apartment. Our friendship and hardwood floors have endured a lot, but they'll certainly last for years to come.

8. The jeans I bought at Filene's Basement the other day. Now I have two pairs that fit!

9. My doctor. But if tomorrow I find you still haven't called in my prescription refill to the CVS near my parents' house, you are off the list, pal.

10. Sense of self and peace of mind. You might say this has only to do with No. 9, but I'd like to attribute it in some fashion to all of the above.

Okay, time for bed - there is no arguing with Tylenol PM. Happy Thanksgiving, everybody!

Posted by Toby at 12:00 PM | Permalink | Comments (10)

Do other people have panic attacks on the dance floor of Cobalt?

Maybe.

I mean, there must be at least one other person in this city who has walked into a crowd of gay men, only to feel his heart quicken and his throat tighten. He wants to run, but where can he possibly go? The bathroom.

A splash of cold water, although dramatic, seems practical - so he makes a beeline to the men's room. Past the shirtless bartenders, past the idiots he's seen littered throughout Friendster. There's a line, of course - but no door. Just an archway separating the public space from what would (should) otherwise be a temporary escape.

Whatever. He pees. There is no privacy, but he pees. Zip, buckle and to the mirror. He pauses to inspect - and perhaps appreciate - the character of his stubble, the fullness of his cheeks, the intensity of his eyes. You are not ugly, he says to himself. Stop it. You're being ridiculous. Dry your hands and get back out there. Your friends are waiting.

He leaves the bathroom - mostly because to stay any longer would be strange - and is swallowed up by the rush of events. More beers, downstairs, upstairs, handshakes and eye contact. He meets a hot guy who happens to read (and love) his blog, who has an adorable southern accent, who keeps the compliments flowing like Red Bull and vodka.

But it's 2 a.m. and he's had too much to drink and the compliments seem empty and the subliminal touching unwelcome. And so he bolts, as he often does. Down the stairs and out the door, like a runaway bride. That was a close call. But he's free. For now.

It goes without saying, of course, that this entry is not about me. I mean, really. With the beer and the wine and the extended-release tablets at my side, I am invincible. A body dysmorphia warrior. See you on 17th Street, people.

Posted by Toby at 11:33 PM | Permalink | Comments (20)

Posted by Toby at 08:40 PM | Permalink | Comments (2)

I'm a little new to Tivo, so I still haven't figured out how to group my "Now Playing" programs into folders or why the hell it's been recording "Good Times" for the past three weeks. (The only channels I watch are Food Network, Comedy Central and occasionally Court TV, when "Cops" is on. Perhaps I've cracked the "Tivo Recommends" algorithm: The domesticity of Food Network + the hilarity of Comedy Central + the vaguely racist undertones of "Cops" = "Good Times"?)

In addition to those things, it seems that whenever I'm watching a pre-recorded episode of "Everyday Italian" or whatever, I always forget that it's pre-recorded - so half the time, I sit through all of the commercials anyway. Yes, I'm retarded, but lucky for you, my inability to use Tivo has allowed me to notice the fucked up commercial below.

Check it out for yourself - do you see anything unusual about this screen capture?

No? Let's look a little closer.

Jesus Christ, the poor kid is wearing a kabbalah bracelet! Like, for no apparent reason, a child actor is casually wearing a kabbalah bracelet in a commercial. "A commercial for what?" you ask. Let's find out now.

I can't even believe this. It's a commercial for finger paints! Now, it's one thing for, let's say, a male porn actor to wear a kabbalah bracelet in a film. (Yes, I've seen this more times than I'd care to admit.) I can't respect the act of having sex for money just as I can't respect fake religions, so that doesn't really bother me. But kabbalah bracelets in a Crayola commercial? I'm sorry, but no. There must be some rule that the $80 piece of thread must stay on your wrist at all times, but shame on whatever stage mom forced her child into the glorified Madonna fan club that is kabbalah.

(By the by, I'm talking kabbalah here, not Kabbalah. I just think it's embarrassing when people buy a red string and go to a kabbalah class because Madonna told them to and call that "faith." Then again, most faiths are kinda silly, so who's counting.)

Anyway, I'd like to conclude with Part 98,570,345 in a frustratingly endless series, "Metro is Proof that God Hates Me." Behold the image I captured yesterday morning during my commute to work:

Three buses on the same route, lined up like ducks in a row. Sure, these buses are supposed to arrive 10 minutes apart from each other, but why bother with timetables and bus schedules when dispatching them all at the same time is so much EASIER?

Fucking bus drivers. I wish I had a job where I could routinely show up 20 minutes late (or not at all!) and not be fired the next day.

Posted by Toby at 09:29 AM | Permalink | Comments (22)

Public transportation is not sexy. My life, my friends and myself, on the other hand, are. Consequently, the gravitational force of my eyebrow-raising allure keeps the subject matter of this blog securely in orbit around Planet Toby. (Shout-out to Copernicus for contributing to this extended metaphor.)

Copernicus and Toby - brilliant, but admittedly self-centered.

However, I sometimes digress from masturbatory composition to tackle more worldly issues, such as Chilean economics, sub-cellular spatial heterogeneity, and the Iran-Contra Affair. Today's "hot topic," as implied in the lede, is public transportation.

More specifically: Metro.

So does that homeless guy in front of Wendy's on K Street. But do you give him $1.35?

How do I hate Metro? Let me count the ways. I hate it with the passion of my heart and soul. I hate it with the passion of the Christ. I hate it with the passion of 1,000 Islamic extremists lost in the desert regions of West Africa with only one Porta-Potty in sight. It is an angry, volatile, constipated hatred. And yet, I feed this hatred $2.70 every day, mercifully excluding weekends and federal holidays. Go figure!

Oh sure, you people in New York will tell me that Metro is, at the very least, clean. Yes. It is clean. I will give you that. But a) a clean bus doesn't do me much good when it doesn't show up; and b) the only reason for Metro's orderly mien is because the employees turn a blind eye toward muggings to pursue more heinous crimes, such as a 12-year-old girl eating french fries on a subway platform, a woman enjoying a candy bar on an escaltor, and a pregnant woman talking too loudly on her cell phone (Inconsiderate Cell Phone Lady-with-Child was forced to the ground - hey, she had it coming!).

ON THE GROUND, BITCH!

I cannot begin to tell you how much this enrages me - and frightens me. Go back and read the story about the woman who was mugged last week on Metro by a group of terrorists. Oh shit, did I say terrorists? Because I meant teenaged girls. That's right. Girls. And what did Metro do? Nothing. As the woman engaged the girls in a frantic game of high-speed hide-and-seek - leaping between subway cars, dodging from platform to platform - the conductor ignored the pleas emanating from the emergency intercom and continued to operate the train.

Un-fucking-believable. I can only imagine when it's some wacko setting off a bomb rather than some schoolgirl swiping an iPod.

Take a stand against iPod mug(ging)s.

Argh. I hate hate hate Metro. Although there are some competent electrons on the third rail, the vast majority of Metro employees are lazy, unhelpful, inconsiderate, clueless sacks of flesh. What makes all of this hilarious is the ton of banners and posters and placards urging Metro riders to report "suspicious behavior" to the station manager. Yeah, have fun with that. You'll be greeted with a resentful if not vacant stare, assuming she looks up from her copy of Express to take notice of you.

Posted by Toby at 09:56 PM | Permalink | Comments (21)

Posted by Toby at 12:45 PM | Permalink | Comments (6)

Listen up, people - if you have something to say to me, say it to my face rather than post it on Missed Connections for all the world to see.

Is that so much to ask?

Unlike Vividblurry.com, which is unfunny 10-for-10!

Posted by Toby at 06:00 PM | Permalink | Comments (2)

I went into Thrifty's liquor store on M Street tonight and did something I've never done in my entire life. No, I didn't leave empty-handed - rather, I purchased a bottle of vodka for reasons other than drinking!

Drunk with goodness. Twirl responsibly.

That's right, friends - tonight's menu is penne (well, mastaccioli) with vodka sauce, as well as some delicious chicken cutlets, a personal favorite. One cup of vodka for the sauce, another cup of vodka for me to get sauced. (I doubt this was Giada's intention, but I like to improvise in the kitchen. "Eyeball it," as Raytard might say - boy, has that gotten me in trouble when vodka's involved.)

Anyway, I would like to take this opportunity to thank the hundreds of Vividblurry.com readers who not only pointed out the kick-off of Metro Weekly's "Coverboy of the Year" Contest, but expressed outrage and disbelief at my exclusion from the competition. Believe me, I'm as disappointed as the next guy (Hi, Dad!), but the fact remains that I've never in my life been high enough to consent to a "Coverboy Confidential" photo shoot. Thusly I am not eligible to compete - perhaps we can organize a write-in campaign?

For those who don't live in Washington or read Metro Weekly, let me fill you in on the dignity abortion that is a "Coverboy Confidential" photo spread.

It is six pages of "softcore meets Sears Portrait Studio" goodness - a different boy sacrificed each week to the amazement of skeptics who beg, "Who on Earth would volunteer himself for this!" (No, really, who?) A Coverboy has no answer to that question - M.W. asks that you stick to the usual "What's the strangest place you've had sex?" and "What position do you play in the big baseball game of life?" (Just once, I would like someone to reply honestly a k a "catcher." And no, that someone will not be me.)

In short, "Coverboy Confidential" is the breeding ground from which hatch the Reichen Lehmkuhls of the world.

No, The Reichen will not do a "Coverboy Confidential" photo shoot. Unless The Reichen gets a bag of Skittles. Skittles are non-negotiable.

So, why do I love the "Coverboy of the Year" Contest? Because as long as there is a Coverboy of the Year, there will always be at least one person in Washington, D.C., who is a bigger attention whore than me.

Lastly, as I was obsessing over the latest issue of Metro Weekly today, I came across a picture of my future husband. Behold:

Is that a glow stick in your jockstrap, or are you just fucked up on E?

If there's one thing I like, it's a muscle-bound stud who casually wears a jockstrap stuffed with the trappings of a mid-90s rave. Hot!

Posted by Toby at 11:11 PM | Permalink | Comments (9)

Quiet down, class! This is required viewing tonight for all Vividblurry.com readers:

DON'T LIE TO YOURSELF, YOU KNOW YOU WANT TO WATCH IT.

Did you see this woman go apeshit last week on "Trading Spouses"? She is like a beanbag with teeth. Truly frightening - ungodly and dark-sided, if you will. Be sure to watch this true god warrior embarrass her family and her Jesus on Part 2 at 9 p.m. on Fox.

Anyway, my day was pretty good, I guess - I wasn't banned by Texas voters or acquired for $24 million in cash. (Ha ha, I shouldn't jinx myself!) At least it's almost Friday.

Tonight I am going to the Gentleman Friend's apartment for dinner. He says that I am for dessert - oh no, what does that mean!

Oh, is this the new Rachael Ray book? No? Um...

Posted by Toby at 07:06 PM | Permalink | Comments (14)

I'd like to thank Tivo for allowing me to capture the following screenshot from tonight's episode of "Hannity & Colmes" on the nation's most fair 'n' balanced news channel:

Not as often as I do while watching CNN, that's for sure.

(In case you're wondering, the screenshot appeared after Hannity rhetorically gasped, "Would you allow a teacher to ask your child the following question?!" Well, when you put it that way... He was referring to this story.)

Posted by Toby at 09:39 PM | Permalink | Comments (8)

My apartment in upper Northwest Washington, D.C. - a sprawling two-bedroom with hardwood floors, 10-foot ceilings, arched doorways, wallpapered closets, a foyer, an antechamber, a sunroom, and a dining room - looks down upon Connecticut Avenue (non-judgementally, natch) from the third floor of Landlady's towering pre-war estate.

Not my apartment, but I feel as if this picture really does capture its essence.

Oh yes, the building has been in her family's possession for generations, a veritable heirloom worth millions. Lucky bitch. In my eyes, Landlady is a ruthless real estate baroness, and don't think she doesn't play the part. We - the Tenants - are enslaved by the stone gargoyle that descends from its tower on the first of every month, soaring through the hallways and rapping upon the doors of those who've yet to pay their dues. Resistance is futile (or feudal, you might say).

Gore-guiles! Psychics! Everything's ungodly! Dark-sided!

For fear of this decorative yet deadly winged creature, my roommate and I do whatever is necessary - extinguish the hot water radiators, abstain from drink, offer ourselves as the playthings of Connecticut Avenue businessmen - to ensure that rent is paid on time and in full. And so it was with a paralyzing dismay that I approached my mailbox the other day to find a small missive addressed plainly (menacingly?) to "302." Hmm, 302... My God, that's my apartment number.

Mystery!

Instinct identified the author of this note as Landlady herself. Could it be? I pressed the unopened document close to my face and inhaled. It smelled of lavender and self-aggrandizement - her signature scent. The possibilities of its content thrilled me. A love letter? An invitation to dinner? Or maybe - just maybe - a deed? There was only one way to find out.

Son of a bitch.

Okay, first of all, I have no idea who wrote this letter. If you're going to be a douche bag and pen a cute-sy note, demanding that I "keep it down," please have the decency to identify yourself. Hey, you could even - oh, I don't know - KNOCK ON MY DOOR and politely request that I lower the volume on my speakers. I just cannot respect the wishes of a pussy who expresses himself in an anonymous letter riddled with exclamation points and sorry penmanship.

As for the editorialized quip in the second sentence - you've got some cajones grandes, pal. We all don't need to hear female Irish-sounding vocals at 8:30 a.m.? Actually, I think we do - because clearly, it's an indictment of your musical ignorance that you've failed to differentiate between a female Irish singer and Amy fucking Grant's Christmas album. That's right, my friend! "Breath of Heaven," full-blast, everyday, for the rest of the year!

What a piece of work, criticizing my taste in music like that. I have one thing to say to you, Sarcastic Aurally Over-Sensitive Douche Tenant: GO TO HELL!

Okay, back to Amy Grant's "Home for Christmas." Xoxo.

In any kind of weather, Amy Grant is here for you, always and forever.

Posted by Toby at 03:36 PM | Permalink | Comments (10)

Despite the reputation that preceded me due to this retarded blog, I had a fabulous time at Homo Camp! I even managed to convince a few people that I'm not the jaded alcoholic/asshole/whore depicted in my writing, but an actual human being with a soul.

Also, the Andrew Sullivan puns were kept to a respectable seven, so who am I to complain!

The Gentleman Friend provided some choice mix CDs for the three-hour drive. "Circuit Party Volume IV" is pretty decent - not as good as "K-Hole Klassics XIII" but unarguably better than "Crystal Meth Binge Megamix V."

The Roy Rogers in Cumberland is a classy joint compared to those located at rest stops on the New Jersey Turnpike. Hmm, I wonder where the handicapped parking is!...

Oh there it is - a mile away, next to the garbage dump. Not so "handi," eh?

For what it lacked in adherence to handicap accessibility standards, the Roy Rogers went above and beyond with its pristine and inviting Fixin's Bar. It looked almost too good to eat. Almost.

The Roy Rogers (I promise, the restaurant was not the highlight of the trip) was located on Queen City Drive. "Queen" is a term used in homosexual parlance to describe a flamboyant individual. Queen City Drive is located in Cumberland, a blue-collar, decidedly unflamboyant town in Maryland. The dichotomy of these two elements is ironic. Guffaw!

As we neared the camp site, I made sure to pause and take in the sights, sounds and obese, toothless, wheelchair-bound customers of Walmart Supercenter.

Some people still do, pal! Say hi to Al Qaeda for me, you freedom-hating terrori$t.

As expected, the camp site was nature-y. Perhaps too nature-y, for my tastes.

Like any good Webelo, I followed through with my assigned responsibility of providing lunch, dinner and breakfast for my fellow campers.

The faintly miraculous erection (Foreshadow?) of our tent earned me a (third) beer and a gratuitous crotch-grab.

Only I can prevent forest fires - which is unfortunate, because this responsibility should really go to someone more qualified and less hammered.

When it came to Sunday morning hikes, some took the one less traveled. Others took a nap.

At last, an encouraging road sign on the journey home - superimposed somewhat ominously with the damning Evite.

Overall, a very good trip. Thank you all for including me, and I look forward to being forwarded the invitation next year!

Posted by Toby at 06:36 PM | Permalink | Comments (10)

When my Gentleman Friend approached me (fearfully, as history has taught all close friends to do) with the idea of "Homo Camping" (okay, so he forwarded me the Evite, which, um, now that I think about it, means that I wasn't included on the original guest list, god damn it!), many things came to mind, two of which I will share with you here.

His fellow campers could not avert their gaze from Steve's massive bulge or, for that matter, sexy goatee.

No. 1. I do not own a sleeping bag or a tent. Like, obviously. And do you mean to tell me that there are other gay men on the Evite list who do? I would like to meet these individuals and shake their hands. Of all "You never know!" purchases, I could justify a treadmill, a waffle iron (I've made homemade waffles only once in my life - there is a reason for this), or even bath salts. But a camping tent? That is pretty hardcore. They don't even sell tents on infomercials, so I am impressed.

No. 2. Camping was bad enough when I ventured as a young "tween" (Ooo, buzz word!) through the upstate New York wilderness with a gang of post-pubescent Boy Scouts - but replacing Boy Scouts with gay men does not necessarily improve the situation. In fact, it could very well make it worse. The puns alone - my god, the puns - I don't even want to go there, but for posterity's sake, I will.

"Perhaps on our camping trip, I will bring feather boas and fishnet stockings for all, thus making the occasion a truly campy one."

"Homo camping is no different than spending a Saturday night at JRs, in that you must always be on the lookout for unwelcomingly aggressive bears."

"By cracking an obvious joke about 'pitching a tent,' I've effectively put out into the open a thinly veiled solicitation of my tent-mates for group sex."

See? The possibilities are endless.

Hmm, the gay part of the forest sure does bear (Pun?) a striking resemblance to the Dupont Circle fountain.

Tales of homo campings past do little to quell my hesitations. When the Gentleman Friend lamented the predictable (I mean, really) imbroglio of a certain someone leaving behind the tent but remembering the battery-powered blender, I thought to myself, "Oh my God, a battery-powered blender, that is brilliant!" as well as "Where can I buy one?" (The same mysterious place that sells tents, probably.) But then I thought, "I'll be damned if I drink a pitcher of margaritas and pass out drunk without a tent to shield my liver-damaged body, which would undoubtedly be flirting with Death himself due to the alcohol consumption alone." No, sir - that is not going to happen to me (again).

However - and this is a big, meaty, Star Jones-sized however - there is something to be said for cuddling up with someone in a sleeping bag under the stars. I will let you know what that something is when I get back from Homo Camping on Sunday.

Posted by Toby at 01:33 PM | Permalink | Comments (13)

First of all, you and I both knew that my resurfacing would be underwhelming at best, so let's just acknowledge the flawed, impersonal nature of my latest HTML abortion and move on.

That said, it is good to be back. The gay blogosphere has not been the same without me. Hell, even the strangely addicting Queerty took a break from fellating Andy Towle and exploiting the transgender community for one-note jokes to admit it missed me.

And then there's the posterboy for Citizens Against Porn Stars Having Access to Keyboards - Michael Lucas - whose shaved head now resembles (Ironically? If so, then brava!) a circumcised penis. Now, I don't have a problem with circumcised penises - especially when they are of Lucas proportions - but for the love of Godiva, if you're going to shave your head, please do not attempt to conceal it under a deliberately (albeit hilariously) unpatriotic beret. This isn't France or Russia or whatever America-hating country from whence you were displaced, Michael. Please consider an INS-friendly 10-gallon hat next time. (I'm not saying that Michael Lucas is a terrorist, I'm just pointing out that, like all terrorists, he is not an American and likes to pee on people.)

Lastly, we have the lesser-known, lesser-endowed porn star blogger Hunter James, who may not be able to afford rent this month, but nonetheless rounds things out with an inexplicable spread in Vogue Italia and a free PowerBook. Life remains unfair for those with real jobs.

As for me? I've been watching Food Network, drinking jug upon jug upon $8.99 jug of Chablis, and spending time with the Gentleman Friend. (Ain't gonna lie - sometimes I do all of these things SIMULTANEOUSLY.) It's okay to be jealous. In fact, it's encouraged.

Alrighty, see you in two weeks! (I kid, I kid. Maybe.)

Posted by Toby at 01:10 AM | Permalink | Comments (11)