What happens to a dream deferred?

I'm not sure; I don't have any dreams. All I know is that it's better to be a gin-soaked grape than an anguished raisin in the sun.

Posted by Toby at 09:00 AM | Permalink | Comments (8)

¿Donde esta la chica nueva?

Cyber Agatha and I watched the slapstick farce "Enough" last night over a tray of freshly prepared Pillsbury Grands biscuits and some undercooked bacon. We helpfully translated each scene into eighth-grade Spanish:

Jennifer Lopez is punched in the face by her husband. Heneefer Lopez no es muy suerte.

Jennifer Lopez waits tables. Heneefer Lopez tiene la hamburguesa grande.

Jennifer Lopez answers the phone. "¡Hola!"

We only watched half of it, so maybe tonight we'll practice conjugating verbs. Abuso. Abusas. Abusa. Abusamos. Abusan.

Posted by Toby at 09:48 AM | Permalink | Comments (8)

Even though they give me a nasty case of the B.D.D., I love Lewis Payton's photographs. I mean, what's not to like about pictures of devastatingly unattainable men?

Luckily for me, Andy Towle had a chance to interview Lewis about his new collection of limited edition prints. Here's an excerpt:

Is it difficult to keep your focus surrounded by so many beautiful men, especially when they are naked?

I get this question more than any other. Honestly, it's dead easy. I am so focused during a shoot that nothing intrudes on that. Once I'm editing, that's another story. I will look through proofs and be like 'Whoa, that's smoking hot!'

So you never get turned on during a shoot?

There's moments sometimes where you are aware of a sexual tension in the air, but I work that into the picture instead of acting on it. As soon as you step over that line, the images reflect that. I am much more interested in capturing emotional intimacy and sensuality than overt sexuality.

Rejected Questions from Andy's Interview with Lewis Payton:

"So, you don't even get a little hard?"

"Have you ever played with your asshole during a shoot?"

"Do I turn you on?"

Posted by Toby at 03:52 PM | Permalink | Comments (10)

This is the best Missed Connection I have read in my entire life.

Posted by Toby at 03:23 PM | Permalink | Comments (19)

It's funny how I can spend an entire weekend celebrating pride, only to wake up on Sunday morning to a world of extraordinary shame.

I guess that's Newton's third law of motion for you. (Thanks, Wikipedia!) To every act of pride, there is an equal and opposite act of humiliation and disgrace. My weekend at Capital Pride proved no exception to this rule.

PRIDE: Wisely wearing sunglasses during Saturday afternoon's parade to eliminate the very real possibility of direct eye contact with those who I've been purposefully avoiding since last year's Pride.

SHAME: Exclaiming "I KNOW YOU FROM FRIENDSTER" (truthfully) every single time Jamie introduced me to someone at his party.

PRIDE: Resisting nearly all urges to talk about my landlady to strangers.

SHAME: Failing to correct my friend whenever he referred to me as a "famous blogger."

PRIDE: Spending Friday night with straight people.

SHAME: Spending Sunday night watching Fox News. (If that doesn't restore your gay pride to a state of equilibrium, I don't know what does.)

Posted by Toby at 03:36 PM | Permalink | Comments (2)

Can you believe it? A whole week! With no one to hold up my beer funnel or apply bronzer to my back, I may actually have to leave my apartment and interact with the outside world.

I suppose Pride is a good start.

Posted by Toby at 11:30 AM | Permalink | Comments (4)

Me: White guy in a blue button-down shirt this morning on the L2.

You: Black homeless guy sitting at the back of the bus. You were wearing gray sweatpants and had some luggage. You also threatened to kill my entire family.

Hmm, I guess I should be a little more specific. (I'm new to this Missed Connections thing!) I sat down across from you, initially overjoyed by the discovery of an empty seat on a typically jam-packed bus. It never occured to me that the seat might be empty for a reason; after all, it was clean, it was dry, and it wasn't in a space reserved for senior citizens or persons with disabilities. What would be the harm in allowing myself to sit?

I'm not sure when exactly it dawned on me that I had selected the most uncomfortable (socially, at least) seat on the bus. Perhaps it was when you began screaming at the top of your lungs in a language I can only describe as a tongues/ebonics hybrid. Or was it when the stench of your body odor brought tears to my eyes?

Or maybe - just maybe - it was when you looked me in the eye and vowed to hold hostage my entire family in Dupont Circle and murder each of my relatives one by one before dumping their bloody remains into the fountain.

You got off at Woodley Park and didn't say goodbye. Call me?

Posted by Toby at 01:04 PM | Permalink | Comments (10)

Posted by Toby at 06:38 PM | Permalink | Comments (4)

Hot as balls, you might say.

A member of my office building's janitorial staff informed me today that we may experience a high of 95 degrees on Friday. This reminds me of a story ...

When I was in fourth grade (1993, if anyone is keeping count), my teacher sat my classmates and me down and talked to us about the human body and the crazy things that happen to it as one grows older. Convinced my testicles were descending then and there, I raced home after school and began what would emerge as the time-honored tradition of staring at myself in the mirror until not one more tear of self-hatred could be shed. Oh, how horrible it is to be me!

A few nights later, I found myself burning up in bed, sweating bullets into my nearly soaked sheets. I had no idea why I was so hot, until it dawned on me: This must be one of the side effects of puberty! I immediately rose from bed and ran down the hall to tell my family the exciting news.

"I'm going through the changes!" I cried to my parents, who surely were bursting with pride and amazement at having successfully reared a child into adolescence. Of course, my mother was the first to burst my bubble: "Toby, it's 100 degrees outside. That's why you're so sweaty."

Overcome by trauma and confusion, I sulked back to my room, unaware that those two feelings would play a significant role in all future interactions with my parents until the end of time.

Posted by Toby at 05:06 PM | Permalink | Comments (5)

In honor of it being 6/6/06 and all, I present to you a very special edition of Vivid Blurry. Behold:

TOP THREE CELEBRITIES WHO CAN GO TO HELL

3. Andie MacDowell.

2. Billy Ocean.

1. Rick Astley.

Posted by Toby at 02:48 PM | Permalink | Comments (17)

Last night, Cyber Agatha, Rusty and I watched "What the Bleep Do We Know!?", a movie about the goings-on in our heads that's 50 percent documentary, 50 percent story, and 100 percent pretention. (Hey, in a world where quantum uncertainty is de rigeur, the rules of percentage need not apply!)

I liked the movie, but things became a little too Jesus-y at the end, thanks to the old "If we can't prove something exists, then it must!" argument. All that god talk fell on deaf ears - that is to say, the ears of Agatha and myself, not those of the film's leading actress Marlee Matlin.

Posted by Toby at 02:52 PM | Permalink | Comments (9)

'Tis truly the "dog days" of summer, seeing as to how the Gentleman Friend and I journeyed to Costco for the latest and greatest in home air conditioning technology. We walked away with this $99 beauty: the Daewoo DWC-055RL!

Installation required the drilling of two screws into the window sash, a lease-violatin' procedure I will liken to nailing my landlady to a cross. When the damage to her precious non-Andersen windows was complete, the sun turned black like sackcloth made of goat hair, and the Manor split in two from east to west. A coincidence, for sure.

P.S. The stunning photo above was taken with my new phone. It's a good thing that money grows on trees!

Posted by Toby at 07:17 PM | Permalink | Comments (8)

There came a point in the night when I willingly resigned my fate to a garbage can filled with jungle juice, placed casually and invitingly in the middle of a stranger's living room. For one unlucky person, such a party usually ends in confusion, scandal and nonconsensual sex, but I didn't stick around long enough to find out.

Although others may have lost their dignity last night, I managed merely to lose my cell phone. To those who know me on a personal, professional or biblical level, please e-mail me your phone number. To everyone else, please send money so that I can afford a new phone.

Augh.

Posted by Toby at 02:10 PM | Permalink | Comments (4)

An air conditioner... FROM THE FUTURE!

Have you ever been to Mercury Grill on 17th Street? It's a pretty cool place, and it caters to a very specific clientele:

1. People who hate air conditioning.

2. People who love the scent of commercial-grade air freshener.

I, for one, fit into these two categories as if they were a pair of gloves tailored exclusively for my very hands.

I walked to the Grill yesterday afternoon from my office, enduring 1.1 miles of blood, sweat and clipboard-wielding Save the Children solicitors. How pedestrian, indeed. I was sweating weapons of mass destruction but nevertheless maintained an air of dignified condescension, thanks to my glamorous black sunglasses and the Lindsay Lohan sountrack playing continuously in my head if not on my iPod.

Upon arrival at everyone's favorite watering hole in the ground, I stepped inside and basked in what I at first identified as the tingly feeling of conditioned air. Further inspection attributed the sensation to an aerosol of lemons descending from an automated dispenser above the door. Same difference, right? I breathed in deeply and took pleasure in the realization that I suddenly had the munchies for lemon and pine.

The bartender asked me if I'd like anything to drink. I dryly mouthed the word "Water", shortly before collapsing from overexposure to heat and chlorofluorocarbons.

Posted by Toby at 01:45 PM | Permalink | Comments (5)

Dear Innocence,

I know it's been a while since we've last enjoyed each other's company, but I spotted you in a dream, flying out the window and bursting into flames as you rocketed toward Earth with the reckless, demented force of a fallen 747.

If your obliteration had anything to do with last night's erotic dream about Brat Boy, please forgive me. My subconscious knows not what it does - clearly.

Disgracefully,

Toby

Posted by Toby at 12:51 PM | Permalink | Comments (10)