My boyfriend made fun of me this weekend at the grocery store for actually paying attention to what's on sale. Of course, my boyfriend eats one meal a day and I eat six, so you do the math. Bodybuilders eat a lot and must be smart shoppers. If that makes me cheap, then so be it, but I'd rather spend the bulk of my money on things more exciting than chicken breasts and oatmeal. Like steeply discounted Calphalon cookware from Amazon.com. Or vodka.

In any event, this is what it's like to come home from the grocery store when you're a bodybuilder:

All-Bran - a staple in my diet - was on sale, so I stocked up on four boxes and saved $10.76.

I use low-sodium chicken broth in almost all of my cooking, so I picked up a couple of extra cartons, on sale for $1.88 each.

Splenda - an absolute must. In fact, this was not on sale, proving that I am not a crazy coupon lady after all.

And now for the packages of Perdue chicken breasts. I could go on and on about the cost of chicken breasts for days. The Safeway chicken breasts are cheap, but they're horribly cut and smell kind of weird. The designer chicken breasts (ahem, Perdue) are fantastic but absurdly expensive ($5.99 per pound). Well, imagine to my surprise (Actually, I was not surprised because I checked the weekly circular online before I left for the store!) that Perdue chicken breasts were on sale today for $2.99 per pound. I bought every single tray on the shelf. That's 12 trays of chicken breasts. They are all sitting in my freezer, and I saved $37.40.

It will take me about a month to go through all of those trays.

OK, so maybe I am somewhat obsessive-compulsive when it comes to grocery shopping. Blame that on my mother. Just don't say I'm cheap. I mean, do cheap people even buy the kinds of foods I buy? Like, the kind you have to cook? I think not.

Posted by Toby at 01:03 AM | Permalink | Comments (29)

My four-year-old niece touched my T-shirt and said it is soft.

Then she touched my face (shaven that morning) and said it is soft as well.

And then she touched my hair and asked me if I take showers.

Of course, she followed all of this up by asking my brother what happened to his face (Um, acne!), so I'm not feeling too badly for my greasy guido self.

Posted by Toby at 06:56 PM | Permalink | Comments (6)

Watch. Rinse. Repeat.

Posted by Toby at 11:17 AM | Permalink | Comments (11)

Posted by Toby at 01:26 AM | Permalink | Comments (4)

When I walked into my parents’ house on Wednesday night, everyone got up from the couch to welcome me, except for him. And there he was, sitting in front of the television, watching with apparent disinterest a taped episode of “Dancing with the Stars.” Couldn’t care less about these so-called celebrities, couldn’t care less about what was going on, couldn’t care less that I was home. Jesus, I know you’re getting old, but feign a little enthusiasm, OK?

My mother walked me down the hall and, out of his earshot, told me he is, indeed, getting old. Really old. “I made him dinner tonight and he didn’t touch it,” she said, rather comfortably, as if she’s said it many times before, to my father, to my sister, to her girlfriends, to the doctor. I feel like I’m the last to know. He may not be with us for Christmas.

That night, I sat by his bed while he dozed, tucking a blanket around his body, which is now covered in lesions. He opened his eyes and stared at me. Well, if your plan was to get the sympathy vote, you’re making out like a bandit, pal.

I’m going to miss my dog.

Posted by Toby at 01:00 PM | Permalink | Comments (14)

My body. Yes, I resent this anemic prison of flesh and bone. But when it comes to being healthy and happy, I unarguably meet the criteria for the former, which cannot be said of everyone. All of my moving parts work (granted, some more than others), and I've almost no need for my fabulous medical coverage. Also, my gums no longer bleed when I floss and brush, thanks to my recent interest in long-term dental health.

My family. I just heard my mother sprint down the hallway shouting, "OH SHIT." The kitchen is apparently filled with smoke. Lord knows why. The Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade just ended, and my brother made a joke about Santa being assassinated on live TV by a parade-goer. So sick. Oh, and my mother saw me typing just now and asked if I was writing about her. Um, no. Maybe. Yes.

My dog. Well, my family's dog. He's 12. Through tears, my mother told me to "get my fill of him" because she suspects he won't be around for Christmas. I'm too emotional to think about that right now. Oh, Pookie. The Baby. Prince of Pups. Senor Four Paws. Sweetie Pie. Little Man. I am going to miss you so much. I love you.

My roommate and best friend. I love you, Agatha.

My friends. They are all awesome. And I'm 95 percent sure I'm not the one friend in the group whom everyone openly hates behind his back.

My boyfriend. Perhaps it's easy to fall in love with me, but it sure as hell ain't easy to date me. Or at least that is what I say to make myself feel complicated and complex.

My blog. When I shut down this blog a year ago, the Gentleman Friend told me I was a shortsighted fool. He was right. Sad but true, my blog keeps me sane.

That pretty much sums it up. Happy Thanksgiving, everyone.

Posted by Toby at 12:28 PM | Permalink | Comments (6)

Looks like I inadvertently found London Preppy's weak spot.

I was seriously just joking about your triceps. They are enormous and it would be absurd of me to seriously suggest otherwise. Just a playful ribbing, from one body dysmorphic blogger to another.

Posted by Toby at 10:51 PM | Permalink | Comments (3)

My bedroom closet is a walk-in closet in the sense that, yes, you can walk inside it, but you'll probably get stabbed in the neck by a brass coat hook, trip over a pile of DVDs, and have a bowling ball fall onto your head. (Isn't that what people in movies keep on the top shelves of their closets? Bowling balls?) In fact, it is probably the worst-designed closet space I've ever seen, but given that my "bedroom" in our previous apartment didn't have a closet at all, I'm not one to complain.

For weeks I've been meaning to organize things, but on Sunday it suddenly hit me: There is no real reason for me to hang on to those T-shirts I bought from Pacific Sunwear in 10th grade. I mean, sure, they are still perfectly good T-shirts, but they don't fit me! Same for the piles of white Hanes underwear. And those horrible department store dress shirts I wore to my college internships. Why do I still have these things? I guess it never occurred to me to throw them away. Until Sunday.

So now, finally, I have a clean closet. Albeit one with no clothes in it. But clean nonetheless.

Posted by Toby at 12:12 AM | Permalink | Comments (11)

I would like to take the opportunity to remind you all of my comment policy, which, more or less, embraces free speech and allows everyone the right to have his or her say, be it kind, thoughtful, rude or otherwise.

I almost never delete comments, with the exception of those that fall into one or more of the following two categories:

-Shockingly offensive
-Places another individual at risk for personal harm

To put things into perspective, I've deleted less than a dozen comments in the six years I've been blogging.

Also, I reserve the right to ban anyone who visits this blog just to talk trash. And there is a difference between talking trash and talking smack. Please consult the most recent episode of "The Office" if you don't know what I'm talking about.

Smack-talkers, welcome. Trash-talkers, please, please, PLEASE, go somewhere else. I know from your IP address that you live in Boston, and I know from your 700-word diatribe against me that you have a micropenis.

Posted by Toby at 05:50 PM | Permalink | Comments (4)

Does anyone read London Preppy?

A reader recently e-mailed me about this guy, and I'm totally obsessed. He's like the British version of me, but with a better body. A much better body. Like, wow.

Of course, the fact that he has the author of "American Psycho" tattooed on his arm is troubling, to say the least. That would be like me getting "Britney Spears" tattooed on the small of my back, which, now that I think about it, seems more and more like a good idea with every passing day.

Addendum: Steven reminded me in the comments section that he is the one who pointed me in the direction of London Preppy. Thanks again, Steven, and I'm sorry for initially forgetting to link to you.

By the way, is it me, or is everyone giving me attitude lately in the comments sections? Get it out of your system, OK?

Posted by Toby at 12:32 PM | Permalink | Comments (14)

I guess I don't really relate to this. Could you imagine if you did? Oh god. I'd kill myself. A life that leads to nothing but owning a one-bedroom apartment in a gentrifying D.C. neighborhood and maintaining a profile on BigMuscle.com that's updated on a strangely frequent basis but says you're not into drugs or one-night stands. Lies. It's a lifestyle that's destructive and unrewarding. And not because of the cocaine. Because of the people. All of your friends are douche bag realtors and stuffy lawyers, who are distinguished from their straight compatriots only by their gym memberships and inability to marry. This is the side to gay life that no one tells you about when you're coming out to your best girlfriend in 10th grade. You learn it the hard way. Or by reading about it on an anonymous blog.

The author of these 10 rules rips off Bret Easton Ellis every step of the way, which isn't saying much. But still, there's a compelling sadness that emerges among the tired gay cliches of abs classes and perfunctory anal sex. The character knows what he's doing - the damage he's doing - and does it anyway, casually, nonetheless. Not because he feels personally compelled. But because this is what he's supposed to do. This is what gay people do. And isn't it sad. So sad. It really is.

My boyfriend asked me if I'd be going out tonight. To Town. I said no. He said, "Oh, someone will call you and invite you to go and you'll end up going." No. And they have. They've texted and called. But I won't dance unless my boyfriend is with me. New rule. And so I stay in on Saturday nights, drinking a smoky Merlot and watching "Chicago" and setting off fireworks in the hallway with my roommate. But no dancing. Only blogging. And reading blogs. The blog of someone far more depressed than me. Or at least he should be.

Posted by Toby at 03:02 AM | Permalink | Comments (14)

Now that the Wizard of Oz over at BratBoySchool.com made the curious decision to shut down comments on the blog's two remaining entries, it has yet to be seen if Ethan's readers will ever find the answers to questions no one else could be bothered to ask. Where has Ethan been this whole time? Is he still working with his manager? Is Ben living in their Las Vegas house? Who actually owns the house? And for the love of all that is holy, when will the sex tape leak!

In any event, my interest in this saga is fading faster than Ethan's modeling career, so here's the deal.

The BratBoySchool.com webmaster banned readers from further commenting on the two remaining blog entries. Overall, the webmaster had been cooperative in providing information to those affected by and interested in the scandal. But the tide fell against him in recent days, as former Brat Boy fans openly questioned the webmaster's repeated positioning of Ethan's ex-boyfriend and former porn star Benjamin Bradley as an innocent and unknowing victim. The webmaster swiftly threw the comment switch, leaving Ethan's jilted fans in the dark as of this afternoon.

Meanwhile, Ethan's ex-boyfriend Ben posted an inaudible "video apology" late Wednesday evening, which was about as "half-assed" as that Coppertone spoof he posted five days ago. (Ben uttered something in his apology about T-shirts, but the audio was so low that I couldn't hear anything else. Based on his appearance and facial expressions, I'd say that he couldn't care less about any of this. Hey, that makes two of us!) Due to the technical difficulties, he has pledged to post another video soon.

And as if these people could get any sketchier, Ben's domain name happened to expire today, which knocked TheProjectBE.com offline for a number of hours. Thanks to some unexplained fiddling by the BratBoySchool.com webmaster, TheProjectBE.com now directs to Ben's blog, skipping past the splash page that once offered photos and contact information. How strange.

That's about it, people. To be honest, I'm quite interested in this story and will be following it as it unfolds - although I will leave the bulk of the reporting to newly resurrected bratboyschool.blogspot.com. There you'll find the latest and greatest in Brat Boy drama, brought to you by some random dude in Pittsburgh with more time on his hands than myself. More power to you, buddy.

Also, I am not permitting comments on this particular entry. I do not want my blog to become a forum for Brat Boy discussion. I do not know Ethan or his manager personally. They are public figures by choice and deserve this scrutiny, but they are undeserving of personal attacks. Thanks for tolerating my interest in this story!

Posted by Toby at 10:50 PM | Permalink

When Agatha and I host guests, they are most often surprised not by the classy decor of our apartment, but by the comparative classlessness of its two inhabitants.

Some light reading material - the last issue of Weekly World News and a hardcover copy of Susan Powter's "Sober...and Staying That Way" - rests upon an ornate brass coffee table that would not be entirely out of place in the Château de Versailles. A well-used beer funnel keeps company with a lonely $400 KitchenAid stand mixer above the kitchen cabinets. A gilded picture frame in the living room houses a tabloid photo of Lindsay Lohan and her exposed nipple. And there's a stack of historical documentaries from Netflix near the TV, but our TiVo is loaded with a week's worth of "Jerry Springer" and "I Love New York" episodes.

But Tuesday evening was a sophisticated affair. Rusty and his mail-order bride came over for dinner, so Agatha and I cleaned out our fridge of rotting produce and prepared the following menu:

- Tomato and Mozzarella Salad with Homemade Vinaigrette
- Butternut Squash Risotto
- Classic French Chicken in White Wine Sauce (I dredged the chicken in flour first and didn't include the cream at the end)
- Almond Cake

And as pre-dessert entertainment, we exploded a two-liter bottle of Diet Coke behind our apartment building. Nice.

Posted by Toby at 10:08 AM | Permalink | Comments (9)

It's a long story, as those involving former porn stars and Las Vegas gay trash often are. But it's worth hearing if you recall the days of my rivalry with Ethan of BratBoySchool.com.

Since I don't have the time to cobble together a seamless narrative based on the incoherent online ramblings of the hottest messes Sin City has to offer, allow me to point you in the right direction.

Whoever seized control of BratBoySchool.com has posted an intriguing rundown of "the facts" - namely, that the "Ethan" we all knew and never quite understood was merely the "face" of a manipulative, middle-aged mastermind who operated the site, wrote Ethan's blog entries, and communicated with readers as "Ethan" via e-mail and MySpace. In other words, if you've ever corresponded with Ethan, you were in fact corresponding with his 40-year-old manager.

Oh, but it gets better! Keith, BratBoySchool.com's webmaster, tells all, as well. Something about how he was never reimbursed for the time he spent designing BratBoySchool.com and TheProjectBE.com. Keith was led to believe by Ethan's manager that "the boys" had not yet cashed in on their Ginch Gonch endorsement due to complications with the IRS. After months of not being compensated for his work, Keith shut down the site and deleted any entries that were not actually written by Ethan himself (i.e. all of them).

And if you really have some time to kill, stare into the blank, soulless eyes of Blair, an amateur porn actor who recorded a 30-minute "confessional" of vague accusations, limp-dicked allegations, and something about giving $1,500 in an unmarked envelope to Ethan's manager. Yikes. It gets good at around the 12-minute countdown mark. He talks about how Ethan and Ben didn't actually purchase their new house - it was paid for them by some television network. I don't know if any of this is true, but it certainly makes things interesting.

Finally, there is TheProjectBE.com, when Ethan's better, tanner, more muscular half, Ben, promises a video apology in the near future. (Let's hope his long-winded friend Blair isn't the executive producer behind that endeavor.) I happen to like Ben. He seems to be the lone Ginch Gonch boy at this point, which means he dumped Ethan and held onto the one legitimate product of their ridiculous enterprise: the Ginch Gonch endorsement. The question is: What happens to that empty Las Vegas McMansion of theirs?

There's a lot of drama here, not to mention a lot of unanswered questions. All I know is that it's probably a matter of time before Ethan turns to the other kind of male modeling - you know, the kind that doesn't involve clothes. What a sad and inevitable ending to a corrupt and exploitative journey that will be.

Many of you lashed out at me two years ago for daring to criticize poor, innocent Ethan and his quest for blog stardom. And to that I say, "I told you so." Ethan is a fraud, plain and simple. He exploited the anonymity afforded to all of us with blogs and used it against his readers. He is an embarrassment, and if you've ever stood up for him, you should be embarrassed, too.

As for me? Well, I may not disclose everything about my life, but I will never lie to you. What you see is what you get, for better or for worse. But at least what you're getting from me is real.

Update (11/15/2007): Comments for this entry are now closed. Thanks for playing!

Posted by Toby at 12:24 PM | Permalink

Proving once again that I can update my blog once a month and still get myself in Express, I was quoted in its Blog Log today:

I'm sad they didn't include my "fitness celebritard" bit. I thought that was pretty funny.

Posted by Toby at 10:23 AM | Permalink | Comments (2)

As a child, I insisted to my mother that all of my Halloween costumes incorporate a cape of some kind. I went as Batman one year. A vampire another year. The Phantom of the Opera another year. (Gay.) I just really liked capes. They are dramatic and fun, and they were the closest thing to a dress I could get away with at the time.

Now I am all about wigs.

Yes, I went as fitness celebritard John Basedow for Halloween.

Strangely, I spent a lot of money on this costume. $50 for the wig. (I bought it at an actual wig shop. One man's serious attempt at concealing male-pattern baldness is another man's ironic Halloween statement!) $30 for the jogging shorts (not pictured). $25 for the large (!) Under Armour shirt. $25 for another shirt after losing the first one at Cobalt on the Saturday night before Halloween. (Long story, the details of which are vague.) But really, it was all worth it.

Of course, if I stick to my recent habit of eating an entire box of Entenmann's every two days, I'll be going as Richard Simmons next year.

Posted by Toby at 11:10 PM | Permalink | Comments (9)