For a long time I've thought of getting my ears pierced. Diamond studs, small and square - sure, ear piercings on men are universally terrible, but self-tanner and spiked hair are also terrible, and I've done a pretty good job of convincing myself that I make those things work. I don't see why earrings should be any different.

If anything, the conversation I had in a New York City gay bar on Sunday night has only fueled my desire to go to Claire's this weekend for a free piercing (with the purchase of earrings and ear care antiseptic).

Guy: [Unprovoked] "What the hell are you wearing? You're in New York."

Me: "Er, what do you mean?"

Guy: "You are one silver chain away from Staten Island, dude."

Me: "Um, I was born in Staten Island. My entire family lives there."

Guy: "Yea. I can see that."

I'm sorry that my dark Italian features are complimented so well by a black V-neck muscle T and three ounces of hair gel. Now pop off, son!

Posted by Toby at 12:34 AM | Permalink | Comments (16)

When I first heard that "The Little Mermaid" was coming to Broadway, a burst of sea foam shot straight out of my ass.

God, I love "The Little Mermaid." I remember seeing it in the theater and crying when Ursula takes away Ariel's voice. But I also remember identifying perhaps a bit too strongly with Vanessa, the wickedly bitchy embodiment of Ariel's voice who, in my opinion, is hands-down the best female villain in all of Disney history. (I was able to find a brief clip of "Vanessa's Song," but everything else on YouTube is a weird fan-generated mash-up - proving I'm not the only one obsessed with her!)

Anyway, my only real disappointment in the Broadway production of "The Little Mermaid" was the absence of Vanessa. I was hoping the actress who played Ariel would emerge during the wedding finale in a smoldering scarlet wig and behave like a raging bitch, but it never happened. In fact I couldn't really tell you what happened during the finale because it didn't make any sense.

To that degree, the critics were right: The plot lacked coherence of any kind. Something involving a shell. A powerful, radioactive shell. I have no idea. The important thing is that the entire cast was outfitted with Heelys. Heelys, people. HEELYS. How can you ever go wrong with Heelys? That's right, you can't.

In a clamshell, the musical was simply breathtaking. As to which my boyfriend can attest, I cried multiple times throughout the performance, and the ensemble inspired a well-deserved standing ovation that lasted for the closing reprise of "Under The Sea." Everyone left the Lunt-Fontanne with a smile - except, of course, for the Dina Lohan look-alike in the front row who surely would have smiled had it not been for the 3,000 units of Botox rendering her facial muscles as devoid of life as, admittedly, the bizarre fishtails attached to the rear ends of Ariel and her school of multi-culti sisters.

Posted by Toby at 12:26 AM | Permalink | Comments (6)

To quote my late former landlady's mentally unbalanced sister, "I just flew in from New York" - and let me tell you, there is a ton of shit to blog about. But before I get into Kathy Griffin's performance at MSG and "The Little Mermaid" and the guy at Therapy who read my Staten Island roots like a book, I need to tell you about my brief run-in with no one's favorite porn industry cliche, Erik Rhodes.

For those who aren't familiar with Erik (i.e. everyone), he is a former (?) porn actor who writes about his Sexual Compulsives Anonymous meetings on his blog - of which the "About" section is a studio photo of his ass. And that is pretty much all you need to know about Erik Rhodes.

Long story mercifully short, I ran into him at Therapy while getting drinks for my boyfriend and myself, and I thought nothing of approaching him to say hi. I said that I read his blog and and he looked at me like I was crazy. Actually, he didn't really look at me like I was crazy - he kind of just looked at me, blankly. To say his response was, "Oh, thanks," would be generous paraphrasing.

For some reason, when I spotted him, I imagined us having a brief but gratifying conversation about body image and working out and blogging, and I would scamper back upstairs to my boyfriend and say, "I just met Erik Rhodes, and it turns out that not all steroid-addled porn stars are brain-dead tools!" Instead, I felt like an idiot for even bothering him, even though you and I both know I am superior to him in nearly every way by virtue of the facts that I don't put a price on personal boundaries ($1,000 per scene, apparently), I don't have a crippling addiction to steroids and recreational party drugs, and I don't wear a stupid chimney-sweep hat when I go out to a bar.

Of course, it makes no sense to criticize Erik's faults when they are the only interesting things about him. Think about it: Erik is proud to get fucked in the ass in front of a camera for money but is ashamed to seek sex for personal pleasure - ironic that he was at a bar named "Therapy." He is truly a fascinating individual, but if there is one overly muscled drug-abusing prostitute in New York, there are a million, and to approach him in a bar for anything but a hurried exchange of bodily fluids is a waste of both your time and his.

Addendum: Rocco has been writing about Erik for the past several days. I mentioned Rocco to Erik, and he acted like he had no idea what I was talking about. Anyway, check out Rocco's coverage here, here, here, here and here.

Posted by Toby at 10:35 PM | Permalink | Comments (13)

Want an easy way to track me down during my New York City trip this weekend?

Visit my Twitter page and click "Follow." (If you're not already a Twitter member, you'll need to sign up first. It's fast, it's easy, and the gold kit is free!)

I'll be updating my location throughout the weekend via SMS. You can have these updates delivered directly to your phone! (Or, if you want to be less stalker-y, you can just visit my Twitter page on a regular basis.)

Feel free to reply to my updates because I'll be able to view them on my phone. Have fun!

Posted by Toby at 12:56 AM | Permalink | Comments (2)

[H/T: TMZ]

I dream that I will gain 60 pounds of muscle and John Cena will move to D.C. and we will become best friends and my boyfriend will learn to like the man despite his disproportionately aged face and we'll all help each other groom and apply self-tanner to those hard-to-shave places and I'll finally be happy with myself.

Posted by Toby at 11:20 AM | Permalink | Comments (21)

I didn't think anything of the fact that 14th Street reeked all weekend of urine, lube and saline solution - which is why I didn't think anything of wearing a leather jacket to JR.'s on Saturday. And then, as I passed man after bearded man dressed incongruously in tight leather pants that surely did little to suppress the freezing cold, it dawned on me that - duh! - it was Mid-Atlantic Leather Weekend.

I'm not going to comment on this particular subculture of gay society because I don't really know anything about it. But I do know that my friend went to the MAL expo last year and was shocked to the point of literally having a panic attack. On the other hand, another friend visited the host hotel on Friday for an extended "funch." Gross, but to be honest, I'm a notorious prude, so whatever.

Anyway, lesson learned: Don't wear a leather jacket on MAL Weekend. Unless, of course, you're into that sort of thing. Which I'm not. To hammer home the point, I shaved off almost all of my leg hair on Monday using my boyfriend's trimmer. I do not want to be a hairy scary leather bear. Smooth muscle stretch-cotton boy is more like it.

Posted by Toby at 03:20 PM | Permalink | Comments (6)

It's amazing, the things you learn about yourself when you spend your Friday night alone, drinking Fort Lauderdales* and preparing mass quantities of baked chicken breasts and brown rice.

For instance, it turns out that I'm obsessed with Mandy Moore's debut album So Real. Praised upon its release as "mediocre" and "typical," this 14-track tour de force is the apotheosis of charmingly subpar late 90s mass-produced teen pop. OK, so maybe her 16-year-old dick-sucking lips hinted at a certain je ne sais quoi in the music video, but we all knew "Candy" had "one-time use" written all over it, both serviceable and practical, like dental floss or a condom. Not as bad as Willa Ford's "I Wanna Be Bad," but still.

And yet, here I am, eight years later, making deliciously ironic lemonade out of what the masses have deemed a culturally irrelevant lemon! Sure, even Mandy herself described So Real as "so bad," and I'm not about to argue otherwise. But I needed a guilty pleasure to get me through the night, and between So Real, a new episode of "Jerry" in which a woman attributes her infidelity to a voodoo hex, and Edy's Girl Scouts Tagalongs ice cream, I passed out on Friday a happy man.

*Crystal Light and vodka, the signature drink of Agatha and Toby.

Posted by Toby at 12:59 PM | Permalink | Comments (7)

What's worse: failing to develop blood clots within the tooth sockets that once housed my lower wisdom teeth, or failing to go to the gym for a week straight? Body mass obviously takes precedence over longterm dental care, so the answer is, of course, the latter.

I stood in front of my bathroom mirror with my shirt off this evening and did the usual routine of brushing my teeth, washing my face, and hating my self. Agatha and I need to buy a full-length mirror soon because I swear the half-length above the sink serves only to distort my already warped self-image. Preferably a full-length that is vertically concave to the point of compacting my frame into a squatter, beefier 5'9". (Lord knows that setup won't do Agatha any favors.) Still, all mirrors should be so favorably deceptive, and there we have the business idea that will surely make me millions through proper execution.

By the way, I am going to be in New York City next weekend, so if there's anything fun to do on Saturday and Sunday nights (aside from hate-criming Josh and Josh), let me know in the comments.

Posted by Toby at 12:28 AM | Permalink | Comments (10)

In terms of ceaseless mandibular pain, the last two weeks have been the most agonizing of my 24-year existence.

Of course, I never expected the extractions of my four wisdom teeth to be such a big fucking deal. No one did. When grocery shopping the day before my surgery, I tossed some raw broccoli and a tub of sour cream dip into the cart. Raw broccoli. Yum. Goes well with raw tooth sockets, I'd imagine.

Only to my boyfriend did it occur that I should consider purchasing soup, pudding, applesauce and other liquidy things designed expressly for those who lack teeth and/or eating skills. Then again, it was also my boyfriend who was so preoccupied in the waiting room with boosting his Brain Age on our Nintendo DS that he didn't mutter so much as a "Good luck!" when the nurse called me into the operating room.

But honestly, at the time, I didn't care. I mean, what's to care about? The surgery would be over in 45 minutes, at which point I'd head to my boyfriend's apartment to enjoy hours upon hours of daytime programming through the euphoric lens of prescription painkillers and ice cream. Find a vein and get this party started, Doc!

And now, here we are, 10 days later, and I want those god damn wisdom teeth put back into my mouth because I was doing JUST FINE when they were hidden beneath my gums, out of sight and out of mind. Granted, they were impacting the fuck out of everything in their way, BUT STILL.

Since I love lists, particularly those that are essentially well-structured rants, here are the main reasons why my wisdom teeth surgery has been a nightmare from the very beginning.

1. I made the mistake of researching what the procedure actually entails.
Um, yeah. The surgeon sliced open the back of my mouth, exposed the soft tissue that surrounds my wisdom teeth, removed portions of the bones in my face with a drill, split the teeth into several pieces, and pulled them out, one by one, with forceps. And there I was, expecting to make a quick visit to the gym for some light cardio once the general anesthesia wore off. Definitely didn't happen.

2. Vicodin.
Oh, sure, everyone tells you that oral surgery is the best because the doctors prescribe you the best drugs. But Vicodin is a lot less fun when you actually NEED it, when it hurts to even SWALLOW it, when without it you are unable to comfortably maintain even the simplest of automated bodily functions like BREATHING and NOT BEING A TOTAL BITCH TO YOUR BOYFRIEND. And did I mention the side effects? I've stopped shitting. And interpret "decreased sex drive" as you choose.

3. I'm melting away.
Having been unable to eat, I've lost at least 7 pounds in the last week. Oh, but I'll get it back. I'll get it back and then some. Just don't get me started on the fact that the removal of four teeth has permanently lowered my body mass. NOT FAIR.

4. Does the phrase "dry sockets" mean anything to you?
WELL, IT DOES TO ME.

5. I had to pay $600 for this shit.
My dental insurance would have you believe that they generously coughed up $3.4 million for the procedure, leaving me with a comparatively meager $600 copay. Alright, fine. I have plenty of money laying around, so this isn't a problem. But consider how many other things I could have purchased for $600 that WOULDN'T have made my mouth the oral equivalent of the post-Katrina Superdome.

Time your sales right and that's 300 pounds of chicken breast you got there.

Posted by Toby at 12:35 AM | Permalink | Comments (17)

1. I had all of my wisdom teeth extracted on Monday morning. Two of them were impacted. Do you know what this means? It means I can't eat solid foods. It means I have chipmunk cheeks. Oh, and it means Vicodin. Lots and lots of Vicodin.

2. My motto last year was "207 in 2007" - as in, 207 pounds. That didn't quite pan out. I ended the year at 180 pounds. Not bad, given that I was 167 at around Thanksgiving. In related news, my boyfriend recently (and unintentionally) surpassed the 207 mark, so, um, congratulations to him.

3. I have resolved in 2008 to work on my abs, follow my instincts, and cook for my boyfriend more often.

I need to go to bed. My face hurts. I'll post a real update soon.

Posted by Toby at 10:24 PM | Permalink | Comments (25)