I just posted a new About Me page. It’s been a while since I’ve written one of these! I used to have a really good one from a previous layout, I’ll have to dig around to find it.

I leave the coal mine at 6:30 p.m. and lumber to the gym, where a bunch of tools are finishing up a CrossFit class. CrossFit is this new thing where you run in circles and lay on the floor and jump up and down while someone yells at you and it basically seems like the worst thing in the world. And people pay for this! There are suckers born every minute. Suckers who, unlike me, enjoy being challenged in the gym.

And then the class lets out because I’m in the locker room and these guys come in and they’re all sweaty and grunty and I’m like, Congratulations, you are all MANLY MEN!

It’s Friday, and C__ is back in town from Brussels, whatever that is, and I am SO EXCITED because we’ve made plans for a ladies night out at FUEGO, D.C.’s hottest gay nightclub for Latinos and the men who fetishize them. Although I qualify as neither of those things, both C__ and our friend R__ do, and besides, who am I to deny my brothers a night of passion with someone who lives in Alexandria, wears Old Navy boxer shorts, and doesn’t speak English.

As it turns out, Fuego is not exactly located in the most accessible of neighborhoods. In fact, it’s not really located in a neighborhood at all. What does one call the 1800 block of New York Avenue NE? The Arboretum District? Because that’s what’s across the street. Oh, and it’s housed in the same building as the United Cerebral Palsy headquarters. Perhaps PN Hoffman will build a condo there and a bunch of intrepid douches will start a “UnCePal” listserv.

Anyway, we pile into a cab, and after 20 minutes of watching the meter climb to an alarming $20, we pull up to our destination. “This is it!” R__ says, pointing at an awning with the United Cerebral Palsy logo. Somehow, this is reassuring. The driver pulls away, and we find ourselves alone in the middle of fucking nowhere.

Ah, but see, out of the darkness emerges a gang of Latinos, which might have proven a wee bit unnerving on any other given night, but on this night they inspire sighs of relief. And they’re cute! Perhaps our Fuego adventure won’t be as much of a pig fuck as I had expected. We follow them into the club, where we pay $10 for cover and get hammered.

Well, that’s oversimplifying things. I had three rum and Cokes, which were essentially glasses of rum with some ice dropped in as a perfunctory gesture. I took off my T-shirt because it was just so damn caliente in there. My self-tanner was dripping all over the place and left orange smears on several unidentified objects/people. Someone winked at me, the way an uncle winks at his niece after he abuses her in a Lifetime movie. We left in a cab and went to the gay McDonalds on 17th Street, where I traded in my remaining scraps of dignity for an eight-piece McNuggets meal. Then I called my boyfriend and made him pick me up. I watched a few episodes of “Three’s Company” (“Where’s Susan Sarandon’s character?”) and passed out at 5 a.m.

The next day I went to the public pool, but that’s a story for another time. All of my friends wear Speedos and I have no idea why.

I’m on a train to New York. While boarding, I asked if a certain car was business class. The black conductor said, “No, it’s a car for white males only. You’re a white male, aren’t you?” Ha! The conductor is my hero.

I skipped happy hour today and went to the gym instead, because if there is one thing I dislike more than brunch, it’s happy hour. BUT. I did accept an invitation to lose at Killer Bunnies, a card game I first played in Rehoboth a few weeks ago that is essentially Magic: The Gathering for gay urban nerds (aka my friends). I am completely obsessed with this game but not obsessed enough to be the one who pays for the expansion packs.

The gym was interesting because almost no one was there. Wednesday is usually an “off” day for me, as I now imagine it is for many other people. Not even the hairy 20-something government worker who wears compression shorts longer than his gym shorts (WHY?) and routinely pisses all over the toilet seat (I SEE YOU.) was there. Maybe he was hit by a bus.

And this is what qualifies as a “good” day in my nonstop thrill ride of a life. No, really, it was good!

So, wow, the hottest crystal meth addict was on “Intervention” last night. In terms of crystal meth addicts, I thought it didn’t get any hotter than Jeremy Jackson, but Aaron the former mixed martial arts champion is really giving him a run for his money.

Here is a picture of my new boyfriend/project Aaron, sporting two hallmarks of a classic Jersey douche: gelled hair and a landing strip. In all seriousness, he really is quite handsome.

Oh, and did I mention he is an actor?

Yes, that’s right! Aaron has performed in over 1,200 adult videos under the name Dick Delaware. (Click here if you’d like me to save you the time of Google Imaging his NSFW photos.) Unfortunately, he has retired from the business, choosing instead to spend his twilight years injecting speed and masturbating for 10 consecutive hours a day.

I know what you’re thinking: THE PERFECT MAN! A great face, a bodybuilder physique, a literally insatiable sexual appetite. If only he weren’t straight. And addicted to methamphetamine.

Predictably, Aaron completed rehab but relapsed after three weeks. The show portrayed him as a damaged individual who allowed himself to get caught in the endless cycle of porn acting and drugs. I’m afraid this sudden exposure will serve only to open more doors for deadend opportunities in porn, but perhaps I’ll be proven wrong. At the very least he should drop that stupid Dick Delaware moniker.

Is it possible that I’ve forgotten how to write? I’ve been staring at the computer screen for the last 10 minutes, starting a sentence and then deleting it and then starting it again. (Granted, the sentences were largely terrible, but hey that has never stopped me before!)

I honestly thought that blogging was like riding a bike – an innocuous hobby that, if unchecked, can quickly advance to an act of self-righteousness that annoys anyone who doesn’t quite share an interest in your “quirky” obsession. Oh, and that you never forget how to do it.

Now, if I haven’t forgotten how to write, then I’ve certainly forgot other things. Like, my niece’s sixth birthday, And, say, MY DREAMS.

God, remember when I dreamed of writing a book? Ha ha ha – how quaint. A book! Maybe if I actually read books, I’d know how to write one! But, no, I’m too busy reading blogs – and stupid blogs at that. (I am not entirely to blame here, as most of the good blogs rarely update anymore.)

Of course, there is one dream I haven’t forgotten – my dream of being 200 pounds. And I achieved this dream!… by, um, becoming fat. But still! Technicalities.

At the end of February this year, I clocked in at 200 pounds. (For reference, I weighed 172 pounds in January 2008.) I was huge. No one could mess with me! And when I went down to Florida with my family, my mother leadingly asked me if I planned on staying at “this size,” and my brother-in-law accused me of using steroids. Finally, I was getting the attention I deserved! I loved being big. I loved being not skinny.

But dreams can’t last forever. Realizing that I was puffy and quite literally water-logged, I went on a “diet” and dropped 10 to 15 pounds. I do not know what I currently weigh, I sort of don’t care. (Lies!)

Anyway, the lesson is: Dreams. And writing. I’ve forgotten how important these things are to me, and I think it’s time that we got seriously reacquainted.

If I were to start a new blog, what should it be called?

Have you heard of The New Gay? It’s a blog! And, um, it gets less than 200 hits a day! But it’s also a MOVEMENT – this, according to the 1,300-word (I counted!) article in The Washington Post this weekend.

You see, the MAJORITY (not really) of gay people in D.C. are sick and tired of listening to Britney Spears and making money and being white. So, enter The New Gay, which militantly promotes the OPPOSITE of all of those things! You know, things like THE SODA JERKS (made up) and BEING UNEMPLOYED and REJECTING THE IDEA OF RACIAL IDENTITY. You old people just wouldn’t get it.

Now, the article goes on to fully indulge the TNG crazies, who took the Post’s national platform as an opportunity to rebuke those who wear Hollister T-shirts. But there are some things that the article DIDN’T mention, which I’ve itemized for posterity’s sake below.

1. You know how the American Family Association defines itself based on the things it hates? Well, TNG is just like that! In fact, they both hate a lot of the same things – pretty much everyone and everything that has been associated with or attributed to gay culture in the past 25 years. (However, TNG is totally for gay marriage – as long as the couple didn’t meet at Town.)

2. The New Gays are all depressed vegetarians.

3. The New Gays use the sexualized atmosphere of gay clubs as a straw man for their own social anxiety disorder.

4. The New Gays categorically despise the things that some gay people categorically worship. This makes them better than you, see?

5. TNG has devised an “advertising strategy.” The strategy entails reaching out to “intelligent” companies with “co-ed appeal” and not selling any ads.

6. TNG hosts a lot of its events at Solly’s on U Street. A cab driver recently crashed into the front window of Solly’s, injuring seven. Coincidence?

7. TNG will sometimes post the playlists of its upcoming dance parties so that you know in advance not to go.

8. The New Gays just really, really hate Hollister T-shirts, OK?

9. Not all of the New Gays are worryingly skinny. Some are secretly fat.

10. The New Gays eat babies.

Ha ha ha, guess who forgot he had a blog!

In any event, here are some of my resolutions for 2009.

1. Stop biting my nails. This is a laughable resolution, I will never be able to commit to this unless I take up heroin or some other comparably addictive habit.

2. No carbs after 6 p.m. Ha ha ha.

3. Cook at least once a week. I don’t count baking chicken breasts and steaming brocolli as cooking, you see.

4. Spend more time with my friends. More frequent encounters with my friends means that my dramatic weight fluctuations will be less noticeable.

5. Take more pictures. Like, with a camera, not my shitty iPhone.

6. Run. I don’t do any cardio, I will probably drop dead of a heart attack at 28. Also, I’m fat.

7. Start a new hobby. And it ain’t gonna be blogging, ha ha ha!

Pig race at Belvedere Plantation, originally uploaded by Vivid Blurry.

“If you want to see a pig race, chase your mother around the living
room.” -Random guy to his kids.

When I wake up in the morning, I tell myself that it’s going to be a great day. I don’t tell myself that it’s going to be the most stressful fucking day ever and then share it with the world on Facebook, Twitter, and my Google Chat status message. Who the hell does that? Too many fucking people, that’s who, and you’re all about to get the banhammer from Toblerone!

On a side note, does anyone else routinely confuse the status update field on Facebook with the search field? No? BECAUSE I DO THAT ALL THE TIME. “Toby is [Name of Person I Shouldn't Be Stalking].” Yeah, nice status update, asshole! USER INTERFACE FAIL.

I got uncharacteristically drunk at the bar last night – I demand to know who allowed this to happen! – and paid the price all morning and afternoon. By the time 7 p.m. rolled around, I concluded that the day had been a total wash and that tomorrow’s holiday could effectively serve as a “do-over.” And that’s when I had an idea: To atone for last night’s excesses, I would perform at least one productive task before “Extreme Makeover: Home Edition” started. And that task, I decided, would be to talk to my mother about my boyfriend.

Now, my parents already know I’m gay. I officially let them in on the world’s worst-kept secret during Thanksgiving weekend of 2001 – specifically, that Sunday afternoon, one hour before I had to leave to catch my train back to college. It was never mentioned again until January of 2004, when they confronted me about some New York gay nightlife pamphlets they found in my bedroom while I was home on Christmas break. I blogged about it at the time. I’m not going to link to it because first I’d have to find it and then I’d have to read it and I’d rather not do that.

Fast-forward to present day. I’ve introduced him to my sister. I talk to my grandmother about him all the time. But only now am I getting around to telling my parents about the person I’ve been dating for the last two years.

Except, I didn’t do it. I couldn’t. My mother picked up, sounded elated to hear from me, and put me on speakerphone so that I could talk to my father, as well. She went on and on about their recent trip to the west coast, their visit with my brother in Los Angeles, their upcoming vacation in the Keys. And then it was my turn to speak. I have no idea what I said, but it was guarded and safe. And then I hung up and called my sister and screamed into her answering machine.

I haven’t cried in a while but tonight really pushed it.

Just when you thought the coquettish wink died at the altar of the gratingly folksy Sarah Palin, Britney Spears comes along and – less than 20 seconds into her new music video for “Womanizer” – makes things right again.

Ah, that wink. It’s fun, it’s flirtatious, it’s just a little bit “Fuck you.” Fuck you to the people who thought I’d coast through yet another music video with an untamed weave and a dead-behind-the-eyes glare! Fuck you to the people who thought I couldn’t pull my shit together long enough to conduct a coherent five-minute radio interview! And fuck you to the people who think this is a comeback! This isn’t a comeback – this is a second coming. Britney is here to save pop culture, and we should be grateful that she is deigning to do so.

That said, it takes more than a well-timed wink to resuscitate a career, but the Britney we see in “Womanizer” seems more than up to the task. No doubt, she is simply stunning – and, dare I say, healthy-looking, if the nude sauna scenes are any indication. There’s also a determination in her eyes that makes itself evident each time she looks directly into the camera. She’s communicating with us. She’s telling us she means it this time. She thinks – no, she knows – she’s ready now.

I will say that the choreography is pathetic, especially when measured against “Slave 4 U,” “Stronger,” or virtually any other video she produced while under the thumb of her handlers. In “Womanizer,” it’s apparent that Britney’s body is sexy but no longer athletic. She needs to fix this before her next video and, more crucially, before her supposed 2009 tour. There are plenty of beautiful women on the radio who can sing (or, in some instances, “sing”), but very few of them can dance. If Britney wants to be taken seriously, she needs to have some serious moves.

All in all, “Womanizer” – both the single and the video – is encouraging. Encouraging, but not yet convincing. The last few weeks have been a strangely seamless string of MTV awards, wholesome paparazzi shots, and refreshing self-realization – which, if she keeps it up for the next few months, just might teach me to stop worrying and to love Britney Spears.

I’m a pirate, originally uploaded by Vivid Blurry.

…then I would definitely choose this little guy as my companion. He is loud and somewhat irritating, never stops eating, and shits all over everything – just like me (the last trait being figurative, of course).

And that concludes my photo essay on yesterday’s Orlando trip. I was going to leave it at the dolphin, but this picture is just too cute to not share.