Coach bag lunch
Whoever in my office brought his or her lunch in a Coach shopping bag is my HERO.
Oooh yes
BOWL: Jesus fucking Christ, you never learn, do you!
ME: For the love of all things holy, shut up, and pass me the fucking Doritos!
BOWL: Wait a minute. What are you thinking about?
ME: Um, nothing... Nothing at all.
BOWL: Liar. Are you thinking about fucking Kian?! OH MY GOD, you so were!
ME: Fuck, man, shut up! It'd be, like, the two big West Coast/East Coast bloggers fucking! Major scandal, yo!
BOWL: You are fucking sick.
Boy Meets Bowl
My flatmate had a guest sleep on the futon in the living room last night. I was delighted to find on my stroll to the bathroom this morning his (sizable but tantalizing) ass hanging over the side of the bed. Mentos!
BOWL: You idiot. This is why you should stop smoking me.
TOBY: Huh?
BOWL: ‘Huh?’ See, that’s exactly what I’m talking about. You respond either with monosyllabic grunts or antiquated catchphrases like ‘Mentos!’. And like anyone really gives a damn about whose ass you woke up to this morning. Idiot.
TOBY: You know, I really need to get around to cleaning you.
BOWL: Ha. Like that’s really going to happen. Stoner.
TOBY: God damn it, why are you being such a bitch? I deserved to get high last night, it was a long day.
BOWL: Oh, sure. A long day. Of what, exactly? Of reading weblogs and searching for ‘gay’ on the newswire? It’s nice to know they’re paying you $500 a week to be unabashedly worthless.
TOBY: It’s nice to know I paid $20 for a bowl that doesn’t know when to stop channeling my internal monologue.
BOWL: It’s nice to know you pay $20 a month to maintain a crappy weblog that serves only to showcase your uninspired musings about reality shows no one cares about.
TOBY: Hey, ‘Boy Meets Boy’ is fucked up and needs to be addressed by the gay press. I’m just doing my job to raise the awareness of my readers.
BOWL: Oh, so you’re a member of the gay press now? And you have readers? This is the most interesting news you’ve written about in weeks!
TOBY: I’ll give you some interesting news: You are just the unsolicited manifestation of my inner thoughts and fears, and all I have to do to shut you out is to close this weblog and get to work.
BOWL: Or get drunk.
TOBY: Please die.
Stupid Quote of the Week, Vol. 1
Kirk Marcolina, supervising producer of Bravo's new reality show, "Boy Meets Boy": "The idea is to have the straight men there to really challenge the audience's preconceived notions of what is gay and what is straight." [Reuters, 5/28]
Other not-so-notable quotables from supervising producers:
Producer of "Altar Boy Meets Boy":
"The idea is to have the pious altar boy there to really challenge the audience's preconceived notions of what is morally right and what is eternally damning."
Producer of "Leon Hall Meets Boy":
"The idea is to have E!'s 'Fashion Emergency' style expert Leon Hall there to really challenge the audience's preconceived notions of what is hot and what is not."
Producer of "Merriam-Webster Meets Boy":
"The idea is to have Merriam-Webster's Collegiate Dictionary, Tenth Edition, there to really challenge the audience's preconceived notions of what is gay in the sexual orientation sense and what is gay in the 'bright, pleasant, and promoting a feeling of cheer' sense."
Producer of "Christopher Lowell Meets Boy":
"The idea is to have Discovery Channel designer Christopher Lowell there to really challenge the audience's preconceived notions of what is gay and what is just plain fucking flaming."
*BONUS THINLY-VEILED HATE SPEECH QUOTE!*
Andrea Lafferty, executive director of the Traditional Values Coalition: "What's next after 'Boy Meets Boy'? 'Boy Meets Sheep'?" [AP, 5/27/03]
I'm a big kid now!
Glowing over the fact that you've secured a job without the help of Daddy is like expecting praise for taking a shit and wiping your ass, all by yourself.
Congratulations!
In other news: more crap about Bravo's new reality show, 'Boy Meets Boy'. Read my opinion of the show here.
Reality goes gay
"A dating reality show that's a cross between 'Queer as Folk' and 'Joe Millionaire' is coming to Bravo this summer. 'Boy Meets Boy' features a gay man who'll choose a mate from a pool of 15 guys. The 'Joe Millionaire'-type hitch? Some of the suitors aren't gay. They were paid by the producers to pretend to be gay. The guys will go out on dates during the show – but only kissing is allowed. Nothing more. The co-creator says it will be 'truly groundbreaking television.'" [A P Newswire, 5/27/03]
'Trading Orifices'
'The Hole'
'Temptation Bi-Land'
'Are You Gay?'
'Who Wants To Be The Dehumanized Plaything Of A Closeted Millionaire?'
Feel free to add your own.
Also coming to Bravo this summer, Queer Eye for the Straight Guy: "This new series coming to Bravo is looking for straight guys, both single and married, of all ages and backgrounds to help become more stylish, more cultural and more desireable straight men."
What's next -- Straight Eye for the Gay Guy? 'This new series coming to exploitative, stereotype-propagating Bravo is looking for flaming queens, both single and in open relationships, of all ages and backgrounds to help become more masculine, more gender-specific and more socially conformist men. Homosexuals with identities outside of their sexuality need not apply!'
***PS I sent an email to Bravo, explicating my disgust. Since they most likely will be visiting this site, I urge you all to post any reactions or comments you have regarding these programs. Go ahead -- let loose!
Help Wanted: Personal Assistant
"As you'll see in our new E! Original Special, Revenge of the Celebrity Assistants, life as a celebrity gofer can be grueling, strange and even scary. ? "You become housekeeper, nanny, confidant, therapist," an insider tells E!, explaining that the demands on a personal assistant's time never end. Sharon Stone's former assistant, for example, lets us in on what it was like to have a 24-hour-a-day job every day of the year."
-E! Online
Described by close friends and bootlicking sycophants as "the Jackie Collins of the gay blogosphere," Toby of vividblurry dot com seeks to obtain a DEDICATED PERSONAL ASSISTANT -- one who shall function as the proverbial handrail that guides his perilous voyage towards Internet notoriety.
JOB DESCRIPTION:
-Manage home, property, weblog, and bar tab while Toby is away/intoxicated
-Schedule appointments, travel arrangements, and emotional meltdowns
-Act as liaison between Toby and liquor store
-
SKILLS/REQUIREMENTS:
-Aesthetically pleasing but comparatively unappealing when next to Toby
-Ability to anticipate whims
-Little to no self-respect
-Bartending experience a plus
The Assistant receives 104 PERSONAL DAYS a year. These personal days can alternately be referred to as 'Saturday' and 'Sunday.' SICK DAYS are permitted on an ad hoc basis. Please note: Any illness that warrants a 'sick day' but does not result in the immediate termination of The Assistant's life will undoubtedly result in the immediate termination of The Assistant's job.
Post resumes here. Legitimate applicants only, please (LiveJournal users need not apply).
F: drive stands for 'FUCK'
Thanks for all the support regarding my XP reinstallation snafu. And by 'support' I mean a charitable comment from Kathleen and a fantastic email from a guy offering to let me FTP into his computer and download all his music/porn. DARLING, THAT WOULD BE FANTASTIC. Please email me back ASAP.
Sure, the response from my readers was a little underwhelming. Afterall, I had reformatted the wrong hard drive and deleted everything -- documents, pictures, music, weblog archives. But whatever -- I should be honored whether one person emails me or 1,000 people do. In this case, only one person emailed me -- and I'm fine with that.
Perhaps I should explain what happened with my computer...
I have (well, had) two hard drives -- a C: and D: drive. The C: drive housed a Windows ME OS. The other drive, Windows XP. After a few months, a few XP files became corrupt, therefore warranting a reformat/reinstallation process.
Enter disaster, stage left.
Putting my faith and two years of weblog archives in the hands of a Dell tech support guy, I reformatted what he told me was the D: drive and installed a fresh copy of XP. A few hours later, I discovered that I had reformatted the C: drive instead -- which had all of my backed up data on it. After sobbing uncontrollably for 10 minutes, I proceeded to become wildly intoxicated at a handful of DC watering holes. Stellar.
So now I no longer have a D: drive. I have a C: drive and an F: drive. (The D: and E: drives are my CD-ROM drives.) This setup is rather strange and sort of throws my computer off balance. I mean, who has an F: drive? So whenever I open up 'My Computer,' I am forced to face the retarded new layout of my computer system. See below.
I hate my computer. Please die.
Two ginger martinis, please
Drinking to the point of blacking out is an excellent way to escape your tragic but undeniably banal existence, at least until you wake up in a ball on the bathroom floor, surrounded by mountains of hair products and a variety of cleaning solutions.
Your tragic but undeniably banal existence may or may not entail the following things:
-Accidentally reformatting your hard drive due to a Windows XP reinstallation snafu, thusly wiping out all documents, music files, pictures, and weblog archives
-Spending over $100 on drinks you'll never remember (albeit with friends you'll never forget -- aww)
-Drunk dialing every ex-boyfriend, despite preemptively deleting all their numbers from your cellphone the last time this shit happened
-Realizing that you drink to kill the pain -- and being totally fine with this
Fuck
I'm not sure how to say this.
I lost everything on my computer. All of my school work. All of my digital pictures. All of my music files. And more importantly, every single entry from my last weblog. That's two years of journal entries, for those that are counting.
I vaguely remember printing a backup copy. I'd be damned if I remembered where I put it. I still haven't fully processed the damage that has been done. There's so much I'll never recover, and there's so much that I won't even realize I'll never recover.
The first thing I might do is try to get my music back. Maybe we can start some initiative in which some of you can send me CDs burnt with mp3s. I don't really know. Email me if you have any ideas. I am complete devastated.
Fame!
Well, what do you know – a fellow schoolmate visited my site yesterday at 8:58 p.m.! Isn’t Site Meter incredible?
I love how this offends me – how I keep this website a secret from my friends and family, how I expect even a modicum of privacy – despite regularly besmirching the Internet with the sordid details of my irrelevant existence for all to see. You see, it is OK for hundreds of strangers to predicate their raison d’etre on my weblog – but for a personal contact to do the same? Unacceptable!
Whatever. You bastards are just jealous that I’m a “successful” “writer” who sinks hundreds of dollars a year simply to feed a contrived sense of celebrity. Of course I’m willing to sacrifice my reputation for Internet fame. Who wouldn’t?
American Idolatry
Is it just me, or was last night’s finale of ’American Idol’ reminiscent of a bad high school musical? Between the tedious, ho-hum choreography and derivative kareoke acts, I could have sworn I was sitting in a poorly ventilated auditorium surrounded by overzealous stage moms. And how that outrageous set didn’t collapse under the weight of its own cheese factor – not to mention Ryan Seacrest’s ego – I’ll never know.
I feel as if the true (anti)climax of the evening arrived just as Ms. Kelly Clarkson
Kelly’s pipes seem to operate on one of two settings: warble and shout. During ‘Ms. Independent,’ Kelly clearly preferred the latter, much to my chagrin. Let’s leave the vocal gymnastics to Christina Aguilera, okay?
Ear-splitting divaism aside, Clay and Reuben were actually pretty good. Mad props to Mr. Studdard for not looking entirely disheveled. I’m glad he won – the last thing we need is another white, skinny, closet-case Muppet with a recording contract. Clay deserves a healthy environment in which he can express not only his incredible talent but his sexuality, as well. I’m thinking Broadway – anyone else?
Unfortunately, this season of ‘American Idol’ is far from idle (har har). ‘American Juniors’ is on the way (leave it to Fox to rip off its own self); Ryan Seacrest – the most loathsome man in America, as far as I’m concerned – is getting his own show; and Clay landed a recording contract anyway.
You know, someone needs to create ‘Blogger Idol’ – and I know just the man to do it.
PS And much like Kelly Clarkson after Clive Davis drops her like acid at a Jefferson Airplane concert, I am still plagued with financial instability. Sadness.
Only happy when it rains
Things seem to be going well today.
For one, it’s raining outside. Splendid!
Second, my copy of Windows XP has required yet another reinstallation. This morning, it froze during startup and refused to load. Lovely!
Third, I’ve had a nosebleed every 30 minutes since I walked into the office. I picked an excellent day to wear a freshly pressed white shirt. Stellar!
Fourth, I left my lunch on the kitchen counter in my apartment. Joy!
Fifth, I’m still in debt. Smashing!
I can’t wait to see what else happens today!
Brother, can you spare a fifty?
It seems that all these bar tabs and beer runs have finally caught up with me. I'm currently in the red -- which forces me to make a desperate, humbling plea for cash. Consider it a belated birthday present. Or a nice way of thanking me for over two years of weblog mediocrity. Or a futile* attempt at getting into my pants.
*Replace 'futile' with 'surefire' if donation exceeds $50.
Bi-curious alcoholic
A few weeks ago, I was written up by an RA for drinking in my dorm room, for causing excessive noise during quiet hours, and for having fun. And so, as per my agreement with Juvenile Affairs and Mediation Services, I was to have watched a few educational videos and completed a series of reaction papers by May 19 (read: today).
Wow, it's amazing how time flies!
Needless to say, I've written only two of the reaction papers, and I have yet to attend the requisite Alcoholics Anonymous meeting mandated by my JAMS sanction. Yes, that's right -- an AA meeting! My mediation advisor said that AA holds 'open' meetings designed for those who are just 'curious' about the program. Hmm, I'm not sure one can be 'curious' about having an alcohol problem.
'Hello, my name is Toby, and I'm not an alcoholic. Just bi-curious.'
I brushed off the advisor, thinking I would just go to a Narcotics Anonymous meeting instead -- more of a networking opportunity than a rehabilitation effort. Ironically, I was too lazy to go (damn, stoners) -- so here I am, stuck with the insurmountable task of having to write a one-page 'reaction' to an AA meeting I was too busy drinking to go to.
And why should I have gone to the AA meeting anyway? It's not like I have the time to hang out with a group of self-loathing, dejected alcoholics. I do enough of that at work.
Oh well. I suppose I can write this paper during tonight's airing of 'Martha, Inc.' Salon gave it a shitty review, but who cares? When I become famous, I can't wait for the poorly produced biopic that exposes me for the cheap, callous whore that I really am.
Test
This is a test. I hate Greymatter.
The issues
After spending a week as an intern in a Washington newsroom, I’ve learned that inter-office chatter often revolves around ‘the issues.’ And by ‘the issues,’ I mean the chin-to-weight ratio of a certain Fox News anchorman.
Out of context picture time
Argh, what a night
Hmm, remind me not to smoke in the apartment again. My flatmates weren't such a fan. Two minutes after blazing the bowl, the two of them burst into my room, weilding body spray and a fan. Something was said about 'not wanting to get kicked out of the building.' Um, yea, just a bit overdramatic. I told them we'd smoke outside, and they were fine with that.
I need to use the bathroom, but there are three guys passed out in the living room, and the toilet is backed up. Superb.
Three's company
Here are some pics of my new apartment. It is extremely messy. My two female flatmates and I are still settling in. Enjoy!
It's a good thing
Has anyone seen the commercials on NBC touting Monday's two-hour telepic, 'Martha, Inc.: The Martha Stewart Story'? I love the clip when Cybill Shepherd blasts, I thought. I asked. For MERLOT!!
SARS schmars
I came back from lunch to find a vacuum-sealed plastic bag on my desk. Contained inside the bag were a pair of latex gloves, a SARS mask, and a small bottle of water. My boss cryptically explained to me that I was to open the bag only during an 'emergency situation.' My cubicle-mate later told me that they distributed the bags to everyone in the office sometime after September 11, 2001.
My cubicle-mate also told me that he lost his face mask at a Halloween party last year, and that another staffer drank from her bottle of water because she was too tired to walk to the break room. Magnificent.
Capitol punishment
Please bear with me as I embark on yet another entry about my ex-boyfriend.
I was on campus last night, so I called my ex to see if he was hanging around the dorm. When I asked him what he was up to, he said he was on his way to a ‘fundraiser on Capitol Hill.’
OK…
‘A fundraiser on Capitol Hill?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Um, why would you be going to a fundraiser on Capitol Hill?’
‘Because I was invited.’
And the conversation ends there.
You know, if I was invited to a fundraiser on Capitol Hill, I’d want to talk about it. I’d be excited about it! I’d want to tell everyone where it was, what it was for, who invited me, what I’d be wearing, who would be there – but my ex treats this gala event as if it were just another trip to McDonalds. And that is what I can’t stand about him. The bored indifference he expresses towards everything. I tried to talk to him about this fundraiser, but he respond monosyllabically. I tried to talk to him about his internship, his family, his friends, politics, movies, ANYTHING – but all I ever get out of him is what Crystal Waters did at the club last weekend.
When I asked if I could come up to his room, he stammered – and then offered to come down to the lobby to say hi. Well, thanks a lot. Why don’t you just look out your window and wave, to save yourself the bother of walking down two flights of stairs?
And so to end this entry with a flourish, might I mention that he recently bought an $80,000 BMW? Allegedly, his father disapproved of this and is making him sell it. I’m not sure where he pulled together the $80,000 for this car – but if the mysterious invitations to Capitol Hill fundraisers, the hotel room permanently reserved in Maryland, the unidentified ‘friends’ he spends time with on weekends, are any indication…
Well, I’m not even going to say it. I’d sound like a psycho. But draw your own conclusions.
Office space
'You don’t want to see how sausage is made – and you don’t want to see how laws are made.'
I just love cross-cubicle chit-chat.
Waste of time
There is a garbage can near the edge of my cubicle. It is a very nice garbage can – small, black, plastic, almost sassy. It is an appropriate receptacle for the sort of refuse I have been creating since 9 a.m. Things like used tissues, crumpled up Post-Its, an empty Styrofoam cup. All it takes to dispose of such waste is an effortless toss. Score! It lands right in the can.
Of course, I do not use this garbage can. I prefer to stand up, carry my spent Post-It down the hall, and place it in the much larger garbage can in the break room. You see, the larger garbage affords a much better view of The Guy from Marketing. I am rapidly and helplessly falling in love with The Guy from Marketing, so I cherish each and every visit to the larger garbage can.
Sometimes I crumple up a Post-It just so I have something to throw away. Hello, I’m a loser.
Trading spaces
Apparently, the person who is taking over my bedroom in the apartment this August thinks it is appropriate to move in some 'things' before he heads home to Nebraska for the summer. Such 'things' include, but are not limited to: an executive-sized desk; a mountain of textbooks; a tattered throw rug; a television; a Playstation unit; and what seems to be his entire winter wardrobe.
The last time I checked, these items did not intend on paying rent. Bastard.
The daily grind
My boss just asked if I was 'done yet' – jokingly, of course, seeing as how one of the staffers emailed me about 20 documents to copyedit and revamp. Still, I feel as if it would be prudent of me to stop writing Greymatter entries and get back to work. Talk to you later, lambs.
Iron bars
Just when I thought my ex-boyfriend would become my ex-ex-boyfriend, he goes ahead and alienates himself from the sane world once again. Boating trips with these mysterious people he calls 'friends.' A hotel room permanently reserved in Maryland (so that he can 'get away' from the dorms for the weekend). Nights spent at clubs and afterhours parties that stretch into the early afternoon. Phone calls that go unreturned for days. God damn it, I couldn't even tolerate him as a friend, let alone a boyfriend.
And yet I can't stop obsessing about him. Obviously, if I truly didn't give a shit about him, I wouldn't give a shit about his boating trips either.
But you know what really bugs me? That this fucking relationship is so one-sided. I provide him with the companionship and comradery that none of his bar-hopping buddies can offer. I see past his money and his clothes and his looks -- I see him as a person. And I treat him as one. I don't think he has gotten or will get that from anyone else. Ever.
And what do I get in return? Not much, really. I mean, he takes care of our bar tab. And he'll offer to pay for dinner. I know that such acts of gratuity won't make the slightest dent in his (dad's) bank account. But this still makes me feel patronized, emasculated -- so I'll match him, drink for drink. And I'll pay for dinner, too. He once told me that I was the only one to ever treat him to dinner, aside from his father. Isn't that sad?
It is sad. He is sad. And there are so many other boys in the world who aren't sad. Those are the boys I should be seeking. But I can't. The memory of what we once had falls like iron bars around me. LET. ME. OUT.
Our flirty waiter
My parents and I had dinner reservations at Clyde's this evening. I had never eaten there before -- just simply gone to the lower level bar for some drinks one night. I must have not noticed the awesome decor -- all ships and trains and plains. Not nearly as tacky as it sounds.
Our waiter was some guy named Andrew who I met at a gay club one night but have never spoken to since. He flirted with me hardcore while my parents and I ordered drinks. If they failed to notice the sexual tension then, they definitely suspected something when Andrew announced at the end of our meal that our drinks were 'taken care of.' How lovely! I suppose I owe this Andrew character a drink in the future. Hehe.
Even though the moving process was oddly unstressful, I still have this gut feeling that something will go horribly wrong this week. Perhaps I'll be fired from my job on the first day. Maybe I'll be kicked out of my apartment for not being on the lease. I don't know -- but usually when I have these 'gut feelings,' something happens to validate them.
Last night a DJ saved my life
The revolution begins
I'm sorry for not updating as much as I usually do. These past few days have been stressful. My best friends are going home for the summer, and since many of them are going abroad next semester, I won't see them for nearly a year. Also, my parents are driving down from New York to help me move into my summer apartment.
Did I mention that only two people are on the lease, so technically -- as the third flatmate -- I'm living illegally? And that I may not have an access card to swipe myself into the building? And that I'll be sleepin on a futon for one week because the other flatmate hasn't moved out yet? And that I've been dry heaving all week long? AND THAT IT'S RAINING???!!
Fantastic.
Wolverine
I will love again
I'm listening to the song 'I Will Love Again' by Lara Fabian. You know, the dumb bitch from Canada who sounds like Celine Dion on uppers? She is so damn self-righteous. It's like, bitch, there are bigger problems in this world than your model boyfriend dumping your coke-addled ass. Slut.
Finals are over, I deserve to be this high.
Beep beep
If my roommate's alarm goes off one more time, I am going to rip it out of the wall and throw it out the window. He has been really pissing me off this week. It's as if I'm living with a child.
God damn it
I just lost over two years' worth of archived emails. Fantastic.
Notes to myself
I couldn't sleep last night, so I headed to the study lounge with a book and a glass of water. Hugh Prather's Notes to Myself is a fantastic collection of anecdotes and life lessons. The following excerpt particularly moved me.
I have recently noticed that many times each day I take a quick mental survey of my activities up to that point in the day in order to determine my direction. This mental activity is spontaneous, almost subconscious, and seems inherent. If my activities do not add up to a direction then I am at least slightly depressed and enervated. If for some reason I feel at that moment incapable of heading in a "good" direction then I sense a desire within me to head in a destructive direction: for example, to go, really go, to pot. Any direction seems decidedly preferable to no direction at all. This may be one of the causes of violence, destructive love affairs, alcoholism, etc. A "goal" is implied but the need seems to be for direction -- to feel in the process of becoming.
A wild night
For shame
It started innocently enough. My friend spiked the Diet Coke at the Honors Program BBQ yesterday afternoon, which loosened us up just enough to jump on the picnic table and play air-guitar to 'Monsters of Rock.' Truly, the buzz was both unexpected and unprovoked, seeing as to how it was 4 p.m. on a Wednesday.
Things took a turn for the worse, however, when my friend and I decided to get drinks at a nearby restaurant. Two Manhattans, a glass of white wine, and a Pilsner later -- let's just say I don't remember the walk back to campus.
Speaking of things I don't remember: vomiting in my garbage can at 8:30 p.m.; hiding said garbage can from my roommate; passing out half-naked, only to wake up at 2:30 in the morning, dazed and most definitely confused.
I also have two final exams today, which gives this story an extra twist. I spent the last seven hours cracked out on Adderall, struggling to memorize the neoliberal political history of Peru. Dry heaving during my Comparative Politics exam will truly be a highlight of this splendid day.
Regret
I really wish I didn't spend the last two days sitting around and watching BBC America.