My pants are more expensive than your pants!

I'm dripping with designer clothing today. Check out the Versace polo, the Diesel khakis, the Kenneth Cole loafers. On my hourly walk to the water cooler, I half-expect to be greeted by an explosion of flashbulbs. "Sashay, shante!" the press would shout. Unfortunately, the whir of the copy machine doesn't quite replicate the roar of my adoring public.

Anyway, I have the summer sale season to thank/blame for these recent purchases. In Georgetown yesterday afternoon, there were "50% off!" signs as far as my Prada-shaded eyes could see. But whatever -- I needed a new pair of sunglasses! And it needed to be Gucci.

You see, there is a fine line between what one "needs" and what one "wants." For example, a basic wardrobe would consist of such "needs" as socks, shoes, pants, t-shirts, sweaters and a coat. A more spiffy ensemble, however, might include a Gucci light blue chambray cotton point collar dress shirt and Dolce & Gabbana dark brown medium-wale corduroy jeans. We would file these items under "Wants."

But just as one wants what one needs, I can just as easily need what I want. I mean, I'm a world-famous celebrity blogger, right? I can afford to have discriminating tastes! Hell, I deserve to have discriminating tastes. And discriminating is something that I'm quite good at. If I look down upon the morbidly unattractive and obese with relentless scorn, then I can do the same with these fascist guidelines separating the essential from the gratuitous.

Rather than prattle endlessly about the "Wants" that I need, I'll summarize my desires to provide a context for the rest of this entry. Assuming that food, water, shelter and clothing are the bare essentials, let's just say I want to eat out every day for the rest of my life, drink Perrier (should something, er, stronger not be at my disposal), and reside in a Manhattan penthouse with my charming husband and sassy maid. As for clothing? I want to look as if Prada vomited all over me. I want, I want, I need.

Remainders: If I have a prescription filled at a pharmacy using my parent's health care plan, will a record of the prescription show up on their monthly health care bill? (I know nothing about health care plans. I'm not even sure if there is a monthly bill!) Also, I need to complete 30 hours of community service by July 11. Would anyone be willing to sign off these 30 hours for me? It is preferred that you work for a non-profit, but it is not necessary.

Send your replies via email. Thank you, darlings.

Ow, my head

Drinking heavily seemed like an excellent idea last night. Well, to be fair, drinking heavily almost always seems like an excellent idea. But as I cower in my cubicle under the agonizing (and unflattering) florescent lights, I'm starting to think that "Consume alcohol" should have been struck from last night's itinerary.

I did not have time to shower this morning. My hair looks dull. My skin is oily. I have an excruciating headache. And I unknowingly put on my boxers inside-out. Oh! And I'm wearing wool pants! IN THE MIDDLE OF JUNE. This is what happens when you wake up late and are unable to make it to the dry cleaners to fetch your clean clothes.

This otherwise gruesome workday has been marginally improved by heavy rotation of Kelly Clarkson's "Miss Independent" on Winamp. Other songs that I've downloaded onto my office computer: "Heartbreaker" by Mariah Carey; "2 Become 1" by the Spice Girls; "Intuition" by Jewel; and the other Kelly Clarkson favorite, "A Moment Like This." I'm extremely paranoid that my headphones will suddenly unplug themselves, thus exposing my poor musical taste to the entire office as Mariah's "Fantasy" blasts out of the laptop's tinny speakers. Ah, shame; a cruel mistress you are.

Remainders: I've bought a bag of Peanut M&M's every day for the past week, and I still have not discovered the prize-winning package of all-gold candies. LIFE IS NOT FAIR.

TeXXXas is gonna be HOT tonight!

I'm sure Ricky and Clay are equally excited about today's Supreme Court ruling, as am I!

Yes, Clay's wristband reads "W.W.J.D.", in case you were wondering. It can only get better from here, people!

Mindless drivel à gogo

Actually, I prefer to call it "irrelevant babble". Oh well -- an issue of semantics, really.

Everyone visit Señor Bravo and tell him to not pussy out just because some person unnamed likes to poke fun at his pretentious, shockingly unironic weblog. Personally, I find it flattering when fellow bloggers devote entire entries to how stupid/retarded/inconsequential/obnoxious I am. Shouldn't Señor Bravo feel the same?

Also, remind him that my site is popular, and don't you forget it, bitches!

Out to lunch

The Guy from Marketing asked me to lunch! He has excellent timing, seeing as how all of my sassy office outfits are at the dry cleaners and won't be ready until Thursday. During our lunch break tomorrow, The Guy from Marketing will be delighted to find me sashaying past the copy machine wearing unclean trousers from Structure and a heinous 'no wrinkle' getup from Macy's. Sorry, darling -- the Prada's being pressed!

During our three-minute exchange -- beside the water cooler, natch -- I confessed my love for yogurt as a satisfying lunchtime meal. I admired its panoply of fruity flavors and celebrated its high protein content. I noted its lengthy shelf life and added that at least one brand of yogurt is usually on sale. Have I ever mentioned my amazing abilities as a conversationalist? It's natural, I swear.

Any hope of bonding over a mutual propensity toward dairy products was dashed once he mentioned his lactose intolerance. Lament! Oh well, I have a boyfriend anyway.

In other news: I'm seeing Blondie in concert this Sunday! The ticket cost $45, and with no sugar daddy at my immediate disposal, I declare whoever subsidizes this venture as my personal hero.

Other recent purchases: camera attachment for my Motorola phone, $38 from eBay (regularly updated fotoblog, baby!); whey protein (among other things), $60.23 from The Vitamin Shoppe; groceries, $90+ from Safeway.

If you'd like to pay my bills, you may do so through Amazon or PayPal (preferred). To simulate the receipt of sexual favors, masturbate furiously after confirming your donation. The end.

The trick is to keep breathing

Preoccupied with the thought of my boyfriend and the weekend we've spent together, I got off the Metro this morning at Farragut North and headed straight for a park bench. I needed a Marlboro Menthol like I've never needed one before.

If smoking is bad for you, then smoking menthols is even worse. At least this is what my friend told me yesterday afternoon during lunch -- without a trace of irony -- as he puffed away at his Parliament Light. I've been warned of the dangers of menthol cigarettes many times before. Allegedly, the menthol molecules crystallize in your lungs and otherwise damage your health. Better to smoke nonmenthol cigarettes, they say.

(Though this tangent is apropos of nothing, I did do some research: According to this article on salon.com, the menthol in menthol cigarettes is no more dangerous than the hundreds of other chemicals you breathe in while smoking. The fact remains, of course, that smoking is undeniably bad for you.)

Regardless of jeopardizing my health, that cigarette allowed me five minutes of oxygen-deprived solitude to contemplate the past four days. I had spent every waking (and sleeping) moment with my boyfriend, and I never got sick of him. Not even once. And that's saying a lot, because I'm a guy that needs his space. I'm going to miss him like crazy.

My bed is going to feel so empty tonight. Sleeping with ghosts, it's such a lonely experience.

"From Justin to Kelly" Part II

Still not convinced "From Justin to Kelly" is an unsavory alternative to shitting shards of glass? Don't take my word for it...

The New York Times describes Kelly Clarkson as "pudding-faced" and says "there isn't a smidgen of romantic chemistry between the ersatz lovebirds," Justin and Kelly -- who he also refers to as "dutiful puppets". According to the critic, "the best that can be said of [Justin and Kelly] is that they don't embarrass themselves." Personally, I beg to differ.

Says the Washington Post: "[The movie] turns out to be industrial-strength insipidity diluted only marginally by bad music and worse dancing." (This time around, Kelly is described as "pudge-faced".) The critic must have really hated this movie, because he asks rhetorically: "Does anybody in the movie -- or the audience -- take this seriously? If so, get them professional help and make sure to lock up the guns, the alcohol and the car keys." Bravo!

"Relentlessly inoffensive, innocuous and vacuous," says the Los Angeles Times. Ouch. However, the critic does admit that "[Justin] Guarini's hair gives a fine performance."

And my favorite play-on-words? "From Justin to Kelly to video rental," courtesy Redlands Daily Facts.

From Sublime to Ridiculous

My boyfriend and I saw 'From Justin to Kelly' this weekend. To our dismay, $19 and 90 minutes could have been saved by alternatively driving back to the apartment and placing our hands over an ignited stovetop. This would have served to condense the pain of enduring tedious musical numbers, laughable plot lines, and unspeakably bad acting, into a manageable two-minute period.

In other words, 'From Justin to Kelly' made 'Crossroads' seem like 'The Shawshank Redemption'. (If anyone gets this reference, leave a comment.)

I'd like to expand this topic into a 500-word entry, but that must wait until after my lunch break. In the meantime, I'll mindlessly draft a bunch of case studies as I think about my boy, miss him, and wonder what life was like before such an amazing person had entered my life.

What a great weekend for my boyfriend to be visiting!

How to lose friends and alienate people

A good way to alienate yourself from friends and family is to maintain a weblog. And it's important that this 'weblog' is a weblog in the loosest of terms.

For instance, refrain from writing actual content. Instead, churn out meaningless drivel that garners laughs from strangers but confuses and offends personal contacts. "Why is there a picture of you wearing sunglasses and a wifebeater?" your perplexed friends will ask. "And what's with the cigarette? You don't even smoke." Never mind these tedious inquiries! Your friends are simply experiencing the early pangs of alienation and withdrawal. And that's what you wanted all along, right?

A cappella sucks balls

A cappella singers are the scariest mother fuckers in the world, and there was a whole group of them -- a clan! -- gathered outside the Farragut North Metro station this morning. Shockingly, some people were actually enjoying their dreadful music! One woman was tapping her toe, another was clapping -- at 9 o'clock in the fucking morning. It's times like these when I wish I lived in New York where the commuters are bad-ass and look upon untalented street performers with total indifference and know how to power-walk and can use an escalator properly (stand to the right, walk on the left, assholes!) and wear fashionable clothes and aren't fat, ugly or mildly retarded.

Instead, I'm stuck in a city full of pussies and a cappella singers. I hate Washington, D.C.!

Make a List, Check it Twice

[Editor's note: I apologize in advance for the stupidity of this entry.]

15 BANALITIES YOU SHOULD NEED TO KNOW ABOUT TOBY

1. Toby is currently wearing a blue stretch cotton shirt from J. Crew, a pair of black stretch cotton slacks from the Gap, martini-emblazoned boxer shorts from Banana Republic, a wife beater shirt from Hanes, black socks, and black shoes from Sketchers.

2. Toby spends more money each week on alcohol than groceries, dry cleaning, and tanning sessions combined.

3. Toby's favorite drink is an apple martini at Eighteenth Street Lounge. He hates Sambuca and pretends to like dark beer.

4. Toby does not have many gay friends.

5. Toby has a 3.6 (estimated) GPA. He is a junior majoring in Journalism and an interdisciplinary communications/government program.

6. Toby's boyfriend is visiting this weekend!

7. The CD currently in Toby's Discman is Britney Spears' 'Oops!... I Did It Again.' The CD in his laptop is 'Da Sound' by Da Buzz.

8. Toby goes to the gym three times a week, drinks a protein shake twice a day, and loves chicken.

9. Toby routinely makes fun of other bloggers and doesn't care.

10. Toby has a manicure scheduled for this Thursday at 6 p.m.

11. Incidentally, Toby often feels he is not 'gay' enough.

12. Contents of Toby's Coach (!) wallet: $23; New York driver license; Metro SmarTrip card; First Union check card; magnetic apartment pass.

13. Products in Toby's hair: Nolita Grit Gel.

14. Toby has not shaved in four days.

15. Toby promises to write actual content tomorrow, even though this list kicked the ass of Bassmaster magazine's "America's 35 Most Important Bass Waters."

Shut your vermouth

VERMOUTH: Long time, no see.

TOBY: Har har, I'm no stranger to verbal irony. Could you leave me alone? I'm trying to do work.

VERMOUTH: Oh, my apologies. Is it hard to be productive after drinking three cups of coffee and swallowing two pills of ephedra?

TOBY: No. I feel great.

VERMOUTH: Well then, we'll just overlook the fact that your hands are shaking so hard, you can barely type. Minor detail.

TOBY: (segwaying awkwardly) God, it's only 1 p.m. I need to get out of here! Fortunately, my lunch break is in 30 minutes.

VERMOUTH: Are you going to give your number to that cute boy at Potbelly?

TOBY: I was thinking about it. I have a boyfriend already, but I could use more gay friends.

VERMOUTH: I'm sure your boyfriend will be supportive of your thinly veiled quest to bag the hot sandwich maker.

TOBY: Fuck you, I just want to be his friend. Nice pun, by the way. 'Bag the hot sandwich maker.'

VERMOUTH: Thanks. So are we on for our usual post-dinner dalliance?

TOBY: Sure thing, boss!

VERMOUTH: You bet. Just go easy on me this time, I don't want you passing out at 11 p.m. like you did last night.

TOBY: Ah, there you go, proving once again that shame is retroactive.

VERMOUTH: It's a hard job, being both your escape from reality and your voice of reason.

TOBY: Amen to that.

You Know You're Gay If... Vol. 1

If you think you're gay, or know someone who might be, it helps to know some telltale signs of homosexual behavior. And so, I offer you this first volume of 'You Know You're Gay If...'

...YOU GO TO A TANNING SALON

If you're a guy and you regularly make appointments at a tanning salon, then congratulations, you are gay.

Now, now. Calm down. Everything will be fine. There is no shame in being gay. Just look at all the perfectly decent, respectable gay people in the world. Take Andrew Cunanan, for instance. Or this guy.

However, while there may not be shame in sexual deviancy, there is shame in going to a tanning salon. After all, why do you think most tanning salons are situated near "gentlemen's clubs", trailer parks, and strip malls? Oh sure, there's a tanning salon chain misleadingly called Hollywood Tan -- but believe me, it's not the Hollywood you're thinking about, darling.

Bottom line: tanning salons are what lazy, poor people go to instead of the gym. By masking their pockmarked, lower-class skin with a hue that appears more appropriate for a pool deck, they liken 15 minutes in a tanning bed to an hour at the gym -- when in reality they are just converting pale fat to tan fat. Unfortunately, the last time I checked, a tan fat person was still just that: FAT.

Granted, being pale still rests farther on the shame continuum than going to a tanning salon. Thus, I've determined a middle ground that will please gay males who wish to be tan without compromising their dignity:

Solution 1

Solution 2

Be sure to purchase two of each, that way I can tag along. Splenda®!

Alcohol vs. Drugz: Who will win?

"This ID is altered." The bouncer glared at me, completely unapologetic.

"But it's a real New York ID," I said. And it was -- albeit a real New York ID that has '1983' changed to '1980' in red pencil. The bouncer was quick to point this out and told my friend and I to leave, lest we be arrested. Fine, fine! No need for theatrics. We skulked back to the Metro, figuring it would be best to marinate in shame elsewhere.

The real tragedy here isn't that the bouncer kicked us out of a bar -- it's that he kept our IDs. Our real IDs! Having no other proof of existence other than my Safeway discount car, I logged onto the New York DMV website this morning and ordered a replacement for $10. And to think that money could have been spent on something far more useful, such as a bucket of Coronas or a box of wine! Ah, regret.

It will take four weeks for the ID to arrive, at which point I'll 'alter' it just the way I did the old one. But what am I going to do until then? No longer able to purchase cheap beer or make it into swanky lounges, I've been cut off from much more than alcohol -- I've been cut off from my raison d'etre! Up until last night's debacle, martinis were quickly becoming as essential to my life force as water or fortified milk. Am I to be sidelined to four weeks of sobriety, or must I devise an alternative to heavy drinking?

Hmm, choices, choices. I pick... alternative! Here are some activities that could potentially replace alcohol as my next-best option for getting fucked up. Bottoms up, darlings!

POSSIBLE ALTERNATIVES TO ALCOHOL

1. COCAINE
[Source: NIDA]

See also: coke, dust, toot, snow, blow, sneeze, powder, lines, nose candy, rock (crack).

Method of ingestion: Sniffing or snorting, injecting, and smoking (including free-base and crack cocaine).

Fun side effects: Immediate euphoric effects, which include hyper-stimulation, reduced fatigue, and mental clarity.

Not-so-fun side effects: Feelings of restlessness, irritability, anxiety, and aggressive paranoid behavior. Also: cardiac arrest or seizures followed by death.

Use by 8th-graders: 4.7%

Bottom line: Crack is wack (right, Whitney?) -- but the jury is still out on the issue of cocaine, I mean, 'toot'. Though undoubtedly more glam than a bucket of warm Rolling Rocks, coke is also far more expensive. For those looking to destroy brain cells effectively but cheaply, don't expect to saddle up to a bathroom counter with Tara Reid anytime soon.

2. HEROIN
[Source: NIDA]

See also: Harry Jones, heavy stuff, Mexican Black Tar, Mister Brownstone, schmack, tecata, Sweet Jesus.

Method of ingestion: Injection.

Fun side effects: A surge of euphoria ("rush") accompanied by a warm flushing of the skin, a dry mouth, and heavy extremities. Also: an alternately wakeful and drowsy state ("on the nod"), alluring "heroin chic" look.

Not-so-fun side effects: Collapsed veins, infection of the heart lining and valves, abscesses, cellulites, and liver disease. Also: spontaneous abortion, infectious diseases, death.

Pesky withdrawal symptoms: Drug craving, restlessness, muscle and bone pain, insomnia, diarrhea and vomiting, cold flashes with goose bumps (ergo "cold turkey"), and kicking movements (ergo "kicking the habit").

Use by 8th-graders: 2.3%

Bottom line: Despite the curious appeal of 'spontaneous abortion', I think I'll leave the needle to the pros.

3. LIFE

See also: self-esteem, optimism, cheer, confidence, happiness, idealism.

Method of ingestion: Long walks on beach, candlelight dinners, organized religion, puppies, Dr. Phil.

Fun side of effects: Feeling of contentment and self-worth.

Not-so-fun side of effects: Feeling of "self-worth" usually vague, propped precariously by years of denial and blind stoicism.

Use by 8th-graders: 93% (estimate)

Bottom line: Best alternative of the three, by far. (looks anxiously at watch) Is it four weeks yet?

Perfect 10 to Complete Zero

Have you ever encountered a seemingly perfect human specimen -- warm eyes, bright smile, styled hair, fat wallet -- and then, once a stab at conversation is made, the specimen reveals himself to be just as dysfunctional and unhinged as the rest of them?

You know the drill: The guy's hot. And friendly! My God, he's actually friendly! Prime soul mate material. You approach him, strike up some banal conversation about your uninteresting job or your irrelevant problems -- but hey, you're talking to him, right? -- and suddenly, what began as idle chit-chat soon becomes a clear indictment of his mental instability, a loquacious train wreck that leaves you searching desperately for the nearest exit.

"Help! This ain't no soul mate! This is an obsessive compulsive freak with stunted emotional growth! And he's blabbing on incessantly about his ex-boyfriend!"

To my dismay, this sort of thing happened to me at the gym yesterday. Let me begin by saying this guy was a perfect 10. And while I have a boyfriend of my own, Mr. Perfect 10 would still have made an excellent friend. Unfortunately, the conversation that transpired between us at the gym dashed any hope of a relationship whatsoever.

I detail the conversation below, marking his decline from Perfect 10 to Complete Zero. Onward!

ME: Hey, what's up! I haven't seen you at the gym in a while.

GUY: Yea, I've been busy with studying and stuff.
[10.0 | +0.0]

ME: Did you do anything fun this weekend?

GUY: It was Pride Weekend, I partied my ass off.
[9.8 | -0.2]

ME: Awesome!

GUY: Yea, I was a bit of a bad boy.
[8.5 | -1.3]

ME: Oh, really. How so?

GUY: Well, um, I didn't really hook up with anyone, really...
[8.3 | -0.2]

ME: (blank stare)

GUY: But, yea, I met a lot of hotties, it was fun being, like, a whore for once, you know?
[4.5 | -3.8]

ME: Right...

GUY: Sorry, you're probably wondering why I'm telling you this.
[4.7 | +0.2]

ME: (nervous chuckle, glances longingly at bench press)

GUY: And there was some drama, too. I broke up with this guy I was sort of seeing.
[7.3 | +2.6]

ME: Aw, I'm sorry.

GUY: Yea. I'm still in love with my ex-boyfriend...
[4.7 | -2.6]

ME: (struggles to maintain composure while look of muted horror spreads across face)

GUY: ...and I'm visiting him in New York next weekend...
[1.3 | -3.4]

ME: That'll be, um, nice.

GUY: ...and we've been apart for three years.
[0.0 | -1.3]

ME: ListenIshouldgetbacktoworkingoutbye! (runs with reckless abandon towards exit)

The End.

Self-Improvement 101

A wise man once said, "Pay close attention to your own faults, but ignore the faults of others." Wise words, indeed -- and though I may not completely ignore the faults of others, I certainly examine faults of my own, to the point where chronic self-analysis has become a fault in and of itself.

And so, I declare it is time for change! During these next few weeks, I shall embark on a glorious revolution, a renaissance if you will, in which I will metamorphosize from an ugly duckling to an ugly duckling that wears Diesel and has nice hair. Onward!

THREE E-Z STEPS TOWARDS SELF-IMPROVEMENT

Step 1. Stop biting nails

Yes, it's true: I've been a nail-biter since the impressionable age of 6 -- an unsavory habit I undoubtedly picked up from my father. After all, who can resist the satisfying crunch of the thin, horny, transparent plate covering the upper surface of the end of a finger? Not me, apparently.

Subsequently, my fingertips look as if they've been gnawed at by a cuticle-craving ferret. If I hold out my fingers and bend them towards the inside of my palm (see illustration), the fingernails form the dopey smile of a retarded child actor. While this is mildly amusing at first, the shame of being a nail-biter is reason enough to kick this juvenile, self-indulgent habit.

Plan of action: Paint fingernails with odorous nail polish; satisfy oral fixation through alternative means.

Step 2. Develop monstrous pecs

Man, I'm all over this like white at a KKK march. Since I've been going to the gym hardcore, I can now stand in front of the mirror and bounce my boobs up and down. This provides minutes of entertainment -- until my eye drifts to other less developed parts of my body (read: not what you're thinking).

I bought a fantastic book that details both a chest workout and an arm workout. I've gained about 10 pounds in the past few weeks, so I'm well on my way to becoming a veritable sex object. Ah, sexual objectification. What would my life be without it?

Plan of action: Cultivate intense and exaggerated body image disorder through continuous, dangerously excessive weight lifting; plastic surgery.

Step 3. Whiten teeth

Between drinking, smoking (a panoply of substances) and inheriting slight discoloration from my parents, I've been left with somewhat yellow teeth. OK, not yellow, exactly. Perhaps 'eggshell' -- the eggshell of an egg that has been left out in the summer sun for about three-and-a-half hot, humid weeks. Mmm. Egg.

Plan of action: Crest White Strips. I've been using these bad boys for almost a week, and I can already see the results! Negative: I can also feel the results -- my gums are extremely sensitive. If my gums could watch a Lifetime Original movie, they'd get teary (like me).

Wow, a total makeover in just three easy steps! I'll be sure to keep you updated with uncomfortably up-close and personal pictures of my fingernails, upper body and teeth. Until then, leave a comment with the body part you plan on sprucing up this summer. Filthy and inquiring minds want to know!

Damn it all to Hell

OK, so I usually hate online quizzes, but when it comes to eternal damnation, I must admit to being mildly curious about my fate. The questions ranged from obvious (Do you believe in God?) to odd (Have you ever wished bad things upon your countrymen?) to somewhat accusatory (Do you hate yourself?). I answered honestly (respectively: no; hell yes; only on Saturday and Sunday mornings) and hoped for the best.

And so, it seems that I have been banished to the fifth floor, known as the Styx. Oh, no! A river of boiling mud! How ominous! I love the descriptions of the various tortures suffered by the damned in Hell. So campy! Whoever believes this shit is an idiot.

I googled some pictures of Styx Land for your viewing pleasure.

How to win my heart

Drive me to the train station (above) so that I don't have to take the bus, God forbid

Burn a mix CD of cheesy love songs that includes the Captain & Tennille, Linda Ronstadt, and that song from 'An American Tale' (!)

Graciously refrain from pointing out how retarded I am when I text message you from a cab to tell you that I've missed my train

Graciously refrain from pointing out how retarded I am when I text message you from my new upgraded Business Class train that the seats have pillows and they play Madonna over the loudspeakers

Know the words to every bad pop song ever produced, and sing them unabashedly while driving

Cower in the corner with me as we're exposed to a woman's vagina for the first time

Wake up next to me and smile -- even though I'm passed out on your living room floor, drooling on your mother's throw pillows

Gay clubbed to death

What's your philosophy of gay clubbing?

Are your weekends a dizzying blur of overpriced rail drinks and afterhours parties, punctuated only by intermittent lines of coke in the VIP lounge?

Or would you trade all that in for a 'Golden Girls' marathon on Lifetime?

My attitude towards gay clubs can best be described as 'bored indifference'. To see where you stand, take the helpful self-quiz below.

GAY CLUBBING SELF-QUIZ

1. When the Red Party comes to town, you:
◦ Leap for your body glitter and sleeveless t-shirt!
◦ Naively question a resurgence of 1950s pinko liberalism.

2. When placed in a crowd of tan, hairless, glistening boy-colts, you:
◦ Eagerly search for a willing orifice!
◦ Bitterly curse your ghostly pallor and unmanageable back hair.

3. When shopping for clothes, you:
◦ Pay $100 for a size XS Diesel t-shirt that is lacking sleeves, effective stitching, and taste!
◦ Go to Old Navy.

4. When solicited for drugs, you:
◦ Feign disgust at being mistaken for a drug dealer, despite being fucked up on several uppers yourself!
◦ Reply, 'Who's Tina?'

Har har, aren't I the dickens?

You see, Capital Pride is this weekend, and Thunderpuss is spinning at Velvet Nation. My friend mentioned this to me, and I was like, 'Oh, yea, Thunderpuss! Didn't he do a Janet Jackson remix or something?' I'm so fucking clueless when it comes to gay culture, I swear. Now, if gay culture meant weblogs and being a loser, I'd be the next Cookie Buffet.

MARTINI: Ha! Cookie Buffet? Are you kidding? You'll never be as fabulous as her.

TOBY: And why is that?

MARTINI: Because your idea of a fun night at Apex is to get drunk and tell people about your weblog. Yea, that's real fabulous. Retard.

TOBY: Shit, did I really do that last night? Fuck.

MARTINI: Yes, you tramped around the club in your sole pair of Diesel jeans, babbling endlessly about this narcissistic shrine you laughably call a 'weblog'. Loser.

TOBY: But, weblogs are cool.

MARTINI: If forging a sense of self-worth directly proportional to your Site Meter stats is cool, then hot damn, you're Miles Davis!

TOBY: Shut up, you're just a poorly made apple martini. What do you know?

MARTINI: It's 10 a.m. and I know you'd drink me anyway.

TOBY: Sigh. See you tonight at Gazuza?

MARTINI: Sure. That'll be $9, please.

Apropos of nothing...

...I need a way to fake 30 hours of mandatory community service, pronto. Any ideas, fellow delinquents?

Also: Don't forget to read this week's edition of Superiour -- my little way of showing that, indeed, all the good ones are gay.

My dog thinks I'm gay

Yay! Now Kian can get that alimony he's always wanted.

I'm also very excited about Hillary Clinton's memoir, Living History. The excerpts (published somewhat illegally by the AP) were fascinating. Apparently the only person who would speak with Bill once the shit hit the fan was Buddy, the family dog.

Aw, Bill, I know what that's like. After all, my doggy is the first person I came out to. "Zacky, I have something to tell you -- I'm gay." I remember saying those words out loud for the first time, and Zacky didn't even blink an eye. As I started to cry, the fur ball jumped in my lap and licked my face. He still loved me, even though I was gay! Doggies rule.

This is the kind of dog I have -- the same breed used in 'There's Something About Mary' and some lame-ass iced tea commercial:

Anyway, one last thing -- has anyone read Us Weekly lately? You know, the issue that says 'Celebrity Wedgies!' on the front? Well, I was flipping through a copy the other day, only to find an info-graphic about which celebrities should star in a hypothetical Laci Peterson made-for-TV movie. WHAT THE FUCK. Oh yea, I'm sure Katie Holmes was delighted to find the prolific editors of Us Weekly think her 'bright, warm smile' make her a perfect fit for the role of a murdered pregnant woman.

So fucked up, man. Sort of like this entry.

Things I Do That You Should Not, Vol. 1

1. LISTENING TO OLD SPICE GIRL ALBUMS FOR HOURS DAYS WEEKS ON END

Reason I do it: Catchy, upbeat melodies renew late nineties mien of positivity, girl power.
Reason you should not: Shame; guilt; loss of respect from friends and loved ones.

Insinuating 'Wannabe' into your workout mix is one thing. Spending an entire lunch break, wondering what the Girls mean when they sing Get with the M-G-M-V-E on their b-side 'Outer Space Girls', is quite another.*

The Spice Girls phenomenon is sort of like high school. You look back on it with naive regret, smiling absently about the good times you had and the silly things you did. But then you remember just how fucked up it all was and that you'd sooner sauté your own fecal matter for breakfast than relive those years again. Ah, reminiscence.

What we've learned: Do not listen to the Spice Girls. Even if you play 'Spice World' on your Walkman at a barely audible volume, strangers will detect that zig-a-zig-ah glimmer in your eye and hold you in contempt for the rest of your miserable existence. This concludes Things I Do That You Should Not, Volume 1.

* M-G-M-V-E = Mel Geri Mel Victoria Emma

I'm coming out, again

It's amazing, the things you miss when you spend every waking minute in front of a computer, either surfing the newswire at work or redesigning your stupid weblog at home. Namely: my sister's birthday and her one-year anniversary. Oops.

When this occurred to me last night (while redesigning my Links page, no less) I figured my sister would forgive me, seeing as how I'm a busy college student with a time-consuming job and a somewhat active social life who still hasn't mastered the art of committing to memory essential historical milestones, such as the birthdays and anniversaries of loved ones.

But then I thought: Damn, I've been living on my own for two fucking years, and though I excel at meeting my editor's deadlines, I am somehow unable to mail a greeting card to my sister in a timely fashion. Clearly, it's about time I rearrange my priorities, placing my sister somewhere on the list above 'job', 'weblog', and 'heavy drinking'.

And so here's what I did: I logged onto Amazon this morning and sent an overnight package to my sister so that it would arrive just in time for her birthday. But I didn't send her a crappy CD or useless novelty gift. I bought her the book I read during my senior year of high school, the book that made me realize who I was, the book that made me accept the fact that I was -- am -- gay.

Now, at the risk of tediously reciting yet another textbook 'coming out' story... Well, let's be honest, people. My story is no different than yours. I told my sister I was gay a few weeks before leaving for college, and I told my parents a few months later. Sis was fine with it; Mom and Dad were not. Strangely, it hasn't been mentioned by any of them since.

I hope that by sending my sister this book, she might better understand where I'm coming from. Maybe she'll read it, and we can discuss it together, and it will bring us closer. I'd rather not elaborate; instead I'm going to improvise, go with the flow, see what happens.

Here's the note I included in the package:

God damn it, I'm really nervous about this. Please don't let me cry at the office.

Morons in Media

"To: Morality in Media (mim@moralityinmedia.org)
From: Toby
Subject: Re: Article on 'Boy Meets Boy'

The author conveniently anticipates being called a 'hypocrite' and 'bigot' thereby deflecting any attempts at criticism as knee-jerk pro-gay rhetoric -- but how can I resist when the author implies that promiscuity, sexually transmitted diseases, substance abuse, sexual abuse of minors, rapes and sexual murders, and religious bigotry are exclusive to the gay community? If I were to list the 'downsides' of heterosexuality, I'd surely note the same items -- in addition to 'contrived sense of moral and ethical superiority'.

As I continued to read the article, I couldn't help but notice that the author fails to answer his own question: What could possibly be wrong with 'Boy Meets Boy'? Rather than come to a finite conclusion, this poorly executed essay serves only to attack homosexuality through thinly veiled sarcasm ("Perhaps Jenny Jones could replace Danny Behr as host", among other tedious jibes). Sure, it's easy to promote discrimination with offensive stereotypes and two-bit jokes, but it's quite another thing to construct an argument using logic. The author fails on this account.

Personally, I find the concept of 'Boy Meets Boy' to be offensive, as well -- though for patently different reasons. However, I'm withholding any criticism until the show airs, so that I might see it for myself. I suggest you do the same.

Sincerely,

Toby Halliwell
www.vividblurry.com"

Pissed off, too? Read the article here, then send your response here. Have fun, and wear protection!

Wow, this looks like total crap!

Well, here it is. The brain child that was delivered via cesarean section from the depraved, tar-covered womb that is my mind. Tell me what you think of the new layout, and please overlook the fact that the archives still aren't formatted and that half the links don't work. Merely a pitstop at the Rest Area of Mediocrity, my friends.

I have work tomorrow, so you can expect at least five noticeably disjointed entries to be posted between the hours of 9 and 5. Splenda®!

Movable Type, baby!

Don't expect any updates until tomorrow night, dollface. I'm upgrading to Movable Type -- basically a more powerful (read: unnecessarily complicated) version of our dear friend, Greymatter.

I've been told that with Movable Type, I can organize my entries into different categories. Imagine the possibilities! We'll have the 'Incoherent Babble' folder, the 'Clear Indictment of Mood Disorder' folder, and also the 'Displaced Rage Targeted Inappropriately at Ex-Boyfriend' folder. Man, this is going to be great.

P.S. The new layout is even more craptastic than this one, featuring a wifebeater-clad photo of your's truly. Children around the world will be masturbating in unison at the sight of this sexy pic! Here's a little preview for ya. Rejoice.