Hahah my blog sucks now

Is anyone reading this anyone? Is anyone even updating? Weblogs are so over, like Friendster.

Cigs banned from campus

For some inexplicable reason, the sale of cigarettes is now banned from campus. This really isn't a huge problem for me, being a social smoker and all. But still, it fucking pisses me off. Where will the fascists draw the line? Why not ban fattening whole milk from the cafeteria because it's "bad" for you? Why not limit the entire cafeteria selection to tofu and purified water? This whole situation is so fucked up. Not only are we a dry campus now, but we're a smoke-free one, too.

Isn't college supposed to be about both academics AND destroying your body? I should start selling cartons in my room, I bet I would make a pretty penny.

I am a bad blogger

Augh, I'm sorry for not posting. I moved into the dorms this week, and things have been crazy. Last night I went to Apex and sang "Lady Marmalade" on the kareoke stage. My ex-boyfriend was there, and he bought my boyfriend and me drinks all night. He was being really cool, so I'm happy about that.

Now that I'm back at school, my entries will probably take on a "diary-esque" feel. I'm sorry if that is what you aren't expecting from me, but I'm busy enough with school work that I can't spend time crafting witty entries on Queer Eye for the Straight Guy anymore. Lo siento.

OK it is time to shower and get drunk before clubbing. Ta ta.

I'm back and this time it's personal

I just got back from New York. It was an interesting train ride, being felt up by my the guy next to me and all. I love Amtrak.

If memory serves, and it doesn't, I have something I ought to be doing, so when that something that ought to be done is done, I will return with an entry so fresh it will make you want to slap your legal guardian.

I Love NY

I am traveling to New York this week to visit some family and friends. Posting might be sparse -- or, considering that I will be intoxicated most nights in some shape or form and thus returning home to an unoccupied computer with DSL connection, it might not be!

I will be meeting some fellow bloggers along the way. This should be interesting. Cheers me dears -- I'll keep you posted.

My Bitter Breakup with Jose Cuervo

Just so you know, I am officially terminating my relationship with Sr. Jose Cuervo.

Jose, you were there for me when friends, family and self-esteem were not. You provided me a comforting escape from life's problems. And you looked the other way when we spent time together alone. Those were the best nights, Jose. When it was just you and me. And the toilet. That, too.

But after last Friday's debacle, I am afraid we can be no more. You betrayed me, Jose! You allowed me to black out, remove my clothing, dance around the apartment in my box-cut Lycra briefs from H&M, and vomit explosively on my bed sheets. You have embarrassed me in front of my friends for the last time, Jose! We are through!

I am leaving you for someone else, Jose -- to be specific: some 40s of Bud and a blunt. Good bye, Jose. You have broken my liver, but I will not allow you to break my heart!

*sob*

Non Sequitur Childhood Flashback Vol. 1

When I was little, I used to wonder why black people had such a problem with being forced to sit in the back of the bus because riding in the back of the school bus was so much fun!

The Dull Blade

Splenda! Another mindless article on the blogosphere™, this time from Mark Reilley (rhymes with "Gigli"?) of the Washington Blade. His 1,300-word paean to weblogs (or "blogs" for short, as Reilley savvily points out) stumbles along without purpose, only to end (at last!) with an incongruous quote from the diary of former President Harry Truman. Reilley's article is a true exercise in half-assed journalism, a hopelessly misconceived stab at cultural relevance that dates itself the moment Reilley poses the belated question, "Are blogs a passing fad?" No, unlike the media's strange obsession with the "blogging phenomenon", one can only hope.

And now for a belated question of my own: Can't someone write an article on blogs that isn't entirely derivative of all that has come before it? People got over weblogs in the 1990s. It's time to look at weblogs from a new angle. I assumed a gay journalist might cover gay weblogs in a flashy, funky way, ergo the tongue-in-cheek responses I gave to Reilley's interview ("When people visit my site, they see that I have nothing going for me but physical appeal and a good sense of humor. Though that may not be much, it's more than what most bloggers have. It's how I've made my audience."). Clearly, I was mistaken.

Not surprisingly, the Blade failed to quote me in the article. However, they did sex up their web site with a screenshot of my wifebeater-clad layout. Gee, thanks a lot. It seems the Blade saw I have nothing going for me but physical appeal, too.

Things I Hate

◦ Webloggers that post a self-aggrandizing disclaimer that warns, "If you are easily offended, then I suggest you click the back button on your browser," as if their tedious, mainstream-intellectual ramblings have even a mild relationship with controversy.

◦ Webloggers that refer to themselves or others as "A-list", "B-list", or "C-list." There is no list, fuckers. "A-list" simply categorizes the community of pseudo-journalists that possess a modicum of skill but aren't good enough to be paid, and "B-list" is a euphemism for "I'm a talentless wannabe hack."

◦ Webloggers that write about weblogging. I'm guilty of this one, kids.

Hmm, I was going to continue with my rant, but then I realized how annoying rants are when they stem from individuals with no authority on the matter. My weblog sucks*, so I'm just going to shut up now...

I had to open a new jar of peanut butter this morning, and when I peeled off the foil seal, I remembered how my dad wouldn't deflower a fresh container of Skippy without first carving a heart into the virginal surface with the tip of a knife. One time, he forgot to carve the heart, and I got mad.

PS My mom is mad at me for wanting to wait tables next semester, just to make a little money on the side. She spun herself into such a fury that I half-suspected her of confusing my desire to work at a restaurant for a desire to quit school and pursue a career as "junkie street whore." My mom overreacts to everything, somebody get the woman a Xanax.

The work day is slow, so I'm going to disappear for three hours and see a movie up the street. Yesterday I saw L'Auberge Espagnole. Today I'm seeing Jet Lag. My boyfriend speaks French, so these films remind me of him. :)

I like how the quality of this entry descends into that of an unscripted, stream-of-drug-accelerated-consciousness LiveJournal. Reminds me of last summer, right?

*ironic self-deprecation alert!

Metro Opens Doors -- And My Fat Mouth

On most occasions, Washington's subway system -- also known as the Metro -- operates at an acceptable level of competency. Sure, the trains run infrequently, the escalators are always broken, and your SmarTrip card fucks up only when there is a line of savage Montgomery County commuters behind you. But the Metro almost always gets you where you need to be. Just don't expect to be on time.

That said, I didn't expect last night's Metro ride from the Washington Monument to Friendship Heights to be smooth sailing, since I was evacuating Screen on the Green along with 8,000 other Metro-bound people. But at least it wouldn't be as bad as the Fourth of July, when I huddled in line for two hours at the Federal Triangle station next to a lazy-eyed hick from Virginia (my boyfriend told me the guy was actually blind, so now I feel bad) and a shrill Mexican woman who used her 37 children as battering rams against the crowd.

Well, I thought it wouldn't be as bad as the Fourth of July. Clearly, I was mistaken. Last night's Metro ride was so bad that I briefly considered homicide as an effective remedy to an otherwise tortuous subterranean journey. Let me explain.

Each summer, Screen on the Green attracts thousands of Washington residents with "classic" movies (read: Jailhouse Rock) shown on a giant screen in front of the Washington Monument. It's a lot of fun -- you set up a blanket, eat a picnic lunch, and drink just enough wine to tolerate the folks from Virginia that dance during the musical sequences, thereby obstructing your view (these are the same ass-clowns that applaud in movie theaters, if you were curious).

Anyway, the screening of Jailhouse Rock was awesome, and I really liked the film. Seriously! I swear. Everything was fine until my friends and I found ourselves on the platform of the Smithsonian station, squeezed into a sea of northbound assholes.

The problem started with my red book bag. It's from Kenneth Cole, but it screams JanSport. I look like a third grader on his first day of school whenever I wear it, but what the fuck, I don't care. Last night, my red bag was filled with empty Glad containers, a blanket and cigarettes.

Like my book bag, the platform was filled to capacity. I was afraid someone would get pushed in front of an oncoming train, which would have been initially amusing but ultimately inconveniencing to myself and others. But I digress.

Getting to the point: the girl behind me had a problem with my book bag. Not a "pardon me, I'm trying to squeeze through" sort of problem. More like a "you godless pig fucker, you've just massacred my children and raped my mother" sort of problem. She flipped out at me. In a big way.

"EXCUSE ME, YOUR BOOK BAG KEEPS HITTING ME IN THE ARM, PLEASE STOP IT."

"There are a lot of people on this platform. Deal with it."

"I SHOULDN'T HAVE TO DEAL WITH YOUR BAG SLAMMING INTO MY ARM."

"What do you want me to do? Take it off? I can't even move my fucking arms, how could it be slamming into you?!"

"THAT'S IT! I'M MOVING! I CAN'T DEAL WITH THIS! YOUR BAG KEEPS HITTING ME!!!"

I could have ended the conversation here, but I did not. Oh, no. I kept going. I brought our dispute to another level of social discordance. She started this game, and I play to win.

"Your fat ass keeps getting in my way," I began, "but do I ask you to take that off?"

This struck my accuser silent but prompted another fat-face to chime in with bitchy bons mots of her own.

"JUST TAKE THE DAMN BAG OFF! I TOOK MY BAG OFF! IT'S RIGHT BETWEEN MY LEGS!" She then pointed to her bag on the floor.

I'm sorry, but who the fuck did she think she was? Like a chronically depressed and overweight Wal-Mart associate coming home to his ravaged wife in bed with cousin Earl, I was ready to smack this bitch up.

"You know what?" The woman looked at me with disdain, though there was no way she could have braced herself for what I had to say. "I have something I could put between your legs."

And just like that, the train arrived, we were herded aboard, and I never saw the two women again.

Remainders: More Metro horror stories here

The end-ster of Friendster

Just a little news flash for all you hipsters out there...

FRIENDSTER. IS. OFFICIALLY. OVER.

Remainders: How to be my Friendster

Blogosphere of Influence

For some inexplicable reason, I found myself this afternoon in the gay(ish) magazine section of Borders, reading the fecal-glazed glossy Instinct. At least I think it was Instinct. It could have been Genre or Out or Metro. Hell, it could have been Men's Fitness, for all I know. They all slap "attractive" (read: muscular to the point of being physically grotesque) gym weasels on their covers, so they all look the same to me.

(Also, is it me, or did every gay magazine refer to its July release as "The SEX Issue"?!)

Call me cynical, but the magazine I was reading featured a brief Q&A with a club crawler clad in white spandex pants and a sailor cap, who is quoted as saying the thing he finds most sexy is "unabashed masculinity." I nearly burst out laughing (the guy was wearing glitter, for crying out loud!) until I realized the interview probably had a thinly veiled ironic subtext intended as a stereotype-shattering statement against preconceived notions of homosexuality, because, you know, Instinct is real hipster/subversive like that.

Speaking of hipster -- the August 2003 catalogue, I mean, edition of Genre supposedly has an article on gay webloggers. Trendy to the max! I mean, weblogs are so NOW -- no, of course their heyday wasn't in 1999, are you kidding me?

Now, I haven't been able to snag a copy yet, since I'm distanced from modern society in the rural enclave of Washington-fucking-DC, but I'm sure Borders will have it in stock eventually.

To my surprise (and to yours, as well, I'm sure), I was neither interviewed for nor mentioned in Genre's article. This is of little consequence to me, but if I was the editor of Genre, I'd be gravely concerned. After all, an article about gay webloggers that fails to mention Toby of vividblurry dot com suffers an extreme lack of credibility.

However, though the author overlooked my little home on the Web, I'm sure he was careful to use the word "blogosphere" with reckless abandon (duh). I've yet to come across a story on webloggers that makes even a scintilla of sense, so I'm not keeping my hopes high for this one.

By the way, for those in the DC-Metro area, there will be a very much belated article on gay webloggers in this week's Washington Blade. I was the only blogger from the DC-Metro area to be interviewed for the story (?!), so obviously I'm expecting professional journalistic integrity of NYT-proportions. Should be interesting nonetheless.

Take a Chance on Me

As a seasoned gay male, I know where to go when I want something done. For instance:

When I want the government to grant "gravely immoral" individuals such as myself the same right granted to the righteous heterosexuals who surely act out of pure interest in God's plan for marriage and family, I write a letter to my senator.

And when I wake up from my dream of a politician actually giving a shit about fags, I go here.

But what do I do when I wish to achieve the unthinkable, when I want to open minds to a new idea, when I want to... propose a new gay anthem?

My goddess, I'm sick and tired of the uninspired gay-ish dance compilations that tack on "It's Raining Men" and "Macho Man" as if doing so is a stroke of pure creative genius. When I browse through Borders and spot "I Will Survive" on Best of Gay Dance, I display the same look of shock and awe you'd express after hearing "Electric Slide" at your friend's bat mitzvah.

And so, here's my suggestion for a new gay anthem, and it goes a little something like this...

Know it yet? See if you can guess it. Don't skip ahead.

That's right! "Does Your Mother Know" by ABBA! And is the double entendre of the chorus not impossibly perfect?

Teehee. My mother knows I'm out, but she doesn't know I'm rubbing up next to a lecherous man like you. (Just kidding!)

Obviously, the song would have to be re-recorded by a more modern artist and, as an inevitable result, unabashedly destroyed. But wouldn't it be worth sacrificing, just to have something new to bump bop to in the clubs?

Possible recording artists of the new "Does Your Mother Know":

1. Justin Timberlake (I bet you anything his mother doesn't know!)
2. Clay Aiken (file that one under "obvious")
3. The Fab Five

I have a stalker

A man approached my friend at Cobalt the other night and said, "Hey, are you Toby?"

SCARY.