Though the year may have changed, the hassles are just the same

Ships ahoy, naughty boy! Tomorrow afternoon, The Shank and I set sail upon the high seas for the mighty Keystone State, wherein awaits an indulgent suburban-style fête chez Agatha. OK, so maybe we won’t be sailing the high seas, but I am sure the term “high” (as in, dare I say, the state of being) will introduce itself somehow into the equation. Perhaps a pre-celebratory “blizzunt” on the New Jersey Turnpike to celebrate the Eve’s celebration? Sure, but no cops!

And we cannot forget the inevitable dropping of The Ball at midnight’s stroke. My balls dropped in 1993, and I’ve had many a midnight “stroke” ever since! On that fine note, Happy New Year to all, and to all, a good night!

I hate being gay sometimes

I’m in a really shitty mood, and in an effort to conceal it, I was going to begin the entry with this bullshit synopsis of my personality:

This may come as a surprise to many of you, but in real life, I am not a bitch. I am generally a very polite individual who forgives easily and does not hold grudges for longer than a day. I consider the welfare of others to such a degree that I often forget to consider the welfare of myself. And I don’t pretend to be friends with people; this leaves more time and more love for the friends I genuinely care about.

The only reason this came to mind is because I have spent the last hour browsing through Friendster, forcing myself to read the profiles of faggots from The DC who have annoyed me from the moment I met them at Nation or Cobalt or whatever shithole at which we’re all supposed to congregate. I’m not flaming, I don’t give a fuck about Gucci, I hate New York City, I loathe crystal meth and those who use it, I’m not a drama queen, I don’t pretend to like someone and then tear them to pieces the moment he leaves the room, I don’t base the value of my existence upon my dating status, I don’t call my male friends “girls” or “bitches” or “bois,” I resent the word “twink,” I think sleeveless shirts are thoughtless and immature, I hated when you called me randomly at 1 a.m. just to apologize for nothing in particular (obviously you were high), I hated when you did a bump of tina before driving me home, I hate the way you complain about how much you detest the gay scene and yet you embrace it unabashedly five nights a week, I hate all the stupid preparation that goes into a night during which you wind up getting drunk and fucked up anyway, I hate how you are the only person who doesn't put his age in his Friendster profile, I hate the word "cunt" when addressed to a gay male, I hate it when you are "ironically" racist, I hate when you IM me once a month and still expect me to give a shit about whatever slut you've fallen in love with after three days, and I don’t see the big deal in older (“lecherous”) men who find me attractive.

I’m sorry, but I just needed to get a big “FUCK YOU” off of my chest.

Argh. Sometimes I think the only reason I try to piss specific people off is so that they'll stop trying to be part of my life.

Mail bag!

Toby,

A quote from your most recent post:

"When I awake at an hour deemed inappropriate by my patriarchic mother..."

What jumps out at me most is your mistaken use of the word Patriarchic. FYI: 'Patriarchic' means of or relating to ones father or the father's genealogy.

Don't get me wrong, I'm not trying to be a bitch about it, nor have I ever thought being overly pedantic was flattering to me. But the poor grasp of the English language that you (and Agatha) display on a regular basis is getting a bit annoying.

Maybe instead of buying a $3K powerbook you should have bought a $15 dictionary.

Regards,
Palumbo

Dear Palumbo,

You know, I should really get around to buying a dictionary. That way, when I look up “shiteater,” I can see a picture of your hideously deformed face!

Please note that “patriarchic” also means “characteristic of a patriarch.” Enter the joke: I use the word to describe my mother. Try again next time!

Xoxo Toby.

Bed and Breakfast

When I awake at an hour deemed inappropriate by my patriarchic mother, she will usually say, “It’s noon, the kitchen is closed for breakfast” – implying that I must go hungry until lunchtime simply because I did not rise at 6 a.m. to enjoy a pot of hazelnut coffee with my inexplicably well-rested parents while watching the sun shine its inaugural rays over our many-an-acre suburban ranch situated in the geographically ambiguous New York/New Jersey overlap.

What the hell? I am living in a McDonald’s, where one is expected to enjoy a burger and fries at 10:31 a.m.?! Fuck this shit. Pass to me my bowl of cereal, bitch!

Addendum: My mother has graciously afforded me two options: "You can have either a bowl of cereal or yogurt. And you're to eat them standing up." Very well -- I suppose we must keep the floor clean to ACD-proportions for this evening's dinner guests. But when I beat your ass, would you prefer it if I stood, as well?

Drinking alone

I am trapped within the confines of my family’s sprawling suburban ranch for the evening. Oh, to be only 15 miles from Manhattan (and 300 from The DC) without any means of acceptable transportation – a cruel fate I would not wish to wish upon anyone. Except, of course, my brother, whose social plans necessitated usage of our 1990 Honda Accord. So what is a boi née boy to do on such a lonesome night as this? Two words spring to mind: Bottoms up!

Oh, not my bottom, silly goose. The bottom of a vodka bottle – or, in my unique yet not entirely unfamiliar situation, a glass of spiked orange juice coveted in the solitude (and solace) of my modestly furnished bedroom. Cheers! And repeat as needed.

How to become a New York faux-socialite

As many of you know (and have tried futilely to deny), two of the Interweb’s greatest Weblogs – vividblurry.com and theagathaexperience.com – are proudly based in our nation’s capital city, Washington, D.C.

Of course, the location of our respective laptops (for him, a 15-inch PowerBook G4 with SuperDrive; for her, a weary Gateway relic that wheezes upon startup and keeps The Shank awake) has little to do with our Web sites’ content, which focuses mostly on our good looks and steers clear of humdrum references to city life.

Still, there exists the occasional Weblog detailing not its author’s life, but its author’s life in the limiting context of the "Big City." Entries will typically address such galvanizing issues as What I Did Last Night in the Big City, or, alternately, Who I Did Last Night in the Big City. And in an effort to inflate their small town personalities to egomaniacal Big City proportions, authors of such Weblogs will drop more names than a winner of the Academy Award for Sound Editing during his longwinded acceptance speech – and they do so just as pointlessly. Intriguingly, most third-party references are to other Big City bloggers who likewise spend more time writing about a city than they do actually experiencing it.

By this point, you are surely asking yourself: Being a Big City blogger sure sounds like a great way to make myself seem cool, how can I become one? After all, I live at home with my parents in suburban New Jersey, I don’t have any Big City friends, and I am otherwise a very boring individual with few redeeming qualities! How could someone as insipid as I become a Big City blogger?

The answer, my friend(s), is simple. Just read along to discover my handy-dandy…

OFFICIAL GUIDE TO BECOME A FAUX-SOCIALITE NEW YORK CITY BLOGGER WITH LAUGHABLY ABSURD DELUSIONS OF GRANDEUR

Step 1. Discard suburban, corporeal friends. Obtain urban, virtual friends.

Why: If you’re going to become a New York faux-socialite who splits his time between his home in Chelsea and his home on the Web, then you’d better ditch your New Jersey schoolmates pronto! I mean, let’s be totally honest, pal: Did you really enjoy those late-night trips to the diner for curly fries and milkshakes with your high school buddies? OK, so maybe you did. But just think of all the fun you’ll have when you’re in New York, paying twice as much for food that’s half as good!

How: Just tell them that suburbia isn’t big enough for someone as obnoxious and self-absorbed as you! Besides, they saw this coming the moment you started wearing your Diesels for the hour-long Red & Tan bus ride into the Port Authority. Just be sure to replace your real friends with fake Weblogging friends. They’ll be your key into the faux-socialite scene!

Step 2. Blog about your friends’ glamorous New York lifestyle. Avoid mentioning the dreaded C-word.

Why: The C-word (begins with “com,” ends with “muter”) no longer applies to you, now that you are a New York faux-socialite. Sure, the PATH takes your suburban ass from Hoboken to the Big City (and sometimes, if you’re lucky, mommy drops you off at Penn Station on her way to work in Brooklyn!) – but your readers must never know of this. Your socialite status is a precious and fragile illusion that must be protected with lies, delusions and a heavy arsenal of links to Big City bloggers more popular (and legitimate) than you.

How: Prattle on endlessly about the good times you had with your Weblogger buddy in the dog park, but forgo any references to the black woman who sat next to you on the bus and smelled of beans. What woman, you say? Ah, you are a quick learn, my friend.

Step 3. Pursue misguided dream by moving into Big City, regardless of economic situation, pragmatism or reason.

Why: Hell, you should be asking why not! Manifest destiny, baby! You can’t be a New York faux-socialite, blogging from the family computer in Teaneck! It’s now or never: Either move to New York now, or wait until you’ve obtained a full-time job with a salary that can sustain your lifestyle, er, never!

How: Listen, bub. I’m just a guy with a Weblog, not a realtor. Finding an affordable apartment in New York is up to you. (Or just turn to craigslist.org. It’s true that the Web can solve all of your problems – and when you’re out of problems, the Web can create more for you, as well!)

And there you have it: My official guide to becoming a New York faux-socialite. As for me, I must prepare for tonight’s unabashedly suburban tradition of getting high with my friends and loitering outside of CVS like a bum on Broadway! Peace out, nigs!

Please don't put your life in the hands of a rock and roll band

Have you ever listened to a sad song, not because you are sad, but because you feel as if you should be?

Addendum: OMG, it's Chri$tma$ Eve! I should be happy! Yayayayayayay Je$u$!

Grades

Despite an uninspired essay on California's recall election, a hastily delivered (and questionably accurate) PowerPoint presentation on environmental policy, and a lackluster attendance record, my Public Policy professor has graciously afforded me an A! Could this be a truly deserved academic coup, or merely a slip of the professor's hand? I suspect the latter.

Only one more grade to be posted: Drugs and Human Behavior. I think we all know how I did in that class. Har har.

The Big Apple

You know, I am not even sure where to start. With the malfunctioning MetroCard machines, perhaps? Or maybe with the city's less-than-visionary urban planning -- an enigmatic grid of streets and avenues! (Oh, where art the traffic circles and whimsical diagonals of The DC?)

No, no. In an age where New York's terror alert level is higher than yours truly on a Friday night, one must put into perspective life's benign inconveniences and reserve impatience and outrage for the condemnation of dark-skinned, anti-freedom minorities. Sure, the MetroCard machine refused to accept my dollar bills, but WE MUST NEVER FORGET TO REMEMBER 9/11!

Alas, this entry must come to an abrupt close, for I am feeling as creative as a syndicated hour of "King of Queens" on UPN. Forgive me, readers, for I have sinned!

Update

I'm home in New York for a few weeks. I've been playing on my new Powerbook, and I absolutely love it. Today I'm heading into the city to hang out with Kian for a while. I'll write a nice entry tonight for you kiddies. <3

Fecal cookies

This morning the entire floor in my dorm smelled like chocolate chip cookies. (Someone must have been baking in the lounge.) When taking my morning shit, the incongruous smells of baked goods and fecal matter joined in a foul, unholy alliance, and it was by far the most disgusting thing I have ever had the priviledge of inhaling.

Hungover, baby

I have come to anticipate my morning hangovers with a sad but surrendering acceptance. Granted, some mornings are better than others. Yesterday, for instance, I awoke feeling only mildly strung out, courtesy of the rogue tetra-hydrocannabinol still inhabiting my body from an impromptu "session" at 2 a.m. with my roommate. Fine life choices, indeed! The roomie is stressing hardcore about exams, but at least he chooses to flirt with irresponsibility every now and then. My reckless behavior must be contagious!

As for this morning's hangover, few words can adequately describe the toxic fog that transforms even the most benign sights and sounds into sharp daggers of pure PAIN. Oh, the humanity. And what did I do to deserve this morning sickness? Knocked back a few beers (off-campus!) with some friends, is all. If that's a crime, then I don't want to be rehabilitated.

And rejoice: a picture from last night. (My roommate is on the right, performing a sacred Jew dance around our underwhelmingly festive Christmas tree.)

FYI

New "about" page. Check it out in the sidebar, hotties. <3

Augh, whatevs

Sometimes I think the things I post on GroupHug.us are a hell of a lot more interesting than the shit I post here. In fact, I know this to be true.

Rich girls

I have been watching MTV's "Rich Girls" lately. Believe me, I have no problem with material wealth and those who are obsessed with it. But who the hell does Ally Hilfiger think she is? I wish she would shut up about her trip to London or her alleged anxiety disorder - she sounds like a 35-year-old divorcee trapped in a 19-year-old's body.

Augh.

I wish I was her.

Final Exam Season

May the Lawd be with you – and also with me, for Finals Season is settling upon this campus like a band of noble pilgrims upon the virgin land of the savage red man. And to emulate our Puritan forefathers, these exams will surely rape and pillage with reckless abandon – though the victims, I’m afraid, shan’t be a dark-skinned and thus excusable minority, but, alas, the unfortunate population of nearsighted students who have wasted away the semester being wasted. And what federally funded reservations await us in the near future? None, I will confidently venture to guess.

But wait! Months of firewater consumption may have rendered me academically unfit for standardized testing, but this is nothing a few nights of cramming can’t fix. ‘Tis my hastily assembled bow and arrow, you might say. I will accept the challenge of an American Public Policy exam with the proud dignity of a wild water buffalo. Whoop, whoop! Beware: my valiant war cry!

Stuff my stocking

New holiday layout on the way, my pretties. Get excited!

Let it snow, bitch!

Le sigh. The almighty Editor in Chief rejected the following cutline, written by Yours Truly, regarding Thursday night's snow "storm." Continue reading to experience the Pulitzer-worthy paragraph that was unjustly dismissed as a journalistic abortion...

Rejoice and be glad! Like one's GPA after a semester of inexcusable absences and recklessly frequent beer runs, snow fell Thursday night, coating the Quad with a divine purity comparable only to that of a Christian soul. And what to wondering eyes did appear Friday morning but three inches of white powder, proving more tantalizing to mitten-handed students than an equally alabaster aggregation of crushed prescription amphetamines.

Accumulation in D.C. was incomparable to New York, where the two-day storm unleashed 16 inches of precipitate upon certain areas of the city. Despite its shortcomings, however, Thursday's micro-storm enlivened students with the galvanizing cry: “Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow!”

To study, perchance to learn

O inspiration, where art thou? It seems the creek of creativity - which once overfloweth and brought fertile Web log entries to the starving citizens of Blogland - is now as dry as... hmm. A pre-coital Liz Taylor? My mouth after a night of recklessly liberal drinking? Let's resort directly to the lowest common denominator: an unlubed anal cavity. As dry as an unlubed anal cavity! Now that's comedy.

I'm "working" on a new layout, similar to the way in which I am "working" on my 'zine. As you may or may not have guessed, I have presumptuously redefined the term "working", once believed to be "physical or mental effort or activity directed toward the production or accomplishment of something." The accomplishment of something? Truly, a definition as sweeping as my mother's cleaning lady of Mexican descent! Replace "something" with "intoxication" - a clever but practical switcheroo! - and suddenly, I'm "working" harder than the aforementioned cleaning lady after another of my mother's benzodiazepine-fueled tantrums!

Alas, it is time to settle down with my textbooks. To study, perchance to learn! Don't believe me? Ask the dishes.

Ah, The Simple Life

A fellow staffer at the school paper interned for whoever did post-production for Paris Hilton's "The Simple Life." According to him, the producers were short on material because Paris and Nicole Ritchie kept prattling on about how the show would eventually help their careers. (Both are cutting albums, apparently.) Also, the girls were supposedly busted with cocaine sometime near the 30th day, and the producers were subsequently struggling to slap together another ending.

My source definitely interned for these people, so I don't think he's fibbing. Whatever ? it makes me like the show even more!

Don't copy me, bitch

Further proof that LiveJournal users are the bottom feeders of the blogosphere:

Exhibit A. Disco_2000's entry, posted Dec. 1.

Exhibit B. Toby's entry, posted Nov. 13.

They say imitation is the highest form of flattery, but I think Mr. Disco_2000 is taking this platitude a little too far, eh?

Back in The D.C.

Rejoice and be glad! After five wearisome days at my family's suburban ranch in New York, I am back in The D.C. And not a moment too soon! If I had to endure one more interminable and strangely awkward four-course dinner with assorted members of my extended family, I would surely jump from our dining room's bay window, only to land with a splat on the pool deck below, whose beams were installed so lovingly by a troupe of jolly Mexican landscapers. Caramba!

Of course, the unfortunate upshot to my 6:35 a.m. train from Penn Station: A day spent toiling away on Capitol Hill – though I must admit (with relish!) that my McInternship will soon come to an end. This Wednesday afternoon, I will walk – nay, stride! – to the Capitol South Metro station with a renewed sense of freedom (or perhaps relief). God bless America – and the School of Public Affairs for awarding me six credits in return!

P.S. Expect a sexy new layout in the near future. Final exams are approaching, so I'll have plenty of things to put off until the last minute in favor of my crappy Web site!

P.P.S. Today is World AIDS Day. Five people worldwide die of AIDS every minute of every day. Go here and learn something, people.