Friday night

Agatha and I went to Guapo’s last night for reasons we never really figured out, though when it comes to frat parties thrown at shitty Mexican restaurants, no one needs a reason. I was supersaturated with vodka and beer and Red Bull and nicotine, and I remember nothing except girls in those awful black stretch pants, Top 40 hip-hop that is somehow mainstream yet simultaneously obscure, flirty boys in fraternities, my face in Krisy’s breasts, neon green wristbands, No Smoking signs that were dutifully ignored, some cute closeted homo opening a tab on Daddy's gold AmEx, a thrilling paranoia of police and narcs and underage drinking citations, this skinny fag who wouldn’t stop staring, my right hand holding a Red Bull and a lit cigarette, my left hand shaking and touching and gesturing, looking super hip and super friendly and approachable, talk of Saturday night plans and spring break plans but not summer plans, my I Live to Party shirt that hugged my chest and stretched tight across my nipple ring, and I’d raise my arms and consciously flash a sliver of stomach, toned and tanned, and then there was the staircase, which led me down towards the street, and the cold air stung and I was both relieved and surprised to have remembered my coat.

Wow, they must be really desperate for content

From a little write-up about me in BananaGuide:

His looks are definitely part of what keeps his readership coming back for more. Toby often posts photos of himself in states of undress, but never completely nude, while both touting and bemoaning Body Dysmorphic Disorder.

“Seriously, I don’t have a good body,” he says on a day when his latest entry is a headless torso shot featuring flexed biceps, concave stomach and exposed boxer shorts, reflected in a dresser-top mirror that also provides a revealing glimpse at Toby’s cologne, product and bedding choices.

15 minutes and counting, baby!

» Screen Name: Toby [BananaGuide]

Breaking News: Sponges are filthy

The New York Times printed a very informative article today that will make you think twice the next time you ask the nurse's aide for a sponge bath:

Dish towels, sinks, refrigerator door handles and warm, moist, crevice-filled sponges are ... breeding grounds for bacteria.

"A sponge that's been in use for no more than two or three days in a kitchen will harbor millions of bacteria," said Elizabeth Scott, co-director of the Simmons Center for Hygiene and Health in the Home at Simmons College in Boston. ...

To respond to [bacteria in the home kitchen], you have to do something very banal: wash your hands.

Yea, you'd like it if I washed my hands, wouldn't you, huh? I bet you'd also like it if I stopped sticking dirty needles into movie theater cushions. I'm onto your little game.

In tomorrow's NYT: The health risks posed by snorting cocaine off of public toilet seats.

» Squeaky Clean? Not Even Close [NYT]

BritneyWatch: "Britney has cooties!" says 8th-grader

Jordan Stephens is an eighth-grader at Huntsville Middle School, and he's got something to say about Britney Spears!

Spears may think that she is a role model for thousands of people around the world. ... That is not correct.

One set of my grandparents is coming up on their 65th wedding anniversary later this year. The other set has been married for 52 years. My parents have been married for 17 years. ...

Spears is no role model for marriage or for me. I’ll take my parents and grandparents any day.

Well, then.

No offense, kid, but my mother is an overbearing witch, my dad is distant and emotionally inaccessible, and my grandparents are dead. I'm sorry, but Britney — depraved heathen or not — is looking pretty damn good right now.

» Valley Teen Sounds Off On Singer Britney Spears [NewsChannel 19]

At least you know you were taken by a pro ...

... I know just how you feel ...

BritneyWatch: Stills from new Pepsi commercial

Though it wasn't meant to be distributed in the U.S., her commercial, which also stars Beyonce, Pink and Enrique Iglesias, can be downloaded here and here.

Personal Postscript: It really, really blows. A total waste of brass-bolted breastplates, bitches and benjamins.

» Pepsi Music: Britney Spears Gallery [pepsi.co.uk]

Rhyme Thyme

I have a sock of Matty’s, and I never gave it back.
It sits within my sock drawer, all alone, without its match.
I see the sock and think, “Could he have really been The One?”
Like Matt, the sock excels at mopping up my pools of cum.

Critical Self-Analysis, Vol. 2

He instant-messaged me today, and if I had not been drinking – it was that pointless, mid-afternoon, snow-day kind of drunk – I probably wouldn’t have cared. But no, there was enough cheap vodka in me to blur his words and exaggerate his worthless chitchat and detect imaginary inferences where innuendo did not exist. I was locked into this stupid virtual conversation, a futile exercise in empty salutations that repeats itself – at his behest, believe me – every few weeks. It sucks, and he sucks, and I end up closing the chat window, offering a dubious “g2g” that I hope is interpreted as bitchy, and scrambling for that god damn handle of vodka, before my sad, pathetic, jealous alter-ego seizes the opportunity to catch up with me.

I hope I never have this effect on an ex-boyfriend. Cheers to being single.

Snow fell in D.C. as my BAC rose

She inherited the looks, he the mullet

Tara Reid and her brother celebrating Playboy's 50th birthday at the Playboy Mansion:

» Party Pictures 1/21/04 [New York Social Diary]

Warning: Obvious 'Golden Globes' pun approaching

From SFGate.com:

Bill Murray, left, and Renee Zellweger share a laugh in the deadline room at the 61st Annual Golden Globe Awards in Beverly Hills, Calif. Sunday, Jan. 25, 2004.

Bill: "Ahoy, Renee. Congrats on your win. By the by, did you lose weight?"
Renee: "LOL!"
Bill: "Best Supporting Actress -- that's pretty impressive. But not as impressive as the supporting role your dress is performing right now."
Renee: "ROFL!"
Bill: "Oh, what the hell, I might as well go for it: Can I touch your golden globes?"
Renee: "Guffaw!"

Ew. Pull yourselves together, Bill and Renee. Cellulite is no laughing matter.

» 'Rings' wins four Golden Globes including best drama [SFGate.com]

BritneyWatch: Assorted Brit Shit

The latest Britney news, because, secretly, you care:

» Computer geek Bert Yukich on the shitload of 3D animation and special effects needed for the "Toxic" music video: "'We essentially worked around the clock for three weeks,' Yukich noted. 'I think we went through $1,000 in energy drinks.' Fortunately, none of those drinks were 'toxic.'" Har har. [MVWire]

» Christina Aguilera on the MTV VMA's kiss: "I was up for kissing Britney, but Britney wasn't." And on casual sex: "I love casual sex." And on her clit piercing: "I've had plenty of nice compliments about it." Whore! [Ananova]

» Britney will be starring in a movie about "an ambitious teenage beauty who leaves Michigan to become an actress in Los Angeles." Whore! [Ananova]

» Some pics of Britney, Madonna and Beyonce (amen!) at the NJR Awards. The picture above reinforces the fact that latex looks good only on my weewee while we're doing the no-no naughty tango. [Volumized]

Just do "it"

From Boing Boing:

Guideposts For Teens, a pro-abstinence org, has posted a list of 100 things for teens to do instead of savagely shagging one another. It is a very, very lame list.
6. Play hide-and-seek in a cornfield... (if a body meet a body comin' through the rye)
9. Pray together. (Jesus Jesus Jesus, don't stop)
10. Do a crossword puzzle... (What's a four-letter word for -- oh, nevermind)
21. Watch your favorite Disney movie... (Dude, this is totally one of my major turn-ons)
34. Color eggs -- even if it isn't Easter... (yes, that's right, encourage them to fetishize the reproductive cells of chickens)
100. Wash your parent's cars. (Ohhhhh, soapy t-shirts)

Some of my favorites:

20. Interview your parents or grandparents about their love stories. (“So, Mom, were you and Dad virgins when you got married?” “Yes, dear, he was.”)
38. Have a squirt gun fight… (Convince your reticent whore-in-waiting to don a white t-shirt!)
81. Make a present for your mothers. (Hasn’t Mommy always said how much she regrets not having a third child? Use your imagination for this one!)
91. Play baseball without a bat or ball… (This could be fun if you are drunk.)

You know, these 100 reasons penetrate only a few inches into the gaping orifice of pro-abstinence philosophy. Here are a few more activities to help you keep a lid on things, you filthy, God-fearing slut.

101. Prepare for the big night by rehearsing that inevitably awkward “Sally, I have something to tell you: I’m a virgin” speech.
102. One word: Anal.
103. Come out of the closet.

Whatevs. To paraphrase Jerri Blank, I’m waiting to have sex with the right person; I’m just fucking a lot of the wrong people along the way.

» 100 Reasons Abstinence is Doomed [Boing Boing]

Check out my mad Photoshop skillz

Close inspection reveals that I did not, in fact, break the circle during a recent (off-campus) game of Kings. Rejoice, for I am spared ... having to chug my can of Natural Ice. Hmm. You know, I can't say I would have minded! I'll take any excuse to volunteer for hastily administered intoxication.

Strangely, tonight's social schedule included a substance-free round of Monopoly and a few episodes of Elimidate. Saturday night in a residence hall, and not a drop to drink! Despite an arresting pang of disappointment, I'm content with this evening's outcome. My liver needed the rest ... as do I. Good night, all!

Wonkette: About 300 miles off the mark

The last thing this city needs, other than the Commonwealth of Virginia, is a “snarky” Weblog written under the tired and patently false assumption that Washingtonians are just a bunch of anemic, doughy, poorly dressed cubicle jockeys who, for some tragic reason or another, never made it to New York.

Wonkette – predictably written in overplayed “Oh, aren’t I the dickens!” style – does little to relate to its intended audience of D.C. metro area residents. I mean, the Kewpie banner illustration is pretty, but aside from that American flag in her pencil cup, the Tina Fey-ish cartoon seems as native to The DC as a family of fanny-packers idling at the Smithsonian Metro station. Washington is a city of self-haters and jaded alcoholics. Less sweet, more bitter, please!

Editor Ana Marie Cox is funny in an ersatz-Gawker sort of way, but I think the mostly matter-of-fact Washingtonians would prefer someone who doesn’t try so hard for cheap, obvious laughs. James of Why I Hate D.C., for example, is hilarious simply because he reports on all the fucked up things that happen in this fucked up city. I particularly dig the homicide ticker he keeps in the left column (“3 days since our last murder,” it currently reads, beneath a smiling Mayor Williams). See, that’s smart, funny and (dare I say it?) snarky.

Forgive me for sounding paranoid, but unless Cox changes her direction, Wonkette will cater mainly (though perhaps not intentionally) to holier-than-yooz New Yorkers who look upon smaller cities with a patronizing, disinterested curiosity. I suppose this is just as well, for as far as I’m concerned, Washingtonians will look upon Wonkette in a remarkably similar way.

Apology

Sorry for last night's drunken entry. I don't know why a few beers made me hate "Wonkette" so much, it's really not that bad. But I still think the name is gay.

Augh

I'm trashed right now, but all I can say is ...

A) What the fuck kind of name is Wonkette?

B) And who the hell is its editor?

They can't even spell Washington, D.C., correctly based upon its AP Style, and that is a BIG PET PEEVE OF MINE.

Too awful for words. This weblog is just too awful FOR WORDS. When you open it, what strikes you as remotely relating to Washington, D.C.? NOTHING. Augh. For shame. OK, time for another beer.

» Wonkette: About 300 Miles Off The Mark [Vividblurry]

Last Britney reference of the week, unless she becomes "with child"

Yet another gratuitous still, this time from a commercial promoting Britney's upcoming Showtime special in March. Get excited!

Addendum: From now on, all photographs of Toby will be taken in front of a cosmic-sized florescent lamp. Also, I must be wearing a costume loosely based upon either an overgeneralized historic era chosen at random or the inconceivably distant future.

» Britney Spears Showtime Commercial [Volumized]

Toby, party of none

Whenever I venture out to a gay club here in The DC, I always wind up thinking to myself, "Why am I here?" This seems to illustrate my point perfectly.

May the good Lawd strike me down if I'm still fagging it up at 40.

I'm proud to be the host of my virus

After four days of violent coughing spells and overenthusiastic phlegm production, I have finally surrendered personal autonomy to the viral infection of my upper respiratory tract. For shame! The taste of defeat – and snot – lingers in my parched mouth, serving as a bitter reminder that we all have our weaknesses. Mine, in this case, being airborne contagions. Le sniffle.

In other irrelevant news, my new phone has finally arrived, thanks to an understanding but ultimately unforgiving T-Mobile customer service representative! Preventive measures have been taken to inhibit a potential revival of my previous cell phone’s demise, which included accidental exposure to moisture via eight beers and a toilet bowl. Mentos!

Coincidence? I think irony

I'm eating Nutella with a spoon while IMing my friend and telling him how fabulous my first yoga class was this evening. This is the stuff Weblog entries are made of, baby!

Is that how they say hi in Whoreville?

I love black movies — they're my favorite, like "How Stella Got Her Groove Back" and all that stuff. ...I love going to see them on opening night, because there'll be like a sex scene in the shower, and the whole audience is laughing, and you can hear liquor bottles coming down the aisle.

Oh, black people and their craziness! That's pretty much the most interesting quote from The Onion A.V. Club's interview with Amy Sedaris — though she does mention dating Paul Dinello "for, like, eight years." Er, isn't he gay? I gots to get to RadioShack and have my 'dar adjusted, yo.

A fav Amy quote of mine from another inteview: "It's easier to apologize than to ask permission." And boy, am I used to apologizing. (Shout outs to dark-skinned minorities and fags!)

» About Amy Sedaris and "Jerri Blank" [jerriblank.com]

When in Rome, drink Pepsi?

Ride, young Valkyrie! Ride!

No, this isn't a still from the music video of Britney's latest single, "Me Against The Germanic Tribes." She'll be featured as a Roman gladiator in a new Pepsi ad, along with Beyonce, Pink and Enrique Iglesias. Seriously!

Director Tarsem Singh won numerous awards for directing R.E.M.'s "Losing My Religion" video. He can also be blamed for J. Lo's "The Cell."

» Girls Of The New Pepsi Ads [Stereogum]
» Britney, Beyonce and Pink go Roman [Ananova]

I know of only two of the nominees, and they're both boring

Strangely, I was not nominated for a Bloggie. But then again, neither were you!

Clearly, I've been studying Chilean economics

If snot was a commodity, then this cold of mine would produce a market surplus powerful enough to wipe out the neoliberal economy of a developing nation, necessitating despotic Keynesian governmental intervention.

Sniffle.

To binge, perchance to purge?

Midway through this morning’s brunch – the purpose of which was not necessarily to eat, but to recover from last night’s shame – Agatha, The Shank and I were struck by the curious diet of a nearby cafeteria-goer. This girl’s tray featured three bowls of diced cantaloupe (excessive, no?) and a small pile of Sweet’N Low packets. For what seemed to be hours but was, admittedly, most likely 10 minutes (a clear indictment of my yet-to-be diagnosed attention deficit disorder), we watched in muter horror as she dipped each cantaloupe cube in the cancerous sweetener, only to place it in her beckoning piehole. Delicious!

I assumed this to be some sort of new get-thin-pronto weight loss diet, but as luck would have it, it’s just an eating disorder. I saw her again at dinner, Zeta-Jonesing on the same thing. To binge, perchance to purge?

Addendum: Google the word “Agatha,” and one finds two of the most established female writers struggling for the top search result. Alternately, Google the word “Toby,” and, well, the results are dismaying, to say the least. Le sigh. If it weren't for 9-11...

Body dysmorphic disorder is fun

I love myself, it's not a sin... I can't control what's happening...

Review of Britney's "Toxic"

After her disappointing video for “Me Against The Music” – which featured inexplicable product placement for Sbarro and an equally strange goose chase with Madonna through a maze of Venetian blinds – Britney Spears convinced critics (including this one) that the end of her Top 40 reign was nearing. In a matter of months, the warbling schoolgirl would fade into obscurity, her once ubiquitous name now only a sad, nostalgic reference on VH1 game shows.

Fortunately, the 55 hours Spears spent as a loyal, devoted wife in Las Vegas must have refreshed her waning creative brilliance, because the newly released video for “Toxic” is as cool, polished and intoxicating as a chilled can of Sapporo. Just one glimpse of the bedazzled Britney (in one scene, she wears nothing but pasted-on diamonds), and “Crossroads” becomes a distant, effectively repressed memory.

At the start of the single’s spastic string accompaniment, the viewer boards a sexed-up passenger jet (Virgin Atlantic it ain’t) to find Stewardess Spears shaking her uniformed ass in coach class. Our heroine proceeds to lure an enamored passenger to the plane’s cramped bathroom, where she retrieves a presumably poisonous vial of liquid (but not without enrolling in the Mile High Club first). After three minutes and 21 seconds of James Bond-ish antics, Britney envenoms her ill-fated ex-boyfriend – essentially a more handsome, less ghetto, de-afroed version of Justin Timberlake. It’s a great plot. Seriously!

Complimenting the video are frequent and forgivably unnecessary costume changes. First, there’s the naughty stewardess get-up that screams “sexual harassment in the workplace.” Then there’s that aforementioned diamond “outfit.” And don’t forget the requisite latex catsuit, made only more bizarre by a red wig of flowing synthetic fiber. Again, these costumes are cool. No, really!

As far as music videos go, “Toxic” is good stuff. Doubt it? Just wait – thanks to Britney’s eternal appeal, 69-ing in 747s and poisoning former flames will soon be all the rage!

» "Toxic" music video stills [UKBritney.tv]

The Scarlet Letter

It has come to my attention from a reliable (albeit reticent) source that my dorm room – as well as that of Agatha and The Shank – has been placed on an unofficial “Red List.” This list – issued by the omnipotent Ministry of Housing & Dining Programs – identifies those dorm dwellers who have suffered the misfortune of multiple policy violations, including but by no means limited to the creation of “excessive” noise and, of course, “sale, distribution, use and/or possession of alcohol” (a regrettably perennial favorite!). Due to an unnerving if not inspiring proliferation of incriminating incident reports, well-rehearsed disciplinary conferences, and assorted “close-calls,” I was appropriately placed on a list of suspicious individuals faster than a black man cruising down the New Jersey Turnpike in a luxury vehicle at 3 a.m.

And so, in recognizance of this most recent and lamentable development, my dorm room door shall proudly boast a scarlet flag. Resident assistants, beware: This is neither a sign of distress nor a signal of surrender! It is but a valiant cry of mutiny. I hereby declare in the face of malevolent RAs that Agatha and I will infallibly be found “not responsible for (insert judicial complaint here),” so long as we both shall live!

Addendum: After almost getting thrown out of the dorms last semester, I have become a model resident. Though I deserve to be on the Red List, I am proud to say that such a distinction is no longer relevant!

I'm here, I'm queer...

Like a young coed’s cry of “Rape!” after a date with a sexually presumptuous fraternity boy, Thursday’s drunken post was melodramatic, chemically provoked, and gives no legitimate cause for alarm. If the volume of sympathetic e-mails in my Inbox is any indication, I had a lot of you worried. Sorry for the false alarm.

What happened: Over some beers and a plate of nachos (which, after my father’s anti-gay heart-to-heart, would soon prove to be unappetizing), Daddy expressed his disapproval of the homosexual lifestyle – that being drugs, bathhouses and promiscuous sex. My parents haven’t mentioned “The Gay Thing” since I came out to them during Thanksgiving break of 2001, so I wondered what made my dad violate his unofficial Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell policy. The cause: A mysterious, inexplicable pamphlet about the New York gay scene – discovered in my garbage by Mother Dearest (argh!) – aroused parental suspicions that I am a rainbow flag-waving street hustler pumped to the gills with crystal meth, various STDs, and hard cock. Naturally, my parents were “concerned,” at least according to Pa.

Oh, Father. What took you so long? Your accusations rival the accuracy of government-conducted studies illustrating the detrimental effect of uniformed faggots on our nation’s troops. ‘Tis true! I am a pill-popping pansy, straight (ha!) from New York’s debaucherous Mineshaft, circa 1981! You see, my loose-fitting jeans and Abercrombie sweatshirt are just duplicitous props that disguise my light-in-the-loafers lifestyle. Underneath this thin veil of heterosexuality lies a bounty of body glitter and, of course, my butt plug. A good bottom never leaves his leather daddy without one!

Argh. Fuck you, Dad. I mean, really. Fuck. You.

Non-cliffhanger

I have a 6:30 a.m. train out of Penn Station to The D.C. this morning. Finally, I am free.

For now.

But regardless of parental problems and an impending summer o' doom, you can bet your sweet ass I'll be kicking off the semester by getting fucked up with my roommate tonight! OH HELLYEA. <3

Quick pic

Yours truly with Agatha on New Year's Eve. I guess I was doing my best impression of a drunken anime character.

I'll elaborate on last night's post later today. Thank you for all of your e-mails! They have meant a lot to me. <3

jf;lsadf

You know what, I'm hammered right now and I don't give a shit. I drank a shit load of boadex wine and I don't fucking acare! Why, wbecause my add told me today that he hates gay people and he resents the gay life style. Well, that's too bad because I am gay and he better get used to it.

The real irony is that I hate what he hates -- the sluts that go out dancing every weekend, who do meth, who slut it up and get fucked every night. What the fuck. I sthat gay culture? cuz if it is i don't want to be part of it. no sirree. my dad hates that shit and you know what, so do i. the sad part is that my dad won't understand that aside from my liking dick, i'm totally straight acting. augh.

it's stupid that i'm using this weblog to dump my emotions, but you know what, I PAY SHIT LOADS OF MONEY TO PAY FOR THIS FUCKING SITE, SO FUCK YOU ALL. i can do whatever the fuck i want. fuck YOU. i hate bein gay, i hate it so fucking much. it make s everything harder. EVERYTHING. do you know what it's like to not be yourself around your parents? TO NOT BE YOURSELF AROUND THE PEOPLE WHO CREATEDE YOU?! you know what, i might as well become a meth head because that is what my parents assume me to be.

i hate being gay and this web log is retarded, so are the people who read it. fuck you.

I'm just waiting for the "cease and desist" letter from Apple

New layout, my pretties. A little shout-out to the bloggers who like their iPods just a little too much. <3

Wow, aren't I pathetic

It embarrasses me to say that I am low on money. So low, in fact, that I won’t be able to pay December’s credit card bill in full. Ironically, most of the charged purchases were Christmas gifts for friends and family. Oh, to be cruelly indebted to Capital One, having not even spent beyond one’s means on one’s self!

Anyway, I am sitting on my bed, surrounded by credit cards and receipts, attempting to make ends meet. If you could make a donation – through either PayPal (the preferred method) or Amazon – I would sincerely appreciate it. And, of course, all donors get a free copy of my ‘zine when I complete it within the next few weeks.

Thank you in advance!

I hate my parents, blah blah blah

While my dad screamed at me this morning for wearing too much cologne and subsequently aggravating my mother’s alleged (and heretofore unheard-of) chemical sensitivity, it occurred to me that this man – who was “getting all up in my grill” and demanding I take another shower lest he hit me – doesn’t even know who I am.

Uh-oh! Do I sense a gay-themed sob story coming on? Hell no, bitches. Though you might expect me to prattle on about my dad not understanding the “other” side of me – the gay side – I should be frank and just admit to not really giving a shit about getting to know my dad, either.

Life will be a lot easier when my parents are dead.

Birdsboro - Home of White Trash and Landfills

Oh, what better way to start the New Year than by drunk-dialing my father at midnight and extending to him a 30-second slur of incoherent well-wishes! If only I could remember what I said – perhaps I should ask my dad, who at the time was inexplicably sober and surely aware of my inebriated state. As misfortunate would have it, however, the following morning brought a host of alternate matters to tend to, such as the pile of vomit I graciously left on Agatha’s front lawn and the urine-stained ottoman desecrated by an ultimately unwelcome party guest. Intoxication: A Celebration!

Of course, the real party started when our regal caravan – a 1994 Nissan Quest – rolled into the withering village of Birdsboro, PA. Let’s take the obscenic route, shall we? To your left, a picturesque landfill, complete with a flame-throwing methane chimney! To your right, the bucolic rolling hills of Limerick, dotted with sheep, cows, and the occasional nuclear power plant facility! The real spectacle lies ahead, though: A skyscraping cell phone tower affixed with a horizontal bar slightly above its middle. Why, it’s a make-shift cross, commissioned by the neighboring Episcopalian church! Indeed, the cell phone tower of Christ compels me.

The residents of this humble town – refugees of a disused steel mill and abandoned cardboard box factory – now work at a nearby Wal-Mart, situated conveniently beside a sprawling trailer park. Needless to say, I am glad to be back at home in suburban New York, where our household’s cash flow flows as freely as a Confederate flag in the stale, vaguely acrid Birdsboro wind. Good night!

Addendum: For more party details, read The Shank's assessment of our New Year's Eve fete!