Spiderman

I was watching Spiderman 2 last night when a string of important facts hit me:

1) Tobey Maguire is really not cute. He's kinda pudgy, has a funny-shaped head, and is as pale as a meth addict.

I kept wishing that they had replaced Tobey with Jake Gyllenhall as it had been rumored, because Jake is HOT.

Jake is so hot that I went and saw the Day After Tomorrow- a film about an apocalyptic ice age and was genuinely dissapointed when there were no shirtless scenes.

Jake is so hot that I google his name and look at pics of him. Tobey, well, Tobey honey...you just make me miss Jake. There's a similarity between the two of them, but Jake is like the hotter version of Tobey.

2) And then I remembered how fucking neurotic I am about there being hotter versions of people out there....well because I've MET mine!

There's this fucking model who goes to my gym in NYC who is ga-ga gorgeous. We don't look exactly alike but there's a strong enough similarity that people constantly point it out. Except he's like a supermodel/sex god that gay groupies fawn over.

How the fuck did I end up being Tobey Maguire?! I want to be Jake! I want to be the hot version, fucker!

3) During my interview, I mentioned to the studen loan group that I think the cost of education is so high that I sort of wish I would have gone to a community school and then transferred to a four-year group. Now, what the fuck was I thinking?! You don't tell a group of people who's company makes money off of student loans that you don't believe in the high cost of education....or do you? Did I just fuck myself?

Temp Me!

I lose a lot of shit. I on OCCASSION am a big airhead and/or really stoned. But it seems to me that the only shit I lose is the hottest shit I own.

Be it the pair of Persol sunglasses that I left at Bowery Bar or my vintage "West Virgina" tank-top that I left at Fabricio's place. In both instances, they just seemed to have disappeared. FUCKING STICKY-FINGERED CUNTS. Leave fags with your fashion for one second, and you have a better chance of seeing Mary-Kate at an AA meeting than you do of seeing your threads again.

In this instance, I didn't lose my dress shirt, I just didn't plan on needing one. I left it behind in a Manhattan Mini-Storage near Chelsea.

I came out to CA to go to school, and not work, so I didn't anticipate the obligatory "interview uniform." The conservative suit and tie. (Except that I wear the cutest tight pinstrip pants.)

Why I didn't bring a dress shirt is beyond me. Maybe it was trauma of leaving Manhattan behind in the Spring? Maybe it was Klonopin? Whatever it was, I got a call from a temp agency on Monday asking me to come in on Tuesday afternoon.

Alan J Blair is the temp agency in SF that my ex Rick used right after graduation. They got him a menial but decent paying gig at a large national bank. They're incredibly professional and well-organized which means they're an urban oasis in this city of perpetual pot-induced fog. I love Alan J Blair because their efficiency reminds me of New York.

They got me an interview the next day for a four-month gig working for a student loan instituion. Irony....oh yes. (For those who need reminding, it was a student loan issue that kept me from enrolling at Stanford this Spring. Well it was MY issue with making monthly payments.)

But I of course didn't realize I needed a dress shirt until an hour before the interview. In NYC, I could call up my network of fashion-forward girls and have a pressed clean dress shirt in my hands in 15.
In SF, I have one person. JB. But he was at work in San Mateo. So I called the bartender for help, but to him a shirt with sleeves is dressing up.

So I ran to the nearest thrift store and the FASHION GODS smiled down upon their little latin fag, and directed me towards a vintage Christian Dior shirt for 25 dollars. I of course pulled 10 shirts in 2 minutes and scared the staff of Crossroads with the speed at which I tried shirts on. But I informed them that I've become a seasoned speed-shopper with at least FOUR Barney's Warehouse Sales under my belt. (Btw, the Barneys WS is a complete exercise in S&M combat. Think a bunch of tacky bitches fightng over discounted jeans, suits, and ties. And that's just the guys section. I heard some woman got stabbed last year.)

And what's the difference between vintage and thrift?
Class, style, and taste, and if you have to ask then you have no fucking clue.

The interview with the student loan instituion went well, but it become apparant to me and the people interviewing me that I'm incredibly OVERLY-qualified for the job. That could go two ways; 1) They want the smartest person for the job OR 2) They're afraid to hire me thinking I'll find something better in a month.

Well, I've resolved to a Manhattanite again by Halloween.
That's a long time, but I want to return to NYC with enough money to sublet my own apartment and not be a complete leech on my friends.

So for now I'm in exile with a bunch of stoner freaks. I guess it could be worse. I could be in Oklahoma. But please send me photos/packages of hot fashion, people, and music. SF is a strange Bermuda triangle for anything innovative or cutting-edge. It all seems to get lost.

Let's Get Physical

Everytime I work at the gym here I am horrified at what the faggots of San Francisco wear to the gym. I'm seeing way too many fucking booty shorts and tight tank tops on geriatrics who wear orthopedic shoes. OH, IF I WAS ONLY KIDDING! Orthopedic shoes.....gag on that.

Listen boys, try to wear baggier shorts and cuter tank tops. If you're body fat percentage is over 20 percent, wear as much clothing as possible. I don't want to see your rolls hanging over your spandex shorts, and you'll sweat more with extra layers. In fact try to get to the gym before noon so that I don't have to see you work out at all. Thanks, and good luck.

The gyms in SF are pretty fucking gay- meaning that the demographic of the members is probably around 90% gay men, 7% lesbian, 2% transsexual, and 1% straight. Yes, there are more trannies than straight people in some gay gyms- and there is NOTHING like seeing a big-titty tranny in tights on a stairmaster.

Gyms are a fundamental social gathering for many gays; almost analgous to the cafeteria in high school. You cruise, get cruised. You shoot the shit with your friends, and you check each other out. It's a friendly atmosphere that's rich in sexual tension, and it's perhaps one of the few places that gay men gather where you they aren't holding a cocktail.
But since it is so sexually charged, there's alot of akwardness that floods from insecurity and sex addicts. Some fags seemed freaked out by the gayness of it all and avoid eye contact altogether, shifting nervously from foot to foot, and walking heavilly through the gym. I've certainly had days where I don't want to deal with the cruising and the bullshit kiki conversations.
And then we have your fucking sex addicts- those guys who CANNOT leave the gym before shooting their load. They hang around the lockers, steam room, and the free weights- looking to score some gym action. Fucking whores. I may have splashed and dashed at various gyms in my day, but I've never made it a habit. In fact, I try not to shit where I eat because quite frankly you DO NOT want to be known as the hungry mouth of Gold's Gym.


Essential to the gay gym experience is your relationship with your kiki friends- your gossiping circle that knows the shit on EVERYONE.

At my old gym in NYC, there were these two really cute latin guys who had these ripped buff bodies because they spent all of their time in the gym. They had no real jobs. Their trust funds meant they simply reported to the gym as their day at the office. So of course they had great bodies. BUT they were also HUUUUUGE fucking queens. Catty, cunty, high-pitched banshees. And these girls knew everyone's shit at Crunch. They knew dick size, relationship history, bank accounts, and wierd turn-ons. If I ever needed to know anything about a potential date/hook-up, I just needed to ask the Yentas of Crunch.

I fucking miss my old gym in NYC with its beevy of buff studs. Now I all I have to look at is the gay version of The Golden Girls. There are some hotties, but no one that's awe-inspiring. I look to the really hot guys to keep me motivated to work out. Maybe that's why I'm working out less in San Francisco.

NYC Correspondence

I woke up this morning to an e-mail from a "gym friend." He's one of those guys who I'd see five days a week because our gym schedules conincided. We'd chit-chat while crossing paths. Me on my way to the free weights, him on his way to cardio.

He told me a couple months back that he was going out to SF to visit for a week, so we exchanged info. But he never called... because the fucking elitist New Yorker freaked out and ran back.

His e-mail below:


Hey!

how are you?

I went to SF, but I did not like it..so I came back before I thought, I did find the city totally diferent!! though the Castro was much bigger than Chelsea, I took the Helicopter ride, was really fun!! I enjoyed dinning out, went to Lime, Tapeo, 21-23, and did some shopping around.

Though about calling you but was more conncer about whjen to come back to New York! I almost kidnapped the helicopter pilot!!lol.

anyways I just thought in sending you a note ,.. How are you dong overthere ? missing us?

the Crunch over at Van Ness is fun.. went there.

keep in touch

The Cow is Preggers

Several of you have asked me what I think about Britney's pregnancy.

Well, honey, if you want to ruin your body with stretch marks, go ahead, but it does mean that you WON'T be able to be a drunk cracked out mess groping your white trash husband in public BECAUSE you're going to be a mom.
Why you couldn't find a hotter more intelligent man to breed with is beyond me.
You could have had one fine ass smart kid, but we all know that with Federline's genes, your kid is destined to end up at Canyon Ranch Rehab with Michael Jackson's kids.

So Britney, do yourself and your kid a favor and clean up your act. A trashy mom is embarassing. You'll have to leave the Kitsen T-shirts that say "Fuck off," and start investing in some more matronly wear.
And buy some Strivectin-D because stretch marks are gross.

Ann Coulter; Evil Bitch

This week's Time Magazine feature article is on Ann Coulter, the conservative pundit who is a favorite of Fox News and CNN. Calling her a crazy Republican whore would be an understatement. Yet I must admit that I enjoy reading and hearing her insane rants- it gives me a small indication of what the Right is thinking even if Coulter is probably more extreme than most Republicans. If anything, though, it makes me long for a counterpart in the Democratic party. When did the Democratic party undergo its castrastion?
Some choice quotes from the Time article by John Cloud:

"They're terrible people, liberals. They believe- this can really summarize it all- these are people who believe,'she said, now raising her voice, 'you can deliver a baby entirely except for the head, puncture the skill, suck the brains out and pronouce that a constitutional right has just been exercised."

"Coulter actually favors discrimination based on skin color in airports. She artuges that airports should establish a seperate line for men and boys whose complexion suggests they could be from the Middle East; they would be screened more thoroguly than other passengers.
'Basically,' she says breezily, 'aged 15 to 45- 12 to 45, say. Swarthy men...We'd be searching, you know, Italians, Spanish, Jews, males..."

Fat Actress

In the past 24 hours I've eaten a pint of Ben and Jerrys, a burrito, and four turkey burgers. And it's all because I'm now dating someone. It's my Catch-22 with dating; I attract hot eligible guys with a worked out bod and primped look. But the minute I I start seeing someone regularly, I start slacking off at the gym and start eating whole pints of ice cream. It's the false advertising that goes with dating- what you end up with isn't necessarily what you started out with. And its happens to all people; gay and straight.

So I'm a lot hotter when I'm single, and especially when I've just broken up with someone. Nothing fuels your drive at the gym more than the thought of your ex-boyfriend hooking up with other guys. You want to be as hot as possible the next time you run into the fucker. And when I'm single, it pays off often enough to be in great shape to keep me running to the gym.

But shouldn't we be more concerned about the guys that we're currently with? Shouldn't I make the effort to be as hot as possible for the guy I already have, and not just the one-night stands and the ex-boyfriend?

Well, yeah I should, but TOO BAD I take guys I date for granted. I think most of us do.

If I have you, then you're probably going to see my fat ass in a pair of sweats watching Sex and the City.


Last night I was home like a good boy sending out resumes when my bartender surprised me with a DVD and a pint of Cherry Garcia. Sweet sentiment, sure, but I'm not sure I'm committed enough to this relationship to start my decline towards becoming a fat fuck.

Party and Puke

A couple nights back a friend of the bartender invited us over for a drink.
So I expected Corona and Ketel, but there was no alcohol. None. Not even a shitty malt drink.

But that's because when he said "drinks" what he meant was "powdered uppers."

Ohhhh, I guess I need a translator in SF. In New York we have this funny thing about calling a spade a spade. Drinks to me mean martinis and beer. Fucking crackheads.

Look, I've been a CRACK HEAD. The biggest. I've been in EVERY bathroom stall in gay bars in New York, SF, LA and Berlin. And I'm almost done with Miami.

And evertime I've been cracked out, I say to myself, "This is got to be the last time. I'm not doing coke for awhile."

LYING BITCH. You'll be line for the bathroom next week at Hiro.

but we all know it's true, CRACK IS WHACK.

It makes you ugly and boring. Fucks with your skin and your brain.

And no one wants that. Gay guys don't want that. We spend all our time primping and chatting. So why are us gays some of the biggest crackheads?! We're right on up there with white trash and urban black and hispanic youth. And before I get a letter from the ACLU, I come from an ethnic tribe, and I speak the truth from a very liberal heart.

Maybe it's our disposable income or our insatiable appetitie for nightlife, but drug use is very much connected to urban gay life. Most gay life centers around bars or circuit parties. We don't seem to mingle in sober enviroments which makes our relationships with drugs and alcohol very tricky. We don't meet guys unless we there's a bottle of vodka nearby or we're dancing to Junior Vasquez. So of course single horny guys drink and do a bump...because every other hottie is doing the same. And if you have to join in to get laid, then so be it.

Totally dumb fucking thinking, but I'm just as guilty as everyone else.

I've been a crackhead- strung out and retarded, and I can't honestly say that I won't partake in the festivities again.
But since I'm trying to get my shit together, I'm making a concerted effort to stay clean and focused. Does this mean I should go to AA meeings? (where btw, everyone chain smokes and guzzles starbucks) Does this mean I'm an addict?
All I'm certain about is my desire to have a a better life; and I don't think that coke and circuit parties are going to be part of that.
That said, I've told myself that I'll treat myself to Gay Pride's Alegria. (for those uninitiated, Alegria is a bi-monthly circuit party in NYC. It's quite simply a great party. The music's insane, and the guys are hot as hell.)
So now I'm staying relatively sober by promising myself Gay Pride in NYC. Either that's REALLY pathetic or REALLY realistic.

But the place where I do draw an ABSOLUTE line with drugs use is with Party and Play. (Meaning doing Crystal meth and participating in sexual play with other meth heads; usually resulting in marathon sex sessions with a group of strangers)

I've done it twice. Don't regret it.
But I'll never do it again.

Doing crystal fucks with yer head. It makes you so horny and crazy that you'll try anything. Fisting?? Sure, why not? (For the record, I have NEVER been involved in any fisting activity) And so there is a strong correlation between crystal use and a rise in seroconversion rates. Methheads bareback, and I think we all need to keep re-reading the memo that HIV sucks. I don't want to be sick and taking a fucking cocktail of meds.

So when I entered that apartment and I saw what was going on, I freaked out a little bit. Luckily, the bartending hottie agreed and we didn't participate in that PNP action. But that scene seems very much alive here in SF.

Go Hug The Tree

Last night I met another one of my bartender's friends. He introduced himself and then hugged me. And the fucker did it again on my way out.

Noting the disgusted look on my face the bartender informed me that his friend does that because he's a love-for-all radical fairy. I almost threw up.

Call me a bitch, but I don't like strangers touching me UNLESS they're hot OR I've had four patron gimlets and everyone looks hot. And that was SOO not case last night.

He could of been cute if he shaved, washed, and tanned. But he hadn't and he smelled of body odor and pot.

If a stranger hugs you in New York, you get maced. And I really don't see why I have to change my behavior. The next bum that hugs me gets it in the eyes. So fuck off.

Absent Minded

So I've been recovering the past couple of days...well more honestly I've been alternating between recovery and complete panic. A true rollercoaster of emotions for all parties involved. Apologies to all friends that have recieved whiplash from the ailing bitch.

I've started applying for jobs and I'm looking for any open positions in Advertising/PR/Magazine Editorial on the West and East Coasts. (LA, SF, and NYC.)

New York is by far my number one choice, but there's no way in hell that I'll move back without a job. I mean, I can't bear to live in a shitty overpriced apartment the size of a copy of Visionnaire.

Dear god, someone just hire me and save me from myself.

Puke

I ate something last night that didn't agree with me. I think it may have been the chicken salad I ordered at a 24 hour diner. Fucking Sparky's. It's probably dumb of me to order food at a restaurant that serves omlettes and steaks at 4:30 in the morning. I mean who the fuck is eating that late in a city where bars close at 2a? I'd be tempted to say crystal queens, but hello, they don't eat.

I was hanging out with the bartending hottie when I felt a surge in my stomach. I knew what was coming so I quietly excused myself to the bathroom and stood over the toilet for a good 5 minutes before the chicken salad came out. I tried to be nonchalant about the whole ordeal but by 5 am, I was a sweaty convulsing mess.

I feel better now but for a moment there I seriously hated life, the wait and kitchen staff at Sparky's, and chicken.

With all of the throwing up I think I lost about five pounds, which is a bittersweet issue for me. I like every other gay man am always striving to increase my muscle mass and decrease my body fat percentage- so for me gaining weight is a thrill.
No doubtedly gay man have taken body facism to new extremes. We no longer just have skinny or fat, but you can be "skinny fat." Skinny arms and a fat stomach. It's one of the worst crimes a gay man can commit; right up there with faded black demin jeans and leather mandals.

Total Meltdown

Now that I'm not attending classes at Stanford, I'm totally freaking the fuck out.
I came out to California for only one purpose, and that was to complete my college education. And now that that's not happening, I'm at a total loss as what I should do next.
Yesterday as I sipped my Peet's coffee over the New York Times, it hit me that I'm UNEMPLOYED. I am fucking unemployed. I might as well sign up for food stamps and start buying St. Ides because I don't have a job nor am I interviewing for jobs. I am GHETTO. I'm sorry I don't understand how people can stay unemployed for long periods of time, because life is fucking boring when you aren't working and you don't have the freedom to buy whatever the fuck you want. And even if I was loaded, just hanging out wouldn't work for me. I'd at least do charity and become a socialite.

I have needs, people. I need Dermalogica products, frequent trips to the tanning salon, and ketel one vodka. I need cashmere sweaters, Dolce Jeans, and Dior sunglasses. And hanging out in this hippie enclave has made me aware of my shallow needs, but I don't give a flying fuck. I'd much rather be a superficial dick than a smelly pothead with no ambition.

Capitialism breeds ambition and materialism, and I love it. Almost as much as I love my Helmut Lang sweater.

So now what? Move back to NYC and work in a bar? God no. If I have to server one more ugly f*g, I'll give myself bleached tips.
The trouble with NYC is that it's ree-dick-ulousy expensive. People have tried to tell me that SF is just as expensive, but I don't know where the fuck you're hanging out in SF, because that's not true babe.
I've seen plenty of FOR RENT signs out here, and my rent here gets me considerably more than what I would get in Manhattan.
Living in NYC, it's almost impossible to save, and even harder to stay away from the seductions of nightlife and partying. There's always a hot party going off in New York. If it's not the usual Sunday night gay marathon, then it's an Alegria or a special event at Bungalow. And while the parties are incredible, they do get in the way of your career. Well it does for me anyway. After a night of partying, I'm a total retard. I stare at the computer screen and drool. My dick's often sore from having made out with some random boy who my friends will later inform me was totally disgusting, and I will still smell like cigarette smoke. So no, I can't go out and work a real job.

But I do have several hard-core partying friends who somehow make it to the office by 7am after having stayed up all night. One of them is this gorgeous girl whom I'll refer to as LDLC. She's the hot girl who'll walk into a bar mid-winter in a short mini-skirt and knee high boots. She's the girl that the other girls glare at with angry envy, and she's also the girl who'll outdrink and outparty any gay man. In short, LDLC is my kind of girl. Hot, amibitious, and crazy.
When we lived together, we'd often go out and go bar hopping. The morning after I'd be in bed ordering pizza and looking like a total piece of shit. Huge bags under my eyes and nauseaus. LDLC would run up the stairs and look as if she'd had a full nights rest. Dewey skin, full-lips, and smelling of Chanel. Fucking bitch. I'd cut her up and snort her like a line if I didn't love her so much.

So I'm now actually toying with the idea of staying here in CA for the next year so that I can go ahead and finish Stanford, and give myself enough time to find a decent job in New York? But I don't know how much longer I can last in CA. My life, my friends, and the EX are all back in New York. And I'm starting to realize that my being has become very much intwined with the island of Manattan. This native son of CA is now a New Yorker, and like every other annoying Manhattanite, I don't want to live anywhere else.

Muff Duff

So there are times when you become so obsessed with the biggest cheese-head pop song, that your friends look at you and wonder how the fck a thirteen-year old girl got stuck in your body.

A couple weeks back my friends and I went to the Roxy. We had tried to go to Danny Tenaglia's birthday party at Crobar, but it was packed with so many lame straights from Jersey that we fled. It was a bunch of ugly bitches in their all-black "clubbing" clothes. Gross.

Chris Cox happend to be spinning that night at Roxy, and HE TURNED IT OUT!!
Fabricio and I went through it, honey. We couldn't stop dancing when at one point Chris played a song that made us all go crazy. It was the type of song that seemed to get everyone moving. I could feel the vibrations of the bass hit my body, but no one seemed to know what the song was.

Then it hit me. It was the theme song to "Laguna Beach." It was fucking Hilary Duff. Fucking cheese-head/wannabe-Lindsay Duff.

Now I've always sorta hated Hilary Duff. She's boring, kinda pudgy, and has a big head. And I'm not sure how she's famous. Develop a coke addiction, sweetheart, or become involved in a sex scandal with R. Kelley, and then I'll become a true fan.

But the remix of Come Clean is CUNTY. Good luck in finding it, though, bitches, because the remix is rarer than an Asian top.
It has officially become a part of the AstroBoy Summer soundtrack.

Drop it like Its Hot

Tim called me yesterday to kindly inform me that Spring had finally arrived in New York. Well, fuck you Tim. I hope you get sunburned and your face peels.

He was laying out in the Hudson River Park, the long park that follows the West Side Highway in Manhattan. There is of course a gay part near the West Village where black queens vogue, where Chelsea queens in tiny square cut trunks tan, and where you'll find my friends and I reading issues of US Weekly, and listening to George Michael's "Freedom" on my Ipod speakers.

Missing Springtime in New York is my biggest regret. Once temps break 70, the tank tops come out, and it seems like every hot guy comes out of winter hibernation.

Good Shit

Good movies and music make me happy to be alive.
I saw Sin City last night and was blown away. It's a fanfuckingtastic movie. Total film noir, sexy, violent, and well cast.
Its a landscape where women provoke extreme reactions from men. Men either want to protect women or they want to mutilate them. And the women themselves straddle the dichotomy of virgin and whore. They look sweet and tender, but they're all packing heat and decapitating men..
Although I'm a certied faggot, I find something about women and guns alluring. So seeing model/socialite Devon Aoki star as a samurai hooker made me a happy man. WOOORK!

And I have to mention that I too have become obsessed with Kelly Clarkson's single, Since You've Been Gone. I used to think she was a fat loser, even if she had a good voice.
Her record company is funny. They're totally trying to distract you from her wierd face by giving her great hair. Next time you see her on TV or in a press photo, take an extra glance and note the hair covering the not-so-cute mug.
Whatever works, sweetie. But I'd go ahead and get the nose job.

The Whole Package

It's funny how off first your impressions can be. You see the hot guy at the gym, and think to yourself, "He must be a cunt."
I certainly thought that of the bartender. He's achingly beautiful. Photographers are always asking him if they can take photos of him. Random lesbians jokingly ask him for a sperm donation. (I personally think that's creepy. I wouldn't want to share my daughter with a lesbian couple- unless they're glam "L Word" lesbians who understand baby ralph lauren clothes .)

The bartender has the biggest heart, and I'm finding myself being increasingly smitten with him. But instead of enjoying it, I find myself ridden with anxiety. His sweet gestures and romantic whisperings are dangerously seductive, but if I let myself fall for him, I'll start smoking pot and end up a burnt out hippie with bad B.O. The bartender is a HUGE pot head. He WAKES AND BAKES. Meaning the first thing he does upon waking up is to smoke a joint.

Maybe I'm too wound up, but the only fucking drugs I want in my system in the morning are coffee and wellbutrin. I need to wake up and get out of the apartment. I need to keep the momentum towards a real life going.

So its obvious to me, and to all of my friends that I can't possibly date him. On a three-way cell phone conversation, my best friends Chow and Tim agreed that the bartender is not boyfriend material, but simply a pet.
All in all, it boils down to the fact that I am an elitist bitch. I'm one, and so are all of my friends.
A boyfriend needs to have a real job. I want college diploma, financially stable, and politically aware. I want summers in Fire Island, brunches at Pastis, and debates on current events.
And as I write this, I find myself confronting strange irony because these were the exact sentiments of the EX. The EX is more ambitious than Nicole Kidman after the divorce. He's a crazy workaholic who constantly piles on huge projects in his personal life. If it's not renovating his Tribeca apartment, then he's working on a charity project while he produces several television shows a year.
He undoubtedly loved me, but we had huge problems with the asymmetry of our lives. He worked long hours during the day, and I've seen more sunrises from staying up than most decent humans are allowed.
But I find that drive, and passion for his career, incredibly sexy.
And not only is the EX successful, but he's also a fucking hot man. Totally masculine. Deep voice, deep blue eyes, and a body that was built for sex.
TOO BAD the Ex and I couldn't hang out for more than five minutes without fighting. It made for great sex, but a horrible relationship.
We were that gross couple. That couple that fights in public.
We fought on the street. On the subway. In restaurants. On vacations and in hotels. So in the end, it's safe to say that the island of Manhattan wanted us to break up. They had had enough with the public displays of disfunction.

But having dated the EX, I become a spoiled man. I want my man to be the whole package. Brillant, hot, and driven.
But I'm a red-blooded gay man, so when a hot piece of tail crosses my path, I notice. And don't stop to ask for a resume.
And this is where I pause when I think about how wrong the bartender is for me. The hot body. The bartender is H-O-T.
And so I'm doing something that we all say we won't ever do. I'm dating a guy I know I have no future with just because he's a hot piece of ass.

But how often is it that we meet someone who's actually the whole package? How many of the hot guys we meet actually have real jobs? 9 to 5, five days a week. Very fucking few. Us gays are LAZY! If there were tons of hot guys with real careers, then my friends and I would all be married with our own asian daughters.

Yet, although I'm catty and rational now, the moment that the bartender tells me that I'm beautiful, I melt.

I fcking hate Stanford

So that complication I mentioned last week came and bite me in the ass...and hard.

I won't be able to return to Stanford this quarter. Thanks for letting me know the day I got back to campus, you fugly bureaucratic shitheads.

In all fairness, much of it is my fault. All of it stemming from my denial of the machinations of the real world for the past 5 years, but Stanford, I've been in touch with you for the past SIX MONTHS trying to ensure that my return this Spring was feasible. I was told that my return was all clear, and the day, the fucking day I get here is the day that this "complication" is noted. Next time I want my reinstatment in writing, motherfkcers, and I want it in the blood of a freshman prodigy.

People in Academia dont live in the real world either. You don't seem to note deadlines or get anything done. I may have been in a k-hole for the past three years, but at least that's an excuse for my flakiness- I was TOO HIGH to get my shit together. What the fuck is your deal?
It took someone in the Degree Progress office about two weeks to walk to her fax in her office to fax me a form. Two weeks! 10 working days of me calling you daily to remind you that I needed the form. At one point, I had to remind you that I needed the form ASAP to make a deadline, and like every other day you assured me that you would do it that day.
Well bitch, it still took you two more days. I want an audit of what you do at work. Give me a daily schedule because I'd like to see how overworked you are.
So overworked that you can't possibly fax me important paperwork?! And you weren't doing me a favor, you were supposed to be doing your job. Your job= fax me form= easy task= too fucking hard to get done in under two weeks. Maybe if I put a krispy kreme next to the fax machine next time, you'll waddle your way over there faster.

So what now? Take the PR/Event Planning Job in LA or return to NYC? I CANNOT work in a bar or restaurant again. Serving people goes against the very fabric of my being. I don't like having to be sweet and merry to people who I find tacky and annoying- which is about 90% of the world's population especially when we're talking about gay men. Gay men in imitation Ted Baker stripped dress shirts and Kenneth Cole shoes. Gay men with fat fag hags in demin skirts with thick ankles.

And yes I HATE fag hags. They're just cock blocks, and if you're a gay man with tons of hags, you're either young and still in school, or you're a ugly gay man. PERIOD. Hot gay guys don't need fag hags because they only get in the way of getting laid, and they're way too high mantience to be good drinking buddies.

I do have female friends, but they're not fag hags in the least. They don't want to go to gay bars because they want to flirt with cute straight guys. In other words, they have their own GAME. They're all playas! I'll meet with my pussy posse on Sunday to hear their stories of conquest over bloody marys. That's a real friendship. Not some sick twisted dynamic where my fat friend Bernice secretly wants to make out with me the minute I black out from drinking shitty cosmos.

Well anyway, I've digressed enough. I'll stay in SF till the end of the month and then I'lll.....uh.... FUCK IF I KNOW.
Dear God, what the fuck am I going to do?

Moving on Up

Right before I left Manhattan, I put most of my posessions in a Manhattan Mini-Storage unit. My friend Tim referred me to an affordable and trustworthy moving service called Gar Hing. (That's chinese for strong and fast midgets.)
When I called the service, a screaming Chinese woman answered the phone and gave me a quote of 200. I was made a little nervous by the low price, but I trusted Tim's judgement and booked them for early Monday morning. Well I am now convinced that they are magical Chinese dwarves, because a team of small men came and moved my whole apartment in about 45 minutes. I was there, and I could not begin to tell you how they were able to move huge akward furniture down a third floor walk up in a matter of minutes.

So when my friend starting moving his stuff into my old room, he of course asked me for some help.
I looked at him, thought of my back, and told him flat out, "I didn't hire movers so that I could help you move. I'll be at the gym. Call me."

Moving your friends shit is the worst fucking experience in the world. PERIOD.
And of course every friend in their early 20's asks you to help them move. Or in the case of San Francisco, every hippie artist age 18 to 104.

The bartending hottie's best friend was moving a couple blocks, so I agreed to help out because he needed to return the truck by seven. How retarded is that? I could die.

Like every friend who's ever had you move their shit, he of course wasn't entirely packed. WHY people do that makes no sense to me? If you're having me come over, beyatch, you better have the shit ready to go, because I need to make it to the nail salon before it closes and I don't want to be wasting my time watching you pack. And no one ever likes anyone else packing their shit because you want to know where everything is.

But I figured that since flaky behavior is endemic to the bay area, I should just as well grin and bear it. And I did. I helped out, skipped my gym workout, and missed my manicure.

But here's a tip to the general public; just fucking hire movers. No one wants to move your heavy ugly bed and get repaid with pizza and beer.
I better be getting some major karma for this.

Get the boat to dock...

I picked up the New York times around my third cup of coffee today. The date says Sunday April 3 but on the front cover there's an article that says, "Pope, though gravely ill, utters thanks for Prayers; Spokesman says Conciousness is Fading."

Well, someone better inform the Spokesman that the P-man has croaked. The Pope's been dead for well over 24 hours, so why is it that my copy of todays NYT has an article about how's he's hanging on?! Because I am stuck on a fucking cruise ship. I'm stuck on the Atlantis cruise line for hippies, known as SF, with it's outdated news and pot-smoking malaise.

Ooohh, a cruise line is SUCH a good metaphor for this city. I feel like I've seen the same 50 people this past week, and we all bump into each other on our way to group activities and the brunch buffet.
"Did you sign up for the bike ride through the country?"

All anyone does is sit around and drink coffee, shop for organic groceries at Trader Joe's, and smoke pot as they garden. HOW FUCKING BORING IS THAT?!?!? REAAALLLY fucking boring you fuckhead.

That's a VACATION, people, not real life. SF, you are the most lackisdasical city in the world.
No one ever seems to be getting much shit done, and people seem to lack any sense of organization.
Everyones a fucking flake; people make plans with a two hour time window and seem to meander around the city talking about liberal they are. Well I don't need to be told, smelly-hippie, I could tell by your pierced-lip and thrift-store attire that you voted for Ralph Nader in 2000. Fuckhead.
(Btw, I am severely liberal myself, but not uninformed, and I feel that these SF freaks co-opt the liberal political title and associate it with militant veganism and PETA causes. I myself love steak and fur. SO back the fuck off! I'll be at Peter Lugers in Brooklyn wearing my mink and turning it, and I'll loooove it.)

And everyone on this cruise ship is a social RETARD. People don't really make eye contact unless it's a cruising stare, and every merchant is a self-righteous clown. I ordered a double tall soy latte, and the white barista with dreadlocks tells me, "I don't have tall. I only have small, medium, and large."
What...the.....fuck?
It's just coffee, shitbrick. Spare me the re-education, Marley, and give me my latte.
UGH!!!!

I need a faster pace! I need personalities with a biting edge. I need abrasive cunty people with strong opinions on fashion and news, and not the same derivative liberal arguments coming from California space-cadets.
What I really need is a busy day filled with brunch plans, homework, and projects. I need to be exhausted at the end of the day by my work and social life.

Everyone here is laying out in the sun on the ship's deck.

And I don't operate like that. I like schedules, appointments, and checklists. And to think that among my friends in NYC, I am perhaps the most free-spirited. But you crunchy fags seem to live in a permanently stoned world.

So SF friends and former Stanford classmates, fucking get your shit together and tell me what time you want to meet up for drinks.

How Stella Got Her Groove Back

The bartending hottie called me up last night as I was dropping off the rent check on my sublet.
He just so happened to be housesitting a friends apartment across the street, so I met up with him and his friend and we drove over to the movie set on Sixth Street to get a closer look.

I'm glad we went back because the movie being shot is "Rent." I think enough time has passed since the period in America's history where every jazz-handsy drama freak would spontaneously break out in song from the critically-acclaimed musical. There was a time where I considered shooting a girl upstairs from me in my freshman dorm for playinig "Seasons of Love" on repeat. I hate jazz hands, and I hate most musicals. And I don't want to see some overly-emotional chick sing and dance in the hallway while I'm trying to do schoolwork. It was most irritating because I actually liked Rent. It's bohemian, it's bitingly liberal, and it had Taye Diggs in the original cast.
And Taye was there, and JUST looking at him helped me find my groove. Idina, his wife was there dressed in the signature Maureen costume of cat ears and a black vinyl suit. If fucking hate/love Idina. She's a talented babe that gets to come home and straddle Taye, AND she has a Tony-award for Best Female on her mantel.
The cast and extras all donned New Year's garb, and the scene involved them crossing the street. Rosario Dawson was on the cast. And the girl is hot.

I am admittedly a huge faggot, and Rent appeals to me with its bohemian romanticism and portrayal of a tranny. (I'm a little obsessed with trannies, but NOT in a fuck-me-in-the-butt She-Male sort of way)

I hung out for ahwile, got admonished by some fat PA in faded black denim jeans for yelling Idina's name, and had a drink at some dive bar with local drag queen Princess Kennedy. She was drunk, slurring her words, and was a featured extra on the set. I love messy drag queens. They remind me of mom.

New York City Boy

Walking back from the gym, I ran into a film shoot on Sixth right below Market. The street was filled with yellow cabs, NYPD cars, and cars with NY license plates. The extras were wearing early 1980's attire with New Years Eve hats, and fake snow lined the streets. As I made my way through the set, my heart sank into my stomach. I yearned for the energy of New York and for my friends. I yearned for the silly parties, gossip, and my bar job.
But I really can't deny that I'm having a good time in SF. The city is undeniably gorgeous.
Although I think that since I'm a jaded cunt, l I find the smiling faces on the streets as signs of dementia. I don't trust nor like shiny happy people because I know that the first chance these hippy-bitches get, they would glady walk all over me for 20 dollars and a Muni pass.