LA so far has sucked.
My apartment is ghetto. My roommates are white-trash wackos from the Midwest, and I'm driving a hatchback.
At least I've finally found out who the fuck buys Sketchers. LA people do!
I dont have internet access at home so right now I'm at the Apple Store at the Grove.
I'll have to wait till I get to an internet cafe to provide a legitimate entry.
In the meantime, please pray for me!
Thursday, May 26, 2005
Wednesday, May 25, 2005
Closing the bar down one last time
I've thrown parties for myself before, and I have no shame in doing it. I feel that throwing a good party is just as much a present to other people as it is to myself. It gives people a social event to go to where all of their friends will be in attendance, and most importantly it gives people a reason to get dressed up....not that my friends have ever really needed an excuse. (Yes, that's you Chow Chow)
But last night my four best friends decided to throw me yet another going-away dinner, except that this was the
final one. They swear.
It wasn't a very dramatic affair since we know that I'll be visiting New York soon enough, and I'll still call every one of them waaay too often when I'm bored in traffic. But it was a strange feeling knowing that for now, this was going to be my last night as a New Yorker.
We ate dinner at Mercadito. My friend Annie from my time in Berlin stopped by. Even the EX made an appearance.
We drank and lauged at Beige. I had decided that I would go to the one gay event in New York that I find the most annoying and retarded in order to assauge my longing pains for gay New York. Instead, I had probably the best time anyones ever had at the outdoor garden without having recieved head.
Beige has been around forever. The guys who make it a point to go every week have their heads up their asses, but they make sure their brows are tweezed and hair is sufficiently gel-ed.
There's a lot of akward tension among the boys there. I think it's because they've all just moved to NewYork, or they're the gay equivalent to bridge-and-tunnel trash so they're trying too hard to be hot.
Lila stopped by after her Hamptons Magazine party at Blvd. (there are sooo many fucking wrong things with that statement. Hamptons magazine is two small steps above HX.) Made an effort to stay for awhile, but hot girls bore easily at gay bars.
I laughed a lot last night. Laughed out loud. And thats how I know I've got some really fantastic friends. They buy me dinner, give me advice, and before I realize it, the bars done last call, and I've had the time of my life...
I'll be boarding my JetBlue flight to Burbank later today. Wish me well New York. God knows how much I love you.
LA, get ready, I'm going to rock your world.
But last night my four best friends decided to throw me yet another going-away dinner, except that this was the
final one. They swear.
It wasn't a very dramatic affair since we know that I'll be visiting New York soon enough, and I'll still call every one of them waaay too often when I'm bored in traffic. But it was a strange feeling knowing that for now, this was going to be my last night as a New Yorker.
We ate dinner at Mercadito. My friend Annie from my time in Berlin stopped by. Even the EX made an appearance.
We drank and lauged at Beige. I had decided that I would go to the one gay event in New York that I find the most annoying and retarded in order to assauge my longing pains for gay New York. Instead, I had probably the best time anyones ever had at the outdoor garden without having recieved head.
Beige has been around forever. The guys who make it a point to go every week have their heads up their asses, but they make sure their brows are tweezed and hair is sufficiently gel-ed.
There's a lot of akward tension among the boys there. I think it's because they've all just moved to NewYork, or they're the gay equivalent to bridge-and-tunnel trash so they're trying too hard to be hot.
Lila stopped by after her Hamptons Magazine party at Blvd. (there are sooo many fucking wrong things with that statement. Hamptons magazine is two small steps above HX.) Made an effort to stay for awhile, but hot girls bore easily at gay bars.
I laughed a lot last night. Laughed out loud. And thats how I know I've got some really fantastic friends. They buy me dinner, give me advice, and before I realize it, the bars done last call, and I've had the time of my life...
I'll be boarding my JetBlue flight to Burbank later today. Wish me well New York. God knows how much I love you.
LA, get ready, I'm going to rock your world.
Sunday, May 22, 2005
Blur
i've been hellaciously busy being a drunk and trying to spend quality time with my four closest friends in New York. In the past week and a half I've consumed the equivalent to four bottles of ketel, two bottles of patron, and half a pound of french fries.
I've gone to Tim's restaurant, Highline, three times. But only have gone once to the bar that I once worked at. I've had about fourteen cups of coffee, and have met about 5 guys that I could have hooked up with.
But this trip wasn't about sex, nor was it really about partying. Although the party life is hard to avoid if you're a gay New Yorker. It seems to permeate every gay activity. You can't seem to have a group of gay men together without it turning into some kind of cruisey affair with cocktails/drugs and flirtacious banter.
I came out here to formally say goodbye to the New York that I know and love. When I finally get to move back to New York, the city will already be different. Sure, the bigger aspects of the city will still be there. The service will still suck at restaurants, and the N train will still break down four times a day. Times Square will still be full of annoying tourists, and fashion weeks will still happen in Bryant Park. Models will contiine to make mere mortals like myself feel inferior at the gym, and I'm certain that the Meatpacking District will still feel like the intersection of Hell and New Orleans.
But certain things and places that defined my own personal New York will have changed or will be gone forever.
The Cock, a no-frills gay bar full of dirty thrills in dark corners, will be finally closings its doors by the end of June.
I used to live at the Cock as one of those dirty East Village boys- eagerly attending after-parties in small apartments.
The Cock was an instituion in gay New York life because for many of us, it what was the promise of gay New York was all about. It was dirty, unabashadly cruisey, and it was full of cool guys.
I eventually outgrow my Cock phase- tired of the cigarette smoke, the dirty unwashed boys, and loud music. But I do hold that time of my life dear in my life because it was the start of my romance with New York. For me the closing of the Cock is a very sad thing; I'll be saying goodbye to something that defined my first year in NYC.
But I know that something else will replace it for the children.
My friends will undoubtedly change. Maybe become more like adults. I'm sure by the time I come out here, two of them will own their apartments. They'll change careers, give up drinking, have boyfriends, and start drinking again.
I'll be a phone call away from them, but I'm going to miss the silly times we had over brunches and in bars. I'll miss being there to help them celebrate promotions, to console them when guys are jerks, and to be able to goof around on a Sunday afternoon. I'll miss the laughter from just being in each other's presence.
In coming out here, I know that I needed to get my fill of New York- of its smells, its chaos, and it's energy, because it's madness fuels my ambition and imagination.
LA is a very different creature. It's nightlife is horrible, it's people ambious about becoming movie stars. There are no nighlife celebutantes, no real VIP lists other than those that contain the names of celebrities. I won't be part of a crew of party kids- people who dance all night, live for good DJs, and stll seem to make it to the bartending gig the next day. I'll have to drive everywhere. I won't run into friends on the street. I'll be stuck in traffic for hours a day. AND I'll be waking up early to get to work, but hopefully my life out in LA will be good. Im hopeful that the sun will shine down on me with new adventures and new friendships. That I'll find myself at the beginning of a new phase in my life with a new career.
I'll miss New York City more than I could ever imagine missing a city. I'll still consider myself a New Yorker, and with that....I promise to myself that I will return.
I love you, New York. I'll be back.
But with a more stable career, a better head on my shoulders, and with all the expectation that New York is going to be my home for a very long time.
I've gone to Tim's restaurant, Highline, three times. But only have gone once to the bar that I once worked at. I've had about fourteen cups of coffee, and have met about 5 guys that I could have hooked up with.
But this trip wasn't about sex, nor was it really about partying. Although the party life is hard to avoid if you're a gay New Yorker. It seems to permeate every gay activity. You can't seem to have a group of gay men together without it turning into some kind of cruisey affair with cocktails/drugs and flirtacious banter.
I came out here to formally say goodbye to the New York that I know and love. When I finally get to move back to New York, the city will already be different. Sure, the bigger aspects of the city will still be there. The service will still suck at restaurants, and the N train will still break down four times a day. Times Square will still be full of annoying tourists, and fashion weeks will still happen in Bryant Park. Models will contiine to make mere mortals like myself feel inferior at the gym, and I'm certain that the Meatpacking District will still feel like the intersection of Hell and New Orleans.
But certain things and places that defined my own personal New York will have changed or will be gone forever.
The Cock, a no-frills gay bar full of dirty thrills in dark corners, will be finally closings its doors by the end of June.
I used to live at the Cock as one of those dirty East Village boys- eagerly attending after-parties in small apartments.
The Cock was an instituion in gay New York life because for many of us, it what was the promise of gay New York was all about. It was dirty, unabashadly cruisey, and it was full of cool guys.
I eventually outgrow my Cock phase- tired of the cigarette smoke, the dirty unwashed boys, and loud music. But I do hold that time of my life dear in my life because it was the start of my romance with New York. For me the closing of the Cock is a very sad thing; I'll be saying goodbye to something that defined my first year in NYC.
But I know that something else will replace it for the children.
My friends will undoubtedly change. Maybe become more like adults. I'm sure by the time I come out here, two of them will own their apartments. They'll change careers, give up drinking, have boyfriends, and start drinking again.
I'll be a phone call away from them, but I'm going to miss the silly times we had over brunches and in bars. I'll miss being there to help them celebrate promotions, to console them when guys are jerks, and to be able to goof around on a Sunday afternoon. I'll miss the laughter from just being in each other's presence.
In coming out here, I know that I needed to get my fill of New York- of its smells, its chaos, and it's energy, because it's madness fuels my ambition and imagination.
LA is a very different creature. It's nightlife is horrible, it's people ambious about becoming movie stars. There are no nighlife celebutantes, no real VIP lists other than those that contain the names of celebrities. I won't be part of a crew of party kids- people who dance all night, live for good DJs, and stll seem to make it to the bartending gig the next day. I'll have to drive everywhere. I won't run into friends on the street. I'll be stuck in traffic for hours a day. AND I'll be waking up early to get to work, but hopefully my life out in LA will be good. Im hopeful that the sun will shine down on me with new adventures and new friendships. That I'll find myself at the beginning of a new phase in my life with a new career.
I'll miss New York City more than I could ever imagine missing a city. I'll still consider myself a New Yorker, and with that....I promise to myself that I will return.
I love you, New York. I'll be back.
But with a more stable career, a better head on my shoulders, and with all the expectation that New York is going to be my home for a very long time.
Friday, May 20, 2005
Panty Party
Despite not having health benefits or a 401K, there are undeniable benefits to working in bars. The most important being that you never have to pay for drinks in Manhatttan. And it seems that this benefit has continued on despite the fact that I'm no longer a cocktail whore.
Last Thursday, I went back to Tim's restaurant, Highline, to hang out with my good friend and to check out my friend Keo's fledgling gay party, Jet Set, in the downstairs pool lounge.
The two times I've made the party, Tim has been a vigilant provider of strong drinks. I find the space a bit cheesy with it's gaudy decorative touches, but the drinks and the Thai food are fanfuckingtastic. They're so good that I grin and bear the bridge-and-tunnel Jersey trash that frequent Highline in order to get my fill of mojitos and Panang with chicken.
And before I get any more e-mails from Jersey-ites about the merits of their state, let me say that "Jersey trash" and "bridge-and-tunnel" as terms apply to a state of mind, and not to a state of being. Simply living in the Garden State does not make you trash.
I have actually met wonderful gorgeous people who have come over on bridges and tunnels. The term "Jersey trash, " rather connotes an appalling sense of style and extreme sychopantisim. In other words, they are WANNABES.
If you name drop promoters names, wear trucker hats, or have any ever been mistaken for a Gotti or a Gastineau, then you are Jersey trash no matter where you live. I don't care if you own a penthouse in Tribeca.
If find yourself in the Meatpacking District Saturday at 1a, see Tara Reid more than four times a month, have waited outside a bar or club for more than 20 minutes to get in, then you are most likely bridge and tunnel.
But then again... I can be ridiculously trashy myself. I mean I don't wear polyester shirts, but I do go to underwear parties.
That's where I ended up after getting a bit trashed at Tim's bar.
I had run into Ned earlier that day at Crunch on Lafayette. Ned's a drop-dead gorgeous model/actor who barely looks in the mirror; meaning he's hot without really trying to be hot. He's one of those fortunate soles who was blessed with physical perfection without the need to primp. Which only makes him hotter, of course.
Anyway, Ned told me about the Panty Revolution Party at SIXES AND EIGHTS. He danced there as a shot boy. He poured shots of tequila down his stomach, me placing my mouth on his navel as I swallowed the stream that followed his happy trail.
Sounds hot, but I've known Ned for about two years, and his boyfriend was right next to me watching.
Anyway, the shot that Ned gave me was about the most exciting thing that happened to me at the party.
I found a room full of guys in their underwear strangely not that big of turn on. Hot guys would come up and feel my goodies, but I found myself a little bored with the whole affair.
A part of me wasn't intrigued by the idea of having four sets of hands on me, especially because four of those hands would be guys who I would never want touching me. Chow Chow calls this phenomenon "Bumble Bee Soccer." You start making out with one guy, and then three other guys cluster around to join in on the fun. I like controlling who I play with these days.
Plus.... I find the act of removing someone's clothes a HOT part of foreplay. I like stripping down to my underwear and making out with a guy...slowing revealing more parts of his body.
The party did, however, live up to its promise and was full of sketchy encounters and good music. DJ Nita provided some great music, and TJ, the manager was sweet enough to continue providing me with free booze.
On my way out, the door guy stopped me. A muscle daddy with a huge tattoo on his arm and forearm, he let me know that he'd see me around at the gym. It was kind of surprising since I'd never caught him looking at me before, but the hot door guy tried to pick me up. It was a great ego boost, and I might have taken him up on the offer, but I haven't been in a mood for one-night stands.
I like going to trashy-parties, but at times, I find that it's just enough for me to appreciate that such parties do exist. I'm sure the mood will come again where I want all of my goodies groped by strangers, and I want such options to exist.
But are there underwear parties in LA? I'm guessing there probably aren't. I'm expecting there to be much more "Jersey Trash" than Trashy gay parties.
I just don't get the sense that LA is a city full of much sexual energy.
Like today, I was driving along the West Side Highway, when a wave of hormones seemed to hit my body. My cock stiffened up in my jeans. I got horny....but for no apparant reason. I was at a stop light and when I looked to my right, I saw the Spike Art Gallery.
This art gallery may house modern art now, but according to the EX, Spike was once a very dirty gay bar full of tight levi's and hot guys. The kind of smokey room where men played pool and fucked in the bathroom.
I hate to sound all new-agey, but I suspect that I picked up on some gay sexual vibe left there from Spike's former life as a crusiey bar.
I mean, I hate hanging out in Chelsea, becasue I'm always simulataneously turned on and grossed on. Turned on by some abstract sense of raw energy, but grossed out by the depth at which the neighborhood is a gay ghetto. So I end up walking around with a bit of a woody, but with no interest in making any eye-contact with anyone walking by.
Driving around LA, I don't ever get these hard-ons randomly. I know for a fact that LA is not as dirty at New York. Very few cities are, and fewer have the number of hot guys that New York has.
There are hot guys in LA for sure, but they are a bit more reserved.
But fuck...what the hell do I know... I'm sure I'll manage to get into enough trouble when I'm out there, because I am after all a little trashy at heart.
Last Thursday, I went back to Tim's restaurant, Highline, to hang out with my good friend and to check out my friend Keo's fledgling gay party, Jet Set, in the downstairs pool lounge.
The two times I've made the party, Tim has been a vigilant provider of strong drinks. I find the space a bit cheesy with it's gaudy decorative touches, but the drinks and the Thai food are fanfuckingtastic. They're so good that I grin and bear the bridge-and-tunnel Jersey trash that frequent Highline in order to get my fill of mojitos and Panang with chicken.
And before I get any more e-mails from Jersey-ites about the merits of their state, let me say that "Jersey trash" and "bridge-and-tunnel" as terms apply to a state of mind, and not to a state of being. Simply living in the Garden State does not make you trash.
I have actually met wonderful gorgeous people who have come over on bridges and tunnels. The term "Jersey trash, " rather connotes an appalling sense of style and extreme sychopantisim. In other words, they are WANNABES.
If you name drop promoters names, wear trucker hats, or have any ever been mistaken for a Gotti or a Gastineau, then you are Jersey trash no matter where you live. I don't care if you own a penthouse in Tribeca.
If find yourself in the Meatpacking District Saturday at 1a, see Tara Reid more than four times a month, have waited outside a bar or club for more than 20 minutes to get in, then you are most likely bridge and tunnel.
But then again... I can be ridiculously trashy myself. I mean I don't wear polyester shirts, but I do go to underwear parties.
That's where I ended up after getting a bit trashed at Tim's bar.
I had run into Ned earlier that day at Crunch on Lafayette. Ned's a drop-dead gorgeous model/actor who barely looks in the mirror; meaning he's hot without really trying to be hot. He's one of those fortunate soles who was blessed with physical perfection without the need to primp. Which only makes him hotter, of course.
Anyway, Ned told me about the Panty Revolution Party at SIXES AND EIGHTS. He danced there as a shot boy. He poured shots of tequila down his stomach, me placing my mouth on his navel as I swallowed the stream that followed his happy trail.
Sounds hot, but I've known Ned for about two years, and his boyfriend was right next to me watching.
Anyway, the shot that Ned gave me was about the most exciting thing that happened to me at the party.
I found a room full of guys in their underwear strangely not that big of turn on. Hot guys would come up and feel my goodies, but I found myself a little bored with the whole affair.
A part of me wasn't intrigued by the idea of having four sets of hands on me, especially because four of those hands would be guys who I would never want touching me. Chow Chow calls this phenomenon "Bumble Bee Soccer." You start making out with one guy, and then three other guys cluster around to join in on the fun. I like controlling who I play with these days.
Plus.... I find the act of removing someone's clothes a HOT part of foreplay. I like stripping down to my underwear and making out with a guy...slowing revealing more parts of his body.
The party did, however, live up to its promise and was full of sketchy encounters and good music. DJ Nita provided some great music, and TJ, the manager was sweet enough to continue providing me with free booze.
On my way out, the door guy stopped me. A muscle daddy with a huge tattoo on his arm and forearm, he let me know that he'd see me around at the gym. It was kind of surprising since I'd never caught him looking at me before, but the hot door guy tried to pick me up. It was a great ego boost, and I might have taken him up on the offer, but I haven't been in a mood for one-night stands.
I like going to trashy-parties, but at times, I find that it's just enough for me to appreciate that such parties do exist. I'm sure the mood will come again where I want all of my goodies groped by strangers, and I want such options to exist.
But are there underwear parties in LA? I'm guessing there probably aren't. I'm expecting there to be much more "Jersey Trash" than Trashy gay parties.
I just don't get the sense that LA is a city full of much sexual energy.
Like today, I was driving along the West Side Highway, when a wave of hormones seemed to hit my body. My cock stiffened up in my jeans. I got horny....but for no apparant reason. I was at a stop light and when I looked to my right, I saw the Spike Art Gallery.
This art gallery may house modern art now, but according to the EX, Spike was once a very dirty gay bar full of tight levi's and hot guys. The kind of smokey room where men played pool and fucked in the bathroom.
I hate to sound all new-agey, but I suspect that I picked up on some gay sexual vibe left there from Spike's former life as a crusiey bar.
I mean, I hate hanging out in Chelsea, becasue I'm always simulataneously turned on and grossed on. Turned on by some abstract sense of raw energy, but grossed out by the depth at which the neighborhood is a gay ghetto. So I end up walking around with a bit of a woody, but with no interest in making any eye-contact with anyone walking by.
Driving around LA, I don't ever get these hard-ons randomly. I know for a fact that LA is not as dirty at New York. Very few cities are, and fewer have the number of hot guys that New York has.
There are hot guys in LA for sure, but they are a bit more reserved.
But fuck...what the hell do I know... I'm sure I'll manage to get into enough trouble when I'm out there, because I am after all a little trashy at heart.
Friday, May 13, 2005
I want Pommes Frites.
The EX and I went and had dinner at Pastis last night. It was a typically packed night for the Meatpacking restaurant which meant it was full of Jersey trash, PR girls, and investment bankers. Because Pastis was on "Sex and the City," and because it's located in the seventh circle of hell (aka the Meatpacking District), every half-wit jackass eats at Pastis thinking that they're Carrie Bradshaw. Well, fat fucks, you aren't glam or sexy because you're at Pastis, you're just a fat fuck at Pastis.
Tuesday, May 10, 2005
Time to Say Goodbye
So in less than 24 hours I will be boarding a Jet Blue flight back to New York City, thus ending my angsty antics here in the Bay Area.
I quit my job, said goodbye to my world of drug binges, club hopping, and nightlife celebutantes....for school. Only school didn't happen. Seems that although the Stanford registrar said I was good to go, they had no clue that the financial aid department had a hold against my registration for defaulting on a student loan. Fucking bills... I've never cared much for them.
I must admit that for the past five or six years, I've largely operated my life by being in denial.
Denial about financial realities and the reprecussions of partying my early twenties away. I didn't finish school, didn't work on my career, but I did manage to make every big party, know every detail of the Olson twins' life, and hook up with half of gay USA.
And although it was really fun, about a year and a half ago, I started to panic. I needed to start working on a more substantial future than just happy hours and VIP guest lists. I wanted more than just hangovers and crumpled up phone numbers.
I'm a person who believes that everything happens for a reason. And I think that moving to SF made me examine my life. It made me realize two things: 1) That I need to stop the party and that 2) That the past six years have been amazing.
I may be a mess. I may not have a great career...yet. And I may not have a law degree, but I fucking had the time of my life. I was a hooker, met some crazy people, and did a lot of drugs. I now carry with me the stories of countless strangers and friends, and for the first time in my life, I don't feel guilty about not being sucessful. For not being my friends.
But I think the free-spirited people I encountered out here really underscored the importance of embracing change in my life. The hippes, radical fairies, and pot heads.
I mean it's your perogative to live the life you want. You want to smoke pot every day and hang out. Go ahead.
But the more I hung out with these people, the more it became apparant that they're were living their lives at half-ass. And that although my life in New York was ten times more glam, the coke, the clothes, and the guys all made up for another half-assed existence.
Life is supposed to be about challenges, I think. It's supposed to kick you in the ass, and you're supposed to kick back even harder. You're supposed to end up 90 on your death bed, looking back, and thinking that "Shit, I really lived my life as much as I could. I partied, I worked, and I loved."
So now I'm saying good bye and thanks to SF and to the nice people who made my stay here more pleasant.
No, I won't be taking a hit off your pot pipe now, but thanks. I need to get some coffee, get on my flight back to New York and get started on this next part of my life.
I quit my job, said goodbye to my world of drug binges, club hopping, and nightlife celebutantes....for school. Only school didn't happen. Seems that although the Stanford registrar said I was good to go, they had no clue that the financial aid department had a hold against my registration for defaulting on a student loan. Fucking bills... I've never cared much for them.
I must admit that for the past five or six years, I've largely operated my life by being in denial.
Denial about financial realities and the reprecussions of partying my early twenties away. I didn't finish school, didn't work on my career, but I did manage to make every big party, know every detail of the Olson twins' life, and hook up with half of gay USA.
And although it was really fun, about a year and a half ago, I started to panic. I needed to start working on a more substantial future than just happy hours and VIP guest lists. I wanted more than just hangovers and crumpled up phone numbers.
I'm a person who believes that everything happens for a reason. And I think that moving to SF made me examine my life. It made me realize two things: 1) That I need to stop the party and that 2) That the past six years have been amazing.
I may be a mess. I may not have a great career...yet. And I may not have a law degree, but I fucking had the time of my life. I was a hooker, met some crazy people, and did a lot of drugs. I now carry with me the stories of countless strangers and friends, and for the first time in my life, I don't feel guilty about not being sucessful. For not being my friends.
But I think the free-spirited people I encountered out here really underscored the importance of embracing change in my life. The hippes, radical fairies, and pot heads.
I mean it's your perogative to live the life you want. You want to smoke pot every day and hang out. Go ahead.
But the more I hung out with these people, the more it became apparant that they're were living their lives at half-ass. And that although my life in New York was ten times more glam, the coke, the clothes, and the guys all made up for another half-assed existence.
Life is supposed to be about challenges, I think. It's supposed to kick you in the ass, and you're supposed to kick back even harder. You're supposed to end up 90 on your death bed, looking back, and thinking that "Shit, I really lived my life as much as I could. I partied, I worked, and I loved."
So now I'm saying good bye and thanks to SF and to the nice people who made my stay here more pleasant.
No, I won't be taking a hit off your pot pipe now, but thanks. I need to get some coffee, get on my flight back to New York and get started on this next part of my life.
Sunday, May 08, 2005
The Bitch is Back
I'll be in NYC this Wednesday night. Plan is to get my furniture out of storage and take it to THE EX's house in Ptown this weekend. I can't wait to be back in NYC with my people. I'll be doing shots at Marquee the following Monday. Come find the drunk latin boy and feel me up or buy me a shot.
Being Broke Sucks
Since I havent worked in the past month and a half, this saucy latina is officially BROKE. Which means my upkeep is no more. No haircuts, no mani's, and no luxe skin products. I now look like a stray mangy cat in low-cut jeans. But I still feel my glamour- that's inside of me, children.... Well, at least that's what I'm telling myself, mothafucka! Don't look at me!!
I look like Chloe Sevigny at brunch at Cafe Orlin after a two day binge!! And if you havent had the pleasure of seeing her cracked-out ass, it's a fucking HORROR SHOW, ladies! She's a god-made ugly girl, but she's able to look somewhat decent with make-up and designer threads, but when that's all stripped away by hard paryting and no sleep- she looks like an absolute beast. A scary nasty beast with huge Jackie-O sunglasses.
Earlier today, I called my Mom to wish her a Happy Mother's day.
Me: Mom, aren't you super excited to have me closer to you in LA?!
Mom: Well, I was earlier, sweetie, but then I remembered how much I hate LA.
Me: What?! YOU were the one who was all about it! You're the one who talked me into it!
Mom: Really? Oh God, what was I thinking? Har, har, har.
I didn't call her a bitch, because she's my momma, but NO FUCKING WONDER I'm the way that I am. Fucking crazy CUNT! No one tell her I wrote that. She'll castrate me and then make me apologize.
I look like Chloe Sevigny at brunch at Cafe Orlin after a two day binge!! And if you havent had the pleasure of seeing her cracked-out ass, it's a fucking HORROR SHOW, ladies! She's a god-made ugly girl, but she's able to look somewhat decent with make-up and designer threads, but when that's all stripped away by hard paryting and no sleep- she looks like an absolute beast. A scary nasty beast with huge Jackie-O sunglasses.
Earlier today, I called my Mom to wish her a Happy Mother's day.
Me: Mom, aren't you super excited to have me closer to you in LA?!
Mom: Well, I was earlier, sweetie, but then I remembered how much I hate LA.
Me: What?! YOU were the one who was all about it! You're the one who talked me into it!
Mom: Really? Oh God, what was I thinking? Har, har, har.
I didn't call her a bitch, because she's my momma, but NO FUCKING WONDER I'm the way that I am. Fucking crazy CUNT! No one tell her I wrote that. She'll castrate me and then make me apologize.
Take the Fcking Apartment Already
Jesus Christ, I've been trying to sublet my fucking apartment this past week, and it's been a parade of smelly hippies and socially akward tech-geeks through the kitchen.
Saturday, May 07, 2005
The Gay Blade
So I finally checked out Blade Trinity, a movie that I'd been dying to see ever since I saw the promotional posters with a buffed out Ryan Reynolds. I don't know what he's been in, and I give a fuck. All I know is that he's eye candy now.
He's totally sporting a trendy gay look. He looks like every fag walking down 8th Ave in Chelsea with his beard, wife beater, and ripped arms. Not that I'm complaining. But Ryan's look in Blade Trinity could only be made gayer if he was wearing leather mandals and capri pants.
The movie turned out to be the gayest fucking movie EVER. Not only is our Ryan chained up shirtless for about 10 minutes, but they got Dominic Purcell, a worked out muscle daddy playing Dracula as if he was on his way to the Eagle. Dracula wears open shirts with leather and and armor, and makes out with Parker Posey- a woman who is the cinematic equivalent to a fag hag.
I'm posting pics of Ryan and Dominic. Let's all take a moment of silence to appreciate the fine dramatic skills of these two men.
He's totally sporting a trendy gay look. He looks like every fag walking down 8th Ave in Chelsea with his beard, wife beater, and ripped arms. Not that I'm complaining. But Ryan's look in Blade Trinity could only be made gayer if he was wearing leather mandals and capri pants.
The movie turned out to be the gayest fucking movie EVER. Not only is our Ryan chained up shirtless for about 10 minutes, but they got Dominic Purcell, a worked out muscle daddy playing Dracula as if he was on his way to the Eagle. Dracula wears open shirts with leather and and armor, and makes out with Parker Posey- a woman who is the cinematic equivalent to a fag hag.
I'm posting pics of Ryan and Dominic. Let's all take a moment of silence to appreciate the fine dramatic skills of these two men.
Wednesday, May 04, 2005
CH-CH-CHANGES...A Dirty Ketel on the Rocks NOW!
Update:
Took job offer down in LA working for the California Market Center with gal pal best friend/Asian Jessica Simpson hottie Joanne. Start date is June 1st. June fucking first....and let me repeat... it's in Los Angeles. I won't be returning to NYC by Halloween after all... but fuck it, I'll have health benefits and dental. Which means this bitch is getting gold teeth.
Must find someone to sublet my sublet and get my shit out of Manhattan Mini-Storage.
This means I'll probably be away from NYC for another year...I can already feel my personality draining out of me--- leaving this shell... a shell that'll hang out in WeHo and wear drity wife-beaters.
Took job offer down in LA working for the California Market Center with gal pal best friend/Asian Jessica Simpson hottie Joanne. Start date is June 1st. June fucking first....and let me repeat... it's in Los Angeles. I won't be returning to NYC by Halloween after all... but fuck it, I'll have health benefits and dental. Which means this bitch is getting gold teeth.
Must find someone to sublet my sublet and get my shit out of Manhattan Mini-Storage.
This means I'll probably be away from NYC for another year...I can already feel my personality draining out of me--- leaving this shell... a shell that'll hang out in WeHo and wear drity wife-beaters.
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